mateo 20

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.

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 Sea's 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:

Your rut always wrings you into some sort of dizzying headspace. Everything is so warm, so overstimulating, so... obsessively within reach. It needs to stay within your palm, or else you feel as if you'll go crazy. Every twitch and squirm Tim makes is greeted with a suffocating whine of a growl. He's not going anywhere, damn it! You're such a baby about everything.

"Hah, hah, ah, fuck, fuck." Tim pants, craning his face away from you. He tries to retreat some into the cool sheet of his pillowcase, but all it does is make you sad that he isn't looking at you anymore. You drag your nose from where it's been buried in his scent gland up his hickey bitten neck and across his cheek. Digging into the crevice of his own.

"Yes, I see you. Hi." He grits his teeth, even in the face of your teary-eyed expression. Your knot is so obnoxiously big, bullying at the entrance of his hole, but not quite fitting. The burn is mind-numbing. One he can't quite ever get used to, no matter how often he takes it.

His thighs bracket your own, sweat-drenched under the heat radiating off you. Tim's hole is sore, and he feels so damn full he might as well just pass out and let you have your way with him that way. You've already had two rounds, and they just keep getting shorter and shorter with no end in sight. You're lucky he buys the extra-strength condoms for times like this.

"Guh..." Tim hisses as you once again fill the rubber out, knot burying itself a quarter of the way in before pulling out once again. "Jesus." That wasn't even seven minutes this time! He doesn't know whether to be relieved or not.

Tim has to push your body away from deflating onto him. Lest you stay that way for the rest of your rut. Tim groans, stretching his shoulders and neck, likewise tugging the condom off you to tie. He slips another one onto you just as fast...just in case. Even as you rest, Tim knows you aren't worn out just yet.

"Are you done yet? Oh my god," Jason pants, one of his thick arms thrown over his eyes. His cock burns in your clammy hands, almost numb from it. His thighs are spread, with you between them. Sometimes you get handsy, restless, and Jason just lets you do what you want within reason. This feels like far beyond reason, though.

"Fuck!" He groans as you encapture his sensitive length once again. What's so fun about this? Jason doesn't get it. He just feels like his brain and pelvis are going to melt through his body and down into the floor. Lightly, he bats at you. Knees bucking in at your sides, but it's not enough for you to let up.

He hasn't uttered his safe word after all, and he isn't walking away either. So you're free to do what you want.

You've found that Jason rather enjoys being taken apart in your arms. Not dissected, just admired. Held in his entirety. Exposed for you to see. You love him, and Jason knows that. It's why he trusts you even in the midst of his discomfort. And lord, is he squirming.

In one hand, you pump him base to tip. In the other, you palm his balls. Everything's soaked in sweat, spit, pre, and cum. Jason can barely feel the divits of your fingers, only the hot pressure they provide. Your grip is tight, ever constant.

It's so annoying! Jason hates you! He hates you, he hates you! He's- about to cum!

"Hah...hah," He shudders, dragging his heavy limbs across himself. Jason curls, turning away from you. "No more, get off of me, you shit head."

“…seems like some people just thrive on chaos.” Dick sighs to himself, alerted by the sound of trashcans rattling around suddenly. He approaches with swiftly, but with caution. The blood is what he notices first, pooling around the body that the other stranger has pinned, and Dick doesn’t hesitate to act after that.

He uses the alleyway wall as support to kick off of, front flipping into swinging his legs around the offenders neck to twist them off the body. You shriek, feverishly clawing into his thighs to- wait, you?

“[name]?” He gapes, glancing back to the limp body he tore you off of. Dead. Damn it, what the hell is going on? 

You look sickly, not anything resembling the lover he cherishes at home. Red, blood shot eyes, sharp nails, sharp…teeth. Dick struggles to keep you down, it seems that only in the midst of your blood loss were you so easily over powered. Now? He’s definitely sporting some new leg scars.

It hurts to do, it really does, but with no other choice available your boyfriend knocks you square in the temple. A few times, actually. It takes a lot to knock you out. Dick grimaces through it all, but it’s clear that you, or whatever this is, aren’t in the right headspace to hold a civil conversation.

