#and i wanted to be warmer and closer to her

[ceyanabbiolo]

PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [16]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming?

Warnings: angst

wc: 5172

Chapter 16: I love you, I'm sorry

“Matt, look this way!”

I turned my head slightly to the left, jaw clenched. The camera clicked three times in rapid succession.

“No—less intense. Soften your eyes. Tilt your chin. Can we get a more natural smile? Something warmer.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. More natural? I wasn’t a damn mannequin.

The lights were too bright, the air too stuffy, and the photographer—some young, overly eager guy with a scarf and too much cologne—had been barking instructions for the past twenty minutes like I was a puppet on strings.

“Can you arch your back a little more? Maybe cross your arms? Looks like you’re brooding, but approachable?”

My patience was wearing thin. I’d been doing this long enough to know how to pose, and whatever this guy was trying to pull felt more like a high school film project than a fashion campaign.

“Matt, relax your shoulders, please. Right now you’re giving… CEO on trial.”

I blinked slowly. “I am a CEO.”

The guy laughed like it was charming. “Right, right—but less… intimidating. We want Matt Sturniolo, the man, not the empire.”

I was about to tell him exactly where to stick his ‘creative vision’ when I felt a soft hand touch my forearm.

I glanced over.

Daphne stood there, watching me. Her expression was calm, but I could see it—she noticed the tension in my jaw, the way my shoulders were locked. She knew me better than anyone. She could tell I was done.

She leaned closer, her voice low so only I could hear. “Should I help?”

I met her eyes, that familiar calm already steadying my pulse. I gave a small nod.

She smiled sweetly, then turned toward the photographer. 

“Hey,” she said kindly, “I think Matt just needs a second. He’s been shooting all morning. Can we reset the energy a little?”

The guy blinked, surprised by her tone—gentle but firm. “Oh uh, yeah. Of course.”

Daphne looked back at me, reaching up to fix a stray piece of hair near my temple, her fingertips lingering a second longer than necessary.

“You good?” she whispered.

I nodded slowly. “

Daphne gave me a quick peck before stepping fully into the space between the camera and me. Her demeanor changed like she belonged. 

“Let’s try something a little more relaxed,” she said gently, addressing the photographer and his assistant. “Matt looks best when he’s not over-posed. Maybe have him sit, lean back a little, and see natural lighting from the side?”

The assistant nodded, flipping through a clipboard of notes. The photographer looked uncertain, but curious.

Daphne turned back to me, already picturing the shot. “Take off the jacket,” she said softly. “And sit on the stool—yeah, just like that. One leg up, elbow resting on your knee. Look down for a second. Breathe.”

I followed her instructions, and for the first time since the shoot started, I didn’t feel like I was performing—I just felt like myself.

“Now look up at me,” she said.

I did.

The camera clicked.

The photographer blinked, then checked the screen. “Wait… that looks—hold on—this is good.”

Daphne stepped aside so he could keep shooting, but she stayed close, occasionally suggesting slight shifts in my angle, hands, and posture. Her voice was soft but certain, never overwhelming. She knew what she was doing, and everyone in the room could see it.

Within minutes, the entire tone of the shoot shifted. The energy settled. People were nodding along with her ideas, checking previews on the monitors, and whispering things like “this feels more high-end” and “the lighting works better here.” 

I caught her watching me between shots, her lips tilted into a knowing smile. 

The shoot wrapped quicker than expected after that. With Daphne's subtle direction and calm energy, everything flowed naturally. No more forced smiles, no more awkward poses—just good lighting, good angles, and a team that finally stopped micromanaging.

By the time we were done, the photographer was practically singing her praises.

“You’ve got a great eye,” he told her, packing up his lenses. “Have you ever thought about directing?”

Daphne smiled. “Not really. I just know what works for him.”

He nodded. “Well, it shows.”

I watched the interaction quietly, pride swelling in my chest. It didn’t surprise me—she had always seen me. But watching everyone else finally recognize what I already knew? That was something else.

We stepped out into the cool afternoon air. The sky was fading into soft golds and pale blues, the breeze tugging at Daphne’s hair as we approached the curb where my motorcycle was parked.

“Nice job,” I said, tossing her my extra helmet. It was hers at this point. 

She caught it with a grin. “Nice job to you, Mr. CEO-model hybrid.”

I smirked as I swung my leg over the bike. “You directing me is dangerous. You know I’d do anything you say.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she said, pulling the helmet on. “That’s why I try not to abuse the power.”

I reached over and tugged her gently toward me by the waist, helping her onto the seat behind me. Her arms wrapped around me as she settled in, close and warm.

“You good?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

I felt her nod. 

We rode through the city with golden light spilling between the buildings. Simple. Right. 

The ride through the city was smooth, the kind of quiet that came when words weren’t needed—just the wind, the hum of the engine, and the feeling of Daphne’s arms around me. By the time we pulled into the garage beneath my apartment building, the sun had started to dip low, casting golden streaks across the concrete.

We took the elevator up in comfortable silence. Daphne leaned her head against my shoulder, helmet in hand, clearly drained from the day. She hadn’t complained once, but I could tell she was tired.

As soon as I unlocked the front door, she made a beeline straight for the living room.

With a dramatic sigh, she dropped her bag by the side table, kicked off her shoes, and ran and collapsed onto the couch. 

“I’m never moving again.”

I shut the door behind us, amused. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” she said into the cushions. “You were hot, the lighting was hot, the photographer was a lot…and this couch is so comfortable.”

I chuckled, setting our helmets down on the kitchen island. “Glad my furniture gets a 10 out of 10.”

Without another word, I slid down next to her, stretching out until we were chest to chest. The second I got comfortable, she shifted instinctively, curling into me like we were made to fit this way. My arm slipped under her neck, the other wrapping around her waist as I pulled her closer.

“Mm,” she hummed sleepily, pressing her forehead against my collarbone. “You’re warm.”

“Good,” I mumbled into her hair, my own eyes beginning to close. “’Cause I’m not moving either.”

She giggled softly, breath tickling my neck. 

Our noses bumped slightly, her leg still tangled with mine, and before I could say anything else, she leaned forward and kissed me, soft and slow. 

I kissed her back, just as lazily, my fingers sliding gently into her hair.

Half-awake and half-dreaming, we stayed like that—wrapped in each other, mouths meeting in slow, warm presses. Not rushed, not heated. Just love in its simplest form. Her hand slid across my chest, resting above my heart as we kissed between sleepy murmurs and quiet smiles.

“I could stay like this forever,” she whispered.

I tucked her closer, our foreheads resting together.

The afternoon slipped away quietly as Daphne and I dozed on the couch, tangled up in each other’s arms. Two hours must have passed, maybe more.

Then, suddenly, the doorbell rang. 

I groaned softly and glanced down at Daphne, who stirred beside me, eyes fluttering open in confusion.

“Are you expecting someone?” Daphne mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she shifted beside me.

I shook my head, pushing myself up from the couch. “No.”

The sudden weight of the unexpected knock pressed on me as I walked toward the door. My hand hovered over the handle, then I paused, peering through the peephole.

Fuck.

The familiar figure of Noah stared back at me from the other side.

Another firm knock sounded.

“Daphne,” I called softly, trying to keep my voice calm but low. “It’s Noah…”

She bolted upright instantly, eyes wide and alert. 

“Noah?” Her voice trembled. “He’s not supposed to be here till next week.”

I didn’t know what to say. 

“What do we say?” Panic laced her words.

“We could just tell him,” I offered gently, hoping to bridge the gap.

“Matt…” she whined, dread thick in her tone.

“Sweetheart, it’s been six months. He deserves to know,” I said quietly, trying to sound reasonable but firm.

“No, Matt. Not today,” she pleaded.

I felt the tension in the room tighten around us, the exhaustion from the day already pulling at my patience. I didn’t want to fight.

“Alright,” I sighed, conceding. “Just… go to my room, lock the door, okay?”

She nodded quickly and slipped away down the hallway.

I turned back to the door, about to open it, when my eyes caught the scattered evidence—her bag tossed by the chair, shoes kicked off near the doorway, hoodies draped over the back of the couch, and—gosh—her bra lying carelessly on the coffee table.

This wasn’t just a visit anymore. This was my life, tangled with hers in a way that couldn’t stay hidden forever.

Without wasting a second, I began gathering her things, stuffing them hurriedly into the closet. The familiar scent of her clothes mixed with the adrenaline in my veins.

As I shoved the last hoodie inside, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out—Noah’s name flashing across the screen.

Heart pounding, I swiped to answer.

“Wassup, man,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “Yeah, I’m here.”

I took a breath, then unlocked the door and opened it.

There he was—Noah Deniore. 

Her older brother. 

My best friend.

I was completely confused—he wasn’t supposed to be back so soon. He had just come and gone last month, after the cottage trip Daphne and I went on in March.

He stood in a hoodie and jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder, brows raised in that easy way he always had. “Took you long enough,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Yeah,” I replied, moving out of the way, trying to sound casual. “Was just—half asleep.”

He walked in, glancing around. “Place looks... lived-in.”

I gave a tight smile, watching him survey the room like he always did when he visited. I stood near the couch, subtly blocking the hallway that led to my room.

He didn’t notice.

Not yet.

Noah dropped his bag on the side chair and looked back at me.

“You’re back?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I leaned against the counter. “Again?”

Noah chuckled, shrugging out of his jacket. “Yeah. Decided to drop by for the weekend—figured it was time for a surprise visit.”

I gave a small nod, my expression careful. “Didn’t know you were planning that.”

He tossed his jacket onto the arm of the couch, casually looking around again. “I figured Daphne would be at home, but no one answered the door. I thought maybe she was out running errands or something, so I just headed here instead.”

My stomach twisted.

I forced a small smile. “Yeah, maybe. She’s been in and out a lot.”

Noah wandered to the window, glancing out at the skyline. “I haven’t talked to her in a while. Feels weird not knowing what she’s been up to lately. You’d think my sister would shoot me a text.”

I swallowed hard, then offered weakly, “She’s been… keeping busy.”

He turned back toward me, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You know what’s weird, though?”

Here it comes.

“What?”

He gestured around the apartment. “Your place smells like her.”

My jaw clenched.

The scent of that clean Jo Malone lily perfume. 

I laughed it off—awkward, stiff. 

“Yeah, she’s probably left some stuff around. She’s been over to help with some shoots, you know?”

Noah nodded slowly, but not calling me out yet either.

I glanced at the hallway. That walking lily was only a few meters away. 

“Want a drink?” I asked again, this time more pointed.

Noah gave me a look, but followed me toward the kitchen anyway.

I pulled two glasses from the cabinet, trying to act normal as I filled them with water. My hands moved steadily, but my mind was racing.

Noah leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed as he watched me closely.

“So…” he started, voice casual—but that kind of calm-before-the-storm casual I knew too well. “How’s your relationship with Daphne these days?”

I paused—just for a split second—but I made it feel like I was just thinking.

“What relationship?” I replied coolly, sliding his glass across the counter to him.

He smirked, lifting the glass but not drinking from it. “You know what I mean.”

I gave a little shrug, sipping from mine. “I mean, we work together. She’s been doing shoots for me—photography stuff.”

“Yeah. For like… what? Eight months now?” He raised a brow. “That’s a long time to be working so closely with someone.”

“Not that long,” I deflected.

He tilted his head. “Come on, man. She barely answers my texts, but she responds to yours in seconds. And she trusts you with everything. She used to only talk to me, and now she’s out doing shoots, coming out of her shell, working late hours—with you.”

I tried to keep my face neutral, but I felt the tension coil in my chest.

“She’s just… grown a lot,” I said simply. “That’s not all me.”

Noah gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Matt. I’m just trying to figure out… stuff.”

My mouth opened slightly, then closed again. For once, I didn’t have a clean answer. Because the truth sat just under my skin, and it wasn’t simple.

He wasn’t wrong.

But I couldn’t give it to him. Not yet.

Not like this.

I exhaled, trying to play it cool. “What are you trying to say, man?”

He looked up, tone gentler now. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, eyes steady. “But… are you seeing my sister?”

There it was. Direct. No dancing around it. 

I blinked once, then let out a short breath of a laugh. 

“No, Noah,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I’m not seeing Daphne.”

It was technically true. At least by his definition.

He studied me, but he didn’t push—just gave a slow nod, like he was still weighing whether or not to believe me. I kept my expression unreadable.

“I guess I just notice things,” he murmured. “She talks about you more than anyone else. She trusts you. And I’ve never seen her like that with anyone—not even the guy she dated back in London.”

I shrugged casually. “We work together a lot. She’s easy to be around.”

Another beat of silence passed, then Noah nodded again and clapped me on the shoulder. “Alright. Sorry if that was weird. Just…you know.”

I gave a quick nod back. “I get it.”

Noah didn’t leave right away.

After our little back-and-forth, he dropped onto the couch like he owned the place, stretching his arms over the backrest with a sigh.

“You got anything stronger than water?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

I huffed a laugh, already heading toward the kitchen. “Yeah. You still good with whiskey?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

I pulled out two glasses and grabbed the bottle from the cabinet. My hands were steadier now, but the lie—or half-truth—I told him was still echoing in my head. I poured the drinks and handed him one, watching him take a long sip like he’d needed it all day.

We fell into easy conversation, like we always did.. The familiar banter helped settle some of the tension in my chest. For a second, it almost felt normal.

Almost.

I just kept sipping my drink, giving short answers, laughing when I needed to.

Noah didn't push anymore, but I could see the gears still turning behind his eyes.

Around the third glass, he kicked his feet up on the coffee table and smirked. “You know, you’re the only person I trust to look out for her.”

I looked up slowly, that ache in my chest twisting just a bit tighter.

“Yeah?” I said, voice low.

He nodded, a little more serious now. “I know I doubted you, but to be fair, I know you’d never go there.” 

I looked away slowly. I had already gone there. 

“I know she’s grown, but… I still see that twelve-year-old kid sometimes.” he continued. 

I swallowed hard, setting my glass down. “She’s not that kid anymore, bro.”

“I know,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch. “But she’s still my kid, in some ways.”

I nodded, I got it. In some ways I do remember Noah sacrificing a lot for her after their parents died. 

Noah was quiet for a moment, twirling his now-empty glass in his hand before speaking up again.

“So… you wanna go out tonight?” he asked casually. “I know a bar not far from here. Girls, drinks, good music—the usual.”

I leaned back on the couch, already shaking my head. “Can’t tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “Since when do you pass up a night out?”

I smirked a little, trying to keep it light. “Since I started having actual work to do, man.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Work? It’s Friday.”

“Still counts,” I said, standing to collect our glasses.

Noah tilted his head like he was studying me. “Or…” he dragged out the word, eyes gleaming now, “you’re not coming out because you’re already occupied.”

I let out a laugh, forcing it. “Yeah, alright.”

“I’m serious,” he grinned. “You’re acting different.”

“I’m always acting differently, apparently.”

He stood to stretch, wandering toward the hallway, and that’s when I saw it—

My stomach plummeted.

Right there.

In the corner of the living room.

Draped halfway behind the leg of the side table—

Her bra.

Fuck. Fuck.

Before I could even move, Noah spotted it.

“What the hell is—” He reached down, and before I could stop him, he was already holding it up by one strap, dangling it in the air with a bark of laughter.

“Bro,” he laughed. “No wonder you didn’t want to go out tonight.”

My heart was hammering so loud in my chest I couldn’t hear anything else.

He swung it playfully in the air, the pale strap slipping around his fingers. “Damn, this is like—what—double D? Triple? Jesus.”

I didn’t move.

I just stood as he held it, completely unaware that he was joking about his sister’s bra. Teasing me about the size of her chest. Laughing like it was all some game.

I didn’t know what to do. 

“Relax,” he chuckled, turning to toss it toward the couch. “Not judging. You’ve clearly had a good night.”

I walked forward quickly, scooping it off the cushion before he could touch it again. I shoved it into the closet silently, my pulse still racing, ears ringing.

Noah let out one last amused chuckle as he grabbed his jacket off the couch.

“You don’t have to be so uptight about it, man,” he said, still shaking his head. “We’re both adults. You’re a grown-ass man. If you’ve got someone keeping your nights busy—good for you.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. 

I was still gripping the closet door handle, trying to regulate my breathing.

Noah didn’t notice.

He slung the jacket over his shoulder and headed toward the door. 

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. Clearly, I walked in on something… mid-romantic.”

I gave a forced scoff, but it barely passed my lips.

He opened the door, then turned back one last time, grinning like a fool.

“Have a fun night,” he added, backing out into the hallway. “I’m gonna go see if Daphne’s home yet.”

My stomach dropped straight to hell.

The second I shut the door and heard his footsteps fade down the hallway, I turned around and ran a hand down my face, trying to calm myself.

But I couldn’t.

Not after that.

I stormed down the hallway, each step getting heavier as I reached the bedroom door. I pushed it open without knocking.

Daphne was sitting on the edge of my bed, legs tucked under her, chewing her thumbnail nervously.

Her eyes met mine the second I stepped inside.

“Well?” she asked quickly, voice tight. “What did he say? Why was he here?”

I shut the door behind me, leaned against it, arms crossed over my chest.

“He was just checking in. Said he wanted to visit for the weekend. Surprise everyone.”

She nodded slowly, her shoulders still tense. “Did he ask about me?”

I nodded. “He said he didn’t see you when he got to his apartment, said he figured you were out. So he came here.”

I paused.

“And then,” I added through gritted teeth, “he found your bra. On the floor.”

Her face went pale. “Matt–what.”

“Yeah,” I said with a bitter laugh. “Picked it up. Swung it around. Talked about the size.”

Her hand flew to her face.

I stepped forward. “Daphne, do you know how messed up that was? Do you know how sick I felt watching him laugh like that—not knowing—that he was holding something that belonged to his sister?”

She was silent. Her eyes welled up. But she didn’t say anything.

And I couldn’t take it anymore.

“We can’t keep doing this,” I said, my voice rising now. “We can’t keep sneaking around like this, acting like it’s nothing when it’s everything.”

She looked at me, shaken. “Matt—”

“No,” I said, sharper now. “He’s my best friend. You’re his sister. We’ve been together for six months, Daphne. Six months. You stay here more than your own place. Your things are everywhere. He’s not stupid.”

Her hands were shaking. “I know—but he’ll hate me. Matt, if we tell him like this—he’ll think I betrayed him.”

My hands went to my hair, tugging slightly in frustration.

“I’m tired, Daphne,” I said, voice cracking slightly. “I’m tired of pretending. Tired of hiding how much I love you—like it’s some kind of shame.”

She looked like she wanted to say something—then didn’t.

“I’m not mad at you,” I said again, my voice low but tight. “But I’m getting to a place where I can feel it building… the resentment.”

Her eyes lifted to mine, uncertain.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m just your boss, your friend. I sit across from him and talk like nothing’s going on, like I’m not in love with you, like I didn’t sleep next to you last night,” I said. “You know how that feels?”

She looked down, silent.

“This is what—his fifth visit since we got together?” I continued, my voice sharpening. “And he still doesn’t know.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I didn’t let her.

“Five visits, sweetheart. Five, and every time, I have to scramble to hide your clothes, act like I don’t know where you are, and smile when he talks about you.”

“Matt…” she said, barely a whisper.

“No,” I cut in, a little louder now. “I need to know—what are we waiting for??”

She swallowed hard. 

“Because I’m not ready,” she said. “Because I know Noah. He’s not just going to be shocked, he’s going to explode. You know how he is.”

I shook my head, backing up a step. “So what? We just keep pretending forever?”

“No—just… not now,” she insisted.

“Then when?” I snapped. “When we move in together? When he finds an engagement ring in your bag?”

She flinched.

The silence between us felt thick. Suffocating.

