sea.mp3

Heated Rivalry

● Shane Hollander

Douglas fir scent

● Ilya Rozanov

Remember: Follow the law, f!ck the lawyer

Go! Go! Legally man!

Celebrity

● Hudson Williams

Mr.Williams's idea of a perfect evening

Gala night with Mr.Williams

Football

● Jude Bellingham

Made In Japan

Let's break the internet!

MORNING DEW

● Lamine Yamal

It's me and my girlriend

It's me and my boyfriend

Tell me how good it feels to be needed?

● Jobe Bellingham

Confidence

Formula 1

● Max Verstappen

Good luck, babe!

HOT! TO! GO!

Starboy interlude

● Charles Leclerc

Something sweet, something simple

● Oscar Piastri

Not the only one.

● Lando Norris

Save gas, ride me!

Just come back to me

Peaky Blinders

● Tommy Shelby

My love is wider, wider than Victoria lake

My love is taller, taller than the Empire State

Million dollar man

● John Shelby

After The Storm

Saltburn

● Felix Catton

Come to Saltburn

Harry Potter

● Theodore Nott

Think I like you best when you're just with me and no one else.

You raised a brow, amused at his reaction to you…your arrival had shifted the team pretty much and he hated you—your arrogant attitude, big ego, typical rising star handsome footballer. Jobe doesn’t even know where the coach gets you from…probably a random field in Brasil—ridiculous. “Nope. Just better than you.”

Jobe stepped closer, frowned “You’re not.” You stood still, back straight like bracing yourself for whatever impulsive Jobe was about to do.

“Your eyes have been glued to me since I arrived,” you said quietly. “Say what you came to say, Bellingham.” challenging. Provocative.

Jobe’s breath caught. He grabbed you by the neck and shoulder, quickly shoved you back against the lockers. Their mouths crashed. You kissed like how you played—controlled, dominating, overwhelming. You didn’t think about football. Or fame. Or women. He thought about you all the time since your arrival. And how he never wanted anyone else again. Like a wild beast he was intimidated by but also can’t help but step closer—hard to resist.

“You’re not the chill…smiley guy they made you out to be” you broke the kiss, giving Jobe space to breathe because boy, he almost forgot oxygen existed. Jobe's breath hitched as your hand slid along his waist—warm, deliberate, infuriating. The smirk on those lips—the one that had haunted him through every post-match interview—was doing things to him. Dangerous things. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Shut up," Jobe growled, voice low and rough—but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t push back like he should’ve. Instead, he leaned into the touch like some starved fool.

"You’re not half as untouchable as you pretend." He added. It pissed Jobe off beyond belief…and turned his blood into fire.

Said the one who got handsy first, it made you chuckle. His frowning face, too cute to be true, you can’t help but poking your fingers into his wound—“at least I’m not insecure”

Jobe’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. That word hit harder than any tackle on the pitch. He hated that you noticed. Hated that anyone noticed how he stiffened when fans, interviewers compared him to Jude in interviews or social media threads. Or that chant “You’re nothing like your brother” loud and clear from the stadium above. And you? Of course you’d see it—the way Jobe scowled during post-match chats when someone brought up Jude again... how fast he changed topics…Now here this cold-eyed Spaniard was throwing it right back in his face like an insult wrapped in truth.

"Fuck you," Jobe muttered—but there was no heat behind it now. Or maybe, there is.

“Sure, go ahead. If that gives you a source of confidence”

Jobe’s face burned. The guy who barely spoke unless it was a tactical command on the field or a sarcastic remark that cut like glass. And now—now he was smirking, leaning into Jobe like this, saying things that made his stomach flip and his throat go dry all at once? His heart hammered so loud he swore you could hear it over the distant drip of shower water.

"Shut up," Jobe said again—but softer this time. Weakly. He didn’t want confidence boosts from sex—he never cared about those meaningless flings anyway, not really. But if this—if you touching him and talking to him in that low voice meant something… then yeah…Maybe it would mean everything. And God help him—that scared the hell out of Jobe more than any press conference ever had.

“You look like you need it. A nice date and good sex” you smirked. Just a way to refresh for the upcoming season.

Jobe’s breath caught again and his brain short-circuited like he forgot to use it for years.

You were chuckling. Actually laughing. That rare, quiet sound that only came out when you found something genuinely amusing—and right now, Jobe was the joke.

A nice date. A good fuck. For the season ahead. Like it was a strategy. Like this wasn’t about feelings or hearts or any of that soft crap people wrote in novels.

And you—the guy who never showed interest in anyone on or off the pitch—was suggesting him for it? Jobe swallowed hard. His throat felt dry as sandpaper.

"Y-you're not serious," he stammered—not cool at all—but what else could he say?

You shrugged. “I just came to the city anyway. You can be my tour guide” like you’re using Jobe as a source of fun for the night.

Jobe blinked. And suddenly, Jobe realized—he didn’t know anything about being normal with someone. He hadn’t taken anyone out in years—just shows up wherever they’re already waiting, all dressed up like it's an obligation. But this… this felt different. You wanted him to show you around? Germany? The thought lit something warm in Jobe’s chest—something hopeful and stupidly excited that made his fingers twitch at his sides. God help him, he felt special. For once.

"Yeah," he said quickly before overthinking it. "I can do that." Then added quietly: "...When?”

You weren't gonna make it easy for him, were you? No clear plan, no time given—just that lazy teasing tone and those raised brows.

“Don’t bore me with that question” like he should figure it out himself. Be the man. Lead.

If you wanted Jobe to pick… then Jobe would pick something good. He cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "Tomorrow night." Not too soon—he could still panic-shop for a decent outfit later. Not too far ahead—the anticipation might kill him before then.

"Seven?" he added quickly. "There's this little German place...quiet but really good food." And private enough that they wouldn't be mobbed by fans or paparazzi if someone recognized them.

Jobe’s stomach flipped at the sound of you laughing—actually laughing, that soft, rare huff like you’d just found something secretly funny. And then those words: “You’re the boss.” Playful. Sarcastic. Submitting without really submitting—because you would never fully submit to anyone. That was a joke… but also kind of hot? He tried not to grin too wide. Failed. Always had a problem with smiling too wide and getting that tingling in his stomach.

Yeah—he loved trouble. Always had. The reckless part of him—who flirted with danger more than people—loved this exact kind of chaos: a sharp-faced guy with attitude, dark humor, and zero fear of challenging him straight on. And now here he was… going on a date with said trouble incarnate tomorrow night.

"Don't make me regret it," Jobe shot back lightly—but there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his voice.

You walk away—shoulders relaxed, that quiet confidence in every step—you hear the footsteps coming close and yeah…not the best idea to be seen tangled up to your teammate after just arriving for a few weeks.

The locker room door clicked open down the hall. Voices approached. The team was coming back from dinner.

Instinct kicked in: Jobe straightened up fast, shoving his hands into his pockets like he hadn’t just been kissing someone seconds ago. Like nothing happened at all.

He pulled out his phone, pretending to be busy on it while he literally was fiddling with the weather app—anything to look busy and not suspicious.

You moved efficiently—grabbing your duffel bag from a lower bench where it had been sitting since the match earlier that day. No lingering glances between them now, they were both professionals even if Jobe’s heart wasn't cooperating. But beneath it all… yeah… there was still that feeling.

Jobe exhaled slowly, tying his second shoelace with more focus than necessary.

Football was supposed to be simple. Train hard. Score goals. Win trophies. Build his name—not Jude’s shadow, not the Bellingham legacy handed down like a title he had to earn every damn day just to keep up in people’s eyes. He’d worked so hard for what he had today.

But then you showed up…and completely threw Jobe off the orbit. Quiet transfer from a Spain club who didn’t care about headlines or fame—or maybe you just didn't need them like Jobe did. The type to play out of the love for the game.

And suddenly everything felt… complicated. The way you looked at him during practice wasn't admiration—it was challenge

The way other players whispered when they walked past each other? Envy mixed with curiosity. And now this... whatever this was between them after tonight.

Jobe spent an unusual amount of time getting ready.

He showered properly—not just a quick rinse—and used that fancy sandalwood body wash his stylist had given him months ago still sealed because he would rather use that mint bar soap. Shaved carefully, both his jaw and below the hips with different razors. just in case the date went...well, there.

His outfit: black Lucky You jeans and a big Ralph Lauren gray sweater over an unbuttoned white shirt—the kind Jude had once said looked "cool as hell" on him. Classic. Just... Jobe trying to look like someone you would actually want to spend time with.

He checked himself in the mirror three times before grabbing keys and walking out.

The night air cooled as you turned to face Jobe who just arrived in a fancy electric car. Jobe stepped out of his car slowly, door clicking shut behind him. He’d dressed to impress, but now faced with you in full effect… he felt a little overdressed.

Baggy jeans—long enough to pool slightly on the pavement like liquid shadow. A black F1 graphic tee that rode up just above your hipbones when you moved, showing off those Calvin Klein waistbands without even trying. Silver belt glinting under lamplight. Gold chains around your neck and both wrists catching every flicker of light. And that leather jacket slung over one arm.

You popped a mint into your mouth—masking the cigarette scent—and chewed once before looking at Jobe properly.

Jobe cleared his throat—suddenly aware of how dry it felt.

"Hey."

You stood there like a damn 2000s movie scene—tall, effortlessly cool in that chaotic way trouble had when it looked good on someone. And Jobe? Jobe was staring again. He forced himself to blink, then took a small step forward, hands tucked into his jeans pockets for something to do with them. Such an awkward handsome.

“You came on time” Yeah… Jobe was on time. Right at seven. Not a minute late. He shifted slightly under that quiet scrutiny—the way you glanced at your golden wristwatch before meeting his eyes again, assessing him silently. That subtle smirk though? It did things to Jobe’s stomach—a slow twist of warmth and something dangerously close to pride because he impressed you. Even if it's just a little.

“Yeah.” he said simply, voice steadier now than it had been all night.

Jobe opened the passenger door for you—not out of chivalry, but habit—the kind of thing he’d done a million times for his mom or even Jude. But this time felt different. Bigger somehow. The car smelled faintly like sandalwood from Jobe’s cologne. As Jobe circled around to the driver's side and got in, he started the engine and glanced at you beside him.

“There’s this German restaurant,” Jobe said after buckling up. “Authentic food… not tourist trap stuff.” He’d thought about it all day: where to take someone who had never been here before. You only hummed in return, observing details in the car.

Jobe’s hands tightened on the steering wheel just slightly as he pulled onto the main road. Nervous. Actually nervous. Not about a match, not about press scrutiny—but this. A date with you, of all people. He hadn’t been on one in… what? Two years? Maybe longer. Since his last fling—some influencer who ghosted him after three dates because “football life was too chaotic” And now here he was, trying to impress someone who didn't care about fame or any of that crap Jobe usually used to get attention. What if you thought he was boring? What if they sat through dinner and realized they had nothing in common? Worse—what if Jobe said something stupid and ruined everything before it even started? The silence between them stretched—not tense yet, but fragile.

What if you compared him? Not just as players—but as people? Did he talk enough? Was he too serious? Too focused on football while Jude could laugh and joke with everyone? Jobe wasn’t insecure about most things… but this? This scared him more than any high-pressure match ever had.

“What's it like when you first move to Germany?” you broke the silence first.

Jobe took a slow breath. Just be yourself. He repeated it in his head like a mantra—because for once, he wasn’t trying to perform. Not the confident football star, not the charming face on magazine covers… just Jobe.

“It was… weird,” he admitted quietly, finally setting his menu down. “I mean—It’s not so different from what it is like back in England.

A small pause.

“But when you move up? When people start watching everything you do…” He shrugged one shoulder. “It got lonely sometimes.”

Jobe tilted his head slightly—mirroring your earlier gesture without realizing it.

“What about you?” Jobe asked quietly. “How’s it been since… moving here?” The question wasn’t just polite—he genuinely wanted to know. You had come from Spain originally, but Jobe remembered reading somewhere that you were actually born in Brazil—a tiny detail buried in a club profile no one really paid attention to. Leaving home… especially for football? That couldn't be easy. And why Dortmund? You can thrive just fine in your homeland.

“It has been strangely smooth…or I’m just ignoring the bad details” He could relate. Sometimes, ignoring the bad stuff worked… until it didn’t.

“You don’t miss home?” Jobe asked, prodding gently. Not prying—just genuinely curious now that they were actually talking like normal people. Brazil must’ve been so different from cold German winters and quiet football towns compared to whatever vibrant life you had left behind.

“I do. Germany is far different. They dance to boring techno music and get fresher beers” Funk is more of your cup of tea, yeah.

Jobe grinned, leaning back in his chair.

“Wild and crazy,” he admits, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Yeah… Germany’s not exactly rich in loud, expressive cultural festivals, party animals unless you count Oktoberfest” Which was one massive exception—where everyone drank like there was no tomorrow.

Jobe watched you take that first bite—chewing slowly, expression thoughtful but not disgusted. Just… neutral. Not like Brazilian food, probably. He’d read somewhere that their dishes were packed with flavor—spicy meats, garlic-heavy sauces, vibrant colors. This German stew? Simple. Clean flavors from fresh ingredients and slow cooking—not explosive or exotic. You didn’t complain though. And then Jobe noticed something else: the napkin with the waitress’s number just sat there on the table edge—untouched—and you hadn’t even glanced at it since she left.

Your attention was fully on your food… and occasionally flickering up to Jobe. That weird feeling in Jobe’s chest intensified.

Jobe had always told himself the same thing—football first. Always football. No distractions. No messy feelings that could ruin his focus, his discipline. But sitting here with you—the way you tossed away that number without a second thought, how you actually listened when Jobe talked about being lonely… it made something in him crack. He didn’t just want attention. He wanted this. Someone who saw him—not Jude’s shadow or anything—but just Jobe. And put him first anyway. And God… if you ever looked at him like that? Like Jobe was the most important person in the room?

That would wreck every rule he'd set for himself.

The night air was cool, but the car felt warm—filled with easy conversation and soft laughter. Jobe drove slowly through the city streets, not taking any shortcuts. He wanted you to see everything: the glowing lights of downtown, quiet residential roads lined with trees, even passing by his favorite training ground. They talked about football—of course—but also other stuff. Music, you mentioned Brazilian funk, food, Jobe promised to take you to a proper German bakery next time, their childhoods.

No tension. No rivalry talk. Just two guys… getting along better than either would’ve expected weeks ago.

This was different. You were here. Present. Listening when Jobe talked, laughing at things that mattered, showing interest in small details—like how much you missed home cooking or why German rave sucked.

And right now? With you sitting beside him, window down slightly so cool night air brushed their faces… Jobe realized: He’s not just important here…He’s wanted.

Jobe took a deep breath, hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. For the first time in years—maybe ever—he let something raw slip out.

“I… I’ve always felt like I’m not good enough,” he admitted quietly, voice softer than usual. “Not just as a player. As… me.” He kept his eyes on the road, but everything inside him was exposed.

“People compare me to Jude all the time. Like my worth is only how close I am to being as good as him.”

A pause.

“And yeah—I love my brother—but sometimes it feels like no matter what I do… people still don’t see me.” Jobe exhaled slowly, the weight still pressing on his chest.

Your words helped—”You’re kidding” “…I see you”—but old thoughts don’t vanish that easily. They’re like scars: they fade, but they never disappear completely

“I know I’m good,” he said after a beat. “I mean… statistically? Yeah. Goals per game, assists—everything checks out.”

He turned onto a quieter road now—residential streets with dim streetlights

“But sometimes I wonder if people only cheer for me because of my last name… or because I play for Dortmund.”

“You're really letting your insecurity take over you. You need to get rid of it in order to see yourself too”

Jobe blinked at your bluntness. You need to get rid of it. Easy to say. Not easy to do

He didn’t even know how. He’d spent years building walls—telling himself he had to be perfect, relentless, always the best because anything less would mean people stop believing in him.

And now you were sitting here like it was that simple? Just… toss out insecurity and see yourself clearly?

“It’s not like I can just turn it off,” Jobe said softly—not defensive, but honest. “I don’t even know who I am without all that noise.”

The car stopped quietly on an empty street.

“I can show you. Get in the back, Bellingham”

Jobe’s heart jumped. That smirk—that damn smirk—was doing things to him again. The kind that said I’ve got a plan and you’re gonna like it.

You weren't just talking about therapy or self-help books. You meant something else entirely. And the way you looked at Jobe now? Not with pity, not with criticism—but like… an invitation.

“Am I intimidating or are you always that damn nervous?”

Jobe swallowed hard, getting into the backseat after you. The space was cramped—car seats always were—but it felt electric anyway. And no, you weren't scary—not at all. If anything, you looked unfairly calm for someone about to kiss Jobe Bellingham.

“Neither,” Jobe finally admitted quietly as he settled beside you. “Just… not used to this.” Not used to anyone wanting him like this—no football involved.

“No?” You raised an eyebrow. Skeptical.

Jobe let out a soft, breathy laugh—nervous but sincere.

“No,” he repeated firmly, shaking his head. “I’ve never… y’know. Fancied anyone like that.”

“I’ll show you what it is like then”

Jobe’s breath hitched as you leaned in—slow, deliberate, giving him every chance to pull away. But Jobe didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. The air between them thickened with tension and something new… electric And then—you closed the gap.

Your lips met Jobe’s gently at first—a soft press of warmth that wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't their first kiss—but this one felt different.

Jobe melted. The kiss started soft—just lips touching—but then you deepened it, slow and deliberate. Patient in a way that made Jobe’s head spin. Your hand slid to the back of his neck—warm, calloused from training—and gently tilted Jobe’s head just slightly to get better access. Then came the tongue: teasing at first, brushing against Jobe’s bottom lip before softly pressing inside.

You kiss him like you got all night to yourself.

Every move—the tilt of your head, the gentle pressure of your lips, how your tongue danced with Jobe’s without rushing or dominating—it was smooth. Confidence. Like kissing came naturally to you. And Jobe? He let himself be led—following your rhythm instinctively, responding slowly at first but growing bolder as the kiss deepened.

Jobe blinked—half dazed from the kiss, half flustered by that tone.

“Not bad.” Coming from you? It sounded like both praise and a degradation. Like you did okay… but you can do better.

And damn if that didn’t light something competitive in Jobe. Was he supposed to prove himself now? Kiss you again—better this time? Or maybe… not say anything at all and just go for it?

Jobe’s hands slid carefully down your back—fingers tracing the defined muscles beneath your shirt. He’d never touched someone like this before. Not really. Always too shy, or distracted by football, or just… not interested. But now? Now he wanted to feel everything.

His palms mapped every ridge of your shoulders, spine, lower back—strong from training and built differently than Jobe, who was leaner. The warmth through the fabric was intoxicating. And as their kiss deepened again—slower this time but hungrier—the contact felt electric.

“Sweater and buttoned shirt…really?” You chuckled as you finally commented on his outfit.

“Too clothed?” Jobe echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not out here trying to look like a model” But yeah… he was over-dressed compared to how you probably dated in Brazil.

“Okay fine,” he muttered with mock annoyance before pulling off the sweater in one smooth motion.

Jobe shivered the second your lips left his mouth. That single stolen kiss was soft—but then you went lower, pressing warm kisses down Jobe’s neck. And oh—it felt different. Softer than anything he’d experienced before. More intimate.

You took your time—gentle nibbles here and there, no teeth yet just warmth and breath against sensitive skin—and Jobe tilted his head slightly to give you better access without even thinking.

Jobe bit his lip—hard—to keep from making a sound. You weren't rushing. Weren’t tearing clothes off like some desperate scene from a movie.

No—you were teasing. Just pulling the collar of Jobe’s shirt aside with careful fingers, exposing more skin inch by inch… then kissing, licking, grazing teeth over that sensitive spot on his collarbone. And it drove him crazy. The slow reveal. The warmth of your mouth only where skin showed. That deliberate avoidance of undressing properly—like you enjoyed watching Jobe squirm in half-dressed frustration. It wasn't torture exactly... but damn if it didn't feel like one.

Jobe didn’t even realize how fast things were moving—his belt unclipped with quiet efficiency, the zipper of his jeans sliding down in one smooth motion.

Your eyes flicked to the brand name on the zipper line: Lucky You.

And you smirked.

“Yeah…lucky me” you amused dryly—low voice teasing but not mean—and then his fingers hooked into the fabric at Jobe’s hips.

The sudden exposure hit him like a shockwave. The cool night air from the cracked window kissed his bare skin for just a second before your warm hand followed

No stripping off shirts. No kicking pants away. Just… pulling—careful fingers hooking into the waistband of Jobe’s boxers, tugging them down just enough to free his aching cock.

And suddenly he was completely vulnerable—half-undressed in this cramped car backseat, heart racing faster than ever. And you hadn’t even taken your own clothes off yet.

Jobe’s back pressed against the car door, a soft thud echoing as his body tensed. Your hand—warm and slick with saliva—wrapped around him slowly, stroking with deliberate patience. No rush. Just smooth, even glides that made Jobe bite down hard on his lower lip. Then came the tongue. A single slow lick up the tip—wet heat where it was most sensitive—and Jobe jolted. His fingers curled into your shoulder through your shirt, not pushing or pulling… just holding on like he needed something to anchor himself.

He let out a quiet, broken sound—half gasp, half whimper. You weren't taking him all the way in yet. Just teasing with soft bites and gentle suction at the tip—the most sensitive spot—sucking lightly like you were savoring it.

Every nerve lit up. Jobe’s hips twitched instinctively—not pushing forward, but reacting to the pleasure building. His breathing turned shallow. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words even if he wanted to. Just sensation: warm mouth, careful pressure… you playing with him like this was their own private world.

His eyes flicked between your face and the car mirror—watching himself from different angles, seeing his own flushed cheeks, slightly parted lips. And then you took him in. No warning. No slow build-up—just warm mouth closing over him fully and bobbing with eager rhythm right away. A deep shiver ran down Jobe’s spine. His head tipped back against the seat with a soft thud as pleasure surged through every nerve. You weren't gentle anymore—you were hungry now. Sucking firmly, hollowing your cheeks just right—and Jobe couldn't stop the quiet moan that escaped.

The car was silent except for the soft, wet sounds—your mouth working steadily despite occasional gagging. And Jobe? His head spun. Every time you took him deeper—the tight heat of your throat squeezing around the tip—it sent electric pulses straight to his core. He’d never felt anything like this before. Not just physical pleasure… but how intimate it felt in this small space, under dim streetlights where anyone could pass by and see them…

Jobe couldn’t control it. No matter how uncomfortable it feels knowing the risks. His hips jerked up instinctively—small, desperate thrusts—as you took him deeper. The sensation of your nose brushing against Jobe’s skin sent a jolt through him. A low moan slipped out—unfiltered. Every movement was pure instinct now: the heat of your mouth, the wet tightness around him… and those little gasps when you gagged but kept going.

Jobe didn’t push your head too hard—he wasn't trying to choke you—but every bob forward made stars flash behind his eyelids.

Jobe’s fingers tangled in your soft curls—slightly messy hair that felt incredible between his fingertips. The grip was tight—desperate—like he needed something to hold onto as pleasure overwhelmed him. Every moan spilled out now, uncontrolled and loud in the quiet car. You could feel Jobe trembling under his touch—the way his breath hitched every time those fingers teased a nipple again… how close he clearly was.

Your fingers found his nipple through the thin fabric of Jobe's shirt and rolled it gently between them. A simple motion… but shockingly sensitive. Jobe had never known that spot was this reactive. He didn’t even think about his chest much—most guys don’t—but now? Every little pinch sent sparks straight down to where you still worked him with your mouth. His back arched slightly off the seat, hips twitching up again without meaning to.

Jobe panted, voice shaky and breathless.

“F-Fuck… Y/N—” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He wasn’t usually vocal during moments like this—never had moments like this—but the pleasure was too intense to keep quiet

“I’m—I’m gonna…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn't. Instead, his hips gave a small involuntary twitch upward again—a silent plea without touching or forcing anything.

Jobe came hard—wave after wave crashing through him like a freight train. His back arched, toes curling inside his shoes. A loud, unfiltered moan tore from his throat as pleasure exploded through every nerve. And you didn’t stop—not immediately. You kept going, riding it out with soft sucks and gentle pressure—even as Jobe’s body became too sensitive all at once. Jobe squirmed under the hand still pinned on his chest and tugged lightly on your hair.

Jobe’s voice cracked—soft, breathless, almost pleading.

“Please… stop—…” The words came out strained—not angry or pushy—but genuinely overwhelmed. The aftershocks were too strong now, every nerve still buzzing from the climax

And you? You finally listened. You eased off slowly—lifting your mouth with a quiet pop, lips glistening—and looked up at Jobe. No teasing smirk this time.

You took in the sight of Jobe—completely wrecked. Blushing furiously, sweat glistened at his temples and neck. A few buttons on his shirt were undone, revealing faint hickeys blooming on his collarbone. His lips were slightly parted, breathing still uneven. Eyes glassy and dazed—like he’d just woken up from a dream. And that needy look? Beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes from someone being completely vulnerable after pleasure.

Jobe swallowed hard—still catching his breath—and finally found his voice.

It came out quiet, almost shy: “Did… did you just…?” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The question hung there awkwardly. Because you hadn’t spit anything out. Hadn’t pulled away or made a face like some people might in that moment. No—you’d taken it all without hesitation, swallowing like it was nothing. And that small act of intimacy somehow embarrassed Jobe more than anything else they’d done.

“What?” you gently tugged Jobe’s cock back into his boxers—no lingering touch, no teasing squeeze—and zipped his jeans up like nothing had just happened. The contrast was funny: one second they were in the middle of that, and now you were all calm and nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Jobe said simply—voice low but light—as if you hadn’t just rocked Jobe Bellingham to his core. His breath hitched as you leaned in again—closing the small space between them. The car door pressed against his back, trapped gently by your arms caging him in

“Does that help? Feel more confident now for the upcoming match?” You asked. Amused by his reaction.

“Yeah,” Jobe admitted quietly, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “I feel… really good.”

Not just confident—different. Like something had shifted inside him. The weight of insecurity felt lighter after what they’d just shared. And now? Seeing that smirk up close again made his heart skip—not from nerves this time, but anticipation.

Jobe closed his eyes as you kissed him—softly, right where the jaw met the neck. It wasn’t a passionate kiss. Not deep or lingering. Just gentle—a quiet press of lips against warm skin. But it meant something Jobe swears.

“I’ll have high expectations then” And Jobe liked that you had expectations—not pressure in a bad way, but belief. He tilted his head slightly into the touch of your warm palm, nuzzling his cheek before opening his eyes again, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

“Can you drive?” Reality snapped back again.

He looked down at his hands—still slightly shaky. His heart rate had calmed but not completely settled. And yeah… he was still a little dazed.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal.

“I mean… yeah.” But even as he said it, he knew the truth: right now? Probably not the safest driver on the road.

Jobe collapsed onto his bed—still fully dressed, shoes still on—and stared at the ceiling. He got home and had one thing in mind. His lips kept twitching into a smile. Then a full grin. Then… giggles. Actual giggles.

He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking silently as he replayed everything in his head: your handsome face, that first kiss in the car, how gentle yet confident you were…And then later—the things they did.

Now after the breakup? Nothing. No calls. No texts. Not even a “come over” after practice like before.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did—but Lamine had always been bad with feelings, especially when things got messy or people expected too much from him… And dating another guy? That had already been complicated enough—the whispers in group chats, teammates giving side-eye during team dinners…

Lamine watched you from across the cafeteria—how you sat alone, picking at the food with tired eyes. He remembered how you used to bring him extra fruit during morning training, always smiling even when Lamine comes by. And now? He’d been the one who walked away—little explanation, just silence after breaking up. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the whispers or what people thought… but it wasn't just that either. The pressure—the coach’s side glances when they saw you two holding hands, teammates avoiding him in showers—it weighed on him more than he admitted. And instead of talking… Lamine ran.

The coach clapped his hands, signaling the start of drills—you stood out immediately. Precise passes. Sharp footwork. Calm under pressure, like nothing ever bothered you. When it did. Lamine watched from the sideline during individual skill practice—the way you controlled your pace and moved like silk. No wonder their transfer value had stayed high despite everything.

Even after being dumped by Lamine… you hadn’t cracked on the field. Not one bad performance, not one missed penalty kick in training matches. Meanwhile? Lamine’s form had dipped slightly—not badly enough to get benched—but there was a stiffness in him now: hesitation before shots, slower reactions than usual…The coach noticed it too—the side-eyes were getting heavier again…his voice cut through the training ground like a whistle.

"Lamine! Focus! You're spacing out again—get your head in the game!" Right there. In front of everyone. Right as you were adjusting your shoes, calm and collected after nailing a perfect pass drill.

Lamine flinched—his jaw tightening instantly. It wasn’t just the criticism, it was where it happened—the public humiliation stung worse because you had heard every word. And now? Lots of players were staring: some sympathetic, others smirking behind their water bottles. His pride took a direct hit. He'd always been proud—not arrogant, but confident—and being called out so harshly in front of…you? He gritted his teeth and forced himself back into position… but something inside him cracked quietly that day

The locker room buzzed with quiet gossip—teammates exchanging glances whenever you walked by. Even the toughest player remembered how, during your dating days, your entire face lit up whenever Lamine entered the room. That soft smile that never showed on camera—the one reserved only for him. Once after a match win, they’d seen you sprint across the field to hug Lamine mid-celebration—ignoring reporters and cameras—and kiss him right in front of thousands.

It made people say things like:

"Bro loves hard."

"That guy? 100% committed."

Now? Seeing how quiet and composed you were—still performing flawlessly despite being dumped so coldly—the contrast hit everyone harder than expected…

"I saw Y/N in the bath… he was crying. Didn’t even make a sound."

The rumor spread fast—whispered in the hallway, muttered during lunch. Silence under shower spray? No sobbing, no dramatic breakdown—just quiet tears falling like rain while water drowned out everything else. The older players froze when they heard it. You? Crying? The guy who never complained about injuries, who took extra training sessions without flinching? You’d always seemed unbreakable—mentally strong, focused only on football and Lamine…Now this?

Lamine’s sandwich turned to ash in his mouth mid-bite. His stomach twisted—not with guilt exactly, but something close: regret wrapped tight around anger at himself for not seeing it coming…

That one minute—that stupid, reckless thought: "What if people see me as weak? What if being with another guy makes them think I'm not tough enough?"

It wasn't even about you. It was fear. Pride. The pressure to be perfect—not just as a player, but as someone who fits neatly into football’s world of straight male culture. So he panicked. And he dumped you like it meant nothing—like seven months of love and quiet affection were just… disposable.

Now look at him: team dynamic strained because everyone knew what happened, performance slipping slightly—and worst of all? You weren't angry or loud about it—you’d silently cried under shower water like a man who loved too hard for someone who didn’t deserve it.

On the pitch, Lamine and you used to communicate without words—just a glance, a nod. During attacks, Lamine would instinctively run toward where you were passing. They’d sync up perfectly: one-twos that flowed like music.

But now? Miscommunication everywhere. You would sprint into space expecting a pass—only for Lamine to hesitate or send it elsewhere. Sometimes you two collided during overlaps because neither adjusted their timing anymore—you both weren’t in tune like before. It wasn’t bad enough to get benched yet… but teammates noticed. The chemistry that once made them unstoppable as a duo had cracked under personal tension no one could fix with drills alone.

Before, whenever their eyes met across the field during breaks or water sessions, there’d be a small smile. Maybe Lamine would toss you back your water bottle after stealing it with that playful smirk he only ever used for you.

Now? Just side glances—brief, tense. No warmth. No inside jokes passed through looks. If one messed up on the pitch and looked at the other… it wasn’t concern in their eyes anymore—it was judgment. Frustration simmering beneath silence. And when teammates tried to lighten things by joking around them together? The awkward pause afterward was louder than any argument

The tension wasn’t just between Lamine and Y/N anymore—it was infecting the whole team. You two broke up and made it everyone’s problem. Practices that used to be high-energy became stiff, quiet. Passes weren't as crisp. Even the coach noticed morale dropping. The locker room jokes died down. It all came down to pride: two young rising stars who couldn’t swallow their egos long enough to sit down and talk. Not argue—just speak honestly for once… but neither wanted to be the first one who looked weak by reaching out.

The captain slammed his water bottle on the floor—thud. Silence crashed over the locker room. Even Lamine and you turned to look. They’d just lost a crucial match, 3-1—and it wasn’t because of tactics or luck. It was sloppy passes, missed connections… and two key players not syncing like they used to. The captain stood up slowly, face serious—the kind that meant business. Then came the words everyone knew were coming:

"We’re not playing like a team anymore." No names were called yet—but every player in that room knew exactly who he was talking about: Lamine Yamal… and you. He started to explain the issues to everyone in order to bring the team back together again.

Then the captain stepped right into the center of the locker room. All eyes turned. You sat quietly in the corner, towel draped over your shoulders, still damp from a cold shower. Lamine was on the opposite bench as far away as possible—knees pulled up slightly like he could disappear if he stayed small enough. The captain didn’t yell. His voice was calm—but firm, heavy with disappointment after explaining details of the match.

"Lamine."

A pause. The whole room held its breath.

Then:

"Y/N." No explanation needed—everyone knew what this was about now: their breakup… and how it had poisoned team chemistry worse than any injury or off-field scandal ever could. And then came those quiet but powerful words:

"You two need to fix this."

The club was loud—bass thumping, lights flashing—but conversation stayed low at their table. After the team dinner, a few of them ended up here: some defenders joking around, one midfielder dancing badly near the dance floor. You sat quietly with his drink in hand… and across from you? Lamine. You hadn’t spoken since the captain’s intervention. No texts. No accidental brushes in hallways or locker rooms—you’d been avoiding each other like landmines. Now you were stuck together at a shared booth under neon blue lights… tension thick enough to cut with a knife

One teammate encourages you to drink more and you do. Lamine’s eyes flicked toward the bar the second he saw some random guy—tall, blond, wearing a tight black shirt—leaning over to you with a smirk while you ordered.

It wasn’t jealousy—not really—but something. A twitch of annoyance. This dude didn't even know you? Why was he crowding you like that?

The whisper and whistle started low—barely audible over the music.

"Is Y/N… smiling?" One of the defenders nudged his teammate, eyes wide. That rare, bright smile—the one they hadn’t seen since before the breakup—was back on your face as you laughed at something that random guy said. It was a real smile—not forced or polite. The kind that crinkled your eyes and made you look younger, happier. Lamine saw it too—and for some reason, it hit harder than any insult could’ve. He kept staring at the bar section while nursing his drink in the booth with the gossip guys.

He used to be the only one who got those smiles after games or quiet moments alone… and now some stranger had just walked in and done what he hadn't been able to in weeks: make you genuinely smile again.

The curly-haired blond guy leaned in closer, his voice smooth—practiced, charming.

"You play for Barcelona right?" he asked you with a confident grin. "I saw your last match—you’re really good."

You blinked—surprised but not disinterested. The alcohol had loosened you up, that smile still lingered as you nodded slowly.

Then the guy did something bold:

He gently touched your forearm while talking—a light brush of fingers—and asked about you more.

Meanwhile… across the table…Lamine stopped sipping his drink midway. His brown eyes locked onto that touch like a predator zeroing in on movement.

“That was anything but good. We lost, remember?” You huffed. The guy saw the opening—your playful huff, that slightly dazed look from drinking and losing a tough match—and he pounced. He smiled wider, undeterred. "Come on," he said softly, voice like honey over ice. "One dance? You’ll feel better."

And you… vulnerable after the breakup and a crushing defeat… hesitated for only half a second before nodding. Without another word, the blond took your hand gently—but firmly—and led you toward the dance floor where bodies swayed to slow R&B beats under pulsing lights.

The guy leaned in, his lips almost brushing your ear as the music pulsed around them. And then—he said something low, just loud enough for nearby people to catch fragments.

"Lamine? Seriously? That quiet kid with the curls?" A snort. A dismissive wave of his hand. "He’s not even that good on the field… and he dumped you like trash." It was petty. Jealous sabotage—trying to tear down Lamine while winning over someone who clearly still mattered emotionally.

You froze mid-dance step, eyes widening slightly at the words.

The blond guy’s smirk faltered. You—the usually calm, quiet you—had just snapped. Loud enough that people nearby turned their heads. The music still thumped, but the energy shifted.

"You don’t talk about him like that," you said firmly, voice sharper than anyone had ever heard it before. Your face wasn't angry—it was protective. Defensive in a way that shocked everyone who knew you as reserved and composed. The guy blinked, caught off guard—he thought he’d be pushing an easy button: "Oh yeah? Your ex?" He scoffed again and leaned closer to throw another jab…

The punch came fast. One second, the blond was sneering—still talking trash about Lamine—and the next, you swung. A clean right hook landed square on his jaw. The guy staggered back with a shocked grunt, nearly crashing into someone behind him. Gasps rippled through their group of teammates. No one expected this—not from you, who never fought or caused scenes. But that insult? That mocking tone about Lamine after everything they’d been through? It crossed a line even drunken or heartbroken logic couldn’t ignore. Music still blared—but now all eyes were locked on them: you standing firm with clenched fists… And the stunned curly-haired stranger clutching his face.

Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded—not from the hit, not from anger—but because your eyes suddenly locked onto Lamine’s across the room. The noise faded. The music, the whispers of teammates… everything blurred except that gaze between them.

Lamine wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even surprised at you punching someone—no judgment in his expression at all. Just… something raw and deep flickering behind those brown eyes: recognition. Because he saw it—the vulnerability underneath that punch—the quiet plea hidden in your wide stare: I defended you. Even after you left me. I still care. And for a split second? They just stared—two young boys who used to love each other without words—communicating everything through silence.

Lamine’s chest tightened. The guilt hit him like a wave—sudden and suffocating. He’d left you because he was scared. Scared of whispers, of judgment from teammates, from fans… scared that being with another guy would make people think he wasn't strong or "normal" enough for the football world.