Not that Dick really wants to either, shit. That’s a lot of blood. With most of it drying down your mouth and chin. 

“Hey, Oracle, can you identify the guy I have over here?” Dick tentatively murmurs once he has you secured in wraps. The man is surely mauled, still warm, with his eyes frozen in place. The sign of struggle is apparent, and not just from the chunk bitten into the poor soul's neck. Like Dicks bleeding thighs across the man's shoulders and arms give way to painfully deep marks.

Barbra's ever-friendly yet monotone 'work' voice delivers the news soundly, and Dick isn't sure whether to be relieved or not when the name of a wanted felon is listed instead of an innocent citizen. The charge list is lengthy, full of cruel acts that turn the vigilante's heart off to the suffering you had dished out to him. Okay, better than it could have been, but that doesn't make the attack itself any less concerning.

Did you know that? Were you stalking? Or was this a more fortunate turn of events than what could have been far worse? In the end, both Oracle and Nightwing agree that it would be in everyone's best interest if they gave fellow hero Raven a call.

She confirms his suspicions after Dick manages to haul you back to the apartment. Strapped down and wiped clean. You’re a vampire, and have been for some time, if the maturity of your fangs is anything to go off of. The longer you 'sleep', the further they retract, not perfectly smooth, but then again, what person's teeth truly are? Dick thinks himself stupid for not suspecting as such anyway. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

He doesn't know what to do with you.

You're...great, honestly, you're everything to Dick. The two of you have been dating for so long that your lives are totally intertwined, which makes it all the more horrifying that you've been able to keep something this big right under his nose. Every question he cautiously pesters Rachel with is met with the same boring, unsatisfying answer.

Eating human food? It depends.

Walking perfectly fine in the sunlight? It depends.

Sleeping outside a coffin? You already know what she has to say to that.

The sole comfort she leaves him with is that if you wanted to hurt him, you would have done so by now. It's a somewhat reassuring notion, but that isn't his biggest concern. It's whether or not you're intentionally harming people, criminal or not. The no-kill rule isn't up for debate.

Dick knows why Bruce does it, and he's long established his own reason to hold himself to the same standard. Maybe he isn't a total stickler, but the blood he has shed haunts him, and he'll carry that weight with him until the day he dies.

Die. Did you...Did you die? Did something happen and Dick wasn't there to protect you like he was supposed to? His head is beginning to hurt, but he can't concentrate on much of anything. Dick is just staring now, icing the shiner developing on the part where he had hit you. Vampire, but still human enough for this. Maybe human enough for him too.

"Hey, oh, I know, I know," Dick murmurs when you finally start to stir. He has you strapped down, but he hopes the familiar environment and his sleep clothes make the whole thing feel more 'confessional' and less 'interogation'. "But we need to talk, babe, okay?"

"So," He coughs, straightening himself into a cooler front. This is serious. Dick needs to be serious. "You wanna tell me about what happened the other night? The fangs? The blood? Didn't strike my angel to be a murderer of all things." Okay, starting off stronger than he intended to, but he needs you to understand the corner you're both in. Him a vigilante, you...whatever you are.

It's hard to defend yourself when you're tied up, dizzy, and still starving, but you manage. It was self-defense; the man came at you first, you were just hunting vermin (like you always do, you emphasize). Your hopefully still boyfriend is a tough cookie to crack, but you can tell the crumbs are already falling in your favor. "I just-I just can't believe you would go that far. That you would keep this from me!"

What does he expect you to do? Call him or the police in the moment? You'd be worse off in that case; it's not like either could teleport across the city towards you. "Oh, do not pull that card. Don't you think I know that?" Dick scoffs, standing up from his previously faux-lounging position. He's getting a little flushed, a little red. "I don't even-I can't even figure out what I should even be saying to you right now."

It's not like he told you who he was when you first started dating. It took him a year and a half to let Nightwing slip, and even then, he made you figure it out yourself!

