#And are on a first name basis with him each

[bckybrnss]

it hurts my stomach // dean winchester x reader

summary • you wonder if your relationship with dean has officially run it’s course pairing • dean winchester x fem!reader warnings • angst with no happy ending, breakups/separation, dean’s been distant for a while, he’s kind of a dick in this one, dean & reader are falling out of love with each other, pain, overall very sad stuff, emotionally checked out of the relationship genre • angst word count • 1271 notes • stomach by aly & aj came up on shuffle and the idea hit me like a vision i immediately had to get this out simply for the line “i just can’t stomach being your ex-wife”

The boys were participating in their normal brotherly bickering. Dean, ever the grumpy of the two, was going on and on about how things went south on a hunt. Sam, the usual voice of reason between the two, was reassuring him that it was no big deal since the job still got done. You hated when they would bicker regardless of how big or small the issue was, usually being the one to constantly remind them that they were being stupid and ‘the only two I know who can say that they’ve literally been to hell and back for each other’.

It was silly really, feeling as if you had to test the waters almost three years into the relationship. The Dean you first met would’ve gotten a kick out of your silly puns and one-liners, it was one of the many reasons he fell in love with you in the first place. You were the comedic relief to Sam’s nagging, the one who kept him sane in the early days.

The motel room was thick with tension long after the argument had settled. It was mostly on Dean’s end, as Sam had gone on a walk to give his brother the space he needed. Dean was laying against the pillows, gaze fixed on whatever nonsense he could find on television to distract himself. He was halfway through a case of beer when you got out of the shower, figuring he must have made a quick store run while you were mid-hair routine.

It was an unspoken rule that whenever Dean made a store run that he would always make sure you got something sweet. Cookies, candy — hell, even the donuts in the convenience store display case would satisfy you. It’s been a long enough tradition that he couldn’t justify breaking that habit, going as far as putting his pride to the side after arguments and complicated hunts to come back with a bag of your favorite snacks.

That’s why it stung so much more to see the empty beer bottles on the nightstand next to him.

Normally after a hunt he’d be all over you, Sam giving you the space to make up for lost time much like he was tonight. Right now, it felt as if approaching Dean was the equivalent of detonating a bomb. He barely glanced your way as you made your way over to your side of the shared bed, shuffling closer to him as you settled under the blankets.

You could handle an angry Dean on a regular basis. Grumpy should’ve been his middle name with his constant bad moods, but you were the calm to his storm. This was nothing new for you.

Right?

“Did I ever tell you about the bossy man who walked into the bar?” You break the silence, matching your boyfriend’s gaze on the television. He muttered what sounded like a ‘No’ before taking a sip from a freshly opened bottle.

Now, make that four bottles on the nightstand. Two remaining in the carrier. You braced yourself for what came next.

“He ordered everyone around.”

Silence. Not even that smile where he pretends your jokes aren’t funny even though he’s crying with laughter on the inside.

A few years ago Dean would’ve laughed at your joke. Now you can’t help but feel as if you were the last person he wanted to be around. It was suddenly hard to breathe under the weight of the amulet around your neck.

“Dean… are you sure?” There’s a bewildered look on your face as he places the amulet in your hand, the one initially given to him by Sam.

“S’not like I’d let anyone else wear it.” Dean shrugs as he crouches down to your eye level, giving you a small smile. His arm wrapped around your shoulders as he held you close to his side. “I’m not afraid to let the world know that you’re my girl, either.”

“You’re such a sap.” You giggle, playfully swatting his chest before draping the necklace in place. Dean couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face.

“Only for you.” He teases in return. “It’s something until I can get a ring, but you’re it for me.”

You suddenly felt sick to your stomach at the memory. The thought of Dean, your rock, your protector, becoming a stranger had become the reality in recent months. The hunts were longer, the communication slowed, the affection disappeared, and intimacy was nonexistent. It wasn’t fair to you to always feel like the only one in this relationship.

Most of your time was spent in whatever motel room the boys scammed themselves into for the night. Dean didn’t want you on hunts unless it was absolutely necessary for you to be in their line of sight, so the most action you saw on a regular basis was walking to the closest diner for a bite to eat; sometimes ordering to-go so you could go watch whatever was on television as a way to entertain yourself. It used to be like clockwork — Sam would take his nightly walks so you and Dean could make up for lost time, but as of late it seemed like he preferred to catch up with a case of beer.

Dean takes one last swig of the bottle before wiping his mouth and standing, turning to grab his jacket and keys while mumbling some sort of goodbye under his breath, eventually exiting the motel room completely. The tears fall as soon as the door clicks and you’re left to cling onto one of the pillows for dear life, sobbing harder as his lingering scent hits your nostrils. You were hoping Sam would extend his walk and God knows wherever Dean went, not really wanting either Winchester to see you in your current state.

You found yourself at a crossroads. Was it still worth it to stay? Most of your relationship was spent on the road and living out of motels. Dean didn’t have the career path that would warrant him want to settle down long-term, and there’s no way you wouldn’t feel guilty for bringing a child into this lifestyle. It was sustainable in the early days when the two of you were younger, the combination of puppy love and high sex drives keeping you two attached at the hip. Now the two of you were getting older and you were wondering if it was ever going to be more than weapons, late night check-ins and random dive bars.

Would settling down even be the answer? There was a part of you that still yearned to be a wife and a mother, but you couldn’t live with yourself if you pulled Dean away from the only lifestyle he’d known. Realistically, he wouldn’t be able to be stationary for more than a few days at a time and he wouldn’t even know what to do with a pet, let alone a child. He’d get the itch to go back to hunting before the first box would get unpacked. You would never get that if you stayed and you loved Dean too much to just up and leave, but at some point you had to choose yourself.

Sam had beaten his older brother home, but you were gone before Dean had made it back. Packing everything into a bag you headed off to the nearest diner, grabbing a bite to eat before calling yourself a taxi. Your phone was going off with calls and texts from the Winchester boys, but your phone was on silent as the yellow cab drove you to the next town over.

[someone-writing]

Today's menu:⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ Chapter V. 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

St. Paul told her that beetles cannot find peace fem!reader x S.R.

Ingredients: Spencer Reid x fem!reader, slow-burn, doomed prodigies, ex- BAU!reader (currently consultant), reader is a bit older than Spencer but not much, genius!reader, past trauma, father figure!David Rossi, okay it slowly crystallised to around season 7 Spencer, timeline… what timeline?, lore is recommended but not requested -> bit sidelined from the original but not much, Rossi is yet again fathering in this one, Reid being a confused man, reader being a profiling menace Warning, may contain: strong language, mention of blood, mention of past trauma in the cornfield, motives of insect and being an insect Underline note for the recipe: I'm not a native speaker, 'pardon my French' and any mistakes, but we're cooking in freestyle here, reader's eye colour is not specified (I'm not counting her as a stable part of the team in that paragraph) Previous meal: 𝜗𝜚 <- chapter IV. // chapter VI. -> 𝜗𝜚

"She froze up."

"Technically, she wasn't even supposed to be there. By the ideal protocol, you were supposed to be the one who would take care of it all, and she would maybe help."

"Yeah, I... I know, but I'm..." He takes in a soft breath and exhales slowly. "Methodically, this was all wrong. She could have gotten hurt. Both her and the victim."

"I do know that too."

"What are we gonna do?" A question that was gravitating around their lives on a daily basis.

"I don't know. Honestly, I do not know. We need her. And that's a fact. You've seen it yourself. If we want to finally get down that pest of an unsub, she... needs to stay."

“But what if she does get hurt? What then?”

Silence falls over the small office room as the two men look at each other. It surprised him that he came first to him and didn't report any of it yet. Not in official ways.

"I already lost her once. You can be damn sure that I won't lose her again. That's the most basic thing I owe her."

A few more beats of silence pass in the quiet office. Clock quietly ticking on the wall and rain drumming against the window. It was still raining, for the third day in a row at that time. Will it ever stop? Or were the grey clouds gonna suffocate the earth like a heavy hand pressing against a screaming mouth?

"What really happened that day?" he asks as he plays with a loose string on his cardigan.

He will need to fix it later so it won't unravel more.

"I-I of course read the reports from the case, but they really didn't say that much—as it is usually typical for cases like those. A-and I read the later investigation files that estimated that she couldn't have stopped it."

Rossi sighs softly.

Damn you, kid. You think that I would be sitting here if I had those answers? I'm asking myself this damn question for over 8 years now, and you expect that I will have an answer?

He was there.

Well, technically... he wasn't, but he found her. He was the first one to whom the tragedy of the day came.

He found both of them. Both of the young souls lying on that cold, wet ground under the heavy night skies. Stars blinking back at them like they were giving their last goodbye.

Just by one look, he knew that the other girl was gone. Too much blood and mess to even bother to reach to check the pulse point.

He knew he wouldn't find any.

So he focused on the second woman choking on her own blood while her face was coated with the blood of the first woman. Her shaky hand trying to get the blood out of her eyes. Just to make it even worse.

He still has that handkerchief he used to wipe her face with that day.

It was his own barrow that held her name on it. Reminder of the things that can happen when pride shines too brightly to see the reality. That hides the shadows that can warn you that you are reaching places too dark to go alone. On your own.

But he wasn't alone when they got her out of the field. At least he didn’t make that mistake.

He and Hotch were the ones who carried her out of that cornfield. Dried, dead plants crunching and ruffling around them with every move. Like they were mockingly whispering to them, "You failed, you failed, you failed."

They shouldn't have... ever sent her alone. Someone should have gone with her. He should have listened to the gut feeling that was telling him that the kidnappings were too smooth for just one unsub. And the look in Jason's eyes told him that he felt the same way.

Sometimes... you can try to read in the darkness, not knowing that the pit has a double bottom you will find only at the moment you fall into it.