I exhaled, gripping the back of my neck. “I love you, Daphne. But I’m starting to feel like I’m being hidden. Like I’m something to be ashamed of.”

“No, Matt—” she stepped forward, reaching for me, but I pulled slightly back.

“Then why?” I asked, my voice breaking slightly. “Why are you still so scared to tell him? Do you not think we’re real?”

Her eyes filled with tears, her lips parted, but she didn’t answer right away.

I stared at her, chest rising and falling, waiting. 

I let out a breath through my nose, the air in the room feeling like it thickened with every second.

“You keep saying you’re not ready,” I said, my voice tight. “You’ve been saying that for months now, Daphne. How long do I have to wait until you are?”

Her mouth parted, her eyes wide—but she didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” I muttered, stepping back. “You keep asking me to be patient, to just wait—but you don’t get how it feels to be treated like some kind of secret. Like I’m something you’re ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed of you!” she shot back, louder now.

“Then why?” I snapped, voice rising. “Why is it so damn hard to just tell him?”

“Do you just not trust me or something?” 

She looked at me, lips trembling, her voice barely holding.

“I do trust you,” she said. 

I let out a dry laugh, bitter and quiet. “No. You say that. But every time you pull away. You don’t let me in—”

“I told you about Carter, Matt,” she snapped, voice sharp with emotion. “Don’t stand there and tell me I don’t trust you.”

I shook my head, my voice low. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Yes, it is!” she shouted. “You’re making it sound like I’ve just been lying to you this whole time—like I don’t care about you enough to be honest.”

I exhaled through my nose, trying to hold myself together. “Daphne, I know you care about me. I know that. But this? This thing with Noah—it’s not just about you anymore. It’s about us.”

She turned away, pacing now. “And I’ve told you—I’m not ready.”

My fists clenched at my sides. “But when will you be?”

“I don’t know, okay?!” she snapped, spinning to face me again. “It’s not some switch I can flip!”

I stared at her, the frustration spilling out. “So what, I just keep being your secret until you feel safe enough to admit we exist?”

The air between us felt volatile.

Tense. Fragile.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I said, pacing in front of her. “I’m exhausted, Daphne. I feel like I’m putting everything into this, and you’re just—hiding behind excuses.”

She flinched but didn’t speak.

And that silence lit something in me I wasn’t proud of.

“You know what it feels like?” I snapped. “It feels like I’m dating someone who only knows how to love when it’s convenient. When no one’s watching. It’s manipulating”

Her face shattered. 

“What did you just say?” she whispered.

I swallowed hard, chest hollow. “Daph—”

“You think I’m manipulating you?”

She was barely holding herself together. Her whole body shook as tears welled in her eyes, full and silent.

“I let you see everything,” she choked out. “All my pain and you think that was some kind of strategy? That I was using you?”

“No, that’s not—”

“You think what happened to me made me some kind of broken girl who just clings onto whoever’s closest?”

“No—”

“You think I’m acting this way on purpose?” Her voice cracked violently, her cheeks now soaked. “That I want to be scared? That I like not being able to face my own brother and tell him I’m happy?”

I tried to speak, but no words came. I felt frozen. Like I’d just burned the only bridge I ever cared about crossing.

She turned away, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I can’t believe I let you see me.”

She headed for the door, and this time—she wasn’t walking. 

She was speeding.

“Daphne,” I said quickly, chasing after her. “Please—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear, I just—I was angry—”

She was at the door already, shoving her shoes on through shaky hands, breathing so fast it scared me.

“Daphne—”

“Don’t,” she said, voice sharp and choked. “Don’t you dare follow me.”

"I messed up. I know I did. Just let me explain—"

But she was already moving, walking away down the long hallway toward the elevator. I hesitated, afraid to reach out and touch her—afraid of making things worse.

Still, without thinking, I followed, matching her pace. She hadn’t even made it halfway from my door when I reached out and caught her arm.

This time, I grabbed her hand, pulling her gently but firmly until her back pressed against my chest.

“Let go,” she whispered, voice trembling, heartbreak still raw in her words.

But I didn’t. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into me.

She struggled, pushing against me softly, tears streaming down her face, a desperate mix of pain and confusion.

“Please,” I murmured into her hair. “I love you, I'm sorry.”

Her soft gasps trembled against my chest.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I whispered, voice thick with regret. “That came out all wrong—so, so wrong.”

She trembled in my arms as I continued, “You’re not manipulating me. I don’t know why the hell I said that.”

Her voice was barely audible as she whispered back, “But… you think it, don’t you?”

Panic surged through me. “No, no, no,” I said urgently, tightening my hold. “Please, stop crying. I love you. I love you—all of you. I don’t think that, sweetheart.” 

Her eyes searched mine, filled with tears and something I couldn’t quite reach.

 “Matt… I just need some space.”

Panic surged through me like a wave crashing hard against a fragile shore. 

“Space? why—please, I can fix this.”

She shook her head, voice trembling. “It’s not about fixing anything right now. I need to think.”

“No,” I said, voice cracking. 

“We don’t have to tell Noah.” I said, compromising. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Just don’t push me away like this.”

She flinched at my words, as if my desperation cut her deeper.

“Matt,” she whispered, “I’m not pushing you away. I’m trying to keep myself together.”

My chest tightened, breath catching in my throat.

“I love you,” I begged, voice raw. “Space is what people say when they break up.”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she turned her face away.

“I love you too,” she added softly, “I just… I have to go home right now. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

I hesitated, torn between holding her close and letting her go. Reluctantly, I nodded.

She took a small step back, wiping her tears, and without looking back, stepped into the elevator as the doors began to close. 

I stood there, heart pounding, watching the doors slide shut between us. 

I don’t know what I fear more now. 

Losing the woman I love, or telling her brother about us.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: I warned you all about the angst. womp womp. Like, comment, and reblog! i love you, mwah] –ceyana

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[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director’s Obsession - Phase 8

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Words Count: 4,771

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , -

Headcanons

A/N: Director Krennic is a sweet talker. HELP!!!

Phase 8 : Together

The soft morning light filtered lazily through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. Your body ached in the most delicious way; every muscle sore, every nerve still tingling from the night before.

And now, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm against your shoulder, one arm locked firmly around your waist, here you were again.

You tried to move carefully, hoping to slip out without waking him. But of course, that was wishful thinking. His grip tightened instantly, pulling you even closer, his lips ghosting over your shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re sneaking off to, darling?” his voice rasped, low and rough from sleep, but still laced with that ever-present edge of possession.

You swallowed, your pulse quickening. “I thought you were asleep.”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your back. “I was,” he murmured, “until you decided to stretch quite so... temptingly.” His hand slid slowly along your hip, fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin. “Not that I mind. You fit perfectly against me.”

You flushed, your cheeks burning. “Orson…”

He hummed at the sound of his name, then dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck. “There it is again,” he whispered, his voice sinful. “Say my name again.”

You clenched your jaw, fighting the liquid heat pooling low in your stomach. “You’re impossible.”

“But you like it,” he purred, his fingers now idly tracing the curve of your side. “Especially when you whisper my name, like you did last night.” His lips grazed your ear, his breath hot. “Orson… Orson…” he murmured, a deep, taunting echo. “Music to my ears.”

Your breath hitched. Damn him.

“It’s the weekend, darling," he continued, his hand now gliding over your thigh, his voice silk and smoke. "We’re not in uniform, no reports, no interruptions. And after last night,” his smirk was practically audible, “I see no reason to stop now.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hand slid higher, fingers tracing along your inner thigh, and the words evaporated from your mind. His mouth found yours, claiming it hungrily, while his body shifted over you once again.

Round three.

His movements were slower now, more deliberate, savoring every sound he pulled from you, every whisper of his name. And stars help you, you gave him exactly what he wanted.

*************

You sat at the small dining table, plates steaming with food he’d prepared. You took another bite, barely able to believe what you were tasting.

“You cooked this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

Orson leaned back slightly, his lips curling into that familiar smug grin. “I know,” he said, his voice smooth. “You look far too surprised.”

“I just didn’t picture you in an apron, flipping omelettes.”

“Well.” He shrugged with mock modesty. “Director, engineer, strategist, cook. I'm a man of many talents.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Apparently.”

He took another sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving yours. His eyes softened, and for a brief moment, all that cold Imperial pride melted into something warmer. He reached across the table, taking your hand and intertwining your fingers. “And I enjoy taking care of what’s mine.”

You tilted your head, a playful challenge in your eyes. “Who are you? Where is Director Krennic, who used to bother me relentlessly, demanding phase reports, ordering me to do this, to do that? Where is the constant barrage of questions for the next project brief?”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, a sound you were quickly learning to savor. “I’ll admit, I was a particular sort of bastard towards you, wasn’t I?” He squeezed your hand gently. “But I couldn’t help myself. I always liked to tease you. Watching your reactions was… entertaining.”

“Are you always this… attentive to your previous lovers, then?” you probed, a curious edge to your voice, surprised by your own daring.

Krennic’s eyes narrowed slightly, a momentary stillness falling over him, as if the question had struck an unexpected chord. Then, his gaze softened again, holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “No,” he said simply, his voice losing its usual layers of arrogance, becoming startlingly raw. “Just you.”

Just you. The words resonated, echoing in the quiet space. It had never occurred to you to question his past relationships, if he even had any. His life seemed so utterly consumed by ambition, by the Empire.

He leaned back slightly, pulling your hand closer, a familiar, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips, though it felt softer now, less sharp. “I’ve always slept better alone. My only race in life was to secure promotions, to complete the Death Star. But now that it’s done, or nearly so, I find I can move on to other things.” His thumb stroked the back of your hand. “And you, darling, are the lucky one.”

You rolled your eyes half-heartedly, the kind of motion that used to shield you from him. But now, now it couldn’t hide the blush rising to your cheeks.

He noticed. Of course he did.

His smirk curved knowingly. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” you lied, instantly and poorly.

He hummed, amused, and let the moment stretch.

“There was a time,” he went on, softer now, “when I watched the others—those foolish enough to settle. A spouse. A home. Children. Love.” He said the word like it still tasted strange. “I used to think it made them slow. Expendable. I pitied them.”

His voice dropped, more breath than sound. “But now... I think I’m glad I came late to the race. Because if I hadn’t, I would have missed you.”

Your breath caught, the heat in your face blooming deeper, and you tried to look away.

He wouldn’t let you. His hand came up to your chin, guiding you gently back to him.

“There,” he said, voice a little lower, a little more dangerous. “I like you like this.”

You rolled your eyes, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “After bothering my life with work for so long, tell me, do you have nightmares when you sleep beside me? Because deep down I still cursed you.”

Krennic’s laughter filled the small room then, a deep, resonant sound you rarely heard, a sound that chased away the last lingering shadows of the Imperial Chamber.

He squeezed your hand again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No, my dear,” he murmured, his voice laced with an unexpected tenderness that made your knees weak, each time he spoke like this. “I’ve had the longest, most peaceful sleep I’ve known in a very long time.”

Once again, he attacked you with his sweet words. After making you blush nonstop, the two of you spent another day enjoying the peace of this planet together.

The vibrant, crystalline waters shimmered under a gentle sun, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of Imperial starships. For Krennic, this day was an anomaly, a stolen breath in a life consumed by the hum of energy conduits and the cold perfection of design schematics. His usual tense shoulders seemed to relax, the habitual frown lines around his mouth softening as he allowed himself to exist, simply exist, beside you. 

He pointed out exotic flora with a surprising, almost childlike, curiosity, or watched the peculiar, iridescent native fauna with an intensity usually reserved for data readings. His laughter, when it came, was lighter, more genuine than the cutting chuckles you knew so well on Coruscant.

He indulged your whims, walking along the shore as long as you desired, or finding a quiet, secluded spot that felt miles away from any Imperial authority. It was a rare, precious glimpse into a man unburdened, and he absorbed every moment of it with an almost fierce contentment.

This memory would engrave itself upon his mind before they returned to Coruscant.

****

Later, as their speeder cut through the dizzying traffic lanes of Coruscant's upper levels, the city-planet a glittering tapestry of lights below, Krennic broke the comfortable silence. "I want to stop by another place first."

"Sure," you replied, leaning back against the plush seat, still carrying the lingering calm of Nobuu. 

The speeder veered off the main artery, descending through increasingly quieter, more residential sectors. The buildings here were not the towering, imposing spires of the Imperial District, but elegant, multi-tiered structures of polished duracrete and glimmering transparisteel, nestled amidst sky-gardens and private landing pads. 

It was a secluded, affluent neighborhood, utterly unfamiliar to you. The speeder settled silently onto a private pad before a particularly striking residence, its sleek, angular lines softened by lush, alien greenery climbing its walls. You wondered where you were, a faint tremor of curiosity starting in your chest.

Krennic disembarked first, his posture subtly different, less stiff. He moved to the main entrance, his hand pausing on a discreet comm panel before he opened the door. The interior was a revelation. Sunlight streamed through massive transparisteel panels, illuminating a spacious, open-plan living area furnished with understated elegance. Rich, neutral tones dominated, accented by vibrant, living plants that seemed to thrive even indoors. The air was fresh, carrying a faint, clean scent.

Before you could voice the question already forming on your lips, Krennic turned to you, a rare, almost vulnerable softness in his eyes. "Welcome home."

Your breath caught. The words hit something in your chest you hadn’t prepared for. Your heartbeat jumped, wild and uncertain, and your hand lifted instinctively to cover your mouth.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Not when he took your hand and tugged gently, his other hand brushing your lower back as he guided you deeper in.

“This way.”

The bedroom was large. Not grandiose. But designed with care. The bed had a frame made of dark wood, crisply made with white and navy sheets. The wardrobe doors slid open with a gentle whisper, and your jaw dropped.

“You gave me more space than yourself.”

He smirked. “I’m practical. You’re… complicated.”

The bathroom was sleek, marble and glass, with two sinks side by side. “So we don’t have to fight,” he said, dryly.

The office was split in two: one side with clean datapads, a modest Imperial insignia on the wall. The other already had your ISB seal projected over the desk.

“I had them build this,” he said. “For… efficiency.”

You turned to him, heart still racing. “What do you think I’ll say to all this?”

He crossed his arms, lifting his chin just slightly. “I expect a thorough debrief.”

You stared at him. “How did you come up with all of this?”

Krennic let out a soft, almost shy chuckle, a sound you were growing accustomed to. "I asked Partagaz." 

He paused, a flicker of memory in his eyes, recalling a stark conversation after he had first showcased the Death Star's progress to the Grand Moff at Scarif. 

'Do you think I could be a family man?' Krennic had asked, the words feeling alien on his tongue. 

Partagaz, ever the pragmatist, had merely raised an eyebrow. 'Do you want your family to live on this weaponized station, Director?' 

Krennic had fallen silent then, the implications stark. Partagaz had sighed, a rare display of exasperation. 'Look for a new place, Orson. A proper home. It's... pragmatic.'

You remained speechless for another moment, your hand still covering your mouth. Then, you looked at him, your eyes shining. "When... when were you going to ask me to move in with you?"

A triumphant, yet tender, smile touched Krennic's lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

You didn’t respond. You launched yourself into his arms.

He caught you, laughing — laughing, and it was genuine, unguarded. You kissed him like you were afraid the offer would disappear, like the city would vanish if you didn’t claim it fast enough.

Krennic wrapped his arms around you tightly, one hand pressing against your spine, the other curling into your hair.

“You like it, then?” he murmured, lips brushing yours.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered, breathless. “It’s you. It’s everything.”

“Then stay,” he said. “And don’t leave. Not ever again.”

He didn’t say I love you. He didn’t have to.

The house said it for him.

*********

The aroma of rich, spiced caf lingered in the air, weaving between the low hum of conversation and the hiss of steaming valves in the polished Coruscant eatery. It was busy but familiar, a cocoon of warmth against the city’s relentless pulse. You swirled the dark liquid in your mug, absently recounting a particularly difficult sector report when Mia leaned forward, both elbows on the table and that glint in her eyes — the one that meant trouble.

"So," she said, casual but far too pleased with herself, "when’s the wedding?"

You choked.

The caf caught in your throat and you coughed violently, hand flying to your mouth. Heat surged up your neck as you struggled to recover.

“Excuse me?” you managed, voice hoarse, eyes watering.

Mia rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation, utterly unbothered by your near-death experience. “Please. He whisks you away to romantic lake planets, then comes back and buys a literal estate in the sky so the two of you can cohabitate in villainous bliss. Girl, if that’s not his version of a proposal, I don’t know what is.”

You opened your mouth, trying to form a response, but Mia leaned in, lowering her voice with a mock-conspiratorial air.

“And let’s not forget,” she added, barely suppressing a grin, “he blew up a planet for you. That’s true love, babe. Explosive. Messy. Technically a war crime.”

Your ears burned. Your face burned. The caf was forgotten entirely.

Mia leaned back in her chair, sipping slowly from her cup with the patience of a woman savoring your every reaction. “So,” she said, lips twitching, “how’s domestic life with the Director Orson Krennic? Or do you just call him 'Orson' now?”

You tried to hide behind your mug, but the memory of the morning rose unbidden, warm and quiet and dangerously tender.

It had started with sunlight bleeding through the high transparisteel windows, painting the bedroom in soft greys and bruised gold. Krennic sat at the edge of the bed, already half-dressed, tunic crisp, hair damp from a fresh shower, his boots polished to a military gleam.

You had stepped behind him without thinking, fingers finding the cuffs of his uniform, fastening them with a practiced care that felt instinctive now. He didn’t speak — just watched your reflection in the mirror, expression unreadable, until you reached for the cape.

“Don’t forget your armor,” you said softly, smoothing the pristine white fabric over his shoulders.

He smirked. “As if I ever could. It’s the only thing keeping the galaxy from falling apart.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could step back, he turned to you. His hands slid down your sides, then stopped at your belt. He adjusted it with surgical precision, then tugged your tunic straight and leaned in, voice lower.

“Your collar’s a disgrace,” he murmured. “We can’t both look flawless if you keep this up.”

Your breath caught — not at the words, but the way he said them. Not teasing. Not entirely. Just... familiar. Intimate.

He stepped back, surveyed his work, then gave a nod of satisfaction. “There. Now we’re terrifying and coordinated. The dream.”

You didn’t respond. You were too busy wondering when this quiet intimacy had become second nature. Too busy trying to remember if you’d ever felt this kind of safety before — even in a city built on secrets and survival.

Now, across the table, Mia was watching you with quiet amusement. She saw the silence behind your eyes. She saw the way your lips curved without your permission.

You cleared your throat and stared down into your mug, trying to look indifferent. “It’s... nice.”

Mia sipped slowly. Her smile didn’t waver. “Good.”

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you could hear Krennic’s voice again, smooth as silk and smug as ever “If you're going to live with me, you might as well get used to blushing.”

You were in so much trouble.

And stars help you because you loved every second of it.

"So," Mia prompted, pulling you from your thoughts, her voice gentle now. "Where is he?"

"Back at Scarif," you replied, the warmth from earlier morning moments already a fading against the colder reality of Imperial duties.

*******

Scarif was humming.

The superlaser array rose like a crown above the ocean, its alignment sequence complete. Krennic stood at the observation deck, arms behind his back, watching the beam calibrations roll across the control monitors in real-time. Every number hit its mark. Every technician fell in line. The Death Star was flawless. Just as he intended.

He adjusted a cuff with idle precision. The cape hung crisp from his shoulders, untouched by sea breeze or sweat. Beneath the surface, his mind was elsewhere — hours behind him, in a quiet kitchen on Coruscant, where you’d handed him a datapad and kissed his cheek without thinking.

His comm crackled.

"Partagaz to Director Krennic."

Krennic exhaled slowly and tapped the comm. "Go ahead."