"Those aren't even comparable things! I save people, try my damnest to protect this city, and you-for all I know, baby? You've been killing people behind my back the entire time."

It's not your fault either!

By the time you both wind down, your throats are sore, and your eyes are stinging, and your heart hurts almost as much as your wrists, too, but not quite. After a long stretch of silence, Dick sighed and stood. "Okay, okay. I get it...okay." He stood, undoing your restraints with one hand. He didn't say sorry; Dick really can't bring himself to look at you at all, but you're out. Free, so to speak.

"Just give me a while. I trust you, I do, but I need a minute. I don't wanna argue with you. That guy...I'm putting my trust in you when you say that it was a one-off. That it was a string of bad luck. That you don't normally get like that, because [name]? If you're lying to me," Dick doesn't need to finish his sentence; the look he gives you is message enough.

Some boyfriend he is.

The next month is rough between you two. Your loving boyfriend retreats into his shell just a bit, and the Robin in him peeks out. He monitors your vitals, your sleep patterns, and most importantly, watches you eat. After hiding your nature for so long, being observed so openly is almost scandalous. You try to be open and earnest, but sometimes all you wanna do is drain a fat rat in a dark closet in peace, okay?

Before long, Dick, your sweetheart, returns to you in full. You really don't know what you were afraid of before. You know your boyfriend has seen and dealt with worse, but it's hard to remember that he's the exception to the sea of normalcy that is Bludhaven and beyond. You just...never got around to telling him, and if you were honest, without his horrible timing, you aren't sure that you were ever going to either.

His staring is different too, you begin to notice.

It wanders, his gaze. The heat of his lust is a blanket you're familiar with, but it's different when applied to your vampiric nature. It's always been a parasite you've begrudingly beaten down under your feet. One that you've smothered. It's dirty...and it feels really good to be wanted anyway.

"Does it feel good?" He mumbles one night, absentmindedly dragging his thumb alongside your jaw. "To be bitten, like that. I've heard it's pretty erotic."

You want to ask who, where, why, but he's leaning much too close for your mind to wander. "I don't...wanna push, but I am curious, you know?" Dick smirks softly to himself. "To have a lover like that. I mean, what's the point of having a vampire on your arm if I can't whore myself out a little, huh?"

His eyes flicker down and up, down and up, and then slide close as you meet his plea. Your lips brush tenderly, but it's fleeting as you crane for his neck instead. You know the thin rope restraint tethers quite well. Having spent many days and nights with this thick slab of human meat pressed up alongside you. "I trust you."

As time goes on, however, and the sun blares high, you find yourself staying over more often than not. Things are organized by your design and are likewise maintained by your preference. Kon thinks it's kind of a pain to not fling everything everywhere, but he gets it. Tim...just don't touch his stuff, and he doesn't care what you do with it. Perfect for you.

Summer break doesn't last forever, though, and for your peace of mind, you pack your bags and head back home. "You have your own place? Seriously? Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?" Kon will scoff, earnestly a little hurt at the notion. "Rob, did you know about this?"

"Of course I did."

"Of course you did." Kon sighs, rubbing his temple. "Let's all keep secrets from Kon-El; it's everyone's favorite game." He shrugs his shimmering irritation off, instead choosing to help you with your bags. Unlike someone glued to his phone on the couch. "Let's see it then."

Compared to Tim's...your flat is small, tiny, really. Teeny tiny. You seem comfortable enough? It's a place in Gotham, at least; those are few and far between. Expensive too; Kon wonders why you bother with it to begin with. Tim makes it work; maybe it's in the fine print of the contract to be a bat, being able to squeeze into small places and all. Kon...worries he'll knock something over by just turning around.

Somehow, the three of you squeeze into your twin-sized bed that's pushed into the far corner. Kons curled around where your head normally lies like a mother bird protecting her babies from falling out of the nest. His massive bicep props him up, leather jacket having long been peeled off and laid aside. You're in the middle, scrolling, while Tim's resting his chin on your knee, curled up at your feet, doing the same.

