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pitlanepeach · 24 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, death-anxiety (no actual death), Lando being an amazing husband.

Notes — Get the tissues ready. Check out the R.S Pinterest board post-chapter for some visuals!

2024 (Monaco)

Oscar sat cross-legged on the sofa, unwrapping a granola bar. Amelia lowered herself onto the chair opposite him with her notebook.

"What would you do if a child started to projectile vomit in a moving vehicle?" She asked, pen ready.

He blinked. "Sorry—what?"

"Answer the question."

"...Pull over. Make sure they're, like, breathing. Crack a window to get rid of the smell."

Amelia nodded. "Okay." She jotted something down.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"No concern of yours. Do you know how to sterilise a baby bottle?"

"Uh... no?"

"Do you know how to swaddle a newborn?"

"No, but I could YouTube it?"

She scribbled again, then looked up. "If Lando and I died tragically in a freak accident, would you be able and willing to raise our child?"

He choked. "What the hell?"

"Answer the question."

He coughed. "I—yeah? I mean, if that happened, yeah, I'd step up."

Amelia tapped her pen. "You'd need to cut back on the amount of time you spend on the panel court."

Oscar muttered, "I'd just take the baby with me."

—

Max Fewtrell sipped his flat white while Amelia stared at him, all beady eyed and completely unreadable.

"Do you own a fire extinguisher?" She asked flatly.

"...Good morning to you too?"

"Max."

"Yes. I think. Maybe? I don't know. Why?"

"Do you have a last will and testament?"

He stared at her. "Jesus, Amelia, are you going to have me killed?"

"This is all hypothetical, of course."

"What is happening right now?"

"Final question," she said. "Do you think you could emotionally support a child through the grief of losing both parents in a tragic accident?"

"...Oh my god."

Amelia didn't blink. "You're being considered for the position."

"For what?"

"Okay. I have enough information. Goodbye."

She left him sitting with his untouched croissant, both confused and mildly alarmed.

—

They walked side by side, Amelia waddling more than walking at this point. Fernando glanced down at her notepad.

"You are writing notes about me?"

"I'm evaluating your parental fitness."

"Why?"

"You might be a candidate to become the guardian of my daughter. In the event that Lando and I both die."

He blinked. "That is very grim."

"Statistically unreasonable," she said. "For me, anyway. Lando not so much." She sighed, chewing on her lip.

Fernando rubbed his jaw. "What is the criteria I must meet?"

"Emotional regulation. Moral compass. Childproofing competency. Capability of enduring a preschool dance recital."

He made a considering expression. "That last one might be a difficulty."

"You're top three so far." She told him.

"...I do not know if that is flattering or mildly scary."

"I trust you not to let her become a Red Bull junior driver; should she decide to start karting."

He nodded sagely. "Yes. Very good."

—

Amelia leaned across the table. "I have a few questions."

Max didn't look up from his phone. They were drinking milkshakes at a local coffee shop on the harbour. "Sure."

"If you had to raise a child you didn't birth, what would be your discipline strategy?"

"...Sorry?"

"Say me and Lando die. Hypothetically, if you got custody of our daughter, would you leave her at a petrol station if she disappointed you?"

He finally looked up. "Why would I get custody?!"

"I'm evaluating every available options."

"For a child that isn't even born yet?"

"She already exists. She's just... inside."

Max stared at her. "Zusje, you and Lando are not going to die."

She frowned at him. "You can't know that for sure."

He sighed. "Fine. I guess... No. I would not leave her at a petrol station, or stab any of her mechanics with a fork. But I would teach her how to drive early. Enter her into karting at three. Make sure she is ahead of everybody else."

Amelia jotted that down. "Noted."

"Am I seriously being considered?"

"You have the lowest risk of emotional instability during a crisis." She informed him.

He blinked. "Oh. Really?" He asked. "I feel like I'm a bit... hot-headed."

She shrugged. "Never with me, though. So I think you'd be the same with my little girl."

He stared at her for a beat and then smiled. "Yeah, Amelia. I think I would be too."

—

Amelia had kicked off her shoes the second she stepped into the apartment, now she was curled on the couch, laptop perched on her bump, tongue between her teeth as she typed furiously.

Lando came in behind her, fresh from a shower and still towelling off his hair. "Hey, babe. You hungry or—" He paused. Squinted. "What's the spreadsheet for?"

"Um," she said, not looking up. "It's colour-coded." She said, instead of answering the question.

"Of course it is." He padded over, still shirtless, and peered over her shoulder. "Fewtrell?"

"Yes."

"...And Oscar? Alonso? Verstappen?"

"Mmhmm."

He leaned closer, confused. "What is this?"

"Um."

"...Amelia," he said slowly, his voice pitching higher with suspicion. "What is this?"

She tapped something in the cell next to 'Max Verstappen – discipline style' and replied casually, "I'm compiling an assessment list for potential legal guardians in the case of our untimely deaths."

Lando froze. "I'm sorry— what?"

She finally looked up, frowning. "You're speaking very loudly."

"Because you're interviewing our friends to be our child's guardians in case we die?"

"Yes. Obviously. We'd need someone capable, emotionally regulated, ethically sound."

He blinked. Hard. "What about our parents? Or, like, one of my siblings? You know... our actual family."

She made a face. "Okay, I see your point." She said, completely sincere. "But I'd feel more comfortable having a list of at least five people who would be capable of stepping in."

Lando ran a hand through his hair. "Babe, you asked Oscar if he'd raise our daughter and didn't even think to mention this to me?"

"I was testing him under spontaneous stress," she said matter-of-factly. "He passed."

"Oh my god." Lando dropped onto the couch beside her, one hand dragging down his face. "Baby, we are not going to die, okay? God, maybe we should go to therapy about this."

"You already have therapy," she reminded him. "On Tuesday."

"I meant extra therapy. For both of us."

She turned the laptop toward him. "Do you want to see the rankings?"

"I—No! Wait—yes. Who's top?"

"Right now... Fernando."

He pulled a face. "Fernando?"

"He's extremely competent. Low emotional volatility. Has a very secure apartment and a predictable routine. He is also old, wise, and very rich. He would be able to hire wonderful childminders."

"...That's fair."

"Oscar is second."

"Obviously." He said.

"Max — Verstappen — third."

Lando tilted his head. "Seriously?"

"He would make sure she was loved. She'd grow up with discipline and money. Also, he has very cute cats."

Lando laughed, despite himself. "That's not... wrong."

"I ruled out Daniel because I texted him and he said that he would 'just vibe it.'"

Lando winced. "Yeah, okay, that's fair grounds for dismissal."

"Fewtrell's somewhere in the middle," she added, with a conflicted sigh. "I know we love him, and P, but he's still young and not settled down properly."

"I mean..." Lando shook his head, half-exasperated, half in love. "Babe. I love you so much, but this is mental."

"It's preparation. Contingency is kindness."

He stared at her — tan skin aglow from the laptop screen, expression painfully earnest. "You're... god, you're terrifying and brilliant."

She frowned. "I'm not terrifying."

"You kinda are."

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked, earnestly.

Lando's face softened completely. "No. I want you to keep being exactly you. I just also want to have a say in our daughter's future, you know, if we're both exploded in a tragic yacht fire."

She nodded. "Okay. That's fine."

He pulled the laptop from her lap, setting it on the table, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Can I be honest?"

"Always."

"I get scared sometimes too. About what will happen if something goes wrong. I think about all of the worst-case scenarios. But I know that I can't let myself obsess over 'what if's', or else I'll forget to enjoy the life I do have." He told her softly.

"Maybe that's a good idea," she muttered, but softened when he slid his arms around her and tugged her gently into his lap, belly and all.

They sat like that for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, his hands resting protectively over the curve of her bump.

"You know," Lando murmured, "no one could ever really replace you. No matter how good they are at bottle sterilising."

Amelia blinked hard. "I know."

"And if anything ever happened to me... she'd still have you. And that would be more than enough."

She buried her nose against his collarbone. "Don't say that."

"Okay. But it's true." He said into her hair.

She sniffled. "Our parents would do it, wouldn't they? They'd work together and make sure that she's raised the way we were. With love and care and attention."

"Yeah, baby. I think our family is the best idea." He told her honestly. "But you can still use your spreadsheet to choose Godparents, maybe?" He suggested.

She scrunched her nose. "I'm an atheist."

"Me too. I still have Godparents. They're just like... glorified Aunts and Uncles."

"Oh." She mumbled. "We'll have to have a long discussion about that."

He chuckled into her hair. "Okay, baby. Whatever you want."

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the bed, half in her pyjamas, a stack of papers pushed off to the side. Her phone was pressed to her ear, the lights dimmed low. The baby kicked once — firm — beneath her ribs. She didn't react.

"Hi, Mum," she said when Tracey picked up.

"Hi, love. Everything okay?"

"No." Amelia didn't bother softening it. "I mean — not catastrophically. But I need to talk about something and I don't want you to tell me I'm overthinking."

"I never would," Tracey said gently. "Go on."

A beat passed. Then another. Amelia closed her eyes.

"If something happens to me. Or me and Lando. What happens to my baby?"

There was a pause on the other end. Not long. But present.

"Darling..."

"I've been making a list," Amelia went on. "Of potential guardians. Interviewing people. Assessing them. I've made a spreadsheet."

"I'm not surprised," Tracey said softly.

"I thought about putting Oscar first, but he doesn't know how to sterilise a bottle. Fernando is high scoring but he's not got much experience for kids. Max F would probably fill her bottles with Monster Energy."

Tracey laughed, despite herself. "What about us?"

"I assumed you'd all be willing to help. But I need a legal designation. If we die, someone has to be named. Officially."

"Sweetheart... I understand. I do." Tracey's voice was steady, but warm. "But it's also so unlikely."

"I know it's unlikely." Amelia's voice was sharp, strained. "But I can't bank on unlikely. That's not how I work. That's not safe."

There was silence again. Amelia's fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh.

"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I don't want her to be scared. Or confused. Or be stuck with someone who doesn't understand her. Especially if she's—like me."

"She'll be loved," Tracey said immediately. "No matter what she's like. Because she'll be yours and Lando's little girl. And because you'll have taught her how to explain herself. Just like you've done your whole life."

Amelia blinked hard. "You think she'll be alright?"

"I know she will be. And not just because you've planned ten steps ahead. But because she'll grow up with people who see her. Who will do whatever it takes to understand her. Just like we did with you."

There was quiet on the line. The baby kicked again, softer this time. Amelia exhaled.

"I don't want to need the plan," she said, very quietly. "But I need to have the plan."

"And that's okay," Tracey said. "You make the plan. You have it in place that me and your dad, or Lando's mum and his dad, will be named legal guardians. But then, when you're ready, let it sit. You don't need to carry it every minute."

"I don't know how not to."

"Then I'll carry a little bit of it for you. So will your dad. So will Lando. That's what family's for."

A long pause.

"Thanks, Mum."

"I love you."

Amelia wiped her cheek. "Yeah. I know."

—

Amelia lay on her side, half curled around a pillow, hoodie bunched over the top of her belly. Lando was pressed close behind her, one hand splayed gently across the curve of her bump.

"She's awake," he murmured, grinning against her shoulder. "I felt her boot me in in the hand just now."

"She likes to kick when I'm horizontal," Amelia said, with a sigh. "She's very inconsiderate."

Lando chuckled and flattened his palm more purposefully, thumb brushing small circles near her belly button. "You think she knows it's me?"

"She reacts to your voice. She kicks harder for Oscar at the moment, though."

"That's rude." He leaned down, speaking directly to her stomach. "You know I'm the one who's gonna be changing your dirty, stinky nappies, right?"

The baby gave a solid thump.

Lando pulled back, eyes wide. "Did you feel that? She literally just responded to me."

"Of course I felt it," Amelia muttered.

Lando laughed again and shifted so he could look at her properly, brushing a few stray hairs away from her forehead. "Okay, okay. What if I..." He pressed a kiss to her belly, then whispered, "You're the coolest little bean in the universe."

Another kick.

"She's gonna be so spoiled," Amelia said. "You're already hyping her up."

"She should be hyped up. Look at her genes."

Amelia laughed. "Lando."

Lando turned to her with a mischievous glint. "What do you think happens if I play a recording of a V10 engine?"

"She might decide to come earth-side early." She said.

Lando snorted.

Amelia shifted onto her back, guiding Lando's hand as the baby rolled again, this time slower, like she was listening.

"She's so real," Amelia said, quieter now. "Still doesn't feel like it all the time. But she is. Real."

"I know," he said. "I think about it every day. That we're... gonna be parents. That I get to do this with you."

Amelia didn't look at him, but her fingers curled gently around his. "You're really good with me."

"Yeah, well," he murmured, resting his forehead gently against hers. "I kind of love you."

She turned her head a little, and he kissed her softly — slow and familiar, the kind that didn't lead anywhere except safety.

Their hands stayed linked over the baby as she shifted again beneath their skin.

"Do you think she'll be scared the first time we bring her into the paddock?" Lando asked.

"No. She'll be too tiny to be scared, I think. And by the time she's old enough, it'll just be... normal for her," Amelia muttered. "But we've got to get her paddock credentials sorted as soon as she's born."

He grinned. "We'll start with a tiny little VIP badge to clip to her baby grow. And some ear defenders."

"Smart," Amelia said. "We'll both have plenty of loud men to block out."

They fell asleep like that, legs tangled, baby between them, and the next morning came soft and golden through the curtains; the first light falling directly across Amelia's stomach, as if even the sun was trying to say hello.

—

It was already warm under the canopy, even though the Monaco sun hadn't fully crested the hills yet. The McLaren paddock buzzed—orange polos everywhere, cameras drifting past on gimbals, mechanics laughing over first-cup coffees that smelled like dark chocolate and fuel.

Amelia stood at the edge of it all, arms folded over her bump, dark sunglasses perched on her nose, clipboard hugged tight against her chest. She'd already rewritten a run-plan line item; now she was waiting—still—for Oscar.

He finally jogged up, bag slung over one shoulder. "You look like an army-recruitment officer," he puffed.

"You wouldn't last a day in the army," she replied, eyes still on her iPad. "You're always late."

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "And I'm only seven minutes late!"

"Seven minutes and you dropped croissant flakes all over the sim consoles last night. They ended up in the throttle pedal housing. I had to get on my hands and knees with the little handheld hoover. Do you know how difficult it is for me to bend over right now?"

"I was hungry. I needed energy!"

She raised one eyebrow. "Energy bars exist and they don't shed pastry all over the priceless simulator equipment."

He pursed his lips, sighed an apology, then nodded toward the interior of the motorhome. "Sorry. Fine. Come on. Tom's waiting."

—

The briefing room smelled of whiteboard marker and fresh rubber. Tom Stallard—clipboard in hand, headset looped around his neck—looked up as they entered. He offered Amelia a polite nod and Oscar a wry smile.

"Morning," Tom said, voice calm, measured. "Figured we could run through hand-over minutiae before first practice?"

Amelia slipped into the chair beside him, dropping her own clipboard with a soft thud. "Good idea. At least one of you is prepared today."

"Hey!" Oscar protested.

Tom chuckled. "I'm fairly prepared, I guess."

"That's good," Amelia muttered, tapping notes on her iPad.

She flicked the screen toward Tom. A colour-coded chart lit up; Oscar's preferred comms phrasing, ideal brake-migration tweaks per track, panic phrases to watch for. Oscar-Handling 101, the header read in dead-serious Helvetica.

Tom scanned it, impressed. "This is on-top of the big folder you've already put together for me?"

"Contingency is kindness," Amelia replied. "I'm not leaving him undefended while I'm off having a baby."

Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "She's terrified you'll let me eat in the sim room."

Tom grinned. "Contraband food noted."

Amelia pointed at the final column. "He also says 'copy, copy' when he's flustered. Means he hasn't copied. Repeat the instruction."

Oscar's ears went pink. "Well you didn't have to put that in writing."

"It's an operational fact," she said simply.

Tom set the chart aside. "We'll be okay, Amelia. I've shadowed enough of your sessions to know how you translate his feedback. Not as well as you can — but enough."

She exhaled—one of those slow, controlled breaths. God, she felt like her organs were running out of room. "I know. My brain just... insists on double-checking." Her hand rested instinctively on her belly. "Can't exactly be on the pit wall at forty weeks."

Oscar's expression softened. "You'll still be in my ear sometimes, right? From home?"

"As a 'consultant'," Tom said, quoting with his fingers. "Team's already approved remote link-ups when needed."

Amelia nodded. "I'll ping in for data dives. But Tom's your primary. Listen to him. Trust him."

"Understood," Oscar said, suddenly earnest. "And... thanks—for all this. For everything. I knew you'd be — all Amelia about this. But you didn't have to be. And I really appreciate it."

She blinked behind the sunglasses, uncomfortable with sentiment. "Just keep running at the top of the field. Keep pushing yourself. Maybe win a race." She told him.

Tom pushed his chair back, easy and steady. "Right. Track walk in ten."

Oscar slapped the table once in mock salute. "Yes, sir."

He turned to Amelia as they headed for the door. "No more croissants in the sims," he promised.

She handed him a protein bar out of her bag. "Here. This is better. More stable energy, less saturated fats."

He grinned, unwrapping it. "Aw. You still love me even after crumb-gate."

"Crumb-gate," she echoed, her mouth twitched upward.

Tom watched the exchange with quiet amusement. As they stepped onto the sun-lit pit lane, he leaned toward her. "He'll be fine, Amelia."

She adjusted her headset, gaze following Oscar's retreating figure. "I know. So will I." A small pause. "But I still hate it when he's late."

Tom laughed. "I'll keep him on military time."

—

The Monte Carlo sun had a way of making everything feel cinematic. White yachts bobbed on sapphire water, the harbour glinting just beyond the paddock gates. Amelia stood by the McLaren motorhome in a clean papaya polo, sunglasses tucked into her collar, bump unmistakable beneath the fabric.

It was Media Day, and the buzz was palpable.

She adjusted her earpiece as the Sky Sports producer counted them in, the familiar voice of Natalie Pinkham coming through her headphones with a bright, practiced warmth.

"We are here in beautiful Monaco with a very special guest — Amelia Norris, McLaren's lead performance engineer and, of course, Oscar Piastri's race engineer. Amelia, welcome."

Amelia gave a nod, her voice calm, direct. "Thanks. It's really hot, isn't it?"

Natalie laughed. "That it is. Listen, you've had a phenomenal season — McLaren's surge in performance, Oscar's consistency, and Lando finally breaking through for his first win. You've had your fingerprints on all of it."

Amelia tilted her head slightly, weighing the praise before answering. "It's been a team effort. Good car, amazing drivers. We've been smart with upgrades."

"And you've done all this," Natalie gestured gently to Amelia's belly, "while also expecting your first child with Lando. How exciting for you both!"

A soft smile played at Amelia's lips. "Yes. She's a very involved team member. Likes to kick during data meetings."

That got a warm laugh from the crew and nearby media.

Natalie's voice softened. "And I believe you have a bit of news for us today?"

Amelia nodded once. "Yes. This weekend will be my last before I step back for maternity leave. Tom Stallard will be taking over race engineering for Oscar post-Monaco until further notice."

A small wave of murmurs rippled through the surrounding press. Natalie smiled at her. "So this is your last race weekend for a while?"

Amelia shrugged, still poised. "For a few months, yes. I'll still be consulting remotely. But I won't be on the pit wall again until later in the season."

Natalie leaned in a little. "How does it feel, stepping away at a time like this? With McLaren doing so well, and you being so integral?"

There was a pause. Amelia's eyes flicked briefly down the paddock — where Lando was laughing with mechanics, Oscar leaning against the wall with a coffee, talking to a camera crew.

Then she answered.

"It's... complicated," she said. "I like control. I like knowing things. And there's a lot about becoming a parent I can't forecast. But the team is solid. Oscar's going to be in good hands. And our daughter—" her hand instinctively brushed her belly, "—deserves my full attention for a while."

There was a beat of quiet. Then Natalie smiled, warm and real. "Well, on behalf of everyone watching — thank you so much, Amelia. For all you've contributed to the sport over the past five years. And congratulations to you and Lando on this wonderful addition to your family."

Amelia nodded again, just once. "Thank you."

The interview wrapped, and as the camera cut away, Amelia stepped back, peeling off her earpiece. She was halfway through unpinning her mic when she felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders.

Lando pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "You were brilliant," he murmured.

"I told people I'm going on leave," she said quietly, like she needed to repeat it aloud. "I made it real."

"It is real." He looked down at her bump, then back at her. "But don't worry. You're still the boss. Just... remotely."

Amelia leaned into him, the smell of sunscreen and motor oil clinging to his polo. "You think people will forget me while I'm gone?"

"Not possible," he said immediately.

She gave a small, short laugh, and he kissed her temple again.

They stood there for a moment; in the glitz and the hum of Monaco, wrapped in their own quiet kind of gravity.

—

The hospitality deck was quieter than usual at lunch time, tucked just above the paddock chaos. A few guests chatted softly over sparkling water and pasta, the harbour glittering in the background. Amelia sat at a small table in the shade, half-finished salad in front of her, sunglasses pushed into her hair.

Her dad slid into the seat across from her with a grunt and then a beaming grin. "You're hiding up here."

Amelia stabbed a tomato with her fork. "I'm taking a scheduled break."

"That's what you're calling it now?"

She gave him a dry look. "Better than 'aggressively avoiding small talk with a million people who all want to ask me the same questions.'"

Zak chuckled and took a sip of his iced tea. "Hey, I didn't say it was a bad thing!"

They ate quietly for a few minutes. She glanced at her iPad once or twice, fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for her stylus.

Then her dad leaned forward, voice a little softer. "Your mom called."

Amelia didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"Told me to keep an eye on you. That you're getting anxious over silly things." He said. "She wants you at home. She doesn't think you should be working this weekend."

"I know what I'm doing." She said back, not sharply, just matter-of-fact. "I'm flying to England on Tuesday and then I'm going to start nesting."

"Fine, fine." He said. He was staring at her. "You did an interview this morning?"

"Yeah. It felt strange." She hesitated. "Like I had to tell them that I was handing over part of my identity and pretend that I was fine with it."

Zak nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "You don't need to pretend, kiddo. You're just doing something new. Hard to do both at once sometimes."

Amelia chewed slowly, then asked, "Did it feel like that when you stopped racing?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Yeah. I didn't admit it for a while, but yeah. It was hard. You build yourself around something that has a finish line, and suddenly it's not there anymore. It's just... your life."

Amelia's hand drifted to her bump without thinking. "What if I'm not good at the other thing?"

"You said the same thing when we put you into the advanced classes at school."

"I was eight."

"And you were wrong then, too."

She looked at him.

He gave her a small smile. "You're not just good at this job because you're smart. You're good because you care. And that's not going to change no matter how long of a break that you take."

Amelia stared down at her plate, silent for a moment. "I don't want to hand over Oscar."

Her dad leaned back in his chair, his tone more casual now. "You picked Stallard yourself. You trust him."

"I do." She took a breath. "But I know how Oscar works better than anyone else. How his brain ticks under pressure. And I've done everything for so long — pre-sessions, cooldowns, briefings. It's not just the job. It's him."

He nodded. "That's why you've been so good together. But you're also about to be someone's mum, Amelia. And that little girl is going to need all of that same care. All of that weirdly brilliant attention to detail."

Amelia huffed a laugh. "She's already demanding. She hates when I eat citrus. Just wants cake and tiramisu flavoured things all the time."

"She's got taste." He said. Then he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers."You're not disappearing, Amelia. Nobody is going to forget about you. You're going to have a baby, and you'll fall so deeply in love with her that everything else will fade into the background. But eventually, you'll be ready to come back. Your mom will travel with you, and you'll take over from Tom again, and everything will be just fine."

She blinked. Slowly. Then, she whispers, "Thanks, Dad. That really helps."

He squeezed her fingers. "You'll be back before you know it. And when you are—this place will still be yours. Trust me. You've made more of an impact than you will ever realise."

—

The restaurant clung to the cliffside above the marina, lit by soft lanterns and the shimmer of city lights below. The terrace buzzed with the gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of multiple F1 teams converging for one of those rare, off-track evenings.

It was still work, in a way — team bonding, sponsor optics, face time. But for now, it was pasta and mocktails and the smell of grilled sea bass drifting on the evening breeze.

Amelia sat wedged between Oscar and Lando, her hands cradling a chilled glass of pomegranate soda. Her feet were up on a second chair, legs aching just enough to warrant it. Lando kept refilling her glass every time she looked away. Oscar had already stolen her feta-stuffed olives.

When the main course wound down, she spotted Charles stepping out from a conversation with someone in red team gear. He looked relaxed — or as relaxed as Charles ever did in Monaco. Still sharp-edged around the eyes.

She tapped Lando's arm. "I'm going to say hi to Charles."

"You're not about to give him trade secrets, are you?"

She didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

Charles noticed her before she even reached him and smiled with something between fondness and humour. "You need a breather from the orange table?"

"I'm trying to be neutral and approachable," Amelia told him.

"You're failing," he replied, but his grin softened the jab. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot. Heavy. Slightly betrayed by my spine." She paused. "You?"

Charles tilted his head. "Nervous."

She nodded. "Understandable."

"It's Monaco."

"I know." She looked up at him for a beat longer. "The thing is, I want my boys to beat you. That's my priority and it always will be. But —" She bit her lip and leaned on the balcony. "But I want you to finish this race. Properly."

He laughed under his breath. "So do I."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice and leaned in, "So, maybe, if on your second quali lap, you just leave a little extra margin at the exit of Mirabeau. And maybe you should adjust your ride height a few inches. And your throttle pedal could, maybe, could be adjusted to the left; specifically for Monaco."

Charles stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me," she said with a faint smile. "Good luck, Charles. I hope you make your home crowd proud."

He smiled wider. "If anyone found out that you—"

"All my father would ever do is frown and me and proceed to tell me that I'm soft for you. Which I am." She smiled at him. "You've been such a wonderful friend to me, Charles. A good neighbour. You always listen to me when I speak, even if what I am saying makes no sense to you."

Charles looked at her, suddenly quiet. "Merci, Amelia. Thank you."

Amelia pursed her lips. "I'm not saying that those changes will make you win. But... They will give you a better chance at a front-row start. And we know how important that is here."

They stood like that a moment — Monaco locals by way of wildly different paths — then Charles glanced back toward the Ferrari table. "Tell your husband that I will be trying to poach you when you return from maternity leave," he said.

"Hm." She hummed. "You and Lewis next year — what a fun idea."

He blinked at her, a bit of hope clinging to the edges of his expression. "Really?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "No."

He huffed out an amused breath and started to turn away, then paused and added, sincerely, "Good luck, Amelia."

"Right back at you," she said, then added, "Leave the barriers alone this year, yes?"

"I'll do my best," Charles said with a wink, and disappeared back into the red sea.

When Amelia returned to the McLaren table, Lando leaned in with a faux-casual, "So, how's your favourite Ferrari boy?"

"He's nervous," Amelia said, sitting again with a sigh. "I hope I gave him some hope. That's the most powerful tool a driver can have." She tilted her head. "Well, that and me."

Oscar smirked and raised his drink. "To questionable loyalty."

"To Monaco miracles," she corrected, and clinked his glass.

—

Later, long after the dinner had wound down and the drivers WhatsApp group had gone feral with memes and selfies, Amelia lay submerged in warm water, her back nestled against Lando's chest. The bathroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from the small lamp over the sink and the soft glow of the candles. Lavender and eucalyptus swirled in the steam.

Lando's chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his fingers tracing aimless lines over the curve of her belly just visible above the surface. The baby gave the occasional gentle kick, more thump than flutter these days.

"She's very awake," Lando murmured, thumb brushing over one of the movements.

"She likes water," Amelia said, closing her eyes. "She always calms down when I'm in the shower. But she loves a bath."

"Maybe she'll be a mermaid."

"Or a diver. Or an aero specialist. Hydrodynamics and aerodynamics aren't that different."

Lando laughed into her shoulder. "That's such an engineer answer."

"You asked."

A comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted only by the lapping of the water and the distant hum of the city outside.

"Have you thought more about names?" He asked softly.

She opened one eye. "You're not letting that go, are you?"

"You said we'd make a shortlist this week."

"Technically, you said that. I just nodded."

"Close enough."

Amelia tilted her head back against his shoulder, thoughtful. "I like Ada."

"Yeah?" He asked thoughtfully.

"It's clean. It has weight. Ada Lovelace was one of the first computer programmers."

"Shocker."

"What — that I want to name our child after a female computing and mathematical pioneer?"

"Sarcasm, baby." He mumbled against her shoulder.

She frowned. "Sorry. Missed it. My brains all misty recently."

Lando gave her a little squeeze, then said, a bit more seriously, "I like Ada. But I also kind of like names that sound like movement. Like... I don't know. Skye. Or Elia. Something with flow."

"Skye Norris?" Amelia mused.

"Eh. It's a good jumping off point," he said.

They lapsed into silence again, his hands slow and steady against her belly, her fingers lazily drawing shapes in the water.

"I'm a bit scared," she said quietly. "To be honest."

Lando didn't move. "Of what?"

"Of getting it wrong," she whispered. "The name, the parenting, all of it. I'm good at engineering because it follows rules. But babies — she'll be her own person, Lando. With thoughts and emotions. And I don't know how to... prepare for that."

He was quiet a moment. Then he said, softly, "Me either."

Amelia blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight.

"But if we mess up—" Lando continued, nudging her temple with his nose, "we'll apologise. Own up to it. And then we'll try again. That's all anyone can do."

She exhaled. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because you overthink everything."

"That's rich coming from you."

He smiled. "Yeah, well. We're both anxious perfectionists with trust issues. Our daughter is doomed."

Amelia laughed — a real one this time. "Shut up."

Lando kissed the side of her head. "She'll have us on her side, though. Always."

Amelia reached down, took one of his hands, and pressed it firmly to the curve of her belly.

Their daughter kicked again, right on cue.

"Maybe Ada Skye," she said after a long pause.

Lando hummed. "Can I suggest something else?"

"Of course." She said quietly.

"What about Rosella?"

"After Rosella Manfrinato?" Amelia asked, voice full of curiosity.

"Yeah. First female engineer to ever work for Ferrari." He said.