The voice came through as smooth as ever, dry and unreadable. "I assume she likes the place?"

Krennic’s mouth curved into a slow smirk. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a step back from the viewport and turned toward the nearest console, deliberately dragging out the silence.

Finally, he said, "She kissed me so hard I hit the wall. So… yes."

Partagaz made a sound — something between a chuckle and a sigh. "She's a good person, Orson."

Krennic's smile didn't falter, but it dimmed into something quieter. Something real.

"I know."

"But dangerous at the same time."

He turned, eyes scanning the rows of engineers below, the glow of their screens dancing across the polished black floor.

"Even better," Krennic said.

There was a pause. Then Partagaz's voice again, this time edged with dry amusement. "Who would’ve thought a man like you, sleeping in his station, living on cold rations, owning six identical uniforms, would go and buy a house?"

Krennic rolled his eyes. "What’s the point of working if I don’t spend any credits?"

He said it lightly, but it landed heavier than expected.

All these years. He had slept in the officer’s barracks more often than his assigned quarters. He’d eaten standing up beside holoscreens, skipped shore leave, and filed every requisition himself. Not because he didn’t have credits — but because he hadn’t cared. Not really.

He had built the Death Star. He had commanded thousands. He had demanded obedience. But he never expected to want something else. Something quiet. Permanent. Soft.

Then you came along. With your precision and your fire. Your impossible weapon using words. You held your own in war rooms and whispered him into stillness. You made him want.

Now his money wasn’t sitting in accounts collecting dust. It bought a home with windows and a second sink. It bought silk sheets and real tea. It bought mornings — the kind where he shaved while you pulled on his shirt and muttered half-asleep insults from the doorway.

It bought a future.

Krennic’s voice came softer this time, low and certain.

"I thought I’d never spend what I had. Not until her."

A beat passed. Partagaz said nothing.

Then: "Don't let it distract you."

Krennic looked back to the laser core, already glowing with power.

"It doesn't distract me," he said. "It reminds me what’s worth protecting."

The comm line clicked off with a soft pulse, leaving a faint echo in Krennic’s ear. His attention turned back to the Death Star. He sharply headed toward the control pit, voice clipped and precise.

"Status report."

An officer snapped to attention below. "Primary laser calibration complete, sir. Reactor in idle standby. We await your final authorization."

Before Krennic could answer, a second officer approached, datapad in hand, nervous energy radiating beneath her calm exterior.

A second officer approached, datapad in hand, nervous energy radiating beneath his calm exterior.

"Sir," he said carefully, "a coded message from the Imperial Court. The Emperor wishes to speak with you in person. Priority alpha."

Krennic’s brow arched. He took the datapad, scanned the seal, and gave a short, thoughtful exhale. "Arrange my shuttle. I leave within the hour."

"Yes, Director."

He handed the datapad back without another word and turned on his heel, cape swirling behind him like a trailing banner of defiance. The control pit quieted instinctively as he passed. No one dared to speak until the hiss of the turbolift swallowed him whole.

By the time his shuttle detached from Scarif’s orbital hangar, the officers left behind were already gathering around the lower catwalks in scattered clusters, their voices hushed but buzzing.

"Is it true?" one technician whispered to another, half-bent over a console. "That Director Krennic’s living on Coruscant now?"

"Looks like it," said the other. "I heard he bought a place. Real house. Windows and everything."

"Is this because of that girlfriend?"

"You mean the ISB one? The one that survived Cinderis?"

"Yeah, her."

There was a pause. Then a third officer leaned in. "Honestly? Good for him."

One of the younger cadets peered around the corner. "Wait… does that mean he’ll be here less?"

The officers stared at each other.

"Thank the stars."

They laughed, cautious and giddy, like schoolchildren catching wind that the headmaster was on vacation indefinitely. One of them, a junior officer barely past her first year, raised her caf mug solemnly.

"To Director Krennic’s mysterious girlfriend," she said. "Whoever she is… thank you for your service."

**************

In the opulent Imperial Chamber, the air crackled with a tension that rivaled the hum of the Emperor's life support. Krennic, just back from the unexpected idyll of Veridia, stood rigid, his face flushed with indignation as he glared across the polished floor at Tarkin, who regarded him with a maddeningly serene smirk.

"You stand here on the fruits of my decade of tireless achievement, Grand Moff!" Krennic seethed, his voice a low, furious growl, echoing slightly in the vast space. "My vision! My dedication! My Death Star!"

Emperor Palpatine, a shadow within his cowl, allowed the outburst, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He knew the depths of Krennic's investment. "Calm yourself, General Krennic," Palpatine's voice resonated, a deceptive balm.

Krennic's breath hitched. His fury instantly doused by the unexpected address, his gaze snapped to the Emperor, his posture stiffening. The title, spoken by Palpatine, hung in the air, foreign and unexpected. "I... I'm sorry, My Lord," he stammered, his brow furrowed in a flicker of confusion before obedience took over.

Palpatine's eyes seemed to glitter from the depths of his hood. "Your hard work has not gone unnoticed, Krennic. Your singular dedication to the Death Star project is commendable. Therefore, I have decided to promote you. You are now officially General Krennic."

Krennic's eyes widened, a momentary, almost imperceptible tremor running through him. The weight of the title settled, heavy and electrifying. A ripple of surprise went through the few attendants. Even Tarkin's composed features showed a flicker of disbelief, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

Then, a slow, triumphant smirk spread across Krennic's face as he turned his gaze back to Tarkin, a silent challenge in his eyes. "Well, Grand Moff...?"

Tarkin let out a derisive scoff, a sharp, dismissive sound that was barely audible.

Palpatine continued, his voice weaving the intricate web of his designs. "You, General Krennic, will be busy overseeing our new strategic weapon developments. Grand Moff Tarkin, on the other hand, has graciously volunteered to oversee the immediate operational command of the Death Star. It is a critical juncture, and his... unique methods are required."

Krennic’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flash of bewildered protest. "But I still—"

"I have another, grander plan for you, General Krennic," Palpatine interjected, cutting him off with an almost imperceptible wave of his hand. "Wait for the time. Your true purpose will be revealed."

Caught between pique and obedience, Krennic bowed deeply. "Certainly, my Lord."

He should have known.

The Emperor had always shown a subtle bias toward Tarkin — a quiet, persistent preference that revealed itself in moments like these. Tarkin knew it, too. And he used it like a weapon.

As the Emperor's left, sealing Krennic and Tarkin alone in the vast chamber.

Tarkin's scoff turned into a low, mocking laugh. "So, 'General' Krennic. Congratulations on your... lateral promotion. Now you'll have more time to spend with your—"

Before Tarkin could finish, Krennic was across the space between them in three furious strides, his face inches from Tarkin's, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire. "Keep her name out of your vicious mouth, Tarkin," he snarled, his voice barely above a whisper, yet vibrating with raw menace. "You will not soil her name with your contemptible insinuations."

Tarkin's smirk returned, harder now, a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes. "Oh, struck a nerve, did I? My mistake. I merely thought that with your newfound freedom from my battle station, you might dedicate more time to your domestic distractions. A shame your 'life's work' is now mine to perfect, isn't it? Perhaps you would thank me, because I've granted you more time to spend with her."

"You wouldn't know a 'life's work' if it detonated in your private chambers, you puffed-up administrator!" Krennic retorted, his fists clenching at his sides. "You understand control, not creation. You're merely a brute with a bigger stick. You inherited my genius, and you'll run it into the ground!"

A dark glint entered Krennic's eyes, his voice dropping to a dangerous, knowing whisper. "And don't ever think I didn't know you sabotaged my plan."

Tarkin's eyebrows raised, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his normally impassive face, but he quickly masked it.

"Oh, I know," Krennic continued, pressing his advantage, a triumphant sneer forming on his lips. "You put the seeds of doubt to Erso decades ago, didn't you? That's what made him run. That's what created this whole mess with the Rebels and the plans."

Tarkin remained silent, his expression unreadable, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Now you steal the weapon that you almost sabotaged and put the blame on me. Isn't it ironic, Grand Moff?" Krennic concluded, his voice dripping with venom.

Tarkin's jaw tightened. He held Krennic's gaze for a long, seething moment, his eyes blazing with fury. Then, with a sudden, sharp turn, Krennic pivoted on his heel, his immaculate white cape flaring out behind him like an angry wing, a violent testament to the tempest raging within. He marched towards the great durasteel doors, his boots echoing with a fierce finality that left Tarkin alone in the vast, silent chamber, the ghost of Krennic's rage hanging heavy in the air.

*********

The speeder descended into the private platform just outside the Coruscant residence, the hum of its engines winding down into silence.

Inside, Krennic sat motionless for a moment longer than necessary. The fury still burned low in his chest, hot and steady, but underneath it now—beneath the betrayal, the Emperor’s maneuvering, and Tarkin’s smirk—there was something else.

Home.

You were there.

He exhaled slowly and stepped out.

The door slid open, and the scent of something warm drifted into the cool night air. Not a battlefield. Not metal and blood and scorched breath. But a soft place. Lived-in. Human.

You were there in the doorway, already changed into something simple—loose sleeves, bare feet, a hint of skin at your collarbone. Your hair was pulled back, damp. Fresh from a shower. The faint scent of your shampoo and soap—subtle, familiar, something floral—reached him before you did.

He paused at the entrance. Just stood there.

You tilted your head, concern knitting gently between your brows. “Orson?”

The sound of his name in your voice—it struck him low. Like gravity. Like magnetism. Everything in him pulled forward. He stepped inside wordlessly and reached for you.

You didn’t hesitate. You opened your arms, and he wrapped himself around you with a kind of hunger that had nothing to do with possession. His face pressed into your neck, breathing you in. He could smell you—clean, soft, yours. And somehow, that eased the war in his chest just enough to let him speak.

You held him a beat longer before murmuring against his shoulder, “Something happened. Didn’t it?”

Krennic’s voice was quieter than usual, clipped but not cold. “I got promoted.”

You leaned back slightly, smiling. “That’s good.”

“But Tarkin,” he said, mouth curling bitterly, “got the Death Star.”

Your smile vanished. “Bastard.”

He huffed out a humorless breath, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly.

You reached up, brushing your fingers through his hair, gently undoing the tension coiled in his posture. “Are you alright?”

Krennic didn’t answer right away. He looked at you, eyes sharp and tired all at once.

“Not going to lie,” he said, “it hurts. That station was mine. My vision. My work. He’ll strip it bare and call it his.”

You exhaled through your nose, jaw setting. “Do you want me to ruin his name?” It wasn’t a joke. Not really. You had influence now. Power. The kind that could bend entire narratives.

His lips twitched.

“No need, darling,” he said, voice dipping low as he leaned in and kissed you—soft, firm, with the weight of unspoken things. “It was the Emperor’s order.”

You kissed him back, fingers still in his hair, and whispered into his skin, “That doesn’t mean it was right.”

Krennic exhaled slowly, grounding himself in your touch.

“No,” he agreed, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “But I have other things to build now.”

And in that moment, the Death Star wasn’t his center anymore.

You were.

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@sparklebunny57

@marsaligned

@gelatoi02

@arthurconan-doyle

@moonyslonelyheart

@doc-blu

@skullfacedlady

Please feel free to leave your comments. I'd love to know what you think. What do you want too see in the next chapter?

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle.

Check it out!Link for Arrogant Ex-Husband

Amazon.com

Link for Dad I Can't Let You Go

Amazon.com: Dad, I Can't Let You Go eBook : Bing, Alina C.: Kindle Store

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎ ⠀‌02 ⸻ dark is the night / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: mentions of starvation, weakness, possible past traumas.

Days had slipped by since that strange night when Rafe carried the girl into his house. Three days, to be exact, though it felt longer. Y/N had stayed on his bed, too weak to do much more than sleep and sip the makeshift milk concoctions he’d cobbled together. Each morning, Rafe left before dawn for the trawler, his body aching from the lumpy couch, and returned to find her trying to move. Twice he’d caught her stumbling, her legs buckling after a few steps, her eyes hazy with exhaustion. He’d guided her back to the bed, muttering about rest, his gruff tone masking a growing worry he didn’t want to name.

But on the third day, something was different.

Rafe trudged home late. After extra hours at the port.

He couldn’t stop, the extra gigs were adding up.

His tin box of savings was close to 30,000 rubles now, tantalizingly near what he needed to keep the creditors at bay. One more week, maybe two, and he’d be safe. For a while.

He pushed open the door, expecting the usual chill and silence of his house.

Instead, warmth hit him—a soft, enveloping heat that carried the rich, earthy scent of beets and cabbage.

His stomach growled, loud enough to embarrass him if anyone had been there to hear. The kitchen light glowed, and as he stepped inside, he froze.

Y/N stood at the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon, her braid swaying slightly. She wore one of his old flannel shirts, too big for her slight frame, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The sight was so jarring; his barren kitchen alive, her pale face flushed from the steam, that he stood dumbstruck.

“What the hell are you doing up?” he asked, his voice rougher than he meant.

She jumped, the spoon clattering against the pot. She turned, a shy smile breaking across her face, though her eyes flicked nervously to his.

“You scared me,” she said, her accent softening the words. “I’m feeling better, see? I went to the market today, bought some things. Made borscht.”

She gestured at the pot, the deep red broth simmering, its aroma curling through the room, making his stomach hurt from the hunger, the promise.

Rafe’s brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and something warmer he couldn’t place.

She looked alive, not like the ghost who’d fainted in his arms.

But then her words sank in.

“Buy?” he repeated, stepping closer. “You bought stuff?”

She nodded, oblivious to the shift in his tone, and pointed to the table. A small pile of groceries sat there—a few potatoes, a cabbage, a loaf of rye bread, a tiny sack of flour.

Bare necessities, nothing extravagant.

“Your fridge was empty,” she said, her voice light but cautious. “I found some money in that tin box under the table. Took enough for this.”

Rafe’s eyes widened, his blood running cold.

His savings.

That tin box—his lifeline, the only thing keeping his grandfather’s house from the bank’s claws. He crossed the room in two strides, yanking the tin from its hiding spot. He popped it open, heart pounding, and counted the rubles.

Twenty-eight thousand.

Two thousand less than yesterday.

His breath hitched, a curse slipping out before he could stop it.

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming the tin down harder than he meant.

She flinched, her smile vanishing.

The air shifted, heavy with tension.

She stepped back, her hands twisting the hem of the borrowed shirt.

Rafe saw the change in her, shoulders hunching, eyes darting like a cornered animal. She moved quickly, serving a bowl of borscht with shaky hands and setting it in front of him, her movements mechanical.

Then she sat across from him, her own bowl untouched, her gaze fixed on the table.

“I should go,” she said quietly, her voice barely steady. “I don’t want to keep bothering you.”

Rafe’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth, the borscht’s warmth mocking the chill in his chest. She looked scared, not just nervous, but scared, like she expected him to lash out. He’d seen that look before, on dockworkers who’d crossed the wrong foreman, or stray dogs bracing for a kick.

His anger fizzled, replaced by something heavier.

Guilt, maybe.

He set the spoon down, noticing her untouched food, the way her hands trembled.

“It’s late,” he said, softer now, reaching out to touch her arm.

She tensed under his grip, and he let go quickly, cursing himself for startling her.

“It’s not safe out there. Not this late.”

She looked up, her eyes searching his face.

“And it’s safe for me here?” she asked.

There was a challenge in it, but also fear, like she was waiting for him to prove her right.

Rafe leaned back, running a hand through his hair.

The borscht sat between them, steam rising, a small peace offering in a house that hadn’t known warmth in years. He didn’t know her story, not really, just the hunger that drove her to his garden.

But he knew that look, the one that said she’d been hurt before. And he knew, despite the sting of those missing rubles, that he didn’t want to be the reason it deepened.

“Eat,” he said, nodding at her bowl. “Then sleep. Bed is yours tonight. We’ll… figure this out tomorrow.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the spoon, then nodded.

The silence settled, broken only by the soft clink of their spoons. Rafe ate slowly, the borscht rich and grounding, but his mind churned. Two thousand rubles gone, and a girl who scared too easily sitting across from him... and a new feeling he tried to swallow.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Me: Don't take this creepily, but I want to be inside your skin

My wonderful patient girlfriend: How am I supposed to take that??

Me: Lovingly??!?

My wonderful patient girlfriend: *starts to hum Psycho Killer by Talking Heads*

[forgetfulmachineart]

I was born to be an emo scene girl but instead im trying to be Some Guy engineer

[joeyfromthetrack]

Interviews and Secrets - MV³³

Max Verstappen x Russell!Reader

Summary: Max Verstappen and George Russell have been fighting publicly, little does George know, Max is secretly dating George's little sister.

Contains: sibling arguments, rivalry, fluffy ending, Qatar 2024

The feud everyone talked about had started not on track but on live television.

Three months earlier, George Russell had stood with Sky Sports following the Qatar GP. George had gone from qualifying second to placing fourth and was furious, not only with him self but with Max Verstappen.

George didn’t hesitate. “Whenever anything doesn't go his way, he lashes with unnecessary anger and borderline violence.”

The clip went viral before they’d cut to the commercial break. Headlines screamed RUSSELL CALLS VERSTAPPEN VIOLENT. Sponsors issued nervous statements about “sportsmanship.” Schools of amateur analysts slowed down every corner‑to‑corner replay to hunt for proof of Max’s alleged aggression. A rivalry that had always simmered suddenly boiled over, and the media spooned up every angry bubble.

What no one knew was that Max and George's younger sister had been secretly dating for months.

The first time had been accidental—almost, come to think of it, not really. George joined the grid in 2019 and with him came his precious little sister who was the literal definition of sunshine. Her and Max would be considered to be complete opposites, but opposites attract.

She intrigued Max in the best way, from the way her hair shone in the sun to how her eyes creased when she smiled.

Whilst on a solo getaway from university, she ended up at Jimmy'z during a break in the season. Their schedules aligned perfectly and the two found themselves in the same room outside of the racing world.

Jimmy’z was buzzing, loud with bass and thick with cigarette smoke, the air perfumed by money. The lights pulsed off the crystal-strewn ceiling, reflecting in a thousand fractured shards across the dark, glamorous crowd.

He wasn’t planning to stay long. He hadn’t even told anyone he was going out. But when he spotted her from across the room, all plans vanished.

She looked different tonight. Looser. Unbothered. And he was tired of pretending he didn’t want to know her.

Max drained the last of his drink and headed her way. As he approached, she glanced up—not startled, not flustered—just quietly assessing.

“You’re a long way from the grid,” she said before he could speak.

He smirked. “You recognize me?”

“You’re kind of hard to miss Mr three time world champion."

He gave a short laugh. "So what brings you to Monaco?"

“Solo getaway,” she said. “Needed to get out of Cambridge before I lost my mind.”

“Didn’t peg you for the clubbing type.”

“I’m not.” She sipped her drink. “But tonight felt like the right kind of wrong.”

He liked that. Liked the way her eyes held his, unafraid. There was no flirtation in her voice; at least not the kind he was used to.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

She tilted her head toward the empty stool. “Be my guest.”

He ordered them another round and tried not to look too eager. She didn’t make it easy. Everything about her was magnetic in a quiet way; like gravity that snuck up on you. She talked about school, about trying to survive term papers and roommates. He told her a story about nearly getting stuck in Tokyo during a typhoon. They both mocked the overpriced cocktails.

At one point, she leaned in just a little, and Max caught the subtle scent of vanilla and something warmer, like amber. Not expensive. Just… her. He’d spent nights with women who wore perfume that screamed for attention. She didn’t have to.

As they drank and laughed, they inched closer to each others, unintentionally and subconsciously. They realised there close proximity at the same time, it wasn't awkward, she laughed warmly and he leant in, she accepted his movement and their lips locked into a kiss.