"It's so hot." The man behind you sighs, casually resting his palm alongside your breastbone. His stub for nails drum against the fabric of your shirt. Seeking, picking, heavy. "You wanna take this off, huh, babe?"

"Oh yeah, real smooth." Tim snorts, not even bothering to glance up.

"Always so prickly." Kon scoffs, being more obvious in how he fondles you. "Come on, don't you wanna fool around in a new place?"

"New to you."

"What, you've been here before then?" Kon purses his lips into a pout.

"Sure," Tim shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Now it's your turn to frown. No way, he's never been invited. Then again, it's Tim. Practically the last person on earth to respect things like boundaries and social norms.

“Ignore him, baby; let me love on you instead.” Kon huffs, gently knuckling your jaw into facing hun. His lips are always chapped, even with the taste of cherry chapstick always coating them. Even clones aren’t perfect. Go figure someone obsessed with power would overlook something so small.

You don’t dwell on that, though, allowing Kon to work you up into the mood. Wordlessly, he places your phone off to the side, dipping further down to let your hands slide into his hair. Not gelled, for once. “Mh…s’gonna be weird havin’ you somewhere else.” He murmurs down the side of your neck.

“Doors always open if you change your mind.” Tim hums, pretending to not watch the two of you locking lips. He’s easily satisfied by just that, but it seems the resident voyeur wants in on the action tonight. He tucks his own device between his thighs before working your pants down just enough to slip your cock out. Quickly getting to work.

Against your lips, Kon scoffs, but enjoys the show regardless. Continuing to palm here and there while you tug this way and that at your leisure. Tim's mouth is hot and lazy around your cock, he's having fun dragging his tongue back and forth against it.

"Just shut up, you do your thing, and I'll do mine, Dick-brain." Jason grunts, smacking the back of his hand against his brother's chest before migrating over to you. It takes more than a little effort (and even more so to ignore the wolf whistle the idiot himself sends) to traverse, but Jason manages. Sliding up behind you. It feels natural to subtly bump and grind. "Hey, you come here often?"

Jason smirks at your cheer, hugging you back as you latch onto him. You're all flushed and sweaty, absolutely gorgeous. It took Jason a while to get used to how much you drank, but you know how to control yourself and what your limits are, so it doesn't bug him as much as it used to. Lucky for you, since you always seem eager to lock lips after a shot or two. "You seen anything suspicious tonight, hot stuff? White guy, blondie, green eyes. Shitty grey shirt and jeans. Ring any bells?"

He murmurs it all into your ear under the guise of...well, the obvious. You are drunk, though, and this is a pretty dark club, so it's to be expected when you shake your head and shrug. Jason loiters, and his brother lets him. Your hands drift from his sculpted ass to his waist, to his nipples and back down again. Always so handsy. "Perv," Jason smirks.

It falls when your hands finally dip lower, skimming the edge of his briefs. What color are they? You pester, grinding closer, harder. It's been so long since you've seen him last; he can't really just show up like this and tease you, can he? Jason...Jason, Jason-

"Not now, okay?" His palm presses up against your puckered lips. "I know, I know. I'm terrible. Sue me." He offers a kiss to the edge of your mouth to pacify you for the time being. "Later, sweet thing. I got a job to do, gotta lay low." And dry humping the hottest man in the entire club certainly isn't that, as much as he kinda sorta wants to.

He draws out the process of dropping your hand. A step back, then two. Really digging his feet in as your fingers threaten to unlace. Jason's capturing your beauty under the flashing, dim lights. Your petulantly unsatisfied expression especially. You're way too cute. "Just have fun with your friends, yeah? I'll be around, but don't wait up, babe."

Your attention shifts before he's even out of view, and your easy smile returns. Jason appreciates that about you.

Now, for this bad guy. Man, with so many drunk people stumbling around, he's in for a long night.

The arrest is made, and Dick hauls the fucker off to the station just in time for Jason to glimpse you stumbling out of the club. A few friendly faces right behind. That's...good. Good. He thinks for a long moment as you all fight over who's calling a taxi. Well, he's already in his civies, isn't he? The family shouldn't need anything else from him tonight.