She nodded. "Yeah. I know." She pursed her lips in thought. "Ada Rosella Norris." She whispered, trying to get a feel of the name.

"It's strong." Lando said.

"Full of power." Amelia agreed quietly.

Lando grinned against her temple. "Our little rocket scientist."

"Our little engineer," Amelia said, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let's not teach her about ERS until she's at least four."

"Three and a half," Amelia negotiated.

Lando laughed.

Amelia thought it sounded like home.

—

The apartment was silent now.

Water drained from the tub long ago, and Amelia was curled beneath the covers in their bed, one hand resting unconsciously on her bump, her breaths slow and even. Moonlight slid in through the curtains, tracing soft silver lines across her cheekbones. Lando stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her — still, peaceful, warm — before stepping back out into the living room and quietly closing the door behind him.

He crossed to the balcony, tugged on a hoodie, and pulled out his phone.

It took three rings before his dad answered.

"Lando? Everything alright?" His dad sounded like he'd just woken up — it was late, and Lando had forgotten the slight time difference.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry if I woke you up," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I needed to tell someone."

A beat of silence.

Then, with a hint of caution, because he knew his son, asked, "Tell me what?"

"I did it," Lando said. "I bought it. The land."

"What land?" Adam asked.

"The land, dad. Where we got married."

"You mean the—? Jesus, mate."

"Yeah. The field. With the oak tree. The one Amelia didn't stop talking about for a month straight last year." Lando sat down slowly on one of the balcony chairs, heart thudding. "But, like, I didn't just buy it, you know? I've been working with some people — architects, contractors. Builders. Decorators. It's happening. Happened, I guess. The house. Her house. She doesn't know yet."

Adam was quiet, but Lando could hear the smile in his voice when he finally said, "You're building it."

Lando nodded, even though his dad couldn't see him. "Built. Almost. Just, like, a few more pieces of furniture to get delivered. But yeah, dad. It's a real home. Just in time for the first few months with the baby. Maybe longer. It's all eco-efficient and airy — her office, a nursery, a bathtub big enough for the both of us, just like here. And the nursery..." He let out a breathless laugh. "Dad, I had it copied from her Pinterest board. Down to the wall art. She doesn't even know I have her Pinterest boards."

Adam chuckled softly. "Of course you do, son."

"It's got these soft pinks and greys. Planet mobiles, wood textures, soft-glow lamps. She pinned a photo of a reading nook by a window and I'm getting them to build one, exactly like it. I want it to feel like she's known it forever."

"She's going to love it," Adam said, gentle now.

Lando's throat tightened. "I just— When we found out that she was pregnant, I knew that she'd want to have the baby in England, you know? And I know she's more than happy to stay with her mum for a while but — I wanted her to have something that's hers. Ours."

"She already has that in you."

Lando looked out over the dark water, letting that settle. "I know. But, when I can't be there... I just want her to know," he said quietly, "you know? Be surrounded by it. A reminder that I'd give her the whole world. That she doesn't even have to ask."

"She knows, son."

"I'm going to bring her there," Lando said. "Next week. I'm hoping everything will be finished. I was hoping maybe you'd be able to go and check it out, maybe you and mum? Make sure everything's alright?"

His dad didn't say anything right away. "Of course we will, mate. Whatever you need. God, I'm proud of you, Lando. You've become the kind of man I always hoped you'd be."

Lando swallowed, hard. "Thanks, Dad."

"Now go and get some sleep. You've got a race weekend to finish — and a very clever wife to keep from figuring all this out."

Lando laughed, soft and careful, so he wouldn't wake Amelia. "Yeah. That's been the hardest part. But — I genuinely think I've managed to hide it."

They said their goodnights, and Lando stayed on the balcony for a few more minutes, watching the moonlight ripple across the water.

Then he slipped back into the bedroom and under the covers beside her.

Amelia shifted slightly in her sleep, turning toward him. He curled around her carefully, hand resting on the curve of her belly.

In four days, he thought, she'll open the big front-door and find everything waiting for her.

Everything she'd dreamed of — and more.

—

The sky was a crisp summer blue above the city, the harbour shimmering below. The McLaren garage was alive for the most important session of the weekend—controlled chaos, comms lines tight, eyes on telemetry, hands on buttons.

Amelia stood, headset on, bump cradled behind her clipboard. The engineers around her knew to give her room; she paced with deliberate, rhythmic movements when she was thinking, and thinking was all she was doing now.

Q3.

Tight margins. Traffic chaos. Purple sectors lighting up the screen like fireworks.

"Alright, Oscar," she said into the mic, her tone flat but alert. "Track's evolving fast. Leclerc's just gone purple in Sector 1."

"Copy."

He didn't sound nervous. Just wired in.

Her eyes flicked to the screen. Telemetry humming in real time. Every time she ran data analysis through her mind, Oscar's confidence had grown sharper, cleaner. The car was under him. And he was really, genuinely starting to believe in it.

"Go now. Push out of Rascasse. Clear air."

Silence. Then the rhythm of apex and throttle and millisecond corrections filled her ears like music.

Lando, on another screen, was midway through his final flyer. "He's purple in S2," someone said behind her, low.

"Copy that," Amelia replied. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just watched Oscar's delta fall green, then purple—

Then time stopped.

P2.

Right behind Leclerc. Less than a tenth off.

The garage burst into motion, restrained joy quickly overtaken by calculation. Strategy talk. Track position.

Amelia blinked hard and gave her mic one last click. "That's front row, Oscar. Hell of a lap."

"I left half a tenth at the hairpin."

"I'm aware," she deadpanned. "You also just out-qualified Verstappen and Hamilton in Monaco."

His laugh crackled over the radio as he pulled into Parc Ferme. "Holy shit."

Amelia turned in her seat and locked eyes with Lando just as he pulled his gloves off. "P4," he mouthed to her, not too disappointed—energised.

"Nice recovery after that wall tap in FP3," she called across the garage.

"I didn't touch the wall."

"You kissed it, then. Should I be jealous?"

He grinned.

A Sky Sports camera panned briefly to them. Amelia didn't flinch—just shifted her clipboard against her stomach again. Someone behind her passed her a small stool, and this time she accepted, sitting with a quiet exhale.

The top three were headed to press. She watched as Oscar removed his helmet, curls flattened, grinning wide, exchanging a look with her from across the paddock before getting swept toward the media pen.

"You nervous?" One of the junior engineers asked her as they unplugged telemetry cables.

"A little," Amelia said. "But we're front row in Monaco. There are worse problems to have."

And deep in her chest, beneath the clinical logic and mechanical heartbeat of the job, she felt it — a soft, surging pride. Her best friend, on the front row. Her husband, on the second. Her team, alive with momentum.

Their daughter kicked once, firm and sharp against her ribs.

"Yeah," Amelia whispered, rubbing her belly. "Let's make the last one good, baby girl."

—

The paddock was swarming. Engineers debriefed at speed, mechanics wheeled tyres past camera crews, and over it all came the distant call of the sea.

Amelia stood from the stool someone had given her earlier, brushing her hands over the front of her dress. She'd barely moved when she caught a flash of red.

Charles.

Helmet off, suit tied at the waist, damp curls sticking to his temples. He was deep in conversation with someone from Ferrari, nodding tightly — the thrill and heavy burden of taking pole position in Monaco sitting heavy on his shoulders, even under the roaring crowd.

Then his eyes caught hers.

For half a second, she thought maybe he'd just glance and move on. He was always polite, always kind, but this was a big moment for him. He had enough on his plate.

Instead, he paused. Just a beat.

Then — a smile, genuine and boyish.

And a quiet, grateful thumbs-up. Directed at her.

Amelia blinked, then returned the gesture with a small lift of her clipboard. A quiet acknowledgment.

She'd bent a few informal, off-the-record, definitely-against-McLaren-policy rules the night before at dinner. Just a few aerodynamic notes. Not enough to sabotage Lando and Oscar's chances. Just enough to give a driver she quietly admired the best shot he could get on home soil.

And now he was on pole.

Lando stepped up beside her, having just finished media, brushing his knuckles against hers without a word. He was still flushed from the car, hair wild and eyes bright. "Was that Charles just—?"

"Yeah," she said.

Lando gave her a suspicious look. "Is this about what you two were whispering about last night?"

"Nope." She lied.

"You gave him tips, didn't you?"

Amelia stayed perfectly still. "Prove it."

Lando opened his mouth — and then just laughed. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I wrong, though?" She asked mildly. "Oscar's still on the front row. You're in a great launch position. We've got a better long-run setup. I just want Charles to get through the damn first lap this year."

Lando shook his head with affectionate disbelief, still grinning. "Corporate espionage." He accused.

"I know," Amelia said. "How terrible." She joked.

He cupped her chin and tugged her to close the gap between this, kissing her chastely. "Come on. Let's go home."

—

The narrow streets of Monte Carlo felt quieter in the early morning. Calm before the storm. A million yachts bobbed in the harbour, a gull wheeled overhead, and the team trucks hummed with activity behind closed paddock gates.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, headset around her neck. The weight of the day — and everything it represented — settled into her bones.

Final race.

Final pre-race briefing.

At least for now.

Her eyes stung behind her sunglasses, but she didn't blink too much. If she started crying, she wasn't sure she'd stop. And she didn't want anyone — especially not Lando or Oscar — trying to hug her about it.

Not today.

"Morning," Oscar said behind her, nudging her arm gently.

She sniffed a laugh, turning around. "Morning. I have notes and spreadsheets for you."

He grinned. "Nerd."

She looked over at him — sweatpants, t-shirt, hair still wet from a quick hotel shower, eyes clearer than usual. "You ready for this?" She asked, voice quieter.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Think so."

"Good. You're going to get him at the start."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Leclerc?"

She didn't answer, just tapped her temple, then pointed at his heart. "Use both."

Oscar's grin turned boyish, proud. But then his eyes dropped to her belly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Then slower, "I'm fine. It's just... I feel like I'm abandoning you."

He didn't try to give her a speech. Just nodded, understanding threading his features. "It's just for now," he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just for now."

Lando found her a few minutes later, sneaking up behind her and sliding a cool bottle of water into her hand. "Hydration for my queen and my princess," he said, lightly.

She took it with a small smile. "You're annoying."

"You're emotional."

"I'm pregnant."

"Yes. I know," he teased, and she elbowed him. Then he pressed his forehead against hers. Just a moment of stillness in the bustle. "We'll do you proud," he said.

"You always do."

"And when you come back, our little girl in tow..."

"I'll be even smarter, and more terrifying."

"Exactly," he said, grinning. Then, a little softer, "You okay?"

She hesitated. Then nodded. "I'm okay. I'm... not not emotional. But I'm okay."

"Do you want me to find you a crying room?"

"Lando."

"I'm just saying. I'm sure there's an empty space around here somewhere."

Despite herself, she laughed. Then, very softly, rested her forehead to his chest, breathing in the smell of fuel and soap and Monaco air.

She didn't cry.

But her throat ached from not doing it.

And when she finally stepped back into the garage to take her place at the pit wall, clipboard in hand and headset secured, the world narrowed in a way she loved — to data, to pace deltas, to strategy windows.

To racing.

Her last Sunday. For now.

And her boys, Oscar and Lando, were about to make it count.

—

The buzz in the pit lane was razor-thin, and under her headset, Amelia could hear her own breathing.

The lights blinked red.

"Five." Four. "Three."

Oscar's telemetry spiked as his revs climbed.

Two. "One." Out.

The cars launched.

"Good launch," Amelia called into Oscar's ear. "Mode five. Hold your line into turn one."

He did — perfectly. Charles swept clean into Sainte Devote, Oscar tucked in behind, and Lando angled sharp around the outside of Hamilton to defend P4. But into Massenet, there was a twitch.

"Contact," came the warning from race control.

Amelia's eyes flicked to the feed — a Ferrari nudged too close. Carlos.

"Oscar. Status?" She asked tightly.

"I think I touched Sainz," Oscar said quickly, voice calm but clipped. "He turned in — we tapped."

She scanned his data; pressures stable.

"Copy. No damage on our end. Carlos has a puncture," came in from strategy.

"Maintain pace," she said. "You're still P2."

Then...chaos.

A screech; gut-churning and metallic — tore through the live feed. The monitor lit up with a yellow. Then double yellow. Then red.

"Red flag. Red flag. Slow the cars and return to the pit lane," came the immediate order from Race Control.

Amelia's stomach dropped. Another monitor showed Perez's Red Bull obliterated at Mirabeau, tangled with both Haas cars. Carbon fibre everywhere. A front wing clinging to a wall.

Amelia's hand tightened instinctively over her bump.

"Is that... all three of them?" Will asked, incredulous.

"What happened?" Oscar asked on the comms.

"Big collision. Perez, both Haas. There's debris everywhere through sector two. They've thrown the red flag so mode seven please, and come straight through to line up in the pit lane."

He exhaled. "Jesus."

"You're clean," she told him. "You did well to defend against Sainz and keep it as clean as possible. Keep your head in it, ducky."

Oscar didn't respond.

She exhaled, slow and controlled.

She glanced down at her bump and pressed her palm lightly against the curve.

Five minutes later, when all of the cars were lined up in the pit-lane and most of the drivers had climbed out, Lando found her.

"You alright?" His voice came quietly from behind. He'd handed of his helmet to one of the engineers in his garage.

"Yeah. I'm fine," she said. "Just didn't want my last one for a while to start like this."

He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "Still a long way to go."

She nodded once. "Yeah."

"Want to go and find some capri suns?" He asked.

She glanced at Will, who nodded as if to say 'Might as well, not like anything's happening here.' So she got up, took Lando's hand, and let him guide her toward the mini fridge in the back of his garage.

—

The paddock was a knot of tension. Mechanics hovered. Engineers tapped frantically on keyboards. Drivers paced.

Amelia stood in the garage, headphones looped around her neck, one hand resting on her lower back. Oscar leaned against the pit wall barrier, helmet off, sipping from a water bottle.

"Fronts are still stable," she said quietly, scanning the screen. "You were holding well into sector three before the red flag."

He nodded. "Do we go back to the grid, or rolling start?"

"Standing restart," Tom said, appearing beside her with a tablet.

Oscar took a deep breath. "Copy."

Amelia's voice dropped, so only he could hear: "Eyes forward. Don't chase Charles — let him cook his tyres. Lando's breathing down your neck, but he won't dive you into Turn One. You've got space to think."

Oscar gave her a crooked smile. "You gonna miss bossing me around?"

"Immensely," she said.

Back on the grid, the tension returned like a rubber band pulled taut. Cameras swiveled. Engines revved. Amelia's screens lit up again — tyre temps, ERS levels, delta charts. She exhaled slowly.

Lights out — again.

Charles launched clean. Oscar slipped ever so slightly — enough to give Carlos and Lando a sniff. But he held P2 into Turn One, Lando defending hard from Hamilton, who wasn't giving up without a fight.

By Lap 36, the order held steady: Charles, Oscar, Lando. No one risking the undercut — it was Monaco, after all. Strategy would come down to patience, tyre life, and sheer mistake-free laps.

Amelia's voice was calm in Oscar's ear: "Keep him honest. Don't push yet — wait for the window. If Charles blinks, we leapfrog him. Otherwise, you're the threat."

Behind them, Lando was making time. Slowly, surgically. Amelia's chest swelled with pride.

She didn't even flinch when he came over the radio to Will, his own engineer. "Tyres still feel good. Let me know if Oscar drops."

Oscar stayed tight. Impressive, really. This wasn't his circuit — but he'd driven like it was.

Then the inevitable: Charles crossed the finish line in P1. Oscar brought it home in P2, and Carlos crossed in P3. Lando missed out on the podium by a hundredth of a second.

Amelia unmuted. "Box, box. That was clinical. Well done."

Oscar whooped through the radio. "Thanks, Amelia. That was unreal. Thanks for—everything."

She smiled, actually smiled, throat tight. "Gonna miss you, ducky. Drive fast as hell for me, alright?"

"Copy that." He said.

Andrea reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "Good job."

"Thanks." She said quietly.

—

She waited by Parc Ferme for Lando to finish being weighed.

He ran straight to her.

"You're done," he said, breathless, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm done," she echoed, burying her face in his shoulder. "For now."

He kissed her. "I love you so much, Amelia Norris."

"Yeah," she mumbled, blushing. Because she knew for a fact that there was a thousand cameras pointed right at them. "I love you too."

—

Amelia stood near the edge of the pit lane, half-shielded by the shadow of the McLaren garage. Her headset was off. Her hair was tied back. She looked tired — tired, but finally still.

A rustle of footsteps approached behind her, softer than the usual thud of boots or trainers. She turned, and Charles was there.

In a fresh pair of sweats. His face was flushed, hair damp from his dive into the water, but the light in his eyes was quieter now — grounded.

"Amelia," he said gently.

She blinked, then straightened a little.

Charles stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug.

It was warm. Steady. Just tight enough.

Not rushed or awkward, but full-bodied and honest.

"Merci," he said into her hair, voice low and thick. "Merci pour tout."

Amelia hesitated, stunned for a breath, then carefully hugged him back, fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"You made it stick," she said. "Finally."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glinting. "I think maybe... I needed you to tell me that you believed I could."

Amelia's throat tightened. "I didn't do much," she said, voice soft.

Charles shook his head. "You never give yourself enough credit."

She snorted. "That's not true. I know that I'm excellent. I'm just not... sentimental."

His grin spread, warm and crooked. "Just this once." He gave her one more squeeze, then stepped back, nodding toward her bump with quiet reverence. "She's going to be very proud of her mother. One day."

Amelia's smile was small but real. "I hope so."

Charles gave her a parting wink before melting back into the paddock's glow.

—

The restaurant overlooked the water. It wasn't flashy — just candlelight, open windows, and long tables pulled together to fit the team. Plates were passed around. Bottles of wine, soft drinks, sparkling water.

Oscar sat beside Amelia, nudging her knee under the table every so often like he couldn't help himself. Across from them, Lando had changed into a casual shirt, hair still slightly damp from the post-race champagne photo. He kept glancing over at her, soft-eyed and full of pride.

Zak stood and tapped the side of his glass, raising his voice just enough to call the room to attention.

"Right. I think we all know what today meant," he said, smiling faintly. "Charles took the win, but Oscar gave us a hell of a podium and Lando brought it home clean and sharp. Great points for the team." He looked toward Amelia. "But more than that — today was Amelia's last race before maternity leave."

The team clapped — loud and long. There were whistles. Shouts of "legend!" and "go on, mama!" from the mechanics.

Amelia flushed, shifting in her seat.

"She's not just Oscar's engineer," Zak went on. "She's part of why this team found its footing again. You've felt it. I've felt it. She redefined what we thought we could do. And I know — I know — she's going to come back stronger."

Oscar leaned in and whispered, "I'm not ready for Baby Norris to be smarter than me by age four."

"Don't put that pressure on her," Amelia said. "Give her until she's five, at least."

That earned a echo of amused snickers.

Then Tom raised a glass. "To Amelia," he said, smiling. "And to Lando. Congratulations."

Amelia's eyes prickled. She wasn't good at this part. The centre-of-attention part. But she looked around — at the sea of orange and grease-stained fingernails and sunburnt faces. And she felt it. All of it.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the candles burned lower, someone passed her a small envelope. Inside: a card, signed by every team member. Tucked behind it — a folded drawing. A sketch of the McLaren garage. Tiny details included. A crib nestled between the tool chests (which was not going to happen). Her in a headset, baby in a sling. A caption underneath: "When you come back, we'll be waiting with open arms."

She stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into her bag without a word.

Lando wrapped an arm around her as they left, walking her slowly through the cobbled street, his voice low.

"That was a lot. You doing okay?"

"I'm more than okay," she murmured, leaning into him. "I'm just... trying to remember it all. Every second."

"It'll all be here when come back," he said. "But for now — we've got a baby to get ready for."

She exhaled.

And then she smiled.

—

They were back in England by the Tuesday.

Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat, her iPad on her lap. For once, she wasn't reading sim telemetry or reviewing Oscar's feedback — that was Tom's job now.

She was just... reading. A romance novel. She'd renewed her kindle unlimited subscription for the first time in almost three years.

When the car veered off the familiar road toward a narrow lane nestled between fields, she furrowed her brow.

"This isn't the way to my mums," she said.

"I know," Lando replied, his tone light but unreadable.

"Are we visiting someone?"

"You'll see."

She frowned at him but he just reached over and squeezed her leg.

They pulled up a gravel path flanked by hedges still brushing off their spring blossoms. At the end of it: a gate. New. Black metal. The kind that hummed softly as it opened automatically.

Immediately, she knew where there were.

Could see the blur of the old Manor House in the distance, hidden by the rolling green hills.

Amelia turned to him, heart thudding, eyebrows slowly drawing together. "Lando?"

He glanced at her. Smiled. "Just trust me."

The driveway opened into a wide clearing. Green everywhere. Hills rolling in the distance. And in the centre of it: a house.

A new house.

But not just a new house.

It was...

God.

Holy shit.

It was her house.

Amelia stared at it. White stone, deep-set windows, pale wood accents, red brick roof. A big front-door with a place to kick off muddy boots. Like a conglomeration of the millions of pictures that she'd shown him on sleepy nights.

She was quiet for a long time.

"I don't understand," she whispered wetly.

He got out of the car, came around to open her door. Helped her out gently, hand on her back, then on her belly.

"You told me," he said, "that you felt safest where things didn't echo too much. Where the air didn't feel tight. That you wanted your daughter's first memories to be somewhere soft. This is going to be that place, baby."

She stared up at the house again. "When?"

"When you got pregnant." He scratched his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I— Well, I'd already bought the land. Bought it the first time you sent me the listing. But I only started talking to architects after we found out you were pregnant. Designers. Pietra sent me your Pinterest, by the way. I had to bribe her."

Amelia made a shocked sound somewhere between a breath and a laugh.

"Come inside." He whispered.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar and fresh paint. Light poured through tall windows. There were shelves already filled with books — her books, she realised, when she looked closer. All of the books she'd left at her mom's house in Woking because it would have been ridiculous to ship them all to Monaco. A kitchen with an enormous window overlooking acres upon acres of green, a table big enough for noisy breakfasts and quiet late-night sandwiches. A fireplace in the living room. A crocheted blanket already draped across the back of the couch, ("my nan made it for us," Lando murmured), and Amelia felt like crying.

And then — the nursery.

Creamy white walls. A crib. The exact mobile she'd dreamed of. Tasteful art hung on the walls, pink accents. Calm. Serene. An armchair in the corner. A side table with a lamp that looked like the one from her childhood bedroom — it was, she realised, upon closer look. A window overlooking the hills. Blackout curtains. A chest of drawers packed to the brim with an array of different sizes of nappies and a million packets of wet wipes and a closet that was full to the brim with the suitcases worth of baby clothes that she'd been buying and having delivered to her mom's house for the past seven months.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. "You remembered everything."

"You deserve everything."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't even know how to..." She trailed off, too full to finish.

Lando stepped closer and placed her hand against his chest. "You don't need to say anything."

"But I—"

"This is for you, baby. All of it. Forever."

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Welcome home, baby."

NEXT CHAPTER

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nanamisgirly · 2 months ago

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fould we possibly get more womanizer sugu :3

this looks more like a fic than a head canon...oooops. I hope you will enjoy it !!! MWAHHHH :333 part.1 part.3 part.4

cw chubby reader, masturbation, jealous geto, reader fingers herself in front of geto while being in couple.

womanizer!geto thinks he's about to catapult that engineering major boy out of the solar system. right. now.

geto is sitting across the room, arms slung over the back of the couch, fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pop. his eyes are glued burning to where that poor nerd's hands are gripping your waist, pushing you back against the edge of the kitchen counter during some half-assed apartment party.

the guy's mouth is low against your ear, whispering something pathetic (he's sure of it) that makes you blush and push at his chest. but apparently not enough for him to back up completely.

womanizer!geto repeats the same sentences like a mantra “he doesn't know her. he doesn't stand a chance. it's not some pinterest-date plan he probably has in his mind that are going to make her flinch. he doesn't know how she is when her stress hits a fever pitch or when she cries over bad grades. he doesn't even know she chews her pens' cap until they're useless. he. doesn't. stand. a. chance.”

“you let him touch you like that in public?” womanizer!geto leans against the doorframe, smirking lazily, letting his voice drip with mock-casual venom—watching you read some dense academic paper, hoodie two sizes too big. he couldn't restrain himself from asking once you both got home.

you don't even look up as you say, “excuse me?” suguru shrugs, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, heavy with something darker than amusement. “the way the prop-on-him-self-boy was holding your waist earlier. pretty bold move by the way. thought you were shy.”

you blink, slowly lowering the paper. “i am shy.” he chuckles under his breath—low and unkind. “could've fooled me. guess you get real friendly when someone finally shows you attention, huh?” your lips part in shock, jaw going slack at the nerve—the venom hiding in his fake nonchalance.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he doesn't bother answer, he just keeps looking at you—daring you to do something of it, mouth still curled in a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. you hold his stare, mouth tight, throat dry. “if you have a problem with who i'm seeing, suguru, be a man and say it.” his jaw ticks at your words, “i don't—”

“good," your voice cuts him off, "then no problem, right?” he nods once, and pushes off the doorframe, leaving you sitting there, heat crawling up your chest and hands trembling in your lap.

what you miss to see is the way his fists clench the second he turns away. of course womanizer!geto had no problem, why would he? because his mind was spiraling at the girl he had earlier that night, lips wrapped around his cock while his mind conjured the shape of your mouth instead? because his body refused to come unless he imagined your big soft body squirming against his?

the next week womanizer!geto is sure he's going to catapult the engineering boy out of this fucking solar system. he's halfway through some miserable cafeteria lunch when he hears your friends whispering too loud few tables away. “her boyfriend said she came twice” one of them giggles. another leans in, dramatic “she told me he gave her a massage and it turned into, like…a whole thing. .” and the final bow, “she even said he was the best she ever had.” suguru's hands curl into fists under the table, knuckles popping loud enough to make heads turn.

even gojo stops yapping mid-sentence, blinking at him, but geto doesn't hear a single word. his ears are ringing too loud, blood pounding behind them like a drum. all he can think about is you, your possibly messy moans, your pretty face, your fat thighs locking someone else's waist.

it rots him from the inside out.

womanizer!geto goes home right after that and jerks off twice. back-to back. once angrily, under cold water, cursing your name like a prayer. and again, this time slower… worse…because now the image in his head is you under that stupid stem boy. your soft hips rocked by clumsy fingers, your plush thighs spread wide for a cock that doesn't deserve you. geto shouldn't be hard for that. shouldn't want to watch it like some deranged freak.

but here he is—balls aching, cock leaking in his palm—jerking himself through gritted teeth, groaning low in his chest as he imagines your soft belly rippling under the weight of another man's body. he cums with a guttural snarl, forehead slamming the cold tile, imagining your tits bouncing, your glasses sliding down your nose as you whimper for someone who isn't him.

womanizer!geto tries to fuck someone else the next night—some hot girl, tight waist, full lips, half-dressed and panting all over him. but his cock seems stubborn. dead weight in his jeans. not even a twitch. she moans against his neck, grinding her hips against him on the couch, whispering that she wants to ride him all night—

but all he can do is thinking about you.

you, in your stretched-out pajama shorts. you, soft and plush everywhere, a little roll of tummy peeking when your tanktop rides up. you, mouth parted around your pencil when you're focused.

and the next time you're all alone with womanizer!geto in your living room, a late night study session for the upcoming test, he doesn't even try to act normal at the sight of your thick dimpled thighs tucked under you. you're rambling about something, showing him your notes—unaware of the way his eyes devour you. you look so sweet. fuck, he bets you taste so sweet.

he's staring at the half-faded bruise blooming across your collarbone when your voice pulls him back, “suguru…?”

“do you moan for him?” it slips out. you freeze at the sudden question. “wha—”

“your little stem boy,” he says, eyes dark. “when he fucks you. do you moan for him?” the silence is brutal. you open your mouth, close it again, cheeks burning, “that's none of your business.”

he smirks, leans in like a viper. “you sound like you could.” mock sympathy is dripping from every word. and nastier, “if he had a better dick than, what, three inches hard? maybe you would." his eyes glint, "be honest, nerd. he never makes you come, does he?”

the slap cracks across the room, hard enough your hand stings. hard enough to whip his head to the side. his cheek blooms red, but all he does is breathe hard—cock aching, swelling mean against his zipper. your heart is pounding, shame and rage boiling under your skin as you shove your notebook off your lap and storm toward your room.

womanizer!geto probably isn't thinking with his brain anymore as he follows you to your room. he stands in your doorframe just like he did two weeks ago, except this time, his eyes are pure fire—a mix of anger and hunger.

his eyes piercing yours, challenging you. his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful and you should scream at him to leave your room, should shove him out. . and you're about to—but when your eyes fall down to the heavy, swollen bulge in his jeans, you loose all your rationality.

“get on the bed.” the words split the air, hot and final. you blink at him, confused and furious…soaked. your eyes following his every movements as he goes to sit on your desk chair, drops into with all the lazy arrogance in the world. his hand drapes over his thigh, just inches from the thick imprint stretching his pants.

“i won't repeat myself.” the mockery is thick on his tongue. “you can hate me later. you can even hate me forever if that's what you want. but right now?” his voice drops. “right now, you're gonna listen.” something deep inside you twists—dizzying. and before you realize what you're doing, you clim onto your own bed—like some pathetic, brainless thing. you glare at him, trying to save whatever pride you have left.

geto leans back further into the chair, his fingers thumbing the thick ridge of his cock. he tips his chin. “show me.” your stomach flips. “show you…what?” you whisper, already knowing—already burning.