And they almost fell several times, as the ground was constantly giving way to small hollows and pits that made them wobble on their feet like they were the girl now shaking in their arms. The only way they could make the walk was when the flashlights shone with the red-blue light that gave them at least a small idea of which hellhole they were gonna fall into this time.

The same flashing lights of the ambulance were glistening on the layers of blood still on her face, making her glow with... almost twisted eternal light.

"You are okay. Everything is okay now." He doesn't even know who said that awful thing. Because they all knew that it was a lie that shone in the darkness around them like a lighthouse.

The look in her eyes and the way her hand was gripping his when the ambulance started to shake its way through the darkness between the dust paths and cornfields were telling him that she died in that field.

That he doomed the soul of the young girl who was too bright for her own good. If the world was fair, she would have been the perfect profiler.

Now they all will need to wait and hope that she won’t become the perfect killer.

They will need to hope that the path that happened for her won’t lead her to the ways of rot and decay.

They will need to hope that she will only start to run. And that she will keep on running from everyone and everything. That she won’t stop in one place for too long—to not succumb to the allure of taking the easiest path.

Hoping that she won’t ever come back.

"We underestimated the unsub. The profile itself was correct. But we never counted on the possibility that he had an accomplice."

Spencer sighs softly over those words. He wants new information.

"I do know that. Again, I read the file. I mean... you know... what really happened that day?"

"I don't know. She never spoke about it. 

Not fully. Neither me, Gideon, nor Hotch ever managed to get out of her even a single thing beyond what you can find in the files." Rossi knew that for the young profiler it wouldn't be enough.

That if it were possible, he would dig a whole mine to get to the answers he wants to know so much.

"Then how are we supposed to know what her triggers are? What situations can make her spiral or shut down?" he argues back, while his fingers drum against his thighs with unset energy. His fingers need physical contact when his mind is trying to grab a lifeline from thin air.

What am I supposed to do if it happens again? I can't leave her in it. She can become a liability and endanger the rest of the team. But also, something can happen to her... this is not acceptable. From both moral and practical standpoint.

He knows that crawling feeling. All too well.

"You’re starting to care for her."

He bristles a bit over those words. "I care for her about as much as I care about all the members of this team," he snaps back almost immediately. "But to stop you assuming anything—yes, I do find her interesting. Happy?"

It was always fascinating how quickly the logical man reaches for snappy defense.

"I will look into it. I promise. No one wants to let her get hurt, you can trust me on this, kid. And I will speak with Hotch." Rossi nods his head after a moment. He can already read him. He knows that the genius's logical shield is under observation—he’s trying to find a way to repair it and fix his defence against the newcomer woman.

A nod. Soft whine of the light metal against the hard floor as he pushes the chair back from the desk. Sneakers silently tapping against the same floor of the small office.

"And kid?" That makes him turn to look back at the older profiler.

"Thanks for coming to me about this first."

One more nod. But it’s less about agreement now, and more about understanding.

The door closed with a soft click.

He still has cards he needs to count today.

The walls bounced back sound similar to... a cavalry. 

Cavalry of tiny, little legs scratching the hard, cold concrete floor as they were pushing the body ahead. 

Body that was too big and yet too small for... everything. Created from hard shell and yet so squishy and squeezable insides.

So easy to destroy. 

The cavalry of legs was making its way through the vast hallways that were endless and finite at the same time, walls reaching for the heights where they were kissing the dark skies that were full of buzzing lights. Maybe they were transmitting messages she couldn't understand yet. 

Or... ones she won’t ever understand. 

Those little legs were moving hastily, and yet she felt like she was staying in place. Like she was running in place and the doors of the room she wanted to get into were mocking her like an ancient sentinel in the distance. 

It was a wild dash and calm walk at the same time, and she finally arrived at the door. The deformed beetle leg clumsily fighting with door handles that were made out of lead and arsenic. Leaving behind soft kisses of death that were cutting the string of her life shorter and shorter every day. 

The door slowly opened and the beetle crawled in. 

"Oh, hey... I-I was looking at the new evidence that Garcia sent us. But don't worry, I tried to not mess with anything... that—that much." 

She was her own Gregor Samsa. But she hadn’t woken up — she’d walked herself into the transformation, step by step. She just couldn't influence the last push. 

But he... saw the woman. 

Not the beetle that she was...

Or he at least knew how to pretend not to see the beetle for now.

Hard to say how long it will take before he throws that apple at her. Will he mean it? Or will it just happen, as it all happened in the past? 

She nods her head silently and drops her bag on one of the chairs in the office rooms. She moves to open the blinds at the window to let in at least a bit of natural greyish light so she doesn't feel like she is planning to play a game of blackjack at the Devil's casino. 

The Devil wasn't real, but the man in front of her was as present as one would be. And the casino was the bureau room wrapped in report papers and redlines. And she needed to handle her cards correctly; otherwise, she will lose. 

And she is not sure if there is much more she can bet on and not regret losing it later. 

"Plus Garcia left you some... sticky note on one of the case files. I—I promise that I didn't read it... well, I—I didn’t read it intentionally," he adds gingerly as he pushes the manila folder towards her with the powder-pink paper on it. She nodded her head softly, a signal that she is not gonna make a deal out of it.

"It was on the outside of the desk. It wasn’t a state secret, so don’t worry about it." 

He let out a soft breath and nodded back. 

He still wasn’t sure how to even call her at this point. She was a myth, and the name she held felt like something forbidden to say aloud. Calling her just Doctor felt too impersonal as they worked too closely with each other. Doctor Y/N wasn’t that bad, but he wasn’t sure if she even wanted to be called by that title. Some people hated that. 

And there was that stupid nickname Morgan found for her. Taciturn. Short version... Tac. 

He noticed that Garcia used that short version on that sticky note too. It was slowly starting to stick around. 

"How... how do you feel about that nickname that Morgan gave you...? I—I, I don't want to pry, of course... I just wanted to ask because Garcia used it on the sticky note, and I don't want to use it in case it makes you uncomfortable or you don't like it. 

It’s your own personal decision, of course, and we are working with each other only for a short time and I'm not sure if I should call you Doctor Y/N or n-not, because statistically a big number of PhD holders don’t like to..." He was over-explaining himself again. His own mind and tongue were sticking their feet out to make him trip and crumble as usual. 

He wasn’t even sure if he was trying to make her more comfortable — or if he was just trying to stop being so terrified of her silence. 

She sighs softly again, but there is a softness in her face. She is trying to at least push in the microexpressions that she won’t rip his head off. “Tac... is okay.” 

If it helps you to have at least the fake feeling that you don't expect me to snap and crumble like the Babylon tower in front of you... I can survive it. 

His mouth moves a few times before it shuts closed, and he nods softly. Okay, he can work with that.

And it means that he doesn’t need to use her name. 

Which is a win. 

Because he feels like he is not... worth it? No, maybe it’s more about the fact that he still doesn’t understand who is even supposed to be the woman that holds that name?

That the name itself is just a mush of sounds that leave his vocal cords, slide across his tongue, brush against his teeth, and kiss his lips — but he doesn’t know the real meaning behind that word that is born into the world every time he says it aloud.

That name was still lost in translation. She was... lost in translation for him. 

“Okay... okay.” He mumbles to himself more than giving her a real answer to her reaction.

Wheels up in fifteen.

They all were waiting for the next murder at this point.

Because the unsub had been radio silent for almost 3 weeks and 6 days, which was atypical. When considering the current body count of 26 — it was a change in the timeline. 

Around 3 bodies per month through the 7 months since they started to work on the case, but now... he was 2 bodies behind. It almost felt like he was regrouping. Maybe planning something...

But definitely not reconsidering his life decisions and putting their career on a peg out of the ‘goodness’ of his soul.

And with her on board — both literally and figuratively — their current situation felt more... crowded. 

Her eyes were skimming over the current case file while she was listening to the things that were happening around the jet.

Hotch and Emily bouncing around theories about why the unsub took so long this time, Rossi grumbling something about a possible ego jerk, and Reid chiming in about the statistical chance of the unsub being a narcissist based on the power play that was shown by this.

They were waiting for the unsub's next move, sadly waiting for the next victim as the case went cold not so long after the body was found.

It was a blind chase where they were hoping for bread crumbs. 

And Morgan had cracked another joke at Reid’s expense over the fact that the man remembers the exact number of diners around the Cincinnati outskirts and yet had never considered using that knowledge for something social and not just case-related.

She watched how Spencer tried to hide his frown behind his hand.

Grumbling something about running into a serial killer as a possible date being higher than he thinks and that he is not gonna risk that.

There was something comforting about the rhythm of it.

Like they were characters in a play she’d seen a dozen times but never acted in. She turned back to her folder, not ready to step on stage just yet.

"Uh, hey... can I ask a quick question about something?" She looked up and met with the only bright eyes of the whole unit. 

It was fascinating that all the other team members were sitting somewhere around the deep brown to hazel brown eye spectrum.

Jennifer Jareau was the only one with eyes beyond hazel.

"Sure." A few beats of silence—chat between the rest of the team filling it for them—as she tucks the case file closer to her so the other woman can take her seat opposite her. "How... can I help?"

The words felt strange—old and heavy, like something sealed away for years and now uncorked again. They weren't rotten but... different. Heavy, and yet they hadn't lost the taste they used to have in the far past when they were bottled for the last time. 

And she was now opening them again. 

"I just wanted to ask about the card symbolism because the press is constantly after us because of it. I tried to ask Spencer but he..."

"Lost you after about 2 minutes?" she finished for her.

There was shock, schooled to surprise, on the other woman's face.

But not the negative type. Or at least she hoped so...

"Yeah... yeah," JJ nodded, a small smile flickering onto her face. "I see that you noticed that. Spence doesn't usually mean it but he has a tendency to lose us on the way. I think I got the basics but... just to be sure."

She nodded softly back and reached into her bag—dug through it for a short moment before she found the card box. The known cards were kept on the top of the deck with names of the victims written on top of them.