Jason clears his throat and puts on a face of bravado before approaching. "I got my bike around the block, babe. You ready to go?" Around you, your friends gasp and whine. How could you? But you feign ignorance, far too pleased to see your boyfriend sooner rather than later, like he had made you expect. You rush your goodbyes before running along hand in hand with your boyfriend. Laughing the whole way.

Now? Is he gonna let you fuck him now? You plead, crowding him against the motorcycle. "At home, hotshot. Jesus." He lets you have his helmet and jacket to cover up with, and drives just under the speed limit the whole way home. He's torn between batting your hands or just letting you have your fun as you grope him, but decides on the former since you're likely to fall off in the midst of your clouded judgement.

But seriously, you jerk, his chest is sensitive.

You practically drool the whole way into his back, but Jason guides you up to your apartment just fine. He's your old, good, reliable after all. You're on him the second the door closes, as expected. Jason closes his eyes as he leans into you, sinking into the feeling of your loving body hot against his own. He isn't nearly as...'easy' to work up as you are, but he's also not in the mood to turn you down.

Your tongue is persistent, as it is sloppy. Sliding both in and out of his mouth, wrapping around his own, mixing your saliva together. One of your hands makes its way down to his belt buckle, but at your drunk fumbling, he momentarily takes the reins. There's nothing awkward about it, and you take the time to strip yourself before you two find your way down onto the couch. Jason ditches just for a moment to grab some lube and the condom box (because he's allergic to doing it raw).

By the time that he's prepped and you're suited up, you find that the best position against your spinning head is just to have Jason ride you. His thick thighs slot over your own, and the moan you harmonize as he slides down your length is nothing short of melodic. His back is towards you, giving you ample space to knead and palm at his ass cheeks. Not only is it muscular and heavy, but it's also dimpled on both sides! Super cute, super sexy.

"Fuck..." Jason's eyes flutter. Blindly, he reaches backwards for stability. Straight posture with a cock deep in his ass- impressive. Jason moves slowly, both out of preference and your own comfort. Each roll of his hips is measured to take the same amount of your length as he did previously. You poke and prod at his rim, smiling to yourself as it puckers. "Here, touch here instead." Jason pants, pulling one of your wrists to his own front.

Your clammy hand around his base is heavenly, and Jason makes a game out of balancing between the two pleasures evenly. Who knew that a man so beefy could be so agile?

You're still out of it, though, so you don't hold out nearly as long as you typically do. Hell, you don't even give Jason a warning before you finish. Not totally unsuprising to the man, so he doesn't give you much hell for it, only scoffing slightly. Still, he keeps your hand on his cock, using it to jerk himself off while he sits on your softening one. "Hah, ah, ah, ah," He grunts a little more freely than he normally does too, knowing that you're far too dizzy to really tease him for it. Only murmuring about how beautiful he is.

Jason catches most of his seed in your palm before carefully standing off you. You're practically asleep already as he cleans, but that's fine. He supplies a soft kiss and a pat on the shoulder before you're out.

He's...nice enough, cute too (with a great ass, Bernard is sure to remind you). You were a little bumed out when they started dating, if you were being honest. You always had a little puppy crush on the blonde. You expect the casual touches, the late-night calls, and the hand holding to stop, but they never do. Is...Bernard side-piecing you? A quick peck on the lips from his boyfriend as you're walking out the door reaffirms otherwise, though. Ah, okay. You can work with that.

That's the rewind on how you became the unofficial but totally real third in their relationship. The three of you have never had the 'talk' but you've made out on the couch with one another more times than you could count. It'd be weirder if you weren't a poly couple at this point.

The next thing you learn about Tim is that he's still always busy as fuck. At least you know why now: something to do with taking over Wayne Enterprises from his adoptive father, the Bruce Wayne. You don't know what kind of luck this guy runs on. Born rich, adopted by richer, and given the main income out of all his siblings? If you play your cards right, which you have full intention of doing regardless, you'll be set for life. That's all to say that Bernards pleasure is often left in your hands.