Her hand went up to his neck and his to her waist, it wasn't rough or urgent, it was full of passion and want.

When the kiss broke, she looked at him like something had shifted.

“That was… bold,” she said.

“I’ve always been better at driving than waiting; and I waited a long time for that.”

She laughed, low and warm.

He stepped back, giving her the space to make the next move. “This doesn’t have to be anything,” he said. “But it could be. If you want.”

She studied him again with those calculating, deliberate eyes.

And then she smiled.

“I’m on a solo trip,” she said. “But I didn’t say I had to stay solo the whole time.”

Two days later, she flew back to school. They didn’t promise anything, but neither stopped calling.

By the time the season opened in Bahrain, they were deep into something they refused to name.

They were good at hiding it—at first.

She’d visit during breaks in her semester, ducking into team garages under excuses. Max would meet her in tucked-away corners behind grandstands or inside the hushed corridors of VIP suites. It was adrenaline and privacy, stolen hours in cities across the globe.

Only a few close calls.

In Melbourne, they slipped out of a hotel bar just before George arrived. In Jeddah, they were nearly caught leaving the same suite—Max five minutes behind her. The staff raised eyebrows. But nobody said anything.

Yet.

Then following the second to last race of the season came The Interview.

She called ten minutes later.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for him,” Max said tightly.

She hesitated. “He doesn’t know who you’ve become.”

“He doesn’t know us.”

She spoke again. "Does this affect us Max?"

“Absolutely not.”

They finished out the season in Abu Dhabi with high tensions between George and Max, Max was now a four time world champion.

Off the grid, She and Max stayed careful. Private entrances. Secret trips to see each other in both Cambridge and Monaco.

But in Monaco, they slipped.

After a late-night tdinner, they ducked through the old stone alleys, her heels clicking on cobblestone. They found a quiet garden terrace, kissed in the glow of string lights, just for a second.

The two shared yet another night together, unaware of what was happening in the hell that is social media.

The photo hit social media. By sunrise, it was front-page news.

MAX VERSTAPPEN & GEORGE RUSSELL’S SISTER'S SECRET ROMANCE EXPOSED!

Paddock chaos erupted. Max’s PR team panicked. Her phone buzzed with a dozen missed calls from George. Fans took sides. That was what they woke up to instead of the Monaco sun hitting the window just right.

“He knows,” she said.

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

George didn’t text. He came in person.

He shoved the door open, face flushed red. “You’ve been lying to me.”

She stood in front of Max, arms folded.

“Let me explain,” she said.

George’s eyes burned. “You’ve been sneaking around with him? While he’s been treating me like a punching bag on track?”

“He’s not trying to hurt you!” she shouted.

Max stepped forward. “We didn’t lie to you. We just didn’t think you’d ever—”

“Approve?” George’s voice cracked. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Because it’s Max or because you hate the idea I made a choice without your permission?”

George turned his fury on her. “He’s volatile. He’s dangerous. He only thinks about himself.”

“No,” she said, quietly. “You just don’t know the side of him that I do.”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he spat.

“I didn’t come to fight,” Max said.

“No? You’re good at that. On track. Off track. You don’t know how to back down.”

Max’s jaw flexed. “I know how to back off when it’s about someone I care about.”

“Oh, spare me. This isn’t about her. This is about winning. About getting under my skin—”

“It’s not,” Max cut in. “Not everything is about you, George.”

“She’s my sister.”

“She’s not a trophy,” Max snapped. “She’s not part of the rivalry. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I tried—we tried—not to ruin that.”

“I don’t trust you,” George said.

“You don’t have to,” She said. “I do.”

The silence that followed was painful.

Max stepped forward. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t go looking for her because of you. I stayed away for as long as I could because of you. But I love her.”

She blinked. George didn’t.

Max turned to her. “I do.”

That finally broke through the storm.

George didn’t say anything for a long moment. He looked at her, then at Max, then back again. And when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its heat.

“If you hurt her…”

“I won’t,” Max said.

“I’ll break your goddamn legs.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

George exhaled, rubbed a hand over his face, and left without another word.

They didn’t plan it. Which, in hindsight, felt fitting.

It wasn’t a high-profile red carpet or a flashy paddock walk. There were no paparazzi waiting at the door. Just a Sunday afternoon, a sleepy little café in Notting Hill, and the kind of chill that hinted summer was packing its bags.

Max had been in London for a few days, staying low-key. She’d just submitted a major paper and wanted to celebrate. Nothing big. Just pastries, hot coffee, and his hoodie wrapped around her like a security blanket.

The café had outdoor seating, string lights still flickering from the night before. They sat at a table on the far end of the terrace. She had her legs folded beneath her in the chair. Max had his cap pulled low, sunglasses on the table beside his croissant.

And they weren’t thinking about who might be watching. For once, they didn’t care.

He reached across the table to wipe a smudge of powdered sugar from the corner of her mouth. She smiled, leaned into his touch. He didn’t pull back. He let his hand linger.

It wasn’t until the couple sitting near the café window did a double take—phones discreetly angled toward them—that Max noticed.

He looked at her. She looked back.

“I don’t want to duck behind corners anymore,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “Me neither.”

She reached out and laced their fingers together on the table, where everyone could see.

Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for months.

Later, they lay together in her flat, legs tangled, the windows open to let the late afternoon light pour in.

“I still can’t believe it’s real,” she murmured, her head tucked beneath his chin.

He ran his fingers along her spine, slow and steady. “You, me, or the fact your brother didn’t punch me again?”

She laughed. “All of the above.”

He tilted her chin up with his knuckles, kissed her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips—soft, unhurried.

“I want this,” he said. “All of it. The real thing. Not just stolen moments in hotel rooms and five-minute calls between races.”

Her smile bloomed slowly, beautifully. “You already have it.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, like gratitude.

She buried her face in his chest. “So what now?”

Max stared at the ceiling, holding her close. “Now... we do boring things. Walks in daylight. Grocery shopping without hats and sunglasses. I get to hold your hand when we cross the street.”

“That sounds perfect,” she said, lips curving against his shirt.

He pulled the blanket tighter around them. “You’re perfect.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m moody. I overthink everything. And you chew your gum like an actual menace.”

He laughed into her hair. “Okay, we’re both disasters. But I still think you’re perfect.”

They didn’t say I love you again. They didn’t need to. It hung between them in the silence, in the golden light on the walls, in the easy way they held each other like they’d done it a thousand times already.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Word count: 2k

[mannien]

I Don't See Your Mistakes, I See You | Bucky x f!reader

Pairing: Thunderbolts*Bucky Barnes x enhanced female character

Summary: A peaceful evening in Brooklyn turns into emotional chaos when Bucky comes home and brings unexpected guests.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: Thunderbolts* spoilers!, established relationship, enhanced female character with magical powers, third person narration but no name is called, swear words, angst, soft comfort, slow burn, sexual tension, heavy petting, dry humping, (not porn but +18 minors pls stay away!), teasing, flirting, protective and tired Bucky, mild wound description, talk of magical powers, depression, references to past trauma, English is not my first language

Note: Watching Thunderbolts* got me heavily daydreaming about Bucky and his new friends! It's also been a very therapeutic experience to write this for the past 2 weeks (yes, that long). I hope at least someone will enjoy it!

(Edited)Tagging @loving-barnes @kinanabinks @real-jane @cheekybarnes @marvelstoriesepic @aquaticmercy @witchywithwhiskey @sergeantbarnessdoll @mercurial-chuckles @navybrat817 and @captainsimagines because when I think of writing, I immediately think of you! I won’t tag you again if you don’t want it, just wanted to share my inspo with you

            The late afternoon carried an ambiance of comfort. The smell of cooling air after a slightly warmer day; the soft hum of the city somewhere in the distance, broken by a clutter of local shops closing down nearby. The sun already hid behind the tall horizon of Manhattan, but the city was still very much alive. 

            The apartment in Carroll Gardens was like a safe haven. Nested in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, close to the park and surrounded by families or people who crave a respite in the middle of a crowded city. A quiet street of brownstones and aged trees led to a renovated block, slightly modernized to facilitate to the everchanging world, yet still full of soul, of Brooklyn heart, of the things that brought Bucky the most peace.

            The long-stretching Thursday was coming to an end, but her night was only beginning. A quick and effective plane trip from D.C., an overly expensive taxi drive from the airport, and you made it to your second home. 

Or first, depending on the day of the week, time of the year, time of their lives.

            The home in Washington was where legislations, reports, and analyses were read. Where congressman and strategic liaison ate quick breakfast and indulged in a late-night dinner on a commitment-free evening. Walls were bland, countertops marble, and kitchen big enough to fit a multigenerational family. Something that felt closer to a temporary solution rather than a home for years. Only a couple of personal touches here and there – misplaced accessories, loose change, a piece of jewelry she took off once and forgot to put back on. A pair of colorful mugs, because she refused to drink from plain whites that came with the interior. Bucky’s suits and tuxedos were there, fitted to perfection, dry-cleaned and delivered straight to the door, only a couple blocks away from the center of the country’s government life. A place where she managed not to kill only one succulent, because the time spent inside these walls was not dedicated to hobbies. This is where they worked, where they came back after their long days – Bucky from the Capitol Hill, and her from the Agency. 

            But the home in Brooklyn? 

            Not ideal or picture-perfect. With mismatched furniture in their bedroom, because they couldn’t agree on one style, yet somehow creating their own world. A soft, off-color sofa, deep and slouchy, remembering many movie nights and hushed conversations. Soft lighting, making the bookshelves glow with colors of many loved and exchanged titles. Spare blankets thrown over bedding and chairs. A place where they laughed, cried and loved. A safe haven for the time they need to breathe, be in peace, be themselves. With a kitchen that hosted a few too-many gatherings for Bucky’s liking, but that proved to them that they can live a normal life. 

            Entering the building of their Brooklyn home felt like a ray of sunshine after months of gloomy winter. Unlocking the door was a warm hug. 

            The apartment was empty, but the familiar walls spoke to her in their own way. When she breathed deep enough, she could sense the good, soft comfort of a judgement-free space. The empath in her recharged in a place full of hers and Bucky’s things and memories. She quickly fell into a routine that brought her so much ease. She took a shower, to take off the smell of office buildings and public transport, put on a quick laundry load, and slowed down. 

            Slowing down was as close as she could get to relaxing, when she hadn’t heard from Bucky in two days. Three, if we count the whole day he was held up in meetings, before he shared with her a change of heart, a new plan, and promised to be back soon. She knew he had reasons, had a hint of what this might entail, and just waited, trying to carry on. 

             The soft glow of the semi-open plan kitchen welcomed her. The floors were soothingly cool against her bare feet, grounding in the moment. With hair still wet from the shower and seeping through the shoulders of Bucky’s old t-shirt, she fixed the waistband of her leggings and exhaled some of the tension that was still left and strong in her body. 

            The quiet whirring noise of the washing machine died down in the background when garlic and shallots started sizzling on the pan. When she occupied her hands, her mind could focus more and wander less. She tried really hard not to look at her phone, and really poured her heart into making a hearty meal. A therapeutic resolve, some might say, but it really was one of the healthy outlets she could use so that her magic doesn’t go on an uncontrollable rollercoaster of anxiety. She stirred in two cans of the good tomatoes from the Italian shop two streets away and let the sauce simmer. With the dinner slowly cooking away, she leaned on the kitchen island over a notepad and a bright screen of her laptop, reviewing some of the files from the last intel she requested, before the CIA went through a major lockdown due to events that Bucky was supposedly notinvolved in. She knew better than to read too much into it, so she focused on the facts – the data logs, mission reports, and a side of agency’s new recruits’ evaluation, that she was actually being paid for. 

            Long minutes passed, the sauce sizzling away and pasta water ready in the pot. She was rinsing her hands when she felt it – an emotional tug at her heart. A sprinkle of tension pulling her magic through the veins, making her aware of her heartbeat and suddenly perked up attention. She stopped the music playing from her laptop and turned off the stove, listening in. She was hyper sensitive, but lacked the enhanced hearing of a super soldier, so the silence that followed only frustrated her. She closed her eyes and tried to listen to her senses, but a heavy bang at the door startled her instead. She visibly flinched, loose sparks flying around her fingertips at the intrusion. 

            Another harsh movement against the door and before she could even react, it burst open, the handle hitting the wall in the hall. She spun around and felt the heat trickling down her fingertips, right when a familiar voice rung out through the apartment.

            “Hey, it’s me. Not alone. Don’t hex anyone.”

            Right when she exhaled, she felt how tight her chest had been a second earlier. The sparks swirling around her hands died down with the flow of his voice, and she briefly touched her chest, taking one more grounding breath. 

            “I swear, if you scare me like that one more time…” She walked out to the hall and saw him. A bloody bruise on his cheek, dusty forehead and a trickle of either dirt or dried blood down the side of his neck. His tactical shirt cut in a few places, definitely by something sharp and she hoped not by a knife. Left shoulder lifted in slight discomfort and right palm of his hand flexing uncomfortably. But he was standing, breathing, and looking at her with a tinge of relief. 

            He was most definitely not alone – the crowd behind him was bigger than she could have expected:

            John Walker, scrunching his forehead so hard that at least one of these wrinkles could become permanent. 

            Yelena, assessing her surroundings with caution and desperately needing a band aid to her temple. She let go of the forearm of a guy whose picture covered half-a-page in the files that she briefed through mere minutes earlier. 

            Red Guardian, blocking off almost the entire entryway, smiling in awe and in a suspiciously cheerful nature.

            Ava, leaning her side on the door, limping and tugging at the neckline of her suit with desperation. 

            When her eyes were quickly assessing the situation, Bucky stepped closer to her and exhaled with visible remorse.

“I should’ve given you a heads up,” he said, voice low, eyes scanning her face. “I know we planned a quiet weekend. Things just went sideways fast.”

She lifted her hand to his chin, angling it gently to examine the gash above his stubble. The blood had dried in a jagged trail down his neck. “You need patching up.”

“We need to lay low and figure out our next step,” he said, though his eyes stayed on her more than the group behind him. His tone held that familiar thread of guilt — like he’d brought more than dirt into their home.

            She did pay attention to what he was saying, but not more than to the exhaustion visible around his eyes, the tension that he carried in his muscles and nerves that trickled from behind him, from the group of guests he brought. 

            “When you said you know someplace safe, I thought you meant like a safe house,” John pitched in, taking measured steps forward, still cautiously watching his surroundings as if it was a trap. 

            “It is a safe place, and it is a home. Anything else you need to fit the description?” Bucky turned back and gestured them to move forward. He made sure to close the door with the secure lock and offered Ava his arm to offload her weak side. 

            Some of them knew who she was, but she offered her name anyway, just to stick to the friendly pleasantries. They needed security, she could feel it. She invited them in and made a beeline for the heavily equipped first aid kit hid in the bathroom. 

            She carried the large box and a few towels in to the table, laying the kit out. Bucky gestured for Ava to sit down and helped her find the antiseptic and sterile bandages. 

Yelena leaned over the table with a surprised look on her face.

            “That’s not an ordinary first-aid kit.”

            “You’re in a house of people who refuse to go to urgent care,” she piped in with a lightness to her voice. She took a look at Yelena’s gash on the temple and sprayed an antiseptic over a gauze. “and in case you didn’t notice, he is the type to attract knives and bullets.”

            “Yeah, I know the type.” Yelena replied, nodding in thanks for the help. 

            “If you want to clean up, bathroom is down the hall,” she pointed to the corridor and already started walking that way. “I’ll get more towels.”

            She got accustomed to tuning out people’s feelings. It took years of practice as an empath. But the moment a group of troubled, battered and bruised fallen heroes entered their home, her mind was struggling. So, she switched into action mode, preferring to be of service and of help, rather than linger around and fight the feelings that creep in. She piled the spare cloths on the dresser in the corridor and made sure Yelena got the right door – which she did, because she immediately let out an impressed whistle. 

            Taking a moment to breathe in the empty hall was a mistake – she started spiraling. She didn’t understand why. Bucky is home. He is safe. He trusts these guys, because he brought them in. Why is my mind screaming?

            The apartment became too loud. Not in volume, but in energy. Something was stretching her mind to stay open, and she couldn’t contain the input of feelings. She didn’t dare pull on the threads – they weren’t hers to play, not tonight. But something definitely triggered her soul – something powerful and unknown. A new source of energy that she hadn’t felt before. 

            She moved. Mechanics and focus were a taming tactic, so she settled on a kind attitude and acts of service. A large pitcher filled with water, ice packs that were always on the top shelf in the freezer, and almost all of the glasses they owned. She set them all on the table. The heat on the stove put back on, water slowly coming to boil under the pan. 

            When she carried a bunch of napkins to the table, Bucky was closing the first aid box. She looked up to his face and still saw the bright red scratch atop of his cheekbone. That woke her up from the haze.

            “No, no. You’re getting cleaned up.” She tried taking the box from him, but he pulled it behind him too quickly. 

            “I’m fine.” He said it too calmly and too confidently, so it riled her up. Steered her hears away from whatever ate at her, and made her narrow her eyes at him. 

            “Fuck fine, you’re bleeding.” She tried reaching out for the box again, but took a hold of her hand instead. He shook his head lightly and let their gazes meet for a silent conversation. 

            “I am fine. Later, I promise.” He softens his voice, squeezing her palm briefly in reassurance. It makes her release a heavy breath and finally nod in acceptance, understanding that she won’t be able to push him now. 

            “We’re waiting for pasta to boil. Dinner should be ready soon.” 

            That sparked interest. While she was still looking up his gorgeous eyes, trying to find comfort in his presence, the word dinner seemed to have perked up almost everyone in the room. 

             A packet and a half of spaghetti was carefully thrown into the boiling water, barely fitting and almost overflowing the pot. People started moving, matching the rhythm of the bubbling heat on the stove. Someone dragged a chai and moved the table to fit more people; the clinking noise of jackets taken off and weapons meeting the floor echoed through the walls almost naturally. A few relieved exhales followed, mimicking a moment of peace for the loud minds. 

            “Can I help you with anything?”

            The question startled her, pulling at the invisible trigger of her anxiety even harder, making her drop the spoon. The quietest guy, Bob, shyly lurked into the kitchen. His eyes were kind, soft, almost scared, but something dangerous and dark tingled her fingertips when she paid too much attention. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

            The harsh noise of the metal spoon against the tiles kept on ringing in her head, but she tried to shake away the feeling. The unnerving moment stretched until Bob took a cautious step forward, probably in worry, and Bucky walked into the room, intentionally. 

            “Yeah, um…” She started to break off the static that clouded her brain in weird, dark clouds. “The plates are just above you,” she pointed to the cupboard and started moving towards him to help.

            “I got it,” Bucky stopped her, and pulled the door open instead. He looked to her with quiet concern painted on his face, lips pursed. The unusually tall stack of plates was laid on the counter near the stove. She focused on trying if the pasta is soft already, adding spices to the sauce and stirring more than necessary.

            In the fleeting moment of quiet cooking, Bucky stayed with her. Eyed her for a moment, resting his hip against the counter and switching his attention between her determined movements, aggressively boiling pasta and focused eyes that watched the steam blow away from above the pot. He moved closer, his side meeting hers, and rested his hand gently on her waist, enveloping her in a cautious embrace. The heat that travelled from his body made her eyes flutter and upper back lean into his side, resting some of her weight on him. The thread of anxiety loosened where he held her. He was leaning in, the way he always was when he wanted to kiss her head, but his breath only escaped near her forehead, interrupted. 

            “It smells like you’re actually gonna feed us,” Yelena appeared, hair slightly wet and skin visibly cleaner, even the gash on her temple was smaller once the dust was not sticking to it. Bucky moved away towards the fridge, and her fingers subconsciously wandered over the countertop to find the oven mitt and safely drain the pasta. 