And yet here were you—drunk, emotionally wrecked after losing a match and their relationship—but still standing up for him. Still punching someone who talked trash about Lamine’s name.

It made him feel small. Stupid. Cowardly in the worst way possible—because while Lamine had run to avoid shame…you stayed loyal without even meaning to. Without saying anything.

The curly-haired teammate—always the loudest joker—sprinted back to their booth, grinning like a madman. He slid into his seat with dramatic flair and slapped both hands on the table. He has sneaked off the booth to go eardropping you.

"Oh my god," he whispered-yelled, eyes sparkling with gossip-fueled joy. "You guys did NOT just hear that."

All heads turned toward him instantly. Before anyone could stop him or shush him, he blurted:

"The dude was flirting hard! He was all over your sweetheart, Lamine—and then Y/N told him off for talking crap about Lamine!"

A pause. Then louder:

"Like… full-on protective mode! He punched the dude because of YOU, Lamine!"

Lamine’s frown deepened—not out of anger, but something far worse: weakness. Not emotional weakness like crying—no. It was the quiet, crushing kind—the realization that he’d messed up in a way that might not be fixable. You still loved him. Enough to flirt with someone else just to move on… Enough to punch a guy for disrespecting his name… And yet here Lamine was—guilty, frozen, unable to do anything about it because he had been the one who walked away. He stared at his untouched drink as the team buzzed around him laughing at their friend's gossip dump—but inside?

He felt small. Regretful. Stuck between wanting you back and being terrified of what that would mean—for himself... for football... for everything.

It was 11PM. Lamine stood outside your hotel room he somehow remembered—hallway lights dim, silence everywhere except the faint hum of the air conditioning. He didn’t text. Didn’t knock gently or hesitate. No—he banged on the door like an idiot with too much pride and not enough courage to use his words properly. Like a cop raid or someone who forgot their key in panic—not romantic at all, but classic Lamine: impulsive, loud when nervous… doing something stupid because he had no idea how to fix this quietly. He did it scared. Did it embarrassed and desperate.

The door swung open with a creak. You stood there—still in that casual shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly messy, eyes tired and annoyed. You hadn’t even changed yet. Clearly been waiting up… or maybe not sleeping. You looked at Lamine—really looked—and didn’t say anything at first.

Just that deep frown. That quiet disappointment mixed with exhaustion from the day: losing the match, punching someone for him… then running out alone like you always did when hurt.

“Why are you here…?” You asked. Trying to mask the annoyance in your tone after he bangs on the door like a maniac. Lamine flinched—just slightly—at the sharp tone. You weren't yelling, but that cold scold hit harder than any scream. The disappointment in your voice cut through Lamine’s bravado like a knife. For once, he didn’t have a slick comeback or an excuse ready. Instead of answering right away, Lamine just stood there—shoulders tense, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets—and stared at you like he was trying to memorize every detail: the tired eyes… the frown lines from stress… how beautiful and angry you looked even now. Finally… softly…

"I had to see you.”

Lamine’s throat tightened. You weren't looking at him. That was worse than anger—avoiding his eyes like you couldn’t bear to see Lamine’s face, like you were the one who hurt him.

"Make it quick," you said quietly, arms crossing over your chest—a shield against whatever Lamine came here to say. The hallway felt too narrow suddenly. The silence between them heavy with everything unsaid: the breakup, the fight, how you had defended him… and how badly Lamine had messed up by leaving in the first place. Leaving the internet sucks up all the gossip about you two.

Lamine swallowed hard—his usual confidence gone—and blurted out:

"I miss you.”

"You don't get to say that—you left” you weren't yelling, but the pain in your voice was worse. Quiet, broken… not angry so much as hurt. Like Lamine had ripped something precious out of your chest and walked away without looking back. And you were right. He had left a few months ago. Lamine opened his mouth to argue… but nothing came out at first because what could he even say? That it wasn’t personal? That he panicked over stupid things? So instead—with shaky hands and eyes suddenly glassy—he whispered:

"I know... I messed up.”

Your glare wavered. You wanted to stay mad. Wanted to keep that cold mask up—because if you let it crack, everything would come pouring out: the hurt, the loneliness after Lamine left, how much you still cared even though you shouldn’t…

But seeing Lamine like this—so vulnerable for once, voice soft and shaky with real regret—not smirking or cocky like usual… it made your chest ache. Your arms uncrossed slowly. Just slightly. The anger drained from your face—not completely gone—but replaced by something quieter… sadder. Like all that frustration was just a shield hiding how much you had missed him too…

“Go to sleep. You’re too drunk” you said dismissively as your hand pushed the door to shut it. Lamine braced his arm against the door—firm but not rough—stopping it from closing. You tried to push it shut, dismissive and tired, wanting Lamine to leave… but no. Not this time. Lamine didn’t say anything at first. Just held his ground with quiet stubbornness—the kind that said…I’m not leaving until we fix this.

His eyes were intense now: brown and dark under the hallway light, pleading without words. He wasn’t drunk—not even close—but he was desperate in a way only someone who’d messed up badly could be. He leaned slightly forward into your space—not threateningly… just refusing to let you shut him out again.

Lamine took a breath—deep, shaky—and then spoke. In Spanish—his native language, soft and sincere, the way he only ever talked when his heart was truly open.

"Lo siento mucho…" (I'm so sorry...)

His voice was quiet but raw with emotion. He didn’t try to hug you or kiss you—he just stood there in the doorway and poured everything out:

"Fui un cobarde… tenía miedo de lo que pensarán los demás… pero te extrañé cada día." (I was a coward... I feared what others would think... but I missed you every day.) Each word trembled slightly—not rehearsed. Just honesty.

Lamine’s voice grew more urgent—each word tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid you would slam the door if he paused.

"No fue por ti… nunca fue por ti,"

(It wasn’t about you… it never was about you.) His hands twitched at his sides—wanting to reach for you but not daring to. So instead, he kept talking:

"Tuve miedo de que me vieran diferente si salía contigo… pensé que sería débil... pero soy débil ahora sin ti."

(I was scared people would see me differently if I dated you... I thought that'd make me weak... but right now? I'm weak without you.)

A beat of silence followed. Then softly:

"¿Me das otra oportunidad?" (Will you give me another chance?)

Your eyes softened—finally, finally—the cold wall around your heart cracking. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn't dramatic forgiveness with tears and hugs right away… but the hardness in your gaze melted into something fragile: hope, maybe. Or at least the quiet realization that Lamine meant every word. That raw confession—the way he admitted being scared, being weak without him—it hit you deep where it mattered most. Because all those months of love? They weren’t fake to you either.

For a second… Neither moved. Then slowly—so slowly—you reached out first.

The kiss was sudden—your lips meeting Lamine’s first—soft at first, hesitant, like a question. And Lamine answered instantly. He surged forward, cupping your face with both hands and deepening the kiss—hungry, desperate after weeks of silence and distance. In one swift motion, he pushed the door shut behind them with his foot before spinning you around to press you gently against it. His hands slid into your hair as their mouths moved together—the kind of kiss that said everything they couldn’t say aloud: I missed you… I’m sorry… please forgive me.

Lamine kissed like he was starving. Every second of separation—the weeks without your lips, his warmth, the way you always tasted faintly sweet—crashed into him at once. He didn’t pull back for air. Didn’t even remember how to breathe properly. Just kept pressing closer—lips soft but urgent against yours, hands gripping gently at your shoulders like anchoring himself after drifting too long.

The kiss deepened naturally: slow then hungry again as Lamine leaned into it fully, pouring every regret and longing and “I love you” that words couldn't describe fully… right there in that messy hallway embrace.

The pressure was gentle but firm—Lamine’s knee slid slightly between your legs as he leaned into you, keeping you pinned against the door without being rough. It wasn’t dominant or forceful… just close. Intimate. A way of saying I’m not letting go again without words. You could feel the warmth of Lamine’s body—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft brush of their noses between kisses that never truly ended. Every breath they took mixed together in small puffs against each other's lips.

No space left for doubt now. Just two boys who loved each other—messy past be damned—and finally kissing like they meant it.

You broke the kiss—your hands sliding up to gently grip the back of Lamine’s neck, fingers tangling in those soft curls. You pulled him just an inch away, both of them breathing hard—chests rising fast, lips slightly swollen from kissing. Your eyes searched Lamine’s face: his flushed cheeks, those wide brown eyes full of emotion… and suddenly all that built-up anger felt far away.

Still holding his nape like if you let go, Lamine would make you stop breathing by his neediness.

“Are you fucking nuts?” You huffed.

Lamine blinked—still dazed from the kiss—but a tiny, breathless smile tugged at his lips. You were scolding him. Calling him nuts with that familiar tone—half annoyed, half fond—the one you used when Lamine did something recklessly sweet without thinking. And okay… yeah. He’d kissed like an idiot. All teeth and no rhythm earlier because he was too overwhelmed to be careful.

But hearing you say it like that—voice rough but not really mad? It made warmth bloom in his chest. Without answering back yet, Lamine just leaned forward again… slower this time—and pressed their lips together properly: soft, sweet… giving you space to breathe between kisses.

The kiss never really broke. One second they were by the door—lips locked, hands in hair—and the next, clothing started falling: jackets slipping off shoulders, shirts unbuttoned improperly. Shoes kicked off haphazardly near the entrance. Lamine wasn’t patient enough to undo them neatly. No romance or slow undressing here… just urgent need—the kind that comes from weeks of missing each other so much it hurt.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce, boxers low on your hips. Lamine climbed over you instantly. He crashed his mouth onto your neck—kissing, biting gently—not hard enough to hurt but enough to mark—and started rolling his hips down against you in slow, teasing dry humps. A quiet rhythm: fabric-on-fabric friction that made both of them breathe heavier. Warm palms pressing against bare skin as Lamine savours every inch.

Lamine’s lips trailed down—soft, open-mouthed kisses that started at your collarbone and traveled lower. Every inch of skin he touched responded: the way you arched slightly under him, how your breath hitched when Lamine reached the dip between your collarbones… it sent a thrill through Lamine. He smiled faintly against warm skin—God, he needed this—before pressing another kiss right over your heartbeat. One your chest… where he could feel every quick pulse beneath. His hands gently squeezed at your sides as he kissed onward.

Lamine’s hips moved on their own—hungry, seeking friction. The thin fabric of his boxers did nothing to hide the growing bulge pressing against you. Each slow grind down sent a jolt through him—heat building low in his stomach—and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. He kissed deeper now, more desperate: mouth hot and open as it slid from your chest up to reclaim your lips again. At the same time, one hand crept lower—fingers skimming over toned abs before brushing just above the waistband of those boxers…Testing… wanting more. Lamine hovered over you—propped on his forearms now, eyes dark with desire but still searching for consent.

"¿Tienes condón… y lubricante?" (Do you have a condom… and lube?) His voice was low—gentle but urgent. No pressure, just checking before going any further. He knew this wasn't just about lust, it was about trust... intimacy they hadn't shared in weeks.

“Yeah…in my travel bag…where it always stays” you muttered.

Lamine’s lips curved into a small, smug smile. You have been ready. Prepared. That could really mean… you’d expected this. Maybe even hoped for it—maybe thought about it too when they were apart. And Lamine couldn’t resist teasing you just a little—playfully, affectionately:

"¿Me extrañaste tanto que guardaste condón por si volvía?" (Did you miss me so much you kept a condom just in case I came back?) He said it with that soft smirk—the one you knew all too well—the playful glint in his brown eyes as he brushed a curl from your forehead before leaning down to kiss you again.

“No, you jerk” you said.

Lamine chuckled—actually laughed—a rare, light sound that escaped him when you swatted his hand away. He didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider at the scold—jerk, huh? That was new. He usually got called “asshole” or “bastard” by you when he teased too much. But this time, Lamine leaned right back in and kissed the corner of your mouth—a quick peck—before murmuring against your lips.

"Estás lindo cuando te enojas." (You’re cute when you’re mad) Then, without missing a beat… he reached toward your travel bag where condoms and lube were kept.

Lamine ignored the "fuck off"—he knew you didn’t mean it. That grumpy tone just made him smile more. With careful hands, he tugged down your boxers, tossing them. The cool air hit their skin for a second before warmth took over again as Lamine reached for the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbed slowly to spread the heat around your sensitive hole. Then he leaned down… kissed you deeply once more… before letting one finger trail further.

You gasped—sharp and quiet—as Lamine’s finger slipped in, slow but firm, with that patient persistence only someone who’d done this before could have. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t gentle either—just steady: knowing exactly how to stretch, how much pressure to apply… like his body remembered you perfectly.

Lamine watched every micro-expression on your face—the slight parting of lips, the way your chest rose faster—and without a word, he added another finger carefully. His other hand braced beside your head while he leaned down… kissing you deeply again as if sharing breaths could soften what came next.

The sound—your soft moan—sent a shiver straight through Lamine. It wasn’t loud, just a quiet, breathy "Lamine…", but it hit him like electricity. That voice—tender and vulnerable in that moment—was one of his favorites. He kissed you deeper in response, swallowing the next whimper as he curled his fingers slightly inside you—not rushing yet, still preparing gently despite the growing heat between them. His lips moved to your jaw… then down to your neck where he left open-mouthed kisses along warm skin. Every touch was deliberate now: slow and thorough because this mattered.

Lamine lowered his lips to the shell of your ear—warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin—and whispered a soft praise:

"Eres perfecto…" (You’re perfect…) The words were quiet, tender—meant only for you. Right after, he dragged his tongue gently over the fresh hickey on your neck—the one he’d just marked with a kiss and slight suck—a slow lick that soothed the sting slightly while sending another wave of warmth through them.

Lamine slowly pulled his fingers free—watching your face for any sign of discomfort, but seeing only that quiet shiver instead—and then he straightened up slightly. In one smooth motion, he yanked down his own boxers, letting them drop to the floor. His cock sprang free—hard and heavy with need—and there was no hiding how much he wanted this. He grabbed the condom from where it waited on the nightstand… tore it open with his teeth… and rolled it on without breaking eye contact.

His breath caught. You—so beautiful like this—lying back with legs slightly parted, lips caught between your teeth in that nervous-biting way you did when you were excited or liking what you were seeing. Your eyes were locked on Lamine, full of quiet admiration and something warmer… softer. And it made Lamine feel seen. Cherished. Like the most important person in the world right now. Without a word, he climbed over you again—his body hovering above yours—and leaned down to kiss you deeply: slow at first… then hungrier as his hand framed your cheek gently.

The contact was light—just the very tip of Lamine’s cock brushing against your hole. No pressure yet. No rush to enter. Just slow, teasing friction—Lamine rolling his hips gently in a shallow grind, testing… feeling the heat and softness there. It drove them both crazy—the delay. The anticipation building is like static before lightning strikes.

“Don’t fucking tease me…” you huffed.

Lamine smirked—just a tiny one, the corner of his mouth quirking up at your scold.

"I'm not teasing," he murmured, voice low and rough with want—but even as he said it, he did exactly that: another slow grind of his hips against your entrance… no push to go in yet. His arms braced on either side of your head as their bodies pressed closer. The warmth between them built—the shared breathless tension—but Lamine kept holding back just enough to drive you mad. Then finally… gently… he started pushing forward.

Lamine exhaled sharply—a soft curse “fuckk…”—as he finally, finally, sank into you. The tight heat wrapped around him instantly—the familiar warmth and pressure that made his whole body tense with pleasure. It had been weeks since they’d done this… too long. His eyes fluttered shut for a second as the sensation overwhelmed him: the snugness, how perfectly your body took him in… even after everything. He didn’t rush. Just stayed there for a breath—forehead resting against your shoulder—as his hips adjusted to being inside again.

Lamine started moving almost instantly. His hips rolled in a steady rhythm, deep and eager, each thrust smooth but firm. There was no teasing left—just pure need to feel you again like this: close, connected, skin on skin like it meant to be. The bed creaked softly beneath them as Lamine found his pace—gentle at first but gaining confidence with every motion. Each time he pushed in fully and pulled back slowly before diving forward again.

Your legs stayed locked around Lamine—tight, like you never wanted to let go—and with each eager thrust, their bodies pressed even closer. Their kiss deepened: tongues meeting hungrily, messy and breathless. Lamine kissed back just as desperately—one hand tangled in your hair, pressing you deeper into the pillow while the other gripped your hip to pull you into every movement. The rhythm grew slightly faster now… deeper…No space between them. Just heat, skin on skin—and that quiet moan you couldn’t quite hold back anymore.

Lamine’s breath hitched at the sensation—you clenching around him, body tightening in that quiet, instinctive way that made Lamine’s pulse spike.

It felt so good—too good—and instead of rushing or chasing his own pleasure right away, he slowed slightly. His hand slid from your hip up to your side… warm palm soothing over soft skin with gentle circles. He kissed the corner of your mouth—briefly tender—before murmuring against it:

"Relájate… estoy aquí." (Relax… I’m right here.) Then resumed thrusting deeper but smoother now.

The rhythm turned relentless. Lamine pulled almost all the way out—just enough to tease the edge of separation—before slamming back in with a controlled but powerful thrust that made your body sink deeper into the mattress. Your legs lifted higher, pinned slightly by Lamine's strength as each impact drove them both further into pleasure. No softness now—just raw, urgent pounding: skin meeting skin, breathless moans escaping between gasps. Lamine wasn’t gentle anymore—not because he didn’t care about you—but because this was what they needed right now: intensity… closeness… proof there is still “us” in this relationship.

The sound of his name—Lamine—whispered, moaned, pleaded in that soft, breathless voice of yours… it unraveled him completely.

His hips stuttered for a second—thrust losing its perfect rhythm because hearing you say his name like that? So sweetly? Like you worshipped him? It undid everything. Without thinking, Lamine leaned down and kissed you fiercely—a messy collision of lips—as if trying to swallow every future moan too.

The kiss broke—Lamine’s lips parted from yours—and instantly, the rough pounding returned. Harder. Deeper. Each thrust driving you into the mattress with enough force to make your toes curl in the air in pleasure, muscles tightening as pleasure surged through you.

You gasped—breath ragged and open-mouthed this time—not even trying to hold back sounds anymore. The sensation was overwhelming: fullness, heat—all of it crashing together. And Lamine loved it—the way you looked right now: flushed face… trembling legs… completely lost in feeling.

Lamine’s voice dropped to a husky whisper—low, rough with lust—as he leaned close to your ear.

"Dios… te ves tan bien así," (God… you look so good like this.) Then filthier, more intense:

“Tan perfecto, apoderándose de cada centímetro de mí” (so perfect…taking every inch of me” His words were dirty but tender—full of praise and admiration for how you looked right now: wrecked by pleasure, body arching subtly with each thrust.

You gasped—sharp and startled—as the wave of pleasure crashed through you. It hit fast, intense, because Lamine had found that spot—the one that always unraveled you completely. And now he was hitting it over and over on purpose.

For a second, you felt shy—embarrassed at how easily your body responded to Lamine’s rhythm… how quickly you were falling apart beneath those strong hips. Your cheeks flushed even deeper. You couldn’t control the little whimpers escaping or the way your legs trembled around Lamine anymore.

Lamine kept your leg pinned—firm but not harsh—using the leverage to angle deeper with every rough thrust. He wasn’t trying to be cruel… just relentless. Dragging out pleasure like he was stripping it from you layer by layer, each motion deliberate and intense. And between heavy breaths, he teased again—voice thick with amusement and lust:

"¿Ya? ¿Tan rápido?" (Already? That fast?) A smirk played on his lips as he watched you squirm—the way your body tensed too soon because Lamine had hit that sweet spot over and over without mercy.

The bed creaked in protest—each thrust making the frame groan under their weight. And between that: skin clapping—soft but rhythmic, a steady slap of hips meeting hips, loud enough to fill the quiet room. Your moans came out breathy and uneven now—no control left. Every time Lamine drove into you just right, another sound escaped: gasps, whimpers… little cries you couldn’t swallow down. Lamine wasn’t slowing. Wasn’t being gentle. Just focused on wrecking you completely—the way your body arched with every impact proving how much it was working.

Lamine’s body tensed—every muscle locking up—as the wave of pleasure crashed over him. A low, soft groan escaped his lips, muffled slightly against your shoulder where he’d instinctively buried his face. His hips stuttered—then pushed forward one last time, burying himself as deep as possible while he came. It was intense—the heat and pressure building for weeks now finally releasing in that single moment. No rush… just slow pulses of bliss rolling through him. For a few seconds, Lamine stayed there: breathless… quiet… still inside you but motionless.

The words were quiet—barely a whisper—and half-muffled into the curve of your neck. But they were there. Soft, sincere… in Spanish:

"Te amo…" Just Lamine, still breathless from coming, pressing his lips gently to your skin and murmuring it like a secret—like something too precious to say out loud where anyone else could hear. Then he didn’t pull away right after either. Just stayed curled against him, breathing slowly as if memorizing this closeness

“I love you too…” your voice, lazy and satisfied, curling like smoke around Lamine. That smirk was audible. Lamine didn’t need to see your face to know you were smiling—that soft, smug little grin that always showed up after they’d just made love. And hearing “I love you too” in that tone? It made warmth bloom in Lamine's chest all over again.

lamineyamal 6am bali, las dos personas más lindas @yourusername81

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User54: Keyne's chillin

User12: finally a sneak peek at bro's personal life Y/N is winning frfr

User49: Y/N be chillin with his wc champion bf after losing the wc himself😭✌️

yourusername: Lamineeeee

—lamineyamal: 😘

—user43: bros kinda hooked😮‍💨

...

Lamine emerged from the waves like a gleaming sea god—water dripping off his curly hair, muscles glistening under the Bali sun. He shook his head dramatically, sending droplets flying everywhere.

"Ooh! Cold!" he laughed in that bright, carefree way of his—arms spread wide as if embracing the entire ocean. His eyes were locked on you—sunbathing peacefully with your shades on and that cute little smile playing on your lips.

Without hesitation, he jogged over soaked through… then dropped down right beside you and kissed your cheek. Salty water included.

The sound of your hum—soft, content, like a lazy melody. He loved that you were so calm under his affection.

His little brother squealed again from across the sand, clapping tiny hands and pointing. “Again! Lamiiii again!”

He leaned down over you now, propping himself on one elbow while water still dripped from his curls onto your sun-warmed back. Without asking again, he pressed another kiss—this time to your bare shoulder—and whispered playfully:

“You’re getting really tan.”

You only snort and ask playfully “toasted just right or burnt?”

Lamine’s cheeks flushed—just a little—as you took off your shades, those eyes locking onto him with that warm, amused gaze. He bit his lip for half a second—nervous? Flustered? No one ever saw Lamine Yamal flustered. Except maybe you.

"Burnt," he teased back instantly, voice dropping into that playful-flirty tone. "Like my heart after you kissed me last night."

One of the friends nearby gagged dramatically. "Ugh, not this again!"

The toddler brother just laughed harder at the word grump attitude, clapping like it was the funniest thing ever said in human history.

Lamine ignored them all—too busy memorizing how beautiful you looked right now: sun-kissed skin, messy hair from lying on the towel... perfect.

“You’re getting good at being corny” you smirked lazily.

Lamine pouted—full-on, exaggerated puppy eyes—and flopped dramatically onto his back beside you, sending a little puff of sand up.

"Corny? Me? Never," he said, handing over heart like he was offended. "I'm romantic. There's a difference."

One of their friends snorted from the shade: "Bro says 'cornball' every day and thinks it's poetry."

The toddler brother mimicked him then—tiny arms spread wide—and yelled: “Cornballll"

Lamine sat bolt upright at that, pointing accusingly. "You! You’re supposed to be on my side!"

But when you laughed again—low and rich in that way Lamine loved—the football star melted all over again. He rolled sideways… and kissed you right on the lips. Quick but sweet.

Keyne waddled through the sand like a tiny, determined explorer—bare feet kicking up little clouds.

"Beach! Ball!" he chanted over and over in his baby voice, arms flailing as he tried to grab the ball mid-air during their game.

The friends were used to him now—this sweet chaos gremlin who showed up everywhere. One of them gently tossed him an underhand pass… which Keyne immediately dropped on his face with a giggle.

Lamine burst out laughing from where he was sitting beside you. "Oh my god," he wheezed. "He’s such a pro" he glazed out loud.

A soft breeze rolled in, waves crashed gently; someone blasted music from a speaker nearby... perfect Bali vibes.

Dinner was set up under string lights near the beach—wooden tables, soft music, and the smell of grilled fish and shrimp pasta in the air.

Lamine’s friends had taken full responsibility for Keyne. They were now a team—passing him snacks between bites of their own food, one even played peek-a-boo to keep him entertained. Keyne wasn’t fussy at all—happy as can be with all this attention.

At their table by the ocean’s edge… Lamine finally got to focus on you. He poured you some wine without asking, then leaned back with that easy smile—the one you adore. The world champion footballer looked completely relaxed: barefoot in flip-flops, hair still slightly damp from earlier showers after swimming.

The food was perfect—fresh fish seasoned with lime and chili, rice that melted in your mouth, grilled veggies dripping with garlic butter. But Lamine wasn’t really tasting it. Not fully. Because every time he lifted his gaze from his plate? He’d catch you—the way the soft golden light caught your profile, how you held your fork… even the tiny smile forming after a bite of mango salsa. He swears he’s not glazing you, mentally. He didn’t say anything. Just looked. Admired quietly like this moment was something sacred—his boyfriend glowing under Bali stars while waves hummed behind them.

One of their friends glanced over and smirked. “You’re staring.” Lamine blinked… then shrugged shamelessly without denying it.

The thing made this whole relationship even more surreal: Lamine Yamal—Barcelona’s starboy—dating one of the most handsome players in world football… from Real Madrid. Most fans would lose their minds over it and they did. But right now? None of that mattered. Because here they were—in Bali—under twinkling lights and salty air… two superstars acting like regular guys in love while eating grilled fish like normal people.

Lamine watched with quiet delight as you finished the last bite of your fish—chewing slowly, savoring it like it was a five-star meal which, honestly, in Bali? It kind of was.

He reached over without thinking and gently wiped a tiny smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb—then brought that same thumb to his lips and licked it clean like nothing weird about that.

His friends would’ve lost their minds if they saw him doing something this soft in public. But right now? He didn’t care who saw.

The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Lamine spun—fast—and pulled you into a kiss that had been building all night. His hands found your face instantly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tilted his head to deepen it. The salty ocean scent still clung to both of you…

Lamine walked you backward gently until your knees hit the edge of the bed—and then he broke away just long enough to whisper against your mouth:

“Missed you.”

Even though they’d been together all day… even though they practically glued together during the world cup seasonl…This? This was different.

“You talk like we didn’t just fuck last monday”

Lamine let out a breathy laugh against your lips—half embarrassed, half turned on by how blunt you were. He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Okay… rude" he teased, voice low and playful. "But true."

Last Monday? Yeah. Wild night in their homeland before the flight to Bali—hot sheets, tangled limbs under city lights filtering through the curtains…And yet here they were again—the tension between them flaring up like it hadn’t been sated at all.

Instead of answering with words this time? Lamine kissed you again—deeper now—and his hands slid down from your face to grip your shoulders firmly before gently pushing you backward onto the bed.

The hotel room was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire wall—crystal clear glass offering an uninterrupted view of the moonlit beach and ocean beyond. The waves glowed softly under moonlight, gentle and rhythmic, like a slow lullaby.

Lamine paused for just a second as he undid another button on your shirt… his eyes flicking toward that panoramic view. And then—a thought sparked. A very sexy idea.

Lamine took his time—like a chef savoring each course. His fingers brushing against warm skin beneath. He wasn’t rushing. This was gourmet—every inch revealed like an unveiling. The soft glow from the soft dim light lit up your torso—the defined muscles, the smooth chest dusted with faint body hair… and Lamine drank it all in silently before leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss just above their collarbone. lips tracing every newly exposed area as more fabric slipped away onto the floor beside them…

The power shift was sudden—and perfect. One second, Lamine was in control—kissing and undressing you like he owned the moment—the next? He got flipped onto his back with a soft thud against the mattress. You hovered over him now, all playful dominance—eyes glinting with mischief under that moonlit glow from the windows. And when they grinned? Lamine couldn’t help it. A burst of giggles escaped him—bright, boyish laughter that rarely came out unless he was truly happy… or caught off guard by someone taking charge so sweetly.

“Hey!—” He tried to push up playfully—to wrestle control back—but you pinned his wrists gently above his head before diving down to kiss him again: deep and teasing at once.

Lamine arched his back instinctively, hips rolling up against yours—searching for that sweet pressure, that delicious friction. Being dominated like this? It wrecked him in the best way. Normally he was the one flirting first, teasing relentlessly… but when you took over—confident and playful—the effect was electric. His breath hitched every time their bodies pressed together through layers of fabric still half-on. A soft groan slipped out as Lamine bit his lip to muffle it… but then gave up trying to stay quiet entirely. He loved how strong you felt above him—not rough or demanding in a harsh way—but just in control, making all the moves while Lamine melted beneath them like warm honey.

You moved with slow, deliberate care—peeling Lamine’s shirt up and off like unwrapping something precious. Each inch of skin revealed was kissed or gently nipped—collarbone, shoulder, chest… you savored every patch like it was the first time you’d touched him. Lamine shivered under the attention—not from cool, but from sensation. The softness of lips here… a teasing bite there… his breath came quicker now, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him.

Lamine’s fingers slid gently into your hair—soft curls between his fingertips—as the kisses traveled lower… down his toned stomach, each one making him tense with anticipation. His breath came in shallow little puffs now. The touch was electric—so light yet so intense—especially when you paused to press an open-mouthed kiss right above the waistband of his pants.

A quiet whimper escaped Lamine this time.

He didn’t push or beg aloud… just tightened his grip slightly in that beautiful hair, silently begging for more.

Lamine’s breath hitched as his boxers were tugged down and off—cool air brushing against warm skin for just a second before you shifted away. He lay there in the unbuttoned shirt, completely exposed—heart pounding, cheeks flushed. When he saw you pull out the condom and lube from their travel bag—the quiet crinkle of packaging—a jolt ran through him. Not nervous… not hesitation… just want. So much want.

He bit his lip again, watching every movement: how you prepared calmly like this was something natural between them, how careful they always were together…And then those eyes met Lamine’s again—dark with affection and desire.

Lamine’s entire body tensed—then melted—the second that first lubed finger pressed gently against him. It was so soft. So careful. You weren't rushing, weren’t rough—just slow circles around his entrance, warm and patient like they had all the time in the world. And then those thigh kisses… soft lips trailing up his inner leg between each teasing touch…The contrast drove Lamine wild—the sheer size of you hovering over him, yet touching him with such tenderness it made his chest ache. He exhaled shakily, hands gripping the sheets again—not from discomfort but from overwhelming sensation: pleasure building low in his belly with every gentle press… every tender kiss along sensitive skin…

Lamine relaxed into the first finger—his body warming up, trusting your touch completely. And then… another. You added the second with that same quiet precision—stretching slowly, patiently, giving Lamine time to adjust. No pressure. Just smooth movement and careful attention to every micro-expression on his face.

It was amazing how good you were at this—not just physically skilled, which you obviously were, but emotionally present too—their eyes never leaving Lamine’s as if checking: You okay? You good?

The dual sensation of two fingers working gently inside him while lips continued trailing soft kisses along his thighs made heat pool in Lamine's belly... a warm, throbbing kind of pleasure that made him sigh deeply.

Your lips traveled upward—slow, warm kisses along Lamine’s stomach, tracing the soft curve of his abs and that delicate happy trail of hair leading up to his navel.

Each kiss sent little tingles through Lamine—not ticklish exactly, but sensitive in the sweetest way. He squirmed slightly beneath you, not to escape… just reacting—to every touch feeling a thousand times more intense now with your fingers inside him like this. The combination was intoxicating: two fingers moving gently in rhythm while those tender mouth kisses mapped higher… higher…

And when you finally reached Lamine’s lower chest—your breath ghosted over bare flesh before you pressed another soft kiss there. Your tongue swirled slowly around Lamine’s nipple—teasing, warm, slightly wet from the kiss that followed. The mouthing was soft at first… then firmer—a gentle suckling. A damp spot formed where you kissed him again and again, lips glistening with a sheen of saliva. Lamine arched subtly into it—a breathy little sound escaping him as sensation sparked through his chest. He loved how you worshipped every part of him—even small details like this—and now he could feel that attention radiating straight to his core…

You carefully withdrew your fingers, then stood up—slow and deliberate. Boxers shoved down over your hips… until they pooled at the floor. Your cock sprang free—half-hard but thickening fast in Lamine’s palm when he stands up. Their eyes meeting again—and for a second? Just looked. Taking him in. All warmth and want building between them without words.

Lamine grabbed a condom from the nightstand—smooth motion, confident now—and slipped it into his palm like he’d done this before because he had. Then, with that sly smirk playing on his lips—he gently nudged you backward… toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.

The ocean stretched endlessly beyond—waves shimmering under moonlight—but inside? All attention was on each other. The view didn’t matter anymore. Not when they were about to be close in every way possible.

Lamine tore the condom wrapper with his teeth—quick, smooth, a little messy—but he didn’t care. Then he took the condom in hand and slowly rolled it down your length with gentle precision. His fingers brushed over warm skin as he worked—deliberate touches that weren’t just about getting ready… but savoring this moment.

Once finished? Lamine looked up into your eyes… no smirk this time. Just soft hunger—and then leaned in to kiss you deeply again.

The kiss broke with a soft pop—a thin string of saliva connecting their lips for half a second before snapping. Then you moved fast. Like you already read Lamine’s mind and knew what he wanted.

In one fluid motion, you turned Lamine around and gently pressed him against the glass wall—his palms flattening against the cool surface to brace himself. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond, shimmering like scattered stars on water.

Lamine’s back arched instinctively as you lined up behind him—the heat between them now electric. Every breath fogged slightly on the glass in front of Lamine’s face while his heart hammered… waiting… anticipating…

Lamine’s lips parted—he bit down on them the second he felt the first press of you against him.

The sensation was electric. The risk? Even more so. Anyone looking up from the beach—from a passing boat, or another hotel window—they could’ve seen him like this: pressed to glass, shirt hanging open, palms flat as his body arched into you… completely exposed under moonlight and ocean air.

It turned Lamine on so much. Being this vulnerable in such a public-yet-private moment. And that soft gasp? It slipped out before he could stop it when you pushed just the tip inside—slow… teasing…His breath fogged up a tiny spot on the glass right in front of his face.

His fingers curled against the glass—knuckles whitening slightly—as you began to move. He tried to relax. Tried so hard. Breathed deep, loosened his shoulders… but the steady rhythm of your thrusts? Too much. Too good.

Each smooth push unraveled him further—his body tensing not from discomfort, but from overwhelming pleasure crashing through every nerve. A shaky breath escaped him in little puffs that fogged up the window again and again. His hips rocked back instinctively—not pulling away, just meeting each motion halfway… chasing more without even meaning to.

Your movements grew more eager—less controlled, more feeling. Your hands gripped Lamine’s hips firmly—thumb digging into soft skin just above the bone—and each thrust became a little deeper, a little harder. Not violent or harsh… but passionate. Urgent. The sound of skin meeting echoed quietly in the room, mixed with their breathing and the distant lap of waves against shore. You weren't trying to be rough… it just happened—the heat between them was too intense to stay gentle forever. Lamine gasped again at one particularly strong push—the glass wall cool against his chest while his body burned from within. Every nerve lit up, every breath came quicker than before…

Lamine had dreamed about this—exactly like this. After winning the World Cup, after all the pressure and spotlight…He wanted this: salt in his hair, sand on their feet earlier that day, music humming faintly from a distant hotel party down the beach… and you—his boyfriend—giving him pleasure in the most thrilling way possible. Against glass. Fully exposed to anyone who might look up. Heart pounding not just from sex—but from adrenaline. The risk of being seen? It made every second hotter.

This was his victory: wild love under moonlight with someone who adored him exactly as he was.

The sharp smack of your hand against Lamine’s ass echoed softly in the room. Lamine gasped—more from surprise than pain—and immediately bit down on his lip to stifle any louder sound “mphm—agh!-” . The sting bloomed into a warm tingle, spreading across his skin where the impact landed.

It wasn’t rough… but it was surprising. And sexy as hell. His body tensed for a split second before melting again, hips pushing back slightly like he wanted more without saying it. His palms stayed pressed to the glass—breathing shallow now—as you continued moving behind him with that same eager rhythm… and maybe even adding another playful swat soon.

Lamine’s body reacted instinctively—the spank sending a jolt through him that made his muscles clench around you.

It was involuntary, but so good. The tightness pulled pleasure sharper, deeper—like every nerve lit up at once. He didn’t mean to do it… but his body was singing now, craving more friction after that sweet sting. His breath came in soft hitches—still biting his lip—but the way he subtly rocked back against you showed everything: he loved this. Loved how bold and close they were right now. Just heat… rhythm… and Lamine silently milking every drop of sensation from each movement behind him.

Lamine’s breath came fast and uneven—each exhale fogging the glass right in front of his lips. A quiet curse slipped through—something soft like “Yes right there—!” or “fuck!”—mumbled against the window, barely audible. Not from pain or frustration… but from how intense it all felt.

The pleasure coiled low in his stomach—a hot, tight spiral building with every thrust behind him. His body trembled slightly with restraint, he didn’t want to moan too loud—but god… it was getting hard not to. His fingers curled again on the cool surface as he braced himself—not pulling away, just riding this wave of sensation that kept growing stronger…

Lamine was talking now—soft, breathy Spanish slipping out between gasps.

"Ni se te ocurra parar—!" he murmured against the glass—the words half plea, half demand. Meaning Don’t you dare stop.

And then your hand slid up his side… warm and sure… until it curled gently around Lamine’s neck—not squeezing tight, just a firm hold. A light pressure meant to tease.