"Okay..." she mumbled as she put the most important cards in front of the woman. "It's important to understand that all the symbols hold their own role. Not just the face cards. All of them matter."

Her fingers take the Queen of Diamonds. "Michelle Scott was given the Queen of Diamonds because of her social status — symbolised by diamonds. She was a businesswoman, big fish but not dirty job, had her own support fund for kids and students from lower-income families who were into science research. That's our interpretation of why she was given the Queen. Ruler of the 'kingdom'." She hands the card to the woman so she can study it for a moment. 

"Next one, King of Hearts. Mr. Boose was an urgent care doctor — symbolised by hearts." A new card appeared on the desk.

The beetle wanted to reach for its antennas but... the human hand moved the loose hair from her eyes. 

That tiny leg, for once, took the shape of a hand.

She closed the door behind her as she moved silently through the old diner. It was only about a 10-minute walk from the crime scene, for once the location being convenient.

She needed a caffeine fix as it was almost 10 p.m., and the night would be long, as they all knew that the unsub was around the city only for a few hours. It was a chase before the new card would be dropped — signalling that the unsub was yet again... gone.

The floor was covered by faded hardwood, the glass was milky with age, the plaster was peeling, and the wallpaper was faded. An old Christmas wreath hung at the door to the kitchen and Christmas lights around the windows, as the staff didn't have enough money, nor motivation, to bother to take them off for several years now — based on the layers of dust and cobwebs.

She dismissed the first two tables because the top coat was melted by age, and she didn’t want to even touch the surface voluntarily. The other table was still being cleaned, and the rest of them were at the window.

She didn’t want to be perched at it like she would be in case of a cinematic shot that would belong to an amateur version of Fargo.

Gloomy traumatised ex-FBI profiler, working on a string of murders happening across the north part of the United States with a mysterious killer that has a thing for game cards...

Hell, they were even a state away from Minnesota.

She chuckled sourly to herself and sat behind the only table that wasn't offending her for any peculiar or particular reason with its position. Right next to the counter.

The only thing she would complain about was the awful smell of coffee.

She rubbed her face in disgust right after she nodded to the waitress a soft thank you when she brought the small pot to her. The mug was white and cheaply looking, the pot looked like it had definitely seen better days.

And she definitely should have expected that the plastic top of it may fall off, and the dark liquid would spill over the table before she got the pot back to an upright position.

She cursed underneath her breath, and her hand reached for that packed-up mountain of white paper wipes—here goes being more sustainable and 'saving the planet'. She took a handful and threw it haphazardly at the spill with a sigh, her eye watching the coffee... not soaking into the material the way she expected?

There was a difference in material porosity... her fingers dug themselves into the layers, and they wrapped around something paper... but not thin.

Her breath stops for a moment, and the noises of the half-empty diner step into the background. There is no longer the buzzing of the lights above her head, the hissing of grease from the kitchen, or the draggy voice of the waitress behind the counter as she is complaining about someone called Jerry to her... most likely sister.

She shoots out from the table she was sitting at, and her fingers shakily rip apart the soggy envelope. She shakes it to get out the thing she is dreading to see...

Ace.

She doesn’t really even have time to think about the whole thing before someone bumps into her and pushes her against the table. She must have completely zoned out...

She caught a whiff of something — disinfection? Cologne? Smoke?

She wants to turn and say sorry — but by the time she turns, the bell above the door is the only thing still moving. A small sigh almost escapes her lips before she chokes on it at the last moment when she notices the thing on the ground.

Crispy white, mockingly visible on the wooden floor.

She leans down for it, and only moments later shoots up from the table haphazardly. The Ace crumpled in her hand.

The bell on the door was still swaying when she turned — spun, really — trying to follow a ghost she hadn’t even seen.

She is turning around her own axis. Trying to see if she can catch that... man somewhere around, she is already up to start to run somewhere. Anywhere in the blinding illusion that she may catch that ghost, but a hand on her shoulder stops her.

"Hey, missy. I don't know who raised ya, but in this diner we pay for our coffee." That draggy voice gets a squeaky edge, and she turns to the other woman.

She should definitely leave that man. Bite down harder to keep the smoking at bay, and she should also try to tone down the blue eyeshadow — she won't feel younger that way anyway.

"That man who just left. Where was he sitting? What was he wearing? How did he look like?" She starts to shoot the questions immediately, and she can see the other woman getting almost startled over that line of questions.

She automatically reaches for her coat to... right, she doesn't have an official badge. Great.

"I'm with the FBI. And you think that I'm currently lying to you. But trust me, why would I need to lie to a woman with a mediocre job, a shitty partner, and a feeling that she is still not that old — even though she just came from the second funeral of her high school classmate in the past 3 years."

The waitress only blinks in shock and silently points at one of the tables. The one which... was getting cleaned when she came in.

"Where is the mug? Silverware?"

"Already in the kitchen. Dishwasher."

Fuck.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." She seethes through her teeth and blindly reaches into her other pocket to pull out a mushed 5-dollar bill. "Keep the rest."

The other woman just nods yet again in shock, takes the bill, and shakily — almost mechanically — marches back to the diner.

She runs her hand through her hair roughly and looks at the envelope in her hand. Her left hand is shaking, her right hand moves from her hair to rub her forehead for a moment in methodical, almost meditative, gestures. Then it slides to her mouth and chin for a moment.

She blinks hard once. And then quickly once, and twice.

Restart.

She rips the envelope open.

Tiny beetle leg holding the card.

Joker.

She stared.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Long enough for the card to mean something more than ink.

Long enough to feel like a target.

Her hand reached to her pocket to pull out her phone. Fingers were shaking as she was scrolling to ‘Rossi – Do not pick up.’

"We really should not send you alone." Rossi sighed softly when the cavalry arrived.

They were ready to sweep the place from floor to ceiling if it would help. And they were ready to confiscate the whole kitchen if it would be needed. Because they needed... something.

Anything.

"Ace..." Hotch mused aloud as he looked at the card that was passed around the group like a hot potato. "Reid...?"

"We spoke about it with..." Eyes land for a moment on her. "Tac. And we are trying to establish the take the unsub would give to this specific card because if we estimate the value of the card, it has double meaning. In case of Blackjack, to be more specific, it can be both the lowest and highest card of the game..."

She knew that he was speaking, but she felt like someone stuffed cotton in her ears. Like her head was held forcefully underwater. But by whom?

"Let's hope that if there will be a next card... we will get a manual to it." Morgan adds with a sigh as he watches the local police department take from the kitchen a box full of silverware and a few cups.

She felt how the card was slowly burning its way from the inside pocket of her coat.

In a similar way how the plesiosaur burned when she met with Penelope. But this burning was more... painful. Sinister.

Because this one was right above her heart.

She opens her mouth... "Yeah, this one will most likely need it." She mumbles sourly, biting down the rest.

The beetle inside her shrank smaller. Waiting for the final blow.

But no one was swinging yet.

Except—

Reid turned slightly, gaze ticking over her like he was picking up on something misaligned. Like a rhythm out of sync.

He didn’t say anything. His eyes landing on the woman with beetle features for the last time.

He didn’t see the woman as previously. He saw the hints of the beetle for the first time.

He frowned — a subtle crease forming between his brows — before turning his attention back to the card in Hotch’s hand.

As if nothing was wrong.

As if she hadn’t just cracked at the edges.

I do not know what I'm doing. I'm suffering... but I'm also enjoying this? Can I ask you all something? Are you capable to read the reader as you? I'm aware that I'm dragging you all through many things but I'm really hoping that you can jump in and at least enjoy the ride for a bit as the viewers of this storm... Anyways, that would be all for today, we are finally kicking this thing off! (After six chapters... great) Word count: 4,6k In case I don't see ya, good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and good night!

[the-pixel-lover-extravagant]

Just imagine Captain Fordo, after the battle of Coriscant is assigned to the guard as stated in 2003 canon and the chancellor even bragged to him what an honor it is to have this position only; to figure out the guard and it’s commanders are basically mall cops with authority, encountering his first genuine tweaker. At first he’s taken aback by the belligerent nonsense, then he gets swung at so he tazed the fucker. This just irritates them because their on space bath salts and that only tickled them so he and Grizzor are running for their lives from this phyco smashing windows with their head and the only way they got away was by jumping on a dumpster droid until Fox showed up and coaxed them into the back of an laat by answering their riddle. Mentally Fordo is filling out transfer papers back to the front lines.

[a-stars-art-blog]

God I love how Barok and Albert understand each other.

And specifically Albert to Barok.

And it’s at THE two scenes. The big ones for them. The prison visit and the “Laudable not Laughable” talk. They’re just such good scenes for them and their relationship.

Both instances Barok is going out of his way for Albert. To give him a heads up or to comfort him. And what I want to note is how Albert reacts to it compared to his interactions with other characters.

Usually Albert is energetic and rambles. He’s so expressive and is just constantly moving. But at the mentioned scenes, after Barok is done talking, Albert just…accepts it. He doesn’t freak out or make a big deal. He simply bows his head and says “thank you.”

Like Barok says a few words but they mean so much and Albert can see that.

[antisoucials]

you know the way that in every rivals to lovers lestappen fic they start by addressing each other as “leclerc/verstappen” but as soon as they’re in a relationship they call each other “charlie/maxy”

[hotchology]

theres something quite endearing about hotch aged 39 saying butt. he ran out of grownup words to use that day he was prepping for the baby in the house u sse.

[michameinmicha]

We always talk about writing quirks like 'the blond man' and switching between names for the same character (presumably to not overuse a name, but often ending up being confusing) as fanfiction things but you do come across it in published books sometimes and its honestly so much weirder there, where you arent expecting it

[mulderiloveyou]

my head canon is elle LOVED aaron and viceversa but they didn’t have enough time to explore that in the series bc Lola left alright

when aaron divorced she would’ve been his 1 in 5 billion (yes xfiles reference)

look i don’t care i just wanted them together

[dreamsealed]

@dayscorch replied ; IF I CRY OVER HIM ? he's having these deep thoughts & koto just kinda wants to rub her fingers against his eyebrows ALSO ERWIN DON'T CALL HER UNKAKU SHE HATES THAT

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMhm.. There may have been a miscommunication of the sorts .. Or perhaps he might as well not have been too well versed with the few reports left under her name. " Koto Unkaku. Is that correct? " A personal mistake on his end. He'll make sure to remember to the best of his capabilities.