Half of the time, the apartment is a post sex show by the time Tim comes home. Clothes thrown about, cushions with suspicious stains, and of course his two loves knocked out, sweaty, tangled up in one another. Condom boxes after condom boxes will be replaced before he even gets the chance of opening one. It's kind of depressing...and really sexy. Tim's always been a lurker, a watcher, a voyeur. It's only fitting.

"Hey-ah, hey baby!" Bernard will purr, head sticking outside the shower curtain. His face is flushed, and he looks more than a little glossy in the eyes.

"Hey, having fun?" Tim muses back; there's only time for him to brush his teeth before he has to run off to work. Again. Oh well.

"Yeah...ah! Mh, haha." Bern leans back onto you, where your tongue is digging deliciously into his ass. "Ah, shit, Timmy, you had [name]'s tongue yet? Fuck, it works so good."

"Mh, not yet. I should make it back before dinner, but no promises." Tim manages between mouthfuls of foaming toothpaste. He spits, gargles, and spits again before turning back. "Maybe tonight then, yeah?"

Tim shares a sweet kiss with a drooling Bernard...and a long, passionate one with you, tasting the blonde's essence on your tongue before finally slipping out. "He's so cute, isn't he?" You nod.

The Wayne heir would feel a little cucked if not for how ferociously the two of you climb over him the second you can. That way, he can rest easy knowing that even in his common absence, both of you are satisfied and content in the arms of one another.

He smiles to himself, regardless of the face of his anger, as he watches you from above. The hour is late in Bludhaven, and you stupidly seem to think it's the perfect time for a midnight stroll. He knows you know it's dangerous, and he can't help but find your defiance of his advice insulting. You think yourself so skilled as not to be attacked in the middle of the night? In the same city that requires someone of his skill level to protect? Shameless.

Ah...but still, you really are a sight. Ignorant to his ever-watchful eye. Dick really shouldn't be allowing himself to be distracted like this on patrol, but everything else fades away when you enter the picture.

His landing is silent when he drops down behind you and holds his breath just in case so that he can creep ever closer. Is that the new scent he bought for you? How sweet. If Dick isn't careful, he might just pop a boner at the thought alone.

"All on your lonesome, beautiful?"

He laughs as you fight, giving you all the space you need to breathe while subtly crowding you away from the edge of the street. "What's up? Hm? Thought you said you were staying in tonight." It's said with a light tone, but his meaning is anything but. Were you lying to him? This is what he gets for being so trusting. Just what is Dick going to do with you?

"I see...well, allow this humble public servant to escort you then," He bows, cheekily extending his hand for you. The act is practiced; it has to be while he's in uniform. Still, when you lace your fingers with his, Dicks grip is tighter than it would be if you were anyone else. He stands a little closer. Walks a little faster.

"...I'll come over later, kay?" Dick murmurs in your ear just before sending you on your way. "Goodnight!"

When Dick slips into the apartment early that morning, you're still asleep. He showers, goes through your phone, your location history, and prepares breakfast for when you wake up. Humming to himself. Thinking to himself. Always thinking.

He's angry, but that's fine.

Dick's fine.

"Mornin' sunshine." He breathes, smiling against your temple when you stir. The food is wrapped and ready to eat, tucked away in the microwave, but Dick has his mind set on something. He rolls you over on your back, smothering down your sleep-warm skin with his lips. "C'mon, baby, hips up. Can you work with me here?" Passively, you do. It makes him grin.

He's an expert at getting your cock hard and in his mouth. Sucking and pumping with the level of skill that servicing you a hundred times over has granted him. Dick knows you like being tugged on here, pinched there, tongued right...

"Ah!" He playfully squeals when your legs kick up and squeeze around his shoulders and neck. "Js me, easy." Dick laughs, patting the side of your hip as you properly come to your senses. "Relax...relax..."