“don't play dump, nerdy. you're too smart for that.” his voice is syrup-thick, fingers taping against the desperate strain against his rough denim. “show me how wet you got after slapping me like a brat.” your throat closes. “no,” you breathe out, a pitiful little sound of defiance but your thighs are betraying you, pressing tighter together. geto grins, “you're already soaking through those dumb little shorts, might as well let me see the mess you made."

womanizer!geto watches like a predator trapping his prey. his chest rises, slow and deep, extremely controlled compared to the raging war breaking inside you. his hand squeezes his cock through his jeans. he licks his lips, hungry. “touch yourself for me, pretty thing. show me how desperate you are for me instead of that useless fucking loser you keep calling your boyfriend. go on. be good.”

your traitorous hand slips under your waistband. the second your fingers brush the sticky heat between your thighs, your breath shatters from your lungs. your fingers tremble as you press harder, rubbing desperate little circles into your clit. you're trying to be quiet, to pretend you have a shred of dignity left—but the wet sounds are obscene and unmistakable.

geto's groan rips through the room—raw an broken, a sound like he's been punched. “tell me, pretty girl," he rasps, “is it dripping already? just from me talking to you?” your whimper is an answer enough, high and shameful, your cheeks burn under his gaze. ”get your shorts off," he commands, voice shredded. "and the panties too. now."

your hands shake so badly it takes two tries to peel your shorts down your thick thighs. your panties stick wetly, peeling away from your messy pussy with a filthy noise. the cold air hits you, your cunt gleaming under the soft light. geto leans forward in the chair, forearms braced on his knees, his stare burning between your legs like he's trying to sear it into his skull.

you try to remain a bit more decent, and close your legs shut together. “nuh-uh." he tsks. "what you doin', pretty? keep them open for me. don't be shy. lemme see all that messy pussy you were hiding.” tears are prickling behind your eyes from how exposed you feel as your legs fall open. geto's pupils blow wide. “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a rough hand over his face. “you're leaking. that's such a mess. and all i did was talk.”

you can't speak—can't think—your whole body is shaking as you rub yourself faster, chasing some kind of release, slick noises filling the room. every tiny touch feels too much and not enough at the same time.

geto is fighting everything in him not to move from the chair, watching like a man starved, squeezing his cock hard enough to hurt. “go on, pretty.” he croons darkly "put a finger in." your fingers fumble, slipping through the wetness before finally pushing inside. your walls flutter around your own digit, too tight, too needy. he lets out a brutal, bitten-off moan, grinding his hips against his palm—matching your pace.

“stop biting your lip,” he growls, “wanna hear you, pretty.” your moans breaks free—small and shameful at first, then louder when you start fucking yourself. “that's it,” his eyes are locked between your legs, “nice and slow, sweet girl. let me see how desperate you can get for me.” it's humiliating, disgusting, how fast you're falling apart, how quickly your hips are starting to chase your own fingers, trying to fuck yourself deeper.

sweat drips down his temple, cock throbbing and leaking so much in his boxer. he shifts again, rutting his hips shamelessly against his palm—chasing friction he desperately wanted you to give him. “bet you never do this for him,” he sneers, “bet that poor stem doesn't know he packed a slutty cunt. a needy one.” you gasp, a pitiful sound.

“does he, at least, get you this wet?” his words whip across the room like a lash. “when he touches you. .” your fingers speed up frantically, thighs quivering “when he fucks you. .” his smirk is vicious as he read through you, “quiet little good girl," he drawls, stepping closer. “saving all that greedy cunt for him, hoping he'll know what to do with it.” he's on you before you can process he even got up—looming over you at the edge of the bed, huge and terrifying and perfect. one big hand cups your jaw, tilting your flushed face up to meet his. his thumb smears sweat and tears across your cheek. ”pretty thing," he hisses, voice shaking with how hard he's holding back. “all soft and sweet. spread out so nice for me.”

if you dare glanced down, you could've seen the soaked patch growing bigger. “i should be disgusted,” he whispers, “should leave your desperate little fat ass begging. sobbing for it.” he presses in closer, nose brushing yours, breath hot and heavy. “you're close, aren't you? fucking yourself stupid in front of me. can't even help it.” his forehead tips against yours. “come for me, sweetie." he murmurs, almost lovingly this time. "make a mess all over that pretty cunt. prove he's nothing.” the filthy command punches the air out of your lungs.

you cry out, loud and shameless, thighs shaking violently as your orgasm crashes over you—drenching your hand and the sheets, rinding it out belly trembling and hips bucking helplessly.

geto watches it all—breathing ragged, knuckles white against the bedspread—but he never touches you. instead, he leans down and presses a filthy, tender kiss to your sweaty forehead. his cock still twitching violently in his pants, he's never been this hard his whole life. not even when he got onto threesome with twins.

and then—still hard, still starving for you—he stands.

he leaves you there, panting, twitching, soaking the sheets. your hand sticky, your cunt fluttering around nothing. your mind a ruined mess of him and only him.

he doesn't look back.

the door clicks softly shut behind him.

you lie there, empty—knowing no one else would ever make you feel so filthy, so wanted, so his.

ᖰ⌯'▾'⌯ᖳ

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto headcanons #geto smut #geto x reader #jjk geto #geto suguru #geto x you #suguru smut #jujutsu kaisen suguru #getou suguru x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #jjk drabbles #headcanon #x female reader #x reader smut

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sushirrrry · 2 months ago

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TRACE a harry styles x original character one-shot word count: 7,785 cw: this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written, but harry is very hot summary: a shy writer commissions a tattoo from an artist who is way too hot to handle; she can’t stop staring at his hands while he works. and, he notices quite quickly. tag list: @gotdrxnkonu @mads3502 @mellamolayla reply to this story if you would like to be added to the tag list in the future! enjoy, and let my know what you think <3 home - send me a message - masterlist

When something got into Lily’s head, it stayed there. It stayed there for a long while, and even though Lily had no intention of really ever getting a tattoo, something about the idea felt like a step forward. Lily had trouble with decision making; while that was a terrible quality for permanently inking skin, it had grossly taken over her brain that she just wanted to do something different.

All of her friends – the two that were the closest, really – had tattoos, a few actually. She didn’t want to just be like them, but she wanted to fit in, in a way. She wanted to be able to share experiences with people, even if it were in small ways that were her own decisions. While indecisive, she knew that she could at least say that she made the decision to walk through the front doors of a tattoo shop and ask for something that she wanted.

Or, at least, get their opinion on it first.

The bell above the door chimed, a soft, musical sound that echoed through the quiet shop. The décor caught her eye first – lots of art deco, prints on the walls, a leather couch that could have easily stepped out of 1970. Lily stepped inside, heart thudding hard enough she could hear it in her ears – she had been noticed by the girl at the front desk now, so she couldn’t just leave.

The air was thick with the scent of ink, leather, and something smoky-sweet that made the place feel untouchably cool. It was the kind of cool that lived in the margins of a life she didn’t know how to be part of, but she was trying her best.

Her fingers tightened around the crumpled piece of paper she carried; it had a few quotes that she’d picked weeks ago but hadn’t had the nerve to act on until now. They were all quotes from her favorite works, but she didn’t know where one would fit best, or where it would fit best.

The shop was dimly lit, but cozy. Exposed brick walls were plastered with art: flashes of color, delicate lines, portraits that seemed almost alive. A soft buzzing sound came from a back room, like a needle whispering against skin. It was sharp and delicate, and she appreciated the artistic value that these works of art held. Lily shuffled forward, swallowing hard as she approached the front desk.

Behind the front desk sat a woman with dark hair that sat on her shoulders, bangs higher on her forehead, and tattoos trailing up both arms like ivy. Her neck was inked with blues and oranges, delicate flower pieces that she could tell had beautiful delicacy. She looked up from her half-finished crossword puzzle, and her mouth pulled into a slow, warm smile — the kind that said, I see you, and it’s okay.

“Hi there,” She greeted, setting down her book. “Are you here for an appointment with someone?”

Lily swallowed, clearing her throat as she gave her best, confident smile back. “Oh – um, no I don’t have an appointment actually,” Her hands held the piece of her paper before she approached the desk, “Do I need an appointment?”

The woman shook her head with a smile, “You don’t need one, we do walk-ins. Do you have a design in mind?”

Lily raised her brows, “Um, yes. I do,” She placed the quotes on the desk for the woman to look at; she had chewed her gum a bit as she nodded.

“A quote is super easy – we can definitely get you in today. We only have one artist here today, so we’ll have to have him draw something up for you. Is this your first tattoo?" The woman asked, tapping her pen against the desk in rhythm with the low thump of music playing somewhere deeper in the shop.

Lily nodded, cheeks burning. She hated how obvious her nerves always were.

The woman leaned in a little, her voice lowering like they were sharing a secret. "No worries, love. You're in good hands here. Everyone has to do something for the first time every once in a while. I’m Kaila, by the way.” She stuck out her hand to help ease Lily’s nerves a bit.

“I’m Lily.” Lily answered, shaking Kaila’s hand before feeling a bit of relief from her prior anxiety. She still felt the rumbling of her heart against her chest, but it had started to ease.

“Well, Lily, I think,” Kaila checked behind herself, neck stretching to see behind the curtain where the sound of the tattoo gun was coming from. “I think we have our artist finishing up here in a minute. Let me check.”

Before Lily could even think to protest, the woman disappeared behind a beaded curtain that rattled softly in her wake. A few voices were heard – a deep, low voice came from that direction before Lily saw Kaila reappear from behind the curtain.

“He’s finishing up in a minute, so you’re welcome to have a seat. Here,” She handed Lily a large book, “Try and see if any fonts jump out at you while you wait.”

With a nod, Lily took the book in her hands before going to sit on the sofa. She had tried to steady her breathing, focusing on the drawings pinned to the wall — intricate vines curling around skeletal hands, bold quotes stitched into roses. She perused through the pages of the book, calligraphy of many sizes and curves. She bit her lip, feeling a bit overwhelmed with that decision. She was halfway through convincing herself to just leave when she heard a low, amused voice.

“Come back in a week or so, we’ll let that heal for a bit. Kaila will get you on my book,” Two men approached from behind the curtain; one had significantly shorter hair that had streaks of blue through bleach. It was so much more alternative than Lily could pull off, surely. His arms were coated in colorful ink and a bandage that coated the inside of his left arm.

The other man had shaggy brown hair, tortoiseshell glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose that held a small silver hoop. He was tall, had a short button-down shirt that held a checkered pattern, a tighter white t-shirt sat underneath it. The jeans sat on his hips with a baggie fashion, the Converse on his feet were filthy and worn to the point of unfathomability.

He was downright beautiful in a way that Lily should have run.

“It’s going to look so sick when it’s finished,” The brown-haired man told Kaila with a smirk. He joined Kaila behind the desk while she took the other man’s payment and got another appointment. Lily had been staring at the interactions, trying not to be obvious as she kept flipping through the book.

In a moment of staring, her eyes reached up to see that Kaila bumped the man with her shoulder, nodding her head towards Lily with a smirk. The man’s attention drew to her; Lily didn’t know what to do but smile back.

"You must be Lily."

She stood from her spot on the sofa, and the breath she'd been trying to catch abandoned her completely.

The man standing there looked like every fictional bad boy she'd ever secretly fallen in love with between the pages of her books. He was a vision of sorts. His messy, dark hair fell into his green eyes, which crinkled slightly at the corners like he laughed more than he should. The tattoos crawled up his forearms in swirling black ink, disappearing beneath the sleeves of the button down that covered muscles that flexed when he pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. And the way he looked at her — like he already knew she was nervous, and found it almost unbearably charming — made something in Lily's chest twist hard.

"I’m Harry," he said, his voice rough and lazy, the kind of voice made for midnight conversations and whispered secrets. He reached a hand out for a shake greeting, to which Lily reciprocated. The only thing she could do was smile back, barely able to form a word.

Lily swallowed, feeling her own pulse against her throat. She nodded, too flustered to trust her voice yet. Harry made his way back to the desk where Kaila stood, Lily followed.

“So, Lily,” Harry said, dragging his knuckles lightly across the counter as he leaned in; Lily took note of the way that his arms were coated with ink, each one telling a different story of a different time, she was sure. “Tell me about this tattoo, then.”

His mouth tugged into a slow, crooked grin, like he already knew she’d stammer her way through it.

Lily unfolded the paper with shaking fingers, offering it like a peace treaty as she slid it across the counter. Harry’s head turned slightly to be able to read some of the words on it.

“I… um, they’re quotes,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes, even though, in her mind, she was already completely in way over her head. “One’s from Jane Eyre - it’s, ‘Conventionality is not morality’, and then I have this Oscar Wilde quote, 'All art is quite useless’ which I just think is quite on-the-nose,” Her voice wobbled as she kept talking, making eye contact with him every so often to make sure that he was engaged.

“Oh, and then this one, from Anna Karenina, 'Yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking’. I think it’s just beautiful. I’m just not sure where I want it yet - or which one I want, I guess. I only want one.”

Harry took the paper from her, his fingers brushing hers — warm, calloused. He had marks on his knuckles, some scrapes, she could tell. Lily’s stomach flipped at the interaction, but she took in a deep breath to try and even out her breath.

He scanned the quotes, his brow furrowing slightly in thought, then lifted his gaze back to hers, softer now, like he understood more than he let on.

“We can take our time figuring it out,” he said, voice low. “That’s the best part.”

He rounded the counter, moving with a lazy kind of grace that made her toes curl in her boots. He stood close, leaning against the front desk as he studied the paper closely. He was close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny silver ring in his left ear.

“The decision on where to put it is mostly about if you want it somewhere only you can see, maybe,” Harry murmured, his voice dipping lower, sending a shiver down her spine as she thought of him seeing it. Of him painting it on her. “Or somewhere you can show it off, if you want the world to know you’re braver than you look.”

From behind the desk, Kaila watched the interaction and the way he spoke to her, a satisfied smirk tugging at her mouth as she picked up her crossword again.

Meanwhile, Lily felt her entire face heat, but her feet stayed planted. She couldn’t look away from Harry if she tried. “I-I’m down for whatever, really. I just – um.” She cleared her throat, fingers playing with her bottom lip as she tried to think about his suggestions. Harry tilted his head, studying her like she was something delicate and fascinating, like he didn’t want to rush and risk breaking the moment.

"Here’s what we’ll do," he said, voice almost a purr. "I'll draw up a sketch so you can see it on you. No ink yet, just a little marker. It'll help you picture it."

Lily opened her mouth to say something — to agree, to flee, she wasn’t sure — but the words caught somewhere behind the pounding of her heart. Harry smiled like he already had his answer. He took the piece of paper that she had crumbled and written on.

"Come on back," he said, jerking his head toward the beaded curtain, where a tall leather chair sat against the wall, His hand brushed lightly against the small of her back as he led her over — a barely-there touch that made her skin tingle under her sweater.

She perched on the edge of the seat, feeling like a statue — awkward and frozen, almost like she was at the doctor’s office— as Harry grabbed a very fine-tipped marker from a nearby tray. He popped the cap off with his teeth, tossing it aside with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“Do you have a kind of an idea of what you want it to look like?” He sat on a chair next to her, a notebook in his hand as he sat the piece of paper on the notebook for reference. Before she could answer he had already started a freehand sketch of the design.

“Um, I think just more of a pretty font,” She nodded, crossing her ankles. “Maybe more of a like,” She shrugged, “Softer?”

Harry nodded, which let a piece of his hair fall over his glasses. “Just letting you know that I actually like the Anna Karenina quote the best. Don’t make that decision based on me, though. It’s your body.”

“Any reason?” Lily found herself asking, feeling that it was a bit bold of her to even create an open conversation.

Harry shrugged, with a smirk that revealed a dimple in his right cheek. “Guess no reason. It would make a boyfriend happy to see his girl wearing a quote like that, I think. It would be a good nod to a good love.”

Lily felt her cheeks flush a heat that made her shake her head. “I-I don’t – uh, there’s no boyfriend.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from revealing on his face before he looked up from his notebook. “Good to know,” He shrugged then, “I think it’s the most poetic. Any reason you want a quote before a drawn art?”

Lily licked her lips, “I’m a writer, and I think having written works on me is like – I don’t know. It makes sense to me.”

With a nod, Harry understood it. “I get that, same with me and drawn art, I guess. Makes sense to me.”

Lily watched his continue to draw on the notebook for another moment before he seemed satisfied with how he had finished it. He sniffled, scrunching his nose before he lifted his head.

"Mind if I...?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to her arm. “Do you have anything on under the sweater? Or you can roll it up if it’s more comfortable.”

Lily took in a breath as she shook her head, as if it was stupid to wear the most clothes to a place where she needed to show skin. "Oh, yeah, of course.” Instead, she threw the sweater over her head, leaving her in a plain white t-shirt. A flush of her skin came back in a rush when she realized that she hadn’t put on a bra, leaving her a bit more intimate than she had intended.

She hadn’t thought this far – how stupid could she have been.

Instead of overthinking it now, she offered her forearm like it was some kind of ancient, sacred ritual.

“Just going to touch you,” He smirked, “Know that goes without saying, but I just want you to know that you can tell me to stop or let go whenever – sometimes people think they can’t do that, but just letting you know… you can.”

Harry’s fingers wrapped gently around her wrist, his touch firm but somehow careful, like he could feel the way her pulse raced under her skin, she was sure of it. Slowly, he pressed the tip of the marker to the inside of her forearm, right where the skin was soft and sensitive; Lily breathed out at the unfamiliar touch. His other hand steadied her, thumb brushing in slow, absent circles against her skin.

"Here’s one idea," he murmured, voice low and private. "Something you can glance at whenever you need it. Something just for you, but for everyone too."

Lily's breath caught as he sketched a delicate curve of letters along her skin, his hand feather-light, almost reverent.

Then, without warning, he lifted his hand to let his thumb touch her collarbone with a slight rub motion. The rest of his fingers grazed over her shoulder.

"Could go here too," he said, his knuckles grazing the edge of her shoulder. "Something that peeks out when you wear a wide neckline, if that you’re thing. A bit teasing."

The word teasing hung heavy between them, almost like he noticed the fact that her nipples were practically on display for the world. He didn’t make it known that he was catching glimpses, but maybe he was quite more of a gentleman than that.

Harry's eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, the air between them snapped tight like a wire. His hand was still at her shoulder, his thumb now resting on her skin like he hadn’t had any reason to let go.

Lily's skin burned under his touch. She swore he could hear her heart pounding.

"And then there's always..." His voice dropped even lower, tougher, more dangerous. He let his fingers trace — just barely — along the outside of her ribs, not quite touching, more of a whisper of suggestion. "...somewhere a little more private, if that’s your thing.”

Her breath hitched audibly; she flinched just a bit even though he hadn’t touched her. The smirk on his face was bitten back as he shook his head.

Harry grinned, wicked and beautiful, then. "No pressure," He said, sitting back as he ran his fingers to push his hair back but slowly, like he wanted her to feel every second of the space he left behind. "Just giving you options."

She swallowed hard, trying to understand the understated feeling of tension that laid between them. It was almost like he had the charisma of a movie star, but she knew that she shouldn’t feel special. Men like Harry didn’t look at girls like Lily.

"Maybe...” She managed, her voice barely above a whisper as she felt the way that her own hand ran her thumb over the site of her ribcage. “Maybe here, I guess. Will it hurt?”

Harry took a sip of the water cup that sat on his station; it kept him from showing the overzealous smile that would appear on his lips at the way that she suggested the private site. He started to smile; it widened like the sun coming up over some dangerous horizon.

"Good call," he said, picking up his pen, "And hey," he added, voice a soft scrape near her ear as he leaned in, "First tattoos are supposed to hurt a little. And I’m pretty good at making sure you’ll like it enough to come back for more. It’s an addicting kind of pain.”

Harry had moved towards the notebook, before he went to go prep the transfer. “Did you like the font of that?” Harry asked, referencing the quick sketch in the middle of her arm that he had given her for reference. “Size too?”

Lily took in a breath, staring at it before she bit her lip, “I think I want it a bit more… rougher, I guess. Nothing too professionally written, I guess. More like regular, messy cursive handwriting. And the size is good. Can we do it in a stanza? Overlapping each comma. You know?”

Staring at the work on her arm, Harry nodded at her notes. Letting his own hand mimic the way that she wanted it – the notes had given him a bit of a warmth in his chest to know that she was asking for exactly what she wanted. On the paper, he turned to show her his interpretation of her thoughts before he pushed his glasses on his nose.

“Something like that?” He asked, Lily’s eyes looked over the design. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth before she nodded and looked back at him.

Yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

“That’s perfect.” Lily told him in all honesty; her vision, while very biased on the fact that she was unable to really decide on her own what she liked, was definitely brought to happiness with the way that he sold his design and where she should have it.

“Awesome,” Harry said, pleased with the way that she agreed without any further remarks. This step always took much longer, as people wanted their design to be something in their head – Harry had to figure out how to bring their designs to life, but he was creative in that sense. He could usually try to understand them by their character, getting to know them a little bit before designing it.

He just knew that Lily would like this, without knowing her at all.

“So, I’m going to go trace this for you really quick so I can get a stencil. Grab a soda of something out of the fridge, make yourself comfortable. This shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes or so,” He told her, “It will take more to prep and clean you up than anything else. Also, assuming you want black ink?”

Lily let her hands fold in her lap before she nodded at his instruction, “Yes, black is good.”

With that, Harry stood from his own seat before taking his work over to trace it for stenciling. While they were apart, Lily took the moment to let out the largest breath that had been holding back in her lungs. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself.

Now, she lay back against the leather chair, her sweater discarded on her lap as she tried to play with a loose string. Her eyes shut in a few flutters before she laid her head back and stared at the ceiling. She turned her head for a moment to stare at the way that Harry’s back arched over the small desk that held the stencil he was carefully tracing.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands – she grabbed her purse, taking her phone out of her purse before she brought up her text messages with her best friend, Tess. She rolled her lips into her mouth before she snapped a quick photo of the set up where the ink and tattoo gun were held.

Lily: Going under the knife… or gun?

Lily: Also… the artist could not be cuter if he tried

“Okay, this is where you need to stand up so we can make sure it’s straight.” Harry’s voice took her out of her phone, startling her a moment before she nodded. She moved herself out of the leather chair, placing her feet on the floor, using her hands to make sure that her silk skirt was straight.

“Also, the cowboy boots are sick, by the way.” Harry complimented her with a bite of his own lip. Lily noticed their height difference when she looked from her boots up to him; the shine of his nose ring caught her eye before she blushed at the compliment.

“Thank you- I, uh, thrifted them in Shoreditch a few weeks ago,” The genuine brown leather hit against her calves as she showed them off a bit, “Thought they were fun. My first time wearing them.”

“You pull them off well.” Harry nodded. There was a slight tension as Lily cleared her throat; shaking her head, they found the moment of silence to be too much. Harry broke it.

Reaching over his station, Harry worked silently at the little rolling table nearby, snapping on a pair of black gloves with a crisp snap. The sound made her flinch — not from fear — but something deeper. Anticipation, maybe.

"Alright, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice so low and easy it crawled over her skin like smoke. "I’m gonna clean the area first, and then I’m gonna to lay the stencil where I think you’ll like it. If you don’t like it, we can do it again.”

Lily nodded, even though her throat had gone bone dry.

Taking a seat in his chair, Harry rolled closer, a small squeeze bottle and cloth in hand. She stood taller than him now, but she would have to admit the view from above may have been just as good – if not better.

“So, just lift your shirt up – which are we thinking, right or left?” He watched as Lily took the edge of her shirt in her hands before she looked between them, incredibly indecisive, but also without a care, so she just stated, “Left, I think will be better.”

Harry wheeled himself to her left ribcage, using his glove to push her hand up a bit to show more of her skin.

“You doing okay?” He asked; when he received the nod of her, he used his thumb to brush the latex over her skin before using the wipe to clean the area. Lily flinched at the chill of the cool wipe before Harry looked up at her – she had been staring straight ahead.

The antiseptic was cool against her overheated skin, making her jerk slightly when he swiped it along the curve of her ribcage. He steadied her with a gentle, gloved hand at her side.

"Sorry," Harry said, grinning, "It's always a shock at first."

Lily could barely breathe, acutely aware of everywhere he touched — even though he was professional, methodical, only exposing the small area he needed to work on.

Still, the intimacy of it — the way he had to tilt and maneuver her slightly toward him, the way his hands bracketed the sensitive space just beneath her breast — it felt like too much and not enough, all at once.

"There we go," he said, voice all concentration now. "Now stay real still for me, okay?"

She nodded again, uselessly, because the second the stencil met her skin, she swore she could feel him — the heat of his body, the careful drag of his focus on the straightness of the stencil. She could have sworn his face was close enough that a few strands of his messy brown hair brushed against her bare side.

"You're doing good," Harry murmured after a minute, his breath ghosting over her ribs. "Very good."

Lily squeezed her eyes shut. She was utterly doomed.

When he finished the stencil, he sat back just slightly to admire his work, pulling off one glove with a snap to smooth the tracing paper carefully against her skin. The backs of his fingers skimmed her ribs — feather-light, deliberate — and when he looked up, the green-gold of his eyes darkened.

"You sure you wanna stop at just one?" he asked, voice roughened with something almost tender. "Because, honestly, you wear ink way too well."

She swallowed hard, daring to glance down at the delicate tracing tucked along her ribcage, just under the swell of her breast. She drew in a breath, “Let’s see how much this one hurts first.” She let out a breath of a laugh.

Harry �� still sitting beside her, still half-smiling like he knew every thought flying through her head — looked like pure, heart-wrecking trouble. Harry’s grin turned wicked. He peeled off the second glove and stood, flexing his fingers, muscles shifting under the ink that wrapped his own arms like stories written just for him.

"You never know," he said, voice a promise. “You might like a little pain.”

Turning to his station, Harry grabbed a bunch of unopen supplies that were sterile, and he turned to prep the needle and machine, leaving Lily alone on the chair — heart racing, skin burning, body already craving the sting of his touch.

The buzz of the tattoo machine filled the space again, a steady sound that somehow made Lily’s heart race even harder. Harry sniffled, looking over at her before he cleared his throat.

“I think we’re going to have you lay on your back,” Harry went to maneuver the chair to lay flat; Lily moved with it, laying down on her back before Harry shook his head. “Hold your arm over your head.”

Harry leaned in close, resting his newly gloved hand flat against her side to steady her. The spot was so sensitive — right under the curve of her breast — that when the needle first kissed her skin, she gasped and instinctively arched slightly away.

"Hey, hey," Harry murmured, his free hand held at the underside of her breast, right at her ribs– which gave him a bit of unease at first. "Easy, sweetheart. You're alright. Deep breath for me, yeah?"

Lily swallowed hard, her face burning, but she nodded. She focused on breathing through her nose, trying to ignore the feel of his palm anchoring her, the heat of his body so close it was dizzying. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, knowing that each moment felt more and more difficult.

"You’re doing great," he said, voice low and soothing. "First tattoo’s always the hardest. Especially a spot like this. Let me know if you need to stop.”

She let out a shaky laugh, the sound barely there. "Y-Yeah, I guess I don’t do things halfway."

Harry’s smile widened — not mocking, but warm. Proud, even. He adjusted the machine in his hand and carefully started again, the fine line of the quote beginning to take shape along her ribs.

Harry’s mouth curved into a slow, appreciative grin. "Figures. You’ve got that stubborn look about you."

The machine whirred as he carefully pressed the needle into her skin again, beginning the delicate line of the quote. "What's the quote from?" Harry asked after a minute, his voice soft and warm, keeping her distracted as he worked.

"Anna Karenina," Lily said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "It’s about... someone seeing you. Even when you think you're invisible."

Harry’s hand paused for the briefest second before he resumed, wiping gently at her side with a cloth.

"Sounds like it means something to you," he said, glancing up at her with a flicker of something real in his gaze.

She shrugged, the movement small against his steady hand. "I just... sometimes it feels like... if you're quiet, people don't really notice you. But when they do..."Her voice trailed off.

Harry's smile softened, a little less cocky and a little more sincere. "They’d be bloody stupid not to notice you," he said, almost too low for her to hear.

Before she could say anything, he leaned back in to finish the script, his concentration fierce, brow furrowed. His hand was careful, stabilizing her, and even through the sting of the tattoo, all Lily could focus on was the way his touch felt: steady, grounding, almost reverent.

"You’re holding up better than most," he said after a few minutes, wiping away a smear of ink. "Some people swear and curse the whole time."

She gave a breathless laugh. "Maybe I'm just too shy to complain." She knew very well that it hurt – it hurt more than anything she had done, but she laughed at the idea that maybe she just needed to stay quiet.

Harry chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "I don’t mind a little shy," he said, his thumb rubbing slow circles into her waist without thinking. "Means you don't bullshit."

She swallowed, heat rushing to her cheeks. As he finished the final strokes, he leaned in even closer, his breath ghosting against her skin.

"And it’s the quiet ones," he murmured like it was a secret, "who usually end up being the most unforgettable."

Lily's breath hitched, her entire body tense — not from the tattoo, but from him.

"I know you marched in here scared outta your mind," he said, carefully wiping away excess ink with a cloth. "And you still picked one of the hardest spots to get tattooed. You sat through it like a champ."

Lily didn’t know what to say to that, but the smile pulling at her mouth was uncontrollable.

Harry kept working, his touches careful, respectful — but God, she could feel him everywhere. His hand steady against her waist. The occasional brush of his knuckles against her ribs when he adjusted the angle. The warm breath from his mouth when he leaned closer to focus. It was overwhelming in the best, most terrifying way.

"You from around here?" he asked, glancing up again as he shifted slightly, bending lower to reach the final curve of the quote.

"Yeah," she said, her voice a little stronger now. "Grew up about fifteen minutes away. You?"

"Born here," Harry said, grinning as he dabbed gently at her side. "Escaped for a bit. Came back when I realized not everywhere has diners open 'til 3 a.m."

Lily laughed softly at his remark. It surprised them both— the way it slipped out of her so easily, warm and bright. Harry looked at her like he wanted to bottle the sound; she hadn’t showed as much emotion than from that little, stupid remark.

"You're loosening up," he said teasingly, switching out a cartridge on the machine to do the finer details. "Almost like you’re not terrified of me anymore."

"I was never terrified of you," she said quickly, eyes wide.

Harry just smirked. He leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially as he waited for the color to rise on her cheeks the color of fire. Somehow, he already knew the buttons he needed to press.

"Then why were you blushing so hard you looked ready to faint when I walked over?"

Lily opened her mouth — and then shut it, mortified. She knew that her cheeks could not have been redder than they were in this moment.

Harry's laughter — warm, deep, good — filled the studio space that they were sitting in.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he said, his knuckles brushing her side again in a way that felt far too deliberate to be accidental. "You’re not the first to get a little shy. You just wear it way cuter than most."

Her heart fluttered so violently she was sure he could feel it vibrating under her skin.