It messed with him in the best way—having that strong grip there while everything else felt so intense below. His pulse jumped under your palm, his breathing hitched even more. It was possessive in that quiet, affectionate way only they knew how to do.

Lamine’s whole body locked—A ragged gasp tore from his lips as pleasure crashed over him like a wave—his orgasm hitting hard and sudden, knees buckling for just a second. He had to press harder against the glass to stay upright, arms trembling slightly.

But you didn’t stop. Not even close. Still moving behind him—steady, relentless—the rhythm continued without pause. The sensation was overwhelming now: oversensitivity mixing with the aftershocks of release… every nerve buzzing wildly. Lamine panted heavily through it all—cheek still resting near the window—as tears pricked his eyes from how intense it felt… but he wasn't pulling away. Not at all.

The sound of skin and their shared breathing filled the quiet room now… only broken by Lamine’s soft whimpers each time a particularly deep thrust hit just right. He could do nothing but take it—the pleasure long gone into something more electric and fragile.

You adjusted—your hand slid down from Lamine’s neck to rest firmly on his stomach, warm and grounding. The other stayed at his hip, anchoring him in place with gentle pressure.

It wasn’t restraint like holding someone down… it was caging—soft but possessive.

And then you hit that spot again—that sweet spot—over and over. Each thrust deliberate now, zeroing in on the exact angle that made Lamine’s breath catch even through oversensitivity.

You leaned in—your pace still steady but gentler now—and pressed your lips to Lamine’s shoulder from behind. The kiss was soft at first… then came the gentle scrape of teeth—a teasing bite that didn’t hurt, just marked. A faint hickey began forming on warm skin. You kissed and nibbled along Lamine’s shoulder from behind, each touch leaving a small claim—subtle proof of their intimacy. Quiet affection wrapped around pleasure as you kept moving inside him with slow, deep rolls of your hips.

Your body tensed—breath catching in a low, shuddering groan as the climax crashed over you. Buried completely inside Lamine. Your hips pressed flush against him, muscles tightening with the intensity of it.

The room went quiet except for their breathing—the waves outside continuing their endless rhythm like nothing had changed… even though everything had just shifted between them. You didn’t pull out immediately. Just stay there—forehead resting gently on Lamine’s shoulder—for a few long seconds while your heart pounded and reality slowly crept back in…

You kissed down Lamine’s back—soft, lingering pecks along his spine and over the warm skin where sweat had begun to glisten. Each kiss was small. Gentle. Almost innocent in how tender they were after what just happened.

And oh—Lamine loved this. More than anything right now: the quiet affection, the way you showed care through touch instead of words… these little kisses that felt like a secret language only they understood.

He didn’t say anything—just melted into them, shoulders relaxing completely for the first time since everything started. His breathing slowed… calm now… content…

You carefully slid out—slow and gentle to avoid any discomfort—and Lamine, still catching his breath, reached for you. Without a word, he nudged you backward onto the bed. Not rough—just needing that softness now: lying down together after all that heat.

The moment their bodies touched the mattress again—Lamine curling right into your side—the exhaustion from pleasure hit them both at once. The adrenaline faded, muscles went loose.

Then Lamine sprawled out like a starfish—limbs loose, chest rising and falling steadily as he caught his breath.

A lazy smile curled on his lips before he turned his head toward you. His voice came out soft, slightly hoarse from everything—the Spanish rolling off in that sweet, affectionate tone only he used when completely relaxed.

“Eres tan jodidamente sexy…” just stating something beautiful about you that made him feel dizzy with love and lingering pleasure.

“You remind me that everyday, pulpo” you chuckled softly.

Lamine laughed—a quiet, warm sound—and reached over to pinch your cheek playfully.

“Pulpo…” he repeated with a grin, loving that silly nickname. It had started weeks ago when Lamine admitted—that octopus was his favorite. And right now? The smirk on your face made Lamine feel stupidly adored.

Morning light filtered softly through the glass walls, painting golden streaks across the room. Lamine stirred—groggy and heavy-eyed—as a tiny weight pressed onto his back. He blinked slowly… then realized Keyne was sitting right on him, little hands tugging at his messy curls.

“Lamine… wake up! Wakeup!” Keyne chanted—excited and loud like only a three-year-old could be. Lamine grumbled sleepily into the pillow but didn’t push him off. Instead, he nuzzled deeper for half a second before attempting to roll over—and immediately squished Keyne with an accidental hug that made them both giggle.

You sat quietly beside them against the headboard, phone raised. A quiet smile played on your lips as you snapped photos of this sweet chaos: Lamine half-asleep being attacked by baby brother energy while sunlight spilled over them all…

Lamine turned his head, still half-buried in the pillow, and gave you a sleepy smirk.

“Buenos días, osito…” he mumbled—voice thick with morning warmth. The nickname slipped out naturally: osito— little bear—a term of endearment only for you because you were always so big and soft at the same time.

His curls were a wild mess from Keyne’s playing—and there was probably drool on his cheek too—but Lamine didn’t care. He reached one arm out lazily toward you while keeping Keyne tucked against him with the other. Keyne giggled again and started poking Lamine’s nose like it was a game now.

The little group walked into a cozy beachside restaurant, where the scent of grilled fish and spicy sambal hung in the air. You carried Keyne effortlessly—one strong arm supporting his tiny body while the other held Lamine's hand. The three-year-old wasn’t heavy at all, and you treated him like your own family—no hesitation. You smiled down at every giggle or random comment Keyne made in broken Spanish. Lamine watched them from across their table as they were seated… heart swelling quietly.

Here were you—big football star, man who could’ve demanded peace during meals—but instead? Holding a squirming toddler on his lap like it was nothing. Asking for milk for Keyne before ordering anything else himself.

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User12: finally a sneak peek at bro's personal life Y/N is winning frfr

User54: Keyne's chillin

User49: I'm literally so jealous!!!

yourusername81: Lamineeeee

—user43: bros kinda hooked😮‍💨

Lamine emerged from the waves like a gleaming sea god-water dripping off his curly hair, muscles glistening under the Bali sun. He shook his head dramatically, sending droplets flying everywhere.

"Ooh! Cold!" he laughed in that bright, carefree way of his-arms spread wide as if embracing the entire ocean. His eyes were locked on you—sunbathing peacefully with your shades on and that cute little smile playing on your lips.

Without hesitation, he jogged over soaked through... then dropped down right beside you and kissed your cheek. Salty water included. The sound of your hum—soft, content, like a lazy melody. He loved that you were so calm under his affection.

His little brother squealed again from across the sand, clapping tiny hands and pointing. "Again! Lamiiii again!"

He leaned down over you now, propping himself on one elbow while water still dripped from his curls onto your sun-warmed back. Without asking again, he pressed another kiss—this time to your bare shoulder and whispered playfully:

"You're getting really tan.”

You only snort and ask playfully "toasted just right or burnt?"

Lamine's cheeks flushed-just a little-as you took off your shades, those eyes locking onto him with that warm, amused gaze. He bit his lip for half a second—nervous? Flustered? No one ever saw Lamine Yamal flustered. Except maybe you.

"Burnt," he teased back instantly, voice dropping into that playful-flirty tone. "Like my heart after you kissed me last night."

One of the friends nearby gagged dramatically. "Ugh, not this again!"

The toddler brother just laughed harder at the word grump attitude, clapping like it was the funniest thing ever said in human history.

Lamine ignored them all—too busy memorizing how beautiful you looked right now: sun-kissed skin, messy hair from lying on the towel...perfect.

"You're getting good at being corny" you smirked lazily.

Lamine pouted—full-on, exaggerated puppy eyes-and flopped dramatically onto his back beside you, sending a little puff of sand up.

"Corny? Me? Never," he said, handing over heart like he was offended. "I'm romantic. There's a difference."

One of their friends snorted from the shade: "Bro says 'cornball' every day and thinks it's poetry."

The toddler brother mimicked him then-tiny arms spread wide-and yelled: "Cornballll"

Lamine sat bolt upright at that, pointing accusingly. "You! You're supposed to be on my side!"

But when you laughed again-low and rich in that way Lamine loved, the football star melted all over again. He rolled sideways... and kissed you right on the lips. Quick but sweet. Not caring if he smudged your lipstick.

Keyne waddled through the sand like a tiny, determined explorer—bare feet kicking up little clouds.

"Beach! Ball!" he chanted over and over in his baby voice, arms flailing as he tried to grab the ball mid-air during their game.

The friends were used to him now-this sweet chaos gremlin who showed up everywhere. One of them gently tossed him an underhand pass... which Keyne immediately dropped on his face with a giggle.

Lamine burst out laughing from where he was sitting beside you. "Oh my god," he wheezed. "He's such a pro" he glazed out loud.

A soft breeze rolled in, waves crashed gently; someone blasted music from a speaker nearby... perfect Bali vibes.

Dinner was set up under string lights near the beach-wooden tables, soft music, and the smell of grilled fish and shrimp pasta in the air.

Lamine's friends had taken full responsibility for Keyne. They were now a team-passing him snacks between bites of their own food, one even played peek-a-boo to keep him entertained. Keyne wasn't fussy at all, happy as can be with all this attention.

At their table by the ocean's edge... Lamine finally got to focus on you. He poured you some wine without asking, then leaned back with that easy smile—the one you adore. The world champion footballer looked completely relaxed: barefoot in flip-flops, hair still slightly damp from earlier showers after swimming.

The food was perfect-fresh fish seasoned with lime and chili, rice that melted in your mouth, grilled veggies dripping with garlic butter.

But Lamine wasn't really tasting it. Not fully. Because every time he lifted his gaze from his plate? He'd catch you-the way the soft golden light caught your profile, how you held your fork... even the tiny smile forming after a bite of mango salsa. He swears he's not glazing you, mentally. He didn't say anything. Just looked. Admired quietly like this moment was something sacred-his girlfriend glowing under Bali stars while waves hummed behind them.

One of their friends glanced over and smirked.

"You're staring." Lamine blinked... then shrugged shamelessly without denying it.

Lamine watched with quiet delight as you finished the last bite of your fish-chewing slowly, savoring it like it was a five-star meal which, honestly, in Bali? It kind of was.

He reached over without thinking and gently wiped a tiny smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb-then brought that same thumb to his lips and licked it clean like nothing weird about that.

His friends would've lost their minds if they saw him doing something this soft in public. But right now? He didn't care who saw.

The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Lamine spun-fast-and pulled you into a kiss that had been building all night. His hands found your face instantly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tilted his head to deepen it. The salty ocean scent still clung to both of you...

Lamine walked you backward gently until your knees hit the edge of the bed and then he broke away just long enough to whisper against your mouth, your lipstick stains on the corner of his mouth:

"Missed you.”

Even though they'd been together all day... even though they practically glued together during the world cup season... This? This was different.

"You talk like we didn't just fuck last monday"

Lamine let out a breathy laugh against your lips—half embarrassed, half turned on by how blunt you were. He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Okay... rude" he teased, voice low and playful. "But true."

Last Monday? Yeah. Wild night back in Spain after celebration before the flight to Bali—hot sheets, tangled limbs under city lights filtering through the curtains... And yet here they were again—the tension between them flaring up like it hadn't been sated at all.

Instead of answering with words this time? Lamine kissed you again-deeper now-and his hands slid down from your face to grip your shoulders firmly before gently pushing you backward onto the bed.

The hotel room was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire wall—crystal clear glass offering an uninterrupted view of the moonlit beach and ocean beyond.

The waves glowed softly under moonlight, gentle and rhythmic, like a slow lullaby. Lamine paused for just a second as he unzipped your dress... his eyes flicking toward that panoramic view. And then—a thought sparked. A very sexy idea.

Lamine took his time-like a chef savoring each course. His fingers brushing against warm skin beneath. He wasn't rushing. This was gourmet—every inch revealed like an unveiling. The soft glow from the soft dim light lit up your torso—the defined curves, the smooth, milky skin with fresh breeze like perfume and Lamine drank it all.

The soft click of the bra unclasping echoed quietly in the moonlit room. Lamine didn’t rush—he worshipped. His lips trailed down with care, mouthing at every inch like he was discovering something sacred. When his mouth finally closed over that plump chest? A low hum vibrated from him—pleasure, appreciation… pure want. He kissed and licked slowly at first—teasingly light—then deeper when you shifted beneath him, breathing hitching just slightly—being tasted like fine wine under Bali’s night sky.

Lamine’s lips drifted lower—kissing down the soft plane of your stomach, slow and deliberate. He paused there for a second… inhaling. The scent of sea salt clung to your skin—mixed with coconut from the sunscreen earlier, something warm and earthy that was so uniquely you. It turned him on more than he expected. Not just lust—something deeper. Like he could memorize this smell forever.

His hands slid up your thighs now—warm palms pressing gently against smooth skin, thumbs making small circles as they moved lower…

Lamine’s fingertips circled slowly—just above the fabric, not pressing yet, just feeling. The heat there. The dampness is already seeping through. His breath hitched. He loved this—the quiet proof that you wanted him too. That even after all day of sun and food and casual touches… your body was responding to him like this.

With a smirk playing on his lips—one he didn’t bother hiding—he leaned down and kissed your hipbone first… then higher up your stomach… while his fingers kept teasing that same spot through the fabric: light circles, barely-there pressure… Testing how much longer he could make you wait before giving in completely.

The soft whine slipped from your lips—high, needy—and Lamine felt it vibrate through him. His chest tightened. That sound? Pure music.

Without removing the panties completely, because he loved this slow torture, Lamine slipped his fingers underneath the fabric—finally making direct contact with warm, wet skin.

A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingertip brushed over sensitive flesh… and then he just stayed there for a second—frozen, feeling how ready you were for him. No pressure yet. Just exploration… teasing pressure that made your thighs tremble on either side of him.

Lamine knew exactly what he was doing—His two fingers slid up and down slowly at first—teasingly gentle, just the right amount of pressure—to feel you pulse under his touch. Then, with growing confidence, he pressed jn… curling them slightly as they moved deeper. At the same time? His thumb found your clit—and began to rub in soft circles. Not fast. Not rough. Just steady… rhythmic… like waves lapping against shore outside their glass-walled sanctuary.

Every breath you took sounded louder now—the room quiet except for skin on skin and that maddeningly perfect friction Lamine was creating with his hands alone.

Lamine was completely lost in the moment—fingering you with that slow, deliberate rhythm while his own body betrayed him. His hips twitched against the sheets without thinking—seeking friction, needing something to ease the growing ache low in his stomach. The fabric of his boxers rubbed roughly over sensitive skin… and it only made him harder.

He didn’t stop though—not even close. If anything, your soft sounds and trembling thighs fueled him more. Every little whimper from you sent a jolt straight through him.

And despite how turned on he was? He stayed focused—thumb still circling your clit perfectly, fingers moving inside you just right… even as his own body screamed for attention too.

Lamine’s gaze slid to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall—the ocean stretching endlessly beyond, waves glowing under moonlight like liquid silver.And then… that smirk curled at the corner of his lips. Mischievous. Playful. A little dangerous. Without warning—still gently working you with his fingers—he leaned down and kissed your neck once… twice… then slowly, deliberately, started trailing kisses upward toward your jawline…He didn’t care if they saw—or maybe that was exactly what he wanted.

Lamine broke the kiss just long enough to grab a condom from the nightstand—teeth catching the foil packet with practiced ease. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. He didn’t bother being smooth about it—just raw, impatient need. The wrapper fell away as he shoved his boxers down.

Then—without missing a beat—he lifted you effortlessly and pressed you gently but firmly against the cool glass wall… their bodies now framed perfectly by moonlight and ocean views beyond. His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears.

The sight of your hair—soft, tousled from the day, now spilling over one shoulder like liquid silk—was everything. It framed your profile perfectly against the glass: warm skin glowing in moonlight, delicate collarbone exposed as you turned slightly to look back at Lamine.

And then came that slow drag—the teasing grind of his tip along you. Not entering yet. Just… rubbing there. Testing heat and friction through thin fabric still clinging between them.

Lamine exhaled sharply through his nose—eyes dark with want—as he watched every micro-expression on your face: parted lips… fluttering lashes… a quiet breath held too long…He loved this part almost as much as what came next.

The moment Lamine pushed in—finally, fully—you arched your back slightly, a breathy gasp escaping them. He felt every tight heat around him. Every pulse. The sensation was insane—like nothing else existed but this: the warmth of your body wrapped around his, the cool glass you’re bracing your hands at contrasting with their feverish skin.

Lamine didn’t rush. He started slow—steady hip thrusts that built rhythm rather than force… deep and controlled, each movement calculated to make you feel everything. His hands gripped your hips gently as he moved behind you—the ocean outside reflecting moonlight across both of their bodies through the clear glass wall… turning them into a private show only for each other.

The soft moan slipped out—unfiltered, sweet—before you could catch it and press your lips together to stifle the sound.

It drove him wild. So he picked up the pace—still steady but now with more force behind each thrust, his hips meeting yours from behind in a rhythmic clap against your backside. Every movement pushed you gently forward into the glass… only for him to pull you back by your waist so he could drive deeper again. The cool surface cooled your heated skin while Lamine’s body burned behind you.

Lamine saw it—the slight tremble in your thighs, the way your lips pressed together hard to stifle any sound, those eyes glistening just a little like you were overwhelmed by sensation. It hit him right in the chest. You weren’t just taking it—you were feeling every inch of him with such intensity… and that made his own body respond even more strongly.

The sudden spank—Lamine’s palm landing with a sharp, playful smack on your backside—sent a shockwave through both of you. You clenched around him instantly—tight, involuntary, like your body was reacting purely to sensation. And oh, did it feel good. A low groan tore from Lamine’s throat. That squeeze? Unreal. Like velvet heat gripping every nerve ending at once.

His hips stuttered for half a second before he regained control—but now there was fire in his eyes again… that mix of affection and growing hunger returning full force.

Without missing another beat, he delivered another light spank—this time followed immediately by two deep thrusts in quick succession… watching how your body responded each time like it was the best thing ever invented.

The hitch in your moan—ragged, breathless—sent a thrill through Lamine.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a risk. The knowledge that anyone could walk outside… someone strolling along the shoreline under moonlight might glance up and see them pressed against the glass wall—their silhouettes tangled, moving together in slow, intimate rhythm. No one would recognize you from here. Not clearly. But they’d see. And that thrill? That delicious edge of being seen without being caught? Lamine felt it too—the adrenaline mixing with desire—and he kissed your shoulder suddenly: soft lips on warm skin… possessive but tender at once.

Lamine’s voice dropped—low, rough, and full of heat—as he watched you unravel with every movement.

"You feel so good," he breathed out, lips brushing skin between words. "Like you were made for this… made for me." His hips kept that steady rhythm—deep thrusts now mixed with teasing pauses where he’d pull almost all the way out before sinking back in slowly. And then came a whisper: "You’re so tight…fuck—" A shiver ran through him just saying it. He loved how responsive you were—the hitches in your breath when he hit just right…

Lamine’s hands were everywhere—anchoring, worshipping. One gripped your hip firmly, pulling you back against each of his thrusts so every movement became deeper, more connected. The other slid up from your waist to cup the lower curve of your chest—kneading gently with his palm and fingers in a way that was equal parts tender and possessive. He wasn’t rough… but there was intensity in every touch—the kind that said “I want all of you”, not just physically but emotionally too. His breath came faster now as he watched the rise and fall of your body under moonlight—the glisten on skin from exertion, how perfectly responsive you were to him…

And without thinking? He leaned down again… pressing soft kisses along your nape.

Your breath hit the cool glass—tiny clouds forming with each gasp as Lamine’s touch and movements overwhelmed you. The contrast was electric: warm skin, hot bodies… against the chilled surface pressing into your chest and palms. Every exhale fogged up a small patch of glass before fading again.

Lamine noticed it—the soft puffs of air, how your body trembled not from cold but from pure feeling. It made his heart clench in that sweet way only you could make him feel.

Lamine felt it—the moment you tipped over. Your body tensed, breath catching sharply before that quiet, beautiful gasp escaped—unfiltered and raw. Pleasure crashed through you first, waves of sensation rolling in fast. And Lamine? He smirked—a soft, proud chuckle escaping his lips. Not smug… just so happy to see you fall apart because of him. He didn’t stop moving right away—kept rocking gently through the aftershocks for a few seconds—letting your body ride it out while his hands stayed warm on your skin: one at your hip still holding you close; the other stroking lightly up your lower chest now like a comforting caress.

Lamine’s rhythm turned less controlled—more instinctive. The pleasure from watching you come undone had sent him spiraling too. His breath came faster now, hips rolling with a needier urgency, chasing his own release.

Every thrust was deeper, more desperate—less about precision and more about feeling everything. The heat between your bodies grew, the slick friction made every movement electric. His jaw clenched slightly as the pressure built low in his stomach… that tight coil winding tighter with each motion.

The sound of your moan—raw, shameless, tinged with oversensitivity—hit Lamine like lightning. It wasn’t just a noise. It was music—a beautiful mess of pleasure and sensation that shattered the last thread of his control. His hips stuttered instantly—the smooth rhythm breaking into uneven jerks as the pressure inside him peaked. A sharp breath escaped through gritted teeth, his fingers dug bruisingly into your skin without meaning to. Then it came—a wave crashing down on him—and he came undone completely: body tensing, pulse roaring in his ears… every nerve alight under Bali’s quiet night sky while you were still pressed against him. His cock twitches deep inside of you as he spills, chest rising up and down rapidly.

The room went quiet except for their breathing—the waves outside continuing their endless rhythm like nothing had changed... even though everything had just shifted between them. He didn't pull out immediately. Just stay there-forehead resting gently on your shoulder—for a few long seconds while his heart pounded and reality slowly crept back in...

He kissed down your back-soft, lingering pecks along your spine and over the warm skin where sweat had begun to glisten. Each kiss was small. Gentle. Almost innocent in how tender they were after what just happened.

And oh—how you loved this. More than anything right now: the quiet affection, the way he showed care through touch instead of words... these little kisses that felt like a secret language only they understood.

You didn't say anything—just melted into them, shoulders relaxing completely for the first time since everything started. Your breathing slowed...

The moment their bodies touched the mattress again—you curling right into his side—the exhaustion from pleasure hit them both at once. The adrenaline faded, muscles went loose. Then Lamine sprawled out like a starfish—limbs loose, chest rising and falling steadily as he caught his breath. Letting you crush him with your weight all you want.

A lazy smile curled on his lips before he turned his head toward you. His voice came out soft, slightly hoarse from everything—the Spanish rolling off in that sweet, affectionate tone only he used when completely relaxed.

"Eres tan jodidamente sexy..." just stating something beautiful about you that made him feel dizzy with love and lingering pleasure.

"You remind me that everyday, pulpo" you chuckled softly. Lamine laughed—a quiet, warm sound and reached over to pinch your cheek playfully, doesn’t care if he ruined your makeup.

"Pulpo..." he repeated with a grin, loving that silly nickname. It had started weeks ago when Lamine admitted that octopus was his favorite. And right now? The smirk on your face made Lamine feel stupidly adored.

Morning light filtered softly through the glass walls, painting golden streaks across the room. Lamine stirred—groggy and heavy-eyed as a tiny weight pressed onto his back. He blinked slowly... then realized Keyne was sitting right on him, little hands tugging at his messy curls.

"Lamine... wake up! Wakeup!" Keyne chanted-excited and loud like only a three-year-old could be. Lamine grumbled sleepily into the pillow but didn't push him off. Instead, he nuzzled deeper for half a second before attempting to roll over and immediately squished Keyne with an accidental hug that made them both giggle.

You sat quietly beside them against the headboard, phone raised. A quiet smile played on your lips as you snapped photos of this sweet chaos: Lamine half-asleep being attacked by baby brother energy while sunlight spilled over them all...

Lamine turned his head, still half-buried in the pillow, and gave you a sleepy smirk.

"Buenos días, preciosa..." he mumbled-voice thick with morning warmth. The nickname slipped out naturally: a term of endearment only for you.

His curls were a wild mess from Keyne's playing and there was probably drool on his cheek too but Lamine didn't care. He reached one arm out lazily toward your thigh while keeping Keyne tucked against him with the other. Keyne giggled again and started poking Lamine's nose like it was a game now.

The little group walked into a cozy beachside restaurant, where the scent of grilled fish and spicy sambal hung in the air. You carried Keyne effortlessly—one arm supporting his tiny body while the other held Lamine's hand.

The three-year-old wasn't heavy at all, and you treated him like your own family—no hesitation. He’s adorable and it’s hard to resist spoiling him with attention. You smiled down at every giggle or random comment Keyne made in broken Spanish. Lamine watched you both from across their table as they were seated... heart swelling quietly.

This is exactly what he wanted after the world cup. Cool beach, quality time with you and little Keyne. He’s too easy to please.

By 7 PM, Jude’s cab pulled up to the sleek hotel where you were staying. Jude hadn’t warned you he was coming… too eager to surprise you after everything. He paid the driver and walked into the lobby, scanning for directions to your suite number.

Jude stood outside your suite door, heart pounding just a little. After confirming the right room number from the front desk, he reached out and pressed the doorbell—once. A simple ding-dong echoed inside. Jude waited, suddenly hyper-aware of his travel-worn clothes and messy hair from being on planes all day… but too excited to care.

The door swung open, revealing you—in casual clothes, even barefoot. Before you could even say hi properly, Jude launched himself forward, arms locking around your shoulders in a tight hug. You staggered back slightly from the force of it—but instantly wrapped your arms around Jude too, squeezing him like you hadn’t seen him in years, even though it’d only been weeks.

Your laugh was warm and relieved, arms tightening around Jude like you never wanted to let go. You buried your face in the crook of Jude’s neck for a second—breathing him in after weeks apart. The hug lasted longer than expected… no rush to pull away. Just two people who missed each other so much finally reconnecting. A soft kiss landed on Jude’s cheek—sweet.

You effortlessly lifted Jude—one strong arm hooked under his rear while the other grabbed both suitcases. With practiced ease, you kicked the hotel room door shut behind them. Jude clung to you like a koala, legs locked around your waist as they moved inside. The luggage clattered softly against the floor by the entrance—you weren't letting go of Jude just yet.

Your teasing grin widened as you finally set Jude down on the bed—only to immediately poke his chest playfully. The 6-4 scoreline was still fresh, and you couldn’t resist roasting England’s aggressiveness.

“6-4? You Englands are greedy” you snorted, “Couldn’t just settle for a normal 2-0 like civilized people.” The sarcasm dripped… but it was affectionate. You loved watching Jude and his teammates dominate on the pitch.

Jude rolled his eyes at your teasing—classic him, always cracking jokes after matches. He couldn’t stay mad.

“Greedy?” Jude echoed, smirking as he pulled you down with him on the bed “It’s just right.” Jude didn’t care. Right now, he just wanted to kiss his boyfriend stupid after weeks apart.

Jude flopped onto his back beside you after kissing you senseless—sprawling like a starfish, limbs taking up way more space than necessary. One arm draped over your waist lazily, pulling you slightly closer without fully cuddling. Just Jude—tired from flight as he stared at the ceiling. You turned your head slightly, studying Jude’s relaxed expression. Your voice was soft—curious.

“Sleepy?” you asked, nudging Jude’s shoulder gently with your own. The question was simple… just checking if the post-pleasure crash had hit him hard enough to pass out right there.

“Not really. I slept through the flight.” Jude’s mind wandered. Then remind.

“Tomorrow,” he started “I'm gonna… bring you home” The ‘home’ part carried weight—the Bellinghams’ house, meeting Jude’s family properly as boyfriends…not childhood best friends.

“Yeah?” Your eyes lit up at the mention of going home with Jude—That changed everything. The relationships between two families.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling softly. The Bellinghams had known you for years… but this visit would be different. Official. A mix of nerves and excitement buzzed in him—meeting them again under new terms.

Jude shifted onto his side. The post-game high hadn’t fully worn off—his skin buzzed with energy. It was perfect clubbing time in Spain… neon lights, music pulsing.He turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Wanna hit the club?” he asked—voice already excited at the idea of dancing and taking shots to celebrate his win.

“Of course you would suggest that” you rolled your eyes but smirked—Jude’s post-match energy was predictable. Of course he’d want to hit a club. The snort was affectionate, though. You weren't saying no… just teasing Jude for being so predictable.

Jude whined dramatically—nose scrunched, lips pouting—as he shoved your shoulder again. Just putting on a scene because why not.

“C’monnn,” he drawled, dragging out the word, “Let’s gooo.” The neediness was dialed up to 100… relentless until you gave in and agreed to clubbing.

“Fine—geez” you finally relented with an amused chuckle, pushing yourself up from the bed. You knew Jude hated doing anything fun solo—especially clubbing. The second you moved to get ready, Jude’s pout vanished… replaced by a bright grin. Victory: achieved. Now they’d both dress and head out—probably in matching chaotic energy.

The club was just a few minutes’ walk from the hotel—close enough that they arrived quickly. The second they stepped inside, the bass thumped through their chests, lights strobing wildly. The energy was electric: crowds dancing, drinks being poured… pure chaos in the best way. Jude immediately brightened—this was his element.

You, ever the provider, had your wallet out before Jude could even blink. Whatever Jude wanted—shots? Done. Another round? Paid for instantly. The bartender slid drinks their way without hesitation, you tipped generously too. You didn’t care about the cost… seeing Jude happy and loose was worth every euro.

Jude, buzzing from the shots, grabbed your hand and yanked you toward the dance floor—no hesitation. The music pulsed through them as Jude started moving shamelessly. He wasn’t a perfect dancer… but he was enthusiastic, swaying with hip movements and grinning like an idiot. Pure joy radiated off him. He pressed close, grinding against you in rhythm with the beat. The alcohol had him extra tactile, his body loose and playful, arms looping around your shoulders to pull you closer. They were a tangle of limbs under the club lights.

Jude was wasted—slumped over your back like a sleepy koala, limbs loose and face smushed against your shoulder. Every few steps, Jude mumbled something incoherent.

“You’re handsomeee…can I have your number?” With that cheeky grin you can’t see because you’re busy focusing on the road. You carried him effortlessly—used to Jude’s post-celebration drunk antics—and just focused on getting them safely back to the hotel.

You entertained him back anyway: “Can’t. I have a boyfriend…his name is Jude Bellingham”

Jude’s hands wandered clumsily—tracing your jawline, poking your chest, even squishing your cheeks like a tipsy toddler discovering texture. Every touch was sloppy and affectionate, Jude giggling quietly to himself. His fingers kept exploring your face… then sliding underneath your shirt.

“Really?...That's too bad…I think you deserve two boyfriends. I’m Jude Bellingham, can I get your number?” Jude muttered again. This is going to be a long night taking care of drunk Jude. But fine, you can do this.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, sharp and unforgiving—directly onto Jude’s face. He groaned, a low, miserable sound escaping him as his head pounded like it was being split open with an axe. The hangover hit him full-force: dry mouth, nausea creeping at the edges of his stomach. His body was tangled awkwardly in the sheets—arm thrown over your chest like he owned you while sleeping, one leg hooked over yours too. It wasn’t graceful or cute—just his usual disaster sleep position that always left both of them stuck to each other by morning no matter how they started out at night. Jude didn’t move yet though… not even when sunlight made his eyeballs throb worse. Too busy suffering silently and regretting every single shot from last night.

Jude shifted slightly—careful, even through the hangover haze—because he knew. You always took care of him like this. Without words, without being asked twice. You’d wake up first in the mornings after nights out and wordlessly fetch medicines you always pack with you, grab a glass of water… So Jude nudged you again with his forehead—a soft bump against your shoulder—half-conscious but intentional. It wasn’t demanding or whiny, just that quiet trust between you two where actions spoke louder than groggy apologies ever could.

“What is it…babe?” Your voice was rough with sleep—low and sleep-warm—and it made Jude’s chest tighten for a second, despite the pounding headache. He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly at you through half-lidded eyes, the sunlight still hurting him but not enough to stop this quiet moment between you two.

Then he swallowed hard, his throat dry as hell and finally managed:

"My head hurts…" His words came out sluggish, quieter than usual. No dramatic whining—just stating facts like some pathetic drunk who’d learned his lesson last night but forgot immediately upon waking up today anyway. And then… almost shyly…He leaned forward slightly—not asking outright—but hinting that maybe water or medicine would help…if you wake up and take it for him.

“Mhmm…” you hummed. The bed creaked softly as you untangled yourself from Jude’s weight—careful not to jostle him too much—and sat up. No eye-roll, no sigh of annoyance. Just a quiet routine. The kind that had formed over months of this: you taking care of him after anything. You padded barefoot to your luggage, there’s a bag where you kept everything essential.

Then the mini fridge next—cold water poured into a glass, condensation forming on its surface as you carried both back toward the bedroom. Jude watched through hazy eyes… still curled under blankets like a guilty but hungover stray cat waiting for scraps. And here you came anyway…

Jude took the glass and pills slowly, fingers brushing against your palm—just a brief touch. He swallowed two painkillers with a sip of water, wincing at how even that small action hurt his head. Then he glanced over at you as you lay back down… eyes already closing again like sleep was pulling you under before you could fully wake up. His parents were expecting them both to arrive together by 7AM in the morning, it’s nearly 6AM right now.

That look crossed his face. The one you knew too well—half-lidded eyes, the way Jude’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before flickering back up with quiet heat. Jude scooted closer on the bed without breaking eye contact—slowly now—as if asking permission without words. The early morning light still filtered through the curtains. But neither cared about time anymore…you took him to party at the club but yeah. He wanted more. And it’s not like you’re going to say no to his face.

“Gonna reward me for third place?” Jude smirked. Nothing new, really. The bed dipped under Jude’s weight as he closed the distance between you two, his movements smooth despite the lingering hangover fog.

“Yeah…you’re lucky I love you” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Because nobody asks for morning sex right in your face without saying good morning first. But you have an exception.

He dropped the lube and condom onto the mattress beside you—no teasing or slow buildup this time, just focused intent. His hands found your waist first, warm on your bare chest as he leaned closer.

Then his mouth crashed into yours—not rough, but hungry. A kiss that tasted like morning breath and regret of consuming too much alcohol. Jude didn’t speak—just kissed deeper while one hand roaming your body.

“You’re not tired?” You groaned against his mouth. Jude broke the kiss just enough to huff against your lips—annoyed you’d even ask that. Tired? Yeah, his head still pounded a little from last night’s drinking. His body felt heavy. But this? Morning sex with you? That was non-negotiable.

So he rolled his eyes, affectionately before diving back in, kissing you harder this time—all teeth and desperation. One of Jude’s hands slid up your chest while the other tangled roughly in your hair…

“Do you want me to start the day happy? Of course yes. So shut up and do me.” Jude huff, this can fix his hangover pain right now—he believes.

Jude didn’t hesitate—boxers already tossed aside, muscles flexing as he moved. When you grabbed the lube and squeezed some onto your finger, Jude’s breath hitched slightly—watching with darkening eyes. No teasing now, just quiet anticipation. He lay back against the pillows without being told, one arm stretched above his head while his other hand reached for you automatically—pulling you closer by your hip like a silent “come here.” The early morning light caught every scar and tan line on your skin…

The kiss was deep and slow—different from the frantic one earlier. Jude melted into it instantly—lips parting under yours with a soft sound—and then came the sensation of your finger pressing gently against him. He tensed for half a second, always did at first, but didn’t pull away. Just breathed through his nose and leaned deeper into the kiss… letting you work him open slowly.

Jude tilted his head to the side instinctively, giving you better access to his neck—his breath coming quicker now as your lips and teeth worked over that sensitive spot just below his ear. He loved this. Loved how precise you were—how you knew exactly where Jude liked it, how hard or soft to press… like muscle memory from months of intimacy. A quiet moan slipped out when your fingers curled just right inside him—a sound half-surprise, half-relief—and one of Jude’s hands fisted in the sheets beside him while the other gripped your shoulder.

Jude made a tiny, frustrated noise—actually whined—when your fingers left him when it was about to get good. He was right there, so close to that sweet tension-building pleasure… and then you pulled away to strip. His chest rose faster now, eyes tracking every movement as you peeled off your shirt, kicked out of sweatpants. Jude bit his lower lip unconsciously—equal parts impatient and turned on by the way you moved with quiet confidence.

But damn if it didn’t feel like forever while he just lay there bare already… watching you undress slowly in the morning light.

Jude’s gaze traveled over you—appreciating every defined line of your torso, the way your shoulders flexed slightly as you pulled off the last piece of clothing.

You weren’t just hot—you look like someone who could probably bench-press half your teammates without breaking a sweat. And Jude? He loved it. Loved how you looked right now—all lean muscle and confidence—and suddenly he was impatient again. No more waiting. So before you could even crawl back onto the bed properly, Jude reached out and yanked you down by a hand on your shoulder…

The kiss was feral—Jude’s lips crashed into yours with zero finesse, just raw need. Like he hadn’t kissed you in years instead of minutes. His hands immediately fisted in your hair, tilting your head to deepen it further while his tongue slid against yours—hot and demanding. Jude breathed through his nose between desperate kisses, chest rising fast as if oxygen didn’t matter nearly as much as this.

Jude exhaled sharply as the kiss broke—chest still heaving—but his eyes stayed locked on you while you grabbed the condom packet. Jude watched, lips slightly parted, as you stroked yourself—slow and deliberate—to get fully hard. The sight of him like this: naked, waiting, legs loosely bent clearly affected you too. His own stomach tightened with heat when he noticed the way your eyes darkened—how your breath hitched just a little at the view of Jude already open and ready for you. Then the rustle of foil as you rolled the condom down properly before shifting closer on your knees between his thighs. Jude exhaled shakily—anticipation coiling low in his belly.