[amelikos]

Speaking of the ways characters refer to each other, it always stood out to me that Liko has always referred to Amethio just by his name (starting from HZ007, which was the first time she referred to him by his name).

Because at the time, Liko was still hesitant to address some characters just by their names. Ann, her friend from school, had to give Liko permission to call her just "Ann" back in HZ001 because Liko initially called her "Ann-san". At the beginning, Liko (and Roy too) was also using honorifics with the Rising Volt Tacklers since they are adults. Both Liko and Roy had to be given express permission by Friede in HZ007 to drop the formalities so they could start calling everyone by their names since they were going to be full-fledged members of the group. Even upon meeting Nemo afterwards in HZ010 (someone who became a friend to both Liko and Roy), Liko initially used honorifics with her ("Nemo-san") and Nemo had a moment when she gave both Liko and Roy permission to call her just "Nemo".

So, Liko calling Amethio just by his name from the beginning, and specifically during that time window when Liko was still adjusting to the ways she referred to other people or had to be given permission to drop formalities, felt meaningful to me. It says a lot about the way she sees him and shows that he's always been just "Amethio" in her mind.

And it also says a lot about Liko's relationship with Roy and the level of comfort both characters have with each other that she also always called him just "Roy" from the start. They instantly clicked and became friends and as far as I can recall, he is the first character in the series she was on first name basis with and who didn't have to tell her to stop being formal.

[sai-int]

TICKET TO PLAY | john price

Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. It’s a game you've been playing for years—a harmless one, until he gives you exactly what you’ve been asking for.

⤿ based on this | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), bratty—sort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]

You weren’t going that fast.

Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was empty—just you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.

But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didn’t even need to check the mirror to know who it was.

Sheriff John Price.

The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you weren’t even doing anything wrong. The guy who’d written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come on—did he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.

At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyone’s business—and apparently, yours most of all.

You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you did—and you’d learned the hard way to keep things within arm’s reach.

The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.

First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphalt—slow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasn’t the one who’d flipped on the lights and sirens.

The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.

"Evenin’, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.

He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.

“Don’t call me John,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. “Why not?” you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. “Thought we were friends, John.” You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. “We aren’t ‘friends,’” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You know why I pulled you over?”

It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, and you can’t help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. “Hmm… maybe ‘cause you’re a sucker for a pretty car?” you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.

John’s lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade you’re trying so hard to maintain. Internally, he’s fighting not to laugh—you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he’s holding back a cackle.

“If this—” he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, “—is your idea of a ‘pretty car,’ I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.”

You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didn’t mean she was ugly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing how much more of this he’s willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”

“Touché.”

You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since you’d come back home from college, he’d been hot on your trail—always showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you might’ve gotten away with it.

This was your town. You’d grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since he’d arrived, it was like Elvis all over again

You figured he didn’t have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasn’t some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.

Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.

“I bet you 50 bucks there’s about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,” you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. “Surely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little ol’ me.”

He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t want your money,” he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement—and something else you can’t quite place. “Besides, I doubt you’ve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often you’re in the precinct paying off tickets.” He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like he’s daring you to argue.

You shrug, playing the part, even though you know he’s right. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.”

You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.”

Your tone is sweet—too sweet—and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether you’re messing with him or just being your usual self.

He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Big help, givin’ me that advice.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “What can I say, Sheriff? Someone’s gotta make your job worthwhile.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you can’t quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphalt—a sharp reminder that you’re not alone out here.

“Step out of the car.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. He’s never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You can’t afford to be arrested—not with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knife’s edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.

But you don’t move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.

You don’t say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slow—like dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.

You step out, tugging your shorts down where they’ve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heart’s already racing, faster than you want it to.

Then his hand is on your hip.

Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that he’s the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.

For a second, you freeze.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you don’t want to name.

You swallow, still refusing to look at him. “Gonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?” Your voice is casual, flippant—too much so. You know it, and so does he.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that makes it worse.

Because the truth is, you’d rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. It’d be normal.

But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isn’t normal.

His fingers tighten—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize he’s at his limit.

Like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away. 

You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?

His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.

"You think this is a game?"

You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chase—where you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like he’s got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.

Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like you’re some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it would’ve happened already.

He’s just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like he’s got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.

And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he can’t even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.

You don’t even have to think about it anymore. 

This is a game.

You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way he’s fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, it’s almost cute—the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like he’s waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.

But he can’t.

Not really.

His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself who’s in charge here.

But you see it—the shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something he’s still pretending isn’t there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.

You just can’t resist.

You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, “You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, haven’t you, John?”

The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, it’s like the world holds its breath.

His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But it’s not just anger anymore. It’s something else, something raw. For a split second, you’re certain he’s off the deep end.

Before you can even blink, his hand moves. It’s fast, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Get over here,” he growls.

The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like he’s been holding them back for too long.

The next thing you know, he’s dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.

And then he’s on you.

His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like he’s making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.

“Talk so fuckin’ much,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.

One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.

The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like he’s staking a claim.

“You think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckin’ with me like this, hmm?”

A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but it’s impossible—the way he’s holding you, the way he’s pressing into you with every word, every move.

His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell he’s holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice. 

You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. “By the way John Jr’s more sprung than a rainy day in April, I’d say you like it,” he groans and you chuckle, “You do like it, don’t you, John?”

The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.

“Think you’ve got me figured out?” he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. “Since you’re so fuckin’ knowledgeable, tell me something…”

Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. “Tell you what?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.

“Tell me what I do t’dumb girls that don’t know how t’speak only when spoken to,” he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you can’t help but whimper. “You give them a ticket and send them on their way?”

“Nice try, love,” he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like he’s genuinely let down by your guess.

Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.

You jerk against the restraint, but it’s useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his face—hands on his hips, blue eyes locked on you—makes you stop.

No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.

You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.

His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything you’re trying to shovel deep..

“Sit,” he commands, the word simple, authoritative.

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it. 

You lift your hips slow, like you’re not sure but can’t help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.

“This’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, dove?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s savoring the sight of you—knees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He can’t help but palm himself at the sight.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. “I’m not gonna beg,” you sneer, defiant like your cunt isn’t already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.

He smirks—slow like he’s amused, but there’s something else there, like he’s already decided how he’ll play with you.

“That’s cute,” his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.

“but you will,” he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this can’t happen. But deep down, you know he’s right. This has been a long time coming.

But fuck, he’s a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.

But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it.

He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. You’re on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.

He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. It’s all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you can’t help but try to back away at the sight. 

He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. There’s no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth. 

He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.

“You can say no, dove. I won’t hold it against you,” he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldn’t force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You want—No, need him. Badly.

You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out. 

“Fuck— that’s it, love, so fuckin’ tight,” he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back—he knew if he looked at you any longer he’d blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further. 

You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth can’t reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.

It drives him crazy—how much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.

Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cunt—sends sparks up your spine. 

You can’t help it—your hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and you’re sure you’re leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and you’re so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.

 “Look at you,” he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpin’ my boot.”

His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. “Just need your pretty pussy touched, that right?” he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock.  “On your feet, come on.” He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. “There you go, sweetheart.”

The sky’s a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiser’s headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like he’s marking his territory. 

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. “So quiet now, hm?” he hums, his face centimeters from yours. “What happened to that smart little mouth of yours?”

The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesn’t care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch he’ll give. “All this for me, sweet girl?” he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, “All wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?”

“Fuck—,” you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if you’re his. 

You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly. 

“Feels so good, John—,” you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision you’ve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.

It’s hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like he’s been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.

It’s a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him back—to try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and you’re near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs weren’t there—wishing you could claw at him instead.

“Feel you gettin’ all tight ‘round me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?” He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.

You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you don’t scream—or sob, you aren’t sure how to feel—into the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and that’s all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers. 

“That’s my girl, knew you could do it,” he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadn’t known fallen. 

You hadn’t cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.

But John isn’t in a frat.

And he certainly isn’t just a boy.

He gently slips  his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, it’s all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop. 

He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t turn you on further. 

John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand. 

“You want this, love?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just can’t get enough. 

He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.

“Words,” he says sternly.

You huff, ever the impatient brat. “Put your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.”

“That right?” he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, “You want t’act like a brat,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Then we can do this the hard way.” He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. “Unless,” he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, “you'd like to ask nicely.”

You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip. 

“She’s so greedy, already tryin’ to suck me in,” he coos, “don’t want to deprive her, now do we?”

You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. ​You open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car. 

“Please, John, Please, I need you—Please, I’ll be so good,” You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.

“See how gorgeous you sound when you’re nice? See where that gets you, love?” He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open. 

You’re slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. You’ve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob. 

“Oh none of that, lovie, none of that,” he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

 “Gonna fuck you real nice,” the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, “Just be a good pet and take it.”

You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon. 

Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.

He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.

He leans, his lips brushing against your own. “That's it, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Take it all.”

His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know he’s getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.

His name falls from your lips in a litany—John, John, John, john—a prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.

You’re breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“That was…” you murmur, your voice still rough.

He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “A lot,” he finishes for you, his voice low.

You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.

Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that you’re literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious. 

He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. “Sheriff’s discretion,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. “Wouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.” Fucking knew it.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.”

He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. “Evidence suggests otherwise, doll,” he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I'm the one writing the tickets.” He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin. 

The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.

“Drive safe,” he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips that’s got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, he’s reluctant to pull away.

But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened. 