"You're... very confident," she muttered, staring at the ceiling like it might save her.

Harry tilted his head slightly, the machine buzzing softly again as he started on the delicate flourishes of the script, intricate details were needed as he stared deeper onto the inked skin.

"Suppose I have to be," he said, easy with a shrug to his shoulders. "People are trusting me to carve something into them forever. Can’t really be shaky about that." He pulled back for a second, wiping gently again, then leaned closer to blow softly on the ink to dry it.

The puff of air against her raw, sensitized skin made her shudder. Harry grinned like he noticed, like he was tucking it away somewhere private.

"Almost done," he said softly. "You’ve been a dream to work on, Lily."

The way he said her name with a slow, deliberate tone made her stomach flip. When he finally clicked the machine off and peeled his gloves away, the quiet that fell was almost deafening. It hadn’t been too long then, but Lily had missed the feeling already.

He sat back on his chair, running his hand through his messy hair, looking her over like he was committing the sight to memory.

"Alright," he said, voice a little rough, "moment of truth. Want a mirror?"

She nodded, and he passed it over carefully, brushing her fingers with his own in the exchange.

Lily angled it, looking down to be able to see where the writing sat on her skin. It was raw, her skin, red around the darkened ink that was now visible and permanent.

The quote curved perfectly under her breast, right on the ribcage, elegant and understated — exactly like she had imagined it in her head a hundred times. She knew that this would help her, this would connect her with her peers knowing she had gone through this experience.

"It's..." She swallowed hard. "It's really beautiful. Thank you."

Harry's smile softened, all the cocky teasing bleeding out of him until he looked almost bashful at her complimented admission.

"Hey," he said, reaching out instinctively to squeeze her hand that had been holding the mirror in place, fingers brushing along softly as he let go. "Thank you for trusting me. Let me bandage it up for you, and we can send you on your way.”

Lily nodded at that, biting her lip as she kept looking at the mirror while he grabbed the bandages. Harry wiped the ink again, giving it a sheen as he gave her instructions for aftercare. He handed her a small paper bag that included a lotion, a soap wash, and instructions for first time care of a tattoo.

"You mind if I grab a quick photo?" Harry asked, twirling the tattoo machine cable loosely between his fingers as he started to clean up his space; he was trying to act nonchalant about getting the photos, knowing she could possibly say no – but hoping she would just say yes. "For my portfolio. Only if you’re cool with it. I know it’s a spicy spot."

Lily blinked at him, heart still pounding. His smile was easy, but there was a gleam behind it, something playful, like he already knew she wouldn’t say no.

"Okay," she breathed, before she could overthink it. “Yeah, sure.”

Harry grinned a gleaming smile that allowed his dimples on display. He grabbed his film camera from under his station – of course it was a film camera, Lily thought.

"Stand up over here for me," he said, nodding toward a spot near the exposed brick wall where the late afternoon light pooled golden through the windows. “Better lighting.”

Lily slid off the chair, legs slightly unsteady, the fresh sting of the tattoo a thrilling reminder that this was real. Harry watched her cross the room, head tilted like he was studying a living piece of art. His gaze dragged over her with an intensity that made her toes curl inside her boots.

"Just... pull the shirt up a bit,” he said, his voice going rough at the edges. "Show it off."

Her fingers fumbled at the hem of her shirt, tugging it just enough to reveal the tattoo.

"There," he murmured, camera drawn up to his eye, voice a velvet scrape "Perfect. Hold still for me, pretty girl." he said, almost under his breath as he concentrated on getting the perfect shot.

The first snap of the camera echoed too loudly in the quiet shop. Lily's heart thudded against her ribs as Harry moved around her, finding angles, framing her tattoo, but it didn’t escape her that his eyes kept straying back to her face. Her mouth. Her flushed cheeks.

"One more," Harry said, voice low and rough now. “Chin up. Look at me."

Lily obeyed, realizing that her face would now be in the shot before she even thought about it, tilting her face toward him — and the look that passed between them nearly set the air itself on fire. For one breathless, infinite second, it didn’t matter that the camera was between them. It didn’t matter that she was shy, or new to this, or that her heart was beating out of control.

All that mattered was the way Harry was looking at her. It was almost like she was already his favorite work of art.

The camera clicked. Harry dropped it to his side without a second glance.

He stepped closer again, too close — the kind of close where all she could see was the glint in his hazel eyes and the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You killed it, Lily," he said softly, with the hint of humor coating his tone. “First tattoo... and you already look dangerous."

Her cheeks flamed, but this time, she didn’t look away.

"Guess I’ll have to find an excuse to see you again." He murmured, trying to keep it between them, even though Kaila was just at the desk behind the beaded curtain. “If you want to, I mean.”

Before Lily could even straighten up, a warm hand closed gently over hers.

She looked up — right into Harry’s eyes. Up close, they were even more devastating — a messy green-gold, framed by thick lashes, flecked with something reckless and soft all at once.

“Y-You want to see me again?” Lily asked, almost like the words coming from him weren’t real. They couldn’t have been; there was nothing intriguing enough about her that would allow a man like this to be interested in her. But the way that his eyes shone behind the glasses as he looked at her held a truth that she couldn’t deny.

"I’ve got about an hour before my next appointment," he continued, like he hadn't just tilted her whole world off its axis. "And I was thinking maybe instead of a payment, you could just... walk to get a coffee with me instead."

Breathless, Lily opened her mouth to speak, letting a breathless laugh escape her. “Oh, uh,” She shook her head, but watched Harry’s smile start to fade as if she was denying him, “Oh- I mean, yes. I would… I would like to do that. But you’re sure you don’t – I mean, I can pay you for your work.”

Harry smiled wider, clearly delighted by the reaction he was pulling from her.

"No, really," he added, even though they both knew there was nothing casual about the way he was looking at her right now. Harry reached over to the chair, handing her the sweater. "I wasn’t expecting this today, so I’ve kind of already been paid. In a way.��

Kaila snorted quietly behind her crossword, drawing Harry’s attention. This time his cheeks reddened at the reaction.

Lily hesitated for half a heartbeat, then found herself smiling, small but real. Maybe a little reckless as she pressed her tongue into her cheek.

"Okay," she said. "Coffee sounds... good. I like coffee."

Harry’s grin turned into something full of promise as he nodded, finding his cheeks hurting from the smile emitting from him.

"Yeah?" he said, stepping back just enough to snag his jacket from the hook by the door. "Good. I know a place.”

Lily pulled the sweater over her head, pulling it back over her frame as she looked up at him. “Do you mind if I freshen up really quick?”

Harry perked up, “Oh, sure. The restrooms over there.” He pointed towards the back, “I’ll meet you at the front.”

Lily moved her way towards the restroom, taking her small purse as Harry grabbed his jacket and sunglasses before going towards the counter where Kaila was sitting with her crosswords in front of her. Harry blew out a breath and raked a hand through his messy hair. The slow smirk on her face was overtaking her smile, Harry caught it immediately.

"You good, Casanova?" Kaila asked without looking up, flipping her pencil between her fingers. “I’m surprised you were able to keep your hand steady enough to get good ink out of it with how jacked up she made you.”

Harry leaned his elbows onto the counter, head dropping between his arms with a low, muffled groan. "I’m gonna marry her.”

Kaila snorted so hard she almost dropped her pencil. "You talked her into coffee, not a courthouse wedding."

He peeked up at her through his messy hair, a cocky but boyish grin tugging at his mouth. "Coffee first. Courthouse second. I’m a gentleman, of course. I do nothing without second thoughts."

Kaila rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath. "Well, just don’t scare her off with your strong puppy energy. She’s sweet. You don’t get a lot of that. You don’t usually throw yourself at girls, it’s a lot of the opposite, so I can tell she’s going to challenge you."

Harry straightened up a little, something serious flickering across his face for half a second. "I know," he said quietly, “That’s hot.”

Kaila softened, just a little, watching him. Then she shook her head and went back to her crossword, voice light again. "Go easy, Fabio. Try not to spill coffee on yourself this time."

Harry flipped her off good-naturedly just as the bathroom door opened, and he immediately turned around, smoothing his jacket down like he'd been standing there casually the whole time. Kaila bit her lip to stifle another laugh.

When Lily came back into view, cheeks still a little pink and hair a little mussed from the day but pulled back into a clip now, Harry couldn’t stop the wide, helpless grin that broke across his face.

“I’ll be back, Kai.” Harry walked in front of Lily, he held the door open for her, a little old-fashioned but somehow so natural it made Lily’s heart ache as she moved out in front of him.

The bell above the shop door jingled as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun. The sidewalk was still warm, the city humming around them. For a few seconds, they just walked, side by side, the silence between them not awkward, but tentative — fragile, like the first brushstroke of something beautiful about to begin.

Harry glanced sideways at her, his voice a little lighter now, teasing again. "So, Lily," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets as he walked. "Tell me something about you. Something I wouldn’t guess."

Lily looked down at the ground, shy, but the corner of her mouth twitched up. After a beat, she said softly, "I once won a spelling bee because I memorized an entire Russian novel in case they picked a word from it."

Harry laughed, a rich, warm sound that made her grab onto her sweater sleeves a bit tightly. "Let me guess," he said, grinning as he walked sideways to face her. "Was it Anna Karenina?"

She laughed too then — a real, bright thing that made her feel lighter than she had in months.

"Maybe," she said, pretending to be coy. "Maybe not."

He bumped his shoulder gently against hers, careful but playful. "Oof, you’re going to keep me guessing,” He bit his lip, “I like it.”

They rounded the corner together, the coffee shop coming into view — a cozy little place with fairy lights strung up in the windows.

And for the first time in a long time, Lily felt like maybe she wasn't invisible after all.

Maybe she was finally being seen.

565 notes · View notes

musingsofheaven · 7 days ago

Note

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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tiredandsapphic · 2 months ago

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PINING, MATTHEWS?

pairing ꩜ precrash!lottie matthews x fem!reader

summary ꩜ lottie finds herself oddly infatuated over the local record shop girl, the feelings mutual

an ꩜ wc 1.5k, oh medicated lottie, come home, the kids miss u

Who knew Wiskoyak would be cool enough to have a local record store. Thank gods it did, because it was probably one of the best jobs someone could have. Though if it wasn’t for your parents’ connection to the owner, you’d probably not have the job. But here you are, working part time in the perfectly dusty store.

Lottie didn't even know there was a record store so close, not until Van brought it up one day after practice. She practically forced the poor girl to visit claiming that there's more to the music world than just Mazzy Star and The Cranberries.

With her ego half bruised and a newfound curiosity, she searches for this so-called store with Van's shitty directions. She eventually finds it, tucked behind a local cafe and mechanic shop.

When she enters, she's hit with the smell of incense and cigarettes, walls lined with posters. Faint record playing in the back, something she can't quite recognize, maybe Kate Bush? Her presence surrounded by the rows of cassettes and dusty vinyls, she almost doesn't notice you.

You're at the front counter, legs kicked up on a stool, chewing on a pen cap as you scribble in your notebook. You don't even look up.

Her so-called rich-girl aura doesn't exactly scream grunge record store— she suddenly feels very out of her element. But determined as Lottie is, with a pretty girl and a mission in front of her, she awkwardly approaches the counter.

Her footsteps draw your attention up, expecting some middle-aged guy looking for another Nirvana cassette. Your eyes widen slightly when your gaze travels up a figure in a letterman jacket, to deep brown eyes. Shit.

She smiles at you right away, her discomfort clearly on her face and now you feel the sudden need to make it all better. "Hey," is what you start with, mirroring a warm smile as you look up.

"Hi, I— uhh, to be honest, my friend kind of bullied me into coming here, and I have zero clue what I'm even looking for." She explains in a voice that makes you melt. She's sweet, but god she's fidgety, weirdly nervous. It's like watching a candied tragedy.

Laughing softly, you throw down your notebook, leaning forward on the counter to give her your undivided attention. Lottie's face is now feeling more warm.

"Oh yikes, I see," you raise your brows in a soft teasing way, "well I can help with that. What do you like?" And the question is so genuine, it's like you actually want to know, not just because it's your job.

She fumbles for a moment, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, the smallest crease in her brow. It's adorable.

"I think Mazzy Star and Fiona Apple— but I also really like The Cranberries before a game." The tall girl admits and you nod along, slightly smitten by her taste. And a wave of realization runs over you.

"A game? Oh wait shit, you play for the Yellowjackets." You exclaim and it takes her back a bit, then an embarrassed smile grows on her face. "I'm guessing that the friend that bullied you into coming here is Van?"

Lottie laughs and nods, "Mhm, that's her. She speaks highly of this place— and you, apparently you're ‘the girl that knows her shit’. Honestly I didn't know it existed." She admits, her eyes on you the whole time. You just chuckle.

"Yeah, a lot of people say that. It's my little heaven, I really only got the job because I know the owner, and of course, know my shit." You admit and stand up, smoothing down your clothes as if you were trying to look presentable. "Also I can totally work off your taste, it's good." You smile and she flushes, you can't help but flush as well.

"I'll feel less like a lost cause, thanks." Her footsteps trail behind you as you walk towards one of the aisles. "I'm Lottie by the way." She adds, if not a little awkwardly.

You give her a smile and tell her your name, which makes the girl beam just a little more. Lottie eyes you as you flip through some shelves, admiring the determined look on your face.

You start to pull out some albums, making small comments, even little music facts. Lottie's knees suddenly feel so weak.

You stop yourself mid word vomit, painted nails gripping a The Cure vinyl. "Oh my god, I've been rambling for the past 10 minutes on music, I'm sorry, you must think I'm a dweeb." You laugh, your cheeks feeling hot.

"No—" she adds, maybe a touch too quick, "not at all," she laughs softly, "it's cute, please, I don't think I've learnt this much about music before than now." She says as if she wasn't looking at you instead of the vinyls the whole time.

You look at her as if she just proposed— your heart certainly feels like she did.

"Okay, good, because I haven't even shown you half of it yet." You grin and she just nods, more than happy to watch your fingertips skim the vinyl spines as you talk.

You probably talk for way too long, but the lack of other customers and her personality becoming less nervous just makes something click. She makes small jokes that have you laughing, and your job just becomes much more worth it.

At one point she skims over, standing in front of a small section that's labelled 'staff picks'.

"Careful. That section's dangerous. You might leave with a personality." You say casually with a teasing look.

She just blinks at you then laughs, and you walk over. You grab a vinyl off the wall. "Actually, here, I think you'll really like this."

And you hold out an Alanis Morissette album. "If you don't like it, full refund." You say half jokingly, but you're too confident in your music match making skills. "Perfect before a game too."

Lottie's deep gaze flickers from you to the album for a few moments before she takes it, her fingers brushing yours. Your internal record player skips.

"I'll take your word for it." She nods, clutching the album like it's holy.

It's not even then that Lottie goes to cash out, she still trails by as you show her more, even sharing your own favourite artists, which she locks in her mental diary.

You eventually walk over to the counter to ring her up, almost saddened to do so. You wanted her to stay longer, so did she. Though her short trip evolved into something much longer.

Lottie keeps glancing at you during checkout. She's got that flustered soft fidgeting, biting her lip, her fingers twitching by her wallet, clearly wanting to say something but chickening out.

So, while she's distracted digging through her bag, you build up the courage to make a move— sorta. You grab a post-it note, scribbling your number and writing 'Call me if you want more dangerously good taste. Or a date. Whichever.' and tuck it into the sleeve of the album.

You look back up and slide her the album, taking her money, as if you hadn't just did the boldest thing you've ever had the courage to do.

"Thanks, for all this." She says as she grabs the vinyl off the counter.

You just nod, "any time, I know this was your first time here, and I really hope it's not your last."

Lottie smiles, her internal circuit malfunctioning. "I'll have to make sure you're on shift then, next time." She says softly before whispering a soft goodbye.

Your heart thumps as you watch her leave, blinking like you've just had the rug pulled from underneath you. You immediately bend over the desk like you've been shot in the chest, your hands on your face. You don't know whether to throw up or celebrate.

Later that night, after a long shift haunted by thoughts of the tall athlete, you lie on your bed, sprawled out like a coming-of-age movie.

Then your landline rings, coming from your cluttered desk beside your bed.

Your heart stops, it could be anyone, but your chest knows.

"Hello?" You answer after the second ring, finger fidgeting with the twisted wire.

"Hey, it's— uh. Lottie. From earlier." Her voice is a little shakier on the line.

"Oh. Oh, hi." Suddenly the wire of your landline is very intriguing, acting as if you weren't the one who asked for this.

"So. I found something in my record sleeve." She says, open ended.

"Oh. Yeah. That." Total deer in headlights. "Was that okay?"

She laughs at your tone softly, "More than okay. I was wondering... if maybe I could take you up on the offer."

"Which part?" You're nearly breathless.

She pauses, "Well, preferably both, but the mostly second part."

"Good, I was mostly hoping for that part." And suddenly your world flipped, for the better.

You clutch your pillow tighter, the idea of a date with her no longer just a dream, but now a promise.

#yellowjackets #lottie mathews x reader #lottie yellowjackets #wlw #lesbian #lottie matthews x you #lottie matthews x fem!reader #lottie matthews #i love her #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you

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sirxaibs · 3 months ago

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Dick Grayson | Nightwing X Reader

ᨒ ོ ☼ Voice on the Line ᨒ ོ ☼

I feel hes a munch. I feel hes a woman lover. He loves women. Him when women. Also did i think about Garcia and Morgan when writing this? yeah…. and what about it?

masterlist

You’re the newest addition to the Batsquad. Cant help if you’re basically forced to talk to eye candy all night. Though what if the eye candy wants you back.

ᨒ ོ ☼ The hum of servers filled the air like a lullaby, soft and steady behind the clack of your manicured fingers dancing across the keyboard. Multiple monitors cast a warm glow against your skin as codes flickered by, surveillance cams blinked into motion, and the Gotham skyline lit up under your careful watch. You chewed on a pink pen cap thoughtfully, then leaned into the mic on your headset.

“Alright, Bat Team, eyes up. Cameras just caught movement on the east perimeter. Looks like our guy’s not late to his own robbery party.” Static.

“Copy that,” came a deep voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make your lips twitch. “And here I was hoping for a quiet night.”

The soft glow of neon lights from Gotham’s skyline bled into the Watchtower’s tech room, giving everything a purple blue hue. The glow reflected off your screens, lighting up your face as your fingers flew across the keyboard. Surveillance cams, thermal feeds, encrypted audio all of it filtered through your custom built comms system. You leaned back in your chair, twirling said pink pen through your fingers. Your voice came through sweet as sugar, laced with a barely hidden smirk.

“Watch yourself Nightwing, I hope you’re wearing something cute under all that kevlar. You’re live on all my cams tonight.”

A low chuckle filtered through your headset, rough around the edges in the way that always made your stomach flip.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite guardian angel,” Nightwing drawled, voice dipped in charm he wore like a second skin. “What would I do without your voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear?”

“You’d probably walk into a wall,” you said sweetly. “Or into that very large man standing behind the dumpster on 5th and Main.”

There was a beat of silence, then a soft thwack through the mic.

“You mean that wasn’t a trash can?” he teased, slightly breathless. “How dare you underestimate my night vision, sugar.”

You grinned, propping your cheek in your palm as you tracked his movement across the rooftops. “Sugar now, huh? Is that your new nickname for me?”

“Unless you prefer ‘Sweetheart.’ Or ‘Hot Stuff.’ I’m flexible.”

You let out a melodic laugh, not even trying to hide it. “Wow, your flirting game is tragic tonight. You okay out there, Nightwing? Hit your head on a chimney?”

“I’m just warming up,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Wait ‘til I meet you in person. Then I’m turning the charm up to eleven.”

You opened your mouth to volley back but Barbara’s voice cut in like a whip.

“Alright, you two cut it.”

You both froze.

“Lock in,” Barbara said, her voice firm and dry as dust. “This isn’t a late night radio show. We’ve got multiple armed targets on the ground and a hostage situation developing five blocks south. Thermal (your hero name), patch the thermal overlay to Nightwing’s HUD.”

You straightened in your chair, fingers flying. “Yes, ma’am. Thermal incoming.”

“Nightwing,” Barbara added with the tone of a fed up older sister, “try keeping your tongue in your mouth for five minutes. You’re on mission, not a date.”

“Harsh, Babs,” he muttered.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “if I had a dollar for every time I had to listen to the two of you flirt in the middle of a crisis, I could afford a better coffee maker.”

You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, then cleared your throat. “Aww, c’mon, Babs. Can’t a girl multitask? I can route power to Nightwings grappling line and boost morale at the same time.”

“I don’t need morale,” Nightwing interjected. “I need a distraction. Preferably wearing those glasses you mentioned last week.”

“You remember that?” you teased.

“I remember everything you say, Sweetheart.”

Barbara groaned audibly. “I’m leaving this room before I’m forced to bleach my ears.”

“I mean,” you added sweetly, “he’s just mad he can’t picture me behind this desk, legs crossed, looking very professional while saving his butt.”

Nightwing whistled. “If I didn’t have to stop a robbery, I’d be scaling that tower right now.”

Barbara’s voice snapped back over the channel like a rubber band. “Focus, both of you.”

“Copy that,” you said, suddenly all business again as you leaned forward and zoomed in on the warehouse entrance. “Three guards posted up. One pacing, one smoking, one with a submachine gun. Interior layout uploaded to your HUD. Entry through the southeast vent is clear. You’re greenlit, Nightwing.”

“See? She flirts, but she gets it done,” he muttered fondly.

You grinned. “I always stand on business, baby.”

“Then I better bring my A game. Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite tech goddess.”

You laughed quietly, adjusting your headset as you pulled up the emergency response grid. “Just don’t get shot, Nightwing.”

Barbara let out one final sigh before muttering, “I swear, I should’ve let Batman take this shift.”

But despite her grumbling, you swore you saw a smile tug at the corners of her lips as she turned away.

He grunted, and you could tell it was the kind of laugh he didn’t want you to hear.

“Let’s make a deal,” he said suddenly. “You keep me alive tonight, and I’ll finally let you buy me a coffee.”

You blinked. That was new. “You mean you buy me a coffee? Bold of you to assume you’re that charming.”

“You do call me every night.”

“Because it’s my job, Nightwing.”

Your own heart beat just a little faster as Nightwing’s icon approached the rendezvous point. It was almost always like this. Take the next day where you were thrown completely out of your own loop You were sprawled comfortably in the comms chair, pink converse kicked up on the desk, a bag of sour candy at your side, and at least three drinks within reach because hydration and caffeination were essential for optimal management.

Tonight’s mission? Barely a blip on the Bat Radar. A stakeout near the docks. Zero hostiles so far. Minimal risk. Maximal boredom.

“Nightwing,” you poured into your mic, stretching dramatically, “how’s the air up there on your boring little rooftop? You see anything exciting? UFOs? Pirates? A raccoon that looks like Bruce?”

“Negative on the Bruce raccoon,” Nightwing said through the comms, voice thick with amusement. “But thanks for the nightmare fuel, Sweetheart.”

“I try,” you chirped, popping another piece of candy into your mouth. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“You keep me somewhere, alright,” he murmured, just low enough to think you wouldn’t catch it.

You did. You always did. Before you could respond with another flirty jab, a new voice crackled in gruffer, sharper. Dry as sandpaper and twice as moody.

“Are you always like this?” Jason Todd’s voice cut in like a knife through silk. “I’ve been listening for ten minutes and I already want to uninstall my ears.”

You beamed, leaning closer to the mic like he could see your grin. “Red Hood! My favorite grump. Took you long enough to say hi.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, please. You love it,” you teased, swiveling in your chair like it helped transmit your energy. “I’m your emotional support chatterbox. You’d cry without me.”

“Unlikely.”

“Then why are you still listening?” you asked sweetly, tapping into his drone cam and watching as he crouched in the shadows near an old shipping container. “I see you didn’t even mute me. That’s gotta mean something.”

Jason sighed. The tiniest sigh. A truce in breath form.

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“And adorable, don’t forget that part.”

“Why does she talk to you like that?” Nightwing asked suddenly, cutting in with playful suspicion. “She doesn’t call me ‘adorable.’”

“I like to flirt with people who pretend to hate it,” you replied easily. “Keeps ‘em humble.”

Jason made a quiet scoffing noise. “You think I’m humble?”

“No,” you said, smirking. “But I do think you blush when I call you sweetheart.”

There was a long pause.

“…I’m turning off my comm.”

“You won’t,” you sang.

Before Jason could craft a dry comeback or fake a signal cut out, Nightwing returned this time with a tone that could only be described as smug older brother meets possessive flirt.

“Alright, alright,” Dick said, and you could hear his smirk. “Let’s not get carried away, Sweetheart. You do have a date coming up. With me, remember?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah,” he continued smoothly, “you promised me coffee after our last op. Pretty sure that counts.”

“That was a tactical bribe to keep you alive,” you said quickly, cheeks burning despite your best effort. “Totally not binding.”

Jason actually chuckled at that chuckled. A small miracle.

“Well,” Dick said, clearly enjoying himself, “binding or not, I’ll be at that new café on 7th tomorrow at ten. You’re welcome to back out, but I do know where your candy stash is hidden in the Watchtower fridge.”

Your jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You absolute menace.”

“See you then, Sweetheart.”

Jason exhaled like he was regretting all of his life choices.

“God, you’re both exhausting.”

You smiled, sweet and unbothered. “Don’t be jealous, Jay. I can pencil you in for brunch on Sunday.”

He groaned but didn’t mute you. Which, in your book, meant you weren’t the loser here .

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The room was quiet now.

The static from the comms had faded, the mics had all gone cold, and the buzz of conversation that had filled the Watchtower’s tech room just minutes ago had slipped into silence. You were alone, save for the hum of machines and the low, rhythmic click of a monitor blinking back to standby.

You leaned back in your chair slowly, arms folding over your chest as you stared blankly at the screens. Your bubbly persona so easy to slip into when surrounded by voices, teasing banter, and fast flying intel started to crack beneath the weight of the quiet.

It always did, when the room emptied.

He wanted coffee. Dick Grayson wanted to meet you. A date.

The thought hit you again, more real now than when he first said it in that casual, cocky tone of his. You’d brushed it off, played along, tossed flirtation back like you always did but now? Sitting alone, no distraction, no one listening?

You felt it. That creeping, slow turning anxiety curling in your stomach.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about what he looked like before. Sure, you’d heard his voice, shared late night chatter across missions, and even made him laugh more than once. But imagining him? That was easy. Everyone in the Bat Family was objectively hot. Like, annoyingly so.

And you? You swallowed hard, curling your knees up into your chair and hugging them gently.

You weren’t anything like them. Not tall or sleek or scarred from combat. Not graceful in a catsuit or strong enough to throw a punch through a wall. You weren’t stick thin, but you weren’t curvy in a dramatic way either. You existed somewhere in the middle comfortable in hoodies, always in glasses, a bit awkward when the spotlight came too close. Your brain was your strongest muscle, and it sometimes felt like that was all you had.

Would he be disappointed?

You let out a slow breath, eyes flicking to your reflection in the dark screen across from you. No makeup, hair pulled back, sweater two sizes too big. You looked like someone who blended into a crowd. Like someone no one would stop for a second glance. What if you showed up and he just… didn’t see you the way he did over comms? What if the mystery was the only thing that made you interesting?

Your hand reached out instinctively, pressing your fingers to the edge of the console like you were grounding yourself.

You wanted to meet him. Of course you did. He was charming, and kind beneath all the jokes, and smart in the ways only someone who’d been through hell could be. But a date? That felt like something other people did. People who didn’t feel the need to hide behind tech and sarcasm to feel confident.

You sat there in silence, chewing your lip, wondering if he even knew what he was asking when he said, “see you then.”

Maybe it wasn’t a real date. Maybe he didn’t think of it like that.

But deep down, you knew you wanted it to be. You wanted to be seen. And you were scared of what would happen if you really were.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

Dick Grayson stood in front of the mirror of his Blüdhaven apartment, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt like it was a tux. Casual. Chill. Low key. That was the goal.

So why the hell did he feel like he was prepping for a mission?

He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it for the third no, fourth time. Dark jeans, clean white sneakers, a navy hoodie that fit just right not too fitted, not too loose. He changed shirts three times before this one finally felt like the right one. He hadn’t been this particular about his outfit since prom.

“It’s not a date,” he told his reflection. “It’s just coffee.”

A pause.

“…With the girl who knows all your safe houses, your secret patrol routes, and who once talked you through stitching your own shoulder at 3 a.m. without flinching.”

Okay. Maybe a little more than just coffee.

He reached for his phone on the counter. One unread text waited at the top of the screen.

Comms girl <3: You sure about this?

Comms girl <3:You don’t have to meet me.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he typed back quickly.

bluebird: I’m very sure. You owe me that coffee, remember? I risked my life for that latte.

Your reply came within seconds.

Comms girl <3: You were five feet from the guy. I stalled him with a fake 911 ping. YOU’RE WELCOME.

He chuckled, thumbs flying across the screen.

blurbird : Still counts. Heroics were involved. You agreed to a reward. No backing out now.

Comms girl <3: Still time to change your mind. Could just keep this mystery thing going. It’s fun. Less risky.

He stared at that message a moment longer than he wanted to admit. There was a strange comfort in the way things were. The comms. The banter. The way your voice softened when his breathing grew strained after a tough fight. How you’d scold him for reckless moves and then follow up with, “But also… that flip you did? Sick as hell.”

You were part of the job no, more than that. You were part of him. But only in fragments.

He’d seen the pieces you gave: your voice, your wit, your ridiculous caffeine addiction, the hum of music sometimes playing faintly in the background when you were on shift. But he’d never seen you.

Meanwhile, you’d seen everything.

bluebird: You’ve seen my file, haven’t you?

he typed.

bluebird: I know what color your eyes are. I haven’t even seen yours.

Comms girl <3: Don’t worry. They’re not laser eyes or anything.

Comms girl <3: Still time to run. I won’t be mad.

Dick stared at the screen, thumb resting over the keyboard again. A few moments passed. Then he typed back:

bluebird: I don’t want to run. I want to meet you. For real.

Read. But no reply. He locked his phone, shoved it into the pocket of his hoodie, and grabbed his keys and helmet. Outside, the early evening had begun to spill across the Blüdhaven skyline. Fading light. Long shadows.