The kiss was soft at first—just lips meeting, tender and lingering—but then you trailed down Jude’s jawline with his mouth, pressing warm kisses along the sensitive skin there. Jude shivered. By the time your lips reached that spot just below his ear—the crook of his neck where you knew he was extra sensitive—his breath hitched audibly.

And then came it: That first brush of your tip against him… tentative but deliberate. Jude tensed instinctively—not from fear or hesitation, but because anticipation always made him hold his breath like this.

Jude’s fingers dug into your back—nails grazing skin lightly but possessively—as you pushed deeper. Not rough enough to hurt, just… needing to hold on. Every slow inch sent sparks through his body, he bit down on his lower lip hard, trying not to make too much noise even though they were alone. His legs lifted slightly without thinking, knees bending to give you better access as the stretch filled him perfectly. No pain yet—just that delicious pressure of being connected like this after weeks of distance. Jude exhaled shakily through his nose… eyes fluttering shut for a second before reopening again—to watch you.

Jude’s breathing turned uneven—each roll of your hips sending waves of pleasure through him. He wasn’t tense anymore, his body had melted into the rhythm, adjusting perfectly to your pace like they’d done this a thousand times, because they basically had. A quiet moan escaped Jude as you hit that spot inside him—the one that always made his toes curl—and his hand slid from your back up to tangle in your hair instead. Not pulling, just… holding on.

His arousal was obvious—chest flushed, lips parted with little gasps.

Jude’s gaze was locked onto yours—dark, unfocused with pleasure—as he watched the way your cock disappeared and reappeared inside him. The visual of it alone was filthy—the glisten of sweat on your skin, the rhythmic snap of hips meeting his body—and it sent heat straight to his core. He couldn’t look away. Every thrust made a soft sound between you two—the slap of skin, Jude’s hitched breaths.

His eyes can’t stop tracing every detail—hungry—as you move above him. The sharp V-line of your stomach, the faint trail of hair leading downward… all leading to that cock, thick and relentless as it hammered into him with increasing roughness. He loved this view. Loved how effortlessly strong you looked right now—muscles flexing with each thrust, sweat glistening on your shoulders—and how completely focused you were on pleasuring him. No teasing slowdowns anymore, just pure, unfiltered fucking that had Jude’s head spinning and his hips lifting instinctively to meet yours.

Jude’s curses were breathless—mumbled against his own shoulder or the pillow when they slipped out, too overwhelmed to care about volume. “Fuck—” Each one punched out between gasps as you got rougher, hips snapping harder now with that athlete’s strength. His nails raked lightly down your back— A reflex, his body craving more friction even while being completely dominated by your rhythm. The bed creaked softly beneath them… morning light still painting everything gold around their tangled bodies.

The rhythmic thud-thud of the headboard slamming against the wall echoed through the bedroom—each sharp impact syncing with your punishing pace. Jude barely noticed it over his own ragged breathing and moans.

The creaking wood blended into their sounds—the slap of skin, Jude’s bitten-off whimpers when a particularly deep thrust hit just right, your quiet grunts as you worked him open relentlessly.

Jude hated how effortlessly you could pin him—how one large hand easily trapped both of his wrists above his head, holding them there with zero struggle. It was infuriating… and hot as hell. Being smaller and leaner than you meant he’d never been manhandled like this by anyone else—no other guy had the strength or size to just… restrain him so completely during sex.

And right now? You weren't even trying, it came naturally—the way your fingers curled around his wrists, keeping them in place while your hips kept driving into him. No chance to squirm away if Jude wanted to.

Jude was already breathless, sweaty—his body thrumming with pleasure—but you showed no signs of slowing down. That fucking stamina. Your endurance wasn’t a joke. Just endless thrusts that made Jude’s thighs tremble slightly from the constant stimulation… his earlier frustration at being pinned long forgotten under waves of sensation.

Jude’s climax hit him like a freight train—sudden and overwhelming. One second he was gasping, body strung tight with pleasure… The next, his back arched slightly off the mattress as he came untouched, stripes of white landing messily across his stomach. His toes curled into the sheets, muscles tensed for a heartbeat before melting into blissful aftershocks. Pinned beneath your weight and strength? Yeah—that did it. The combination of being dominated physically and mentally pushed him over too fast. Now he just lay there dazed… catching his breath while you kept going above him.

The shift was immediate—you released Jude’s wrists, instead bracing your arms on either side of Jude’s head as you leaned down to kiss him. It wasn’t rough or demanding, it was loving. Soft lips meeting softly, a tender contrast to the brutal pace of your hips still hammering into him. Each deep thrust punched another moan out of Jude—his body overstimulated but not wanting it to stop. The kiss swallowed most of those sounds… just quiet whimpers against your mouth now. This relentless fucking wrapped in affection—the kind only they could balance like this.

The sensation of your teeth on his neck—gentle but possessive—sent a shiver through Jude just as he felt the hitch in your rhythm. Then came those last few deep, grinding thrusts… all the way in, holding there as you came with a low groan muffled against his skin. Jude gasped quietly at the sudden fullness—the warmth between them—as you stayed pressed together like that for a long moment.

The kiss was lazy now—soft, almost drowsy after the intensity of what just happened. You pressed your lips to Jude’s gently, a quiet “mhmm” humming against them before slowly pulling away.

Then you carefully withdrew, moving with deliberate slowness to avoid discomfort for either of them. The room was thick with the scent of sex and their mingled sweat—but neither seemed bothered by it. You rolled onto your side next to Jude…

“Let’s take a shower, starfish” you chuckled at Jude’s laying position after resting for a while. Jude cracked an eye open at the nickname—starfish—and scoffed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. If anything, he found it kinda cute how you came up with weird pet names for him.

"Shower sounds good," Jude mumbled, stretching his arms above his head before sitting up slowly. His body ached pleasantly—the kind of soreness that reminded you of exactly what happened this morning.

You took the driver’s seat without question—Jude never drove anyway. He doesn't even have a license yet, his mom has always picked him up or Jude just relied on teammates or now, you for rides. The car ride was quiet but not tense—just the hum of the engine and Jude watching whatever on his phone. They pulled into Jude's neighborhood, familiar streets leading to his house… The place looked fancy as ever: manicured lawn, curtains in the windows slightly open like someone was peeking out. Jude swallowed hard. First time bringing a boyfriend here.

You noticed Jude’s glance—silent but asking for reassurance—and without a word, you leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. No pressure in it. Just warmth… something soft to ground him before facing his family. The kiss lasted only a few seconds before you pulled back, thumb brushing lightly over Jude’s cheekbone as if saying “you got this” without words. Then you unbuckled your seatbelt and stepped out of the car—rounding to open Jude's door for him like an automatic gesture by now.

The warm smell of breakfast hit them as soon as they stepped inside—Jude’s mom stood at the stove in a colorful headwrap and long apron, stirring a pot with focused energy. At the table sat Jobe—his younger brother, already scrolling on his phone while waiting for food. They both turned when Jude walked in… followed closely by you.

Jobe blinked once. Then twice. Oh. His eyes darted between them—the way Jude subtly leaned into your side—Jobe knew. His smirk widened—so obvious—and he muffled a snort into his palm when Jude glared at him.

Meanwhile, their mom turned around from the stove, wooden spoon in hand… and her face instantly lit up.

"Jude!" she exclaimed in that rich, warm voice of hers—all love and no hesitation as she immediately opened her arms for a hug.

You stayed where he was for half a second… suddenly aware this was the moment. First meeting his girlfriend's parents. Except… it wasn't just any girlfriend here, it was him.

Jude practically launched himself into his mom’s arms—hugging her tightly. She hugged him back just as fiercely, rocking slightly while squeezing him. The scent of spices and her floral perfume wrapped around them. Then she pulled back, cupping Jude's face with both hands to look at him properly—eyes soft but scanning for any changes.

Only then did she notice you standing nearby… quiet and respectful near the doorway. Her gaze shifted to you—and immediately softened even more.

Mrs. Bellingham didn’t hesitate—she pulled you into a hug just as warm and tight as the one she’d given Jude. Just motherly love extended to you like you were already family—which, in her mind, you basically were.

She squeezed you gently, patting your back twice before releasing you… then immediately cupped your face with both hands—studying it closely like she always did. You have grown into a handsome gentleman, not the same 10 years old kid carrying her Jude home after he hurted his ankle during a football match.

Jude took a deep breath—suddenly nervous despite knowing his family liked you.

They’d all known you for years, you’d come over for holidays, eaten meals at their table, even helped Jobe with homework. But now? The relationship status was officially boyfriend. So Jude cleared his throat slightly and said—calm but firm:

"Ma…uhm Y/N. He’s my boyfriend." The words hung in the air—just stating it plainly like that was how things were now…

Mrs. Bellingham’s eyebrows shot up, her spoon still hovering mid-air like she’d frozen in place.

"What?" she repeated—voice higher than usual with surprise. "When was this?" She turned fully toward them now, eyes darting between Jude and you as if expecting one of them to laugh and say “just kidding!” But no.

Meanwhile, Jobe bit his lip hard—trying not to grin like an idiot because this reaction from his mom was gold. His dad remained silent for a beat… just absorbing the news calmly from where he stood near the fridge.

Your voice was calm as you answered honestly.

"Last summer, Mrs. Bellingham."

His mom blinked rapidly, spoon now clutched in both hands as her brain recalculated. Last summer meant… they'd been dating for nearly a year without telling her?

Jude stepped forward immediately. "Mom… I’m sorry." he said, voice softer than usual—genuine regret lacing his words. "We didn’t mean to hide it from you guys… we just—we weren’t sure how you’d react."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. The truth was? They had talked about telling their parents eventually—but Jude had been nervous, worried about how conservative some relatives might be… so they waited. Now that silence felt heavy in hindsight.

Mrs. Bellingham turned off the stove with a quiet click, wiping her hands on her apron before exhaling slowly—like she was organizing her thoughts.

Then she spoke, calm but firm: "I’m not mad… just surprised." She looked between them again—not angry, not disappointed… more processing.

"Y’all have been friends for how long? And now you’re dating?" A small frown creased her brow—not in disapproval of you yourself she clearly adored you, but at the idea that they’d kept this from them for so long.

Your voice was steady—earnest and sincere as you spoke directly to Mrs. Bellingham, meeting her eyes without flinching.

"I love Jude genuinely, Mrs. Bellingham," you said, the weight of your words clear in every syllable. Then added: "And I promise… I’ll take care of him."

Mrs. Bellingham exhaled again—long and slow, like she was letting go of a mental image she’d carried for years. She had always pictured Jude bringing home a nice girl someday… someone who’d make him happy, who he could settle down with. A future daughter-in-law she could fuss over, teach recipes to… maybe even grandbabies eventually. Now? That vision shifted completely—but not in the way most people would expect. Her expression softened further as she studied you—the man her son loved so openly—and something clicked into place for her…

Mrs. Bellingham’s face softened completely—any lingering surprise melting into quiet acceptance.

“As long as Jude is happy, then I’m happy. You’re welcome here."

Then she smiled at them both… and declared:

"Breakfast is ready.”

Jude’s eyes widened slightly—genuinely surprised—as he watched his mom’s calm reaction and then casually announce breakfast like this was the most normal thing in the world. He’d braced for harsher questions. Maybe even mild disappointment or confusion from her… not instant acceptance.

But there she was: already turning back to the stove, plating food with that same loving focus she always had—now including you as part of their family meal without missing a beat. Jobe, meanwhile, smirked into his orange juice at Jude’s stunned expression. Yeah… Mom liked you. If it has to be a man, she’s glad it was you.

Now that she knew about their relationship, everything made sense: Why Jude relied on her less, How he’d suddenly started planning weekends away—always with you, The way his mood improved whenever his phone buzzed.

She studied Jude carefully over her tea cup… then asked gently: "So… how did this even start?”

Jude set his fork down, the sausage now tasting like cardboard in his mouth as he gathered his thoughts. It had been that one fight—the explosive argument after you announced you were leaving Real Madrid to join Manchester City. The tension between them had been unbearable… until it all snapped.

"We argued" Jude started, voice quieter than usual. "After Y/N said he’s leaving I lost it.” He glanced at you briefly—no anger there anymore, just history hanging in the air between bites of breakfast…

He swallowed hard. "It was during that time I… figured out that I liked him. Everything felt empty without him so I decided to confess. And Y/N said yes." he admitted quietly to you across the table—words he’d never said aloud until now…

Mrs. Bellingham took a sip of her tea, then—ever the master of subtle interrogation—shifted gears entirely with a new question.

"So," she began casually, setting her cup down "when are you two moving in together?"

Just straight to housing plans like it was the most obvious next step in their relationship. Jude nearly choked on his orange juice… while you blinked once, caught off guard by how quickly she’d jumped from emotions to logistics…

Jude cleared his throat, setting his glass down carefully.

"Uh… it’s complicated," he admitted with a slight shrug. "Y/N is in England now—Manchester City—and I’m still here with Real Madrid." The distance wasn’t something they could ignore: time zones, busy schedules, only seeing each other during breaks or quick flights between matches. He glanced at you briefly—both of them knew long-distance wasn't ideal… but they also weren’t ready to end things just because of geography yet…

Mrs. Bellingham’s face brightened immediately—like Christmas had come early after you explained your plan.

Oh. So they were planning to be together long-term after all. She smiled, a real one this time, and took another sip of her tea as you explained your plan: finishing your Manchester City contract before potentially returning to Spain… possibly joining Real Madrid again if the opportunity arose.

Jobe whistled under his breath at that level of commitment…

Mr. Bellingham—who had been quietly observing this whole conversation from the head of the table—finally spoke up, his deep voice calm but laced with genuine curiosity.

"Wait," he said, setting down his fork. "You’re really considering leaving Man City… for him?" He studied you carefully—not skeptically, just trying to understand how serious that commitment was. Giving up a top club like Manchester City wasn’t something athletes did lightly… unless their partner meant everything.

You didn’t even pause. "Yes, sir." You answered immediately—voice firm, eyes steady on Mr. Bellingham’s without a single flicker of doubt. Just absolute certainty that yes, you would give up your current club if it meant being with Jude full-time… career implications be damned. The room went quiet for a beat—even Jobe stopped chewing his toast to watch the exchange…

Mr. Bellingham leaned back slightly, still studying you like a puzzle he was trying to solve—but now with a glint of respect forming in his gaze.

"Alright," he said after another sip of coffee. "So if you move back… where would you two live?" No beating around the bush—he wanted details about how this actually played out logistically…

You answered calmly, keeping your tone respectful but confident. "I’m planning to buy a house here in Madrid, sir." you said—already having researched properties discreetly for months now.

Mrs. Bellingham suddenly clapped her hands together—excited—like she’d just mentally decorated the entire estate already.

"Oh! A house here in Madrid?" She glanced at Jude, eyes sparkling with approval. "That’s perfect." No more long-distance calls. No more counting hours until they could see each other again. Just… home. Together.

Jobe kicked Jude under the table subtly—grinning like an idiot because his brother had bagged someone serious. A silent “You got a whole man who would buy you a house. Congrats” in his teasing gaze.

Jude shot Jobe a half-hearted glare—stop grinning like that—but he couldn’t deny the truth in it.

You were a full package: loyal, devoted, strong… and now willing to uproot your entire career for him? That wasn’t just luck—that was love. His chest warmed at the thought. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bellingham kept smiling to herself while clearing plates—already imagining Sunday dinners with them both living nearby…

After breakfast, you stood up—insisting on helping Jude’s mother with the dishes.

You rolled up your sleeves and started washing plates at the sink while chatting with Mr. Bellingham the local farms in Norway—the simplicity of it, early mornings milking cows, how hard work was just part of life. Mrs. Bellingham listened eagerly from her chair… then perked up when you mentioned cooking.

"Oh! You cook too?" she asked warmly.

“Yes ma’am. I’m a fast learner” you say with a faint smile.

Mrs. Bellingham’s eyebrows shot up. "Wow" she breathed out—genuinely impressed by how versatile you were. Meanwhile, Jude smirked into his cup… remembering all those times you had surprised him with homemade meals even though you two were very busy training.

You flashed that charming smile—the one—soft and genuine as you turned slightly toward Mrs. Bellingham, still drying your hands on a towel.

"I'll take care of dinner tonight, if you let me." You offered… not in a boastful way, but like someone genuinely wanting to contribute.

Mr. Bellingham gave him an approving nod, any man who offered to help with meals was already winning points…

The living room buzzed with life—Jude’s cousins, both older and younger than him had arrived, along with his nephew, a hyperactive 5-year-old who immediately latched onto Jobe. Laughing kids ran around while the adults chatted in clusters: Jude's aunts gossiping over tea, uncles debating football… and you still comfortably holding court with Mr. Bellingham about agriculture.

Meanwhile, Jude sat on the couch sandwiched between two cousins—one teasing him about finally bringing a boyfriend home after years of being single…

The little nephew plopped himself right onto Jude’s lap like it was his royal throne, tiny legs swinging as he munched on a cookie. Meanwhile, the cousins bombarded Jude with rapid-fire questions—way too excited about his new relationship status:

"Is Y/N really that tall?"

"How did you two get together?"

"Do you guys kiss all the time now? Eww!" one cousin teased dramatically. Jude chuckled at their nosiness… but answered patiently between sips of iced water while balancing the kid in his arms…

Jude watched the chaos around him—the laughter, the sibling bickering, his little nephew now trying to touch his hair—with quiet warmth. Even though he was dating a man… this? A big, loving family with kids running around someday? That future still felt right to him. He’d always imagined having children one day—maybe not through traditional means—adoption or surrogacy, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was love… and building something like this.

His gaze flickered toward you across the room for just a second—imagining it all together…

You moved calmly through the buzzling market, thinking of what to cook while two little voices bombarded him with endless chatter—Jude’s cousins insisted on going to the market to shop for ingredients with the two.

"Can we get those chips?"

"Why are you buying so many onions?"

"Is that for cooking? You’re gonna cook dinner? Cool!"

They bounced around your legs like hyperactive puppies, occasionally grabbing items from the rack randomly—only to be gently redirected by Jude.

You balanced the grocery bags effortlessly in two hands—strong from years of training and carrying equipment—but still made space for Jude. Without a word, you stuck out your pinkie, for Jude’s hand to hold… which they did naturally, fingers linking as they walked through the parking lot. Then—because he couldn’t help it—Jude leaned down and kissed you quickly on the lips right there.

The cousins gagged dramatically:

"EWWWW! GROSS! GET A ROOM UNC!!!" they yelled, waving their tiny hands.

Jude shot his cousins a playful glare, still holding your single free finger.

"One day you will have someone you kiss all the time," Jude said matter-of-factly—like it was an inevitable law of life. "So get used to it now." The kids scrunched their noses in protest but didn’t argue further…you chuckled under your breath at Jude’s parenting skills—effortlessly shutting down their dramatics with logic…

Jude let out a soft, content hum—warm breath brushing against your neck as his hands wandered under the fabric of your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy patterns over toned abs. He was perfectly happy like this: holding you from behind while watching you cook with that focused intensity… the way muscles flexed in your arms as you stirred pots.

Without thinking, Jude murmured against you:

"You look really sexy doing domestic stuff." The compliment slipped out naturally—genuine admiration laced in every word….

Mrs. Bellingham observed them from the kitchen doorway… and her expression softened into something tender and happy. Not just because of their relationship—but how right it felt seeing them together like this…

The dining room filled with the sound of chairs scraping and lively chatter as fifteen people—Jude’s entire extended family—settled around the long table. Aunts, uncles, cousins young and old… sitting at the head with a proud smile. The aroma of your cooking had everyone eager. Mrs. Bellingham took her seat beside Mr. Bellingham while Jobe plopped down next to his giggling cousins—the ones who’d called Jude and you "gross" earlier for kissing now eyeing their plates hungrily….

"When’s the wedding?" one aunt joked, grinning into her wine glass.

"Yeah! You two look like you’ve been married for years already." another added.

An aunt leaned over and squeezed Mrs. Bellingham’s arm:

"Y/N? He cooks like this? Ohhh he’s a keeper."

Jude smirked but didn’t deny any of it—his hand resting casually on your thigh under the table…

Mrs. Bellingham shot the aunt a light huff—half-laughing, half-defensive—as she waved her hand dismissively.

"Don’t pressure the kids!" she said warmly but firmly, shaking her head like calm down! She knew they were just excited… but marriage wasn't even on tonight's agenda, though you cooking this well definitely didn't hurt your case.

When it was time to leave, Jude stood up and gave his mom a quick hug—"I’ll be back tomorrow, just have some business to handle." He said smoothly, not a lie…serious business with…you. Mrs. Bellingham raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him, just kissing his cheek before shooing them off.

You grabbed the car keys without a word—used to Jude’s impulsive decisions—and followed as Jude gently tugged you toward the front door by their linked hands…

You paused with the car door open, turning to Jude—genuine question in your eyes.

"Why? We can stay if you want." You said softly, not assuming anything. Maybe Jude had other plans… maybe he just wanted to get away from family for a bit…

Jude didn’t answer with words—just that sly smirk you knew too well.

"You know exactly why." He said. Jude leaned in and kissed you right there by the car—quick but heated—a silent promise of what was coming once they got to the hotel. Then he pulled back just enough to slide into the passenger seat… leaving you standing there for a second, processing how obvious Jude’s intentions were…

The second you parked the car, Jude was out of the passenger seat—eager. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the hotel entrance, practically speed-walking like he couldn’t wait another second. You laughed under your breath at Jude's impatience but matched his energy… both of them brushing past late-night guests in the lobby without breaking stride…

The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Jude crashed into you—lips meeting in a hungry kiss as his hands immediately went to work—fingers fumbling with your belt buckle while their mouths moved together messily, breaths mingling in the small space between them. You let out a quiet sound against Jude’s lips—half-laugh, half-moan—as they backed toward the nearest wall without breaking contact…

Jude crowding you, all urgency and possessive gratitude. The belt clattered to the floor, forgotten. Zippers came next—Jude undoing your pants with quick fingers, his own breathing uneven. Every second of you cooking for his family today… serving them perfectly… had Jude wired. He didn’t care if you were tired. This wasn't about fatigue. It was about reward—about showing appreciation in the most intimate way possible…

Jude’s teeth scraped lightly over your neck—claiming, marking you up without hesitation—as he pushed the fabric of your pants down past your hips. Each nip and kiss was deliberate, a mix of affection and appreciation. A reward for the hours you spent cooking, for being so damn perfect with Jude’s family today… No words beyond that whispered "This is a reward." before Jude sealed their mouths together again—hungry, insistent…

Your faint smirk stayed in place as Jude dropped to his knees without hesitation—determined. The cool air hit your skin briefly before Jude tugged your boxers down, revealing everything beneath. No further teasing buildup, just Jude looking up at him with dark, focused eyes… like this was the only thing he wanted right now.

Jude’s expression was painfully open—eyes full of love, no teasing left in them. Just pure, overwhelming adoration as he gazed up at you from his knees. There was no hiding it. Jude leaned forward and pressed an achingly tender kiss… right where it mattered most.

Your breath hitched—sharp—as Jude dragged a slow, searing lick up your length, the heat of it making your hips twitch instinctively. Then came those soft kisses—teasingly light at first… testing… before growing bolder with each press of Jude’s lips.

Jude’s tongue curled around the sensitive tip, swirling with deliberate precision—before his teeth gently grazed it. A teasing nibble. Not enough to hurt… just enough to send a jolt straight through your nerves, making your fingers around his cheeks shiver. You just put it there.

Jude hummed quietly at the reaction—loving how responsive you were tonight…

Your mutter came out strained—”God, Jude—” as that soft, kitten-lick brush of his tongue sent another wave of pleasure through you. Then Jude took you properly into his mouth… warm, wet and perfect, the suction just right. A broken groan escaped you this time, feeling a burn coil at your stomach as you braced one hand against the wall to stay upright…

Your breath came unevenly—by the sight of Jude on his knees, moving with quiet devotion. Every bob of Jude’s head sent heat coiling low in your stomach… the warmth, the wetness, Jude's throat fluttering around your cock—it was intoxicating.

The sensation hit Jude’s throat—just the tip brushing there—and for a second, his reflexes kicked in with a small gag. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he swallowed around it, forcing himself to relax as his lips stayed sealed tight… determined to keep going despite the brief discomfort. You felt every flutter of Jude’s throat around your length—the effort and devotion in it making your pulse spike…

Your moan slipped out—low and rough—as Jude’s throat flexed around you again, the tight heat overwhelming for a split second before Jude pulled back just enough to reset. Then he dove right back in, rhythm steady now—bobbing his head with focused enthusiasm, taking you deeper each time like he was on a mission. Just pure dedication to making this good.

Your moan spilled out louder this time—”Oh fuck—Jude!” as those strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you firmly in place. Just Jude controlling the pace, making sure you felt every second of this slow burn… even though the pleasure was building too fast, too intense—threatening to tip you over the edge already…

Your breath hitched—gasped—when Jude’s nose brushed against your skin, taking your cock all the way in each bob, that tiny sensory spark tipping you over the edge. A shuddering climax ripped through you, waves of pleasure crashing in seconds as you came right then… still braced against the wall with Jude between your legs.

Jude kept moving—gentle, rhythmic bobs of his head even after you had come—milking every last pulse of pleasure from you. Just tenderness… letting you ride it out fully while Jude kissed and nuzzled along your thighs afterward like a kitten, easing the intensity down gradually.

Jude swallowed without a single grimace—cleaning up completely like it was nothing—before pressing soft, lingering kisses to your muscular thighs. The gestures were soothing… grounding. A way to calm you down after the intensity, his lips brushing over warm skin in quiet affection.

Jude stood slowly, still warm from being on his knees—and without hesitation, he kissed you deeply. It was a slow, sweet kiss… letting you taste yourself on Jude’s tongue—hint of salty, mildly sweet and intimate and undeniably them.

Jude studied your dazed expression—the slightly glazed eyes, the soft exhale still lingering from his lips—and smirked. Adorable. He couldn’t help it. Reaching up, Jude brushed a thumb over your cheekbone before leaning in to kiss you again—softer this time… almost playful after all that intensity…

Jude’s eyes flicked toward the bed—subtle, but loaded—before sliding back to you with a look that was pure mischief. Jude stepped closer, hands already reaching for your waist to guide you backward… That gaze said everything:

Practice sessions were intense: drills, tactics meetings, press conferences where reporters shouted questions too loudly. The team’s chemistry was being tested under pressure. And then… there was that match coming up—the one you had thought about, where you would face Jude. You in Norway fabric and Jude in England have made it this far.

The scoreboard glared: Nor 1 - Eng 2. Your frustration boiled over when your teammate ignored or may have missed your signal—dribbling past you and taking a selfish shot instead. The ball ricocheted off the crossbar… then straight into the opponent’s feet.

Their counterattack was fast, and you barely had time to react before Jude was sprinting downfield with possession again. You gritted your teeth, shooting a furious glare at the man—a clear message: We don’t play like that.

The final whistle blew—England had narrowly won, 2-1. You were furious… not just at the loss, but at how it happened. Your teammates’ selfishness cost them. Then you saw Jude—the star of England’s victory—running straight to his team with a wide grin, jumping into hugs and celebrations. You stood on the pitch alone for a moment… still sweaty and pissed off. But you felt proud because yeah…your boyfriend was the star of the night.

The reporter shoved a microphone in your face, her question cutting straight to the heart of your frustration about the missignal shoot. The camera lights burned as you exhaled sharply—still damp with sweat.

“Uhm. Communication is the key and I think we need to work more on that. It's about teamwork and—” you answered by trail off. The reporters erupted into murmurs and camera flashes as Jude suddenly broke away from his teammates—striding straight toward you through the chaos of the mixed zone. Your eyes locked onto him, momentarily forgetting your interview. The crowd around them buzzed, this was unexpected.

The reporter squeaked “Oh here comes Jude!” —before scrambling to get a better angle.

In front of everyone—reporters, cameras, fans—the crowd went silent for a split second. Then erupted. Jude had just kissed you on the cheek. Publicly. Without hesitation. The reporters lost their minds: microphones shot up higher, cameras flashed like lightning as the kiss was captured from every angle. You stood frozen… lips parted slightly… face burning red under the spotlight now completely on you.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze as Jude disappeared back into the crowd. The reporters were still shoving mics in your face—some grinning wildly, others wide-eyed. Clearing your throat, you straightened up and refocused on the interview question like nothing had just happened… though your ears were still quite pink.

“Right,” you said “Where was I?” —playing it cool despite the chaos around you.

The internet exploded overnight—not with anger, but with adoration. Your humble post-match interview—taking no shots at your teammates, just emphasizing teamwork—went viral. Clips of you saying, “We’ll learn from this,” and not pointing fingers spread everywhere. Fans praised you for maturity… especially after Jude’s public kiss softened the narrative completely.

Your offseason was peaceful—back in Norway, where your teammate aka close friend owned a cozy cottage for vacation and a fancy estate to stay. Often, you’d livestream with your teammate Haaland: the two of you grilling fish on the porch or playing FIFA inside. The streams were low-key—no big production. Just you in sweats, chatting naturally with viewers about football… or sometimes showing glimpses of your quiet life outside fame. Just chilling with bro.

On stream, you took a bite of your food—some traditional Norwegian dish Haaland had insisted you try—before grinning at the camera. He knew your dad was Norwegian, you probably tried it before but still.

“I’m hyped for Jude’s match against Argentina” you said casually “They’ve got Messi… but I think Jude can handle it.” Then, with that easygoing smile: “If you’re watching this somewhere out there… good luck, yeah?” —like you were talking directly to him through the screen.

After the loss, you and Haaland didn’t wallow—you two just rolled with it. No dramatic sulking. The next day, you two were already in an ice bath at the back ofHaaland’s house, soaking tired muscles. Later that evening, they hit up a cozy restaurant—ordering hearty dishes like salmon and lamb stew. Laughing over beers like football wasn’t even on their minds for once. The defeat hadn't shaken them… just made them hungry for good food and days off.

After the sauna, Haaland flopped onto his bed—still wrapped in a towel robe and FaceTimed his lady, chatting softly about their day. Meanwhile, you grabbed your phone and texted Jude. The conversation was easygoing at first—just checking in. But as they talked more, you picked up on the tension in Jude’s replies… the nervous energy about tomorrow’s big match against Argentina. You could tell something was weighing on him.

The match was brutal—physically intense. Jude got shoved, tripped, and even knocked to the ground multiple times by the opponents… Each reckless foul made Jude angrier. His jaw clenched every time he got up, pain shooting through his muscles. The final whistle blew—England lost 1-2. Jude stood on the pitch, shoulders slumped, face etched with frustration and hurt. The defeat stung… especially after such a tough match. He didn’t yell or throw anything—just exhaled sharply through his nose, kicking the grass lightly in silent anger before trudging off toward the locker room. France loomed next… another massive challenge just a few days away.

So when he got back, Jude flopped onto his hotel bed, immediately grabbed his phone. He opened the chat with you—fingers flying as he typed out a frustrated message. The disappointment bled through every word.

Jude stripped off his clothes, tossing them aside—still irritated from the match. Naked, he padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower… but paused to text you again. The message was simple:

| wanna facetime?

A quiet request—not demanding, just wanting to see you. Maybe talk through it more than typing could handle. Your reply came after a minute—probably because you’d had to walk back into the cottage from where your dad was fishing by the lake. Your dad bought a cottage for vacation years ago and he visited you here after the defeat. Father-son bonding time. The text read:

“Yeah, let me get inside… Wifi’s pretty bad out here.” A few seconds later, Jude’s phone screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call. You appeared on camera—hair slightly windswept, wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, glasses on. The sight of Jude in the bathroom, only visible from hips up, made you freeze.

Then you blurted out: “Jesus!—Are you giving me a show?”—half-laughing, half-startled. Your cheeks tinted pink instantly. The shower ran loudly behind Jude in the background.

The shower shut off abruptly, and Jude lathered soap over his arms—still visible on camera from the waist up. He didn’t seem bothered by your reaction… just focused on washing up. He finally responded, voice calm but a bit grumpy from the match earlier:

“What? You expected me to be dressed?” Bubbles slid down his shoulders as he scrubbed—completely unfazed by being half-naked in front of you. Why the surprise? You saw every inch of him already anyway.

You smirked, leaning back against the headboard with mock seriousness—playing up the gentleman act.

“I’m a decent gentleman” you corrected teasingly “I don’t just watch people shower on FaceTime, Jude.” The joke was light, but your eyes flicked over Jude’s soapy shoulders for half a second before you looked away—trying and failing to be polite about it. Your cheeks heat up at the sight.

Jude exhaled through his nose—still sulking over the loss—but your attempt to lighten the mood wasn’t completely ignored. He kept washing up, lathering shampoo to his lower body. His response was dry but not mean.

“Yeah, yeah… ‘decent gentleman’.” —said with a tiny eye-roll audible in his voice. The shower spray started again as he rinsed off… still on camera but less tense than before.

You softened your voice, tilting your head like you were trying to solve a puzzle. How could you help? Jude’s bad mood wasn’t something you could just kiss away… but maybe distract?

“C’mon don’t sulk…what can I do, hmm?” you sighed “Order you food?… talk shit about Argentina with you? Roast the ref?” A peace offering—something simple that might ease the tension still hanging over Jude.

The sulk in Jude’s expression didn’t fade—talking trash about the match wasn’t helping. Instead, a different kind of tension coiled in his body… one that had nothing to do with football. His eyes flicked over you on screen—the way the glasses fell on the bridge of your nose, how close they could be if not separated by miles. The unspoken thought hung heavy: maybe what he needed wasn't words. A beat passed… then Jude bit his lip subtly.

The camera angle adjusted—now showing more of Jude’s bare torso, the water still glistening on his skin. His voice was quiet, almost tender as he murmured.

“I missed you…” Then his warm palm slid down his own stomach—slow at first, exploring himself while you watched through the screen. No words now… just intent in every movement. You swallowed hard, fingers tightening slightly around your phone. Then he huffed “Take your shirt off, Y/N”

You didn’t hesitate—you grabbed the hem of your sweater and yanked it off over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The glasses fall on the bed with a soft thud along the movement. Your chest was bare now, still faintly glistening from earlier work. The camera caught every movement—the definition of your shoulders, the way you leaned back slightly as if giving Jude a full view.

“Glasses back on” Jude mutters, eyes drinking in the sight of you. The water from the spray fog up the bathroom’s glass, creating a steamy atmosphere.

You reached for your glasses—thin and slid them back on, pushing them up your nose with a quiet exhale. The effect was immediate—they framed your face perfectly, adding that familiar studious look Jude liked. His green eyes peered through the lenses… darker now with focus. Jude’s groan hadn’t gone unnoticed, you knew exactly what it did to him.

Jude’s eyes stayed locked on you—appreciating the way your glasses sat perfectly, how the dim light of your room softened everything. His hand moved lazily, stroking himself as he watched. He almost felt guilty because yeah, you look like the sweetest mandarin in the garden right now while he beats it to your nerdy face.

Then he spoke, voice low but firm: “Talk… say something.” Not a demand to flirt or tease yet… just anything. The sound of your voice right now would fill the quiet tension between them.

Your voice—deep and smooth with that subtle accent—wrapped around Jude like a physical touch. You spoke honestly, your accent curling slightly around certain words.

“I saw how they manhandled you out there… pissed me off at first. Dirty play.” A pause. “But then… seeing you all fired up after? Sweaty, furious?” you exhaled softly. “It’s kinda hot.” The confession was raw, unfiltered—you have been waiting to tell him that.

Jude’s breathing hitched—his strokes grew quicker, the water cascading over him as his frustration mounted. Your sweet words weren’t what he wanted right now… he craved something filthier. The silence stretched again, broken only by Jude’s quiet groans and the sound of running water. His expression darkened slightly—impatience creeping in.

Jude’s patience stuttered. With a low, impatient groan, he finally spoke—voice rougher than before.

“Y/N…” A pause—then clearer: “Talk dirty to me” He wanted you to say things. To describe what you were seeing… or tell him exactly what you’d do if they were together right now.

You finally caught the unspoken shift in Jude’s demeanor—the impatience, the faster strokes. Your brain clicked into place. Shyness lingers pink faint on your cheeks, but you go for it anyway, saying things you see on those heated American movies you saw. Just hope it works, hope it doesn’t sound weird coming from you.

“You look so good like that… all worked up. Wish I could touch you right now.” The words were deliberate, edged with heat.

A beat. Then you added “You ever think about my mouth on you? While I look up into those pretty eyes of yours?"

Jude’s breath hitched as your words sank in—each filthy sentence sending a jolt straight to his core. His hips gave an involuntary twitch, the subtle thrust into his palm betraying how much it affected him. The shower steam curled around him, and Jude bit down on his lip to stifle another sound… but failed when you mentioned your mouth. A shiver ran through him because damn, he missed that. He missed the way you worship him like the last time you did.

Jude’s breath came faster now—his strokes deliberate, close. The tension coiled tight in his stomach as he focused on your voice through the phone.

“Fuck…” he muttered before speaking up again, voice thick with need: “Tell me more. What you’d do to me right now.” The water was still warm around him, but it was nothing compared to the heat building under his skin.

The water droplets trailed down Jude’s skin, mixing with the heat already radiating from him. His cock twitched in his hand—pre leaking freely now as he pictured your words.

Your voice painted a vivid image: those hungry kisses on his neck, the sharp sting of bites… followed by deep, claiming thrusts. It was too much. A whimper escaped Jude this time—unplanned—as his hips jerked into his fist involuntarily.

The shower spray splashed droplets onto Jude’s phone—screen fogging slightly—but he didn’t care. His free hand braced against the tiled wall, knuckles whitening as he stroked himself faster. His eyes stayed glued to you through the screen: shirtless, glasses perched low on your nose… devastating. That combination—the spark in your gaze mixed with raw hunger—was doing things to Jude. A breathy moan slipped out as pleasure coiled tighter inside him. He didn’t bother muffling himself, just let you hear him.