You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free. 

It's a ticket. For speeding.

Asshole. 

[alisoncooper]

i have a migraine so i thought i'd continue with my ghosts rewatch to make myself feel better but unfortunately i watched carpe diem and now i'm in floods of tears

[foldingfittedsheets]

The location of the sex shop I worked was a haven for spiders. We had tall ceilings and skylights and unused storage rooms. It was a spider paradise. We quickly sussed out which coworkers to call on in case of emergency. The Dorito lady was a solid ally for spiders but absolutely petrified of moths.

But there’s actually a hierarchy of fear. Most people don’t realize. The person least afraid is the one forced to deal with the bug in question. If coworker B was scared, but coworker A was petrified, well coworker B was gonna have to screw their courage to the sticking place because by the law of fear they were the most competent person on scene.

Thus enters Rick. Rick first appeared in the back storage room. This room doubled as a second bathroom so we went in on a semi frequent basis. The girl who’d gone in to pee shot out again gibbering with fear about the biggest spider she’d ever seen had just run across her boot.

We sicced Dorito lady on it. She returned, shaking her head. “He was squatting on a power cord where it plugs in. I couldn’t get a clean shot at Rick.”

“Rick?”

She shrugged. “Spiders that big need a name. Seemed like a Rick.”

Rick, freshly named, became a store menace. I’d normally say this was probably a case of multiple spiders being mistaken for one but everyone who encountered him swore up and down there could be no mistake. This spider was massive, fast, and distinct. A gladiator among arachnids.

I never encountered Rick. His exploits grew in the telling but the theme was consistent: no one could kill him. He’d hunker in places that no one could reach and dart away when a strike missed. He also chased off the more faint hearted, charging them in bold dashes. There could be no benign cup transplant to remove Rick from the premise. He was not leaving.

The saga of Rick continued for two months. Not seeing him was almost worse, a fearful wariness when going to the bathroom or stepping into quieter areas. I waited with dread, hoping my eventual run in would have me on shift with Dorito lady to protect me.

It was not to be. There was a girl the same who hated my one moment of singing that was absolute piss-herself scared of spiders. She’d slam straight into a panic attack and couldn’t think or speak. And so it was that one night on shift, I heard her scream.

It was unmistakable. I was in the front window turning off the open sign. Through an obstacle course of mannequins and lingerie I performed an acrobatic sprint out of the window, darting up to find her quivering at the front counter, fully crying. I radiated calm at her and said, “Just point.”

I knew it was Rick. Our destinies were intertwined and we had always been pulled toward the inexorable battle that was drawing nigh.

Her hand raised to point to our sandwich board sign at the front of the store. So Rick had the metaphorical high ground. There was no quick easy strike on the slanted signs surface.

I armed myself and marched into battle, my knuckles white on my chosen weapon. I would do this, because I must. Because there was no one else. And because I wanted to close and go home.

I saw Rick immediately and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger spider since. Outside of a tarantula, he was truly the most massive spider I’ve ever beheld outside a zoo enclosure or terrarium.

We regarded each other. Rick launched off the sign toward me and I stomped my foot reflexively, making him pause in his charge. Then I raised my weapon. Anything else, I believe Rick could have evaded. He’d bested most of the store thus far. But I had chosen chemical warfare.

I doused the shit out of that spider with cleaning spray, stunning him with a barrage of chemicals. While he froze, choking on the unexpected deluge, I dropped a paper towel over him. My foot came down.

I felt his exoskeleton crunch and I can feel it still to this day. The shattering was as of bones and I truly mourned that we had been forced into senseless war. If only he has cleaved tighter to the shadows. If only he’d crawled willing into a cup for relocation. I released a full body shudder of horror, fear, and adrenaline as I stepped back.

I took several quivering breaths. I donned a veneer of calm and tidied the battlefield of it’s corpse then went to reassure my coworker that all was well, while internally I still shook.

You fought well, Rick. I hope you sired many more monstrous children to haunt retail workers in the years to come. Rest in valor, you monster.

[sailoryuns]

BABY FEVER 🍼

genre. husband!heeseung x wife!reader

warnings. tooth-aching fluff, smut, fingering, eating out, unprotected s*x, impreg kink (!!!), bath time aftercare, i believe that’s it.. wc -> 2.1k

“i’m gonna put a baby in you someday,” your husband casually says while rubbing your stomach.

“in this cute little tummy right here,” he points near your belly button, planting a small kiss to it.

you two were finally alone after heeseung offered to help your parents move and rearrange some of the new furniture that arrived today. you had decided to stay at your family’s beach house over the summer for a change of scenery as you hadn’t been here since you were a teenager, let alone seen your parents in person since last year.

this wasn’t the first time he’s said something like this and it surely won’t be the last, but you burst into a giggle, “quit kidding around, hee.”

he’s always playing around but you can count on one hand how many times he’s actually finished inside you, since you’re not on birth control for health reasons you have to be extra careful to not end up getting pregnant.

there’s been a handful of times where he’s had to run to the store and get you a morning after pill which you’d just hope for the best and leave it up to the universe. you have noticed that heeseung has been more vocal about wanting children lately, so maybe he’s hinting at finally taking the next step.

“and if i told you i wasn’t?” he shifts slightly, eyes flickering up to stare into your gaze. “would you let me paint your walls? give you a baby so i can see my pretty wife bear our children?”

the thought of you carrying his child pops into his head a lot, probably on an hourly basis—he’s more than ready to start a family, but he’s still not sure where you stand 100% on the idea. there was no pressure on his side, but it’s important to make sure you’re both on the same page.

your hands snake up to his chin, cupping it firmly, ready to make the final say once and for all. “yes hee, i’ll let you do anything to me. i trust you, i trust us.”

you’ve never trusted someone as much as you do heeseung, he’s the reason you even get out of bed in the morning, makes you want to push yourself to become a better person. real love is the refusal to never give up on one another, even through the toughest, most ugliest moments.

what you’ve come to realize is that you have all of him and everything he’s promised to provide is all yours; his heart, his last name, his vow to stay by your side forever— through sickness and health. he’s given every single aspect of himself he has to offer, the only thing left that’s missing is a tiny addition that carries both you and heeseung’s DNA. you’re more than curious to see what the outcome will be, harboring no regrets inside. heeseung’s smile grew wider, feeling faint tears rim his eyes at the thought of you putting all your trust in him. you have no idea just how much that means to him.

his head lowers back to your torso, imprinting a trail of kisses, slowly making his way down further and further. your skin feels as if it’s on fire, boiling hot like the scorching summer heat.

he took an ample amount of time to worship your body, leaving wet kisses to your inner thighs, “i’ve wanted this for so long…” he hums against you, insides buzzing with raw passion and desire. “want to finally do this together,” he gently nibbles, a faint bite mark appears to which he repeats on the other side.

“your tits are gonna get even bigger, more plump and so full of milk,” he continues, elated with so much enthusiasm, “that pregnancy glow will make you even more gorgeous.” he wasn’t saying all of this for nothing, he truly cannot wait to experience it all, how your belly will grow each month, all the random/weird food cravings you’ll get, and gracefully handle any sudden mood swings you may have.

you were aching for him, you couldn’t even answer back, your heads reeling with too many thoughts— the thought of him stuffing you to the brim with his cock. you were topless but wanted him to take off the rest, wanted him to fuck you until your body physically shakes and you can’t think of anything but him being buried balls deep into your sousing cunt. you had to savour every last bit of this though, etch every little detail in your brain to replay as a supercut one day; remembering the time you two made love to conceive your first child.

heeseung’s slender digits move skillfully to hook around the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down along with your drenched panties. “it’s crazy to me how this is all mine,” he pauses to admire your glistening arousal, scooping it up with his one of his fingers to have a quick taste— saccharine.

“i have the prettiest, sexiest, hottest wife in the whole fucking world.” he’ll never not compliment you, even when you’re old and gray he will always remain the same.

“oh stopp,” you toy with your bottom lip, feeling your cheeks grow hotter and hotter by his constant sweet talk. then you become a pile of mush, simply too absorbed with pleasure as he sunk one of his digits into you, thrusting in and out slowly.

“fuck.. feels s’good- please don’t stop.” you beg for this to never end, bidding all concept of time to vanish in hopes of it lasting infinitely.

“we’re going to create the most beautiful family,” he coos, licking a stripe to your clit, swiping up and down as he continued pumping his fingers in your wetness, “just you and me.”

he only came up for air to say those last few lines, diving right back in to drink up your deliciousness. his tongue adds light pressure to your overly sensitive bud, making you twitch and subconsciously jolt up— his free hand forcibly brings your hips back down, locking you in place so you have nowhere to go— forced to take all that he gives you. paradise. that’s what this is. you’re already close to the edge, the broken moans that escaped your lips are like a soft ballad to his ears, cursing under your breath, panting, crying out his name repeatedly.

“ah! s’close… don’t stop, don’t stop..” you plea so pathetically, voice getting shakier as you reach your climax, his face was soaked, fucking drenched.

he’ll willingly drown, submerge himself into the flood of you, no other place he’d rather be than between these perfect, plush thighs. he drives you into further insanity when his pace drew more rapid, finding the ultimate sweet spot. the lethal combination of his fingers and his tongue working to give you a mind blowing orgasm, all you could do was utter feeble, plaintive cries, latching onto his fluffy hair as you ride out your sudden high that’s stampeding into you full force. your body goes inert, limbs pliant beneath his embrace.

“you did so good for me angel, so proud of you.” heeseung briefly pecks both your thighs, giving it a little smack once he comes back up to face you again.

he quickly discards the rest of his clothes, but everything’s moving in slow motion. his movements are frantic yet it still wasn’t quick enough, he needs to feel you so badly. his manhood throbs against your folds, sliding his shaft between the puffy, saturated lips, making such delightful sounds.