For once, he wasn’t slipping into the shadows himself. He was stepping into the sun.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The café on 7th was a small, tucked away place with mismatched chairs and the smell of cinnamon and roasted espresso clinging to every wooden beam. A warm corner of the city where life slowed down just a little. He arrived ten minutes early. Too early.

The bell above the door jingled, and instinct kicked in. He scanned. Two older women by the window, a guy with earbuds tapping at a laptop, a bored barista pulling espresso shots with dead eyes. No sign of you.

He ordered her drink extra sweet, extra foamy, “liquid sunshine,” you once called it and a black coffee for himself. Settled into a table by the window. Full view of the door. He texted you again.

bluebird: I’m here. No pressure. But I brought your order. It’s waiting patiently.

Nothing.

He flicked the lid of the cup. Checked the time. Tapped his knee beneath the table. Every chime of the bell had him sitting up straighter, breath held in quiet anticipation.

Not her.Not yet.

And that was the thing he didn’t even know what she looked like. No name. No face. Just a voice in his ear, a rhythm in his nights, a lifeline during the chaos. But even without a face, even without a name, he knew you.

He leaned back and watched the doorway like it held all the answers. Maybe it did.

His phone buzzed again.

Comms girl <3: I’m close. Just… taking a second.

He stared at that message. His heart did a quiet, hopeful jump.

bluebird: You nervous?l

Comms Girl: Maybe. You?

He smiled.

bluebird: I’ve fought Killer Croc, Deathstroke, and Jason with a crowbar. This is worse.

You didn’t text back right away. He waited. Sipped his coffee. Looked at your untouched drink and wondered if you’d ever actually take a sip from it. Maybe you’d just show up, apologize, and walk away. Maybe you’d turn around before even walking through the door.

You were already on the sidewalk. One breath away from stepping inside. He turned his eyes to the window, scanning every person who passed. Wondering if one of them might look in, catch his eye, smile.

Waiting. he hoped that mask off, no gadgets, no grappling hooks, no safety net that was enough. So he waited. For you.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The drink was starting to sweat on the table.

Dick’s thumb spun slow, lazy circles around the lid of the cup you still hadn’t claimed. The café wasn’t busy only a few people trickled in here and there. His eyes lifted every time the door jingled, hopeful… and then dropped just as quickly.

He wasn’t used to feeling this unsteady. With the mask on, he could take a punch. Leap off a roof. Throw himself into chaos without blinking. But right now, sitting at a table with a slowly cooling cup of coffee for someone he’d never even seen before?

He was sweating more than the damn drink. The bell above the door jingled again.

And he looked.

She stepped in like she was trying not to be noticed shoulders drawn slightly inward, a quick glance around the room before her eyes dropped to the floor. She didn’t look out of place, not really. She looked… normal.

Pink Converse. Faded denim jorts hugging her hips. A plain black tank top tucked in just right to show her figure, casual and effortless. Hair pulled back loosely like she’d tried to fix it three times before giving up.

Dick’s eyes lingered…. respectfully. He wasn’t a jerk. But he was a man. And the way she looked, with nervous energy practically rolling off her in waves, had his chest tightening just a little.

Cute. Definitely cute. Attractive, sure. She was cute. Soft around the edges. Eyes wide like she wasn’t used to being looked at too long.

Dick’s gaze flicked down, then back up not lingering too long. A polite once over. Curious. Gentle. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked away.

He didn’t know what to expect. For all the times he’d imagined this moment, all the late night banter and daydreams of what she might look like, he’d never settled on a face.

Still watching her from the corner of his eye, Dick slowly reached for his phone and typed out a message.

bluebird: “I’m by the window. Got your sugar bomb of a drink already. You close?”

The girl the maybe you girl jumped slightly when her phone buzzed. Fumbled it out of her pocket. She smiled. Just a little.

Her hand went to her phone. Dick’s screen lit up.

Comms girl <3: Already here. Just… not sure where to go.

His heart stopped. Slowly, his gaze lifted again this time with full awareness. He watched as she read his message, fingers still hovering near the screen.

Like she was laughing at herself and suddenly, everything clicked.

Dick’s breath caught for a beat. His lips tugged upward in a crooked smile as he texted again. Dick forgot how to breathe.

bluebird: Black tank. Pink shoes. You really do own those Converse.

You didn’t even look up from your phone. You were already typing.

Comms girl <3: Ok stalker, stop checking me out

He huffed a quiet laugh.

bluebird: Respectfully. Thoroughly. Definitely.

You lifted your head then, eyes meeting his across the room. Nervous. Hopeful. Your lips curved into something soft and self deprecating.

He stood before he could overthink it, heart thudding as he crossed the short space between your hesitant stillness and his table.

“You’re late,” he said, voice light, teasing.

“Fashionably,” you replied, walking with him as he guided you toward the window seat. “Also, very nearly didn’t come in. I walked past the window twice. You didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” he said, pulling your chair out like the gentleman he rarely remembered to be. “I just didn’t know it was you. But then you looked at your phone like it offended you.”

You sat, cheeks flushed with something caught between embarrassment and amusement. “That was me realizing I sent three different versions of ‘I’m almost there’ and still sat in my car for ten minutes.”

Dick slid your coffee toward you. “Well i guess in a way you were.”

You took the cup, curling your fingers around it like it might steady you. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I still might run.”

“Do I need to stop you? I’ve got grappling hooks.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh. He liked that sound more than he expected. It wasn’t tinny over the comm. It was full, alive, right in front of him.

“God,” you groaned, lowering your head for a second. “This is so weird.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But good weird.”

You peeked up at him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

You grinned, shy but cheeky. “You’re taller than I thought. That’s not fair. I have no defense against tall and charming.”

“Charming, huh?” He took a sip of his coffee, raising a brow over the lid. “You haven’t even heard my best lines yet.”

You rolled your eyes, the way you always did when he flirted too hard through the mic. But now it was real. Now, he could see the way you bit back a smile, the flush that crept to your ears.

“I’m not used to being looked at,” you admitted after a quiet beat. “I’m used to watching. Behind the screens. Behind the noise. I’ve seen your face a hundred times. This is… lopsided.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze steady and warm.

“Then let’s even it out.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Let me learn you,” he said, voice low, honest. “No comms. No mission. No static. Just… you.”

You looked away, biting your lip, your fingers tracing the lid of your cup now like he had earlier. “You’re a lot more intense in person.”

“I’m a lot of things in person,” he said, smiling. “Most of them good. Some of them bad. All of them me.”

A silence passed. Not awkward contemplative. Like both of you were quietly adjusting to the weight of seeing each other. Really seeing each other.

“I always see you in your outfit, this feels a little weird” you murmured eventually.

He grinned. “You’ll be happy to know I left the spandex at home.”

“Tragic.”

Another moment of quiet, then

“I’m glad you showed up,” he said.

You smiled down into your drink. “Yeah. Me too.”

Outside, the city moved in its usual rhythm cars, footsteps, noise. But here, at this little table by the window, something new was starting. Not a mission. Not an assignment. Just Dick and you.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The coffee was long gone, but neither of them had made a move to go their separate ways.

Instead, they strolled the streets of Blüdhaven, their pace slow, like time had bent around them just for a little while. The sun had started to dip behind the buildings, casting soft golden light on the sidewalks, and the breeze stirred the trees enough to make the leaves flutter like lazy applause.

You walked beside him with your now empty cup in hand, straw still between your lips despite it having been dry for the last ten minutes. Nerves still clung to your skin, thin but persistent. You had no idea where to put your hands or how to keep your voice steady. You weren’t usually like this. Over comms, you were bold, loud, sarcastic, and playful.

But out here, in the open, without a headset and with Nightwing walking beside you in casual clothes that hugged him way too well for your nerves to take? It was different. He was real. And you were suddenly aware of every flaw you’d been trying not to think about since this morning.

“You know,” you said with a light chuckle, trying to keep your voice in that easy, familiar tone, “I honestly expected you to cancel last minute. Or like, show up but wear the mask the whole time and pretend to be mysterious.”

Dick looked over at you, one brow raised, and a smile playing at his lips. “You really thought I’d ghost you after all our late night flirting?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your eyes darted away. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe.”

“You ruined that for you because i would never,” he said dramatically, then bumped his shoulder gently against yours. “I told you I was coming. I meant it.”

His voice was warm, not teasing this time. Just honest. He watched you as you gave a small smile, eyes still scanning the sidewalk like you were searching for something to say. He saw the way you carried yourself. Not shy, exactly just… cautious. Though he saw you and wanted too. All of you.

Not just the confident voice in his ear or the tech genius who could break into encrypted systems like they were open windows. He saw the little things: the nervous hand fidgeting with your cup sleeve, the way you pulled at the hem of your shorts when you thought he wasn’t looking, the practiced jokes you used to deflect any compliments.

So he gave you more of them.

“I like your shoes,” he said casually, glancing down at the worn pink Converse. “its a very you thing, reflective of your personality”

You laughed an actual laugh, not a polite one. “I don’t know if footwear can tell you my life story?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, nodding with mock seriousness. “Pink shoes? Total power move. I love when women.”

You shook your head, trying to hide your grin. “you love when women?”

“And the shorts?” he added. “Perfect length. Shows off those legs that have been sitting behind a computer for, what? Ninety percent of your adult life?”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with your free hand. “You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been told worse,” he said with a wink.

You both fell into a comfortable rhythm after that. Step for step, laugh for laugh. The tension slowly ebbed away the longer he stayed near you like he was peeling back the nervous layers without ever drawing attention to them.

After a few quiet moments, you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Okay, so serious question.”

“Hit me.”

“How the hell does this team work? I started hacking stuff and suddenly im here? ”

He laughed, raising both brows. “You tell me. You’ve got this adorable, good vibe going for you, but I’ve read some of those logs. You were wrecking firewalls like they owed you money.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you defended with a smirk. “Okay, maybe the satellite thing was a little over the line.”

He turned to face you mid step. “Wait. What satellite thing?”

You winced, cheeks flushing. “I… might’ve accidentally hacked into a WayneTech orbital system when I thought it was an old NASA server.”

He stared at you, stunned. “You hacked WayneTech?”

“Allegedly,” you said, grinning now. “And two days later, Babs showed up in my basement. No warning, no badge, just… bam, red hair and righteous fury.”

“She must’ve been so mad.”

“She told me I was wasting potential and recruited me on the spot.”

Dick laughed again, and this time, it was full bodied, the kind that lit up his whole face. “Classic Babs.”

“Honestly? She’s the first person who ever looked at me and didn’t just see a mouthy hacker. She actually saw… me.”

His smile softened. “She does that. Did the same for me once.”

You glanced at him curiously. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. “Back when I was still figuring things out after leaving Bruce. I needed distance from the Bat stuff needed to figure out who I was when I wasn’t under the cape. Babs helped me get there. Helped me want to be more than just Robin.”

“I think you’re doing alright,” you said, bumping his shoulder this time.

“I’m trying,” he said with a shrug. “Still check in on the family though. Bruce, my brothers, Grandpa.”

You blinked. “Grandpa?”

“Alfred,” he clarified with a mischievous grin. “I started calling him that just to piss him off, but I know he secretly loves it.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “That’s so weirdly wholesome. ‘Nightwing has emotional depth and a soft spot for butlers,’ coming to theaters this fall.”

“Hey, he’s not just a butler. He’s the butler.”

“I stand corrected.”

The sky was blushing now, soft shades of purple and orange painting the horizon. The city buzzed around you, but for once, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like a quiet pocket of something special.

Dick glanced sideways at you, the wind tugging gently at your hair, and felt that same flicker in his chest again. The one that started when your voice used to crackle in his earpiece during midnight stakeouts. The one that grew stronger every time you made him laugh, or saved his ass from another security lockdown, or stayed on the line with him just so he wouldn’t be alone.

“I’m really glad we did this,” he said softly.

You looked at him, caught a sincerity in his eyes that left no room for doubt.

“Yeah,” you said, voice just as soft. “Me too.”

The air had taken on that evening crispness the kind that whispered promises of something new. The two of you were still walking, slowly now, like neither wanted to reach wherever the sidewalk might end.

Dick glanced at you again, longer this time. Not just quick, playful side glances, but a longing look. One that lingered as the fading sun touched your skin. He could see the way your lashes caught the light, the slight smile tugging at your lips as you sipped from your empty straw out of habit. The way your eyes moved when you were thinking.

You caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow.

He shrugged with an easy, boyish grin. “Nothing. Just… you’ve got a good laugh.”

You blinked. “What, like a ‘haha’ laugh or a ‘joker is getting off’ laugh?”

He chuckled. “The kind that’s been in my ear for months, but somehow sounds better in person.”

Your stomach fluttered. You covered it with a sarcastic smile. “Are you flirting with me again, Grayson?”

“Only mildly,” he teased, then glanced ahead. “I mean, I’ve gotta pace myself. You’re kind of… addictive.”

You didn’t answer for a moment. You didn’t know how. And honestly, you were worried your voice would betray how warm your chest suddenly felt.

He didn’t press it. Just kept walking with you in step. But then he said, a little more softly:

“I never really thought about it before… how different things feel when you’re not just a voice in my ear.”

You looked over at him, curious. “Better or worse?”

He gave you a look, deadpan. “What kind of question is that?”

You tried to laugh, to brush it off, but he turned toward you fully now, walking backward a few steps so he could face you as you moved.

“You have this… energy. When we’re on comms, it’s like… controlled chaos in the best way. Keeps me grounded, keeps me alert. But now? Seeing you like, actually seeing you your expressions, your body language, your weird obsession with pink…”

“I do not!”

He smirked. “You do. It’s very cute.”

You shoved his arm lightly, heat rushing to your face. But the smile was genuine now. You were relaxing, piece by piece.

“I guess I just didn’t realize how much I’d been missing until now,” he added, turning back around to walk forward again. “Hearing you’s great. But… seeing you talk? Watching your eyes move when you go on your little tech rants or when you start teasing me? It hits different.”

Your heart thudded hard.

He wasn’t saying “I want to see your face more.” But he was.

You swallowed around the growing smile and said, “Well… good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

He shot you a glance then, something soft and full of unspoken words.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That is a good thing.”

593 notes · View notes

inkskinned · 1 year ago

Text

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

#writeblr #for real gimme book recs lol

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luveline · 1 year ago

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i think it would be adorable seeing a conversation of spencer freaking out about pregnant!bombshell and hotch just calmly telling him all about different ways to help and them talking about new dad fears :((

pregnant!reader, 1k (sorry it was more about the pregnant part than the new dad fears!)

Hotch doesn’t know what Spencer’s going to say when he knocks, but he ushers him inside his office regardless. He has the appearance of someone with grief to share; Hotch immediately starts to think of the people he and Spencer have in common.

“I need your advice,” Spencer says desperately.

Hotch puts his pen in its holder. “Of course.”

“She won’t sit down.”

Hotch lets himself relax. “Ah.”

“She’s acting like she isn’t pregnant at all. I want her to be happy, but she keeps running up the stairs. What if she falls?”

“Y/N has very likely thought of that possibility already.”

“Then why doesn’t she stop?”

Hotch chews his cheek for a moment. “Spencer, sit down.”

The chair squeaks as Spencer sits, scrubbing at his face roughly.

Hotch has watched Spencer grow up, in a way, moving from twenty three to thirty quick as blinking, and he’s watched him fall in love with you, and now he gets to watch Spencer have daily conniptions over your apparent lack of self-preservation. He’s enjoyed it, genuinely, and he doesn’t mind offering some wisdom now as a partner who’s made enough mistakes to know better.

“Spencer, you can’t make her sit down if she doesn’t want to. And she’s four months pregnant. Pretty soon, she’ll have no choice but to sit down. It’s best if you let her stay active as long as she can, so she stays as healthy as she can.” He leans back in his chair. The smirk is unbidden, but he can’t help it. “But you know this.”

“Her ligaments are weakening, because of the baby. The pregnancy. It’s about to get much more painful for her,” Spencer says.

“So?” Hotch prods gently.

Spencer nods. Glances out the window down into the bullpen, before dragging his chair closer to the desk. “Hotch, it’s like she’s two different people. Or three. There’s the crying one, and the happy one, and the…”

“The hates you one?” he offers.

“Yes. Which is luckily quite rare, but terrifying.”

“Just hormones, Spence.”

Spencer breathes out. Hotch can’t help the immeasurable wave of fondness he’s feeling for his colleague. He genuinely wants to round the desk and pat Spencer on the back. This is all a learning curve, a way of life. Partners have been wrestling with their scary pregnant wives for long before he and Spencer came around.

“The happy one is worth it, though,” Hotch guesses. He had some lovely days with Hayley.

“You know what she’s like,” Spencer says.

Hotch can imagine. Before your pregnancy, you adored Spencer. You’ve doted on him since you met him, and if the glimpses Hotch has seen of you these last few months are any indication, you are immovably in love. Yesterday, you brushed the sesame seeds off of Spencer’s sandwich one by one because he doesn’t like them. The day before, you’d pushed your chair next to his and drawn circles into his arm the entire workday (while, impressively, still managing to finish your assigned consults).

“There’s a common theme, I think, when she’s angry. She’s usually uncomfortable. I’ve started to go through a checklist,” Spencer says. He sounds guilty.

“I think it’s a good idea. I noticed you’ve been keeping candy in your bag.” Hotch laughs. Spencer joins in.

“Just the essentials.”

Hotch doesn’t doubt that you’re on every prenatal vitamin you could ever need, that Spencer has researched pregnancy from the latest journals to the very rarest myths. He has no doubt that you’re well taken care of. You’re going to be fine. Spencer has no need to worry about you. Hotch might have cause to worry about Spencer, though.

“Reid, I’ll tell you a secret. It might not work for you, but it worked for me.”

Spencer holds his hands together. “What is it?”

“The next time you want her to slow down,” —Hotch lays it out carefully, without judgement for you or any private teasing, just genuine care for the both of you— “you can distract her with the baby.”

“I’ve tried that,” Spencer says. “She tells me I’m worrying.”

“Not about the baby’s health. If she thinks everything is alright, it likely is. I mean about the future.” Spencer doesn’t seem to understand. Hotch searches for an example. “Baby shoes, clothes. I once calmed Hayley down from an hours-long meltdown by telling her I thought Jack would have her eyes.”

“That works?”

“It’s probably much nicer for her to have you encouraging positive thoughts than negative,” he says gently.

“I guess I worry too much.”

“Not too much, Reid. I’m just telling you what worked for me. When it’s over, you’ll miss it. A few years later.”

They smile. Hotch watches with a distinct fatherly pride as Spencer retreats down into the bullpen where you stand talking animatedly to Anderson. You’ve been on your feet all day, in kitten heels no less, and you look tired but not unhappy.

Spencer joins you for a while. You show no signs of moving. Hotch figures he’ll give Spencer time to act on his advice and goes back to his paperwork, losing track of time, ignoring the beep of his watch that signals lunch time.

He finishes his paperwork a little while after.

“I wonder what she'll have,” he hears Spencer saying.

“She’ll have my hands,” you insist suddenly, your voice floating up the steps. You’ve always had one of those tones that attracts attention, even when you aren’t shouting. “Don’t girls often get their mom’s hands? And their dad’s noses?”

He’s expecting Spencer to cite an article on genetic lottery, but he doesn’t. He sounds the polar opposite of how he’d panicked in Hotch’s office. “I think so. I got my mom’s hands, too. She had short nail beds.” A pause. Hotch glances out the window to find you sitting in Spencer’s chair, a sandwich laid out in two halves on a napkin, a tray of vegetable batons in your hands where they rest on your bump. “I hope she has your everything.”

You lift your chin. Spencer taps your noses together.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes, please. Anything you’re having.”

Hotch isn’t smug, exactly, but he is admittedly very pleased at the outcome of his advice.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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melanchoire · 5 months ago

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Reader has an oral fixation and is usually sucking on lollipops to soothe the fixation but when there’s none for her to fixate on her girlfriend (Karina)offers to help her out by letting her suck on her boobs/breasts/tits(idk which to use lol)

BETTER THAN SWEETS ──── yu jimin

── ( 🍨 ) you’ve always found comfort in the sweet, hard shell of a lollipop, the constant motion a balm for your restless mind; however, your chronic oral fixation, fueled by an endless supply of lollipops and the incessant schmack of your chewing, has finally pushed karina, your girlfriend, to the edge; one night, instead of nagging or leaving, she takes matters (and your mouth) into her own hands, devising an intensely sensual and shockingly effective intervention that will challenge everything you think you know about your desires… and maybe even her own.

pairing. soft dom!girlfriend!karina x sub!girlfriend!fem reader

warning(s). nipple play, titsucking, oral fixation, suggestive at the end.

word count. 2,5k

the flicker of the television screen dances on the walls, a pale blue glow that does little to illuminate the comfortable clutter of your apartment. karina is lost in the endless scroll of her phone, the soft tap–tap–tapping a counterpoint to the quiet hum of the refrigerator. you barely register the movie playing on the screen, your world narrowed to the sweet, artificial cherry flavor coating your tongue. this is your haven, this small, sugary escape. you’ve always found comfort in the act of sucking, chewing, the sensation of something in your mouth, and a lollipop is a perfect, portable solution.

the sweetness coats your tongue, a familiar comfort, a sensory anchor in the mundane. you run the hard candy over your teeth, licking the sugary surface, the rhythmic sound of your enjoyment filling the space. it’s always been like this. when you were a child, you were a magnet for well–meaning adults, hands filled with sugary treats, happy to indulge your insatiable sweet tooth. it was a simple, innocent pleasure then; grandparents would slip you hard candies, aunts would press chocolates into your palms, and the world felt like a giant, edible playground.

but then you grew up, and your habits, like everything else, evolved. the candies became gum, then lollipops, then the nervous gnawing of pen caps during class. you knew it was a quirk, an oddity, but it was a part of you, and you’d learned to live with it, mostly.

you steal a glance at karina, lost in the glow of her phone screen. you’re grateful for her understanding, her acceptance when you first hesitantly confessed your “problem” as you sometimes called it. to her, it was just another habit, like the way she always rearranged the throw pillows on the couch or how she had to have the radio on while she was showering. “everyone had their things” she had said.

but tonight, the silence of the apartment is suddenly broken by the thunk of her phone hitting the coffee table. you’re pulled from your sugary reverie as her eyes, a deep, startling brown, land on you. her face is devoid of expression, an unsettling blankness that makes your stomach clench.

karina throws her phone onto the coffee table, the sudden clatter startling you. she turns to you, her eyes fixed on you, her expression unreadable, blank. “do you have to chew it like that?” her voice is flat, devoid of the usual warmth. “like you’re a horse eating grass or something?”

the question catches you off guard. you pull the lollipop from your mouth, the sweet, cherry scent still lingering in the air. “was i… making a lot of noise?” you hadn’t noticed, lost in the comfort of the familiar flavor and the rhythmic motions. you’d been so focused on the simple act, you hadn't even considered that it might grate on someone else.

she folds her arms, her gaze intense. “It’s like… i can hear you slurping it from across the room.”

you set the lollipop on the table, the plastic stick clicking softly against the glass. “sorry, i didn’t realize.”

a moment of silence hangs between you, thick and uncomfortable. then, she asks, “how long have you had that thing? you opened it this morning, right?”

your heart sinks a little. you know she means well; she’s always been concerned about your well–being. but this feels different, like a criticism. “uhm, actually.” you admit. “i had more than one.”

her eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “more than one? how many more?” she asks, incredulous. “you didn’t even eat lunch. how are you not sick?”

you nod, avoiding her eyes, suddenly feeling like a misbehaving child caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “i… i don’t know...” you can’t bring yourself to look at her. “i think— three? maybe four?”

a sharp intake of breath. “four lollipops? today? that’s… a lot of sugar, isn’t it?”

you feel a prickle of defensiveness. “it’s not like i’m eating them all at once!” you quickly add: “mostly.”

she looks at you, a mixture of exasperation and worry swirling in her eyes. “okay...” she says, her voice calmer. “okay... you know, i used to buy you those boxes of lollipops, because i thought it was… helpful, to allow it. i never thought you did it so much.”

you’re immediately sheepish. it wasn’t to hurt. you never thought you did it that much.

you shrug, a little sheepish. you know it’s a lot of sugar, but it’s not about the sugar, not really. It’s the sensation, the movement, the comfort. you carefully remove the lollipop, leaving it on the coffee table, discarded like a toy that has outlived its use. you were about to reach for it but she called you over.

“come here.” she gestures for you to come closer. you obey, your heart pounding a strange mix of nervousness and anticipation. you settle onto her lap, the soft fabric of her pajamas a welcome contrast to the sudden tension — along with the gentle pressure of her thighs against yours sends a shiver down your spine.

her hands find your hips, her fingers tracing gentle circles on your sides. she smiles, that slow, mesmerizing smile that always sends shivers down your spine.

her voice, usually laced with warmth and amusement, is now a husky whisper that makes your skin prickle. “maybe…maybe we could try something different.” she purrs, her fingers lightly tracing the curve of your hip, but moving away from your curves and towards her own pajama shirt.

the buttons of her pajama shirt yield to her nimble fingers, one by one, until the silk falls away, revealing the soft, pale expanse of her chest. the sight of her breasts, full and inviting, sends a jolt of heat through your veins. they look… edible. the thought, unbidden, makes you blush.

her fingers dance over your skin, sending sparks of desire through your veins. “think you can help me out with that?” she asks, her fingers trailing up your sides in a light caress. “try something new?”

your gaze is fixated on her chest, your mouth suddenly dry. the craving you usually satisfied with sweets takes on a new, almost overwhelming intensity. it’s not just about the taste or texture anymore, it’s about something deeper, a connection. you nod, your own hands reaching up to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin.

karina leans closer, her gaze locking onto yours. “I’ve always wondered if you…” she hesitates, a shy smile playing on her lips. “if you’d like to try this.” her hands, now gripping your hips with more purpose, guide you forward. your face is level with her chest now, the faint scent of her skin and vanilla lotion filling your senses.

a soft gasp escapes you as she gently pushes your head forward, her fingers threading through your hair, guiding you toward her right breast. it feels incredibly soft against your cheek, warm and pliant. you hesitate for a moment, still processing the sudden turn this night has taken. but then, she strokes your hair again, her low hum vibrating through her chest, and the last vestiges of hesitation melt away.

you open your mouth, and with a nervous, almost reverent gentleness, you take her nipple into your mouth. it’s softer and warmer than anything you’ve ever tasted.

she leans her head back against the sofa, a soft moan escaping her lips as your mouth finally reaches her. the skin is soft and warm, and as you gently suck, the taste is intoxicating, a combination of her soft skin, warm body temperature, and the subtle, almost salty flavor of her sweat. a tiny gasp as you explore her. the feeling is overwhelming, the warmth and softness nothing like the artificial sweetness you usually crave, and you find yourself drawn in, completely captivated.

her hands tangle in your hair, her fingers gripping and massaging your scalp as you continue. you suck on her nipple, your lips moving in a gentle way that she deeply appreciates. her skin is supple and soft, the perfect texture just for you. you suckle gently, your tongue dancing over her nipple, reveling in the sounds escaping her lips: moans of pleasure mixed with soft sighs.

your tongue circles the areola, exploring the texture of her skin, before you begin to suckle more. it’s not a frantic, desperate need, but a slow, deliberate exploration, as if your mouth is mapping every inch of her. with each delicate tug, a wave of pleasure washes over you, and the gentle hums escaping karina’s throat become more pronounced, a clear indication that you are doing something right.

“oh, baby.” she murmurs, her voice thick with a mixture of pleasure and wonder. “that feels… incredible.”

you continue, drawing her nipple further into your mouth, your lips caressing the sensitive skin. you suckle harder, the gentle tugging a source of immense satisfaction. the taste of her skin is subtle, slightly salty and warm, and it mixes with the faint scent of her vanilla lotion, creating an intoxicating combination. you move back and forth, letting your tongue flick over her nipple, the soft rasp driving her wild.

“you’re so good.” she whispers, her hands moving from your hair to your back, pulling you closer, her nails lightly scratching at your skin. “you have such a gentle mouth, baby. i love the way you’re doing this." her words, a gentle wave of praise, makes you want to continue, to explore every inch of her, to taste her entire body.

you try to deepen your hold, your hands cupping her breast, trying to draw her closer, as if to meld yourselves. the sensations are overwhelming, and so you concentrate your efforts on pleasing her. you suck a little harder and she moans again.

“you’re so good.” she says, her voice breathless. “so, so good. i love how you do that.”

you shift to her other breast, teasing and tantalizing her nipple, drawing out soft groans and shivers from her. the low hum of her pleasure is a melody you find yourself wanting to replay forever. you lick, you suck, you nibble, exploring every inch with your mouth, finding satisfaction in her pleasure.

“yes...” she breathes out. “that’s it. you’re making me crazy.”

as you continue to suckle, the tension in your shoulders starts to melt away. it’s like you’ve found the perfect substitute for the lollipops, a new and infinitely more satisfying way to soothe your oral fixation. you’re not just filling a need, you’re connecting with karina on a deeply intimate level, sharing a moment of vulnerability and pleasure. her skin is soft against your lips, her heartbeat a comforting rhythm against your cheek, and each delicate suck brings her closer to you, and you to her.

you pause for a moment, looking up at her. Her eyes are half–closed, her lips parted, and your skin tingles with the power that your mouth has over her. she looks beautiful, vulnerable, and utterly in your thrall.