            “Well, it looks like it,” she gently poured the pasta into the pan with bubbling sauce and blew air over her hands, feeling the heat from the steam prickle at her skin. “I don’t expect you all had a shawarma on your way here,” she glanced at Bucky, who has already taken out cheese and still fresh enough salad mix from the fridge, but was still fidgeting to find a quick snack. “I’m not going to eat by myself and have you watch me. That’s creepy.”

            “Ah! That’s a good home with a good hostess. Whatever else would you need from a safe house?” Alexei’s loud voice shook the walls and made Bucky sigh with exasperation. 

            “Your hands to set the table,” she smiled, holding out a handful of forks and knives. He took them with a small bow and a hand salute, and it weirdly fit to his huge posture, bright red costume and a crooked smile. 

             With focused precision, she laid out hearty, more or less even portions of pasta for their guests. 

            “You are so calm for a person whose night just got ruined by a bunch of strangers with guns and knives,” Ava wondered in curiosity from her spot at the table and showed a shadow of an honest smile when a steaming bowl was set in front of her.

            Others were already coming in to the table and grabbing a bowl, only John was still standing off to the side, his eyes cautiously eyeing the corridor to the bedrooms, lurking in to get a peek of what is on the pictures hung on the wall. 

            “Walker,” Bucky’s warning made everyone look up at him in curiosity, “if you’re so desperate to snoop around, there are spare chairs in the entryway closet.” It made the others snicker or hide a chuckle. 

            “I’m not snooping around,” he mumbled like a stubborn child. Before she carried in the last two portions – a bigger one for Bucky, smaller and just enough for her - John was already carrying in four folding chairs, a confused grimace still glued to his face. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything,” he turned to her briefly with a somewhat apologetic tone. She only raised a brow and took a seat at the last free corner of the table, next to Bucky.

            “Usually when you say you don’t want to be disrespectful, you already are.” Yelena chipped in, blowing on the pasta wrapped neatly around her fork. 

            “No, listen –“he hesitates, rubbing his eyes in frustration. She could feel the bubbling confusion threatening to slip out from his aura, and it made her hide her smile. She should not laugh at their guests, even if it was John Walker. “it just doesn’t make sense. Why would Barnes bring us to a place like this?”

            “Like what?” Bucky raised his eyebrow, which could pass as a warning, but she could see a tint of amusement in the way his lip twitched.

            “I don’t know, this feels too… cozy,” He gestured vaguely around the living room. “I didn’t expect you to hide away at a place that has colorful pillows and scented candles.”

            Ava snorted, “You thought he sleeps in a cell?” 

            “No,” he replied almost too quickly, defensive mode kicking in. “It just doesn’t fit the general description, I guess.” He shrugged, then looked from the flickering candle on the countertop, to the soft lights that shined near the corner of the living room. “I thought you would crash somewhere between government reports and military bases.” He said the last sentence directly to Bucky across the table. She could feel his chest rising heavier than before, so she laid her hand on his thigh, massaging in calming rhythm. 

            “That’s not really a nice thing to say to someone who trusted you and invited you to their home.” She said calmly, with a tint of a kind smile on her face, looking carefully to Bucky. Her sentence made him loosen up, exhale a breath and almost chuckle. Almost, because it died down in the awkward series of coughs from the team, and earned a wide-eyed stare-down from John. 

            “Wait, hold on—” 

            “You really didn’t see that coming, Walker, did you?” Ava cut him off between bites.

            “You’re a clueless boy, John Walker,” Yelena mused, and then turned to her. “This is really good, by the way. Do you have any hot sauce?”

            “Yeah,” she nodded and almost got up, but Bucky beat her to it, putting away his napkin and steadying her on her chair with a warm hand on her shoulder.

            “I’ll get it.” 

            John watched Bucky retreat back to the kitchen like a hawk, the gears in his brain working overtime. Then he looked back to her, like he tried really hard to match two puzzle pieces together. 

            “I know you.” He said bluntly, which made her smirk. 

            “Do you?” She asked from above her bowl, twirling the fork around another string of spaghetti. She tilted her head, almost in a challenge, surely in amusement. 

            “You were there when we fought in Riga,” he started, his eyes focused like in a distant memory, “and then in New York… Shit, yeah. You were with Sam and Bucky there.”

            “And you were acting like authority, yelling and breaking things.” She blew on another bite of pasta before eating with composure. The unnerving feeling danced around the table, she could still feel it, but John provided her enough of a distraction to lower the tension in her chest.

            “Ha, I wish I could see it!” Ava’s chuckle lifted the atmosphere.

            Bucky came back with a bottle of sriracha and passed it to a brightly smiling Yelena.

            “Okay, alright – as far as I remember, you weren’t exactly a definition of peaceful, either.” John held up his hands in defense. “I mean, you were waving your fingers with this weird energy, making people dizzy.” John doesn’t let go, but at least manages to sit down at his waiting spot and take a hold of his fork. “You were giving very strong ‘weird glitter witch’ vibes.”

            Bucky chose to walk around the table to his seat. His stride didn’t break, but only faltered for a millisecond, when his open palm flicked into Walker’s head with dull force.

            “Hey!” He held his hand up and recoiled. Bucky was already sliding into the chair. “What was that for?”

            “For the weird glitter witch.”

            She bumped her knee into Bucky’s and sent him a grateful look. She put down her fork and cleared her throat, before speaking up with a measured tone. 

            “I like glitter. My magic shines like sparkles when it’s visible, look,” she turns to Alexei right next to her and lifts her hand above the table. She let a tingle of emotion to travel through her body and stop at her fingertips. A few light sparks started to dance around her nails, swirl around like calm beacons of energy, delicate enough to mesmerize whoever watched. 

            “Oh, that is pretty.” Alexei widened his eyes and leaned closer, admiring the spark of magic.

            From next to John, Bob spoke up with curiosity and fascination. His voice resonated with calmness, but it made her hand tremble with something unknown. “What else can you do?”                   

            She pursed lips and tried to choose her next words wisely. Looking to Bucky and seeing no hesitation from him, she took a breath and continued.

            “I’m an empath.”

            “So, you mess with people’s heads. I thought so.” John nodded to himself, but his face was not dismissive anymore.

            “Do you really?” Yelena perked up, more curious than wary. 

            “Not exactly,” she started, letting the sparks die down. With elbows now resting on the table and soft focus, she looked at John and just listened. “Right now, John is curious and very defensive. He’s angry at himself for…” she pauses, filtering what to display for others, and what could be too private. “…some of the things that happened today. And you hate it that the clasp on your jacket is broken.” She smiled up at him gently, trying to not add on to the overwhelming situation. 

            The table was silent for a moment, broken only by a soft clutter of a fork against the plate. Ava whistled under her nose and avoided eye contact. 

            “You do that to everyone?” 

            “No.” She shakes her head lightly and feels Bucky’s fingers rest on her thigh in quiet comfort. “I control it. I know when there’s a lot of emotions bubbling up in a room at once, but I won’t listen in without consent. Well, not unless my line of work requires it.”

            “The most accurate intel I’ve ever worked with.” Bucky said quietly, and the fond look in his eyes wrapped warmly around her heart. 

            “And you make a very good pasta. Impressive, for a last-minute host.” Yelena’s nod of appreciation was enough for the conversation to die down a tone, and everyone to continue their dinner.

            She took a deep breath, playing with the last few strings of spaghetti in front of her, letting the twinkles of magic settle in her body. At least Bucky’s arm was still brushing hers, reminding that he’s back home. 

            They clink of plates slowly died down, everyone resting more comfortably and enjoying the moment of peace. Exhaustion was written all over their faces; some deep in thought, others slowly scrapping off the outer layers of their suits. 

            Bucky’s arm laid atop of the back of her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder briefly. It made her look up to him, notice his irises already shining. She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Her fingertips brushed the stubble of his cheek for a fleeting moment, before they locked gazes in a silent conversation. He nodded towards the group – a movement barely noticeable, but she could feel it against the palm of her hand. He exhaled a heavy breath and she knew what it meant – they needed shelter. She could only agree to that, so she sent him a sad smile and let him kiss the inside of her hand.

            “If you want to avoid being chased by Valentina, her strike force or reporters, I suggest you stay the night,” Bucky cleared his throat. Someone sighed, someone nodded pensively, but she only looked at him with patience and curiosity. “I guess we could fit everyone, right?” He looked back to her, to which she immediately nodded. 

            “How do we know they won’t knock on your door in the next five minutes?” Yelena asked, pushing away her plate. 

            John immediately agreed with that, “Exactly. I mean, she’s Val, right?” He looked around the table, “nothing should surprise us anymore.”

            “Well, if she has a reason to, I’m sure she will try hard to find you,” She spoke up carefully, but kept on eyeing Bucky. A slight raise of her brow told him that she has questions, but whether they should be answered right now or later, she left for him to decide. “but she won’t succeed here. We made sure it’s a secure home. Only a handful of trusted people can find it.” 

Bucky pursed his lips and nodded. 

She couldn’t shake the feeling that a lot more happened than they managed to share. She kept her eyes on Bucky’s face, watching as it scrunched in confusion at a comment that someone made. The way the corners of his eyes dropped told her that he had a long day, and endured more than he was prepared for. With the omnipresent unnerving feeling of anxiety that drifted around the table, she felt even more braced and worried, struggling to not let anything inside her consciousness. Keeping her magic at bay after a bunch of neurotic, special people faced something difficult, was harder than she wanted to admit. Already zoned out of the conversation, she stood up slowly and grabbed a few plates to start cleaning up. Bucky watched her, but was still talking back to John and Alexei about something, so he didn’t manage to stop her. 

Ava and Bob helped. She was mid-rinse, still holding the dirty pan, when they came in with two stacks of dirty plates. 

“You should be careful with that wound,” She pointed to her bandaged side, but knew better than to stop a hurt agent who wanted to feel useful. “There are some more pain meds in the box if you’ll need them during the night. Just… take it easy.”

“Thanks,” she showed half of a smile, “I’ll be fine.”

She let them take over the dish duty and paid attention to the notorious buzzing that resonated from the countertop. Her long-lost phone laid on top of a closed laptop, screen facing down, but vibrating as if it was ready to burn a hole in everything nearby. 

Four missed calls and a long list of new text messages.

SAM WILSON: Call me back. 

SAM WILSON: We need to talk.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: You need to see this

Then, a stream of breaking news alerts and notifications. Against the better judgement, she started scrolling through all of the key words and headlines. Her heart rate sped up and her mind started tightening in a mix of worry, confusion, fear and disbelief. 

DARK CLOUD ATTACKING MANHATTAN 

DISRUPTIONS AND DISAPPEARANCES IN THE CITY. WHAT CAUSED THE MASS PANIC?

THE NEW AVENGERS ASSEMBLED.

VALENTINA DE FONTAINE: ‘THE NEW AVENGERS!’

DID CIA PLOT THE TRAGEDY TO UNVEIL THE TEAM OF FUGITIVE HEROES?

“You didn’t know what happened before we arrived, did you?” Yelena’s voice broke the nauseating screams in her head and made her look up. Cheese grater and an empty glass in hand, her eyes were almost sympathetic. Ava and Bob looked at each other but didn’t speak up. 

“No.” 

Even though her response was quiet and measured, it sparked a burst of fearful emotions to try and kick into her soul with a crashing effect. She couldn’t pinpoint the source, but with Yelena turning back to wave Bucky over, nothing would make sense. It could be a combination of everything, so she didn’t look for the cause of overwhelming feelings. She only looked up at her partner, walking into the kitchen with a worried look on his face, eyes resembling those of a scared puppy. 

“I was going to tell you later,” he started, taking slow steps and looking briefly to Yelena. She didn’t back off, but just leaned on the opposite wall and pretended to help with the clean-up. 

“Tell me what?” She didn’t know what was she expecting, but she needed something. She showed him the screen of her phone and let him look through her notifications, speaking for themselves.

“There’s a lot more to the story than the news is covering.”

This feeling, again. A simmering tension, pulling at her emotional strings harder than anything that Bucky’s words could cause in that moment. Sparks shone in her eyes as she quickly looked around the room, uncomfortable enough to break up the conversation. A particularly louder clank of a dish in the sink and that’s when she noticed it – Bob’s staring. Not dangerous, but fearful. Scared, but also fierce and with underlying certainty. He looked away quickly, but not enough to lose her attention. 

“What’s up with Bob?” She suddenly asked, and the weight of emotions sounded like shrill cry. Everyone looked up at her and then to Bob, who straightened up and dried his hands on the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m okay…” 

“Bob’s just fine.”

Him and Yelena replied at the same time. Bucky sighed in defeat. She felt cornered, attacked by everyone in the room by asking just that question, so she took a breath to calm down. She could read the room. 

“That didn’t sound nice, I’m sorry.” Apologizing seemed to have a calming effect. Yelena leaned back on the wall, losing her braced stance. Ava continued to put away the dirty cutlery into the dishwasher, the world moved on. 

“You said you’re an empath,” Bob started quietly, with a shadow of a kind smile. “Maybe you could, you know…”

“Not happening,” Bucky suddenly cut him off, stepping one step in front of her, like a predator ready to pounce. He then turned back to her with a determined look, “you are not reading him.” 

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t.”

“Huh,” she breathed, “thank you, honey, that explains it all.” 

That shut him up. With squared jaw and soon-to-be pleading eyes, he didn’t have any immediate response. He started to understand that he might not win. 

“Bob,” she turned to him, forcing a gentle tone. Bucky’s eyes were burning holes in her face but she just let him. “Are you sure you’ll be fine with this?”

He shrugged, but took a moment before speaking up again. “How does it work?”

“To make it easy on the mind, I would touch your hand and just… feel whatever you feel right now. I might see the emotions that drive you, or how they manifested for you recently. You won’t feel a thing.”

“You might do, though.”

Yelena’s comment made her turn her head. 

“How so?”

“I’m a little enhanced, too.” Alexei’s boisterous laugh echoed through the apartment at Bob’s response. “But-but I won’t do anything to hurt you, I promise.” He added immediately. 

“This is a terrible idea.” Bucky shook his head, disappointed. 

But she did it. She crossed the short distance to Bob and reached out, waiting for him to take a hold of her hand. When the palms of their hands clasped around each other, darkness filled her mind. 

She felt it all. The darkness. The Void. The fear of a regular guy who just wanted to be better. The overwhelming dark cloud, turning the minds of thousands of people into their darkest memories. She could seeall of it. She was everywhere with him: in the lab in the Philippines; in Utah, feeling the first spark of something hopeful; in the old Avengers tower; on the streets of New York in the spotlight of cameras, giving way into something too forceful to fit inside her mind. The overpowering depression and its camp set up in Bob’s mind. The depths of it stretched onto everyone who came into their home today. Disturbing images of people struggling, fighting their old demons. A soul-crushing image of screaming Bucky, tied up to a chair. 

Then, something strong pulling her in – a weave of power different than hers. Pulling her into a very specific scenery from her childhood, where the sight of her mother was the first alarming point. She was slowly losing control of her magic and giving way to Bob’s powers, and it took a toll on her. Dark fumes wanted to hide her sparks flowing through her blood, and she couldn’t let it happen. The only way was through pulling his darkness in and shifting it into something better, so she focused on the beauty of being an empath. She imagined taking care of a broken mind, tending to a hopeless soul, giving reassurance and caressing the thoughts. She didn’t want to be trapped in a memory she knew as long gone – she pushed away, let the darkness slip, imagined a stream of golden power that could light up every room and pushed it away, towards the heavy train of thoughts. 

She let go of his hand as soon as the light gave her enough strength to pull away. The eyes of everyone in their apartment were focused on her; Bob stood there, as if nothing happened, still shyly looking up at her with an expectant look. Tears were streaming down her face and she looked around, trying to ground herself in the walls of their home. Bucky was immediately next to her, steadying her frame against his side, letting her rest. The silence stretched for a very long moment, until she managed to find her voice again.

“I’m so sorry for what happened to you, Bob.”

The rest of the evening carried on with more of a quiet understanding. After they finished cleaning up, spare pillows and bedsheets were pulled out of the depths of the hallway closet. Bucky was in charge of setting up the pull-out bed in the living room and the extra mattress on the floor, and she worked in the peace of the guest bedroom, fluffing the fresh sheets and adding an extra blanket on the armchair. It was comfortable enough for a mid-reading nap, so it had to suffice for a few hours of sleep. 

When she carried the last of the decorative pillows that could help someone sleep better into the living room, some guests were already setting camp in their sleeping spots. Alexei started to doze off in the armchair so the voices – if any – were now a bit more hushed. 

She noticed Yelena in the corner of the room, standing still, eyes focused on the wall where a few pictures were stuck to the corkboard. The makeshift office corner was full of papers, files and random things that they didn’t clean up the last time, but that didn’t matter. The picture of Natasha was the sole focus, radiating happiness from her captured smile and the tight embrace that they had on each other. The took it during one of their cheer-up movie nights, two years into their new reality after Thanos had snapped his fingers. Another shot from the same night, but with Steve in the frame too, was right next to it. 

“She talked a lot about you, you know?” She was careful with her words, but poked Yelena’s hard to read exterior anyway. “She never really stopped looking for you during the blip. The same way I always kept looking for him,” a finger pointed at a slightly bigger picture of the couple, Bucky hugging her from behind and looking down at her with love painted all across his face. “Steve was the only one to actually try and move on, before we found a way to get everyone back.”

Yelena’s eyes didn’t leave the picture of her sister, when she finally spoke up. “She called you Sparkles. Didn’t say much, but enough for me to understand that you kept her company in times she least expected it.”

Her face scrunched in grief, but only for a fraction of a moment. Neither of them moved, just stayed still with heads full of memories that spoke without words. She didn’t have to look into Yelena’s mind to know that grief has started to mix with grace. It reassured her, knowing that her friend’s sister is finally coming to terms with some of the more difficult truths. Natasha would want her to find peace.

“The bed in the guest room is still empty, you can still beat Walker to it if you make it before he leaves the bathroom.” She said after a moment of silence. A corner of Yelena’s lips twitched upwards and she simply nodded, sneaking away to find respite in the more convenient sleeping arrangement. 

Most of the lights in the living room and in the hall went off. A peaceful quiet was broken only by random murmurs of movement around the apartment. Their home was full, a questionable mix of characters, preferences, and assassin skills sizzled in their safe space, but there was an odd familiarity to it. Something that she sometimes felt hanging in the air back in the Avengers compound. 

Before entering their bedroom, she hovered by the doorframe for just a second. She could still feel the tension hanging low between her and Bucky, the unspoken heaviness was starting to lift slowly with the layer of exhaustion that took the reins of their bodies. 

The bedside lamps were on, and a trickle of light traveled from underneath the bathroom door. Their bedroom felt like a soft embrace, even though her heart was still probed at with a stick of emotions. Darkness threatened to loop around her veins, especially when she sat down on the bed and opened her laptop that still had classified files open, screaming at her. Her fingers tapped on the mousepad until they reached the last documents that were sent to her: the designs behind the Sentry Project. Eyes scanning the page, her hands shook with nerves. 

The water in the shower was still running when she stopped reading. His shower was now longer than usual. With something forceful still squeezing her heart in discomfort, she let go of the intelligence, files and access passwords. She closed everything she worked on earlier and put her laptop away, desperate to ease her consciousness into something easier. Something she missed in all of this. 

She softly knocked on the door that would usually stay creaked open when they were alone. Her knuckles made a rather quiet sound on the wood, so she thought he did not hear her, but then a very low “Yeah?” travelled through her ears.

He was in the shower, standing still under the forceful stream of water, his back to her, arm resting on the wall for support. His head hung low, tilted only slightly when she came in, enough to recognize her presence. He didn’t turn back to her. Didn’t stop the shower or make any move to finish it.