“quit teasin’,” you whine, not in the mood for prolonging this anymore.

he doesn’t say anything, just twisting a smile in response, but he’ll give you exactly what you want. who is he to deny his wife’s orders? so he finally enters you, filling you up little by little, inch by inch; and when he’s fully settled in, your walls cinch around his length immediately.

“never fails to amaze me how i fuck this little pussy on the daily but you’re still so fuckin’ tight… always squeezin’ me babe.” his breath hitched towards the end, already sounding so pussydrunk from the way you suck in the entirety of him.

your legs hook around each side of his waist, keening at the way his cock drives into you, slow but sensual, moving your hips to match his rhythm.

“be a good girl and wait for me. wanna cum together.” he husks, to which you obediently nod at his request.

your jaw slacks open wide from his cock hitting your walls beautifully, each stroke he gave sent you to a further state of delirium. he picks up his speed a little more, his brain empty with no thoughts but this warm, dewy pussy swallowing him up, groaning as you leave scratches along his back. heeseung’s sweet compliments never stop, they only intensify.

‘you’re all mine, and i’m all yours baby’

‘your face looks so pretty when it’s all fucked out’

‘love fucking this perfect little cunt’ and ‘i love you so much, my angel baby.’

it brings you to the verge, strings of shattered moans evade your senses.

your hands greedily come up the sides of his face, pulling him in for a frenzied, yet passionate kiss caging him in just in case he has second thoughts, trapping him with no choice but to cum inside.

“shit— keep going like that and you’re def getting pregnant tonight.” he groans against your lips, this only made you clench around him tighter,

“please- wan’ your cum, put your babies in me..” you want him to paint your walls white, milk him for all he’s worth and some.

his strokes get sloppier as his high approaches, squeezing your thighs as he plunges deeper. it doesn’t take much longer for him to shoot his load inside, planting every bit of his seed as the waves of your second orgasm ripples through you. you’re both heavily panting and gasping for air, when he pulls out you’re left empty again, but at least you were stuffed with his hot cum. he looks down at the mess he’s made, sodden and creamy, picking up some that’s spilled out of your cunt to push back in.

“we can’t let any go to waste, right ?”

“mm… yea.” you bit your lip, still shaking, static electricity flowing through your veins.

he topples over in exhaustion, way too tired to move. well, at least for now— he’ll be able to go again in another hour or so.

“you’re going to be such an amazing mom,” he says while snuggling up in the crook of your neck.

“remember the day i asked you out? i thought you were gonna say no.” that was random… but when it comes to heeseung, he was practically known for saying the most unexpected shit at the oddest times.

“what?” you were so confused, firstly this came out of nowhere, but also why would he ever think that? it was basically love at first sight with each other.

“wasn’t nearly as confident back then, i used to practice in the mirror how i’d do it.” he chuckles at those old memories, in hindsight none of it was necessary because he didn’t say any of the lines he rehearsed. defeated the whole purpose.

“since the day we first met i knew you were the girl i’d spend the rest of eternity with.” his fingers trace down your spine as he spoke, you’re so overfilled with joy that you could cry. you regret absolutely nothing, the only thing you do is all the other men who came before heeseung, all those losers who were wastes of time, but that journey has led you here and this is where you’ll stay for the rest of your life. it still feels like the honeymoon stage with him, a never ending blissful rollercoaster.

he’s a romantic at heart just like you, he still writes occasional love letters to you and is always doing something to bring a smile to your face— whether it be coming home with your favorite candy, buying you flowers, or taking you out on cute, fun dates. every day is like a new surprise, never knowing what you’re gonna get when it comes to your husband’s spontaneity.

you’re both a little sticky, sweaty, and smell of nothing but pure sex. heeseung ends up carrying you all the way to the bathroom, deciding to run a nice, relaxing bath for the two of you. he adds your favorite lavender bubble bath, making the water extra bubbly and soapy for you which he knows you love.

when you’re both in the bathtub, your backs facing him as he uses a loofah to clean you up, embedding gentle kisses to the nape of your neck and shoulders as he does it. he held you for what seemed like forever, just admiring each other’s company while under the water, almost falling asleep right in his arms.

writing smut at 10 am is crazy work 💀😂 but uhhh this is a mess and all over the place idec, i just need husband!hee more than oxygen fr #breedable #heescumdump <3

[voyaging-too]

Speaking of the Hungarian translation of the Locked Tomb, a number of Choices were Made when it comes to formal and informal address. Wow this will be so hard to explain.

Quick primer: there's formal and informal address in the second person, last name basis means formal you, first name basis means informal you, except when it doesn't.

Asymmetric use of formality is pretty rare: if the other person uses informal, you can either accept it and you'll both use informal, or you can reject it and you'll both go back to formal. Children are addressed informally, but are often taught to use formal to address teachers and elderly relatives, and some people never graduate to informal with their grandma. But if there's ongoing asymmetry of address between two adults, something is probably wrong: the common term for this is "csendőrpertu", the "policeman's informal." As in, a person in a position of power uses familiar, informal language, and the subordinate/civilian keeps using the polite formal, because returning the disrespectful informality would be seen as, well, disrespectful. Historically, employers/lords/kings(/parents) could use one-sided informality, as a status thing, but that a) wasn't actually the same formula and b) is no longer seen as acceptable.

My point is, the Hungarian translation of the Locked Tomb is full of asymmetry. Sustained asymmetric address, in very modern contemporary language, between two people who know each other, reads extremely unnatural. Nobody talks like that. I'm honestly on the fence over whether this even works, but I have to admit that it really highlights the inequality and tension within some relationships. Harrow addresses Ortus informally and Ortus responds in formal, which emphasizes that she's treating him like a servant. John addresses Harrow informally, but Harrow obviously cannot use informal to the Emperor's face. So he's showing her affection in a way that's actively stressing her out, the language equivalent of offering those biscuits. And John has the same inequality with all his Lyctors: he addresses them as friends and equals, and they respond like they know they are servants.

Harrow uses mutual formal with Palamedes (friendly respect) and mutual informal with Ianthe (fairly intimate disrespect.) I'm almost certain that Gideon has the guts to return informal address despite being technically her servant, but I can't get my hands on the first volume (all the library copies are out.)

[motorsportbarbie13]

A Package Deal - Part 2

In which something a little more serious and a lot more meaningful than either of you anticipated starts to blossom between you and your curly haired crush.

Warnings: nothing, this is so tooth achingly fluffy, you may need a trip to the dentist afterwards. Pairing: Lando x SingleMom!Reader Word Count: 5.3k (oops)

Master List

(quick note in case anyone is paying super close attention. i switched the job reader has at McLaren to fit this bit of plot in. I think switched all mentions over in part one, but just in case you notice the different job title, that was on purpose :) )

yourusername (private) posted:

110 likes liked by landonorris, BFFSarah, coworkerMolly, and others yourusername scenes from the longest winter break ever landonorris is Stella baking me more cookies??? >>>yourusername she gave all gingerbread men mullets 'just like lando', what do you think? >>>landonorris thats my girl!! coworkerMolly that skirt on you is INSANE btw >>>yourusername ;)

The holidays slip away in a blur of presents and hot cocoa dates with Stella so fast that before you know it, school is beginning again and you're forced back into the office on a regular basis. With the way the holidays fell this year, you ended up taking nearly two weeks of annual leave between Christmas and New Years and while you appreciated the time off to reset and battle burnout your job inevitably brought on, by the time you dropped Stella off at school that first morning, you were near ecstatic with relief.

You didn't want to admit it to anyone, not even barely to yourself, but you also had missed Lando. He'd spent Christmas at his parents for a few days before jetting off to somewhere gorgeous and warm with his friends and while he texted you near constantly, you often found yourself wondering what he was doing. You hated how much you looked forward to the chime on your phone alerting you to a new text but even more, you hated how much your heart stuttered in your chest every time you saw it was his name that was lighting up your phone.

You had told Sarah about running into Lando at Harrods that Saturday and then made the mistake of telling her that he had bought the booster seat (downright refusing to allow you to even split the cost it with him) and driven you home. She had grinned like a cat with warm milk, saying she knew something was going on but was wildly excited when you told her about the drive home.

Like you had predicted, Stella had been fast asleep by the time Lando had merged onto the freeway. She had stayed sound asleep even after you had reached your house, Lando allowing his Range Rover to idle for nearly twenty minutes in your driveway as you chatted. The conversation was quiet, neither of you wanting to wake a sleeping Stella but it flowed as easily as champagne on New Years Eve.

As you sat in the passengers seat of the SUV you couldn't help the way your mind wandered into the 'what ifs' of what was happening here. What if everything hadn't been ruined the moment Lando found out that Stella was yours? What if that, despite everything being against you, this was the time it all worked out. They were dangerous thoughts, especially for a single mom who couldn't allow her heart to be compromised. There was another heart that had to be taken into consideration: Stella's fragile six year old heart. So when Lando had started allowing his gaze to wander down to your lips and leaning almost imperceptably closer towards you with each passing moment, you had ignored his advances. You didn't want to, but you were scared. The what if's scared you but the what ifs not working out scared you even more.

You had slipped out of the car before anything could happen, thankful for the fact that Stella began to finally stir after nearly 30 minutes of you and Lando talking.

After that night, the texting had started and while Lando hadn't visted the MTC since, he had made a point to check in with you a few times each day. He didn't want to get ahead of himself, reminding himself of how you had ever so subtly rejected his advances the night he had taken you and Stella home.

As he had been analyzing the evening the next day with Max, his best friend had all but warned him off of you. 'Being with a single mom is a challenge that I don't think you're up for, mate.' Had been his warning, a warning that Lando had so far, chosen to ignore. He knew it was kind of a crazy thing to consider, especially with the lifestyle that he had become accustomed to over the last few years, but there was something magnetic about you. The way you sacrificed everything in order to make sure Stella was taken care of. The way you took on everything solo despite having a solid support system, because you didn't want to be a burden to anyone. The way you still managed to find magic in a life that had to be full of heartache and difficulties.