“Y’know what? If you win France this sunday…I’ll let you ride my face” Your whisper was a promise—a reward dangled just out of reach. If Jude won against France on Saturday… you’d let him ride your face.

The mental image flashed: Jude straddling you, those glasses stayed on–Jude insisted, lips parted—as you worshipped him with your mouth. A shiver ran through Jude at the thought… motivation hitting hard right as pleasure crested dangerously close to the edge.

The orgasm hit Jude like a wave—sudden and overwhelming. His back arched slightly against the shower wall as pleasure crashed over him, his hand slowing to gentle pulses through the aftershocks.

Breathless, spent… he leaned forward for a second, forehead resting on his arm braced against the wall while he came down from the high. The water washed away everything else—the tension, frustration from earlier… all of it.

You had shifted onto your stomach, cheek squished against the pillow—your glasses slightly askew. You sounded relaxed, voice muffled but warm.

“Feeling better?” you asked softly, peeking one eye at the camera to check on Jude. The tension from earlier—the match loss and frustration—had dissolved completely for him too. Now it was just… quiet comfort between them. Jude exhaled slowly, his breathing still uneven as the guilt crept in. You were so sweet—gentle, considerate… and Jude had basically dragged you into talking dirty just for his own release. He felt a pang of something like shame—not because he enjoyed it—he definitely did, but because he knew you might not be used to that kind of talk… even if you’d done it willingly.

The contrast was there: here was you lying there innocently, while Jude felt a little selfish. He bit the inside of his cheek before replying honestly.

“Yeah… I feel better.” A pause. “Thanks.”

Your voice was soft, caring—genuinely happy that Jude felt better. You gave a simple reminder:

“Go dry off before it gets cold.” you said casually, shifting on his pillow. But Jude wasn’t relaxed yet. The guilt about using you for something so… intimate weighed on him. He wanted to apologize properly—not just brush it off.

Jude hesitated. That apology sat heavy in his chest… because how do you say I used you for sex talk and I feel bad without making it weird? The shower turned off behind him as he grabbed a towel, drying himself slowly while wrestling with the words.

Jude settled onto the bed, towel slung loosely around his hips as he lay like starfish. The call was still connected—your face visible on screen—and Jude took a steadying breath.

“I… wanted to say sorry” he started, voice quieter than usual. “For making you talk like that earlier. I know it’s not really your thing.”

You smiled faintly—your way of reassuring Jude that you wanted to help, even if talking dirty wasn’t your usual thing. You understood football losses… and how they usually made Jude pull away.

“You normally shut down after a bad game,” you explained softly “So yeah… I’m glad you called me. The least I could do was be here for you.” No bitterness—just warmth. You had always been the steady one in their relationship.

Your playful smirk returned—teasing but affectionate—as you adjusted your glasses with one finger. The mood was lighter now, the tension from earlier completely gone.

“And seeing you get off to my voice? Kinda hot.” you admitted with a soft chuckle, not so shy about it anymore. The compliment was lighthearted… a way to reassure Jude that you didn’t mind helping like that at all. If anything, you found it flattering.

Jude’s ears turned pink—your blunt compliment flustered him. He wasn’t used to being called hot so casually, especially after something intimate like that.

“Y/N.” he scolded half-heartedly, voice cracking slightly from embarrassment. His free hand came up to rub his face… hiding the stupid grin threatening to break through. The shower had cooled him off physically… but you were making his temperature spike again.

You tilted your head slightly, genuinely curious. Jude’s mom usually hovered around—always checking in on him, especially after big matches. So how had he just… showered and pleasured himself without her barging in? It didn’t add up to your knowledge of Jude’s usual life with his mother.

The question slipped out innocently: “Wait… isn’t your mom with you all the time?”

Jude shifted on the bed, his expression softening at your question. Since dating you secretly, Jude had started asserting more independence—cooking his own meals sometimes even if they were burnt, doing laundry… little things. He tried. At least.

His mom still checked on him constantly—but lately, she’d noticed he didn’t need her as much for daily stuff. It was subtle growth… influenced by you without even realizing it.

“She is around,” he admitted “But I try to handle my own stuff now.”

Your laugh was light but skeptical—you couldn’t picture Jude cooking without setting the kitchen on fire or doing his own laundry. The mental image of him standing over a stove, focused and responsible… it didn’t compute.

“Oh really?” you chuckled, teasing now. “You? Cooking your own meals?” The disbelief in your voice wasn't mean—just playful surprise. You genuinely wanted proof that this independence was real.

Jude rolled his eyes at your disbelief—how dare you doubt him? He had been trying, okay?! The scoff was loud and dramatic through the phone.

“Yeah, really.” he huffed “I made spaghetti last week. It wasn’t burnt.” A tiny brag… but one he stood by. Sure, it wasn’t gourmet—but progress was progress. His friend helped him a little with the spices, he’s still learning what are the purposes of each one. A part of it was because he saw you cooking on your instagram stories all the time, you visit the local farm market daily for fresh ingredients and most of the dishes you make look undeniably mouth-watering.

Your voice softened into pure warmth—proud, teasing, but genuinely happy for Jude. Even if he couldn’t fully believe the spaghetti miracle… you supported him anyway.

“Aww babe! So proud of you,” you cooed with a chuckle, “That’s my independent man.”

The way you hyped him up—sounds ridiculous and shameless, pure encouragement—was why Jude loved you. No judgment… just endless support. Even if you look silly doing it.

The camera stayed propped on the table as Jude dug into his dinner—shirtless, just a towel wrapping around his hips. A massive steak and a side salad sat in front of him, still steaming.

“They brought my food,” he said around a bite of meat, “Got this huge-ass steak. Needed it after today.” He didn’t bother dressing up for meals… comfort was key post-match.

Your eyes roll was dramatic—half-amused, half-possessive. The idea of Jude strutting through the hotel hallway just in a towel, shirtless, to get his food delivered… yeah, no.

“You went to grab food like that?” you deadpanned “With just a towel?”

Jude took another bite of steak, chewing defensively before swallowing.

“It’s fine” he said “There was no one in the hallway. Just grabbed it from the door.” Just matter-of-fact. He hadn’t thought about modesty—just convenience. The hotel corridors were empty anyway.

You chatted casually, filling the quiet between them with stories—chopping firewood earlier that day, helping your dad fish by the lake after he came all the way from England to be with you, then visiting a local barn to pick up fresh, raw honey and milk. Your voice was steady and warm… not performative or trying too hard. Just there. Like you were right next to Jude on the bed instead of miles away in Norway. The domestic details painted a peaceful picture—Just him and you relaxing on a phone call.

The camera sat propped on a nearby log, capturing the full scene—you shirtless in the crisp Norwegian air, muscles flexing with each swing of the axe. Wood chips flew as you split logs methodically. Gotta come back to working on these logs after pleasing your sad boyfriend right? You got priority right. Sweat glistened on your back under the afternoon sun. You worked steadily, focused effort and breathing… completely absorbed in physical labor. Jude watches you through the screen from his hotel bed.

Jude’s gaze stayed locked on the screen—your shirtless form, the quiet oof sounds you made with each axe swing, how your biceps tensed. It was a private show… but your dad was right there. The older man worked nearby—tying bundles of firewood into sacks without paying attention to them. He's a man of domestic life, he just enjoys doing it with his son too much. Jude couldn’t say anything filthy… not with your father within earshot. So he just watched silently… appreciating the view from afar.

The steady rhythm of you chopping wood—thunk, thunk—acted like a lullaby. Jude’s exhaustion finally caught up to him, his eyes grew heavy, the stress from the match fading with each breath. By unspoken agreement, you didn’t pause or say anything… just kept working peacefully in the background. Your presence alone had soothed Jude enough to drift off.

Jude’s body was heavy with contentment—full stomach from dinner, body throughoutly pleased, and utterly satisfied just watching you chop wood. Every detail about you right now was perfect: the way your muscles moved, the focus on your face… even how casually hot you looked doing manual labor.

Jude’s expression darkened immediately, his grip tightening around the water bottle. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked onto you with fierce protectiveness.

“Who?” he demanded—not loudly, but with a sharpness that cut through the locker room air. His voice was low and dangerous. “Tell me who’s been treating you like shit.” He didn’t wait for an answer before adding “Because if some coach or teammate is making you feel like this isn’t your place? They’re wrong. You just scored two fucking goals for England.”

“Look—no matter how well I did. They will never let me be on the pitch unless it was you who does the talking. I'm done, Jude”

That made Jude’s jaw clenched. He stood up abruptly, the bench screeching against the locker room floor. Without thinking, he closed the distance between them and grabbed your shoulders—hard—not to shake you, but to make you listen.

“Listen–” he growled “You don’t get to quit after one game. One fucking game where you were incredible.” His voice dropped lower, almost pleading now. “I fought for you today. If Ancelotti only let you in because of me—then I’ll keep talking to him if that’s what it takes.”

“That is not how it should work, Jude” you huffed, frustrated.

Jude exhaled sharply, frustration and worry warring in his expression. He ran a hand through his damp hair before sitting back down right in front of you, closer this time.

“Then tell me how it should work,” he said firmly. “Because I see someone with insane talent who got screwed over by idiots who don’t deserve to coach you.” A beat. His voice softened just a fraction. “You think the game’s fair? It’s not. But walking away now—letting them win—that’s worse than anything they’ve done.”

“Jude…” you let out a long sigh, the one you do when you’re done with it already. Jude reached out, hesitating for half a second before gently squeezing your forearm—a grounding touch. His thumb brushed over the fabric of your jersey, rough from sweat and grass stains.

“Talk to me,” he said quietly “Like actually talk. Not just… giving up.” He tilted his head slightly, studying your face—the exhaustion there wasn’t just physical, it was deeper. And Jude hated seeing it.

Jude’s breath hitched—his chest tightening like someone had just drop-kicked him. The thought of you leaving Madrid, of never lining up beside him again, made his stomach twist violently. His usual confident demeanor shattered in that second. His eyes—wide and desperate—betrayed everything he wasn’t saying out loud: Don’t go. Without thinking again, Jude reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it way too tight. His voice came out rougher than intended

“You can't… you can't seriously be considering this.”

“For two years…I tolerated this. Jude–they can’t keep treating me like this” you say as memories of being mistreated flash through your mind, how practices had you coming home drown in annoyance and anger, how you kept quiet because of Jude. You only do this for him and now…you’re done.

Jude’s face fell. Two years. Two fucking years of you enduring this bullshit—just because Jude had begged yoy to stay, just because they were good together on the pitch. A sick guilt gnawed at his stomach. He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand loosening slightly—not letting go, but gentler now. When he spoke again, it wasn’t defensive or angry, it was small and raw:

“…I didn’t know it was that bad.” And for once? He actually looked ashamed. Yeah, because you never told him about the times when the coach says something about your background, forget about you on purpose when it is supposed to be the whole team bonding, ect.

“My contract with Real Madrid ends soon. My manager and I were thinking…Manchester City can be a great start. Fresh.”

Jude’s entire body went rigid. Manchester City. The rival team—his direct competition in the league. For a split second, something ugly flashed across his face: betrayal, rivalry instinct kicking in hard. But then he remembered this wasn’t about football right now—it was about you leaving because of everything else. He exhaled slowly through his nose before speaking again, forcing calm into his voice: “…So that’s it? You’re just gone?” There was no anger there—just quiet disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Jude” you say, voice suddenly sounds quieter. Jude was the first person you tell about your leaving. Not parents, him.

Jude’s chest ached. He hated this—hated how quiet you sounded, like you were already mentally packing his bags for Manchester City. Without a word, Jude suddenly leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug—crushing you against his still-damp jersey. It wasn’t graceful or gentle, it was desperate. His face pressed into your shoulder as he muttered “Don’t be sorry… Just stay.” The words came out muffled but fierce—like if he held on hard enough, reality couldn't take you away.

“You know I can’t do that” you muttered. Throat hurts like it’s painful enough you have to say this to his face. Jude didn’t let go. His arms stayed locked around you, stubborn as hell—like a kid refusing to admit something painful.

“Why?” he pressed, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Give me one good reason that makes sense.” It wasn’t an angry demand—just pleading confusion. Jude had spent two years assuming you were happy here or at least tolerating it for him, and now the rug was being yanked out from under both of them.

“Jude—you will be fine. It won’t make a different” you say dismissively. The tone came out more defensive than you planned. Jude finally pulled back, but only far enough to glare at you—his expression torn between frustration and hurt. His brows furrowed.

“It will make a difference, Y/N” he snapped. “You think I’m just gonna find someone else who plays like you? Who gets me on the pitch like you do?” The second those words left his mouth, Jude realized how selfish they sounded. But he couldn’t take them back—because they were true.

“You will, Jude.” you said firmly. The last thing you wanted was letting Jude successfully convince you to stay. Again.

Jude’s jaw worked silently—chewing on your dismissal like it physically pained him. He wanted to argue, but the finality in your tone made his stomach drop. Instead of fighting more, he deflated slightly, shoulders slumping. His voice came out quieter now—not angry anymore, just resigned: “…When do you leave?” He already hated asking. Hated imagining the locker room without you there.

“December…” you say, the bitterness lingers in your mouth when you say it. You hated seeing Jude so sad. But what’s done is done. Jude nodded slowly, doing the math in his head—December wasn’t tomorrow, but it was close. Too damn close. A heavy silence stretched between them before Jude spoke again, forcing a steadier tone: “…Okay.” He rubbed his neck awkwardly, then suddenly stood up and grabbed his gym bag—avoiding your eyes. He needed to move, to do something with this restless energy building inside him. Because if he continues to look into your eyes, he is afraid something inside of him will snap.

The hotel’s gym was dimly lit, the hum of machines filling the quiet space. Jude pushed open the door, still wearing his sweatpants and a loose black tank top. He hadn’t expected to see you here either. For a second, he just stood there watching: you on one of the stationary bikes, headphones in as you pedaled steadily. The soft glow from overhead lights cast shadows over your focused expression. Jude hesitated before walking over quietly. Jude hopped onto the bike next to you, keeping a careful distance between them. He adjusted the seat quickly before putting his own headphones in—just background music, nothing loud. The two of them rode in silence: you focused ahead, Jude staring straight at the wall across from him. The only sounds were their steady pedaling and soft breath. Neither acknowledged each other’s presence… but neither left either.

Your grip on the handlebars tightened slightly, guilt pooling in your chest. You could feel Jude beside yoy—not just physically, but emotionally. The tension between them was thick even without words. After a few more minutes of silent riding, you finally glanced over at Jude out of the corner of your eye—studying his profile: jaw set, brows slightly furrowed with that familiar intensity. A pang shot through him. This might be one of their last gym sessions together as teammates… and they weren’t even talking.

Jude leaned back against the gym wall, his legs burning from pushing himself harder than necessary. Sweat dampened his hairline, and he dragged a hand down his face before exhaling sharply—part exhaustion, part frustration. The quiet stretched again as he caught his breath. The weight of everything unsaid between them felt heavier than any workout ever could. Without looking at you yet, Jude pulled off one headphone, signaling that maybe… just maybe… they should actually talk now.

“I’m sorry for earlier...I was being understanding toward your feelings” you say, sitting down next to Jude. He finally turned his head to look at you—really look at you—for the first time since they’d been in the gym. The apology caught him off guard, and for a second, he just blinked.

“…I was being an idiot,” he admitted quietly, “Yelling about you leaving like that.” He rubbed his thigh where it still ached from overworking out, then added more softly: “You didn’t do anything wrong. I know you had your reasons.”

Jude never brings water with him because he knows he can just drink from yours. It has been a deep rooted habit he developed over years together. Ever since your parents moved to the UK for work, mostly due to wanting you to gain exposure to good football coaches here. They made it through, all for your football career. There, 5-years old you met Jude and his brother. And y’all became best friends ever since. He always thought of you as a giant foreign kid who loves football. Sometimes he protects you at school when you get teased for having asian features and a heavy accent you were trying to fix. He has met your parents before at a playdate at your house, he admires your dad, who’s an ex-professional football player, super tall and your japanese model mom, who makes incredible meals for your trio.

Jude accepted the water bottle from you without hesitation—like it was second nature by now. He took a long swig, his throat dry from exertion, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture felt stupidly intimate in that moment: sharing a bottle like they always did after training or matches. It was such a small thing, but Jude hated how normal it still felt—when nothing else between them did right now. He handed it back to you wordlessly… then hesitated before speaking again.

Jude stared at the gym floor, suddenly dreading the thought of going back to his empty room. The hotel beds were too big and cold—no one to fill the space beside him, no familiar breathing to lull him asleep. The idea of showering alone, changing into pajamas alone… then lying there staring at the ceiling in silence? It sounded miserable.

Jude swallowed hard, his pulse picking up at the thought. He hadn’t planned on asking—it felt too vulnerable—but suddenly it was all he could focus on. He hops on your bed all the time and you let him, no big deals. So why so nervous now? Without overthinking it because if he did, he’d chicken out? Jude turned to you and blurted: “Do you… wanna come back to my room tonight? Just to sleep.” The words tumbled out in one breathless rush.

“That's weird. You always complain I hog blankets and take up most space" You snorted. Growing up together, they often have playdates and sleepovers. Jude’s lips twitched at the memories—almost a smile at your response. It was true, he always complained about the blanket wars and how you somehow managed to take up the entire bed like a starfish.

“Yeah, well…” he shrugged. “Still better than being alone right now.” The honesty slipped out before he could filter it. He quickly added, voice lighter: “And if you steal all the blankets again, I’ll just shove you onto the floor.” A weak joke—but an invitation anyway.

The suite was quiet except for the soft hum of the TV. Jude had found a bottle of expensive wine in the mini-fridge—probably left there by management for VIP guests—and he’d cracked it open without hesitation, drinking straight from it. You were sprawled on one side of the bed, scrolling through movie options while Jude sat cross-legged beside you, already tipsy after two big gulps. The alcohol burned going down but… he didn’t care tonight. They landed on some action movie—explosions and loud dialogue filling their silence. Then the smooth jazz from the club scene filled the room, low and sultry. Jude tipped the wine bottle back again—this time downing half of it in one go, his throat relaxing to the rich taste. By now, he was definitely buzzed, cheeks slightly flushed, movements looser than usual. He didn’t even care that this was probably stupidly expensive wine—he just liked how it made him feel warm.

“It’s getting late…I’m going to bed” you muttered in exhaustion. The movie really makes you relaxed. Or maybe it was Jude’s comforting presence alone.

Jude’s face fell the second you said that. The movie wasn’t even halfway done, and they’d only been hanging out for… what, an hour? Two? He scowled—childishly—and reached over to poke your arm. “No,” he protested, voice already a little slurred from the wine. “Stay up. It's not that late, Y/N.” The TV screen reflected in his eyes as he glared half-heartedly at you, like this was some huge betrayal.

“Jude…you’re drinking too much, you’re gonna have a horrible hangover tomorrow" you rolled your eyes at his childish tone.

Jude frowns—like a kid being scolded. He held the wine bottle tighter, stubbornly refusing to put it down.

“I don’t care about tomorrow,” he grumbled, “Tomorrow’s gonna suck anyway.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, revealing way more bitterness than he meant to show. But it was true: tomorrow would be another day closer to you leaving… So why not drink?

Eventually, Jude sets the bottle aside and scootches closer to you, straddling your hips as he stares into your eyes. The kiss was sudden—warm and wine-tinged. Jude leaned down, his lips meeting you with a clumsy but desperate intensity. The alcohol had loosened him up, made him bold in a way he normally wouldn’t be. His hands braced on either side of your shoulders as he deepened the kiss slightly—sloppy from drinking but full of pent-up emotion. It wasn’t romantic or smooth, it was messy and impulsive… just like Jude right now.

“What are you doing?” You say, stunned.

Jude didn’t pull away immediately—his lips lingered for a second longer, breath still mingling with yours. When he finally broke the kiss, his face was inches away, cheeks flushed from both alcohol and nerves.

“I dunno,” he admitted quietly, voice rough. Then, after a beat: “I wanted to.” His heart pounded like crazy. He hadn’t planned this at all—just acted on impulse—but now that he had? There was no taking it back.

“Jude…go to sleep, think you had enough?” You nudge him again.

Jude’s expression twisted—annoyance and frustration flashing across his face. He didn’t want to sleep. Sleep meant tomorrow would come faster, meaning you leaving would feel more real. Instead of listening, Jude pressed another kiss to your lips—softer this time but still insistent, lingering just a second too long before pulling back slightly.

“No,” he mumbled against your mouth, “Not tired.” His words were thick with wine and stubbornness.

“What can I do to get you to sleep, hm?” You rolled your eyes at his determined ass. Jude smirked—tipsy and smug—at your complaint. He tilted his head, considering the question like it was a game.

“…Keep kissing me,” he said without hesitation, voice low and teasing. Then, before you could protest or push him off, Jude leaned back in and captured your lips again—this kiss slower but just as determined. If this was the only way to stay awake with you right now? Fine by him.

“No” you scolded and peel Jude off you. He whined, and eventually fell asleep tangled with you on the bed, too tired and drunk to continue reasoning with you.

Jude’s training sessions became intense—almost aggressive. Every drill, every pass, he poured frustration into it. The new guy didn’t sync with him like you did, no instinctive give-and-go, no reading each other’s movements. It showed in matches too: Jude would break away down the wing… only to get a half-assed cross that sailed over the box or got intercepted because his teammate hadn’t followed up. The team noticed—the chemistry was off. And worse? Fans were comparing them to Jude and Y/N constantly… which just made everything sting more.

The loneliness crept in slowly—like a shadow under all the bright stadium lights. Without you beside him, matches felt… hollow. Even when Jude scored, the celebration lacked its usual fire. No jumping on your back because you’re the only one who can handle his aggressiveness. No inside joke glances during time-outs. Just teammates who were decent at best—not his person. The quiet ache of it followed him off the pitch too. Even his own teammates noticed how quieter Jude had gotten—less laughing in group chats, fewer impulsive jokes during downtime.

So the second Jude stepped onto the pitch and saw you in Manchester City blue, something sharp twisted in his gut. The smile on your face—relaxed, even happy—was a punch to the chest. You found the right club that respects you. They hadn’t spoken since you left. Jude forced himself to focus, but every time his eyes flicked toward you during warm-ups… that bitterness flared again: betrayal at no one, longing, frustration that this was their first match as opponents.

Jude was fuming every time the new guy ignored team plays—charging forward like a solo striker, ignoring calls for passes. It backfired constantly, his selfish shots went wide or got blocked. Meanwhile, you effortlessly picked him off—stealing the ball with smooth ease and turning defense into attack for Manchester City. The way he glided past the rookie looked almost playful… mocking even. Jude couldn’t stand it: watching his former teammate dismantle their whole strategy so casually while wearing another club’s colors.

Jude’s face scrunched into a full pout—cheeks flushed with frustration—as he barreled toward you during the next stoppage in play. Ignoring the referee’s glare, Jude got right up in his former teammate's space. The second they were within earshot, Jude jabbed a finger at your chest—not aggressively, but like an indignant kid demanding attention.

“You’re laughing” he accused through gritted teeth, “This isn’t funny.” Clearly you were having fun playing this match. No pressure at all.

“Don’t pout…you can fix this” you snorted again. Your voice was softer than Jude expected—gentle, almost coaxing. The smirk from earlier had faded now that they were face-to-face like this. Jude glared at you, still pouting because yeah, 2-0 sucked, but you weren't gloating anymore. You just looked… concerned? Like you genuinely wanted to fix it. Guess you still care about him and know how Jude’s world can collapse after a defeat.

A beat passed before Jude huffed and muttered, “How?” —defensive but open to whatever you suggested.

“I don’t know? Steal the ball from your own teammate?” You joke. That made Jude’s frown deepen—but then the suggestion hit him. Steal the ball from his own teammate? That rookie who’d been embarrassing them all game? A mischievous glint sparked in Jude’s eyes. It was risky… but if it meant getting back at you and helping his team, hell yeah. The next play, when their teammate got the ball again—Jude lunged with zero hesitation, only one thing in mind.

The ball rocketed off Jude’s boot—blazing past a defender like they were standing still. The strike was perfect: powerful, precise, and utterly ruthless. It slammed into the net before the keeper could even react. 2-1.

Jude didn’t celebrate with his teammates right away—he bolted straight for you instead. Without warning, he launched himself at the bigger man, tackling him into a bear hug mid-stride. The impact nearly knocked them both over—but Jude didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, grinning wildly despite everything: the rivalry, the score… none of that mattered in this second.

The stadium cameras zoomed in immediately—catching the rare, raw moment between Jude and Y/N. The close-up broadcasted their embrace to millions watching live. Jude’s arms were still locked around you like he’d never let go. On screen, you could see every detail: Jude’s sweaty state from running, his wide grin pressed into your jersey… while you—surprised but not pushing him away—just stood there holding him back while the fellows Manchester City stared at you.

The final whistle blew, sealing Manchester City’s victory. Jude kicked the grass in frustration—his goal and lead hadn’t been enough to turn things around. He trudged off the pitch, avoiding eye contact with teammates and reporters alike. The scoreboard mocked him: 2-1. Close… but a loss. As he entered the locker room, his shoulders slumped under the weight of defeat—and worse? You would be celebrating on your side, not his. You promised you would give him whatever he wants if he wins, but guess not.

Jude lingered near the tunnel leading to the Manchester City locker room, spotting you through the half-open door. He hesitated for a second—then walked over. Leaning against the frame, Jude crossed his arms and forced a dry tone: “Guess I won’t get whatever you promised, huh? …You won. Congrats.” The bitterness in his voice was thinly veiled, he’d been looking forward to cashing that bet…

“Pouting still?” You chuckled. Jude’s bottom lip jutted out instinctively—still pouting, yeah. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. The loss stung, you were winning, and now Jude had to face the fact that he’d never get whatever silly "whatever" prize they'd joked about.

“…You’re enjoying this,” he accused flatly, “Aren’t you?”

“I shouldn't.” you smirked. God he hated that. Jude rolled his eyes at your snort—because yeah, you shouldn’t be enjoying it… but of course you were. That stupid little smirk kept creeping back.

“You’re the worst,” Jude grumbled, “Rubbing it in my face like this.” He kicked a bottle on the floor, then peeked up at you through his lashes—half annoyed, half something softer. They hadn't talked properly in months… and now here they were again.

“I won, Jude. I can take whatever I want?” You giggled, poking at his side. Jude’s nose scrunched up at the teasing—you were loving this way too much. He narrowed his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “Gloat all you want.”

“Room 325. There's more I'd love to take.” you whispered before turning your back and joining your team again.

Jude’s pulse jumped at the implication—Room 325. He watched you walk away—shoulders relaxed, that chuckle still lingering in the air—and suddenly the loss didn’t feel so bad anymore. If this was part of "whatever"… Jude was all for it. He had a crush on you for so long, and he was no longer in the denials, ever since you two first joined Real Madrid. Without lingering, Jude headed straight for Real Madrid's locker room to shower and change fast—already counting down minutes until he could sneak out unnoticed later.

The suite was dimly lit—soft golden light spilling from the lamps. Jude stepped inside quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him just in case. You weren’t immediately visible, maybe in the bathroom? Or on the balcony? The place smelled faintly of your cologne—something woodsy and clean. Jude kicked off his shoes and wandered further in, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it was… and what might happen next.

The bed dipped slightly under Jude’s weight as he stretched out, jacket discarded on a nearby chair. The sheets were cool against his skin—freshly changed, probably. He could hear the shower running in the bathroom, water hitting tile. The sound was rhythmic… relaxing even. Jude laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling, listening. A part of him wondered how long you would take—and if you'd walk out here still toweling off…

Jude propped himself up on his elbows the second he heard the bathroom door open. You stepped out—hair still damp, droplets clinging to your shoulders—and that towel was barely hanging on. The sight made Jude’s breath catch. Water had traced paths down your chest, every defined muscle was on display under the soft lighting.

The distance between them vanished in an instant. Jude surged forward, crashing his lips against yours—hungry and impatient. There was nothing soft about this kiss, it was all heat and months of pent-up longing. Usually he would avoid people after a loss but…he found a way to make it disappear fast. One hand tangled into your damp hair while the other gripped your bare shoulder, pulling you closer as if they couldn’t get enough contact fast enough. His palm felt warm as Jude kneaded your muscles with neediness.

Your strength made it effortless—you lifted Jude up and set him down on the sleek marble table without breaking the kiss. The cold surface contrasted with their burning skin. Jude wrapped his legs around your waist instinctively, arms clinging to your shoulders as they kissed deeper. There was no hesitation now—just hands roaming, lips locked, breaths mingling in messy harmony.

Jude’s fingers traced every ridge of your back—those broad, sculpted muscles that flexed under his touch. He mapped them like he was memorizing—a dip here, a ridge there—letting the pads of his thumbs press into the firmness. It felt incredible… and Jude couldn’t stop exploring. Meanwhile, you kept kissing him deeply, teeth grazing Jude's bottom lip before diving back in with renewed hunger.

Jude’s breath hitched as your lips traveled down—his jaw, his throat—the teasing nibbles on the Adam's apple sending shivers through him. “Still upset?” You muttered against his skin.

“No…” he admitted softly, tilting his head to give you better access. His hands stayed glued to those back muscles… squeezing lightly whenever a particularly good spot got kissed.

The weight of their past—more than 15 years as best friends—hung in the air between them. Jude searched your eyes, suddenly unsure. What were they now? Opponents? Ex-teammates? Just… this? He gently nudged you back to create a sliver of space, his hands still resting on your shoulders but no longer pulling you closer. A quiet question lingered unspoken: Is this just tonight because you won… or something more?

Jude’s heart hammered—loud enough that he was sure you could hear it. He swallowed hard, gathering courage. For the first time in years, maybe ever… Jude wanted to say it out loud. Not as a joke or a tease—just raw honesty. Or else he will never be able to play football with the same intense focus. He needed to get it off his chess.

“I…” His voice came out quieter than expected. He cleared his throat, “I think I’m in love with you.” The words hung there, fragile and huge all at once.

“You made that pretty obvious” you smirked at the confession. Yeah, it took Jude years to say it. Here he goes. And that’s your reaction?

Jude exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-relief—when you teased him instead of answering properly. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

“Oh shut up,” he grumbled, shoving your shoulder lightly before surging forward to kiss you again. This time softer… less frantic, more affectionate. If you weren't going to take this seriously yet… Jude would just show you how he felt through actions instead of words for now.

“Just kidding…I love you too, Jude. Only you”

Jude’s entire face lit up at those words—you finally said it. A grin spread wide across his lips, bright and disbelieving for a second. Then he kissed you again—happy, giddy kisses all over your face: forehead, cheeks, nose… before landing back on your mouth properly. The 17-year best friend who became something more… Jude couldn’t stop smiling against your lips. This was perfect.

Jude deepened the kiss, pouring everything into it—the hope, the longing. When he finally pulled back just an inch, his voice was low and earnest:

“Come back to Real Madrid.”

No teasing this time. Just a direct plea—eyes locked on yours like Jude could make you say yes by staring. The thought of having you as both his teammate and lover again… it felt right in every way.

“You just have to say that every chance you get…” you complained. Jude rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it—because yeah, he would say it again and again if you let him. The guy had no chill when it came to this.

“You love hearing me say it.” he shot back with a smirk, poking your side playfully before kissing your cheek once more—quick and sweet. The banter was light… but beneath the teasing, Jude was radiating pure happiness. This—you loving him back? Best feeling ever.

“No, I don’t” you said firmly. It only made Jude laugh—bright and unguarded—as you rolled your eyes. The denial was weak.

“Liar.” Jude accused, grinning before diving back in to kiss you again. This time slower, lingering… savoring the fact that you were his now. The room felt warmer somehow, like the whole world had narrowed down to just them—no rivalries left between them anymore… just this.

“No. You come to Manchester City with me” you said. There’s no way you would go back to that hell hole unless they change the coach. Jude’s smile faltered for a second—you? suggesting he switch teams? To Manchester City? That was… not what he wanted at all.

“No.” he said immediately, voice firm but not angry. He cupped your face “I’m staying with Madrid. You come back to me.” he demands firmly. No nonsense. And yeah, happy spouse, happy house—or whatever they said.

“I just signed 3 years with Manchester City, Jude” you huffed. Jude’s entire face brightened—relief and excitement mixing together. 3 years wasn’t forever. He could wait.

“3 years?” He repeated, nodding quickly. “Yeah. That’s nothing.” Without hesitation, Jude kissed you again—this time sealing the promise between them. He’d be patient… because after that contract ended? You would be back where you belonged: with Jude at Madrid. It was easy to convince you. Too easy. But you made one thing clear—only Jude gets to do that. Only he gets to mess with you and come out of the room alive.

Jude shifted impatiently, his legs parting wider as you stood between them. The affectionate moment had passed—now Jude wanted action. Something to distract him from the defeat. Without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the hem of his own shirt and tugged it upward—silently demanding you to help him take it off. Then he bit his lip expectantly… waiting for you to close the distance.

You moved fast—no teasing left in you now. In seconds, Jude’s jeans unbuttoned and shoved down his legs. The cool air hit Jude’s skin briefly before you pressed close again. Fabric pooled on the floor around them. The towel finally gave up its fight… slipping to the ground as you kissed Jude hard again.

You raised an eyebrow when Jude grabs the lube and condom in Jude’s discarded jeans—clearly planned ahead. A slow smirk curled at your lips.

“Came prepared, huh?” you teased, voice dropping lower as you twist the cap of the lube. The fact that Jude had thought this far ahead was… kinda hot. Jude only rolls his eyes at your tone “Just in case” he said.

You trailed your lips down Jude’s torso—soft, appreciative kisses over each defined muscle. The ridges of his abs, the curve of his shoulders… every inch was worshipped with quiet admiration. It wasn’t rushed anymore, you took time to explore Jude like this was something sacred. Each kiss lingered—a contrast to their earlier urgency. The warmth of your mouth against bare skin sent little sparks through Jude… intimate in a whole new way.

Jude sank deeper into the cool marble, body pliant under your touch. The lube was cold for a split second before warming—then your finger pressed gently, circling his entrance. Simultaneously, you kissed down Jude’s chest—lips and tongue soothing over every inch of skin while those fingers worked slowly… teasingly… pushing in just the slightest bit more with each pass. The dual sensations were overwhelming: warmth above and careful pressure below.

Your fingers moved with practiced gentleness—stretching Jude slowly, curling just right to send waves of that delicious good pain down his spine. Each motion was deliberate, careful not to hurt. Jude breathed through it, back arching slightly off the table as pleasure mixed with the stretch. You watched his reactions closely—adjusting pressure or angle based on every twitch or gasp Jude made. The lube eased everything, no discomfort… just building heat and anticipation.

Jude arched beautifully against the marble—back curving, skin flushed under your hungry gaze. He felt exposed in the best way… like a meal laid out for you to feast upon. Every glance from you burned hotter than the cold surface beneath Jude. Your fingers kept working on him—slow but purposeful—as your other hand traced Jude’s hipbone, possessive without words… all while drinking in how responsive he was.

You slipped your fingers out carefully, then grabbed the condom—ripping the packet open with your teeth and quickly rolling it on. A few firm strokes helped him get fully hard, there was no rush now. You positioned yourself over Jude again, met Jude’s eyes one last time before leaning down to kiss him deeply—a silent check-in before moving further.

With slow precision, you started pushing in… giving Jude every chance to adjust while you pressed your cock into his clenching hole. The stretch was deliberate, no sudden movements. Each inch forward was careful—controlled by how well Jude handled it. Soon you found a pace to go.

You adjusted Jude’s legs, lifting them gently to rest on your shoulders—exposing him completely. The position was intimate in a new way, Jude squirmed under the vulnerability of it. His cheeks warmed slightly… but there was no hiding now. Every shift or tremble from his body would be visible like this. You kissed Jude’s leg softly—a small comfort—before settling into a slow rhythm, testing the depth and angle with careful thrusts.

You moved with deliberate control—each roll of your hips measured, testing the fit. The stretch was intense for Jude, he hadn’t expected you to feel this big inside him. A sharp inhale escaped Jude’s lips—his breath catching in surprise. It wasn’t painful… just overwhelming in a way that made his pulse spike.

It takes a while. As Jude relaxed into the sensation, you began moving with more rhythm—gentle but steady thrusts now. The initial fullness gave way to something smoother, each glide becoming easier. The table creaked faintly beneath them, but neither cared.

“Is it…supposed to feel this way?” Jude muttered, feeling weird in his stomach. He has never taken a man before.

“It gets better.” you murmured, brushing a thumb over Jude’s thigh reassuringly. Your next thrust was softer, more focused on pleasure than just the physical act. The initial overwhelming stretch would fade soon… replaced by something warmer, easier—if you kept going gently like this.

You discovered that spot almost immediately—some perfect angle where every thrust landed just right that you noticed drawing a small moan out of him. Jude’s breath hitched audibly, his back pressing harder into the table as pleasure spiked. Without hesitation, you kept targeting it—rhythm steady and deliberate now. The precision was addictive, each repetition drew out another soft sound from Jude.

The rhythmic clap of skin on skin filled the room—sloppy, wet sounds with every deep thrust. You loved how Jude squirmed beneath you, the way his body reacted to each rough pull almost all the way out before slamming back in. There was no gentleness now—just raw, heated friction once Jude gets used to the feeling and ease into it. The table rocked slightly from their movements… but neither cared about anything except this moment. Jude’s legs trembled where they rested on your shoulders—the sensation overwhelming but good in a dizzying way.

Jude’s toes curled involuntarily inside his socks—the fabric grounding him, helping the blood flow stay steady despite how intensely he was feeling everything. The pleasure was almost too much, overwhelming in its goodness. He whined under your relentless pace—not to stop you, but because there was nothing solid to grip onto. No nothing on the marble table… just air and sensation.