She stripped of her clothes, leaving a pile on the tiles next to the door. Without thinking, she stepped into the shower. Tried not to hiss when she felt how cold the water was. It made her hurt for him, so she reached his body in no time. Wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight, her lips finding the skin between his shoulder blades. He was tall, stood strong, muscles almost ripped at the seams, and the tension in his body pulsating with each breath. Her hands travelled higher, to his chest, finding the spot where she could feel the steady beat of his heart. He exhaled with something that reminded her of relief and covered her hand with hers, intertwining their fingers. Her lips kept on pecking his wet skin until she also breathed, inhaling the familiar scent that followed her every time they were close. Her mind, gentle touch and kisses begged, Come back to me.

One of her hands wandered off to the shower knob, twisting it until the water warmed up at least a little bit. His muscles softened almost instantly, his skin giving way for her fingers to hold his skin tighter.  

“You’re freezing,” she mumbled, caressing the skin of his chest, letting her hands rub on his skin up to the shoulders and down his arms, just to help him get rid of the goosebumps quicker. 

“Got lost in thought for a minute,” his voice was softer around the edges now that they were alone. He got a hold of her hands and slowly detached them from his skin, taking measured steps in place to face her instead. 

Lukewarm water streamed down their bodies, scars lined up on his torso glistening under the shower. Her hands traced his chest and arms with subtle movements, until she reached his head. Wet hair flopped down the back of his head and she run her fingers through it, gently massaging the scalp and taking out any remaining bubbles of shampoo that he didn’t manage to rinse out. He hummed in soft contentment at the drag of her nails, his hands landing on her waist for grounding. 

“Cold shower and poorly washed hair?” Her voice was soft, but with a tint of something bright and warm. She tilted his head under the stream for the last good rinse and rested her hands on his cheeks, caressing his rough stubble. “I might think it you wanted me to come and save you from your poor washing habits.”

He breathed out a small laugh at that, light enough to mistake it for a gasp of air. 

“You got me, baby.” 

She leaned in to his chest, landing a kiss above his heart and feeling the way his hands started to weight more on her hips. 

“I do,” she murmured into the bruised skin. “always.”

She tugged him out of the shower and passed him a fresh, fluffy towel. They both dried each other slowly, and then stood close when they brushed their teeth. She slid back into her underwear, pulled the same t-shirt over her head and grabbed the small tubes of ointment and antiseptic from the drawer. 

She made sure there is enough light on his side of the bed, but not too much to disrupt their tired haze. She pulled out the covers so they could slide right in, and sat down on the side of the mattress. He came in to the bedroom a minute later, clad only in his black boxers, excess water shaken off from his dark hair. 

“Sit down, Mr. Soldier.” She pointed to the bed and sent him a barely-there smile, mocking the name Alexei kept on using all evening. He shook his head in disappointment, but climbed in bed and rested his back on the headboard nonetheless. 

“He thinks I got the ‘fancy stuff’ with the Hydra serum.” His low voice leaked annoyance, but his face was too tired to show it, too. 

“Well,” she breathed out a chuckle. She went up on her knees on the mattress and walked up to him, climbing over his lap. “I think you are my fancy stuff.” 

That put a brief, but cheeky smile on his face. He took a hold of her hips and helped her land in a comfortable spot on his thighs, but never let go of her body. His warmed-up hands traveled underneath her shirt and set camp on her skin, moving around ever-so-slightly, but never breaking contact. 

She leaned to his torso to inspect the bruises that were already formed over his ribs, checking for any cuts. There was an already closed-up gash on his side, wide enough to think that a sharp object was pushed into his skin, and then pulled out quickly. The line was faintly pink, healed nicely because of the serum, but still enough of a tell that recently something caught him off guard.

Bucky watched her in silence. Eyes scanning her focused face, looking down at the delicate inspection of her fingers, and the caring and focused way she watched him, reserved only for him. 

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he whispered at some point, when her focus switched from his chest to his face. She held his chin gently, inspecting the scratch above his cheekbone. She sat back on his thighs and worked with the ointment tube, pushing out the right amount on a cotton swab. “I should’ve told you that the situation changed. Not just barged in with a group of strangers. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes still focused on dripping the antiseptic on the right spot beneath his eye. 

“You’re allowed to do your thing. You can bring people home,” she started gently, while the cotton swab precisely rolled over the torn tissue. “Just…” she sighed, straightening up and putting away the medication. “Seeing how severe the situation was, what unveiled and how messy it will be now…” Her mind kept going back to every image that Bob showed her earlier. “I just wish I knew sooner.”

“I know. I’m sorry, doll.”

“I didn’t even know you were hurt until I saw your face.” She whispered with a sad smile, caressing his clean cheek. He leaned into her hand and sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t watching the news, I had my notifications off - except for yours, of course,” she kept on talking, feeling her chest swell with the accumulated worry and affection. “and then Bob showed me everything. I saw the pain you were in,” she gulped, trying to contain her emotions. He tugged on her hips to bring her closer, letting her fall forward and rest her forehead on his. “It’s been a minute since you were out in the field. I guess it scared me.”

Bucky took a deep, shaky breath, his fingers flexing on her skin, slowly drying hair loosely falling over his ears. 

“I didn’t think it would escalate this quickly.” he whispered right into her lips. His flesh hand traveled up to her face and caressed her cheek, wiping underneath her eye to take away the first tear that threatened to drop. 

“I know.”

“And now with Valentina claiming us as the New Avengers?” He mused, letting out a dry chuckle. He kissed her nose affectionately and let them breathe together. “This definitely wasn’t on my campaign.”

She smiled at him then, locking their gazes in a comfortable stare-off. She could feel her magic start to turn blue, the same color as his eyes. Something that happened whenever their hearts were on their sleeves, and where they both were feeding off each other’s love. 

“Sam needs an explanation. He called so many times.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, a fake seriousness flashing across his face. “good luck with that.”

She gasped at that, smacking his arm playfully.

“What? He called you, not me. My phone was dead.” He smiled. She started to climb off his lap but he stopped her, sitting up and tugging her in for a very tight embrace. “No, don’t leave me. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“You better do it before I do.” He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, kissing her skin and smelling it deeply. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky looked up at her, eyes shining, smile threatening to break. 

Finally, she relaxed into his body, leaning in with purpose. Her nose touched his gently, before their lips connected in a gentle, loving kiss. Her hands hugged his shoulders and tugged him closer, deepening the kiss and breathing in his scent. Bucky let out a quiet sound from the back of his throat as they pushed toward each other, with more relief than desire at first. Then, with each of the caress against the other’s lips, with each tug of his hair and delicate scratch of her fingernails, the need grew. 

She kissed him like she almost lost him, and he kissed her back like he never wanted to let go. Her thighs firmly wrapped around his hips as she moved impossibly closer, earning another groan from his wet lips. She smiled into his mouth and he bit her lip in response, grazing his teeth across tender skin and teasing her with purpose. 

“I thought you were tired,” she murmured against him.

“I am,” he agreed, “but I missed you more.”

His breath got heavier. Their mouths kissed harder, hungrier, chasing each other like careless teenagers who have just realized how magnetic it is to make out with someone you love. Her hips rolled forward, out of habit, causing a whimper to shake her lips against his. He held her tighter, vibranium palming and kneading her ass, the other hand moving freely under her shirt. Magic trickled at her fingertips, making each of her nervous ending even more sensitive to the feeling of his body against hers. Another move of her hips, a raspy groan from Bucky’s throat, and—

A creak of the floor, movement on the pull-out sofa, or maybe even a footstep towards the kitchen. A quiet sound that made them stop, freeze in their embrace. Her hand travelled to his chest, letting his heart beat hard against her fingertips, catching a breath. 

“Don’t,” he almost begged, leaning in again to kiss her neck in places that make her shiver. “If we stop now, I might cry.”

A breathy laugh escaped her mouth. She tucked her face into his shoulder, holding him close. 

“If we can hear them moving, they will definitely hear us, baby.” She whispered, peppering his jaw in short and chaste kisses. “We’re enough of an entertainment to Walker.”

Bucky groaned in response, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly and rolling them over. With a huff, she landed on top of her pillow and spread her legs enough to let him lay between them. He caged her head with his arms and leaned down for another kiss.

“Don’t talk about Walker when you’re making me hard.”

She chuckled quietly, letting his nose travel along the side of her face. Warmth enveloped her whole body and she wished they could stay like this forever. With no care in the world about politics, agendas, no missed deadlines or events to attend. No one else around them, just her and Bucky, tangled in the sheets of their Brooklyn home. 

“Hey,” he nudged her cheek and searched her eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments, engraving this moment in their memories. “How was your day?”

“You’re asking that now?” She lifted her eyebrow in question, gently caressing his face and tucking away the loose hair that threatened to cover his eyes.

“Now is perfect.” He mumbled into her cheek, leaving a wet kiss behind. “It’s just me and you.”

She sighed, trying to focus and gather her most mundane thoughts of the day. 

“They put me in the middle seat on the plane from D.C.” 

Bucky fake-gasped at that, “How dare they?” 

“I know, right?” she smiled at his disappointed face. “but I survived in that middle seat. Can you believe it?”

“Impossible,” another kiss to her cheek, before he rolled over and landed on his side, his legs tangled with hers, tugging her as close as possible so they could still stare in each other’s eyes. “What else happened?”

He listened to her until her eyelids turned heavy. Until her lips started moving slower and slower, pushing forward one last time to touch his skin. He covered them with the sheets and held her close, watching as a single blue spark flew away from her fingertips, fading into the night. Her breathing evened out, arm still tucked in his torso. A quiet ‘I love you’ mumbled to each other in a sleepy haze, like nothing else mattered. 

[l0vergirlwrites]

Absolutely OBSESSED with ur fics girl 🫶🫶, could you by any chance do one where Spencer has surgery (maybe he got injured in the field or smth) and afterwards he’s on anaesthesia, and reader is taking him home and Spence doesn’t recognize her cause he’s high AF and is like “back off I have a gf (referring to reader)” and is all like complimenting her and stuff??? I definitely did not get this from a tiktok HAHA (it would probably have to be season 1 Spencer tho cause we all know how Spencer feels about narcotics in the later season 😭😭)

TYYY ANYWAYS I LOVE UR WORK AHHH AND EVEN IF YOU DONT DO THIS THATS ALGDS CAUSE UR A QUEEN ❤️❤️

anaesthetic makes the heart grow fond ; spencer reid

synopsis: after getting his wisdom teeth removed, it only makes sense that you’re the only thing on spencer’s mind. but when he doesn’t initially recognize you under his anaesthetic haze, you can’t help but play along & feel yourself fall harder for him.

warnings: established relationship with spencer & fem!reader, mentions of blood & wisdom teeth related themes, spencer just being a total goof & lover boy (season 1 spencer particularly)

note: thank you so much for the request! & thank you for the compliment, you’re so kind anon! i hope you enjoy 💌

“… here is a list of his prescribed medications. they should be ready to be picked up at his selected pharmacy later today…”.

with his eyes shut, spencer tried to listen closely to the muffled voices from the hallway as he breathed in & out through his nose, his mouth feeling heavy from his swelling cheeks & gauze pressed firm into his gums.

he couldn’t shake the cold feeling that spread from his head to his toes, knowing that it was from the local anaesthetic his dentist administered.

but it still made his stomach a little queasy.

“are you feeling a bit warmer now, baby?” a soft voice spoke with accompanying footsteps, causing spencer to open his hazel eyes.

he looked at you a little hazy, eyes blinking slow as he tried to speak, but the action hurt more than he thought it would.

leaning closer to the long chair he occupied, you grabbed one of his hands & rubbed a star like pattern onto his knuckles, shushing him gently. your touch sent shivers down spencer’s spine, spreading all over his skin like molasses.

it felt nice.

“gotta speak slow, spence. don’t want to hurt your mouth too much okay?”.

your lips turned into a sympathetic smile because you could see the exhaustion & pain riddled in his face, causing you to rise your free hand to smooth the crease between his eyebrows.

he spoke your name slow & choppy, mumbling the word ‘girlfriend’ three times in a row for good measure. his voice was muffled by the gauze that pressed into his bleeding gums, but you got the message loud & clear.

you squeezed his hand, palm warm against his cooler one. “i’m right here, baby. we’re gonna go home soon when you’re a little less loopy”. but spencer wasn’t satisfied with your response.

he groaned, more so whined, as mumbled your name with desperation. “i miss her… have you seen her? she’s my girlfriend”.

a nurse typing at the computer inches away couldn’t help but snort.

but you decided to play along & see how long it would take for him to realize it was really you.

“hmmm, i think i saw her. what does she look like?” you asked as you adjusted the blanket over his body, watching spencer’s gaze fall onto your face like you were just another person.

it was like he was looking at you through frosted glass.

closing his eyes, a sleepy smile graced his lips despite the movement making him wince uncomfortably, drool slipping out his mouth as he spoke. “pretty hair, pretty eyes, pretty face, smells like flowers… you sort of look like her” he said dreamily, & now you couldn’t help but snort too.

“oh really? that’s so sweet” you could feel your face growing warm. “how long have you two been together?”.

“long time… many moons…” you laughed his emphasis of saying the o’s.

“you must love her a lot, hmm?”

“so so so much,” spencer emphasized. “she’s my favourite person on earth, besides my mom”.

you wished you were recording his for your own personal stash of ‘spencer reid being the most adorable person ever’ moments, but you didn’t have the heart to pull your touch away from him.

brushing a stray strand of hair off his forehead, you lightly frowned when he leaned away from your touch.

“my girlfriend wouldn’t like you doing that” spencer blinked at you again, watching his eyes scan over your form as he tried to process who you were in his mind, but it came up blank. probably for the first time ever.

you looked so familiar. it was on the tip of his tongue for sure.

“i’m sorry” no you weren’t. “does she do that often?,” he hummed. “what else does she do?”

this got spencer to kick into full tangent mode despite the ache in his jaw, animatedly lifting his hands from the blanket as he listed various things you do in fact do for him. you nodded your head & listened intently to each one, feeling your heart ache with each sentiment he said as you wiped blood-tinted salvia from his chin with a kleenex.

“… she knows what shampoo i like, buys me lots of sweater vests, does this thing when she holds my hand—her hands are always so soft… reminds me of… ” spencer began to drift off there, eyes falling from the button of your cardigan to your hand on his, thumb rubbing stars onto his skin.

a surprised gasp left his lips then, eyes snapping back to yours like he just solved a case. your name rolled off his tongue languidly, a tear rolling down his cheek, eyes shining with admiration when he processed everything he was seeing; your smile lines, that twinkle in your pupil, the freckles he loves to kiss repeatedly… it’s you.

“i can’t believe you’re here!” gleaming with happiness, spencer intertwined his fingers with yours hurriedly, wanting needing you closer because he missed you so dearly, because he yearned for your touch.

wiping the tear that slipped down the apple of his cheek, the sound of your sweet laughter caused spencer to visibly swoon.

“of course i’m here, spence. told you i’d take care of you” you pressed a cautious kiss to his swelled cheek, his skin flushing pink as if the gesture just brought him back to life.

his eyes soon fell closed again as he scooted ever so slightly closer to you, nuzzling his cheek into your palm for relief as the dentist walked back into the room. she was clearly amused with the scene, but didn’t comment on it.

within minutes, the two of you were given the go ahead to leave, but not without a starter care kit & instructions on how to replace the gauze & clean spencer’s wisdom teeth sockets.

“i think i dreamed of your eyes when i went under” he mumbled as he practically stuck to your side like glue while you two walked through the parking lot, his body weight supported by your arm wrapped around his torso. “your irises are my favourite, they look like marbled ice cream…”

you just shook your head & played into his antics, doing your best to get him securely in the passenger seat without hitting his head on the car door frame. it took longer than you expected, leaving you huffing for a breath of air once his seatbelt clicked in place.

“don’t move too much, baby. just relax while i close the door. we gotta pick up your medication before we go home”.

“but i don’t want to let go of your hand” spencer pouted, the once white gauze in his mouth now turning into a darker shade of pink.

kissing his temple, you gave his hand one final squeeze. “you can hold it again when i get into the car. deal?”

“okay. i love it when you call me that”.

“baby?”.

spencer broke out into the best toothy grin he could muster at the moment when you said the pet name once more.

he earned another kiss for that.

for the entirety of the drive to the pharmacy, your hand stayed in the safety of spencer’s lap with his fingers continuously dancing across your skin. he would ramble facts about your palm lines & how he thinks your his soulmate due to your fingerprints, while you occasionally had to remind him not to try touching your eyes as you drove.

you’re not so sure if there was a scientific method to prove that your fingerprints do in fact mean that both of your souls are tied to one another, but you were definitely sure of one thing; you wished you could hold onto spencer’s hand forever & never let go.

[stellarsturniolos]

━━ ⟢‘PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT’ ╰  C.S.

・ ˖  ✦ ⋄ . in which.. chris lets bsf!reader practice giving head on him.

warnings: smut, cursing, blowjob, i think that's everything.

A/N: reblogs and likes are appreciated! i do NOT give consent for my work to be copied or uploaded to any other platform. thank you. this is my first time attempting to write smut in years so pls be kind to me lmfao.

it's late at night. you and chris are sitting on your balcony, looking up at the blanket of stars that seem to stretch out to infinity. the occasional barking of dogs somewhere in the distance was the only noise that broke into the silence of the evening.

chris is your best friend. has been since you were a little kid. he's the person you feel the most at ease. you don't need to hold a conversation with him to have a good time – just being with him is enough for you.

"tell me something i don't know about you." he suddenly mumbles.

"what?" you snort softly. "you already know everything about me."

"oh, c'mon." he nudges your foot with his own. "there's gotta be something."

you avert your gaze as you feel heat rising into your cheeks. "... okay. i've never given a blowjob before."

his eyes widen as he gawks at you. "no way. really?"

you feel your lips twitch into a small smile at his surprise. "yes, really. and, i mean, it's not like i don't want to. trust me, i do. i'm just worried that i'll be really bad at it."

he blinked slowly, taking in your words. "you just need to practice."

you brows raise. "yeah? i've tried. on fruit, on my fucking dildo. but those things aren't the same as a real person. they can't give feedback."

his entire body grew unnaturally still, and you could almost see the thoughts spinning around in his head. "you could.. practice.. on me?" he says slowly. "i'm a real person. i can give feedback."

you feel your face grow even warmer. "i.. i, um.." you stutter. "i guess that's true."

"should we.. go inside?" he asks hesitantly.

you almost can't believe this is happening. that this is a real conversation that you're having with your best friend. you want to pinch yourself. "yeah.. yeah, let's go inside."

and before you can blink, he's standing up and grabbing your hand, tugging you inside your empty apartment and toward your bedroom.

you're suddenly very thankful that your roommate decided to spend the weekend with her boyfriend.

you pause in the doorway to your room and watch as chris pulls his hoodie off, revealing the soft t-shirt underneath. he plops down on your bed as he's done many times before. but never for something like this. he glances over at you with a faint smile. "you don't have to be so nervous, y'know? it's just me."

you nod as you step closer, sitting down on the bed near his thighs. "are you sure this is okay?"

"i wouldn't have offered if it wasn't okay." he reaches for your hand and places your palm over the now very obvious bulge in his jeans. "you feel that? feel how much i want this?"

"shit, chris." your fingers move to his zipper and belt buckle. you work quickly, tugging his jeans and boxers down his legs. you unexpectedly feel desperate for it. you want to see him, taste him, make him feel good.

your eyes widen as you see his dick for the first time, resting heavily against his stomach. it's huge. bigger than you ever imagined. much larger than your stupid fucking dildo.

you reach out with one hand and brush your fingers lightly over his shaft. you giggle softly as it twitches under your soft touch.

you scoot closer, until you're sitting in between his legs. you bend your head forward, flattening your tongue against the sensitive tip.