“you’re my little baby.” she murmurs, her fingers tracing the line of your cheek, and she pulls you back to her chest. the sweetness of her skin fills your mouth as you continue to suck, your desire finding not just release, but connection and genuine, deep intimacy. this is so much better than any lollipop could offer, and you know, in this moment, that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

oh, and that’s what makes you completely lose the little sanity that was still present in your system.

your hand, almost instinctively, seeks the other breast. you cup it gently, the weight a grounding sensation. you press your face further into the first, inhaling the scent of her skin, a warm mix of vanilla and something uniquely karina. it’s a comfort, a balm for a restless soul. you find yourself tracing the areola with your tongue, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine, not of sexual arousal, but of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

karina doesn’t react at first, content to let you have your moment of quiet bliss. but then, you start to get silly. it’s not intentional, not exactly. it’s like a switch flips, and the playful, somewhat childish side of you takes over. you don’t realize it, but you accidentally start drooling on her skin, your attention on her mounds becoming more messy, your hand now moving to grasp the second breast. it’s a clumsy hold, a little too tight, but somehow right. you pull the other one closer to your mouth.

this is where things take a turn. you try to hold each of her breasts cupped in your hands while trying to keep the other one in your mouth. you’re like a newborn, trying to coordinate your limbs, and she can’t help but burst into laughter. it’s a bubbly, infectious sound, the kind that warms your chest from the inside out. it’s not mockery, but genuine amusement, and something that makes her whole face shine.

you lift your head, a little confused by the sudden sound. you see her face, lit up with laughter, her eyes sparkling with mirth. it’s both disarming and strangely endearing. your usual self might be mortified, but in this moment, you find yourself beaming back at her. you look like a little kid who's just found the best toy in history. you even try to nuzzle back into her chest, trying to recapture the feeling, but she gently pushes you back slightly, still chuckling.

“alright, you little baby.” she says, her voice laced with a playful tenderness. “i think that’s enough now.” you try to move back into position, reaching for them again, but she holds you back. this time, there's a sparkle of something more in her eyes.

she gently but firmly pushes you away from her chest, her hands now resting on your shoulders. your lower lip pouts out, and you make a grab for her breast, your face now a mask of mock desperation.

“no, no, no.” she says, shaking her head, “that’s enough. it’s time to move on.”

you whine, a low sound of protest that somehow manages to sound both comical and needy. you try to nuzzle back, your hands searching for a familiar grip. but she’s firm, her hands a gentle but impassable barrier.

“oh, don’t give me that face.” she says, her eyes dancing with mischief. “i have something planned, and it’s time to go to the bedroom.”

a slow smile spreads across your face, a sudden rush of excitement replacing your earlier silliness. you can’t help but notice the way her eyes are sparkling, the promise that lingers in her voice, and your heart skips a beat.

"the bedroom?" you ask, your voice a husky whisper, no longer childish.

karina smiles, a slow, knowing smile that sends shivers down your spine. she takes your hand, pulls you to your feet, and tugs you towards the bedroom. “yes, the bedroom,” she repeats, her eyes never leaving yours, “now, come on.”

and as she leads you away, the lingering scent of her perfume still clinging to your skin, you feel a thrill of anticipation wash over you.

based on her smile, you can’t tell if that means she’ll let you fuck her with the strap–on in missionary to have her tits bouncing in front of your face and do whatever you want with them or she’ll fuck you with the strap and put two fingers in your mouth when she feels you’re being too loud.

#yu jimin #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x fem reader #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin smut #karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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wonysugar · 4 months ago

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KARINA X READER W ORAL FIXATION

oral fixations are such a broad topic so i did some research and had fun with this, i think this is the type of oral fixation you meant lol? thank you for the idea :]

cw : usage of strap-on

you and jimin often hung out, being girlfriends at all. naturally, you progressively got to notice each other's little tics and habits as the relationship went on.

for example, you knew that she had a tendency to furrow her eyebrows at every little thing, whether she was focused, confused or simply just forming a thought. or or!! that she sticks out her tongue in every other situation; sometimes the joke she'd tell would call for it, other times she’d do it just cause. whatever it was she did, you found it endearing.

and she would say the same thing about you! except for… a particular habit of yours. she didn’t hate it or anything. it’s more like she… loved it a bit too much? for all the wrong reasons? to put it simply, she felt like a pervert for feeling the way she did toward it.

see, you had the tendency to put things in your mouth and chewing on them at all times. whether it was your nails, a pen you happened to be holding or even just a straw you had finished using a long while ago. whatever it was, you would spend hours chewing on it. and the context of the situation didn’t matter either, you needed to keep your mouth occupied at all times, and that was that.

jimin thought it was adorable when she first got to know you, a few years back, but once you two got closer, her thoughts got more and more… deranged about the whole thing.

the mere idea made her stomach turn; the two of you making out on her couch, feeling each other up as you usually do. she’d pleasantly surprise you by pulling away from the kiss and replace the feeling of her tongue with her fingers, watching you suck and lick on them whilst you looked up at her. how you would drool all over her digits the same way you’d drool on her strap, later into the dark night.

she’d always shrug it off, though. she never brought it up in bed since she was overthinking basically everythingcjfjckdn she didn’t want you to think she was weird, or anything!

that was until you asked her to let you suck her off during sex, which was something you’d never done before. she contained her excitement when she heard those words and proceeded to rationally ask you why it is that you wanted to do that, all of a sudden.

“i dunno,” you shrugged, “my mouth needs attention, i guess.”

KAAABEWWWMMMM!! jimin played it off, cool and collected, but inside? girl SHE CHEERED! the opportunity finally presented itself to her; she didn’t have to potentially risk passing as a creep yippe!! of course, that was all in her head, as you would’ve happily obliged if she had just asked you.

the actual sex later on? ohh you could tell she was having so much fun with your little oral fixation, she was smiling down at you the entire time. you had originally asked her to just let you blow her, but she went above and beyond your expectations.

you looked up at her, on your knees. she caressed your bottom lip with her thumb before sliding it into your mouth, a smirk plastered on her face as she looked down at you. “you want it, baby?” she’d say, ‘it’ being the black strap-on she was wearing. you’d nod in response, quickly getting what it is that you wanted.

by this point you were practically soaked, that much was obvious, but you didn’t know how much better it would get until she layed you down on your back to finger you; she told you to suck on her tits while she did so.😭😭😭😭ohh brother.

she pumped two of her digits in and out of you, fingers curled right against your g-spot as her thumb gently pressed on your clit, all in a repetitive motion. your attempt to hold your orgasm—after she ordered you to—was barely successful when you had your hand on one of her breasts, carefully fondling it. you tried to focus your attention on catching her nipple in between your fingertips and playing with it gently, but that just contributed to turning you on more.

on top of that, she had the other boob settled right onto your lips, her hand on the back of your head, pushing you closer to her. your mouth sucked and licked on the bud, your tongue working around it. you fed off of the pretty sounds that came out of her whenever you did.

after what felt like a painful eternity of her relentlessly pumping in and out of your dripping cunt with her fingers, she finally gave you permission to cum, much to your relief.

that eventual orgasm hit you like a truck and may or may not have knocked you the fuck out after a few minutes of heavy breathing.😭

she kissed your (very sweaty) forehead, satisfied and happy she could please you. the sight of her girlfriend sound asleep was enough for jimin to make a mental note for the times to come; to never neglect your mouth again.

#anon asks #anon #smut #kpop gg #female reader #aespa smut #karina x female reader #karina aespa smut #karina x fem reader #aespa karina smut #yoo jimin smut #yoo jimin #karina smut #aespa x reader

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oatmealwrites · 4 months ago

Text

Catch Kira, NOT Feelings! Ch. 6

Ch. 5 | Ch. 7

[series masterlist here]

[regular masterlist here]

Synopsis: Light is a master manipulator as per usual and quickly becomes suspicious of your 'relationship' with Ryuzaki. While a storm prevents him from coming to the task force meeting, the team locks in to the potential identity of Misa Amane being the Second Kira and what that means for all of your safety. Knowing that Light may be attempting to drive a wedge between you both, Ryuzaki asks you about the other things that couples do which might assist in convincing your task force colleagues that 'this' was real. The only issues? You're now convinced it may be becoming real too.

Tags: Light is a manipulator, you feel guilty af for lying to your team members, suggestive, mentions of sex, hair tugging, french kissing, dry humping, male erection, female arousal, mentions of masturbation, it's getting hot n heavy, MDNI, NSFW, 18+

Word Count: 10.7 k (SORRY)