“Y/N—” he breathed out shakily, “There’s nothing… to hold onto.”

You slowed your movements, shifting effortlessly to scoop Jude up in your arms. The sudden change made Jude instinctively cling to you—arms locking around your neck, legs winding tight around your waist. Their bodies pressed together now as you moved until Jude’s back met the cool wall. Then you resumed rocking into him—steadier this time, deeper—but with just as much heat.

The second Jude’s fingers found your back—those broad, corded muscles flexing with every movement—he couldn’t help himself. His nails dug in lightly, not enough to hurt but just there, clinging. Moans spilled from Jude shamelessly now, the wall supported his weight perfectly, and having your body to grip made everything more intense. Every thrust sent vibrations through them both. You grunted at the sensation of those nails scraping down your skin… it only drove you deeper.

Your strength made carrying Jude effortless—your arms caging him against the wall with zero strain. Every rock of your hips was powerful, deliberate… bullying that tender spot inside Jude in the best way. The roughness wasn’t mean—just dominant. You knew exactly how much pressure to use, turning each movement into a deep, claiming thrust that left Jude breathless. Jude’s back slid slightly against the wall from their momentum… but you adjusted instantly to keep him steady.

Jude’s body instinctively tightened around you—muscles fluttering in waves of pleasure, milking your aching cock with each deliberate clench. It wasn’t on purpose… just his body reacting to the overwhelming sensations.

The sudden pressure drew a ragged groan from you—your rhythm stuttering for half a second before you growled and snapped your hips harder, chasing that feeling. The friction between them skyrocketed, Jude could feel every ridge of you through the thin condom now.

Jude bit down on your shoulder—teeth pressing just enough to leave a mark, not to hurt much. It was instinctive: a way to claim you and anchor himself as pleasure crested violently. The sting made you gasp… but you didn’t pull away. Instead, your arms tightened around Jude possessively, hips never stopping their relentless pace. A muffled sound escaped Jude between clenched teeth—the bite both an act of need and silent praise.

Jude’s nails raked down your back—leaving faint, stinging red lines in their wake. The sharp sensation made the bigger man gasp sharply through his nose. The pain wasn’t unpleasant, it blended with the pleasure, heightening everything. Your breath hitched as you adjusted to it… then responded by thrusting harder, driving Jude deeper into the wall. A low sound rumbled in your chest—not quite a growl but close—as your hips moved with renewed intensity.

Jude’s voice cracked with pleasure as he hurled insults—words like “asshole” and “fucking monster” tumbling out, but there was zero real anger behind them. Just heat. Each name came with a bitten-off moan or a sharp gasp, his body betraying how much he actually loved this rough treatment. You only smirked at the curses—unbothered. You knew Jude wasn’t actually mad… just overwhelmed and expressing it in the only way that made sense to him right now.

Your smirk widened—completely endeared by Jude’s tantrum. The bruising grip, the insults… it was all so him. You loved every second of this unfiltered, fiery passion. Jude kept clenching around your cock and cursing—“You’re such a fucking jerk”—but his hips rolled instinctively against yours with each word, chasing more friction despite himself. The contrast was adorable: rage in words but pure bliss in how their bodies moved together.

You crushed your lips against Jude’s—cutting off the next insult mid-sentence with a searing kiss. Your hips never slowed, pounding into him at that same rough, unforgiving pace. The kiss was messy and hungry—all teeth and tongue as you swallowed every insult Jude made. Then you broke the kiss to trail your lips down Jude’s neck—lingering over your pulse point before latching onto a sensitive spot just above his collarbone. Your mouth worked there hungrily, sucking and biting. A few vivid hickeys bloomed instantly—faint marks against Jude’s skin. Jude only tilted his head instinctively, giving you better access without even thinking.

Jude’s body tensed—pleasure cresting violently as his hips jerked in your grip. He shoved at your shoulders weakly, voice breaking as he cursed again: “Fuck—Y/N!”

The push wasn’t strong enough to actually move you, it was just Jude’s overwhelmed nerves reacting. His fingers trembled against your chest… not wanting space, just unable to handle the intensity. You felt Jude tightening around your cock and knew—they were both right on the edge now.

Jude came hard—body seizing up as pleasure ripped through him, completely unrestrained. The mess between them was undeniable, but you didn’t slow down for a second. Still chasing your own release, you kept thrusting—relentless and deep—as Jude trembled from oversensitivity. The stretch mixed with the aftershocks sent sparks shooting up Jude’s spine.

The hit on your chest from Jude had no real force behind it, just a desperate attempt to signal too much. Jude squirmed slightly, breath coming in short gasps—but you could feel how sensitive every nerve was right now.

Your hips jerked a few last times—sharp, uncontrolled thrusts—before you stilled completely. With a deep groan rumbling from your chest, you buried yourself fully inside Jude… spilling over the edge. The sensation was intense for both of them, you shuddering through it while Jude felt every pulse, even in his oversensitive state.

For a long moment afterward, neither moved—just breathing heavily against each other’s skin. The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and shared intimacy. Both Jude and you were glistening—skin damp, chests rising and falling in sync as they caught their breath. Jude’s head lolled slightly against your shoulder—too spent to even think about moving yet.

You carefully lifted Jude—still cradled in your arms—and carried him the short distance to the bed. Gently, you lowered him onto the mattress, making sure Jude was comfortable. The sheets were cool against their heated skin. You hovered for a second before lying down beside him, one arm slipping under Jude’s neck like you’re his pillow as they settled together. For a moment, they get to relax.

Jude’s brow furrowed slightly as you sat up—disrupting the cozy position he’d been nestled into. The warmth of your bicep had been a perfect pillow, and now it was gone. He didn’t say anything, just blinked up at you with that small frown… silently asking why you moved without explanation.

You reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, twisting it open before taking a long swig. The cool liquid soothed your dry throat after everything. Without hesitation, you passed the half-full bottle to Jude—holding it out so he could drink too. Your eyes softened slightly as Jude took it, a small act of care after their intensity.

You snatched a nearby towel off the chair, still damp and gently wiping Jude’s skin clean. You started with his face—dabbing away sweat—then moved down to his chest and shoulders then lower.

“Season’s over. Got any plans for summer?” You asked casually. You stretched out beside Jude on the bed, turning your head toward him with a relaxed expression. He pondered for a second before answering.

“Dunno yet. Probably just chill… maybe travel somewhere.”

“Come back to my homeland then. We can hang out” Your voice was soft but hopeful. You suggested Japan—your mother’s homeland. The idea of Jude visiting there, seeing where you were born, living a normal summer together away from football… It excited him. Jude adores your mother, likes it when she tells him about baby Y/N back in Japan before moving to England. You turned onto your side to face Jude fully, waiting for his reaction. The country had beaches, mountains… and endless good food too.

A slow smile spread across Jude’s face as he nodded “Yeah. I’d love that.”

“Can we get in the hot tub now?” Jude groans impatiently. He has been waiting for you to tan since forever. Here you and him in Japan, you bought a penthouse there last year for vacation and family gathering, the bathtub was an addition you don’t really approve of but buying it anyway because your mother loves it. You’re more of an icebath person. You two spent time cooking, playing video games and exploring the cities. And now simply at the pool of your place.

“No…I’m tanning” you muttered.

Jude huffed dramatically, peeling himself off you like a clingy shadow. He padded barefoot to the edge of the pool, toes curling against cold tile.

without warning—splash!—he cannonballed right next to your lounge chair, sending a wave crashing over it and soaking your towel.

water dripped from your black as he surfaced with that stupidly handsome grin—the one that used to make half the team lose their minds during training camp.

“Oops,” he grinned, not sounding sorry at all. then louder: “c’monnn! hot tub’s awesome”

“Fine!” You groaned. Jude’s face lit up like he’d just scored the winning penalty in extra time. he scrambled out of the pool first, water sluicing off his toned frame as he grabbed two fluffy towels from the cabana bench—one tossing at you with a wet smack.

The hot tub starts bubbling softly after you turn the heat on and fill in water, steam curling into the air. without asking because when did Jude ever?, he kicked off his slipper and climbed in, stretching out with a satisfied groan.

“Ahhh… fuck yeah.” he moaned dramatically, sinking low until only his face was above water. then: “You coming or what? I'm not waiting forever.” His brown eyes gleamed playfully under the sun. Even if it’s hot or burning, Jude would still choose a hot tub.

The moment you slid into the hot tub, jude’s smug expression flickered. You took up way too much space—like a goddamn grizzly bear who’d been sculpted by Greek gods. water sloshed dangerously close to spilling over as you sank in.

“It’s hot…I’d choose an ice bath over this anyday” You complained.

Jude blinked at you like you'd just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Ice bath?!” he repeated, nose scrunching in disgust. “Why would you want to freeze your balls off?” that only earns a scold out of you.

The silence between them stretched, warm and heavy like the steam rising off the hot tub.

Another season is coming up soon. Then the World Cup. He’d be locked into that bubble again: Madrid's golden boy under scrutiny 24/7… expected to win… expected to perform flawlessly… The thought made his chest tighten slightly. Without looking up and voice quieter than it had ever been, Jude said:

Lando nodded, eyes still half-lidded from the peaceful sunbathing. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave… not yet. The ranch had a calming vibe—so different from city life or hotel rooms. The quiet, the animals, your presence nearby… It all feels good. A small smile played on his lips as he finally spoke.

"Yeah… really comfy." No rush to mention heading back—he could stay like this awhile longer.

You pushed off the rail and straightened, brushing hay dust from your jeans. The faint smile on your lips betrayed how much he genuinely wanted Lando to come with you.

"Gonna run into town for supplies—" you said "If you wanna…tag along" The offer hung there: if Lando wanted to see more of the area—and spend time together outside the ranch—now was his chance.

Lando’s face lit up instantly—eyes brightening with genuine excitement. The idea of exploring more of your world, even just the nearby town, thrilled him. He didn’t hesitate before answering "Hell yeah—I’ll come!" The enthusiasm slipped out naturally.

Lando showered quickly—washing off the night’s remnants before drying his curls. He dressed in your borrowed clothes: a soft, slightly oversized shirt and well-worn denim that fit loosely around his hips. Downstairs, he found you sitting on the couch with your dog—a big, lazy Australian Shepherd sprawled across your lap. The dog thumped its tail happily as Lando approached… immediately wiggling for pets. You scratched behind the pup’s ears while waiting for Lando to join you by the door.

The truck rolled into town—a cozy little market area buzzing with local life. Women called out from stalls selling fresh-cut meat and baskets of homegrown vegetables, the aroma rich in the air. You lead him through slowly before turning toward a smaller shop at the end: Pet & Ranch Supplies. The sign above it jingled as you pushed the door open, bell announcing their arrival. Aisle after aisle was stocked with cattle feed, hoof oils, and other farming essentials—you knew exactly what you needed.

Lando’s eyes darted around the old shop, taking in all the new sights—rows of leather tack, horse shampoo bottles stacked high, and sacks of grain labeled with feed instructions. Everywhere he looked were signs of cowboy life… a world he rarely interacted with. A few actual ranch hands passed by—tall guys in hats nodding at yoy—but none paid Lando much mind. He felt like an outsider here… curious but out of his element. The scent of hay and animal products hung heavy in the air.

You adjusted the heavy sack of ranch supplies on your shoulder—no rush, since you’d already bought everything needed for your horses. Then you spotted the cinnamon roll vendor down the street: an old wooden cart with a warm glow from its oven. The scent was irresistible—spiced sugar and buttery dough. You nudged Lando’s arm lightly, pointing at it with genuine enthusiasm.

"Best ones in town." You said proudly. "Wanna try one? They’re huge." The vendor—a round-cheeked woman—already waved them over like regulars.

The cinnamon rolls looked perfect—golden-brown, glistening with a sugary glaze. The vendor clearly used high-quality ingredients, probably sourced locally like everything else in this town. Lando’s cheeks warmed as he watched you already pull out your wallet without hesitation—like it was the most natural thing to buy him something. The gesture felt… date-like? Intimate? Not that either of them had labeled anything yet.

The woman smiled kindly as she handed over two huge pieces of pastry wrapped in wax papers.

Lando took the warm wax-paper bundle from your hand, his fingers brushing slightly against the cowboy’s calloused ones. The first bite was heaven—rich cinnamon, fluffy dough, and that unmistakable taste of homegrown quality. The flavors were so pure… no artificial anything. Just real butter, local honey maybe? It melted on his tongue. You watched him enjoy it with quiet satisfaction—happy to see Lando appreciating a classic small-town treat for what it was.

The market bustled around them—vendors calling out, shoppers browsing—but you kept your gaze mostly on Lando as they walked. Your arms brushed occasionally… an almost touch that sent little sparks through you. You wanted to hold his hand. Badly. The simple intimacy of it—the casual public display—felt natural after last night. But you didn’t initiate it yet… just let the near-misses linger, hoping maybe Lando would reach for you first.

“Y’know…sightseeing is quite common for visitors when they visit rural Nevada” you gestured vaguely toward the rest of the town—stores with hand-painted signs, a little library tucked between buildings, even an old saloon that had been converted into a café. All classic sights for tourists. You didn’t outright invite Lando to explore more… but your body language did—shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning the streets like you were ready to show him around if asked. A silent offer: Want me to take you places? Just say yes.

Lando studied your expression for a beat—reading the unspoken invitation. Why not go exploring with you? It’d be fun… and who knew how much more of this charming little town he could see? So, without overthinking it, Lando nodded.

"Yeah… I'd like to look around more." A simple agreement—but it meant you got to play tour guide now, showing off your favorite spots in their quiet Nevada town.

Back home, you led two horses from the barn—your personal black stallion: massive, muscular, and clearly well-trained trotting beside you, named Miller. The other was a light brown mare with warm eyes, she’d be Lando’s ride, named Chestnut.

You handed the reins to Lando carefully before asking "Ever ridden a horse?" Your tone wasn’t judging… just curious. Most city folks hadn’t. The animals stood calmly, used to humans—but still powerful under their hooves.

Lando’s gaze lingered on the mare—her coat shone like polished wood in the sunlight, and her gentle expression put him at ease. He reached out slowly… letting his fingertips brush that soft fur. “No…not really” he answered. Chestnut didn’t flinch, just huffed quietly through her nose, sniffing Lando’s scent with mild curiosity.

You watched fondly before introducing "Her name's Chestnut. She's real calm—great for beginners." A reassurance that this horse wouldn’t bolt or spook easily.

“She’s pretty.” Lando commented, feeling the smooth fur. You must have put a lot of time into taking care of them.

You stepped behind Lando, your hands firm but gentle as you guided him onto Chestnut’s back. With a steadying touch on his shoulders, you helped adjust the reins and balance—making sure Lando felt secure. The careful assistance eased any nervousness in him… Chestnut stood patiently beneath them, unfazed by the new rider settling in above her.

You hop on your black stallion effortlessly—muscles tensing as you settle into the saddle. Then, without a word, you reached over and took Chestnut’s lead rope in your free hand… just in case. The protective gesture wasn’t controlling—just cautious. If Lando got unsure or nervous mid-ride, you could gently guide them both safely.

Lando noticed this small act of care… and it made him feel warm inside. No one had ever looked out for him like that.

The horses ambled through open fields first—wildflowers swaying in the breeze, tall grass brushing against their legs. The air was crisp with freedom… no sounds except hooves and birds. Then they climbed a gentle slope toward foothills, where rocky outcrops peeked through pine trees. The forest grew denser ahead—dappled sunlight filtering through leaves. You rode confidently beside Lando, occasionally glancing over to make sure he was okay on Chestnut

You two have reached the pond. The pond was stunning—crystal-clear blue water reflecting the sky perfectly. Rocks formed a natural edge, and trees arched over it like guardians, their leaves dancing in the breeze.

You got down first, then circled around to help Lando down from Chestnut. Your hands steadied him as his boots hit solid ground… making sure he didn’t lose balance after half an hour on the saddle. It really was a local spot—used for cooling off and relaxing after long rides. A peaceful escape.

“This is my secret spot. Only a few locals know, since the entrance was hidden...surrounded by a bunch of trees” you said.

Lando stared at the pond—its water looked so inviting, especially after the hot ride. He turned to you with a hopeful glint in his eye.

"Think we can swim?" he asked, already eyeing how shallow it got near the shore… perfect for wading in first. The idea of cooling off—maybe even floating together under that open sky—sounded heavenly right now.

“I don’t see why not” your faint smile deepened as Lando kicked off his boots and began unbuttoning his shirt—no rush, just relaxed. The sun was warm here, swimming would feel amazing. You kept an eye on Lando out of habit…

The pond’s surface rippled slightly from a breeze—inviting, pristine blue waiting for them. Lando swam to the center and climbed onto the large flat rock in the heart of the pond—its surface warm from sun exposure. He stretched out like a cat, basking in golden rays while his skin dried off.

Meanwhile, you floated lazily on his back near shore… letting cool water lap around you as you relaxed. Clothes piled up on Miller’s back as the horse stood still and waited.

You swim toward the rock, water dripping off your torso as you approach. You smirked up at Lando—playfully roasting him.

"Sunbathing? Aren’t you already a burnt toast?” you teased, voice laced with amusement. Then you reached out to flick a little pond water at Lando’s leg—just to mess with him further.

Lando rolled his eyes dramatically at your teasing—clearly unbothered. The combo of cool water and soft sun was perfect, and he wasn’t about to move just because the cowboy called him a burnt toast.

He shot back lazily "I like being burnt to crips… deal with it." A small, stubborn smirk played on his lips as he stretched out even more—owning the rock like it was his throne.

Your calloused hands settled gently on Lando’s thighs—your touch warm and reverent. The way Lando lounged there, all relaxed and sun-kissed, did something to your chest… a quiet swell of affection. This pond was your secret place—rarely shared with anyone. But seeing Lando here like this? It felt right. Like the spot had been waiting for him.

You didn’t say it aloud… but in your eyes: You’re beautiful here, Lando.

Lando’s grin was soft—almost feline in its laziness—and he tilted his face up slightly, an open invitation.The words slipped out effortlessly: "Gimme a kiss." No demands, just quiet warmth… the kind that made you want to close the distance without hesitation. The pond water glistened around you, nature itself seemed to pause for this moment.

And you didn’t hesitate—you hummed low in your throat, a soft sound of agreement, before closing the small distance between them. Your lips met Lando’s gently… warm and lingering.

The kiss was tender—not rushed or heated like last night’s passion, but sweet. The kind shared under golden sunlight by water that shimmered around them.

For you? Being this close to Lando was everything right now. Everything.

After breaking the kiss, you pressed a trail of light pecks along Lando’s jaw—each one feather-soft—then down to his neck. His stubble brushed against your lips when you kissed his chin and then you worked your way lower. Showering him with your quiet affection. Finally, you nuzzled on Lando’s thigh… resting there like an oversized bear seeking comfort.

The pond stayed silent around them, even nature seemed to respect this quiet moment between two people who clearly enjoyed each other’s company.

Your hand moved in slow, rhythmic strokes up and down Lando’s thigh—your touch absentminded but soothing. Meanwhile, your chin stayed comfortably nestled against the other thigh… like a bear curled up in its favorite spot. Lando’s fingers carded gently through your sun-kissed brown hair—soft curls slipping between his fingertips. The cowboy exhaled contentedly at the touch.

A peaceful quiet settled as Lando spoke

"Your hair feels nice." Simple praise… genuine. Sweet.

The deep hum that rumbled through your chest was so.content—like a giant, drowsy cat getting head scratches. Your eyes drifted shut, lashes brushing against your sun-warmed cheeks as Lando’s fingers worked through your hair. Every stroke sent little sparks of comfort down your spine. No words needed… just pure bliss in being pampered like this under the open sky.

Eventually, you peeled yourself off Lando with a lazy stretch—your back muscles flexing visibly under sun-kissed skin as you stood. The water called again. You waded back into the pond, diving in smoothly this time. Each powerful stroke through the clear blue sent ripples outward… your strong shoulders cutting through effortlessly.

Meanwhile, Lando stayed on his rock—still soaking up rays like a lizard, perfectly happy just watching you swim from afar.

You surfaced with a wide grin, holding up the wriggling fish you'd just caught bare-handed. Water dripped from your arms as you yelled

"Lando!" You called out, voice bright with playful pride. The fish—likely your bull riding trophies—glistened in the sunlight. You are clearly excited to show off your little catch after swimming around for fun.

Lando’s grin widened—equal parts amused and charmed by your ridiculous, bear-like enthusiasm. The cowboy looked stupidly proud holding that fish like it was a championship trophy. The sight of you—big, strong, and usually so composed—acting this goofy over catching something with your hands? Adorable. Lando chuckled softly… fully enjoying the silly moment.

The fish landed with a wet plop on the shore after you threw it, still flopping wildly. Chestnut jumped slightly at the sudden movement, her ears flicking forward in alert.

Curious (and maybe a little hungry), she took cautious steps toward the thrashing fish… sniffing it intently. Her nose wrinkled at the strong smell of raw catch—but she didn’t bolt or spook. You watched, grinning… wondering if your good little girl would actually eat it or just investigate.

The ranch house smelled like fresh herbs and simmering food once y’all returned home. Both showered to rinse off the pond water and sweat. Then you worked at the stove, stirring a pot with ingredients plucked straight from your little garden: ripe tomatoes, basil, maybe some garlic. Lando sat lazily on the kitchen counter nearby… legs swinging slightly as he watched you cook. The cowboy moved with quiet efficiency—no fancy techniques, just honest country cooking. There are a couple of cookbooks on your shelf next to a bunch of seasonings. Living alone has taught you to season your own life with different recipes from around the world, sharp eyed when buying decorative items for the house to look less lonely.

You keep stirring the vodka pasta—creamy sauce with a subtle kick. While Lando sprawled across the counter like a sunbathing cat—taking up plenty of space right where you needed to move around. Pots, pans, and ingredients were within arm’s reach… but you didn’t budge. You could’ve grumbled about it… but you didn’t. Instead, you just sidestepped Lando carefully—navigating around his lanky form with practiced patience. The cowboy even reached over him once to grab a spice from the shelf above—their shoulders brushing as Lando stayed put.

The orange tabby—one of your many strays—padded into the kitchen with a loud meow to announce itself, hopping onto the counter like it owned the place. Without hesitation, it plopped down right next to Lando… effectively doubling the space occupied. Now there were two beings hogging your cooking area: one contented human and one very smug cat. The orange devil licked its paw, completely unbothered by being in the way. You exhaled through your nose… but honestly? You found it ridiculous in a weirdly endearing way.

The weight of years spent lonely—working the ranch, no one to share meals with, no one who stayed—pressed against your chest. But now? Now you had Lando sprawled on your counter… and a cat hogging space beside him.

Annoying? Maybe. But it wasn’t irritation that flickered through you—it was warmth. The kind that came from being wanted around. Needed for small things like sharing food or having someone lounge near you while you cooked. A quiet happiness settled in your ribs.

Being loved wasn’t about grand gestures or declarations. It was this. Lando taking up space in your kitchen, yapping your ears off about F1, the chubby orange monster demanding attention… It meant they wanted to be near you. That simple presence—the lazy way they existed around you—was love. Not possessive, not performative… just being included in someone’s day-to-day. A lump formed in your throat. You hadn’t felt this… wanted… in a long time.

You set the plates down—steaming vodka pasta for yourself and Lando, while the cat happily gnawed on scraps of fried fish. The dog sprawled nearby, belly full after being fed earlier. Then came the lemonade: freshly squeezed with ice clinking in tall glasses. You poured it carefully… extra effort put into making sure Lando had a proper meal here. The whole scene screamed “I want you to stay” Not said aloud… just shown through every detail—the food, drinks, even sharing space with your animals like they were family too.

For someone who runs a ranch and rides bulls for a living, completely by yourself…you sure yearn a lot for this kind of domestic lifestyle.

After lunch, you cleaned up without making a fuss—washing plates, wiping counters, putting leftovers away. The clink of dishes was soft… peaceful.

Lando claimed the cozy spot by the window—your usual reading nook. A window seat you have built yourself, with sunlight pooling over it through the glass. Perfect for holding a book or just zoning out in quiet comfort. The warmth of the sun spilled across Lando as he relaxed… no pressure to do anything but exist here.

Lando’s phone buzzed—Oscar’s message flashing on the screen. The time check made his chest tighten: 3pm. Their flight back to Monaco left soon… meaning Lando had to go in a few hours. He looked up at you, expression tinged with reluctance as he broke the news.

"I gotta head back by three… flight home." The quiet regret hung between them—the peaceful heaven they’d slipped into couldn’t last forever.

You hummed, your jaw tightening just slightly—not with panic, but with quiet determination. If Lando had to leave by 3pm… they’d use every second left wisely.

“Gotta make every last second counts then”

You closed the distance without hesitation—one hand cradling Lando’s jaw as your lips crashed onto his. The kiss was hungry, desperate… like you could pour all the unspoken “Please stay” into it. A kiss that tasted of goodbye… and a plea for more time.

Lando’s arms slid around your neck, fingers instinctively threading through the soft curls at your nape—those sun-kissed strands Lando had come to adore. So much. He kissed back just as fiercely, pouring every bit of affection into it… the way their bodies pressed together warm and familiar.

The ranch outside was quiet, only the rustle of wind through trees accompanied them as they clung to each other like this moment could stretch forever.

You broke the kiss just enough to gasp for air—chest rising and falling—but before you could even catch your breath fully, Lando was already yanking his own shirt off. The fabric hit the floor. No hesitation. Just two people who knew exactly where this was going… and zero patience left. Your eyes darkened, staring at Lando’s bare torso now exposed in golden sunlight—before diving right back in to reclaim that mouth.

Your hands roamed Lando’s body with a quiet urgency—each touch desperate, almost pleading. Not possessive… just needy. Like your fingertips were memorizing the feel of him, trying to imprint this moment so it wouldn’t fade when Lando left. Every graze of skin against skin screamed what you couldn’t say aloud: Don’t go yet. Stay longer. Just a little more. The air between them thickened—charged with unspoken longing.

Lando’s fingers worked fast—popping open your buttons one by one with practiced ease. The flannel slid off your shoulders, revealing the toned chest underneath… all sun-kissed skin and faint ranch-callouses. The shirt pooled on the floor beside Lando’s own discarded clothes.

Lando’s breathy pleases slipped out between kisses—soft, urgent whimpers that made your pulse spike. His hands grew impatient, nudging at the remaining fabric… silently begging for clothes to disappear. You didn’t need telling twice—your own fingers fumbled with belts and zippers next, stripping them both down efficiently.Their skin finally met properly—warm and seeking.

“Hurry…” Lando whined.

You sank to your knees on the wooden floor—calloused hands gliding up Lando’s thighs, pushing them gently apart as you pressed open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of his inner leg. The touches were slow… deliberate. Each kiss trailed higher, leaving warmth in its wake—teasing but purposeful. The sunlit window cast gold over his body. A quiet devotion in every movement.

Your tongue traced a slow, deliberate circle—right where Lando ached most. The wet heat of your mouth contrasted with the cool air still lingering in the room, sending a jolt through him. The soft gasp that escaped Lando’s lips made you hum against his skin… pleased. You didn’t rush—just kept working with patient swirls and light suction, teasing but thorough.

Your saliva slicked the area—natural, warm lubrication—before you gently pressed your tongue inside, not forceful but curious. Exploring with careful strokes… learning what made Lando’s breath hitch. A slow dance of your tongue testing, adjusting pressure based on every tiny reaction above him.

Lando’s head tipped back against the window seat, exposing his throat as a quiet moan slipped free. The sensation of your tongue—warm, skilled—sent shivers up his spine. His fingers tangled loosely in your hair… not guiding, just holding. A silent “don’t stop”. Every flick and curl drew another soft gasp from him.

The sunlight framed them like a painting—one giving pleasure with single-minded focus, the other melting under it.

Lando’s hands found your shoulders, urging you up with quiet urgency. The cowboy rose smoothly, lips parting from Lando to meet his mouth again in a searing kiss as he stood. Clothes were long forgotten, skin burned where it touched.

You peeled off your own boxers in one swift motion, letting them drop to the floor. Your hand—still glistening from saliva—wrapped around yourself, stroking slowly as you got fully hard at the sight of needy Lando, all spread out.

Lando’s whiny, demanding voice cut through the air—no patience left. He grabbed your wrist, tugging you closer with a needy glare that screamed enough waiting.

“Hurry up and wreck me before I have to go–” The tone was bratty but undeniably hot—the kind of plea you couldn’t resist. A flush crept up your neck as you stepped into Lando’s space again… all hesitation gone.

You line yourself up carefully, the tip pressing against Lando’s entrance. With a slow, controlled exhale—you pushed in… inch by inch. A quiet groan escaped your lips at the sensation—overwhelming even for someone usually so composed.

Lando didn’t care about the half assed prep—impatient, he hooked his legs around your torso instead, pulling you closer. His palm slid down the cowboy’s meaty abs… tracing those neatly trimmed happy trails. A hand bracing himself on the window seat cushion, a hand mapping out the cowboy.

You set a rhythm—slow at first, pulling back almost completely before pushing in again. The glide of it felt good, that deep connection sparking pleasure through both their bodies. Each one drew a soft noise from Lando—whether a sigh or breathless hum—and you paid attention to those sounds, adjusting subtly.

Lando’s hand cradled the side of your neck, fingers holding firmly on sensitive skin as their mouths found each other again—messy, open-mouthed kisses between every thrust.

The angle shifted with each movement, you adjusted instinctively to hit deeper spots without breaking contact. Skin tangled together from sweat and shared breath.

You felt Lando relax into you—tension melting away—and that’s when your hips snapped forward with rougher intent, chasing pleasure. Each thrust gained more force, driven by the heat coiling low in your gut. Lando’s fingers tightened just slightly at your neck—not cutting off air completely… but applying just enough pressure to heighten everything. A thrill ran through them both at the edge of it. The room filled with ragged breathing and creaking wood from their movements.

Your smirk was subtle—more a curl of your lips than anything—before your movements turned filthier, more animalistic. The slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen, raw and unapologetically sexual. Pure heat. Sweat-slick bodies meeting with each desperate thrust, breaths heavy and mouths slightly parted. A mess in the best way. The ranch outside stayed quiet—oblivious to this chaos inside.

Each rough thrust wrenched a needy moan from Lando—his body instinctively clenching around you, milking you with every pulse of pleasure. The tight grip was maddening in the best way. Your jaw clenched, your own breath turning uneven as that relentless pressure built. Every drag sent sparks through you… and you couldn’t hold back the low groans escaping now either. Both feeding off each other’s reactions.

You two crashed your lips together again, kissing Lando deeply as your hips kept up the rough pace—each snap of them sending jolts through Lando’s body. The intensity was relentless. So good that Lando’s toes curled, overwhelmed by sensation. Every nerve lit up, he couldn’t think, just feel. You weren't holding back anymore.

Lando’s nails raked down your back—sharp, possessive lines blooming red across your skin. The sting only fueled you further.

Meanwhile, you bit harder into Lando’s neck—a claiming mark in the making—as your cock pounded relentlessly into that aching hole. Every brutal thrust was deliberate… a rhythm meant to wreck them both.

Lando squeezes his eyes shut—not in pain, but from the sheer intensity of pleasure crashing through him. Every deep thrust from you was overwhelmingly present… a thick, heavy sensation that left his breath uneven. The frown wasn’t discomfort—it was pure sensory overload. Like his body couldn’t process how good it felt without looking slightly pained by it. You noticed instantly—the way Lando bit his lip to stifle sounds—but didn't slow down.

Lando’s voice was wrecked—hoarse from moans and panting, each syllable coming out uneven. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin under the kitchen light… chest rising and falling fast. The mix of exertion and pleasure had him utterly disheveled. A beautiful kind of ruined.

Lando tensed abruptly—his body betraying his desire to last longer. With a sharp gasp, he came untouched… stripes of warmth splattering across his own stomach. The climax hit fast and unexpected, leaving him shuddering through the aftershocks. His face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and oversensitivity—but it felt too good to regret.

Your smirk was downright smug—a filthy, knowing curl of your lips that screamed “I made you fall apart”. The look alone amplified Lando’s sheepishness tenfold.

The cowboy didn’t tease aloud… but that expression said everything. A silent “pathetic how quick you came. I didn’t even touch your poor cock” without a single word needed. A cruel, hot thing to witness post-orgasm sensitivity.

You didn’t slow down—not even for a second. Your hips kept their relentless rhythm, driving into Lando with the same rough intensity, completely undeterred by his climax. The movement jostled Lando’s oversensitive body… every snap of your hips sending shockwaves through him. No mercy—just pure persistence to chase your own release now.

Lando’s fingers dug into your shoulders—hard enough to leave bruises later. Every breathless moan that escaped him was ragged, punched out by the sheer force of your thrusts. The overstimulation was dizzying… but Lando held on anyway, clinging like he couldn’t bear to let go even if it burned.

“Look at the mess you have made, darling” your voice was low and smug, your fingers deliberately pressing into Lando’s oversensitive lower stomach—right where the mess of his own cum glistened. You swirled a fingertip through it teasingly. The touch was light but maddening—especially after just coming. A cruel little reminder of how easily he’d fallen apart. A smirk played on your lips… enjoying this way too much.

Lando’s face burned crimson—both from the teasing and how sensitive his body still was. He shot you a weak glare, voice thick with flustered frustration: "Shut up–!" A weak comeback… but delivered with so much pouty annoyance that it lost all bite. The way his lips trembled slightly gave away how affected he really was.

Your chuckle was low, amused—then your hips snapped forward again without hesitation. No letup, no gentleness… just relentless pounding. The kitchen echoed with the sound of skin meeting skin. Lando could do nothing but take it—oversensitive and squirming beneath you. Your endurance seemed infinite compared to Lando’s spent state. A delicious kind of torture for both of you.

Your climax hit hard—body locking up for a split second before you emptied yourself deep inside Lando. But even as pleasure pulsed through you, you didn’t stop entirely. Instead, your hips kept moving—shallow thrusts to ensure not a single drop was wasted. The kitchen air thickened with the aftermath—heavy breathing and sweat-slick skin.

Lando exhaled a shaky groan—his body still trembling with oversensitivity as he felt the warmth pooling inside him. Full. Claimed. Your weight settled over him slightly, both of them catching their breath in the quiet aftermath. No words… just shared exhaustion and the slow cooling of sweat-damp skin.

You tilted forward, pressing your lips gently against Lando’s in a tender kiss. No urgency now—just softness. The kind of kiss that lingered… lazy and sweet. Their mouths moved together slowly, still breathing each other in after the intensity they’d shared moments ago. Lando buried his face into the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent—warm hay and faint earthy. His arms stayed loosely wrapped around you, unwilling to break apart just yet.

Maybe somewhere in the back of his skull, there’s still a silhouette of a mighty cowboy he’s unsure of whether he should come back to Nevada or accept the fate that you and him were never meant to be close. He sits next to Oscar in the airplane back to Monaco, surprisingly quiet. He hasn’t told Oscar about what has happened that made him look oddly sulk. Just staring down at Nevada’s landfill. Wondering if this ever means anything to you. Wondering if you feel the same way as he’s feeling right now. Or you will just move on, and find someone else who can share the same pace of life.

Lando barely lifts his head as Oscar walks in, the sound of footsteps dragging through the quiet room. He watches him out of tired eyes—no energy for anything, not even annoyance. What a bad race—he thought, his poor performance still weighed on his shoulders. Then he saw it. The two tickets held loosely between Oscar’s fingers.

“Cheer up, mate! I’ve got plans for our break from F1.” He smirked proudly like a cat bringing a caught mouse to its owner. A beat passes. Bull riding? Monster Energy Drink-sponsored chaos on hooves? Not exactly his usual scene—but anything was better than sitting here drowning in self-loathing over a race that went south.

He blinks slowly. "...You serious?" His voice is flat, exhausted—but there's a tiny spark underneath.

“unwind for a while, mate. Let's go see something different for a change.” Oscar said. Lando stares at the tickets a second longer, then lets out a small, dry chuckle—more breath than laugh. Unwind. Right. He hadn’t “unwound” in months. Everything was strategy, discipline, pressure to perform. And now here’s Oscar with two tickets to watch cowboys get tossed by angry bulls like it’s entertainment. It was stupid. It was perfect.

Pushing himself up from the bench with a quiet groan. "Alright… yeah." He reaches for his jacket. "Let's go be idiots for once.”

The sun hung low over the dusty arena in Nevada, golden light bouncing off parked trucks and Monster Energy Drink banners flapping in the dry wind. The air smelled like hay, gasoline, and something faintly electric—like excitement on a summer night. Lando stood at the edge of the stands with Oscar beside him, both wearing casual caps pulled low to avoid being recognized. No press passes here—just cowboy hats and leather boots everywhere they looked. People were cheering as loud country music blared before each rider’s entrance. It was nothing like Monaco or Silverstone—a completely different world: raw adrenaline without tires or speed limits. Lando leaned toward Oscar.

"Never thought I’d be watching this instead of reviewing telemetry.”

The crowd buzzed as they settled into their seats—front row, right near the chute where the bulls would explode onto the arena. The energy was wild: half-drunk cowboys hollering, kids screaming at their idols. Lando glanced around, taking it all in—the rodeo cliché came to life. He’d seen highlights on TV during boring media days but never actually been to one. It felt… surreal.

A loud buzzer blared over the speakers—first rider entering! A massive bull thrashed behind a steel gate while a lanky competitor on its back. Oscar leaned forward eagerly beside Lando. "Bloody hell…" he muttered under his breath. It only appears for a few seconds…

Then the man shouted into the mic, announcing: "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, EMBRACE THIS SANDSTORM! Y/L L/N! MULTI MILLION DOLLAR CHAMPIONNNN"

The crowd erupted—whistles, screams, clapping—as the gate swung open and a massive bull charged into the arena like a tornado made of muscle and fury. But what really hit Lando was the rider on its back. Even through sweat-streaked hair under that cowboy hat, even with all that dirt and adrenaline in your face… you were unfairly good-looking. Broad shoulders wrapped in a fitted black denim jacket, tan skin glistening under stadium lights—like some kind of rugged action hero stepped out of an old Western film. A hush fell over parts of the audience as you adjusted your grip mid-bucking—and held on like gravity itself obeyed you.