"fuuuuck." chris breathes out, his hips stuttering involuntarily.

you open your mouth and slowly suck him in. you want to savor the moment. you want to enjoy every second of this.

you lower yourself down as far as you can without gagging and wrap your fingers around the rest of his cock. your tongue brushes against his slit, tasting the precum that's steadily leaking out of him.

you look up and see chris looking down at you, his jaw slack and pupils dilated with desire. you've never seen him look like this, but you fucking love it.

you bob your head at a steady pace, fisting the part of his shaft that your mouth can't quite reach. you're a slobbering mess, but you don't give a damn. the slurping sounds of you pleasuring him only make you feel more aroused yourself.

you feel chris' hands in your hair, gripping and tugging. "mm, fuuuuck – so fuckin' good."

that's all the encouragement you need. you bob your head faster, your own moans muffled by the cock in your throat.

you watch his face the entire time. you love to see his pretty flushed cheeks. and the whimpers? fuck, you wish you could record them for later.

his hips lift off the bed, thrusting more of his dick down your throat. your cheeks go hollow as you suck as much of him in as you can.

"shit – mm, god – 'm gonna cum soon."

you dig your blunt fingernails into his thighs and bob your head a little faster. that's all it takes. his lower stomach tenses and his body stills as you feel warm spurts of cum hit the roof of your mouth and back of your throat.

you swallow every drop, not even minding the salty and bitter taste coating your tongue. you slowly pull off and press a soft kiss to his tip. you crawl up the bed and lay down next to chris, watching as he comes down from his high.

"was that okay?" you ask, trying to distract yourself from the wetness and need pulsing between your own thighs.

"jesus fuck." he laughs, still trying to catch his breath. "more than okay. that was.. so fucking good."

"but.. next time.. i wanna taste you."

[moonlightwritingf1]

Three Weeks Too Long | LN4

ᯓ★ summary ━━━━━━━ Lando returned early from the triple header. He wanted to have sex, but Y/N refused because she hadn't shaved. Lando assured her he didn't care, and she felt a bit shy at first since it was their first time having sex when she was not shaved. 

ᯓ★ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

ᯓ★ word count ━━━━━━━ 3.7k

ᯓ★ warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), fingering

Based on this request.

The doorbell rang, sharp and insistent, cutting through the quiet hum of Y/N’s evening. She paused, her book dangling from her fingers, eyebrows knitting together. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not ever, really, unless it was the occasional delivery. But those usually came with a text beforehand. She set the book down on the coffee table, her bare feet padding softly against the cool wooden floor as she made her way to the door.

She peered through the peephole, her heart skipping a beat when she saw him. Lando. Standing there, his hair slightly messy from the flight, his jacket slung over one shoulder, and that damn smirk playing on his lips. Her breath hitched. He wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the lock, her mind racing. Was she ready for this? For him?

But before she could overthink it, she swung the door open. “Lando,” she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and something else—something warmer, softer.

His grin widened. “Miss me?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Instead, she launched herself at him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, her face burying into the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like lime and something faintly metallic—probably the remnants of the racetrack—and underneath it all, just him. Her Lando.

He chuckled, his arms securing around her waist, lifting her off the ground slightly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands framing his face. “You’re early,” she accused, though there was no bite in her tone.

He shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “Couldn’t wait another day to see you. Three weeks is way too long, love.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “You’re such a romantic.”

“Guilty,” he said, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him. His eyes roamed over her, taking in her oversized t-shirt and the tiny shorts peeking out from underneath. “You look cozy.”

She felt a flush creep up her neck. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Good,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower. “I like catching you off guard.”

She shivered, his tone sending a ripple of heat through her. He stepped closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt through her.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Yeah?” he replied, his eyes locked on hers.

“I… I missed you,” she admitted, her cheeks burning. She wasn’t used to this—to being so open, so vulnerable. But with Lando, it was hard to keep her walls up. Especially when he looked at her like that—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

His smirk softened into a smile, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “I missed you too, love. More than you know.”

And then he was kissing her, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that stole her breath. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his. He groaned against her mouth, his hands sliding down to her waist, gripping her tightly.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured between kisses, his voice rough. “Thinking about you.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind spinning. “Lando,” she gasped, her hands slipping under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“I missed the way you taste,” he muttered, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping lightly at her pulse point. “The way you feel.”

She whimpered, her head falling back as his hands roamed lower, squeezing her ass. “Lando, I—I didn’t—”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire. “What is it, love?”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t shave,” she blurted out, her voice barely above a whisper.

His brows furrowed, then he laughed—a deep, rich sound that made her chest tighten. “Is that all?”

She blinked at him, her embarrassment only growing. “It’s not funny, Lando. I—”

He silenced her with a kiss, his hands cupping her face. “Y/N, I don’t care. I just want you. All of you.”

Her breath hitched, her eyes searching his. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” he said, his voice steady. “I don’t care if you’re shaved, unshaved, or if you’ve got a bloody beard. I just want you.”

She laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. “I don’t think I could grow a beard if I tried.”

He grinned, nipping at her bottom lip. “Good. I like you just the way you are.”

Her heart swelled, her insecurities melting away under his gaze. “Lando…”

“Let me show you,” he murmured, his hands sliding under her shirt, his palms warm against her skin. “Let me show you how much I want you.”

She swallowed hard, her body trembling with anticipation. “Okay,” she whispered.

He didn’t waste any time. His hands slid down her back, lifting her effortlessly as he carried her to the couch. He laid her down, his body hovering over hers, his eyes drinking her in.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Every. Single. Part. Of you.”

She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Lando…”

He kissed her again, slow and deep, his hands exploring her body with a reverence that left her breathless. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts, tugging them down slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Still with me, love?” he asked, his voice low.

She nodded, her heart pounding. “I’m with you.”

And then he was between her legs, his hands spreading her thighs, his mouth pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her inner thigh. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair, her body arching into his touch.

“Lando,” she moaned, her voice trembling.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. “I’ve missed this,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “Missed the way you taste.”

His tongue parted her folds with a slow, deliberate drag, the warmth of it sending a shiver up her spine. Y/N’s breath hitched as he lingered, pressing the flat of his tongue against her in a way that made her thighs tremble. He hummed, the vibration resonating through her core, and she gasped, her nails digging into the cushions beneath her.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remember,” Lando growled, his voice muffled against her. He traced her slit with the tip of his tongue, teasing her entrance before swirling around her clit with a precision that left her seeing stars. She arched into him, a moan tearing from her throat. “Lando, oh my god—”

He didn’t let up, his tongue flicking her clit in quick, relentless strokes before sucking it gently between his lips. The pressure was unbearable, the heat of his mouth overwhelming. She could feel her wetness pooling, soaking her thighs, dripping onto his chin. He moaned against her, the sound sending a fresh wave of heat through her.

“So fucking wet for me,” he muttered, his voice rough with desire. He slid two fingers into her without warning, curling them just right as he continued to lavish attention on her clit. His fingers moved in tandem with his tongue, each thrust of his hand matched by the rhythmic flick of his tongue. Her hips bucked, her body desperate for more, but his grip on her thighs kept her pinned in place.

“Still self-conscious, love?” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at her. His lips glistened, his chin wet with her arousal. “I told you, I don’t care. I’ve fucking missed this—missed you. Your taste, your smell, the way you feel around my fingers, my tongue...” His voice trailed off as he lowered his mouth to her again, his tongue diving deep into her as his fingers continued their relentless pace.

Y/N’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “Lando, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his tongue circling her clit before sucking it into his mouth again. “You’re so fucking close, I can feel it. Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it.”

Her body obeyed, a wave of pleasure crashing over her as she cried out, her thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop, his fingers and tongue driving her through her climax until she was trembling, her chest heaving, her mind blank.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, peppering soft kisses along her inner thighs as her body came down from the high. “Fuck, I missed that—missed you.” He slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes locked on hers. “Always so fucking perfect.”

He didn’t waste a second. “I need to be inside you. Right now.” His voice was guttural, raw, and it sent a shiver down her spine. His hands were already tearing at his clothes, his shirt hitting the floor with a soft thud, followed by his jeans and boxers. His cock sprung free, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with need. 

She didn’t hesitate either, pulling off her top and letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts bounced slightly as she tossed it aside, and Lando’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening.

He was on her in an instant, his body pressing her into the couch, his cock grinding against her thigh. 

“God, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his lips crashing into hers. His hands were everywhere—her breasts, her hips, her ass—gripping her with a desperation that left her breathless. 

“Lando,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I need you—" 

He didn’t make her wait. He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock pressing against her entrance. “Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice rough. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his. “Yes, Lando.” 

He pushed into her slowly at first, the thick head of his cock stretching her entrance with a delicious pressure that made her gasp. Her pussy clenched around him, hot and wet, welcoming him home. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice shaking as he watched himself disappear inch by inch into her. “God, you feel even better than I remember. So fucking tight, Y/N.” She arched into him, her hands grasping at his shoulders, her breath hitching as he filled her completely, his cock pressing against every sensitive inch of her. He paused, buried to the hilt, his thick shaft straining inside her, her walls gripping him with a vice-like heat that made his head spin.

“Lando,” she moaned, her voice trembling. “You feel so good—so big. I’ve missed you so much.” Her hips ground against his, her pussy clenching around him, pulling a guttural groan from his chest. She was so warm, so wet, her silky walls wrapped around him like a glove, tight and throbbing with need. He could feel every pulse of her, every flutter of her walls as her body adjusted to him, trying to take all of him despite the delicious stretch.

He drew out slowly, his cock dragging along her walls, her pussy clinging to him as if unwilling to let him go. She whimpered, her fingers digging into his back, her hips chasing his retreat. “Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please, Lando. I need you—” He didn’t make her wait. With a low growl, he thrust back into her, deeper this time, his cock slamming into her with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. Her moan was loud and unrestrained, and it drove him wild.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he ground out, his hips snapping into hers with a rhythm that bordered on desperate. “Your pussy’s fucking perfect—like it was made for me. Missed this so fucking much, missed how you feel around me.”

Lando’s thrusts were deliberate, each one pushing deeper, harder, as though he was determined to carve himself into her memory, into her body. His hips pistoned with a rhythm that was both punishing and intoxicating, his cock sliding in and out of her with a slick, wet sound that filled the room. Every inch of her pussy was stretched, every nerve alight with sensation as he filled her completely, his thick shaft dragging against her walls with a friction that made her breathless.

Her heat clenched around him, her pussy gripping him so tightly it felt like she was trying to milk him dry. Lando groaned, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks, his eyes locked on where their bodies connected. “Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Look at you—look at how you take me. Your pussy’s so fucking beautiful wrapped around my cock. I can feel every inch of you, every fucking pulse.”

She did as he commanded, her head tilting forward, her eyes widening as she watched his cock disappear into her again and again. The sight of it—the way her slick folds parted to accommodate him, the way her pussy clung to him as he pulled out—was almost obscene in its intimacy. Her breath hitched, her body trembling with the sheer arousal of it. “Lando,” she whimpered, her voice trembling, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He grabbed the back of her head gently, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pushed her forward so she could see better. “Watch,” he demanded, his voice low and rough. “Watch how I fuck you. Watch how your pussy takes me, how it always craves me. You’re so perfect, Y/N. Made for me.”

She moaned, her eyes glued to where his cock disappeared into her, her body responding to his words with a fresh wave of wetness. “You’re so big,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as he thrust deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur. “Oh my god, Lando, you feel so good. I can’t—I can’t—”

“I know,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “I can feel how much you love it—how much you need it. Your pussy’s fucking throbbing around me, Y/N. You’re so wet, so tight. Feels like you’re trying to pull me in deeper.”

He reached down, his fingers spreading her lips so she could see him better, his cock glistening with her arousal as he pulled out almost completely before slamming back into her. “Look at that,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Look at how fucking delicious you are. Fuck, I could watch this all day—watch my cock disappear into you, watch your pussy pulse around me. I’ve never seen anything hotter.”

She felt like she was being unraveled, every thrust driving her closer to the edge until she was wavering on the brink, her body trembling, her nails digging into his skin. “Lando, please,” she moaned, her voice breaking. “I’m so close—I need—".

“Go on,” he urged, his voice a low growl in her ear. “Cum for me, Y/N. Let me feel you cum for me.”

“I can’t—I need—fuck, Lando!” The words tumbled from her lips, raw and unfiltered, as her hands clawed at his back. Her body arched off the couch, her thighs trembling around his hips, her pussy clenching around his cock in rhythmic pulses that made him groan. She felt it—the unmistakable rush of her climax building, coiling deep in her belly, crackling through every nerve ending like a live wire. “Oh god, I’m—I’m—”

Lando’s thrusts grew harder, deeper, his cock grinding against her clit with every stroke as her pussy gripped him tighter. “That’s it, love,” he growled, his voice rough, his breath hot against her ear. “Cum for me. Let me feel it. Let me feel that perfect pussy of yours squeeze my cock.”

Her moans hitched, sharp and desperate, her voice rising to a pitch that sent a shudder through his entire body. “Fuck, Lando, I’m cumming—oh my god.” Her screams were guttural, primal—the kind of sounds that belonged in the throes of a pornstar’s climax, unrestrained and unapologetic. Her pussy contracted around him in waves, each one hotter, tighter, more intense than the last, milking his cock as though she was trying to pull every last drop from him.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N,” Lando groaned, his voice shaking as her orgasm pulsed around him. “Your pussy’s fucking suffocating me—so fucking tight, so fucking hot.” He clenched his jaw, his hips slamming into hers with a desperation that bordered on frantic. “You feel too good—I can’t hold it, love. I’m gonna cum—fuck, I’m gonna cum inside you.”

She could hardly breathe, her body still convulsing around him, her pussy still squeezing his cock in rhythmic flutters that made him moan deep in his chest. “Cum inside me, Lando,” she whimpered, her voice trembling but firm, her nails dragging down his back. “I want it—I want to feel you filling me up.”

That was all it took. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock throbbing as he released deep inside her, his cum flooding her pussy in hot, unrelenting spurts. She gasped, her hips jerking against his, her pussy still clenching around him, milking every last drop as his body shuddered against hers. “Fucking hell, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, his forehead resting against hers. “That pussy of yours—it’s gonna be the death of me.”

She laughed, breathless and uneven, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. “You loved it,” she teased, her fingers tracing the muscles of his back. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

He chuckled, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “Loved it? Love, I fucking worship it. That pussy of yours—my god, it’s like it was made to ruin me.” He kissed her softly, his lips lingering against hers for a moment before pulling back. “Best part of being home? I get to feel that every damn day.”

She blushed, her cheeks flushing crimson, but there was no hiding the way her body still trembled from the intensity of her orgasm. “I missed you,” she admitted softly, her fingers brushing against his jaw. “Missed this.”

“So did I,” he murmured, kissing her again, slower this time, his hands tracing her curves as though committing them to memory. “Every second of those three weeks, I thought about you. Thought about this. About how amazing your pussy feels around my cock, about how perfect you are.”

Her heart swelled, her insecurities melting away under his gaze. “Lando—”

“I love you,” he said, his voice steady, his eyes locked on hers. “Every part of you—flaws and all. I love you.”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, a soft smile spreading across her lips. “I love you too.”

He grinned, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, love. You’re stuck with me.”

She laughed, the sound light and airy, her heart full. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He propped himself up on his elbow, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her hip, his eyes soft but insistent as they met hers. “Y/N, listen to me—I mean it.” His voice was steady now, clearer, as if he needed to remind her, to make sure she understood. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re shaved or not. Seriously.” His thumb brushed over her skin, his touch grounding, unwavering. “Do you really think some hair is going to stop me from wanting you? From needing you?”

There was no hesitation, no doubt—just the raw truth, spoken in a way that left no room for argument. Now that his head wasn’t clouded with desperation, now that he could think straight, he wanted to say it again. To make sure she never questioned it. His voice was low, intimate, but firm, laced with something deeper—something more than just desire.

A reminder. A promise.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “You’re perfect. Every inch of you. Every curve, every freckle, every bit of you that you think isn’t enough—it’s everything to me. I don’t care about some fucking hair, Y/N. I care about you. I care about being here—with you, inside you, feeling you.” His hand slid down, his fingers skimming the softness of her lower belly, his touch so tender it made her breath catch. “I care about the way you moan when I touch you. The way your body trembles when I’m inside you. The way you look at me like I’m the only thing that matters. That’s what I care about. Not hair. Never that.”

She swallowed hard, her chest tightening with emotion. “Lando...”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You don’t have to be self-conscious with me. Ever. I don’t care about what you think is ‘flawed.’ To me, there’s nothing flawed about you. You’re... Jesus, Y/N, you’re everything. I swear to god, as long as I get to have the privilege of being with you, of touching you, of being inside you, I don’t care about anything else. You’re all I want. All I’ve ever wanted.”

Her heart swelled, her insecurities crumbling under the intensity of his gaze, the warmth of his touch, the sincerity in his voice. “You really mean that?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“More than anything,” he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “You’re my girl, Y/N. My everything. Don’t ever forget that.”

She sighed, a slow exhale that carried away the last of her lingering doubts. He meant every word. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his fingers caressed her skin like she was something precious, something he never wanted to let go of.

“I won’t forget,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but he caught it. He always did.

Lando smiled, a slow, lazy grin that made her heart skip a beat. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips. It was soft this time, unhurried, a gentle claiming rather than the frantic need from earlier. “Because I plan on reminding you every single day.”

[27spoons]

yapping yapping to you dudeeee. have you seen how nat treated mari's brat ass (and some of shauna's, too)? i was like: panties? where? *inserts that meme of an emoji with a dangling lingerie* like, the way her care and natural protective instincts kick in, even though others might give two fucks about her 😭😭 my baby, come here, i'll take care of youuuuu imagining a brat!reader making nat's days a living hell, but she can't possibly lash out, so she puts reader into a time-out (house arrest tf), or even brings them their portion of the food into their hut, ending up in nat "teaching reader" how to behave 😇 yuk, an innocent lesson

what if i said i wanted to be put in my place. what then. what if i said i need to piss nat off until she snaps at me, realises that i liked it, and then does it again?

nsfw blurb / smut / gn!afab!reader / porn w some plot / self-indulgent / not proofread we die like the cabin at the end of s2/ wc: 1260

natalie stands outside your shelter, the fresh scent of damp earth and cool spring air brushing past. the spring out here is deceptive—warmer than the cruel winter was but still bitter in the mornings and evenings. the soft hum of insects punctuate the silence that settles in the dim light of the evening.

inside, you restlessly lay on your makeshift bedroll, leg bouncing as you trace the light strips that filter through the gaps in your structure with your eyes. when she finally steps in—carrying a wooden bowl of stew—you glance up with a cocky grin that you already know nat will not like.

"well, well." you drawl, sitting up. "The Queen herself. To what do I owe the pleasure on this fine evening?"

nat doesn't bite. she places the bowl on the tree stump in front of you unceremoniously. "dinner," she says simply, straightening and crossing her arms.

"wow, room service?" you let out a low whistle, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head. "i gotta say, i'm kinda liking this whole 'house arrest' thing, you know? the perks are nice." a beat, "actually, is it too much to ask, or could i get some dessert?"

her jaw clenches, but she manages to keep her voice in check. "you seriously think this is funny?"