a/n at end! enjoy~

~~~~~~

LIGHT POV

Light sits languidly at his desk, twirling his pen and furrowing his brows at his course materials that sit open before him. It’s late, long past 11pm and Misa has already left to go back home; a steady rain taps against his window as he enjoys the lack of company for the first time in a while. Ryuk’s presence doesn’t count anymore; he hovers in the air enjoying the sight of lightning that flashes with each roar of thunder, unamused as Light doesn’t give him any attention.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight.” Ryuk observes, turning to face the man.

Light sighs slightly, stopping the twirl of his pen and resting his cheek in the fat of his palm. “I’m thinking.”

Ryuk doesn’t say anything, but hovers closer to the desk and observes the way Light’s textbook remains open to the same page it was turned to 30 minutes ago. He’s seen Light calm and quiet with his thoughts before, but there’s an eerie demeanor to the way he sits that leaves Ryuk feeling eager to cure his boredom.

Light sits up a bit straighter when Ryuk reaches past him to grab an apple from the bowl his mother delivered earlier. “They’re faking it.”

Ryuk doesn’t stop his motion, popping the apple into his mouth and crunching loudly. “Hmm? Oh! You mean L and y/n?”

“Yes.” Light’s voice is curt and cold.

The shinigami over his shoulder pays no mind and continues chewing with his mouth open. “Mmm you must’ve been observing them very closely the other day to figure that out. Hehehe.”

Light doesn’t bother to entertain Ryuk’s suggestive teasing and rolls his eyes as the laughter behind his shoulder bellows loudly for only him to hear. Picking up his pen once more, he twirls it on his fingers again.

“Ok, but why does this matter so much? It’s not like it prevents you from killing people–”

“It prevents me from killing her.” Light interrupts.

The tone is harsh and quick, startling Ryuk as thunder roars beyond the glass patio door. Standing up and taking chunks of hair in his fingers, Light pulls slightly in frustration as his Shinigami companion watches in interest.

“But I thought you wanted her on your side if you were to be caught. Why would you kill her now?”

Light sighs, releasing the grasp on his hair and looks at Ryuk. “I don’t want to, she’s committed no crime– but…” He looks down at his desk, the death note sitting neatly underneath his textbook. “If she’s going to stand in the way of a God… then I have no choice.”

Ryuk hums in better understanding and reaches to grab another apple from the basket, watching the way Light seems to work out a variety of situations in his head.

“Mmm I see. And because she’s dating L suddenly, it puts her in an important spot at his side.”

Light scowls and runs a frustrated hand through his hair once more. “Yes, and only those in the task force know about it, meaning Ryuzaki has effectively guaranteed her safety! If she dies now, after no field work besides being with me, it’s a nail in my coffin!”

Light takes his textbook and throws it onto his bed, seething in anger as Ryuk enjoys the entertainment before him.

“Damn him! He thinks he can just do whatever he wants… but I’ll show him– No! I’ll show the whole task force that ‘relationship’ is a fraud.” Light stands in the center of his room, shaking as he speaks and it makes Ryuk question the soundproofing of the walls. “Then, I’ll kill her. Right in front of him…. hehe..hahahaHAHAHA”

Ryuk pops the core of the fruit into his mouth and licks the juice running from the corner of his lips. “Mmm, I bet Misa will like the fact there’s no competition either.”

Light stops laughing and peers at the Shinigami before rolling his eyes. “Not like she matters much anyways– I’ll find a way to have her kill L and then I’ll deal with her and Rem afterwards.”

Walking back to the desk, he sits in the chair and looks at the way the death note now sits unhidden on the surface; he pulls out a regular notepad and grabs a mechanical pencil.

“But first I need to figure out how to prove this ‘relationship’ is fake… and maybe, if y/n kneels before the altar of Kira in submission, I’ll show her mercy. I mean if the task force votes to remove her for the egregious violation of trust, it’ll put her in a vulnerable spot for where to put her faith…” He taps his pencil tip to the paper a few times in idle thought. “But first– I need to figure out why Ryuzaki would go this far just to protect her.”

Ryuk takes the empty fruit bowl and shakes it upside down, grunting at the fact there were no more apples left for him to enjoy. A lightning strike draws his attention back outside before he speaks to the young man again. “Maybe he’s just a good boss.”

Light scoffs and twirls his mechanical pencil in a similar fashion to how he did the pen earlier. “Yea right. The hours he makes everyone work, the secrecy of everything– even Ukita died on the job. So it doesn’t make sense he would do any special treatment for someone... He even sent Matsuda and I to Aoyama with no hesitation so–”

Light cuts himself off and stares down at the notepad in awe as Ryuk watches two drops of rain race down the glass door, silently rooting for the left one to reach the bottom first. When thunder echoes outside he notices the lack of Light’s voice and turns back around.

“Wait, you stopped talking. What happened?”

Light doesn’t say anything; his head hangs low and his shoulders jerk as a few chuckles escape his lips in an erratic manner. The light giggles turn into a fit of laughter as he throws his neck back and squints his eyes shut in humor. Feeling left out of an inside joke Ryuk ushers forward.

“What? Whaaat? Tell me.”

A hand on his forehead as the laughter slows down, Light looks down at his notepad. “Ahhh. It’s not fake at all, is it Ryuzaki?!”

Ryuk scrunches his face and looks at the man with irritation growing evident; he wants to be entertained, not left out. He lifts a hand and scratches his face in confusion. “You don’t make sense… just a moment ago you said the relationship was staged.”

Light wipes a tear from his eyes and spins in his chair to sit with better posture as he drafts a variety of notes onto the paper. “The whole thing is fake– just not to him.”

Ryuk doesn’t say anything, not bothering to ask for proof as he knows the human in front of him will run his mouth and explain it anyways. On cue, Light taps his paper with the pencil as he opens his mouth once more.

“I’ve known y/n longer than he has, a fact that gets under his skin and also puts him at a severe disadvantage.” He taps a list of names on the paper— a list of your most recent exes he can remember. “In all the relationships I’ve seen her in, she’s never acted like this.”

Ryuk peers at the names with slight interest but remains silent. “She’s never done excessive PDA, and now they’re making out in public. She’s always separated her work and personal life, and now she’s dating her boss. She’s also been strapped for cash, and now she’s bringing him cookies. The whole thing reeks of trying to prove a point in an obvious and gaudy fashion.”

Peering at the bullet points of dating habits, Ryuk shrugs again, not quite on the same page. “So this proves it’s fake, right?”

“Fake to her.” Light corrects, spinning back in his chair to continue scribbling.

“But Ryuzaki would never make such an attempt to protect anyone besides himself. Not letting her go to Aoyama, showing up on campus suddenly, projecting their ‘relationship’ makes so little rational sense.”

“That’s true. That guy is just as methodical and stuck up as you Light!” Ryuk chuckles at his own joke while the man rolls his eyes.

“Sure–” Light concedes with grit teeth. “But it also means that there’s no logical reason for him to do this.”

“Ok…? So why would he…?”

Light scoffs and raises an eyebrow himself. “It’s stupid really; to be honest I don’t know why he would do it for this reason anyways…”

Circling a word at the center of the page, he taps his pencil against the phrase with a confused and lost look in his eyes. ‘Love’

[Back at task force – Your POV]

“And based on this sentence,” you raise your finger to trace the highlighted portion of the printed transcript, “we can infer that the whole ‘sharing powers’ thing is greatly exaggerated.”

Matsuda awes next to you as you explain the linguistics behind the most recent piece of evidence from the Second Kira– an audio tape mailed to Sakura TV postmarked two days ago. The audio has been transcribed into a few sentences on the paper in your hands; the message stating the Second Kira will no longer make public statements within the name of ‘Kira’ and will do what they can to earn the approval of the God– offering to punish more criminals and even ‘share the power’ with other devoted followers.

You tap your finger and open the cap of your highlighter to mark another portion of the lines for underlying meanings; the wording seems like a combination of syntax from Kira and the Second.

“Nice catch there…” Aizawa leans down to point to another line as you begin explaining a separate portion of the script.

A light rain patters at the hotel windows as the lingering storm from last night refuses to let up; Ryuzaki sits at the coffee table across the room but his gaze remains on you at the kitchen counter. Aizawa and Matsuda flank both your sides as you calmly pick apart the printed transcript on the wooden surface; Light remains absent, still having another hour in his evening lecture before he rejoins the group.

Matsuda ‘ooos’ once more when you stand up, having completed your interpretation of the message splayed in front of you. “Woa, that’s an impressive deduction… I can't believe I didn’t catch it.”

You shrug and trace the lines once more, pausing to summarize them. “Well, if Kira could pass their powers on to people, why would they have chosen someone they never met? You can’t ensure allegiance or ability– the whole thing would be too risky.”

Despite telling this to Matsuda and Aizawa, Ryuzaki sits across the room listening to every detail. “So the Second Kira wasn’t ‘chosen’ ; it also limits the likelihood they can pass their ‘powers’ down to others. This would mean they came into power naturally rather than through succession. Especially when you consider the ego of the first Kira.”

Matsuda nods in approval and Mr. Yagami signals for the groups to merge once again; he makes space for Ryuzaki to resume the joint meeting. Taking your usual spot on the couch, you watch the way L flicks the TV screen to show the written audio transcript.

“You had already told me your interpretation earlier, y/n– but hearing it again there’s a few points we need to discuss.”

The group hums and gathers their assorted documents, ready to listen to his suggestion. “We have to entertain the possibility that the murder…’weapon’ has the ability to be yielded by more than one person. And that this ‘power’ may be the reference within the message.”

You suck the inside of your cheek between your molars and reflect on the possibility; the fact no one has seen the murder weapon throws an uncomfortable wrench into the plan. A ‘power’ with the ability to kill with only a name and face certainly leans towards the divine and supernatural. You give a slight nod to Ryuzaki, the shared usage of ‘notebooks’ still remains private to only you.

The group remains silent in thought, everyone having no collective idea what the real cause of death could be. With a slight sigh, Ryuzaki scans the faces of the task force and turns to Mogi. “Regardless, it’s something important for everyone to keep in mind. Mogi, you have collected the forensics evidence, please divulge further.”

With an exhale, the man stands up and takes the remote from L before standing beside the TV screen and flipping to the next image.

“There were multiple traces of DNA on the tapes sent which caused some delays. Any postal service workers were filtered out upon looking at their work schedules which eventually left the evidence of two different women.”

He flips to an image of a woman you don’t recognize; her hair is cut short and splays in a variety of directions while her face adorns gothic makeup. “Her evidence showed up the most predominantly on the first few tapes. Saliva, finger prints, everything that would show her being the primary sender.”

Matsuda stands up excitedly. “So we got her! We got the Second Kira!”

“Not so fast.” Mr. Yagami leans back in his seat and motions for Matsuda to sit back down. “Please continue Mogi.”

The man coughs slightly and flips to the next image; a set of other video tapes litter the screen. “Her DNA didn’t match any criminal records, but it did match a series of occult videos sent to a variety of news stations. Most of them are fake or doctored as some sort of prank.”

Matsuda sinks slowly back down with a slight blush on his cheeks in embarrassment.

Mogi flips to an image of the woman’s schedule. “Given her credit card statement, work schedule, and parental alibi… there’s limited room for her to commit any of the murders given the lack of time to access criminal information.”

Before the group can sigh in slight defeat, he flips to an image of another woman– one you recognize.

“Hey. I know her…” You sit upright and examine the doll-like face of the girl on the screen.

L leans in slightly, his face holds intrigue but the slight tremor in his body language hints a bit of anxiety. “Have you seen her on campus?”

You shake your head and examine her face another moment before turning to the group. “No, nothing like that. She’s a model I’m pretty sure… and she’s been in a few movies.”

Ryuzaki sits back slightly and nods once, taking in your response before nodding for Mogi to continue once again.

“Well, you’re right about that. This is Misa Amane, an upcoming celebrity whose DNA was already in the court system as a victim– her parents were murdered and she went through the trials against the perpetrator...”

You look between Mogi and Ryuzaki with concern at his pause. “Wait… I recognize this case; wasn’t it thrown out?”

Ryuzaki sits up right to secure a small plate of strawberry cake and pops the fruit garnish on top into his mouth; he speaks with his mouth open as he chews. “Exactly. The man was acquitted and shortly after Kira came to power, he died of a heart attack.”

The allegiance to Kira is immediately established and you sit back into your seat. In a strange sense, you kinda feel bad for her; if your family was killed and the murderer walked free from an inefficient judicial system…maybe you would have sympathy for Kira as we–

Ok, what are you thinking? Kira has killed more than just criminals; FBI agents and even members of this task force have been murdered.

You shake off the thought and give Mogi your full attention once more as Ryuzaki watches your expression with uncomfortable focus.

“The tapes had pollen from flowers local to her hometown, and when we seized a few assets from her agent– without her knowledge– we matched her notebooks to the paper used in the letters. Not only did the ink match, but the handwriting too.”

Mogi opens a manilla folder that had been tucked under his arm and places it on the coffee table in front of everyone. “Her credit card statements. There’s receipts of train ticket purchases that match the postage locations of the stamps from the Sakura TV demands.”

Aizawa crosses his arms. “Ok, just to push back on this… is it possible that she is also just an occult prankster? Kira could’ve put either one up to sending these tapes– like how they manipulated the acts of the criminals in jail before they died.”

Ryuzaki hums slightly, the fork in his mouth and frosting coating part of his lips and the sight makes you squirm slightly. “Given there have been multiple tapes sent in response to our demands and they haven’t died yet, we can assume they are doing this willingly…” He pauses and runs his tongue over his bottom lip to get the lost sugar. “Though if we detain one… there’s a chance Kira will kill one, or both, to avoid them from speaking out.”

You stare back at the image to examine her appearance again, and to avoid staring at the slutty way Ryuzaki cleans his fork of any remaining cream.

Ugh. He doesn’t even know how it looks.

You turn your attention back to the image of Misa and think for a moment. “There’s something else… aha!” You reach in your bag to pull out your laptop while the group of men watch you open the lid and type in your password.

Mr. Yagami sits forward to grab a mug of coffee from Watari’s tray. “Did you find something y/n?”

“Kinda…. Ah! Here it is!” You spin the laptop around and the men all lean in to get a better look.

“That looks delicious…?” Mogi mumbles in confusion from his still standing position.

You roll your eyes at the way Matsuda is nearly drooling. “Ok, but besides the image of the dessert, this is Misa’s social media page.”

Mr. Yagami blinks, completely lost. “Uh, ok?”

L sits forward and expands the image before looking up at you. “This is one of the cafes you and Light were talking about in Aoyama.”

You grin at him, slightly flush from his memory of you mentioning it in a conversation that he wasn’t even part of, before nodding and pointing to the post date and location. “Exactly! While it was posted a few days after Light and Matsuda were walking in Aoyama… it’s awfully convenient to post it on the same day we received the message that the Second Kira had found Kira.”

The group hums with excitement; everyone closer to finding Kira than ever before. Ryuzaki slips the last bite of cake into his mouth and places the saucer back onto the coffee table with a gentle touch.

“However, this doesn’t inherently look very good for your son, Mr. Yagami.”

The group’s energy falters and you shift uncomfortably in your seats, the tension between the two men immediately rising once again.

“Excuse me? Even if she was in Aoyama the same day as Light, Matsuda was with him the whole time!”

On cue, Matsuda jumps up to the chief’s defense. “That’s right Ryuzaki! Light never spoke to anyone who matches her photograph.”

Opting to reach for a plate of sugar cubes, he slides a few blocks into a warm mug of tea. “Mogi– please explain.”

Swallowing uncomfortably, you watch the way Mogi nervously loosens the collar on his button up and Mr. Yagami’s glare is intense.

“What? Mogi... what is he talking about?!”

Examining the way everyone else looks at Mogi with concern, you deduce that L had only told you about his assignment trailing Light.

“I had him follow your son after a few meetings, this woman has come to your house several times now.”

Mr. Yagami sputters at the way Ryuzaki speaks on Mogi’s behalf, abruptly turning between the men in shock and anger. “You what?”

Matsuda and Aizawa rise to their feet, each immediately standing between the men as Mr. Yagami tries to push forward and reach the collar of L’s shirt. The coffee table slides as the group begins to scuffle; you lift your feet to avoid the scattered mugs that topple onto the floor.

“You had our colleagues spy on my family? What gives you the right– after everything?!” Your mentor booms as Aizawa puts his arm out in front to block his movements.

L stands idly, Matsuda standing in front regardless. “Your son is still the most convincing suspect we have so far. Do you want to catch Kira or not?”

Mr. Yagami scoffs and you stand up now as well, picking up your bag to avoid the coffee puddle that threatens to stain the fabric. Moving slightly, you sling it over the back of the loveseat Ryuzaki stands in front of and watch the way Mr. Yagami scoffs with an exhale of hot breath.

“This threatens to break the very trust of this group! If I’m not a suspect, you should tell me when you act in secret.”

You swallow thickly and shift your weight awkwardly, the images of your very public makeout the other day now flooding your mind. The lack of your own honesty with the group leaves you biting your tongue and remaining silent.

“Your son may have access to the information you have; this was done to prevent any suspicion and it worked.” L replies cooly, not needing Matsuda to hold him back.

“And if you told me, I could’ve done more to figure out why she visited! Because of that, Light looks even more guilty without having the opportunity to explain anything!”

Ryuzaki sighs slightly. “We will give him ample time to clear his own name with his actions, but for now please calm down– you need to act rationally.”

Mr. Yagami tilts his head down and Aizawa keeps him steady for a moment before the chief exhales slowly and sinks into the sofa. Defeat written on his face, the older man looks down at his hands with a forlorn expression.

“I’m sorry for my outburst everyone… I didn’t mean to question the trustworthiness of this group… It’s just hard to hear you speak so casually that my son could be–” his words die before he can even say ‘Kira.’

Aizawa moves to sit back down and the lingering tension in the air hangs with less intensity than before. Matsuda takes a deep breath and sits beside the chief as Mogi stands in an awkward and apologetic silence in front of the TV.

You slowly leave your original position from beside Ryuzaki and catch his gaze for a moment before returning to your spot on the couch; the small moment of eye contact isn’t lost on your company either.

“You’ve been acting in secret…but also have been vulnerable with us, Ryuzaki.” Mr. Yagami looks up, a calmer expression on his face. “I’m grateful you’ve been able to be honest about your relationship… and I understand that some acts in finding Kira may require a bit more privacy. Please, forgive my outburst.”

Ah, shit.

Your heart strings tug when your mentor offers you a somber look that you can’t quite discern and Ryuzaki stares at you from his seat. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but you offer a small smile and shrug your shoulders slightly.

“I completely understand your feelings Mr. Yagami. I will keep them in mind as we continue our mission.” L offers before looking back to the group.

You squirm in your seat, feeling like utter shit as the next steps of the plan are being discussed.

“I’ll keep my public appearances to an even stricter minimum than before.” Ryuzaki begins, taking a fresh mug of tea since his other one was knocked to the floor a few moments ago. “If Miss Amane has this… ‘power’ to kill with a name and face, I’ll have to only leave the headquarters under extremely coordinated events. You all should consider the same.”

Matsuda looks at the file notes on the woman before raising his gaze to examine you; a lighter tone in his voice as he attempts to dissolve any remaining tension. “Ha! That might make date night awkward huh, y/n!”

You pause, the documents frozen in your hands as a hot blush spreads across your face. “Oh, yea! Haha… definitely will make it a bit harder.”

A forced laugh escapes your lips as the other members roll their eyes at his attempt at humor; you turn your attention to Ryuzaki who sits completely complacent with the task force discussing your ‘relationship’. In a poor attempt at morse code, you blink a few times as signal to help you out.

He tilts his head for a moment before finally catching on and sitting up straighter to place his mug back on the table. “O-Oh, right! Our love life will take a hit, but lucky for us– y/n and I usually enjoy our time spent here in privacy.”

…

The room is dead silent except for the small clatter of a ceramic dessert plate Ryuzaki picks up from the coffee table. How in the world he managed to make the atmosphere WORSE is beyond you.

Matsuda coughs slightly and awkwardly looks towards the bedroom door on the other side of the room. “You mean like… when you guys go in there?”

Maybe you should’ve just gone to Aoyama anyway and took your chances with the Second Kira’s wrath and L’s disappointment. Because being dead sounds a lot better than being here right now.

You raise your hands up in defense, silently wondering what karma you must have to be in this situation. “No! We don’t do anything in there–”

“Yes, please be rest assured that y/n and I do not do anything intimate there…” Ryuzaki interrupts before taking a bite of his pastry. “–while the group is here of course.”

Silence falls on the group once more and Mr. Yagami can’t bring himself to make eye contact with you; Aizawa looks slowly between you and L in horror. “So… you guys do it in there once we leave?”

“Is that why you always leave last, y/n?” Mogi asks quietly.

Your words choke in your throat and you turn to Ryuzaki who gives you a neutral expression; there’s not an ounce of worry on his face as his large eyes slowly blink at you as if you were describing the weather.

“What? N-No! We just… I uhhh…” You take a deep breath. “Can we get back to catching Kira?”

“Yes, please.” Mr. Yagami immediately sighs and keeps his gaze on the papers in his hands.

“Of course. We can’t arrest Misa right away anyways– it would be best to give Light some time to prove his innocence and for us to construct a place that could even hold the Second Kira if it is Ms. Amane.” L explains cooly, gazing at the older man. “Mogi will still be asked to trail your son, if that’s alright.”

Mr. Yagami sighs but nods regardless. “I understand, it’s for his own good.”

You nod slowly, your heart still pounding in your chest as a hot blush remains tattooed to your cheeks.

“So… we keep this a secret from him for a bit? At least until we gain something that could prove a lack of connection to Misa?” Matsuda asks, flipping through her headshots.

“Precisely. We will tell him about the tapes and our analysis of them, but Misa and the other woman will remain unmentioned for the time being.”

The meeting continues as planned, going through various pieces of evidence against Misa as you draft legal demands from her agent; a ‘drug’s bust’ is the guise the group has decided on using. Gentle rain from earlier picks up into a storm similar to that of last night and thunder roars outside as the group passes around various papers and evidence bags amongst each other.

You finish reviewing a final explanation of the most recent Second Kira tape once more before the power flicks slightly. A few whistles escape the men as the lights come back on and crashes of thunder shake the window panes.

Moving to place your annotated papers back on the table, a shrill ringtone emits from your bag. A sheepish apology at Ryuzaki as you forgot to put it on mute, you move to decline it before raising an eyebrow at the caller ID.

“It’s Light.”

Mr. Yagami looks up at you and then peers at his watch. “He’s running 20 minutes behind…”

Ryuzaki motions for you to answer and you lift the device to your ear and repack your bag. “Light? What’s up?”

“Ah, y/n I’m glad you answered. I’m still on campus.”

You pause and look up at the wall clock, eyes wide in shock as you stand upright. “Still? I thought your classes were done almost an hour ago.”

“Several metro lines are down from the storm, apparently there was an accident at a major transfer station.”

“So, you’re not coming tonight?” You shrug when the group gives you a concerned look.

“I don’t think so.. Agh this is so frustrating. I don’t want to inconvenience Ryuzaki or my father about filling me in either….”

You pause and take the phone from its tucked spot on your shoulder and flip it to rest against your opposite ear. “That’s alright, I can let you know what you missed.”

“Really? You’re a lifesaver y/n.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure you’d do the same for me anyways.”

“I’ll take you to that dessert place not far off campus, my treat.”

The offer makes you pause slightly, blinking slowly as his invitation catches you off guard. It’s not like you’ve never gone to cute cafes or gotten lunch– the both of you used to do it regularly when you worked alongside his father under regular hours– but there’s a weird feeling in your gut that’s not describable.

“Y-You don’t have to do that…” Ryuzaki’s eyes follow your every movement and he listens intently to each phrase that leaves your lips.

“I want to though… take it as a token of appreciation. But if you’re too busy to go through the meeting notes… I can always ask Matsuda, I suppose.”

You shake your head as if he could see your body language and sigh slightly into the receiver, brushing off the strange anxiety that creeps on your shoulders. “It’s fine, that plan works for me. I have a 2 hour break tomorrow anyways.”

The group watches in silence and shrugs amongst themselves as they raise eyebrows at the content of the conversation. When you end the call and slide the phone back into your bag, all eyes are on you.

Mr. Yagami sits forward. “Is Light ok?”

You reach for your coffee mug and down half the contents. “Huh? Oh yea, his train line is closed for the storm so he’s just going to head home.”

You lean back in your seat and Ryuzaki purses his lips slightly, he moves to speak but waits a moment. “Let’s take a short recess. All of you confirm your ways home are not compromised and then we can wrap up this meeting early considering the weather.”

Hums of approval break out and the men separate to call home, check traffic reports, and monitor the transit line closures. Ryuzaki stands and motions to follow him; he pauses at the bedroom door and opts to awkwardly shuffle into the kitchen area when Aizawa shoots him a concerned glance.

You pivot to stand beside him and shiver when a few of the other men raise a slight eyebrow before returning to their phone calls. “What’s going on? Why can’t we just–”

“What else did Light say?” Ryuzaki interrupts and whispers in a hushed tone.

Blinking, you look behind to ensure you’re out of earshot and shrug slightly. “He asked if I could go over the meeting notes of tonight so he wouldn’t inconvenience you or his dad.”

“Right–” L rolls his eyes slightly and scoffs. “Anything else?”

“Mmm, he offered to take me to a dessert cafe as payment.”

“And you accepted?”

You pause slightly and keep your eye on the distance of the other members to your conversation. “Yea? Why wouldn’t I–” oh.

You suck in your lower lip awkwardly while Ryuzaki narrows his eyes. “Please think these things through thoroughly. It’s obvious he’s onto us, and he’s looking for an opening to wedge himself into.”

It’s not exactly your best moment, but you offer a slight defense. “It’s not something that’s inherently damning. Going with a man who isn’t my uh… ‘boyfriend’ is weird, but it’s Light. We’ve already gone to cafes and such platonically, so if he’s trying to prove something here, it won’t work.”

Ryuzaki’s glare narrows slightly at your mention of previous excursions with the man, but concedes the point. “Regardless, we need to ensure that ‘this’ remains stable; our lives are on the line.”

You nearly roll your eyes at the constant reminder but nod in agreement nonetheless. “I’m aware, but what else is there to prove? The group already knows we're together.”

“We need to make it more believable.”

Pausing slightly, you open your eyes in shock. “More believable? How do we even manage that? It would be… something that would happen privately.” A blush spreads across your face and your voice lowers quietly.

“That’s fine then, we’ll have one of them walk in on us.”

…what.

“W-wait..and what exactly are they going to be walking in on?”

Ryuzaki blinks once, the implication of his suggestion now warming his cheeks a pale pink. “Well… a couple-thing I suppose. We’ll have to draft a plan about it– If Light is successful in proving that we aren’t actually dating but instead plotting his arrest behind everyone's back… the entire task force dynamic will crumble.”

A heavy weight pushes on your shoulders and you bite your lip in thought. “I know, I know. But having someone… walk in will require a careful plan on our part if we’re actually going to do this.”

L has seemingly no issue with the risk of mortification at your colleagues walking in on the two of you potentially “fucking” and the air escapes your lungs in exhaustion. There’s no way this conversation is real, and thunder roars overhead as you silently attempt to wake yourself up from this dream. Before you can offer another suggestion, a cough rings out awkwardly as Mogi signals that the group is ready to resume.

You offer a polite smile and pivot next to Ryuzaki as you walk back to your seat. “Just.. give me some time to think about it ok?”

The meeting resumes as it had prior; finalizing a plan for Sakura TV to be wary if any more tapes arrive, requesting Misa’s upcoming schedules from her agent, and drafting a request to the dessert cafe in Aoyama for their interior CCTV access.

The rain picks up and the wind howls beyond the window panes with lightning occasionally painting the interior hotel walls with a pale glow. Watari collects residual coffee cups from the table and offers to prepare another pot before the group sleepily declines.

You flip through the credit card statements of Misa while idly replaying the invitation Light offered over the phone. The more you considered it, the more you tried to convince yourself you were simply overthinking. The fact he had called you and not his father isn’t inherently strange, but it does leave an uneasy feeling in your gut.

Digging your chin into the casual university sweatshirt you adorn, you silently take in your own outfit. Coming straight from class, you forwent changing into your professional clothes and sit at the meeting in a pair of jeans with a ribbed white tee under your crewneck. It would seem out of place if Ryuzaki wasn’t sitting in his usual spot dressed equally as comfortably; on instinct he looks up from his own papers and meets your gaze before you peel your eyes back down.

Another 45 minutes go by until the yawns of the group cannot be suppressed by the thunder and Ryuzaki looks up to adjourn the meeting for the night. Despite it being earlier than your usual evenings, fatigue is evident on the faces of everyone.

Tired limbs stretch upright and slowly pack their belongings as the men bundle up and check the window to prepare for the inclement weather outside. Sliding a few folders into your bag, you pause when Watari offers you your jacket. “Actually, can I speak with you Ryuzaki?” You turn towards the man as he peers out the window at the rain.

“Of course.”

Aizawa slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and looks between the both of you with a concerned glance before staring at the bedroom door on the other side of the room.

You roll your eyes. “Not for that.” you turn back to L; his attention now fully on you. “I have an assignment and it’s about a case you worked on.”

Aizawa seems content with the explanation and gives Matsuda a slight nudge when the men slowly file out of the hotel suite. L tilts his head slightly, “Which case? BB murder? Or maybe–”

When the door clicks shut you exhale slightly with a light chuckle. “There is no assignment.”

“...Oh.”

Placing your bag back down in front of the couch, you pivot to walk back towards the bedroom at the other end of the room. “I actually have an idea that could work… regarding what we spoke about earlier. If someone hears this, I doubt they’ll question us being together.”

Even saying it outloud is enough to make your ears red. When you initially joined the task force, you assumed it would wrap up with the swift arrest of Kira while each of the men wrote you glowing letters of recommendation– not with you opening the bedroom door of L’s suite and ushering him inside for a private meeting, still miles away from catching the serial killer.

“Watari, can you assist with this actually?”

The older gentleman walks around from his position at the kitchen counter, gently stacking dirty dishes before he arrives in the living room. “Of course, y/n. What can I assist with?”

Saying the request is mortifying, but it’s not like you have many options at this point anyways. A deep breath in, you gesture to the room. “Can you just stay out here? Not super close to the door, but maybe by the couches? I want to see something.”

The man nods once and retreats to the coffee table to organize the glassware there and you motion for Ryuzaki to enter the bedroom.

It’s awkward, more than you want it to be. L walks inside and looks expectedly at you as your hands click the door shut; shuffling to the side of the bed, you release a long exhale. “Ok, I was thinking about what you said earlier… about the uhh ‘next step’ and I’m ready with a plan.”

Ryuzaki’s eyes widen in surprise, an expression of shock you’re not sure you’ve ever seen. He coughs slightly and looks between you and the bed, taking a moment to digest what was happening.

“Oh, I see. To be honest I thought you would need more time… and I’m not exactly prepared for this..” He walks over and runs his hands over the fabric of the comforter to ground himself. “I’m not exactly the most experienced, but I’m ready.”

You stand still, frozen as he then slowly leans forward.

Huh.

HUH.

You sputter and lift your hands. “Wait– what?”

“What.” Ryuzaki immediately parrots and leans back to his previous position.

“What… are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He repeats once more.

Blinking slightly and raising an eyebrow at his behavior, you tilt your head in suspicion but brush it off. “Uh, let me explain the plan first, yea?”

Ryuzaki nods in the least-casual forced-casual manner possible. “Yes, of course.”

You scoff lightly in amusement but a grin works its way onto your lips regardless. “Alright, you’re going to need some acting skills for this.”

Without waiting for his answer, you kick off your shoes and climb onto the bed. Sitting near the pillows, you place your hand on the wall and knock once or twice before humming in approval; Ryuzaki stands motionless beside you. “I’m having slight difficulty following your lead, y/n.”

“Patience–” you shush him.

He closes his lips and swallows slightly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he remains frozen in place. Rocking your weight forward slightly, you push the headboard of the bed into the adjacent wall and hum in satisfaction when a ‘thud’ rings out from the motion. Taking a moment to test the movement, you sway to a steadier rhythm and nudge the wooden furniture against the wall over and over again.

Swallowing any remaining pride, you look away from the man next to you and open your mouth to release an awkwardly forced moan. “Aaahhhh–”

This is fucking ridiculous.

A chuckle almost escapes Ryuzaki’s lips, but it passes as a mixture of a cough and gruff exhale; you slow down to a halt and look at him with cheeks bright red in embarrassment and frustration. “

What?” you seethe at him in frustration; actions coming to a halt.

He glances at the way your hands remain firmly grasped to the headboard and tightens his lips into a tight line. “You need to make it believable.”

His response isn’t one you expect, and in your state of surprise, you peel backwards off the headboard and sit still in the center of the bed. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clearly amused but pretending not to be, he climbs onto the plush comforter and gives you a knowing look. “Seriously? The only people who make noises like that are adult film actors on set– there’s no way it would convince a room of trained detectives that you were…enjoying yourself.”

You open your mouth for a moment before shutting it in defeat. Sure he has a point, but it’s not like you could casually give the performance of a lifetime while being fully clothed and a respectful 5 feet apart.

A huff escapes you as he walks on his knees up to the base of the headboard and does a few sample taps against the wall. “And how else would you like me to sound–”

“Let’s focus on the task at hand.” He interrupts, changing the topic slightly.

Relinquishing the subtle dig at your acting skills, you pivot to stand up and give a few jumps to the mattress.

God this is so damn childish. The act of being caught doing this would be worse than actually being caught having sex with him.

Wait. what.

The joint act of him swinging the bed into the wall while you hop up and down makes you recall a variety of undergraduate memories you wished would stay hidden. Banging against the wall, fake and forced moans, and the very real company only separated by plaster and drywall makes you cringe.

Ryuzaki doesn’t seem to mind any of it, remaining silent as he throws his shoulder into the swing and jerks the furniture forward. You pause and land lightly on your feet; throwing your sweatshirt over your head from the heat, you adjust the white tee underneath and glance at the man underneath you.

“Ok, now you’re not being believable.”

He pauses immediately and looks up at you with a face of frustration. “Hm? What else is there to this…?”

“You’re too quiet. I mean we’re making all this noise but you haven’t made a sound.”

Ryuzaki opens his mouth but promptly shuts it; his mind reeling a million different scenarios as a hot blush spreads across his cheeks. He turns the other way and keeps his lips in a tight line while you raise an eyebrow at his silence.

He gives a few pushes to the bed with half effort, obviously trying to avoid making a sound with his mouth; unconvinced you raise your foot from your standing position above his and kick his side slightly.

“Hey. What are you doing? I thought you said we needed to make this believable.”

He doesn’t answer and continues half-assing his motion; impatient you raise your foot again but slip when he suddenly jerks forward to slide the bed once again.

“Woa– S-SHIT”

You topple forward and crash down onto him in the blink of an eye, silently taking a moment to see if you can feel your limbs still. Regarding yourself unscathed, you look down at the very stunned Ryuzaki who lays directly beneath you.

“Was this… part of your plan?” He murmurs quietly.

Stuttering, you sit up straight but he raises his knees behind you to keep you stuck in the base of his lap.

Fuck.

No words can form on your tongue as the position creates a TV static to echo through your mind; surprise turning into intrigue, L looks up at you with a glaze over his eyes and the tug of a smirk on his lips.

“Please use your words, y/n. I might have amazing deductive abilities, but I’m not a mind reader.”

Scoffing you grab the fabric of the comforter in frustration, the fucker was enjoying this. “I didn’t mean to trip.”

“Plans rarely go according to how we expect them to.” He pauses and keeps his gaze on you. “But since you did fall, how would your… plan move forward from here?”

“What?” You mutter incredulously. The whole thing was an accident, but he seems to be interested in watching you squirm more than anything else.

He sits there in a petty silence, expecting you to talk your way out of the situation while your embarrassment turns to frustration. Ok while yes, you would be lying if you said the tension didn’t turn you on at all, the blurred lines of your charade creates a risky situation that should be avoided.

Kissing at the quad was spontaneous and already pushing the boundaries of what this ‘fake relationship’ currently signified as. Sitting on his lap with no one else in the room was a whole different ball game.

“You’re overthinking.” His voice cuts through.

You sigh and turn towards the door. “How can I not? It’s not like this situation leaves much up to the imagination if someone were to walk in.”

“Humor me.”

Seriously?

It feels strange to have the tables turned on you. When you had taken the initiative to kiss him in front of Light, it was Ryuzaki who stood before you completely at your will; sitting above him while his dark eyes bore into yours, trying to push even further made you furrow your brows in contemplation.

The whole thing is fake right? It doesn’t make any sense for him to care so much if Light asks you to a cafe and it makes even less rational sense for him to want to practice getting caught. Catching Kira takes more than playing by the books though, and watching the way his pupils are dilated to the size of saucers makes you begin to want something else. Something more.

You don’t know what he wants from you at this point, but sitting here, with him, as the storm roars outside and the only thing illuminating the bedroom are the table lamps and moonlight, you decide to act on what you want for once.

It’s quick, so fast that even Ryuzaki takes a moment to blink before realizing that you were leaning down to kiss his lips. Hands cupping his cheeks, you tilt your head and slide down his thighs bit more to sit in a neat straddle of his lap.

He doesn’t freeze like the time you kissed him on the campus, instead deft hands rest neatly on your waist as he pushes against your mouth with equal force. Your nose tickles his cheek as you move more pressure and you savor the sweet flavor of his lips; his mouth chases yours when you part to tilt your head to the other side.

It’s hot, and you can feel his cock stiffening in his jeans with every rock of your hips as you both effectively dry hump. Slithering your tongue out slightly, you run a gentle lick across his bottom lip; pulling back when he freezes.

About to end the entire moment in mortification, Ryuzaki slips his index and middle fingers in the belt loops of your jeans to keep you still above him. Panting, he gazes up at you with hazy eyes. “Why do you do that? You did it the other day… on campus. Wh– What does it signify?”

Dark hair tickles his cheeks and his eyes are locked solely on you; the pressure in his jeans rutting against your aching cunt isn’t lost on you either. It feels like you’re suffocating in a tug-of-war between rationality and desire.

Of course, the urge for more wins.

You wet your bottom lip with your tongue and Ryuzaki shamefully stares at the action while waiting for an explanation. No words leave your mouth; instead you take your thumbs from where they rested on his cheeks and force them between his lips. Taping on his canines once with them, you push his jaw down and lean forward to place your tongue in his mouth.

“Hmpfhh-”

Ryuzaki doesn’t mind being gagged by your tongue; he happily exhales through his nose and tugs you further up on his lap as his erection grinds painfully against the fly of his jeans. You don’t fare much better above him as the saturated mess of your panties leaves a warm and sticky sensation between the plush of your thighs.

Sugar and black tea is the taste of his tongue as you grind your own against it before exploring his molars and pursuing your lips further to gain more access. Soft groans leave your throat and escape his own lips; no longer sounding like a staged pornoc– but guttural and deep.

Any other person would have their hands on your ass already, but Ryuzaki keeps his hands at a constrained position at your tailbone, as if it was painful for him to keep them still. Remaining a gentleman nonetheless, he doesn’t move them any further.

It’s bad. The way you grind against him faster and tilt his head back with the force of your mouth. It’s even worse when he pushes you back and a string of saliva connects your lips before snapping.

“Haa.. I see.” He pants, not bothering to discuss his very obvious and raging boner. “So, if I wanted to do that… I would–” Ryuzaki tugs your head back in and sits upright to connect your lips once more.

He runs his tongue over your lips and in an act of coyness, you don’t bother opening your mouth. Ryuzaki pulls back with an analytical expression before tapping your hip as if he just had a moment of clarity. “Ah, that’s right! You did this…”

Before you can question him, a hand leaves your belt loop and grasps your jaw; his thumb pushes your mouth down to mirror the same motion you did to him. Instantly his lips meet yours as his tongue slithers into your mouth and ruts against yours.

The temperature of the room is painfully hot, and despite shedding your sweatshirt earlier, you can feel the warmth on your skin. Nipples hard against your bra and back arching in pleasure despite him not even leaving first base.

Lips against his own and panties completely ruined with each grind against his erection; your puffy clit now aching for more friction as your cunt clenches pathetically from the clothes bulge rutting against it.

You're lost in pleasure until a moment of realization washes over you. You were kissing him.

Yes, you had done this once before–but there was an audience back then, and a point to prove. Right now, there was no one else in the room that this was meant for; each rock of your heads to a matched rhythm was not convincing anyone but yourselves that whatever ‘this’ was, didn’t qualify as casual.

Hands snaking into his hair and tugging slightly, a low reverberation escapes his throat from the sensation and the grip on your waist tightens. Sighing through your nose, you tug harder to pry his head back; the force nearly ripping out his hair from the strength you need to get him off your lips.

Saliva coats his chin as he looks up at you with hazy eyes; it would be so easy to go even further, but looking at his appearance, you know it’s for the best if it stops here. You sit back slightly but his bent knees keep you close

Has he even been in a relationship? Or done anything for that matter?

It’s wrong. Fake dating, kissing, doing this with someone who obviously has no idea what they’re getting into. Additionally, it probably looks awful on your behalf to have people entertain the idea of you and L being together; you can practically hear the ‘she slept her way to the top’ rumors now.

“That’s uhh.. What they could walk in on…if we need up the ante..” you offer slowly, with a distant voice.

Ryuzaki takes the pause to breathe deeply and nods once; his eyes bore into your face with concern and awkwardness. It doesn’t take much effort for him to read the way your face is torn in a mixture of disappointed emotions.

A million sentences of affirmation for his decision to commit to ‘this’ cross his mind; instead he settles on, “I see.”

You swallow dryly and swing around to tap his knees which he immediately unbends to allow you to swing off his lap and hop off the bed. Ryuzaki remains laying down, his eyes never leaving your figure as you bend down to lace up your sneakers.

This feels ridiculous. The act of tying your shoes is akin to getting dressed after a one night stand while the guy tries to decide if he should order you an Uber or not.

“Watari is probably going to be concerned.” You say in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

L sits up slightly and glances at his crotch with a grimace; you take the hint to turn around while he adjusts himself.

“Don’t feel bad about it– I’m sure if any one was on your lap like that… it would happen.”

It’s an attempt to make him feel better, but the words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, as if picturing him with another person wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable… I didn’t mean to push you earlier for an explanation of your uh… plan.” He apologizes from behind you.

You spin back around and notice his long shirt now covering the erection he’s tucked into the elastic band of his boxers and shrug. “No, it was wrong of me to make such an intense move on you without warning.”

Ryuzaki blinks and shakes his head. “That’s alright. We need ‘this’ to be realistic considering our lives are on the line if Misa really is the Second Kira.”

Pursing your lips, you exhale slowly and nod; your gaze locked on the carpet of the room.

L stands beside you and opens and closes his hands in an awkward fidget. He’s never been one for honesty, communication, or vulnerability and the tension of the moment makes him falter. “I don’t regret doing this, y/n. But if you have second thoughts or regrets… I won’t hold them against you.”

You continue staring at the corner of the room for a moment before gathering the courage to look back over at the man and drink in his disheveled appearance. Despite your brain telling you to end this stupid charade now, your heart keeps your feet firmly planted next to him.

“I don’t regret this, Ryuzaki. I don’t regret you.”

He opens his eyes wider, and searches your face for any sign that you were simply saying that to protect his ego. Not finding any, he smiles gently and nods. “That’s good to hear.”

You both stand in silence, neither one of you bringing up the fact that what just happened defied all aspects of what a fake relationship really is; the fear that calling it out would end the entire agreement prevents you from opening your mouth.

“I guess we’ll just have to do that if Light manages to cast some doubt on us.” Ryuzaki offers while sliding his hands into the front pocket of his jeans.

You chuckle, enjoying the break in the atmosphere and nudge his shoulder slightly. “Riiight. Maybe it’ll come in handy sometime.”

Ryuzaki’s stance is lighter, enjoying your eased expression, and heads for the bedroom door. “Yes, indeed. Maybe we should… continue practicing sometime? It would be best to not be caught unprepared after all.”

You step out of the room and pause while looking at the man. It’s an unspoken offer; an invitation to keep doing this without actually addressing the underlying implication of everything. You’re convinced he’s never been in a relationship before, but he seems to be an expert at creating a situationship; settling for the ease of not having to do the ‘what are we actually’ conversation, you nod. “That sounds nice.”

Watari fluffs a few pillows and places the TV remote neatly next to a decorative candle on the coffee table before looking up at the both of you. Approaching the living room, you move to sling your bag over your shoulder while the older man looks between you both.

“Ah, you’ve finished. Was I able to be of assistance?”

Your face flushes and you run a hand casually through your hair. “Well that depends… what did you hear?”

Watari places the last fluffed pillow into the loveseat L usually sits at and stands upright. “Some minor commotion from the walls, but nothing else.” He turns to Ryuzaki. “Will we need new furniture? Or to switch suites?”

Mortification creeps back in but L simply shakes his head and peers out the window to the storm still raging outside. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

Shuffling to the door you turn back to L who follows you to the entrance. “So we’re keeping the ‘notebooks’ a secret still too?”

“Yes, until we can get Misa in custody and question her direction. We’ll need her schedule from her manager first though.”

You nod, watching the way Watari retrieves the Mercedes keys and pivots into the hallway to give you and Ryuzaki another moment of space.

“So… guess I’ll see you later? Not on campus, but here I suppose?”

“Yes, for the time being I can’t risk leaving the headquarters.”

You nod and tighten the straps of your bag, not wanting to leave but also knowing it’s late enough already. “Right, that’s a good idea…”

“Are you alright?”

Defensively backing up, you blush at being called out so blatantly. “Yea. Sorry, I’ll head out now.”

“That’s not what I said.” He interrupts, shutting the front door when you try to open it. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

You startle backward slightly and peer at him. “Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just got a lot on my mind…”

Ryuzaki releases his pressure keeping the door shut but doesn’t stop staring at your face as you shuffle into the hallway; Watari stands at the elevator at the end, keeping the door open.

He’s unconvinced but lets you take a few steps into the hallway. It’s a dumb move on your part given the complicated nature of this relationship, but you can’t fight the urge to spin around and plant a small kiss on the apple of his cheek.

His face breaks into a bright blush and he brings a few fingers to touch the spot in awe. Despite being significantly tamer than the makeouts you’ve already had, it’s the first kiss you’ve shared outside of fake pretense.

You give a slight wave to Ryuzaki and spin back around to power walk to the elevator to the awaiting older man, eager to go home, shower, and contemplate the meaning of your life. By the time the doors shut, you exhale all the air in your lungs and ignore the gentle laugh Watari releases as he bemusingly watches your expression.

~~~~~

L POV

A grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way you toss your bag over your head to shield yourself from the rain as you run into the passenger seat of the car. He knows Watari probably offered you an umbrella, and that you probably refused it on the assumption the rain wasn’t that bad.

Emotions that have rarely, if ever, stir inside Ryuzaki’s chest as he watches the car purr to life and slowly pull out of the hotel parking lot and disappear down the road. What was he doing again? Ah, right– catching Kira.

It’s the main priority at the forefront of his mind, but his heart pulls him in another direction. Watari gives him knowing glances everytime your name is mentioned and the way Light has seemingly caught on to the ‘charade’ places him in an uncomfortable situation.

Sighing in exhaustion, he walks back over to the edge of the bed and sits down idly before flopping his back onto the plush mattress. The world famous detective L would break off this silly relationship and move freely– not caring if a member of his group had unfortunately been put at risk. He wasn’t heartless, he didn’t want members of the team to die, but he didn’t have a reason to go out of his way to protect you. L would never act so irrationally.

But as to the book as L was, Lawliet was still a man. A man with follies, ambitions, hopes, and dreams, and love. He was persuaded by his heart as much as his brain, despite his best attempts to seal off the temptations of emotions as best as he could. The sound of your voice is similar to that of a siren calling a sailor; he knows that this is bad.

Thunder roars again outside, and Ryuzaki sits upright with a tight feeling in his chest. If things were different, if maybe you were work colleagues at a normal job, or if Kira was caught already, he could figure out how to put it into words– how the way he wanted you was real. But he can’t; at least not now.

The image of you is painting in his mind so vividly, he wants to shut his eyes forever if it meant he could see it for eternity. The movement of your hips, the flick of your tongue, the way you kissed him for the second– no third time now had to mean something.

Ryuzaki blinks and turns his attention to the window pane once more, taking in the glow of lightning that flashes outside inbetween crashes of thunder. It’s the first time in his life he wants to be completely honest, so he can kiss you and touch you in a way that shows it’s real.

Pursing his lips, he knows the situation is bad, even worse considering his self restraint is wearing thinner and thinner each time your mouth latches onto his. He’s ok with it though, convincing himself that he’s ok with a fake relationship if it means he gets to keep you to himself and call you his even if you weren’t.

Ryuzaki would never act like this, but L sighs and notices the small bundle of your sweatshirt fabric thrown on the floor from earlier. Taking it in his hands, he can smell the scent of your usual perfume and he clenches his jaw in self disgust.

Tomorrow, Ryuzaki would file the needed documents for constructing a cell with enough precautions to hold Misa in confinement upon her arrest next week; tonight, L does a mental estimate of the time it takes Watari to drop you off and come back before unzipping the fly of his jeans.

a/n time: also the artwork at the top is mine (i usually post fanart on a separate account but i drew that for this series hehe)

YIPPEE just in time for valentine's day hehe

this is my longest chapter to date omg what is a process to make. I was really unsure if wanted to go forward with the 'lets make fake sex sounds' kinda trope, but decided it would be good considering how I want the next chapter to go -> aka Miss Misa gets to finally appear hehe

also sorry but yall in a situationship now and both men are rude af and master manipulators

anywayssss i love seeing ur comments on these, it literally makes my day (and lmk if you want to join the tag list)

comments/likes/reblogs all appreciated <333

-oatmeal

tags: @lechatparle24 @irissfoot @iheteeaifs @automaticpatroltragedy @greenapplesaucepi @thesimpnovao @leiiilaaaa

#l x reader #ryuzaki x reader #lawliet x reader #l x reader smut #lawliet smut #lawliet x reader smut #ryuzaki x reader smut #ryuzaki smut #L smut #L death note #light yagami #death note #oatmealwordslawliet #oatmealwrites #death note smut

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covenofagatha · 5 months ago

Text

Learning to focus (part 2)

Finally having an incentive to focus, you turn your project in two days early

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: GP Agatha, blowjobs, oral sex, sex, daddy kink, spanking

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly

You finish your entire project by Tuesday.

The ten page paper had almost been the death of you, but every time your head dropped onto the table and you wanted to throw your laptop down the stairs, you just remembered how Agatha’s cock felt inside you and the heat in her voice when she promised you a reward.

And you had spent every night since your library encounter on Saturday with your hand between your legs imagining what those rewards would be. You didn’t even know you could cum as many times as you did, but each time an orgasm rolled over your body, you thought of her pounding into you against the table and you needed more.

You’d think you’d have worn yourself out by now. But as you walk across campus to get to Agatha’s classroom early, you can feel the heat already building up in your stomach, just at the promise of seeing her. You had picked out the short skirt you had worn on the first day of class – the same one Agatha had said she knew she had to have when she saw you wearing it. You can’t wait to see her reaction when she sees what’s underneath.

The memory, and the promise of even more, flushes through you and settles right in your pussy, and you sink your teeth into your lip so you don’t gasp at how it feels.

Someone on the sidewalk gives you a weird look and you ignore it. They’d be having the same reaction if their hot professor was about to fuck them again.

As you get closer to the building, your clit is practically throbbing. You’re almost embarrassed, but fuck, Agatha has put you under some sort of spell. She doesn’t even need to be close to you to take over your body and control you.

Just the thought of her is enough.

When you get to the classroom, you look through the glass slot in the door and a thrill runs through you when you see Agatha alone at the desk in the front of the room.

You don’t even bother knocking.

She looks up when you enter, an eyebrow raising as a knowing smile slides across her face. Fuck. Images of last Saturday rush through you, leaving a burning fire in their wake.

“I finished my project,” you rasp, suddenly unsure if you’re even walking correctly. Her stare is scrutinizing, raking over your body like she’s tracing every outline, and she smirks when she recognizes your skirt.

“Oh, did you?” She asks and pushes herself out of her chair. She’s wearing a white undershirt with a low cut and a striped blue suit. Her dark hair tumbles loosely over her shoulders and your mouth runs dry. “Finally learned how to focus, baby girl?”

You stumble and hit your leg on a desk. “Shit,” you groan and Agatha chuckles. She moves around to the other side of her desk and perches on the edge while you safely make it the rest of the way to her. You reach into your tote bag and take out the printed paper and the hand-drawn timeline about the Salem Witch Trials, all neatly stapled together, and hand it to her.