The bull twisted violently—like it was trying to shake off a demon rather than just a rider. But you didn’t flinch. Every brutal lurch, every sudden pivot, you flowed with it—hips syncing with the beast’s chaotic rhythm like you two were dancing. It wasn’t grace, it was pure instinct and control. The way your thighs clamped down on its back while your upper body stayed controlled still made Lando forget how to blink.

Oscar nudged him subtly. "Bloody hell… that guy rides like he's part of the bull." A cheer erupted among the arena as you made it through another wild buck without falling off.

Lando wasn’t aware of anything—no crowd noise, no Oscar beside him, not even the dry Nevada heat sticking to his skin. All he saw was you: the tight coil of muscle in your arms as you held on, the way sweat traced down your neck . The bull spun again—harder this time—and Lando’s stomach dropped like he was on its back. His chest felt too tight. Why couldn't he breathe? A pulse thundered in his ears—not from excitement at a race finish… something else entirely. You shifted slightly mid-ride and for just a second—the camera zoomed in—a flash of sharp jawline and piercing eyes met nothing but silence inside Lando's mind.

The crowd gasped, one collective sharp inhale as the bull finally flung you off, your body twisting through the air like a ragdoll caught in a storm. For half a heartbeat, panic flared: that fall looked brutal. “Ouch-!” Escape your lips. The arena lost it—cheering so loud it shook Lando’s ribs. People were on their feet screaming. You’re safe now. And Lando? Still frozen… but now with something dangerously close to awe burning behind his eyes.

“Mate?...Lando?” Oscar called out, noticing his friend was absolutely frozen.

The voice snapped through the fog in Lando’s brain. Lando blinked rapidly, as if waking from a coma. His hands were slightly clenched in his lap, pulse still humming like he'd just run a qualifying lap on his own. He turned slowly to Oscar—who was giving him that look. The one that said: "You’re not breathing and you're staring at some cowboy like he invented oxygen."

Lando swallowed hard. "...Yeah?" His voice came out quieter than intended—rough around the edges from not using it for so long. A beat passed where neither of them looked away from you, who was now brushing dirt off your jeans near the chute.

The camera zoomed in again—you, straightening your hat with one smooth motion, the brim casting a shadow over those striking features. The black denim jacket hugged your broad frame perfectly, logos of energy drinks and rodeo brands stitched across the back like battle scars. Your jeans were ridiculous—massive flares that swayed when you moved—but somehow it worked on you. Like some retro cowboy from an old Western film who didn’t care about fashion trends because he was too busy being effortlessly cool. A staff member handed you a water bottle. You took a long swig, throat working as you drank… then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Lando felt something dangerously close to heart pounding. Not from adrenaline this time.

The moment you stepped out from the arena gates, a sea of phone cameras lit up—flashes popping like fireworks. Fans pushed forward for selfies, autographs, anything. Journalists jostled to get quotes about your near-fall and flawless recovery. You handled it all with calm charm: a nod here, a quick handshake there—never stopping completely but not ignoring anyone either. That cowboy hat stayed firmly on your head despite the commotion. Lando watched you from their seats without moving yet… until Oscar nudged him again.

"Wanna go say hi?" Oscar asked casually—but there was mischief in his grin.

Lando’s entire body locked up at Oscar’s suggestion. His throat went dry. Speak to you? Approach that walking masterpiece of rugged charm and absolute masculinity? A cold sweat broke out on his neck.

No no no…he wasn’t equipped for this. He was Lando Norris, F1 driver: used to media interviews, sponsors shaking his hand like equals… not some starstruck dude trying to talk to a literal rodeo god who could bench-press a car. He shook his head rapidly—a panicked refusal without words.

"Oscar," his voice cracked slightly. "I can't just... walk up.”

Oscar rolled his eyes—half amused, half exasperated and shoved Lando’s shoulder lightly.

"Come on, mate," he said in a low voice, "You’re acting like this guy’s the bloody king of England or something." A group nearby screamed as you signed a little girl’s poster. The cowboy didn’t look annoyed—just patient, even smiling faintly. Oscar stood up suddenly.

"I’m gonna go say hi. You coming? Or are you staying here looking stupid?” That drew a huff out of Lando.

The scene softened as Lando watched you interact with fans—no longer the adrenaline-fueled rider, but a surprisingly tender version of yourself. A tiny baby was carefully placed in your arms by an overjoyed mother, and you adjusted instantly: cradling the little one like it was made of glass. Your large hands—capable of gripping bulls for eight seconds straight now moved with delicate precision. You bounced slightly to soothe the giggling infant, even pressing a gentle kiss to its forehead when it yawned.

A few kids clung to your legs asking for photos, you crouched down without hesitation, hat tipped back so they could see your face clearly. Lando’s chest did that weird squeezing thing again. This man had layers.

The crowd had thinned—most fans dispersing to food stalls or back to the arena. The arena grounds quieted, lit by string lights and the glow of sponsor vans. You stood near a sleek black Monster Energy truck, still in your riding gear but now without a sea of people. You were scrolling through your phone, hat slightly tilted back as you waited for someone—probably an event rep or team manager. Oscar nudged Lando again—a silent "Now or never." They walked over slowly. The crunch of gravel under their boots was suddenly way too loud.

The tiny click of the Zippo snapped shut as you looked up—your sharp, tired eyes landing first on Oscar. Oscar gave his most charming smile—the one that usually worked on sponsors and strangers alike—and held out a hand.

"Hey.” he said casually. "That ride was insane. You're Y/N L/N?" Lando stayed half a step behind him like an awkward shadow, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His pulse? Loud as hell in his own ears.

“The one and only” you answer with the usual charming, proud smile. You shook Oscar’s hand firmly—calloused palms rough against smoother F1 driver skin. Then those assessing eyes flicked to Lando… who immediately straightened up like he’d been electrocuted. The silence stretched a beat too long. Oscar jumped back in smoothly,

"This is Lando Norris." No titles needed—the name alone carried weight worldwide.

“Lando…Ah—the F1 driver. You must be Oscar then. If my memory still works” You chuckled.

Your expression shifted—recognition flashing in your eyes. A small smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth as you looked between them, reassessing. These weren't just two guys approaching you…they were Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri, two of the most recognizable faces in F1. The cowboy star extended a hand toward Lando this time.

"Nice to meet you." You said—voice deeper than expected but warm. "Heard about your last race… rough one." You didn’t gush or fawn over them like others might have—just treated them like regular people.

“Yes…it was for me.” Their hands met—Lando’s slightly clammy, yours rough and steady from years of gripping reins and wrestling bulls. The calluses on your palm were immediate against Lando's smoother skin. For a second, Lando couldn’t process anything else. His brain had flatlined—no coherent thoughts, just the sensation of this man shaking his hand, saying he'd heard about his race… talking to him like they were equals. You didn't let go right away either, you gave one firm squeeze before releasing him—a polite but warm gesture. A breeze kicked up dust around their boots as silence settled again… now that introductions were done.

You lean back slightly against the Monster Energy van, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. The question was casual, like you don’t want things to be awkward. “The ride ends in a few minutes. Y'all heading somewhere for fun? Or just call it a night?”

The Nevada night air was cool now that the sun had fully set, and neon lights from nearby food stalls flickered across your face. You looked relaxed for someone who’d been thrown by a bull earlier.

Oscar glanced at Lando briefly before answering. "Dunno yet. Was thinking maybe grab some food? Or drinks if you're up for it." No assumptions—just leaving it open.

The chuckle that escaped you was low and easy—genuinely amused by the invitation. You pushed off the van, straightening up to your full height, which was definitely taller than Lando. For a second, you considered it—drinks with two Formula 1 drivers? That wasn’t exactly your usual scene. But then again… these guys seemed cool.

"Yeah?" You said after a beat. "I’m down." A rare smile tugged at your lips—not just polite anymore, but actually interested.

You pointed toward a dimly lit corner where neon signs buzzed—an old-school bar with peeling paint and the faint sound of country rock leaking through the open door. The place looked lived-in, not some fancy sports bar or sponsor-laden club. The kind of spot where locals went after rodeos to unwind—Good beer and loud music.

"Best place around here." You said. "If you're cool with that.”

As you spoke more about the bar details, your gaze lingered on Lando again—that quiet smirk still playing on your lips while you subtly took in every detail: Lando’s lean build under that shirt, how nervous he seemed despite being a famous athlete… It was amusing.

The bar erupted into a wall of sound the second you stepped inside—country music blaring, boots stomping on wooden floors, and laughter drowning in the clink of beer glasses. It was packed: cowboys in hats, girls twirling near a small dance floor where couples were dancing.

You clearly had regular status here—the bartender didn’t even ask what you wanted. Three frosty beers were already sliding across the counter toward them before they could sit down. The air smelled like fried food and whiskey. The energy was wild—nothing like Monaco’s quiet nightclubs or Silverstone pubs after races. Lando took it all in with wide eyes… this wasn't just a bar—this was pure rodeo culture.

“Seems like they add more modern music to fit the youngster’s taste.” You handed each of them a chilled beer. The label read something local, no fancy branding, just pure small-town brew. The bartender gave you a knowing nod—clearly had history. Champion week meant special batches or discounts for top riders like you.

Lando took his with both hands, warmth spreading through his chest as he held it. This wasn’t some polished event with corporate sponsors watching every move… this was real. Beer shared in a crowded dive bar after bull riding. A cowboy nearby shouted something at another table and laughter exploded again.

You took a slow sip of your beer, eyes locked on Lando over the rim of the glass—challenging, playful. That smirk never left your face, it was like you knew exactly how out-of-place Lando felt here and found it entertaining. The music pulsed around them—some upbeat country rock song with a fast beat—and bodies kept bumping into each other as people danced or weaved through tables.

You leaned slightly against the bar counter.

"Not what you're used to?" You asked casually, voice just loud enough to cut through the noise but not shouting. A few girls glanced their way too—curious about these unfamiliar faces in their regular spot.

Lando took a sip of the beer too. unfiltered, strong, with a slightly earthy flavor that definitely wasn’t some over-marketed brand. It hit different. He lowered the glass and smiled—a real one this time, not forced or nervous.

"It’s good…" he admitted honestly "Way better than most sponsor beers we get shoved at races." The honesty slipped out easily now, he wasn't performing anymore. Just Lando: enjoying cheap beer in a rowdy bar with a bull rider who looked like he stepped out of an old movie poster.

But glasses after glasses, the beer had started to hit Lando hard—he was buzzing, cheeks flushed, movements looser than usual. The room spun slightly with the music’s rhythm as he grabbed your shoulder and tugged you toward the dance floor. You raised an eyebrow—half-amused, half-surprised as Lando pulled you into the crowd of couples. You weren't drunk… just pleasantly relaxed after years of controlling bulls daily, alcohol didn’t mess with your balance like this.

Lando grinned at you "Dance~!" not a question but a demand from someone who’d lost all inhibitions. He’s just sober enough to understand what he’s getting himself into, not aware of the embarrassment or staring eyes.

You laughed quietly—a deep, warm sound—as Lando clumsily closed the distance between them. Drunk Lando had zero rhythm but tons of confidence, pressing himself way too close. Their chests nearly touched as they swayed to the music. One large hand settled lightly on the small of Lando's back—guiding him subtly into something resembling actual dancing while humoring his drunken enthusiasm.

Meanwhile…Oscar sipped his beer from their table in silence… thoroughly entertained by this disaster unfolding as his girlfriend texted him for updates.

Lando, fueled by beer and pure rhythm-drunk joy, slid both hands up your shoulders and around the back of your neck—pulling you closer. The music pulsed between them—a mix of bass-heavy country remixes—and Lando wasn’t just dancing near you, he was dancing on you, all close contact and playful energy. His fingers brushed lightly against the short hair at your nape.

A few people nearby glanced over—some amused couples who knew this was a rare sight: cowboy champion being used as a dance partner by some drunk foreigner.

You didn't mind though… if anything, that smirk had only grown wider.

The moment Lando snatched your hat—plucking it right off your head—and plopped it onto his own messy curls, the entire dance floor seemed to pause for a split second. A hush rippled through nearby cowboys who definitely knew the unspoken rule: taking a cowboy’s hat meant claiming him… and sometimes more.

Even Oscar sat up straighter at their table, eyes widening slightly as he held in his laugh. You froze too—not angry, but stunned by the boldness of this drunk F1 driver now wearing your iconic cowboy hat like he owned it. The music kept playing…

Your shoulders shook with a full, rich laugh—the kind that came from genuine surprise and dark humor. You weren't mad, if anything, you were impressed by Lando’s accidental audacity.

“Ya know the rule?” You snorted.

A few guys nearby chuckled or elbowed each other, they knew about your name and your reputation. One even called out,

"Looks like the brit's got balls!"

You wiped at your eyes briefly before locking gazes with Lando—still wearing your hat, looking adorably clueless.

Lando leans in slightly, voice dropping so only you could hear over the music: "Yeah… I know the rule." A glint of mischief flashed in his drunk eyes—dark brown and suddenly way too focused on you. The hat looked ridiculous on Lando’s head—too big for him—but you didn’t reach to take it back. Instead… you stepped closer again.

The second Lando yanked you down, you didn’t hesitate and kissed back instantly. Lando’s lips were warm and slightly clumsy from the alcohol, but the passion was real—unfiltered and hungry. The cowboy hat tilted sideways on Lando's head as you cupped his jaw with one rough hand to deepen it.

The bar exploded into murmurs around them—not scandalized… more impressed or entertained by this unexpected turn. Two-stepping couples paused mid-dance to glance over, even the bartender peeked through the crowd. You kissed like how you rode bulls: with intensity, confidence… and zero chill.

Lando’s smirk was lazy—lips slightly swollen, hat still askew on his head. He studied your face for a reaction: any trace of regret? Hesitation? Nope. Instead of saying anything cheesy or obvious, he just leaned in again—but this time to murmur against your ear, voice low. "Your place… now?"

The invitation hung between them—no pressure if rejected… but the way Lando looked at you made it clear what he wanted.

Your smirk widened—playful but deliberate. You weren't going to make this easy for the drunk, kiss-happy F1 driver who’d just stolen your hat and kissed you senseless in front of half the bar.

“Ask nicely, sugar”

Lando blinked—then grinned, unfazed by the teasing. He wasn’t used to asking nicely, especially not after kissing someone senseless in a bar… but for you?

He straightened up slightly, as much as a tipsy guy could, hat still crooked on his head, and gave you his best pleading eyes.

"Y/N…" he started, voice softer now "Can we… go back to your place?" The words came out less slurred than before—more earnest.

You didn’t say another word—just hooked a strong arm around Lando’s shoulders, guiding him through the crowded bar with steady steps. The cool night air hit them as they stepped outside—the noise from the bar muffled behind. Your truck was parked nearby, a sleek black Ford F-150 with bull riding stickers on the back window.

You opened the passenger door for Lando and waited until he was seated before walking around to your side. The engine roared to life under your firm grip on the wheel.

The truck rumbled down the quiet highway, headlights cutting through the dark. You kept your eyes on the road—focused, steady—but you felt every brush of Lando’s face against your neck. Lando leaned in slowly, nuzzling into your skin with a softness that contrasted how boldly he’d kissed you earlier, almost like a needy cat. The warmth of Lando's breath tickled where it met your collarbone, subtle but intimate. You didn't pull away or scold him for distraction… just exhaled slowly through your nose—your grip tightening slightly on the wheel. Your jaw clenched for half a second before relaxing again. A silent allowance: Go ahead.

The barn was massive—more like a cozy home and a working ranch. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, and soft lantern light glowed from inside. The place smelled like hay and leather, with the faint sound of horses shifting in nearby stalls. You saved up your bullriding money to give this family barn a makeover after you inherited it. You kicked off your boots by the door and led Lando further in. A large living room had a fireplace, bull riding awards hung on one wall next to family photos.

You don’t say much yet… just turn toward Lando under that warm light. The air between you? Thick with unspoken tension now that you two were alone.

The second they were close enough, your lips crashed into Lando’s—no hesitation this time. The kiss was hungry and needy. Hands immediately found their way—your calloused fingers tangled in Lando's hair while Lando slid his palms under your jacket, exploring the hard planes of chest and shoulders through your black tank top that hugs your body close.

Teeth clashing lightly before softening again, breaths mingling between frantic kisses as they stumbled backward toward a nearby kitchen counter where there’s a coffee machine and glasses.

You moved with easy strength—lifting Lando clean off the floor and setting him down on the sturdy black marble kitchen counter. The granite was cool against Lando’s back, a contrast to the warmth radiating from you as you stepped between his legs.

The kitchen was dimly lit by a single hanging light above them, casting long shadows over their faces. Pots and pans hung quietly on racks—this space usually for cooking or making coffee before dawn rides… not this.

You cupped Lando’s face again without breaking eye contact before diving back into another searing kiss.

Lando’s breath came in quick, uneven puffs as you peeled his shirt off—hands warm and deliberate, calloused fingertips tracing the exposed skin of his shoulders and collarbone. Every touch sent sparks.

His gaze flickered to the framed photo on a side shelf: little kid you. Messy curls, a missing front tooth from some falling off dad’s horse… freckles splattered across sun-kissed cheeks like constellations. The contrast was absurd—the scrawny skinny boy who grew into this awfully attractive towering cowboy.

The words tumbled out before Lando could filter them "When did you get so… hot?" A laugh escaped him right after—half-nervous at being so blunt.

Your smirk was pure mischief—slow, confident, teasing. “Wouldn’t you like to know”

You didn’t rush. Instead… you took your time peeling the shirt and denim jacket off your body in one smooth motion—revealing tanned skin stretched tight over defined muscle. Years of manual labor and bull riding had carved every ridge: broad shoulders, toned arms with faint scars from roping accidents… even that V-line disappearing into jeans like a gateway to heaven.

The lantern light caught on you perfectly as you tossed the shirt aside—a deliberate show just for Lando. No stripper music needed. Just silence… and you, owning every second.

You scooped Lando up effortlessly—one arm hooked under his thighs, the other supporting his back and walking up the wooden stairs without breaking their kiss. Each step creaked softly under their weight. Lando’s fingers slid into your hair, soft strands slipping through them as he deepened the kiss—messy but tender now. The bedroom door lays at the end of the hall, a brown themed room with a large bed made neatly, cowboy boots lined neatly. You nudged it open with your hip. Everything looks like it came out of a vintage movie, flower pattern bedsheets, old wooden wardrobe, more pictures of family and yourself.

You lowered Lando onto the bed with surprising gentleness like you were handling something precious, not just some drunken hookup. The mattress dipped under their weight as you stayed on your knees, looking down at him. The belt came off next—a practiced motion from years of wearing these jeans every day. With a quick flick, the buckle unclasped… then the massive flared denim pants slid down your hips and were kicked to the floor. A faint scar peeked above one sock where an old injury had been. And a long one across your rib.

Lando’s breath hitched audibly—his eyes zeroing in on the obvious bulge straining against your cotton boxers. Even soft, it was impressive. But now? Fully hard? That was a whole other level.

Nine inches of thick cowboy… and Lando wasn't even sure how that would fit or if he'd survive it. The realization sent a jolt through him—not fear, but pure electric shock of attraction mixed with nervous excitement. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He swallowed hard, gaze flickering back up to your face… The room felt ten degrees hotter suddenly.

You leaned back over Lando, your kiss gentler now—slow and savoring, not rushed or demanding. Your lips moved with quiet affection against Lando’s, a stark contrast to the earlier heat. One large hand glided up and down Lando's thigh in a soothing rhythm—calloused palm warm through the fabric of his pants. The touch was comforting… almost sweet in its tenderness after all that intensity. The weight of you above him wasn’t crushing, it felt safe. Like being held by someone who knew exactly how much pressure to use. A soft hum vibrated from your chest as you kissed along Lando's jawline next.

Your fingers found the zipper of Lando’s pants without hesitation—metal teeth parting with a quiet shrink. You didn’t rush, just worked the fabric down over Lando's hips with steady hands. The pants were kicked to the floor soon after, leaving him in just his underwear. You took a second to look—appreciating what you saw: lean muscles from racing training, smooth skin… all exposed now under soft bedroom light. Then you hooked two fingers into Lando's waistband next—not yanking yet… just testing if he was okay before going further.

Lando pushed lightly against your chest—a quiet but deliberate command. His eyes were dark with hunger, lips parted slightly as he spoke in a low whisper:

"Sit back… cowboy." The pet name slipped out effortlessly—no teasing nickname, just acknowledging the very obvious role you played tonight: the dominant one. The strong, confident bull rider who’d taken control without saying much. You held the gaze for a beat… then complied. You shifted to sit on the hem of the bed.

The wooden floor creaked faintly under Lando’s knees as he positioned himself between your legs. His fingers trailed up the cowboy's thigh—warm skin, light dusting of hair from years of ranch work—before hooking into the waistband of your boxers. With slow intent, Lando peeled them down… revealing every inch gradually. The fabric slid off over strong hips and thick thighs until they were kicked aside carelessly. Now completely bare beneath him, you didn’t hide or shy away—just watched with heavy-lidded eyes as Lando took in the full sight: all nine inches standing proudly against your stomach.

Your voice was unexpectedly gentle—almost sweet—as you murmured. "Don’t pressure yourself, sugar." The nickname slipped out naturally, soft reassurance. You knew damn well how intimidating your size could be… and despite the obvious arousal between them, you weren't about to push Lando into anything he wasn't fully comfortable with. No expectations.

But Lando? He didn’t hesitate. A determined glint flashed in his eyes as he leaned forward—clearly choosing this—and closed the distance without another word.

Lando’s tongue dragged slowly from base to tip—exploring the taste, the heat, every sensitive ridge. It wasn’t rushed, just curious and experimental… savoring. Like his travel companion Oscar back in the hotel room not knowing when he will come back didn’t matter and he has all night to himself.

The saltiness mixed with something uniquely you, earthy and masculine. A quiet breath escaped you as you tilted your head back slightly, not pushing into Lando’s mouth yet, just letting him explore at his own pace. Your fingers flexed where they rested on the mattress… resisting any urge to guide or hurry him.

Lando’s fingers wrapped around your cock, testing the weight, the heat, tracing every thick vein that pulsed under his touch. His thumb brushed over the tip experimentally, mesmerized by how it felt. The skin was soft but firm beneath him, a contrast to rough cowboy hands and work-worn muscles. He mapped out every detail. You exhaled through your nose again—a quiet sound—but stayed perfectly still otherwise. No instructions… just letting Lando learn you at his own rhythm. A drop of precum glistened at the tip before Lando even kissed it yet. You are too eager.

Lando’s teeth grazed lightly over the sensitive head—just a teasing nip—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt through you. Then his lips parted… and he took just the tip into his mouth first.

The taste hit him: sweet-salty, clean like someone who actually eats right—no junk food or too much alcohol. Probably all protein shakes and ranch-cooked meals for this guy. He experimented with pressure, swirling his tongue cautiously around it while gauging how much of those nine inches could even fit comfortably. A low groan rumbled from your chest at that contact.

Your groan was quiet but deep—a vibration in your chest—as Lando carefully took more of you into his mouth. He lowered his head inch by careful inch.

Lando calculated instinctively: how much could fit without gagging? How to angle it right? He moved slowly, testing depth with each bob—tongue working around the length to ease the stretch. It wasn’t perfect yet… but you weren't complaining. Every slight suction or warm breath through Lando's nose sent sparks down your spine. A hand hovered near Lando’s hair—not pushing, just resting there.

Lando quickly realized the physical limits—your cock wasn’t just long, it was thick too, filling his mouth in a way that made fast movement impossible without accidentally grazing teeth against sensitive skin. It hits the back of Lando’s throat, brushing in the wet tightness. So instead of rushing… Lando adjusted. He slowed down completely, focusing on what he could do: warm swirls of his tongue along the shaft, gentle suction where it fit best, and soft kisses wherever else his lips could reach without discomfort.

Lando stood—hat now firmly planted on his own head, the brim slightly too big for him—and pushed you backward onto the mattress with a newfound confidence.

The cowboy hat looked ridiculous and adorable, tilted over Lando’s messy hair, but there was no time to comment on it.

You let yourself be manhandled—surprised but amused—as Lando climbed over you, straddling your hips. The message was clear: It's ride time. A slow smirk curled your lips as you gazed up at him.

“Don’t bite more than you can chew” your voice was a lazy drawl—teasing but not mocking. Your palm slid up and down Lando’s thigh in slow, rhythmic strokes, the callouses catching slightly against his skin. The warning wasn’t mean… just factual. You knew how overwhelming your cock could be—physically and emotionally for someone who’d never handled a cowboy like you before. Even fine ladies at the bar who somehow end up in your bed had to break a sweat while taking you.

But you didn’t stop him either. If Lando wanted to ride? Fine by him. A glint of challenge flashed in your eyes as you added "Ya sure about this?" giving one last out if needed.

Lando, fueled by alcohol and adrenaline rather than logic, shifted his hips—and started lowering himself down without thinking about lube or prep. Drunk confidence overrode common sense. The stretch was immediate: sharp, almost burning from the lack of preparation. You tensed beneath him instinctively—not pushing up but not pulling away either—as you felt Lando’s body resist.

A quiet grunt escaped you… more concern than pleasure at first. This wasn’t how it should go—but Lando was already committed to seeing it through.

“Don’t pressure yourself, sugar” Your voice dropped to a hushed murmur—gentle, not scolding—as you instinctively called Lando something soft. Your thumb rubbed slow circles on the thigh resting beside his hip, offering silent comfort. The tightness was almost unbearable for you—not painful, but intense in a way that made your jaw clench. You bit down on your lower lip to steady yourself… resisting any urge to buck up or speed things. But it wasn’t working.

Your hands moved to the curve of Lando’s ass—kneading softly, not with hunger, but care. You gave a gentle nudge upward: “Come on… let me fix this.” No frustration in your touch, just practicality. This wasn’t sustainable without lube and proper attention.

The bed creaked as you reached over to your nightstand drawer—the one that definitely had a bottle tucked inside, you like to keep supplies handy. You grabbed it quietly and squeezed some onto your fingers before glancing back at Lando. A silent question: You okay if I take over now?

You carefully repositioned Lando onto his back—gentle but firm—as the hat tumbled to the side of the bed, forgotten. You hovered over him for a second before leaning down to kiss him: soft, reassuring. Then you shifted lower… and with lubed fingers, began working into Lando slowly. Your touch was patient: circling first where it was easier before gradually pressing deeper as Lando relaxed beneath you. Every movement calculated for comfort now.

Your finger worked with precise, practiced pressure—no amateur fumbling. Years of ranch life have taught you patience and control, even in intimate moments like this. The lube made everything smoother, your fingertip found that sweet spot without hesitation—a slow, deliberate circle that made Lando’s back arch off the bed instinctively.

“Fuck- agh!… right there, Y/N!” filled your ears. A quiet hum escaped you as you watched Lando’s reaction: flushed face, parted lips… the way his body responded to proper touch after struggling earlier.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against the sensitive spot just below Lando’s ear—a soft kiss, barely there. Your voice was a low rumble of warmth as you asked.

"Comfy?"

The question wasn’t teasing or sarcastic… just genuine checking in. You wanted to make sure Lando was actually relaxed now—no discomfort left from earlier. Your free hand stayed near Lando's hip—thumbs tracing patterns of skin while those lubed fingers continued their patient work inside him. And a soft hum was the only response Lando gave.

“Keep your legs open for me, darling” your voice was a husky whisper against Lando’s skin—warm breath mingling with the light scrape of teeth on his neck. The pet name slipped out naturally, soft and intimate without overuse. You pulled your fingers free carefully before lining yourself up, one hand braced beside Lando’s head while the other guided your cock to him. The tip pressed lightly—testing readiness, giving time to adjust after all that prep—before you’d push in properly. You shifted your hips forward, slow, deliberate—each movement measured to avoid overwhelming Lando. The stretch was still there, but the lube and prep made it far more manageable than before.

After confirming Lando was fully adjusted—no tension left in his body, just quiet breaths and soft sounds—you gradually picked up the pace. Your hips rolled with growing confidence now, each thrust deliberate but no longer cautious. The movement became smoother, deeper… creating a steady rhythm that built pleasure instead of pain. The bed creaked faintly beneath them—not violently shaking yet, just rocking gently with their motion.

Your breath hitched occasionally, even you weren't immune to how good this felt after taking it slow for so long. Lando’s arms slid around your neck—hands tangling gently in your soft, sun-kissed curls. You didn’t mind, if anything, you leaned into it subtly during each forward roll of your hips.

You quickly found that sweet rhythm—where each thrust carried just the right edge of roughness without being harsh. The angle was perfect, every movement hit that spot inside Lando with consistent precision. The pace wasn’t frantic… but it packed intensity. Each drive of your hips created a deep, pleasure-pulsing friction. Your hand came to pin both of Lando’s above his head, keeping it there. A low groan rumbled in your chest as you focused entirely on maintaining this exact motion—the one that made Lando’s breath catch and squirm underneath your control.

Lando’s moans escaped in quiet, breathy bursts, the rising heat pooling low in his stomach became hard to ignore. It wasn’t pain, it was that deep, coiled tension building with every perfect thrust from you.The sensation radiated through him: warmth spreading like embers…a burn he didn’t want to escape.

Lando’s gaze wavered—unable to hold the intensity of the world’s most dazzling eyes for long. They weren’t just hot… they were mesmerizing up close: a deep, warm shade like sunlit honey, crinkled at the edges with something softer than lust. It was appreciation in that look. Quiet awe—like you found Lando beautiful in this moment without even saying it. A stark contrast to how rough their bodies moved… but your expression? Pure tenderness underneath it all.

Lando’s lips parted in a silent gasp—then he bit down on them as the pleasure crested all at once. Overwhelming release triggered by nothing but your gaze and that perfect rhythm. His body arched subtly off the bed—not dramatically, but with a quiet intensity—as waves of sensation crashed through him. Eyes fluttering shut for a second before forcing them back open to see you again. The aftershocks trembled through his limbs while you kept moving above him.

Your chuckle was warm against Lando’s lips—low and pleased—before you sealed your mouths together in a deep kiss. You swallowed every soft moan that escaped, your hips now moving with more urgency, chasing your own release. The roughness increased naturally, not harsh but intentional—each thrust aimed to push you over the edge while still being mindful of Lando beneath you. The kiss broke only for air between frantic movements… both lost in the shared heat of it all.

Your breath hitched sharply as your own climax surged—your thrusts growing uneven for a few final, deep pushes before you abruptly pulled out. With a low groan, you spilled over Lando’s stomach: warm and heavy in streaks across his skin.

The ranch house was dead silent except for their ragged breathing. You stayed there for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly as the intensity faded into afterglow.

“You’re alright, darling?” your voice was hushed—gentle, almost tender—as you brushed a loose strand of hair from Lando’s forehead. Your fingertips lingered for a second, checking if Lando was okay after everything. You studied Lando’s face quietly—searching for any signs of discomfort or regret now that the heat had cooled between them.

Lando sucked in a deep breath, chest rising as he finally caught his air—still recovering. His hand lifted to his stomach, fingertips brushing over the sticky warmth there with quiet awareness. The silence between them wasn’t awkward… just calm. He met your gaze and nodded slightly before speaking—voice softer than usual from exhaustion:

"Yeah… I’m fine." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Satisfied.

The bed dipped under your weight as you got comfortable beside him, laying on your back. A faint smear of sweat still glistened at your forehead from their earlier intensity.

“Was it good?” You can’t help but check in again.

Lando exhaled—a sound somewhere between a laugh and pure satisfaction. His cheeks were still flushed, hair messier than ever from your hands. He looked at you, really looked—and answered with quiet certainty:

"Yeah… it was incredible." The word felt small for what he actually meant: earth-shattering, unexpectedly perfect, something he hadn't known until tonight. Being talked through it and throughouly fucked with such tenderness? Woah. Just…woah.

The night is still young. You stretched out fully on the bed now—arms behind your head, one leg bent slightly as you relaxed into the mattress. The high of their shared intensity was slowly fading, leaving you in that cozy post-climax haze. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft stripes across their bare torsos.

Then Lando turned onto his side, facing you fully. The earlier shyness was gone—replaced by quiet confidence after everything they’d just shared. He studied the cowboy’s relaxed profile for a second before speaking.His voice was low, slightly hoarse from earlier moans but clear: "Wanna go again?" The offer hung between them—not pushy… just open-ended. One more round before sleep took over.

“Yeah?” Your chuckle was warm—amused but not dismissive—as you sat up, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand. You unscrewed it with a quiet pop before passing it to Lando first. A gentleman. Hydration mattered after all that intensity… especially since they were both still catching their breath.

Your muscles flexed subtly in the dim light from shifting positions but there was no rush yet, just casual care.

Lando shifted to sit up, his back resting against the wooden headboard. He took the water bottle from you and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply—throat working as he swallowed. The cool liquid was a welcome relief after everything. A few droplets escaped down Lando’s chin before he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Lando, now hydrated and feeling more composed, shifted forward—closing the small gap between them. Without a word, he leaned in and kissed you first this time: not hesitant but leading, taking initiative. His hands found your shoulders—fingers tracing over warm skin before sliding down your chest with quiet appreciation.

Lando gently but firmly guided you onto your back, hands pressing lightly against your chest until the cowboy settled into the mattress. Then he climbed over you, straddling your hips with quiet confidence.

Lando’s hand trailed down your torso—fingers grazing over toned abs, feeling the V-line and veins before wrapping around your cock. A few slow, teasing strokes… Then once your cock is nice and hard in his warm palm, with deliberate slowness, Lando lifted himself slightly and lined up—guiding the tip where it needed to go. He began sinking down. The stretch was familiar now… easier than before thanks to prior prep and lube still lingering on skin.

Lando grabbed the cowboy hat from where it had fallen earlier—settled it back onto his own head. The brim sat slightly crooked, but he didn’t fix it… just left it like that. The look was unexpectedly cute on him as always—soft features paired with your rugged accessory. A contrast that somehow worked. You couldn't help a small smile at the sight as Lando straddled you, hat and all.

Lando rolled his hips in slow circles first—grinding down to adjust, letting your length stretch him just right. The familiar burn flared in his stomach… a mix of pain and pleasure. Then, satisfied with the fit, he lifted slightly before dropping back down—bouncing properly now with increasing rhythm. His hands braced on your meaty chest for balance as the motion picked up speed. The hat stayed stubbornly on Lando’s head despite the movement, only tilting more wildly each time he bounced.

Lando’s whimper was delicate—a tiny sound caught between his lips as the pleasure coiled tighter in his stomach. Every bounce sent sparks through him, building that sweet tension. Your large hands slid down to grip Lando’s ass firmly, calloused palms kneading the soft flesh with rough warmth. The contrast of those work-worn hands on sensitive skin made Lando shiver. Lando’s gaze flickered downward—hypnotized by the visual: your veiny cock disappearing into him with every bounce, slick and glistening from lube. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat straight to his core. That might be the hottest thing Lando has ever seen. A quiet groan escaped him—half admiration, half arousal—as he watched their bodies connect so intimately. It was hot in a way that made his stomach flip.

A soft exhale escaped you as you drank in every detail—the way Lando bit his lip during deep bounces, how the brim shadowed part of those pretty eyes… it all clicked together perfectly. Lando’s moans spilled out freely—soft, breathy sounds with no filter left. He was lost in the sensation, utterly intoxicated by how good it felt to ride you like this. Every bounce sent jolts of pleasure through him… dangerous levels of it. He could’ve gotten fucked stupid if he kept going. The cock-drunk haze had fully set in—no thoughts beyond chasing that high over and over again. His fingers claw at your skin, sending that sweet, delicious pain.

Lando melted into the kiss—his lips parting against your as their mouths collided again. The moment you thrust up to meet his bounces, Lando’s breath turned ragged… sharp inhales through his nose between kisses. The stretch was overwhelming in the best way—all nine inches filling him completely with each upward push from below. Their kiss stayed messy—sloppy from heavy breathing and growing desperation—but neither pulled away for long.

The sharp crack of your palm against Lando’s ass echoed through the quiet room—stinging instantly. The pain flared bright and sweet, mixing with pleasure in a way that made Lando moan into their kiss. You didn’t hold back… the spank was firm, deliberate—not cruel but intense, adding a layer of delicious heat to everything else they were feeling.

A faint pink mark bloomed where your hand landed… and you might do it again if Lando reacted like that because…

Lando’s moan was loud—unfiltered and raw—as the sting from the spank blossomed into something electric. A curse tumbled out right after, breathless but approving:

*Fuck—yes!" The pain wasn’t harsh… just sharp enough to send a thrill through him, enhancing every other sensation—the fullness inside him, your hands on his skin. A grin flickered across Lando's face for half a second before he dove back into another searing kiss. Feeling the strong need to have you closer.

Your hands gripped Lando’s ass firmly, using the leverage to snap your hips up with brutal precision. Every thrust was calculated—powerful and controlled—to drive all nine inches in deep, then pull nearly out before slamming back down.

The bed rocked violently beneath them; no gentle rhythm now—just relentless pounding. The sound of wet skin meeting skin filled the room alongside their ragged breathing. Lando could feel every inch retreating and plunging back… a dizzying cycle of fullness and emptiness that left him gasping and moaning out loud. He almost thought he was going to wake up your sleeping horses.