The irritation simmering deep beneath his bones loosens the tighter your grip on him becomes. Yeah, that's right. He's the one giving you pleasure. Who's making you squirm and moan. No one else could ever dream of making you feel this good.

"Ah, baby," He drools, purposefully licking a messy line up the side of your cock. Dick knows he looks good, and he's flexing all his best angles to entice you the best he can. Arched back and all. The heart eyes are merely a plus. "Baby, I missed you, yeah? Teasing me like that while I'm at work...naughty." He's panting as if breathless; it does wonders for your ego. It's a good look on him. "Want you in me so bad, been thinkin' 'bout it all night."

The grip you sink into his dark hair says everything. He let's you guide his body up and over yours, groaning the whole way through. "Reward me?" He gasps softly.

"God, fuck yes!" Dick squeals once you find your pace inside of him. He's taken your spot of being crushed on the bed with his knees up to his ears. Your energy is still low, having just woken up, but in this position you're hitting his special spot no matter what, and it just feels so good. You love him, you love him, you love him-!

In the midst of his fit, he lets his impulses get the better of him, and he digs his nails into the flesh of your back for support. Once they've latched, he can't bring himself to let go. The pleasure of marking you is almost just as divine as the drill of your cock in his hole. Dick usually prefers to keep things much sweeter, but he's just so tired, so high-strung, so...fuck! He can't focus at all! "Yes, yes, I want yer cum so bad, ah, ah..."

Split open, owned like this, is the only real way Dick can reassure himself that your love for him is true. Maybe it's shallow; maybe he really should walk the talk and better himself, but he doesn't care.

"...made breakfast, if you want it, hun." He pants when you finally dislodge. His arm is thrown over his eyes, but he's peeking at you anyway. Staring at the stinging burn he's scratched onto your upper back. No blood, but maybe one day.

Which is why you're promptly ignoring the two below you even as they're sandwiched around your cock. Clark is on the bottom with Bruce on top, chest to chest, creating a slick hole for you to rut up against between them. Jesus, how did you get settled with such big princesses?

At least Clark has the decency to look embarrassed, red-faced as he grips the Bat's slender waist with both hands. Bruce only looks mildly inconvenienced. Something about Clark brings out the brat in Bruce; he's normally much more stoic and passive without him.

You busy yourself with rutting into the hot slide that the musk of their testicles and cocks make. Hairy on both ends, Clark more so than his counterpart. You groan, dropping your forehead down against Bruce's sweaty back. The pressure has Bruce arching underneath you. "Jesus, lover."

"[name]s 'lover', but I'm still 'boy scout'? How's that any fair?" Clark all but pouts, craning his neck to meet Bruce's fluttering gaze. "Because I damn well feel like it, that's why." The bat hisses back, gritting his teeth as he rides back against a particularly prominent vein. "Do you hear this guy, sweetheart?" Clark scoffs, looking up at you. "Unbelievable."

You mutter back something about not listening, shifting your leg up for a better angle between the two. The sight makes Clark blush. To have Gotham's brooding dark prince and a bombshell like you panting and desperately rolling your hips in search of pleasure against him is any sane person's wet dream. Clark puckers his lips and presses them against any crevice of Bruce's face he can reach.

"You're drooling." Mutters Bruce, gaze flickering down the man of tomorrow's thick chest.

"So are you."

With a slight tug, Bruce tips down to meet Clark for a proper kiss. The lack of blabbering is so sweet you nearly cum on the spot from it. While the two go at it, you lose yourself in the waves of pleasure that build. So hot...so warm...so...

"[name]," Bruce suddenly gasps, looking back towards you. "I want it inside."

"Wha-hey! You always get the first round. What if I...what if I wanted it?" Clark sputters out in objection. Both scandalized and hurt that his tongue action was put on pause.

"Then you should have said something, boy scout."

Just before they can ramp up again, you pull out, exhausted by their back and forth. Seriously, you can feel yourself going soft. With a palm running down your face, you swipe the towel you had previously thrown off to the side and wander off towards the bathroom. Informing the two lovebirds that you'll just finish on your own.