She winks and you shift from leg to leg while Agatha flips through your paper. She’s chewing on her bottom lip and you can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have her mouth on yours, to suck on her tongue and have your moans swallowed by her.

Agatha gets to the third page and frowns, the lines on her forehead creasing. She turns around and grabs a red pen and scribbles something in the margins of your paper.

Well, okay then. You didn’t realize she was going to grade it right in front of you.

She keeps writing on the next pages, even more now, and your spirits fall deeper and deeper with each stroke of the pen. Did you really do that bad? You feel like you’re a decent writer, even if the subject is boring, and you had really tried on this.

Even if Agatha gives you a reward for turning it in early, you don’t even think you deserve it now. Or maybe she’s reading it and thinking that you’re just a dumb college kid and that fucking you was a mistake.

The door opens behind you and a handful of other students start trickling in for the class that’s about to start in a few minutes. You would’ve shown up earlier, maybe get a head-start on that reward, but you had a different class in the period before.

But now it would’ve just been awkward, so you’re a little thankful.

Agatha gets to the last page and writes something quickly before handing it back to you. You’re almost too ashamed to look at her but when your eyes apologetically flick up to hers, you see a glint in them.

“Nice work,” she says formally in case any of the other students are listening and you force a smile before rushing to your usual chair in the front row.

Agatha claps her hands for everyone to settle down and starts to give a reminder about the project that is due on Thursday while you begin flipping through your paper to see her feedback.

Your stomach is twisting, the feeling of possibly letting her down and getting a bad grade lingering over you, and you read her first note.

Your mouth drops open and you quickly shut it before anyone notices.

I can’t stop thinking about your pussy wrapped around my cock.

Fuck. Fuck. She didn’t – how are you supposed to sit here when it feels like your body is on fire and you’ve forgotten how to breathe? You look to the center of the classroom where Agatha is already watching you.

She gives a slight nod, imperceptible to anyone else, and your breath shudders before turning to the next page.

I wonder how your hot mouth would feel on me.

You have to squeeze your eyes shut from the visceral feeling that floods through you. Your body thrums with excitement, your heart pounding – can she hear it? She must be able to see the helpless state this has sent you into.

If you were wet before, that is nothing compared to the mess between your legs now.

Almost afraid to, you keep going.

Daddy needs to taste you, baby girl.

You clamp your legs shut and bite down on a finger before you make a pornographic noise. Would anyone really notice if you just slid your hand under your skirt? Maybe you could go to the bathroom – it would take less than two minutes at this point. A single touch to your clit could send you flying over the edge.

And then Agatha says your name and you physically jump in your seat. There’s a few kids snickering behind you and you look at Agatha with wide eyes, a foggy heat overwhelming your brain. She’s standing by the board, marker in hand, and a timeline is drawn.

“I asked if you would give us some information about the Salem Witch Trials,” she says and you blush at the implication that you were too zoned and entirely missed her question the first time.

You shake your head to try and get your thoughts collected, mind scrambling for any detail at all that you remember from your paper. “Um, well they started in 1692,” you start but she raises a hand to cut you off.

“Will you come up here and write it down? I’m making a comprehensive timeline of all the events you’re doing your projects on, and since you already finished, I thought you could lead us off.” Her voice is sugary sweet but you know exactly what she’s doing. And you know very well that other people have finished their projects early too.

But you can’t exactly say no, so you get out of your chair, wincing at the stickiness between your legs, and slowly walk to the front of the room. You tremble when she meets your eyes, only about a foot away, and the air is thick between you.

Agatha holds out the dry erase marker and you reach for it, but then you glance down at her lips just as her tongue darts out to lick at them, and you end up knocking the marker out of her hand.

“Oh, sorry,” you say and drop to your knees without thinking, grabbing the marker. You’re about to stand back up when you notice her.

Specifically, the hardness in her pants.

It steals all the breath from your lungs and you freeze, head tilting slightly to look up at her through your eyelashes. You can see her holding your stare, teeth gritted and her hand twitches like she wants to grab your hair.

Thankfully, you’re hidden behind her desk.

You look back at her cock and swear you see it pulse. You swallow hard, your clit throbbing in response, and force yourself to get off the ground and Agatha sharply inhales and steps back.

It gives you a newfound confidence, that even though you’re a soaking puddle for her, she is also affected quite a bit. Maybe just as much as you.

Your hand shakes a little as you write out the only three things you can remember from your ten page paper — that’s now sitting with some of the filthiest things written on it, courtesy of the professor barely a foot from you.

And one of the things is: the trials were deadly to the women accused of witchcraft by a group of young girls. A true testament to how little you’re able to form coherent thoughts right now.

Agatha starkly coughs and with a shock, you see that you wrote daddy instead of deadly. You swipe your hand across it to erase and fix it before any of your classmates see.

“Perfect, thank you,” Agatha says, the slight tremor in her voice and the bulge in her pants the only cracks in her composure.

Meanwhile, your legs are one naughty thought away from buckling under you and you think it might be obvious to everyone.

You hand the marker back to her and quickly go back to your chair, determined to get your mind under control.

She has someone else come up to the board and write about their topic while you watch and distractedly chew on your pen. Should you be taking notes? You look around and with a sigh of relief, you see no one else is either.

And when you turn back to the front, you accidentally catch Agatha’s eyes and holy fuck.

She has to know how obvious she’s being.

Her head is slightly tilted down but her stare is locked on you, pupils blown up and burning. She’s barely even breathing. You pause, pen between your teeth.

It’s like she wants to devour you. It’s like she’s imagining it. She’s supposed to be teaching, supposed to be the one who doesn’t lose control and takes what she wants smoothly, and yet she is openly fucking you with her eyes like that, for anyone to see.

You can’t hold the soft gasp that slips out of your mouth and without even noticing, your legs widen.

But Agatha notices — she tracks the movement with her hungry gaze and you see her lips part. You swallow hard, feeling suddenly bold, and you spread them just an inch more. When she looks back up at your face, your tongue darts out and licks up the pen cap.

It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room, like there’s no one else in the room besides the two of you, even though the class is full.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, daring you to go on.

There’s no one sitting next to you, one person behind you, but they definitely won’t be paying attention when your right hand slips under your desk and rests on your upper thigh. You push the pen a little further into your mouth.

The student at the board finishes writing and hands Agatha back the marker and she barely looks at him before barking out another name to come up and fill their part in.

Your fingers inch up, dragging the hem of your already-short skirt up too, as you slouch further into your chair. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, one you’re definitely not going to win, but fuck if it isn’t exhilarating to watch her struggling to remain professional. You hollow out your cheeks and suck on the pen and Agatha looks like she’s about to whimper.

And if that wasn’t enough, you open your legs just another inch and when her eyes flick down and she grabs onto her chair so tightly her knuckles look like they’re about to burst through her skin, you know she’s seen.

You’re not wearing underwear.

And while you’re sure you’ve completely soaked the bottom of your skirt, maybe the chair beneath you, and walking back to your dorm will be incredibly embarrassing, that moment made it completely worth it.

Agatha’s jaw is clenched so hard and the now-prominent vein in her forehead throbs. Her face twitches and she relaxes with a deep breath, her tongue sliding over her teeth under her top lip, and turns back to the board to comment on the student’s writing, suddenly very collected.

A shiver runs through you at the change – she’s going to make you pay for that. And it only turns you on more.

She doesn’t look at you the rest of class, leaving you to squirm in a wet prison of your own making, and when Agatha finally dismisses everyone, you don’t move.

The room is quickly empty other than you and her and she only turns her attention to you once everyone else is gone. She stalks toward you, akin to how a predator hunts its prey, and you breathe shallowly as she flips up your desk and slots it in next to the chair.

And then she takes your hand and holds it against her cock through her pants. Her rock-hard cock that is radiating enough heat you can feel it through your clothes.

You gasp.

“That’s right, baby girl,” she coos. “That’s what your little stunt did to me. And I think it’s only fair that you come back to Daddy’s office right now and help me with it.”

There aren’t even words to describe how desperate you’ve become; you furiously shake your head and she growls before yanking you up and out the door of the classroom.

She speeds through the halls and you have to practically run to keep up with her and you think – no, you know that she wants this just as much as you do.

And then she slams open the door and shoves you inside, whirling around and pressing you against it. Her mouth is on yours before you can even think of something to say, her lips moving roughly against yours, teeth clashing, tongues sliding against each other.

Agatha pants into your open mouth and you moan and she sucks on your tongue before biting on your bottom lip. Her hand buries itself in your hair and she pulls, the sting making you whimper.

She travels down your chin and then to your neck, nipping at your skin and leaving marks. A flash of heat hits you hard when you think about showing them off in her class on Thursday. A path of goosebumps follows when she licks up the expanse of your neck with her hot tongue and you writhe under her.

And then she steps back and you gasp, immediately missing her body against yours.

“Get on your knees,” she orders roughly and you don’t even hesitate. You assume the same position you were in earlier, only this time, you’re allowed to put your hands on her thighs and drag your cheek against the bulge in her pants, feeling it twitch against you. She swears above you and you smirk.

You pepper kisses along her cock through the fabric and she only lets you for a minute before she scrambles to undo her belt and unzip her pants. She moves to reach into them but you stop her with your hands, dipping into her underwear yourself and pulling out her cock.

It stands straight, bobbing slightly, and the vein is so prominent along the length. The tip of her is red and throbbing, droplets of liquid gathered at the top. Fuck.

As if in a trance, you lean forward and lick your tongue against the tip experimentally and Agatha moans gutteraly, fingers tangling into your hair. She says something that sounds a lot like please and you oblige, opening your mouth and sucking lightly on the tip. Her hips jerk and she makes another sound and you groan around her.

You take your time exploring, dragging your flattened tongue and lathering her cock up with your saliva all while it pulses every now and then and Agatha ruts her hips like she’s holding back.

“Baby girl, please,” Agatha begs, a thrill running through you, “Daddy needs you. Daddy needs your mouth.”

You’d never even imagine saying no. You open your mouth and relax your throat before slowly taking her heavy cock, bobbing your head back and forth and moving down a little further each time. Agatha babbles incoherently about how good you’re making her feel and it spurs you on despite gagging around her.

“Fuck, baby girl, let me use you,” she pleads and you look up at her from your knees and nod. Her head falls back with a groan at your obedience and she starts fucking your mouth with a leisurely pace.

You watch her through hooded eyes, watch her slump forward and put a hand on the wall over you when she starts to move faster, watch her teeth dig into her bottom lip, watch the way she keeps her eyes on yours, grunts sporadically falling from her mouth as she uses you.

With every snap of her hips, her cock is driven down your throat and you can feel it getting hotter and swelling and so is the heat inside you – it roars under your skin, you can feel your wetness dripping down your inner thighs and if you weren’t holding onto Agatha’s thighs for leverage, you would sneak a hand down and give your clit the two circles it would need.

Her thrusts become short and shallow and drool is pouring down your chin, eyes watering, and you know she’s close.

And then she stops and pulls out of your mouth, leaving you gasping for breath.

“What?” You ask hoarsely, swiping your chin to clean it off.

She pats under your chin and motions for you to stand up. “I want to cum inside you again.” And fuck, you think you might be able to cum just from her saying things like that.

Agatha tells you to go to her desk and locks the door before following you, a slight thrill running through you at the realization that anyone could’ve walked in and found you sucking your professor’s cock.

“Now,” she tuts when she stands in front of you, “you turned in your project two days early. So that’s two rewards.”

You gasp and she spins you around and bends you over her desk. She flips your skirt up over your bare ass and strokes the skin.

“Such a naughty slut. I was going to eat you out and then fuck you for being such a good girl,” she says wistfully.

Your head twists back to look at her. “But now?”

Her hand comes down swiftly on your ass and you jump. “Now, I’m going to spank you ten times and you’re going to say ‘Thank you, Daddy’ after each one. If you can do that, I’ll give you your rewards. Got it?”

Agatha barely gives you any time to agree before she spanks you the first time. “Thank you, Daddy,” you breathe.

She spanks the other cheek. You gasp out a “Thank you, Daddy.” It keeps going until your head is spinning with pleasure and you feel yourself practically gushing.

After the tenth one, she gives you no time at all to recover and bends down, licks through your folds, and sucks on your clit.

Your body instantly spasms and you cum just from the little stimulation of her mouth on your soaking wet pussy. Your walls convulse around nothing and you let out a loud moan, finally getting the relief you’ve been aching for.

And yet, just like every other time you’ve fucked yourself the past few nights, you need more. There’s a hunger, a deep ache inside of you and you cry out when she rubs the tip of her still hard cock against your clit.

You’re so wet there’s no friction, just her skin sliding on yours, and you grind your hips back to try and get more satisfaction.

But Agatha just glides her cock through your swollen, sopping folds, only ever dipping into your entrance, and you try to push yourself onto her but she tsks.

“Patience, baby girl,” she purrs, but you can hear the need leaking from her voice too. She’s torturing both of you at this point.

Her tip pops into you and you gasp. “Daddy, please,” you whine, your head falling forward onto your outstretched hands, hoping for a similar reaction to the title as last time.

And you get it.

Agatha slowly but surely pushes all the way into you, a strangled cry leaving your mouth at the welcome stretch. You’re so wet and ready that she’s met with almost no resistance at all, just like last time, but now you can make all the sounds you couldn’t in the library.

“Fuck,” Agatha curses under her breath when she bottoms out, feeling your walls adjust around her. She stays still while you clench with a moan and you feel her throb inside you. “You almost broke Daddy today in class, you know that?”

She sharply snaps her hips and you keen.

“Showing me you weren’t wearing underwear –” another thrust, “pretending to suck on that pen –” she yanks your head back by your hair and your mouth drops open but no sound comes out, “getting on your knees in front of me like that, god, baby girl —“ she pulls all the way out of you and quickly drives back in, “you were just begging for Daddy to come fuck you in front of everyone, weren’t you? Probably would’ve taken it like a good slut, too.”

You sob when she sets a bruising pace, hitting that spot inside you each time, deliciously filling the ache inside you. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you gasp. “Not my fault, you wrote that stuff on my paper.” As if that’s any excuse.

Agatha chuckles darkly and slaps your ass, making you clench around her again. Her rhythm falters for a moment and then resumes. “Oh baby girl, you were begging for me the moment you stepped into my classroom.”

It’s unclear if she means now or the first time you ever did, but she wouldn’t be wrong in either case.

“Yes,” you rasp. “I need you, Daddy.” And she somehow starts fucking you even harder now, a smack reverberating everytime her hips hit your ass.

“I know, baby,” she says, reaching around your body to press against your clit. You jolt, a spark of intense pleasure running through you. “Daddy will give you what you need. You did so good for me, turning in that project early. I knew all we had to do was figure out how to get that pretty little head of yours to focus.”

You nod in agreement. The pleasure is getting to your head, completely overwhelming any and all thoughts, and you just make a little sound.

Agatha huffs out a laugh but her thrusts are getting sloppy and she’s breathing faster. You can feel her cock pulsing, her nails dig into your ass, and she swipes her thumb against your clit, and even though it slips off each time with your wetness, the muted pleasure still sends tingles up your spine. The tension in your lower stomach is building and you know it’s about to snap.

“Daddy,” you gasp. “I’m going to cum.”

She doesn’t change a thing, just keeps fucking you like only she can, hard and fast and short, and she says, “Cum for Daddy.”

You fall apart on her cock. Your walls squeeze around her, making it hard for her to move and she just ruts in you until she lets out a low groan and you feel a throb and then a warmth spreads through you.

Agatha keeps shallowly stroking inside, both of you twitching, until she softens and slips out. A mix of your cum and hers oozes out of your pussy and down your legs and you can’t help but moan at the feeling.

You then realize that because you decided to tease her, you’re going to be walking back to your dorm with her cum still leaking out of you. There’s a hot pang in your stomach.

“Was that a good reward?” She teases and you turn around to face her. Agatha’s softly cleaning her cock with her hand before she tucks herself back into her pants.

Your cheeks flush. “Very good,” you say. “Guess that’s what happens when I focus, right?”

Her smile is teasing and you know she’s going to use that against you going forward. You don’t mind at all. “Whatever it takes, baby girl.”

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #covsfics #learning to focus

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alluringnectar · 1 year ago

Text

my baby

pairings; loser!ellie williams x cheerleader! reader

cw; interalized homophobia, angst, tribbing, fingering (r! recieving), fluff, bullying (kinda), making out, slur, petnames like “baby & princess” , not proof read yet!

wc; 17k

life has never been better, you were handed the world at the age of 6. you never had to worry about having no friends, or not having the latest designer bag, and certainly not having everybody wrapped around your finger. you were a cheerleader & from that only, everyone respected you. you dedicated yourself into looks: always on diets, hitting the gyms, getting your nails done, having the most expensive makeup and so much more. you were the most outgoing girl known to mankind, never missing a rager or party. your friend groups were mainly other cheerleaders, and the jocks on the football team. they were assholes, but you didn’t care because so were you.

you never once paid attention in class, especially english. clicking your pen and having your eyes everywhere but the board. you snap out of your daze when your teacher announces that there will be a partner project, and she would assign the groups. you hear your name, and you pray that you get one of your friends but instead you hear the name ellie williams.

“you cannot be fucking serious” you mutter under your breath, looking at ellie whose a row infront of you.

“what was that?” the teacher asked you. “nothing.” you mock her tone, earning a laugh from your classmates.

“alright then everybody get to your partners we don’t have all day!” she claps her hands, urging everyone to switch their seats.

you stay in your seat, motioning ellie to

come where you are. why would you have to move? ellie rolled her eyes, not having the best impression of you either. “look,” ellie says “i wouldn’t have picked you either.” you scoff, “great to know we’re on the same page!” you look at her green eyes, and the way she flutters her eyelash. you were about to say something until you felt a tap on your shoulder.

it was a jock, and you end up talking to him for the rest of the period, not caring to look back at ellie, who was doing all the work. “another prissy bitch.” ellie thinks to herself.

as soon as the bell rings, ellie packs her stuff and leaves as soon as she could. she sees her friends, dina and jesse, and she sighs in relief. “you would not believe who i got paired up with.” dina and jesse both furrow their brows in unison. “a CHEERLEADER! i swear this world is against me, i already know im gonna have to do this project with myself.” dina replies, “yikes , you have it unlucky. i would NOT wanna be you.” jesse laughs and that makes ellie roll her eyes & reply “thanks dina that makes me feel a million times better.” “well jesse and I have to get going, good luck with her!” dina yells while grabbing jesse by the hand and dragging him through the hallways. ellie sighs and puts her back against the locker.

you put your bag down, and flop down on your bed chewing on some protein bars after practice. you grab your laptop and check your grade book. and thats when you see it. you’re gonna fail english class. “shit shit shit!” you tell yourself, pacing around your room in circles. you couldn’t give to shits if you were failing english, but what you did care about is being on academic probation. if you’re put on academic probation, you won’t be able to cheer. you can’t let that happen. so you grabbed your phone, and started texting everyone for ellie’s number. when you finally receive a message with her number, you smile and immediately text her.

“heyyy”

“who is this?”

“your partner in english.”

“why are you texting me?”

“do you wanna come over tomorrow to work on it?”

“is this a joke?”

“ why would i be? i have practice, so is 7:30 good?”

“yeah, ill be there just give me the address.”

it’s the next day and you come from practice drenched in sweat. you go into the shower, making sure its cold so you can relax. as you get out, you put on a robe and some uggs slipper and you hear the bell ring.

you walk over to answer, the fact ellie was supposed to come over completely slipped your mind. you open the door, and you see ellie.

“shit! is it 7:30 already?”

ellie takes full notice you’re in nothing but a robe and she blushes.

“yeah.”

“fuck im so sorry- practice had me exhausted-“

ellie reassures you, telling you it was okay because she found it kinda cute that your hair was wet and your lips were plump.

“here ellie, you can come inside, just stay in my room, i’ll get changed and i’ll be there in a sec.

ellie nods, and sinks down into your bed. she takes a moment to take in everything in your room. she took note of the way your walls were stripped pink and white to the little ballerina jewelry box that looked antique.

you walk into your room handing her some snacks. “do you want some?” “sure.”

ellie says. & now shes starting to think you’re not a total bitch.

this time, you ended up getting no work done but for a different reason. you spent your time gossiping to ellie, about who slept with who, or who did what. you never realized how pretty ellie truly was. her freckles decorated her face like how constellations decorate the sky. you look down into her lips, and ellie stops talking about whatever she was. ellie and you spend a brief moment just gazing into each other’s eyes.

you both get flustered and she breaks the silence by saying “um- do you have a hair tie?” “yeah of course here” and you hand her one.

you look at the time and gasp, it’s almost 11:30. were you guys really talking for that long? “ellie, do you wanna sleep over? or i can walk yo-“ “no, ill sleep over it’s fine.” you nod. grabbing blankets for her, “you can sleep on my bed i’ll sleep on my couch.” ellie scoffs “no fucking way, i’m not taking your bed, i can have the couch.”

and due to both of your guys’ stubbornness, you are laying next to eachother, in the same bed staring at the ceiling. you look over and you see ellie has fallen asleep. she looked so beautiful and her front hair pieces fell on her face, capturing her beautiful. you move your hand to tuck it but then you get this wave of disgust. not to her, but to yourself.

what the fuck am i doing? I can’t like girls. am i stupid? i’m not gonna be seen as some dyke on the cheerleader team. my reputation would be ruined.

you ended up falling asleep teary eyed, scared to accept if these feelings are really true and maybe they’ll go away.

it’s almost summer, and the feelings are still lingering and infact they are stronger than before. after acing the project, you still

continued to hang out with ellie. you and her hung out every friday, and it became a ritual. you were starting to fall in love with her, and you knew there was no way out. everytime your asshole friends said anything about her that was negative, you jumped to defend her name like a knight. “you know the project deadline was months ago, while do you still hangout with her.” slightly irritated you snap, “she isn’t even bad once you get to know her, she’s funny and sweet.”

it wasn’t any different for ellie either, expect she was 100% convinced you were straight. you never once spoke of your sexuality to her, and for any matter guys in general but why would you like her? she grew up playing with worms, while you grew up going on constant vacations. but even though she thought it would never happen, she asked the universe for this one thing. she prayed to a lord she didn’t even believe in, hoping he will for once listen to her.

God works in mysterious ways because you’re sitting in ellie’s room drinking vodka blasting music. it’s odd how vodka can make somebody so honest. ellie was rambling about a story with an ex she had named cat, and drama between the two. she developed a habit of gossiping, probably from you. to make sure you’re still listening, she asks you. “how about you, any boy trouble?” its silent, and you look at her and start sobbing. ellie’s heart drops down to her stomach and instantly grabs you, pulling you close to her. “hey was it something i said? im sorry-“ “no!” you manage to yell out between your broken sobs. “i don’t think i like guys.” “what?” ellie says, shocked from what she heard.

“when i look at you, it’s not the same for any guy. sure i’ve made out with guys, but not even that gives me the same feeling of when im talking to you. i want it to be you so bad, ellie.” you hiccup, tears staining your eyes. “but this is all new for me, and i hate myself for being this way, i had everything anyone could ask for and it feels like im throwing it all away.”

ellie’s mind is going in all directions, the fact you like her. the fact shes finally getting her prayers answered. she pushes it to the side, because what you need is comfort. ellie holds you tight. so tight, you cannot wiggle out of her grasp. “hey baby, it all works out at the end, your existence isn’t a sin, people who truly love you, will accept you for who you are. and you don’t have to figure things out right now, take your time.” ellie replies, hovering her hand over your face to wipe your tears.

you’re looking up at her, inching your face closer to hers. she leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. you’re eager for more, so you grab her hair from behind and sloppily slid your mouth inside. ellie pulls away from the kiss, to get air, saliva connecting you guys to each other.

“hey els?” you say softly, having your knees tucked in.

“yeah?”

“since school is ending, there’s gonna be a rager. do you wanna come?”

ellie smiles at you, accepting your offer.

“i’ll be there.”

it’s the day of the rager, and ellie’s at her house with dina and jesse on her bed. “are you sure you really wannq go?” dina asks. ellie’s throwing her clothes everywhere, looking for an outfit to wear. “yeah,” jesse adds on “she doesn’t look like somebody who would hang out with you, what if this is all a prank?” ellie stops to look at them. “guys, i know you’re concerned but trust me on this, okay?” they nod their heads. “whatever happens, you can always tell us okay? whatever you choose to do , we’re with you.” ellie smiles and pulls them into a group hug. she’s wearing a wife pleaser, red flannel, and some jeans. shes tying her converse, she walks out the door, saying “wish me luck!”

she arrives at the house, and the music is so loud she can hear it from where she’s at. nervously she turns to twist the door knob and instantly she goes looking for you. she’s happy today after what happen yesterday, and she’s thinking to herself nothing can change her mood. until she saw you. you had a red solo cup in your hand. you were with a jock, who made it pretty clear he wanted you. was ellie a joke? was everything you said to her nothing after all? her friends were right. clenched fists, she turns to head out of the party, rushing to her car trying not to cry.

the jock wouldn’t take no for an answer, you’ve made it clear you’re not interested in him. “don’t be like that, i see the way you look at me.” you scrunch up your nose in disgust. “well you must be fucking blind.” and thats when you see in the corner of your eye, ellie. “fuck!” you murmur to yourself. ellie is already going towards the exist. as she’s walking down the steps of the porch. you scream, “wait! it’s not what it looks like, i swear-“

“do you think im a fucking joke? you made me feel like a fool.”

“ellie i swear nothing happened i was-“

“were you telling him your pranked worked? were you laughing about me? it’s done. i hope you had your fun.”

ellie is about to turn your back on you.

“ellie im in love with you!” you yell. loud enough

that people from the outside were looking at what was happening.

ellie looks around, “you’re drunk.”

“yes im drunk but that doesn’t change the fact im in love with you. the man that was talking to me. i was telling him to leave me alone. i only have eyes for you ellie! anybody who knows me has to get to know you first!” you breath starts to hitch, knowing you’re about to cry and how people are listening but you no longer care.

“i use to cry, praying that God took these feelings away. now im praying to God for letting me meet you. God knew I needed you Ellie.”

ellie stands there in disbelief, she doesn’t know what to say but her heart is about to explode. she runs to you, takes your hand and takes sits you in the passenger seat. closing the door, she starts the car and starts driving. she looks over at you, and you’re already staring at her. she places a hand on your thigh, and caresses it. “you’re perfect in every way, ways im not. i couldn’t believe somebody as amazing as you would want me, and im sorry.”

you smile, and place your hand on top of hers, “it’s okay, we were both pretty caught up” you giggle.

she would fight the world to hear that giggle again.

she pulls up to your driveway, and shes about to drive off but you ask her to stay the night. and how could she say no to that pretty face of yours?

it’s all dark, but you hold her hand and she follows you into your room. you play some music on your record player.

“do you like mazzy star els?”

“i dont listen to her much, but her voice is pretty.”

you walk up to her, and hold her by the waist. ellie looks down at you and pressed her lips onto yours. you close your eyes, melting into the kiss. you start getting hungrier for more, and you open your mouth to let her tongue slip into yours. the kisses start getting needier, and she walks you until your laying back on your bed. you straddle her waist, and she puts a hand up your dress causing you to whine.

“you’re okay with this right?”

“of course els, please hurry.”

“please what?”

you look away from her gaze, shyly, you fiddle with the seams of ellies wife pleaser and whisper to her , “please touch me, it can only be you.” and with that, ellie is slipping your dress off. kissing your collarbone all the way down to the welts of your breast. she takes off your matching set of panties and bra. and her cold hands on pinching your nipples make your back arch into her touch. she sucks on your nipples, flicking her tongue on it back and forth earning whimpers from you each and every time.

“n-need you els..” you stutter. “im not going anywhere baby.” she chuckles, her breath on your beast making you close your eyes in pleasure. “im gonna touch you now okay? tell me when to stop.” she slides her fingers between your folds.

“already so wet for me princess” and as she hovers to your face to kiss you, her front pieces of her hair are touching your own face. you’re sloppily making out with her, moaning into her mouth.

then she puts two of her fingers in, feeling you instantly clench around them. you start moaning louder and louder “ellie! ellie faster!” and she listens to you, curling her fingers even faster before hitting you in the g spot. your thighs start shaking. and your grabbing onto ellie’s fore arm, clawing it for any way to feel relief.

your moans reach an all time high and you know you’re almost there. im- im about to cum els!” and she starts sucking on your neck, “let it out for me baby, you deserve it come on.” and you reach your climax, sweating and panting. she takes her fingers out of you and sucks them. “you taste so good, everything about you is so sweet.”

still fucked out, you murmured incoherent sentences. “i wanna feel you against me els, please, please.” and ellie looks at you, grabbing your waist to pull you up. you looked at her in this love dovey expression and her heart skips a beat. “can i take this off?” you ask and she gulps and nods. you take off her flannel. then wife pleaser. then her jeans. leaving her in underwear and her sports bra, which now you’re taking off her underwear.

as for the most part both of you are naked, you place your cunt onto hers. you grind against her lightly. both of you whimpering sweet nothings. “i love you els i love you i love you” as you both of you are sweating, holding onto eachother, kissing as you slide on her and feel both of your holes clenching around nothing. “you’re doing so good f’ me” ellie blabbers. both of you are starting to reach your orgasms as you both moan in a higher octave, clawing at each others back, and feeling yourself twitch.

“i think im gonna cum i think-“ “come with me, be a good girl for me please.” she tells you needly, but you can’t even tease her because you want this just as much, if not more. both of you reach your climax, beads of sweat running down each of your fore heads. you disconnect yourself from her cunt. both of your arousals sticking to each other in a way your bodies seem like they’re made to mold into each other’s.

you collapse onto the back of your bed. ellie crawls to lay on your chest. kissing you over and over again, as a way to praise you. you giggle and run your hands through her hair, massaging her scalp.

“shouldn’t we clean up ellie?” you inquire, and you feel her breath on you again as she says “i wanna stay like this.” you nod and you bring blankets over you guys.

“im in love with you too.” ellie tells you.

“i think you showed me already.” you laughed.

“so are we girlfriends?” ellie asks you, looking up at you.

you kiss ellie, and tell her “if you go to every one of my practices.”

safe to say there was never a practice ellie didn’t go to.

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