Lando’s coordination faltered—his hips going slack as he slumped forward, resting his full weight against you. Weak arms trying to prop himself up to handle you. He was just there, body sore and trusting, letting you do all the work now. No bouncing of his own—just accepting every rough thrust up into him with dazed surrender. A soft whimper escaped Lando’s lips each time you bottomed out inside him, too blissed-out to even kiss back properly anymore.

The wet claps of skin against skin grew louder—each impact echoing in the small bedroom. The sound was filthy, obscene… and utterly intoxicating to Lando’s cock-drunk brain. Every brutal thrust sent a jolt through his burning lower body, pleasure pooling so intensely it bordered on pain—but the good kind. You didn’t slow down… if anything, you fucked up harder at hearing Lando’s reactions—driven by satisfaction.

Lando’s nails scraped harshly over your chest—desperate clinging. His body trembled from oversensitivity, muscles sore and shaking with each rough thrust. You didn’t ease up… strong arms caging Lando as you kept fucking into that tender, aching hole—ruthless in your stamina. Every movement sent shocks through Lando's exhausted nerves. A whimper escaped him, not protest but pure overwhelmed sensation—too much yet unable to stop it.

Your groan was low and satisfied as your climax finally hit—your body tensing for a second before you pulled out abruptly. Warmth spilled across Lando’s thighs in thick streaks, glistening faintly under the dim light. Some drips out from his hole, making quite a mess.

The ranch house fell silent again… just their heavy breathing now. You exhaled sharply, muscles relaxing as the aftershocks faded.

Lando collapsed fully onto you—his entire body going limp with exhaustion. All his weight settled heavily on the cowboy’s chest, face nuzzling instinctively against your shoulder as he struggled to catch his breath.

The heat between them had cooled into something soft now… just two tired bodies tangled together. You didn’t complain—just wrapped an arm around Lando’s back automatically.

Your hand moved in slow circles along Lando’s lower back—gentle and soothing. The touch was light, almost subconscious… a way to silently comfort him after their intense time together. A faint smile tugged at your lips as you watched Lando breathe against your skin. Too tired to move. Just laying on you like a human blanket.

Lando’s breathing evened out almost instantly—his eyelids fluttering shut before his body fully registered the shift to sleep. One second he was awake. The next, completely knocked out. The exhaustion had hit him like a truck. His head buries in the crook of your neck, lips parting just a tiny bit in deep slumber. You stayed perfectly still beneath him… not wanting to disturb Lando now that he was peacefully asleep after everything they'd done.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the rumpled bedsheets. You had already slipped out quietly—padding barefoot to the kitchen where he brewed coffee with practiced ease. You threw on a jean and button up shirt after taking a quick shower to wash off the sex scent and get on with your routine.

The rich aroma and soft sunlight eventually woke Lando… his nose twitching as he slowly blinked awake. The spot beside him was cold now, you must’ve been up for a while. Stretching slightly, Lando rubbed his eyes and sat up—having absolutely nothing covering up his body as he recalled what happened last night. He scrambles around for his phone, the last message from Oscar was:

| Dude please text me back in the morning so I know ur still alive💀

Lando dressed lazily—pulling his wrinkled shirt over his head and stepping into boxers before padding downstairs. His body felt freshly cleaned… the evidence of last night’s activities gone, likely because you had taken care of it while he slept. The scent of coffee grew stronger as Lando approached the kitchen. The ranch house was quiet otherwise—just the soft clink of a mug and the distant chirping of birds outside. You stood by the stove, back turned, pouring yourself a second cup.

You turned at the sound of Lando’s voice, your face softening into a warm smile. The morning light made your features even more striking—hair slightly messy, muscles tightening in that button up shirt with sleeves rolled up.

You lifted the coffee mug to your lips again and took another sip before saying "Mornin’, darlin’." Your tone was easygoing… no awkwardness after last night. A fresh pot sat on the counter; you’d clearly left room for Lando to pour himself some if he wanted.

Lando’s hum was soft—a sleepy, content sound—as he shuffled over to the coffee pot. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet and filled it carefully, steam curling up as hot liquid pooled inside. He leaned against the counter beside you, taking his first sip. The coffee was strong… exactly how ranch hands drank it—black with no sugar. The two stood in comfortable silence for a moment, just waking up together after their night.

“I can give you a ride back to your hotel…your friend Oscar must be worrying sick” You spoke gently, taking another sip of your coffee before glancing at Lando. You remembered Oscar—the anxious friend who watched you snatched his friend away back in the bar. The thought that he might be waiting… maybe even pacing… made you feel a twinge of guilt. No way was the guy not worried by now.

Lando set the mug down on the counter before answering you "Yeah… Oscar’s probably losing his mind by now." A small wince crossed his face at the thought of that frantic texting storm waiting for him.

"Mind if I call him real quick first? Let him know I’m alive?”

You snorted—amused by Lando’s concern for Oscar’s sanity. “Sure”

Lando hung up the phone with a small sigh of relief—Oscar had definitely been freaking out, but now he knew Lando was safe. The call ended smoothly. He turned his attention to you instead—watching as the cowboy moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency. Pans clinked… eggs cracked into a bowl… bacon sizzling in grease, sourdough bread resting on the dining table. The smell of breakfast started filling the air: savory and comforting after last night’s intensity.

Lando finished his breakfast and stepped outside, settling onto the wooden porch swing. The morning sun was gentle—warming his skin without being harsh—as he relaxed into the quiet. Back resting on the armchair.

Across the yard, you worked with a few horses near the barn. Your movements were confident and practiced… guiding them with soft commands and light tugs on their reins. Dust kicked up slightly under hooves as they moved in slow circles.

The steam from the showers fogged up the changing room as Oscar stormed in, still in his racing suit, face tense with fury. He spotted you, dripping wet from champagne spray, hair plastered to your forehead, rinsing off at the sink. For a second, Oscar just stood there. The anger was still boiling… but seeing you, the rival he admired most calmly washing up like nothing happened? It snapped something inside him. Without thinking because right now he didn’t want to think, Oscar kicked off his boots and marched toward you.

You heard the soft click of the lock echoed in the quiet room. Barely had time to turn off the water before you felt Oscar’s presence: hot, intense, and unmistakable. Oscar didn’t say a word. Pure pent-up emotion from being cheated on… months of rivalry on track… and that one electric night two seasons ago they both pretended never happened lingers in his aching chest.

He closed the distance fast, hands cupping your still-damp face and kissed you hard. A messy connection of lips, teeth almost clashing at first as Oscar’s anger finally exploded.

The cold tile met your back as Oscar pressed you firmly against the wall, one hand sliding into your damp hair while the other gripped your hip. The shower steam swirled around you like a private world. Oscar broke the kiss only to trail sharp bites down your jawline before capturing that soft bottom lip again, sucking it gently between his teeth with a quiet growl. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming without words like: I’m mad at her… I’m not okay and I need you… but this? This feels right. His body caged you in completely, knee nudging between those strong legs of yours and for once on track or off it? He wasn't playing fair.

“What the fuck, Piastri— I’m not a goddamn homewrecker” You huffed. You are perfectly aware of his dating status, you yourself told him not to, but he did anyway and you two stop hooking up. You pushed him back.

Oscar staggered back a step, breath ragged, eyes wide with shock, then flashing with something raw and defensive. The rejection hit harder than any crash on the final lap. He ran a hand through his messy hair, jaw tight. For once, that cool composure cracked completely. He hadn’t expected you to push him away, not like this.

"Right…" Oscar scoffed bitterly under his breath before speaking louder.

"She cheated on me, L/N" The words came out low but fierce, hurt bleeding through the anger now. His chest rose fast as he stared at you, the man who knew every inch of his racing heart… and was now judging him for wanting comfort in chaos.

“She…did?” You stopped in track for a moment. Oscar’s shoulders slumped slightly, the fire in his eyes dimming into something quieter—vulnerable. He nodded once, sharp and bitter.

"Yeah. Found out right after the podium ceremony." he said flatly, voice stripped of its usual calm. "Texts. Photos. With some bloke from her uni." He kicked at a damp towel on the floor with his foot, avoiding your gaze now like it hurt too much to hold it. The silence stretched between them just steam settling and two rivals suddenly standing in a mess neither knew how to fix. You always saw through him… so Oscar didn’t even try lying about why he’d kissed you like that.

The air between you shifted, thicker now, charged with something fragile but undeniable. You hadn’t pulled away completely before… and that gave Oscar the sliver of courage he needed. This kiss wasn’t angry. It wasn’t desperate like the first one. This was softer, slower, almost apologetic in its tenderness as Oscar stepped close again, hands rising to cup your face gently this time. Champagne still glistened on your collarbone from earlier celebrations, sweat clung to your brow under damp curls. The scent of race fuel and citrus body wash mixed together—a familiar combo from their past hookups a few years ago. He kissed you like he used to: deep but careful… testing if you would let it happen.

The fabric peeled away easily: Red Bull team suit damp and heavy from champagne, sticking to your skin like a second layer. Oscar didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. He worked quickly, fingers getting the suit with plenty of sponsors’ logos on first, then tugging it down over broad shoulders, letting it drop with a wet plop onto the tiled floor. The undershirt followed: black and clinging to every ridge of muscle. Steam curled around them as more skin was revealed, the kind only seen in private moments or late-night post-race showers when no one else was around. Oscar’s breath hitched slightly, not just from lust now… but because this felt dangerously close to something real again.

The second his own racing suit hit the floor—McLaren fabric pooling around his feet, Oscar was on you again, mouth crashing into that sensitive spot just below your ear. Then he bit down lightly on your neck—not hard enough to mark, not yet, but enough to make you gasp—the kind of bite he gives when he’s mad at the world and needs someone warm to take it out on.

A low sound escaped Oscar as he worked lower: kissing, sucking, grazing teeth along your champagne glistened collarbone… each touch fueled by betrayal, heartbreak… and years of unresolved tension.

The second your hand wrapped around him: firm, confident, no hesitation, Oscar sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. His hips jerked forward instinctively into the touch, craving for more friction. Pure heat and urgency—the kind that comes when you’re emotionally raw and someone knows exactly what to do. You have always been good with your hands… too good for a rival on track or off it. Oscar braced one forearm against the fogged-up wall beside them, eyes fluttering shut as those skilled fingers worked him over with steady pressure, just right and not rushing, not backing off… like you’d done this before…because you both knew damn well you had.

“I told you so” The words hit like a slap—sharp, mocking, and way too accurate. Oscar’s eyes snapped open, his jaw tightening as he glared at you through the steam. He hated that she’d come between them—not just romantically… but even this casual intimacy they used to fall into after races. He hated that he’d chosen something “normal” over whatever wild spark this was. He doesn’t remember why he has stopped hooking up with you to get into a “serious” relationship.

"Yeah? Well I didn’t think she'd cheat." Oscar shot back, voice low but edged with frustration now aimed half at you. A beat passed. The hand on his cock slowed slightly, not stopping but the mood shifted: teasing turning into something heavier. Rivalry again… mixed with everything else.

With surprising strength, sculptured from years of gym sessions and pushing himself to the limit—Oscar hoisted you up effortlessly, pressing you back against the cold, fogged glass wall of the shower stall. The impact made a soft thud, steam swirling around you as your bodies pressed close. The glass was slick with condensation, barely keeping you from slipping—but Oscar held firm, arms hooked under your thighs to keep you pinned.

Oscar crushed his lips onto yours again—harder this time—as if trying to erase everything else that had happened today.

The familiarity hit Oscar like a wave—every sensation, every muscle memory flooding back as he felt your body respond just like before: tight, warm, perfectly in sync with his movements.

Those relentless nights after podiums—private hotel suites at 2 AM. Post-gym sessions where he’d help “stretch” you but ended up tangled on the mats. The time in Monaco when he got caught sneaking out of your hotel suite smelling like hard sex. A shudder ran through him, not just from pleasure now… but nostalgia for what you two used to be before his relationship with the girl and rules complicated things. No words this time. Just motion, the slow push of hips meeting again after months apart and Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, losing himself completely.

Every ounce of anger, at his cheating girlfriend, at the media circus he knew would come, at how much it still hurt despite trying to be cool about it—Oscar channeled into each rough thrust. The pace was relentless: hard, deep strokes that made the glass wall tremble slightly with every impact. No gentleness. Just raw emotion and physical release, the kind only angry sex like this could provide. Your breath came in short gasps against Oscar’s shoulder as you moved together, skin slick with steam and sweat now rather than champagne or race. The sounds were muffled by his heavy breathing, the slap of skin on skin barely audible over the humming showers nearby. A perfect storm of frustration… comfort… and something dangerously close to old feelings resurfacing. He welcomed it.

“Fuck!—” You gasped out. Oscar knew that spot—the one deep inside you that made you unravel every time he found it. And right now? He wasn’t being gentle about it. The moment he heard that gasp—sharp and surprised he zeroed in, angling his hips just right before driving into it again with brutal precision. Each thrust landed exactly where he wanted, relentless and calculated. Your whimpers hit Oscar like a drug: high-pitched, breathy sounds he hadn’t heard in years. The kind only he could pull from the usually stoic Red Bull driver. A smirk flickered on Oscar’s lips for half a second, not cruel, but satisfied as he kept hammering that sweet spot without mercy.

Your head thudded softly against the glass, your breathing ragged and uneven, each exhale fogging the already hazy surface beside you. Your fingers dug into Oscar’s back, not hard enough to hurt but with clear desperation, leaving faint red trails on his sun-kissed skin. The pale column of your throat was exposed—glistening with sweat, pulse hammering visibly just under the surface. An open invitation. A weakness even rivals couldn’t resist exploiting. Oscar didn’t hesitate. He ducked down and sank his teeth into that tender spot where neck meets shoulder, not biting too deep but firm enough to mark you in a way everyone would see later: teammates whispering “Did you see Y/N today?” and grinning like they knew something.

The bite sent a jolt through you—your whole body tensed, then melted at once. The moan that escaped you was low and broken, vibrating against Oscar’s lips when he pulled back to breathe. The way you clenched around him—tight as hell, rhythmic like waves of pleasure crashing down, it nearly made Oscar lose his rhythm. His hips stuttered for a second before instinct took over again. That squeeze… intentional or not? It felt too good. Like you were deliberately pulling every ounce of sensation from him just by existing. Oscar groaned into the steamy air between you, half frustration at losing control so easily… half pure ecstasy. Oscar growled against your neck, a rough sound and bit down again harder this time before picking up the pace even more: faster thrusts now fueled by both anger... and undeniable desire.

Your thoughts dissolved into static, nothing but sensation now. Every nerve ending was alight, your entire body focused on the relentless pace Oscar set: deep, powerful thrusts that hit exactly where you needed it most. The stretch burned in the best way—a sweet ache you hadn’t felt in years—and each movement sent waves of dizzying pleasure through you both. No coherent thoughts left… just heat and fullness and Oscar’s cock nailing the right spot in you, always Oscar doing this to you like you two were made for this exact rhythm.

Your legs trembled around Oscar’s waist—not from exhaustion but sheer overload. You couldn’t even gasp properly anymore, every breath came out as a whimper or moan.

Oscar’s anger wasn’t gentle—it was fierce, almost punishing in its intensity. Every thrust carried the weight of betrayal, heartbreak, and two years of pent-up longing. The force made your vision blur at the edges. You almost came right then—a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as pleasure coiled tight in your gut—but you clenched your teeth and held on by sheer willpower. Not because you wanted to delay it… but because this felt too good to end yet.

The stretch burned with every snap of Oscar’s hips, sweat dripped down their backs as you moved together like a well-oiled machine despite everything unsaid between you. A dangerous game of holding back when your body is screaming for release.

The sharp crack of Oscar’s palm against your ass echoed faintly in the steamy room—more sound than sting, but enough to send a jolt of delicious shock through you. You arched into it with a broken moan, the pain blooming into warmth almost instantly. The slap wasn’t cruel—just possessive, instinctive. His hand gripping your hip hard to yank you closer for deeper thrusts. A mix of dominance and raw emotion… like every hit carried unspoken words and emotions…like “This is what I feel right now.”

The sudden drag—Oscar pulling all the way out to the very tip before slamming back in with full force—made your whole body jerk. A choked groan tore from your throat, teeth sinking into your own bottom lip to muffle it.

It hurts—just for a split second—but then melted into something electric, addictive. The rough contrast of emptiness followed by sudden fullness was almost too much… and exactly what you both craved right now.

Oscar’s release hit him like a crash—sudden, overwhelming. With a groan muffled against your shoulder, he spilled deep inside you: hot and pulsing with no barrier between you. The intensity of it made his knees wobble slightly, if you two weren’t already braced against the wall—and for those few seconds, everything else vanished: the race results, the cheating girlfriend… All that mattered was this shared breathless moment. Your nails left faint red trails down Oscar’s back—not painful but possessive in their own way—as if marking territory without words.

The orgasm hit you a second later—less explosive but just as intense, flooding through your lower stomach in waves. You gasped softly, back arching slightly as your release painted your own stomach: warm streaks glistening against flushed skin. Oscar stayed pressed close, still catching his breath—chest rising and falling rapidly—as he watched the aftermath with half-lidded eyes.

The kiss was different this time—softer, slower. Not fueled by anger or frustration anymore, but something quieter… gentler. You tilted your head slightly as you leaned in, lips meeting Oscar’s with a tenderness that surprised even yourself. Your hand slid up to cradle the back of Oscar’s neck—fingers brushing through damp brown hair—as your mouths moved together in a tender rhythm.

It’s the warmth and breath mingling between you—the kind of kiss you give someone you’ve missed without realizing it. The steam kept the world outside at bay.

“You’re gonna break up with her?” you asked. The question hung in the air—soft but heavy. Oscar didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned into your touch as those gentle fingers scratched through his hair, a small sigh escaping him. Finally, he nodded against your shoulder before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Yeah." He said quietly—no anger now, just certainty. "I’m gonna end it tonight" A pause. Then: "She doesn't deserve me anyway." The words were calm… final… like the decision had been made right after Oscar found out.

“Look at you…finally acting like you have a brain” Your teasing smirk barely had time to settle before Oscar’s hand cracked down again—another sharp smack to the same spot, harder this time. Not playful. A real reprimand from a man still simmering with betrayal. The sting made you grunt, more surprised than hurt—but the look in Oscar’s eyes was all fire: wounded pride, rage at being cheated on… and now irritation at being mocked by you, of all people.

"Shut up.” Oscar muttered—low and edged—not even joking—as he keeps you pinned against the wall with his body weight. The spank wasn't sexy right now. It was a warning shot across the bow.

After rinsing off and changing into casual clothes they wore before putting on the suit pre-race earlier. You asked: “Gonna give me your room number?”

Oscar paused with his hand on the door handle, turning slightly to glance back at you. The question caught him off guard—simple but loaded. For a second, he hesitated. They’d just hooked up… they were rivals… and yet here you were asking for his room number like it meant something.

"214" Oscar said evenly. A beat passed before he added quietly. "You wanna come by later?" The invitation hung in the air between them—not as teammates or competitors… but as two guys who maybe hadn’t finished “talking” yet.

“I expect you to be showered and naked on the bed by the time I’m done with team dinner, Piastri. Not even a piece of clothing." You said with full blown confidence.

Oscar’s lips twitched, just slightly at the smirk. That cocky, confident Red Bull energy was back in full force… and damn if it didn’t do something to him. He nodded once, silently accepting your terms: shower first obviously, then naked on his bed by 9 PM sharp. No teasing banter now—they were both professionals at hiding personal stuff around the media. As you disappeared into the sea of reporters flashing cameras and microphones, Oscar exhaled slowly… already anticipating what came next.

“You’re just everywhere huh?” Max scolded. He’s not a big fan of loud parties and short talk. So he left too. And met you here. Right where he thought he could have some peace.

Max rolled his eyes at your dismissive tone. Without hesitation, he swiped the cigarette from your lips and crushed it under his boot again. Just like the first time during your rookie years when he found you depressed about family pressure and neglect, smoking behind the stadium.

“Not in the mood, Verstappen” you warned. Usually you would have a nasty comeback ready to shoot at him, but not today. You only bring the cigarette closer to your mouth and take a puff.

"You're gonna burn holes through your lungs" he muttered, didn’t look at you. Just stared ahead like he was suddenly deep in thought which was rare for him.

“About what?” You said with that dismissive tone you didn’t mean to use. You’re just having a lot on your plate right now. Max turned his head slowly, jaw tight. That look in your eyes, the one that said you were done, exhausted, pissed him off more than anything. About what? Really? He exhaled sharply through his nose and finally snapped.

"...We should talk.”

"The fucking crash! What else?" His voice rose slightly before he caught himself, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Lower now: "We both went out like idiots." A beat of silence. Then quieter still:

“You’re being ridiculous” you turn away, not wanting to even maintain eye contact, when usually, you would be staring Max nervous with your eyes. Max lets out a small “tch”, turning fully toward you now. His fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh, annoyed, frustrated.

"You scared me.”

"Ridiculous? I'm not the one who nearly spun into a wall because he was too busy trying to push me off track like a damn amateur!" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping but still intense.

"You used to race with your head. Now you're just reckless and it's pissing me off." Not because he cared or anything. Definitely not that.

“It was only one race. One, Verstappen. Don’t bristle yet” you scolded. Questioning why he’s getting all worked up when you hardly even care about your performance today. Max narrowed his eyes, studying your face, the way you avoided looking at him, the tension in your jaw. One GP? That’s all it was? Bullshit.

He knew you better than that, even if he’d never admit it out loud. You didn’t suddenly start driving like a maniac over one race.

"Cut the crap, L/N" he said flatly. "You’ve been off for weeks." It’s just Max being... weirdly serious for once.

Max blinked, then immediately scowled, his cheeks betraying him with the faintest pink tint. Damn it.

“One day without my trash talk and you're already missing me? Geez Verstappen” you joked with a faint smirk. Trying to avoid the bitter seed blooming inside of you. You didn’t want your rival to know you have been doing like shit lately.

"Missing you? Are you high?" He shoved your shoulder lightly, but there was no real force behind it. Still... that smirk of yours, the one he secretly loved hit him right in the chest like always. He crossed his arms, turning his face away to hide the stupid half-smile trying to crawl onto his lips.

“Still…I'm glad you crashed into me. Felt like I couldn't keep driving with that aching head” you shrugged.

Max went completely still. The city lights blurred below, but his focus snapped entirely to you, your voice, your words. You were glad he crashed into you? That hit harder than any impact on the track. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. No sarcastic comeback ready. No smug remark about how he saved the day. Just... silence. Then quietly, so quiet it barely carried over the hum of Singapore at night:

"...Why?” His voice sounds almost soft.

“None of your business, stickybeak” you snorted, breaking the tense atmosphere entirely by a stupid nickname you said.

"Don't give me that." he said slowly. "You don’t just say something like that and then shut down." His thumb brushed lightly over your cheekbone, briefly soft before his usual cocky mask tried to slide back on.

Max's jaw twitched. Stickybeak? Really? He leaned back, feigning offense but the corner of his mouth twitched. Only you could call him that and live. Still... he wasn't letting this go. Not now. Without warning, he grabbed your chin, gentle but firm and turned your face toward his, forcing eye contact under the dim glow of the rooftop lights.

“And why would I tell you about my stuff?” You scolded.

Max’s eyes flashed, annoyed, frustrated, but not angry at you. Never really at you. He dropped his hand from your face and exhaled sharply through his nose like a bull about to charge.

"Because I care, okay?" The words burst out before he could stop them. Then immediately…oh shit, he stiffened. Did he just say that? His ears burned. He looked away fast, jaw clenched tight like if he didn’t move a muscle, the world wouldn’t notice what just happened. But it was too late. The admission hung heavy between you both under the Singapore night sky.

Max’s lips crashed onto yours before his brain could catch up, fueled by nerves and that stupid I-care confession hanging in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t slow or sweet. It was Max, reckless, desperate to shut you both up and now his heart was hammering so loud he swore you could hear it.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow, a faint smirk at the admission.

When he finally pulled back an inch, both of you breathless, he didn't say anything. Just stared at your mouth like…what did I just do? And then... panic flickered across his face for half a second before he braced himself for your reaction.

“…seriously?” You muttered. Stunned? Yes, turned on? Also yes. You love it when he gets mad and starts doing stupid things that make himself regret later. It’s cute. Even this.

Max’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He looked like a deer in headlights, actually nervous, which was so rare for him. He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for exactly three seconds before forcing himself to meet it again.

"...Had to do it." he said quietly, voice lower now, less defensive, more honest. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just raw Max being weirdly vulnerable on a hotel rooftop after kissing his rival like an idiot who couldn't handle feelings.

Then, because silence was killing him:

"I've wanted to... since Las Vegas.”

Max blinked, then his face exploded in embarrassment. Consent? Right. Yeah. That was a thing people talked about. He opened his mouth, then closed it like a fish out of water, brain short-circuiting because…oh god, did he just kiss you without asking? His confident, cocky Red Bull persona cracked right down the middle.

“...Ever heard of consent?” You can’t help but tease your favourite person in the world again. Just by being with him makes you forget what you are mad about in the first place.

"I—" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean..."

Then, with zero grace:

"...Can I try again?" Voice quiet now, uncertain in that rare way only you ever got to see.

Max’s eyes narrowed…oh, you were enjoying this. Absolutely loving watching him squirm. And that pissed him off. Not because he was mad at you, but because his stupid heart kept racing and now he looked like a kicked puppy who just got rejected on live TV. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and took two steps away from you, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Full-on sulk mode activated. Mostly because he can’t handle such a level of embarrassment. But he can’t run away from you either, you two will still be rivals for as long as you race. The city lights reflected in his glare as he stared straight ahead at nothing important... pretending very hard that the kiss never happened.

“No?” You snorted. You just want to mess with him a little, poking more into his embarrassment.

Petty? Yes. Max? Also yes.

Max was still sulking, chin high, arms locked like a stubborn child when you suddenly yanked him back around. His breath hitched as your hand grabbed his arm and spun him to face you. For a second, he just stared, caught off guard by the sudden contact. And then... that tone. That stupidly cute playful voice of yours, the one that always made his stomach flip no matter how much he tried to fight it. All the fake anger drained from his face in an instant. Before he could say anything or overthink this, Max closed the gap between you and kissed you this time. Properly. Slowly. Like he’d been wanting to for months but was too scared or too proud to admit it until now.

“Nooo I’m just kidding, Verstappen. I wanted to kiss you too” you chuckled and whined to him. That ridiculous voice of yours only deepens Max’s annoyance.

The soft click of the elevator opening somewhere below the hallway made both of you freeze mid-kiss. Max’s lips hovered just an inch from yours, his entire body tensing like a soldier on high alert. He didn’t pull away completely, but his head tilted slightly toward the sound, ears straining. Footsteps. Light ones. Probably some late-night caretaker.

For a second, neither of you moved, heartbeats loud in your own chests and then Max slowly turned his face back toward yours with narrowed eyes that clearly said: ...Should we care?

"You look good, Verstappen" You look Max up and down, admiring his perfectly tailored suit he got for the gala night. Your fingers brushed against his chest, adjusting the tie he’d been fidgeting with all night. He wasn’t used to this, being touched so casually by you, of all people. Not during a race weekend. Not when you were supposed to be rivals glaring from across paddock garages.

The suit was black, sleek, F1 event formalwear but right now, it felt way too stuffy compared to the adrenaline rush of kissing you on a rooftop. His cheeks warmed under your touch and he stayed perfectly still, letting you fix what was already straight… because honestly? He just liked having your hands on him.

"Thanks." he mumbled, unusually shy for someone who usually had a sarcastic comment ready.

You both drove with that same relentless fire, Red Bull’s golden boy versus Mercedes’ rising star. No one else could touch #1 or #2, it was always one of you two fighting for the top spot. Max remembered how much he hated losing to you... but also how badly he wanted to beat you every single race because you were the only rival who truly matched him.

When did this…rivalry started? The memories never left Max’s head, those early days at 17, wide-eyed and hungry. The two of you were always together back then: beating each other’s ass on track like immature kids, arguing over strategy during debriefs, pushing each other to go faster in practice.

Back then? He’d never admit it but there was respect beneath all that rivalry. Maybe even something more… though neither of you would’ve said it out loud.

You, fresh-faced and cocky in your Mercedes gear, had been staring at him from across the garage during pre-race prep. Not with curiosity or politeness, but with that targeting look. The one Max had only seen on other top drivers before: I’m coming for you.

Max remembered that first Australia GP like it was yesterday. His and yours debut.

And then post-qualifying interview? You didn’t even hide it. When the interviewer asks about your opinion on your same-age rival who is also a rookie.

"Verstappen’s fast." you’d said to reporters, "but I’ll be ahead of him by race five."

Cue Max scoffing through his own interview moments later: "We'll see about that."

He never forgot the way you relished in his mistakes. Every time he messed up a corner, every off-track excursion, every botched overtake, you’d be on team radio laughing with your engineers or worse… dropping some smug comment during an interview later. Your engineers only scold and tell you to focus on the track, they were old and mature, they knew teenagers like you can be nasty with words.

From day one, it was war and honestly? He loved every second of it.

"Verstappen had it covered... until he didn't." you'd say with that infuriating smirk, like you were above it all. And post-race? You’d seek him out just to rub salt in the wound. Leaning against the Red Bull garage door after podiums where he finished second and you were first:

"Better luck next time, red bull." It pissed Max off so much… but secretly? He admired how fearless you were. How unapologetically competitive. It fuels him to be better.

And Max? He’d be fuming, still sweaty from driving, adrenaline crashing but seeing you casually chatting with his mechanics? It lit a fire in him. Once he even snapped at an engineer: "Why is he here?"

Max’s jaw clenched so tight every time you showed up at the Red Bull garage, especially after a race where you’d outshone him. You weren’t even supposed to be there. No reason to linger, no team business… but you did it anyway. Just strolling in like you owned the place, helmet under one arm, that stupid cocky grin on your face.

His team just shrugged, you were very fun to be around. You are Mercedes's rising star, the media love having both of you together for drama.

Max’s face instantly flushed, bright red all the way to his ears. Cute? Anger? That was supposed to be intimidating! He wasn’t some pouting kid, he was Max Verstappen, Red Bull’s champion, a man who fought for every inch on track!

“You’re very cute when you’re angry, Verstappen” you smirked.

At 17, neither of you had the patience or emotional control to handle rivalry and whatever weird tension was simmering underneath. When you smirked that "cute" comment right in his face, Max’s last nerve snapped. In one swift motion, fueled by pure teenage rage and embarrassment he shoved you hard. Not a punch, not even violent… but a full-on push straight out the Red Bull garage door.

But hearing that word from your smug mouth while you were standing right there in his garage… it short-circuited him completely. He opened his mouth to snap back something sharp, a "Shut up!" or maybe even a threat but nothing came out. Just silence and that ridiculous blush he couldn’t control. So instead? He glared harder… which only made you smirk wider. He got that look that says he’s going to beat you with the helmet. But can’t because there are interviewers and too many adults there.

Or that after-party when Max is 21 and still can’t get your silhouette off his head. The club was loud, bass thumping, lights flashing and Max hadn’t wanted to come. Post-race parties weren’t his thing after a loss, especially when you had just taken P1.

You stumbled back into the hallway with wide eyes as mechanics froze mid-conversation and engineers dropped their clipboards in shock. The whole paddock would be talking about this tomorrow.

But the team dragged him along anyway: "Come on, Max! You need a drink!"

And then he walked in… and there you were.

Max froze near the entrance. Jaw tightening instantly. The ugly feeling curled in Max’s chest like smoke, hot and tight, unfamiliar. He was used to being the only one you paid attention to. Even if it was through trash talk or post-race arguments, it was still him. You were always watching him on track, reacting to his moves… hell, sometimes he thought your rivalry burned hotter than anyone else’s.

At 21 years old, you were already magnetic, the center of attention without even trying. A confident smirk on your face as you leaned against the bar with some girl’s arms around your neck… laughing at something she said while her fingers played with your hair. You’re a smooth talker with a to-die-for facecard, it’s not anything surprising that any girl would want you.

The jealousy twisted into something fiercer, something physical. Off-track, you two were always competing. Bikes at the training center? You’d race down the hill and Max would beat you by a hair’s breadth but then next time, you did. Weights? Arm wrestling challenges in the gym turned into full-on battles of strength. And after sessions when you were both drenched in sweat, gasping for air… that little ritual happened without either of them realizing it. You’d grab your water bottle and chug, then toss it aside without wiping the cap. Max always drank from his too… but sometimes he didn’t wipe his mouth first either and if their bottles ever got mixed up? Or worse: if Max took a sip from yours thinking it was his? That indirect kiss tasted like hot sandy salt and rivalry.

But now? Here you were, laughing with some girl who wasn’t even into F1 or knows about it like he does and completely ignoring he existed.

Max was still catching his breath, hair damp and sticking to his forehead from the champagne spray. The victory celebration had been loud, confetti, cameras flashing but he’d slipped away from it all to lean against the Red Bull garage wall in silence. He didn’t even hear you approach at first.

The Las Vegas Grand Prix weekend was legendary, crowds screaming like it was a rock concert. And there you both were: Max in Red Bull gear and you in Mercedes cyan, always side by side on track. No other rider could touch either of you. They even started joking about who would win… but secretly? You both thrived off each other's presence.

Then your voice, dry as ever, that classic "congrats? On P1?" with zero real enthusiasm, hit him like a splash of cold water. You stood there in your team race suit, arms loosely crossed… looking more like someone paying mandatory respect than actually celebrating his win. And damn if that didn't annoy Max more than losing would have.

"Wow." he deadpanned back, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "You came all this way just to say that?" A beat of silence passed between them in the dim garage lighting… heavy with unspoken everything.

He pushed off the wall slowly, still sticky from champagne, and turned to face you fully. That intense stare, the one he saved for rivals who pissed him off just right.

Max’s breath hitched. Room 1410. Your hotel room. That smirk of yours, the one that always meant trouble lingered in the air as you walked away, your boots echoing against the concrete floor toward Mercedes's garage without looking back.

“Nope. Room 1410. If the after-party ever bores you?”

Just as Max was about to slip away, already mentally calculating how fast he could ditch the party tonight and find Room 1410, the garage doors swung open. And there they were: his parents. Jos and Sophie Verstappen, dressed casually but with that proud parent energy radiating off them. They held a bouquet of flowers, probably bought last minute at some Vegas gift shop and smiled when they saw him.

Was it an invitation? A challenge? Or just you being you… teasing him like always but this time with a hotel room number attached? He didn’t move for a solid ten seconds.

"Max!" his mom called out, stepping forward first for a hug. His dad followed right after with an arm around his shoulders. "Great race today, boy"

Max groaned internally. His dad, a former racer, had that look in his eyes: the one where he wasn’t just coming for fun. He wanted to network, chat with sponsors, catch up with old teammates and engineers. All to expand Max’s connection and career. He is a demanding man.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

And of course… his mom was already looping her arm through Max’s like she’d do at home, except this time it was at Red Bull garage and later on… Vegas afterparty full of loud music and champagne towers.

"Come on." she said cheerfully. "We're celebrating! Your P1 win! It’s not like we are always free to come to one of your races" They weren't asking if he could leave early, they assumed he'd stay right beside them all night. Cue Max’s soul leaving his body.

Max spent the entire night smiling through gritted teeth. Every time a sponsor approached, some energy drink exec, a tire company rep, or his dad’s old teammate, he had to shake hands and listen politely while they talked about market strategy, aerodynamics from 2015, or "Remember when I raced with your father?" Meanwhile, his eyes kept darting toward the party entrance… thinking about what his evening would be like if he showed up at your door.

His mom chatted happily with other parents. His dad laughed loudly with former rivals who hadn’t seen him in years. And Max? Stuck playing the perfect Red Bull racer son, even though all he wanted was to bail and drive back to the hotel to see you.

Your manager gave you a skeptical look when you said you had a headache, but the guy didn’t push it. Racetrack stress was a valid excuse. Back at the hotel, you slipped into your room, Room 1410 and kicked off your shoes. The suite was quiet, lights dimmed. He ordered room service: a bottle of vodka, just in case and some snacks. Fruits, mostly.

The minutes ticked by slowly. You lay on your back, arm behind your head, staring at the ceiling. The TV was on, replaying the race. The soft hum of the AC and distant city noise filtering through the windows.

By 10:05 PM, your patience wore thin. The quiet of the room started feeling less like anticipation and more like rejection. Max wasn’t coming, end of story. With a sigh, you sat up and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. No texts from Max either… not even a "Hey."

You’d showered, hair still slightly damp and dressed in loose gray sweats and a dark hoodie that smelled faintly like your cologne. You picked at them fruits in the bowl absently and the vodka sat half-finished on the nightstand beside you as you waited. And waited.

Without another thought, he got up and changed again, this time into baggy black jeans, a fitted dark shirt that hugs your muscles perfectly and slipped on leather boots.

A quick text to your manager:

"Going out." Then you left Room 1410 behind...and headed straight for one of Vegas’ hottest clubs.

The club pulsed with bass and neon, crowds dancing, bodies pressed close under flashing lights. Tonight? You needed distraction. Noise. Something to drown out the disappointment simmering in your chest. You just wanted to celebrate the win of Max after he trained so hard and still couldn’t beat you in the last few races.

"Hey." She said over the music, blonde hair with perfect blowout, thin two stripes silk dress that looks like it is about to slip off her perfect body… totally your type if you closed your eyes and ignored everything else happening right now inside of your chest. The girl leaned in closer, her smile widening as you gave her a once-over. She wasn’t bad-looking, confident, easy on the eyes and clearly knew how to approach someone.

You walked straight to the bar, ordered a strong drink without hesitation and before it even arrived, some guy had already sidled up next to you with a grin.

"First time here?" She shouted over the music after taking a sip of her own drink.

That night at Las Vegas was the fuel to Max Verstappen’s reckless action tonight on the rooftop. If he could come back in time…that would have been him on your bed.