You were a magnetic force to be reckoned with and the fact that you had opened up to Lando that night in the car while Stella slept soundly in his back seat was something that he cherished.

It was also why he found himself nervously pacing outside of Sarah's office one January morning after he had returned from his vacation in Finland. The new season was fast approaching and it was time to get down to business and spend more time in the sim and at the MTC, making sure he was ready to give everything for the 2025 season. But he also had other reasons to be at the MTC even more: you.

Sarah is in her office that chilly January morning when she hears shuffling outside her door. It's propped open so all it takes is a quick peek outside. "Lando?" She calls, spying the driver hovering outside her door, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he paced the empty corridor.

"Oh. Hi. Sorry." Lando pushes his curls off his face, stepping into the brightly lit office. "Am I interrupting? I can totally come back..."

Sarah nearly laughs at the anxious energy radiating off of Lando but manages to quell it, not wanting to spook him. "No, it's fine. What can I do for you?"

"I...well..." Lando cards his hand hand through his hair once again, searching for the right words. He hadn't gotten the best reception from Max when he opened up about his feelings for you, so he was really nervous about what your best friend was going to say. He didn't want to get told off by her too. "I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor?"

Sarah smirks. "Does this favor have to do with our favorite single mom who works down the hall?"

Lando goes crimson at the question but a bit of him feels relieved at the smile that plays on Sarah's face. "Uh...It does actually. I was wondering if you would be willing to babysit Stella Saturday night so I could take her out to dinner and maybe a movie or something."

Sarah pushes away from her desk, the look on her face transforming from smug to soft admiration. "You really like her, don't you?"

Lando nods earnestly, "I do. Stella kind of threw me for a loop there at first but after spending time with them before Christmas..." He drops the rest of the sentence then, not sure if he should be opening up this much to your best friend. She probably knew how you felt about him already but it was a natural reaction for him to keep his feelings closely held. "I know our lifestyles are not exactly...compatible but she's amazing and I just want to spend more time with her."

"You'd be lucky to land a girl like her, Lando." Sarah observes, leaning back in her chair. "And while I agree, your lifestyles are radically different, I think you two could be good for each other."

"Yeah?" Lando's voice is a wash of relief, having expected to face the same criticism that he had faced from Max.

"Yeah, I do. I'd be happy to take Stella for the night as long as she's okay with it. Have you asked her?"

Lando shakes his head. "I wanted to make sure you were okay with it first."

"Can I give you some advice though?" When Lando nods, Sarah continues. "You're going to have to be patient with her. She's been through a lot and she has a lot on her shoulders. She doesn't need someone adding to that load. She needs someone who's going to help her carry that load, take some things off her shoulders. And if that's not something you think you can do, don't even start anything with her. If you're not all in with her and Stella, please don't pursue anything further, okay?"

Lando leans against the door frame, taking in your best friend's words. "I'd never do anything to add to what she already carries." He says softly and Sarah grins.

"Good. Tell her I'll take Stella for one of our famous sleepovers, yeah? Treat her well, Lando. I don't want to have to kick your ass if you hurt her."

"Thanks, Sarah. I'd never hurt her, I promise."

"Good. Now get, I think she's leaving after lunch today to get Stella for a dentist appointment. She should still be in her office though."

yourusername (private) posted a story:

replies: BFFSarah oh my GODDDDDDDD! you're going to give the poor boy a heart attack. >>>yourusername stoppppp, i'm so nervous. >>>BFFSarah not as nervous as he was when he was in my office on Tuesday asking me to babysit Stella ;) landonorris well hello pretty girl. is that outfit for me? >>>yourusername maybe ;)

"Wait, so you were the one who came up with the idea for that tire deg prediction program?" Lando stares at you from across the table, jaw nearly hitting the white linen tablecloth.

You blush into your wine, not good at taking compliments. The small Italian restaurant that Lando had booked a table at was quiet and cozy, allowing both of you to focus on the person sitting across from you and not anything else. It was nice, getting out of the house without Stella in tow. As much as you adored your daughter and valued every single second spent with her, sometimes it was really nice to have some time away. You were on your second glass of wine and your head was buzzing delightfully, the look on Lando's face as you fell into conversation about the work you were so passionate about sent something that felt a lot like desire curling deep in your belly.

"That was me. I'm actually working on an improved model for the upcoming season. More inputs like weather and historical degradation data should help the model give Andrea and the team a better idea of when the ideal pit window for you and Oscar will be in real time."

Lando just stares at you, dumbfounded. He had known bits and pieces of your job from the time he spent accosting you with questions over the last six months but he had never realized how deeply ingrained you were in his weekend routine already. "That program helped me win Miami last year." He says, totally awestruck.

You fidget under his attention, barely hiding a smile. When you had stumbled upon data analytics and predictive modeling in your first semester of uni all those years ago, you had never imagined it would lead to you writing a program that helped an F1 team predict how and when the tires were going to go off during a race. It was just one of many projects you had worked on in your two years at McLaren but it was absolutely the one you were most proud of.

"Well, hopefully with the improved modeling system I've been working on, we can get you and Oscar onto that top step more this year. I have a meeting with Zak and Andrea next week actually to discuss putting more resources into it so we can further develop it."

"I don't know how you can improve on it, the data I've seen it produce is already wildly helpful." Lando has to resist the urge to cover your hand with his, the need to touch you suddenly overwhelming.

He had been so nervous tonight while driving over to your house to pick you up for dinner, it was a wonder he hadn't ended up in a ditch or something. Stella had already been whisked away by Sarah by the time he got to your house, but there was a (albeit a bit stale) gingerbread man with a curly mullet left on the counter for him. 'Stella gave me strict instructions to make sure you get your cookie.' You had informed him, face serious with the task at hand.

Now that you were sat across from him, plate of food sat half eaten in front of you, Lando found himself not as nervous as he thought he'd be. The butterflies were still there and he had to constantly keep the desire to lace his fingers with yours in check, but the way you had made him feel calm and comfortable during the time he visited you in your office before had simply transferred to dinner tonight. He'd never felt more at ease with someone who made him so nervous before and while it was an uneasy feeling, it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"I didn't realize anyone beyond the strategy team used the models." You admit.

Lando likes the way your cheeks flush under his praise, even if you're still refusing to meet his eyes while he compliments you.

"Will and I go over all that data after session. With how unpredictable the tires can be from day to day, I really depend on that information."

"Well, I'm glad my little data project is doing its job." You say simply, before taking another bite out of the food before you.

The rest of dinner passes in casual conversation and meaningful looks exchanged over drinks and dessert. If having dinner with Lando and Stella in London had been fun, this dinner was certainly a more intimate affair. It wasn't until your third glass of wine that you settled into the feeling that there could be something between you and Lando, allowing the fear to take a back seat even for just one night.

"Can I ask you something?" You ask boldly while dessert is being placed in front of you.

"Anything."

And he means it.

"I know the first time you found your way into my office was by mistake but I've always wondered why you kept coming back. I mean, my office is literally on the opposite side of any place you'd ever be normally."

"Besides the fact that you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen in my life?" He flirts shamelessly, the alcohol in his system making him braver than he really felt.

"Lan..." You scold, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

Lando chuckles and finally loses the battle he's been fighting all dinner. He reaches across the table and slips his fingers into the spaces between yours, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of your hand. The spark that ignites when he touches you has the breath catching in the back of your throat. "Because you talked to me like a normal person. It was right around the time the championship race was heating up, as manufactured by the press as it was. The team was a bit in shambles and I just felt really unsupported."

He doesn't have to say it, but you instinctively know he's talking about the Hungary race earlier in the year. The Wednesday after that race, Lando had popped up in your office first thing in the morning and had sat across from you until well after lunch. The way his shoulders hunched and he kind of just folded himself into the desk chair that you now kept specifically for him had broken your heart.

"You never asked me about racing or the championship or anything like that. You let me talk and ask questions about your job and I was just able to forget the outside world for a bit. I was never Lando Norris, McLaren Formula 1 driver competing with Max Verstappen with you. I was just 'Lan'. I really appreciated that, especially during the second half of the season."

You had become his safe space was what he wanted to say but fear kept that bit of information from passing his lips. For now.

The warmth of Lando's fingers tangled with yours travels through your entire body. "I'm glad I helped." You murmur, heat pooling low in your belly at the look he's giving you from across the table.

"More than you know."

"Okay. No, I understand. Yes, she was fine when I dropped her off this morning. Okay. Yes, thank you. Tell her I'm leaving work right now, I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Thank you, Ms. Rose."

Panic floods your chest as you stare at the computer screen in front of you. "Fuck." You whisper, frantically looking up the phone number for Zak's personal assistant. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"That is a lot of swearing for 10 in the morning on a Wednesday."

Your eyes fly from your computer screen to the door of your office where Lando stands, leaning against the doorframe looking unreasonably handsome in a green jumper and jeans. You couldn't admire him for long though, panic returning to the front of your mind as you desperately try to figure out what you're going to do.

"Stella's school just called." Lando immediately crosses the room and sits down in 'his' chair, as he's begun to think it. Ever since your date last Saturday night, he hasn't been able to get you off his mind. He's been at the MTC every morning this week, something that even Zak noticed this morning and made a comment about him being extra dedicated to getting the new season started off on the right foot. If only he knew the real motivation for being around all the time now. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd spent any time back at his other apartment in Monaco.

"Everything okay?"

"No, she's running a fever. They need me to come get her except remember that meeting with Zak and Andrea I told you about? It's in..." Your eyes flicker back to your computer screen before bouncing back up to meet Lando's concerned gaze. "Fifteen minutes. I'm going to have to cancel and God knows when I'm ever going to get this kind of face time with either of them before the start of the season. Without their support, the upgrades to that tire deg model I want to make will basically be dead in the water."

Normally, you handle the pressures of being a single mom pretty well. You realize your career trajectory is a little different than normal, with you being unable to work late or travel extensively or do any of the other things that usually help with job advancement and you made your peace with that a long time ago. You make enough to provide very comfortably for Stella, so when you're passed over for promotions or unable to dedicate extra time, you're usually fine with it. Not today though.

"I've been prepping for this meeting for weeks. Weeks, Lando. Sarah is on annual leave in Spain and my dad is in London today with a client, there is literally no one else to go get her. Today of all fucking days." Tears threaten to spill over, you're so frustrated. You've worked so hard to get this meeting and now it's all going to go to waste.

"I'll go get her." The way Lando says it has shock slicing through your heart, quick as a knife. He says it so casually, like you're silly for not even considering him.

"What? No, Lando, I can't ask that of you."

"You're not asking, I'm offering." Lando stands, pulling out his phone. "Text me the address of her school and I'll go get her. I drove my Rover this morning and guess what I still have in the back seat?" A brilliant smile flashes across his face.

Something stills in your chest at the fact that Lando left your daughter's booster seat in his car after all these weeks.

"Lan..."

"I don't want to hear any more arguments, mama."

Well that was certainly something you'd have to unpack your reaction to later.

"Are you sure?" You bite at your lower lip and Lando has to physically restrain himself from kissing you right there in your office. Something which he still hasn't done, as much as it was killing him. After dinner the other night he had wanted to kiss you more than anything but he hadn't wanted to rush you, Sarah's words echoing in his head. How he needed to be patient with you and how you'd bene through so much the past few years so he had chickened out, erring on the side of caution and had settled for a hug and quick press of his lips to your cheek instead. He had regretted it every moment since dropping you off at your door that night.

"Absolutely. Now, go call Ms. Rose back and tell her Lando Norris is coming to get Ms. Stelly Belly. Do you have a spare key for me? I'll take her back to your place and we'll watch movies 'til you can get home."

An unfamiliar sense of calm settles over you at the sound of confidence in Lando's voice. You don't let just anyone take care of Stella, especially when she's sick. Really, the only other two people that you'd ever trust with her are Sarah and your dad. That list now was a list of three, you supposed.

"Okay." You reply weakly. "Thank you, Lando. Seriously. I don't know how I'm ever going to repay you."

"Go get ready for your meeting, pretty girl." Without a second look, Lando turns and walks out of your office. Moments after he gets into the lift to head to his car, his phone chimes with a text from you giving him the address to Stella's school.

A few hours later, you slot the key to your front door in the lock, swinging the door open as quietly as you can manage. From the entryway, you can hear the TV playing in the living room on the other side of the house.

Just in case Stella is asleep, you don't announce your presence opting to tip toe towards where you think Lando and Stella will be instead. The sight that greets you when you finally spy them has your heart clenching painfully, stealing the breath straight out of your lungs. The couch is perpendicular to where you stand, so you can just see Lando's profile as he sits, cheek tilted down resting gently on Stella's head as he watched Frozen playing on the TV in front of him. Stella is cuddled up in his lap, her arms thrown around his shoulders and her little head is buried deep in the crook of his neck. Lando's arms are wrapped securely around your little girl as he cradles her to his chest.

You rub at your sternum, desperatly trying to massage the ache that has settled there at the way Stella is curled up into Lando for comfort. You've never seen her do this with anyone other than you. Not even Sarah.

Lando senses when you walk into the room, having not even heard the door open moments before. Stella sleeps soundly against him, her warm breath tickling at the space between his neck and shoulders. They hadn't been home longer than twenty minutes when Stella had started to cry because she felt so poorly. When Lando had offered her a cuddle to make her feel better until you could get home, Stella had crawled right up into his lap and fell asleep before Anna even had a chance to build that snowman.

He was surprised at how comfortable this felt, with Stella seeking comfort from him. How easily it had come for him to just wrap his arms around her frame so she'd stop crying. He was pretty sure he'd do anything to get your little girl to stop feeling sad.

Lando turns to you after a few moments and smiles. Something passes between you then, with Stella asleep in front of you. It's powerful and reassuring and everything that you've been waiting for since the day you had realized you'd be raising Stella on your own.

"I think I finally got her fever down." Lando whispers, not wanting to wake Stella up.

"Oh my gosh, I didn't even tell you where the paracetamol is in the house." Your hand flies back to your throat in horror.

"It's okay. Stella told me where it was. My mom helped me figure out the dosage for her."

"Your mom?" You squeak, swaying on your feet.

Lando chuckles. That had been an interesting call. He hadn't had the time to explain to her exactly why he was asking for help to figure out how much paracetamol to give Stella but he was panicked, the school being unable to give her a dose of anything and her fever was going up. She had been confused, but helped without further question.

"It's fine. We got it figured out and then I turned Frozen on and she fell asleep pretty quick after that. I haven't found the thermometer yet but she feels a lot cooler than she did earlier."

For a moment, all you can do is stare at Lando. It unnerved you how comfortable he was with her. Not in a bad way but in a completely unexpected way that had goosebumps littering your skin.

"How'd the meeting go?" Lando breaks the silence after a few moments.

Your eyes snap from Stella's sleeping frame to meet Lando's gaze. He made no attempt to move Stella off his lap or hand her over, just kept his arms securely around her while he waited patiently for your answer. He could tell you were trying to wrap your head around what you were looking at and he was hoping it was a good thing. He knew you weren't used to people stepping up for you, the close inner circle you kept was very small, but he hoped that after today you'd maybe let him in a little more.

"Oh..." You pause, struggling to focus on anything other than the sight in front of you. "Good actually! Zak was super impressed with what I've got done so far. He wants me to go to Bahrain later in the month for testing with the team to test the program first hand. And he wants me to go to a few races too"

"Baby," Lando coos, reaching out a hand to capture your fingers with his. Your heart squeezes at the pet name as you barely hold in the squeal at the nickname. "I'm so proud of you, that's amazing."

Tears threaten at the edge of your vision. It had been a long time since someone other than your own father had told you that they were proud of you. "I called my dad and him and my step mom are going to watch Stella whenever I need to travel and whatever they can't cover, I'm going to hire a nanny."

It had been Zak's idea to hire the nanny, a suggestion that nearly bowled you over when he made it. He knew your situation and had wanted to make sure that you were able to travel while being comfortable with leaving Stella with someone.

"Zak offered me a raise to help offset the cost of hiring someone." You say quietly, reflecting on how insistent the man had been when you waffled at the thought of traveling more this season.

The thought of getting to travel with you this season, even if it was solely for work, was so appealing to Lando it was a little silly. He had been thinking the other night how much it was going to suck having to travel so much this year just as things were getting started with you. He usually loved losing himself in the season, not having anything hold him back or weigh him down from enjoying the constant moving and sleeping in different hotel rooms every weekend. But as the season had approached and the prospect of spending less time with you had started to become a reality, the thought of the start of the season had filled Lando with a bit of dread and anxiety.

You just sat there for a moment, smiling over at Lando and Stella as he grinned back at you. It was a comfortable silence as that same feeling from earlier crackled through the air. Like something was being set into motion today that neither of you quite understood but both knew was the start of something important.

"It's almost dinner time. Why don't you go put her down in her bed, she sleeps like this whenever she's sick, and I'll make us dinner?" You suggest finally, realizing your stomach is begging to be fed.

Lando follows your suggestion and within a few minutes, is joining you in the kitchen as you bustle about trying to figure out what to make. "I was going to make some chicken noodle soup, I think I have everything for it and Stella loves it when she's sick."

"Considering I was going to be ordering take away tonight, anything you want to feed me is good." Lando murmurs, coming to stand behind you at the counter as you peel some carrots and chop the onions.

His arms slip around your waist and you can't help but lean back into his warmth for a moment, enjoying the way the heat of his body seeps into your muscles. Lando nuzzles into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of you as deeply as he can, trying to commit your scent to memory. He wants to remember every little detail about this evening, something calm and steady settling into his bones as he gets a glimpse of what could be.

"You're distracting me." You mumble, the heat of Lando's breath tickling the sensitive skin at your neck.

"I"m sorry, but you're a constant distraction to me so consider it payback."

You chuckle, putting down the knife so you can spin around to face Lando instead. Your arms snake up his body before you clasp them behind his neck, enjoying the way he melts even further into your body now that you're closer.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue today." You whisper, voice raspy with emotion as you think about how much Lando's done for you in the short time you've been spending time with him.

Lando bumps his nose with yours and grins, the way you feel in his arms is something he's never experienced before. "I'd do anything for you and Stella, you know that."

"After today, I certainly do."

The look Lando gives you turns your core molten and you struggle to catch your breath. Gazing up at him through your lashes, you drop your gaze down to his lips before they flit right back up to those green blue watercolor eyes that always seem to find you wherever you are lately. Before you can steady yourself, he's leaning forward eyes locked on yours. The smile that sits at the corner of his mouth is so utterly enticing, you nearly forget your own name.

When Lando covers your lips with his for the first time, you swear you see stars. Gold bursts of light spark behind your closed lids, your entire world stuttering down to the way Lando kisses you. It's full of promise and longing and the smokey taste of desire. Your hands tangle through his curls on their own accord as you desperately try to get impossibly closer to him, losing all sense of decorum and control with just a simple kiss.

When he pulls away, Lando is satisfied at the heavy lidded look you stare up at him with, heart hammering in his chest like he's just finished the Singapore Grand Prix.

"I've been thinking about that since I left you at the door on Saturday without kissing you." He confesses, forehead tipping forward to rest on yours.

Emotion clogs your throat as you struggle for a response. Warmth pools deep in your belly as you settle on just a simple nod in response, knowing that Lando will instinctivly be able to tell that you feel the same. Silence fills the kitchen, comfortable and easy as Lando kisses you again. Both of you could feel it with that second kiss, this thing happening between you on this random Wednesday afternoon and both of you were secretly scared to death at what this was going to mean for every facet of your lives.

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