"i mean... yeah." you shrug. "let's be real, nat. you're supposed to be running this place or whatever, but here you are, babysitting me." you groan and sit back up, "doesn't really scream..." a beat as you feign thought, "fearsome leader, you know?"

nat's eyes narrow, and you swear you can feel the frustration radiating off of her. the distant sounds of the wilderness around you seems to grow at the sudden tension, filling the space between you two. "you really wanna test how far i'll go?"

your grin falters slightly, but you can't deny the subtle rush that builds inside of you at the way her voice lowers. "what are you gonna do? give me another stern talking-to?"

she steps closer, her worn combat boots crunching against the forest floor. she leans down just enough to meet your gaze, her voice shifting to that tone she knows gets you weak. “no. talking doesn’t seem to work with you.”

before you can fire back a retort, she's grabbing your jaw with her right hand and squeezing. "you aren't leaving this hut until i say so, and honestly?" her voice lowers further, "i don't think you deserve to leave after all this shit you've pulled, do you?"

you stare up at her, unsure if you're supposed to be feeling afraid, aroused, or both."uh…" you blink a few times, "wow, nat. you really got the whole… 'scary leader' thing down. i'm shaking in my boots."

a scoff leaves her lips, but she doesn't visibly react further to your sarcasm. "you can joke all you want, yeah? but we both know you'll listen to what i say. because if you don't…" her eyes flash down to your lips for a moment, "well, they don't last very long."

your stomach twists, but not because you're scared. well, maybe a little. but mostly? well, mostly you're just aroused.

and nat knows, if the way she smirks is any indication. "yeah. you know that, don't you?" her voice carries a teasing lilt that does unpleasant (but not unwelcome) things to your insides. "all you really want is to be put in your place." she grips your jaw a little tighter, "open your mouth more."

you do. your lips part on command, and you're rewarded with nat spitting into your mouth slowly. "close. don't swallow." you do as she asks, of course. there's no way she doesn't know you're ruining your underwear right about now. 

you swear you haven't taken a breath in a million years as she looks down at you, eyes sharp and calculating. "good. swallow." you comply, maintaining eye contact, then open your mouth to show her that you listen.

nat grins. "look at you. you can listen." 

she gives you a firm shove back onto your bedroll and follows you down. "but i think i still need to prove my point." 

one of her hands slides underneath the waistband to your pants without hesitation, and it takes everything in her to not make a sound of satisfaction at how wet you are already. "jesus. already?" she manages, the words almost coming out in a whine and breaking this facade of control. "you're fucking soaked."

"can't help it." you reply immediately, already feeling the fight in you leave the second she gets her hands on you, "it's you. you do this to me." you're already clenching around nothing, staring up at nat's form over your body with an expression of pure want. "please."

the girl almost scoffs at how quick you get to begging, considering it usually takes far longer to break you down. "damn. that was fast. you a little desperate?"

"fuck you—" you try and start, but your protests are quickly cut off with a sudden push of her forefinger into your cunt. "oh—"

"that's what i thought." she grins, starting to move her finger without giving you time to get used to the intrusion. "all talk and no game, yeah? not so big once someone actually starts taking charge."

your fingers dig into the soil around your bedroll, knowing better than to grab onto her right now. "that's not fair—"

another finger. "nothing is fucking fair." she bites, leaning down closer to your face, "we're trapped in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and you're talking to me about fair?" a harsh scoff leaves her lips as she begins pumping her fingers faster, "life isn't fucking fair."

you'd make a smart reply to that if you could, but it's sort of hard to do when her fingers are ruthlessly fucking in and out of you, your wetness soaking into the fabric of your underwear. "already so worked up." she tsks, "bet i could give you a third finger right now and you'd—" 

she does.

three fingers deep, fingers curling in and out of your pussy with a passion that only nat can possess, you groan and throw your head back. 

nat slaps her free hand over your mouth with a hiss, "jesus! do you want them to hear what's going on in here?" her fingers never cease in their actions as her gaze flicks to the entrance for a moment, watching to make sure no one is about to walk in on you two. "shit, i would never hear the end of this…" she murmurs before returning her gaze to you, hardening it slightly. "should have known you wouldn't be able to keep quiet." 

she grinds her palm against your clit with every crook of her fingers, and you can barely keep your eyes open at the harsh movements she fucks you with—pain and pleasure blurring together somewhere along the way. 

her breath ghosts over your ear as she leans down, and you can feel her smirk. "you're gonna come for me, and when you do, it's gonna happen again." you whine, and she chuckles lowly in response. "and again. until i fucking decide that you've finally understood how to listen to fucking orders."you stare up at her with wide eyes when she pulls her face back slightly, and nat's grin only widens further. "and we both know you have a hard time following orders." her fingers find that one spot, and you swear you see stars—"so i think it's gonna be a long night."

[threadbearsweater]

one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan

When you find yourself taken in by a gang of outlaws, the last thing you expect is to grow sweet on one of them- and have the feelings reciprocated. Arthur Morgan doesn't have time for romantic nonsense, but a few memebers of the gang want to make sure that he gets to indulge in his obvious affection toward you. Tags: 3.9k words, an unlikely romance, meddling gang members (with the purest of intentions, one might suppose); female reader, alcohol use, smoking, emotional smut. A repost from a (regretfully) deactivated blog.

Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.

“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.

“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.

“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”

You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.

Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.

“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”

The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.

“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.

“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”

“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”

She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”

You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.

Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”

You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”

A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.

“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”

“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”

“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”

There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.

Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.

“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.

Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.

“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.

“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.

“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.

“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”

You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.

There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”

“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.

The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.

“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”

You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.

Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.

“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.

Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”

You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.

“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”

“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”

The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.

You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”

It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.

“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.

“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.

“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.

Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)

You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.

“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, you started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”

“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.

“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.

“It's a promise,” he whispers.

You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.

The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.

“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.

He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.

“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”

You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.

“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”

It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.

You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”

Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”

Now you remember it in vivid detail.

“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”

“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”

“I ain't no damn–”

“Kiss me.”

He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.

Things get heated quickly.

His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.

“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.

“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grabbed at each other like it was the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you wanted more than what the other of you was able to give.

Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.

“Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”

Your moans are what drive him over the edge.

He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.

Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.

You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”

Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”

“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”

“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”

You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”

He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”

[amirasainz]

Little Alonso when she comes to the paddock and everything’s normal but Lando realized suddenly she’s warm and feels sick, it’ll be cute all the drivers making sure she’s okayy

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💕

Sick days

The paddock buzzed with excitement as fans crowded the track, drivers rushed through their schedules, and the teams hustled to prepare for the Grand Prix. Among all this action, a small whirlwind of energy darted from garage to garage, spreading smiles wherever she went. Four-year-old Yn was having the time of her life, her bright giggles filling the air as she explored the paddock, holding her plushie tightly in one hand.

“Yn! Careful!” Fernando called after her as she dashed away from him yet again. He shook his head, unable to suppress a fond smile as she ducked behind a wall of mechanics.

“Is that her fifth lap around the paddock?” Carlos teased, stepping up beside Fernando.

“Fifth? More like tenth,” Fernando replied. “She has more energy than a full grid on softs.”

Nearby, Lando was leaning against his team’s garage wall, sipping water. He looked up just in time to see Yn sprint toward him, her little face lighting up when she spotted him.

“Lando!” she cried, throwing her arms wide.

“Whoa, hey there, Yn!” he said, crouching just in time to catch her. She collided into him with all her tiny strength, wrapping her arms around his neck.

But as soon as he hugged her, Lando felt something off. She was warmer than usual—too warm. Pulling back slightly, he looked at her pale, flushed face. Her breathing was still heavy, and her tiny frame trembled against him.

“Yn, are you okay?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern. He pressed his hand against her forehead, his eyes widening at how hot her skin felt.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured. “Carlos! Come here for a second.”

Carlos, who had been chatting with some engineers nearby, jogged over. “What’s up?”

“I think she’s sick,” Lando said, adjusting Yn in his arms so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “Feel her forehead.”

Carlos leaned down, brushing Yn’s damp hair aside. His expression turned serious the moment his palm touched her skin.

“She’s definitely got a fever,” he confirmed. “Fernando’s going to lose it if he sees her like this.”

“She said she wanted to run,” Yn murmured softly, her voice weaker now. “I wanted to see everything.”

Lando’s heart clenched at how exhausted she sounded. “Alright, little troublemaker,” he said gently, “no more running for now. Let’s get you comfy.”

Together, Lando and Carlos carried her into Lando’s driver room, where the air-conditioning was a welcome relief. Lando grabbed a blanket from the corner and wrapped it around Yn, tucking her plushie securely in her arms. She leaned against him without protest, which only made him more worried.

Oscar peeked his head in. “What’s going on? Why does Yn look like she just did a triathlon?”

“She’s sick,” Carlos explained. “Fever, pale, tired. Typical ‘I’ve been running around all day’ symptoms.”

Oscar frowned. “Does she need a doctor?”

“Not yet,” Lando said, rocking Yn gently as her breathing began to even out. “But we need to keep her hydrated and resting. Can you grab some juice or water?”

“On it,” Carlos said, heading out.

“I’ll stay with her,” Oscar volunteered. He rummaged through his bag, pulling out a children’s book he always carried for his little niece. “Yn, do you want me to read to you?”

Yn’s eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a small nod. “Story?”

Oscar smiled, flipping to the first page. “It’s about a bear who goes on an adventure. Sound good?”

She nodded again, nestling closer to Lando, who tightened the blanket around her.

Carlos returned with a juice box and handed it to Lando. “Try to get her to drink a little.”

“Yn, can you take a sip for me?” Lando asked, holding the straw to her lips. She drank a few small sips before leaning back into him, her plushie hugged tightly to her chest.

Fernando finally walked in after finishing his media obligations, his sharp eyes immediately landing on Yn. His face softened with worry. “What happened?”

“She got sick from running around,” Lando explained. “We’ve got her resting now.”

Fernando crouched in front of them, brushing Yn’s hair gently. “Mi pequeña, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“I wanted to play,” she whispered.

Fernando sighed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to rest, okay?”

Yn nodded sleepily, her eyelids drooping. Fernando looked at the three drivers and gave them a small smile of gratitude. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“She’s part of the paddock family,” Lando said, his voice soft as he adjusted the blanket around Yn again. “We’ve got her.”

As Oscar continued reading, Carlos passed Lando a pillow to support Yn’s head, and Fernando pulled up a chair to sit beside them. Yn might have overdone it today, but with her paddock uncles doting on her, she was already on the mend.

[yukioos]

BED CHEM

SUMMARY: viktor x reader // you and mel walk down the hallways of piltover university when suddenly, you encounter two men trying to break into a professor’s laboratory.

AUTHORS NOTE: hiii!! so sorry i haven’t posted in a while. season 2 of arcane broke my heart, but it was so cool. anyway, im working on an ashley and ada writing atm, but pls be patient. this is 1.2k words and something i randomly thought of because of a pinterest comment under a photo of viktor

WARNINGS: trying to break into a room, reader is interpreted as feminine because of a long dress and heels, reader is a councilor, not proofread

as a new member of the piltover council, you’ve been the busiest you’d been in your life. constant laws to vote on and tedious, frequent meetings could make you feel annoyed at times. however, you made a new friend, who you’ve become extremely close with in the past couple of years.

you and mel knew each other when you were younger, just never hung out as much as you do now. despite not having strong connections to one another at a young age, it opposes how you are now. she’s invited you to her nightly scouting at piltover university.

it isn’t an interesting activity to do, but you love hanging out with mel. during these times when you explore the large university for hours, you find much time to converse with the noblewoman. sometimes you and she hold your giggles after telling the other a joke, not wanting to alert a trespasser.

this night doesn’t seem to be unlike all the others. you walk down the decorated halls of piltover university with a flashlight in hand. your flowy black dress hangs low to your ankles, and your and mel’s heels clack against the tile floor.

you and mel whisper amongst one another, she asks, “have you had your eye on anyone lately?” smirking softly and side-eyeing you.

you gasp and your cheeks flush, “‘course not, mel! i just… have not found the right person yet, i guess.” your smile diminishes.

your heels continue to clack against the ground, and you feel a cold breeze on your bare arms and leg, exposed due to the slit dress. you shiver and rub your hand on your arm, keeping the flashlight in front of you.

there’s a moment of silence between you two when mel hesitatingly speaks up, “maybe jayce has a friend you will feel… attracted to.”

“eh, i’ll just not do much. maybe let the universe pull me to the right person instead, yeah? i would hate to waste my time on the wrong person—“

she places her arm in front of you, squinting and giving you a look. you tilt your head before you begin to hear voices, and you quietly turn your flashlight off. mel keeps hers on, and the two of you tip-toe closer to the noise. it seems to be close to heimerdinger’s office, if you remember the university layout correctly.

“so far, so good—“ a man with a thick accent whispers, as if trying to hide his actions.

mel turns the flashlight on, and you cross your arms. the two men shield their eyes, and you recognize one as jayce talis. you tilt your head at the sight of the other man with brown hair and a defined jawline, who is turning a key into the door labeled ‘pf. heimdinger.’

mel taunts, “hmm. willing to risk exile for your endeavor. that’s quite the conviction.”

“councilor!” jayce interrupts, “what a surprise to see you, huh?”

then, the mysterious man comes up with an excuse, “wait a minute, this isn’t my bedroom. how could i have…”

jayce stands up from his knees and pleads with you and mel, “please. we can prove that it works.”

mel comes up with a contradiction as fast as lightning, she hums, “hmm. you couldn’t do so earlier today, how is tonight any different?”

“we figured out how to stabilize it.” the pale man replies.

he eyes are sharp toward the noblewoman until his gaze travels to you. his eyes widen and his cheeks flush, he can feel himself becoming warmer and warmer. you can tell he’s observing you and your actions, as well as your attire.

god, you’re beautiful.

he doesn’t say many words over the next couple of seconds, but you smile at him, warming his heart quickly. he’s knocked out of his mind when mel speaks.

“you’re the professor’s assistant,” she refers to the man with the keys.

jayce disagrees, “no, he’s my new partner.”

you nervously chime in, sticking close to mel, “even if you manage to prove your theory, the other council members would destroy it.”

“heimerdinger will recognize the potential, miss l/n,” the handsome man says.

he knows your name!

mel scoffs, and she’s not having any of their crap, “he already does. it scares him. it scares them all.”

“what about you, miss l/n? you are on the council, correct?” jayce’s partner asks. his eyebrows furrow in curiosity, and your heart melts at his eyebrows twitching upwards.

you ponder for a few seconds, staring at him and slickly moving closer to the man. you respond, taking a few moments to think of how to form a sentence in front of such an attractive guy, “i think any worthwhile venture includes risk. and please, call me y/n.”

you hear whistling from the hallway, and you give mel a glance that makes her infer, ‘we need to make a decision quickly.’

“councilors, this technology, it’s real. and no matter what happens here, it’s going to change our world. we should be the ones to lead it. piltover, the land of progress, equality, innovation. i know it sounds impossible, but when have we ever let that stop us? please, just give us a chance.” jayce explains.

you glance at mel, and you assume she’s left the decision to you. you reply with a sigh, “one night, you two. i want to see in the morning how you have progressed your technology.”

“thank you, councilor l/n,” the one in the white tie thanks.

you quietly nod and smile, waving to them as mel gently pulls your arm and turns the flashlight off. she goes on to distract and talk to harold, the enforcer. as you step down the hall, you glance behind you to hardly see the nameless man staring at you back. he then gets pulled into the room by jayce, who seems urgent to work on the high-end technology.

as councilor medarda’s flashlight flicks off, and you and mel walk away, viktor’s still standing near the entrance of the laboratory. he sees a shine in your eyes even through the dark hallway, however, he doesn’t know if you can see him as well.

he doesn’t even notice jayce has unlocked the door until he gets pulled in by the taller man.

“you were ogling at councilor l/n.” jayce grins, teasing his partner.

“i was not. that would be unprofessional and inappropriate. plus, we are here to work on hextech,” he attempts to change the subject, “we should get working on it.”

“i’ll work with mel to set you two up.” jayce objects, rolling his eyes and chuckling at the slender figure.

viktor couldn’t pass up that opportunity.

“who’s the cute boy with the white jacket and the thick accent?” you ask mel, walking away from the enforcer.

she grins at you, showing her perfect teeth, “that was viktor. and from what i can tell, he’s interested in you.”

as you continue to walk down the hallway, leaving the university to travel toward your bedroom, you go to sleep with a happy feeling in your chest.

[cuzxai]

say it like you mean it - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: fighting with spence ugh then you get breeded

The sound of the front door clicking shut sent a bolt of tension through your spine. You didn’t turn around right away—just stood by the kitchen sink, eyes fixed on the glass in your hand, watching the condensation trail down like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Anything to keep from looking at him.

Spencer’s keys hit the bowl by the door with a familiar clink. His bag landed on the counter a second later. And then silence. Heavy, expectant silence.

“You’re late,” you finally said, voice neutral. He exhaled. “I called.” You nodded once. “Yeah.” Still, you didn’t face him.

“I didn’t pick up because I was in the shower,” you added after a beat. “Figured if something happened to you, someone would’ve left a voicemail.”That made him pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was cautious but not soft. Tired, maybe. Defensive.

You turned then. Leaned back against the sink and looked at him for the first time that night. His hair was a mess, his tie halfway undone. His knuckles were raw. Your stomach turned. “It means,” you said slowly, “that I’m tired of playing this game where I pretend I’m not scared out of my fucking mind every time you walk out that door.”Spencer blinked. That he wasn’t expecting. “It was a raid,” he said like that explained everything. “There were risks, yes. But it was controlled. I had a vest on—”

“Oh, great,” you snapped. “A vest. That makes all the difference when some guy with a shotgun doesn’t give a shit where he aims.” He stepped closer, just one careful step. “You knew what I did when we got together.”

“Yeah. And I knew what war was when I read about it, but it’s a little different when you’re watching someone you love walk into it every goddamn day.” The words came out too fast, too raw. Spencer’s expression shifted like the ground beneath his feet tilted and he was struggling to stay upright. He swallowed. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said quietly. “Well, I do,” you said. “I can’t not.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now like the movement could help him make sense of it. “I don’t understand what you want from me. You think I want to be in danger? That I enjoy it?”

“No! I think you forget what it does to the people who have to sit at home and wait.” You moved toward him then, voice rising. “You come home late, bruised and bleeding and you downplay it. You act like it’s nothing. But you don’t see the way I flinch when you limp through the door. You don’t hear me crying in the shower after you fall asleep.” He stopped walking. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “Well, now you do.”

There was silence. The kind that burns in your throat and behind your eyes. And then softer, you whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.” Spencer’s head dropped. His hands clenched at his sides. You watched him breathe, slow and uneven.

“I’m sorry,” he said and for once, it didn’t sound automatic. It wasn’t a bandaid. It was an apology that cracked him open. “I didn’t realize you felt like this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I try not to. Most of the time, I try really hard not to feel anything at all, because it’s easier than feeling like this.”

When you looked back up at him, his eyes were already on you. Soft, guilty, wrecked. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re the one thing I think about when things get bad. The only thing that keeps me from falling apart out there.”

The air shifted. Warmer. Closer. You didn’t move away when he touched your face, just leaned into it, heart pounding so loud it drowned everything else out. “I don’t want to lose you either,” he whispered.

Your breath caught when his thumb brushed your cheek, eyes locked with yours like he wasn’t sure whether to kiss you or keep confessing. You didn’t give him the choice. You leaned forward, grabbed his face and kissed him like it would keep him here. Keep him alive. Keep him yours. And he kissed you back just as hard, just as fast, like he needed to feel everything you were saying without saying it. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. It was a collision.

He groaned into your mouth, both hands sliding down your sides like he had to touch you to believe this was real. His fingers gripped your hips tight enough to bruise, grounding himself in the weight of you. You reached for his belt with shaking hands, fumbling with the buckle while he bit down softly on your bottom lip, kissed you again and again and again like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

When you finally got his belt undone, he exhaled sharply, like even that was too much. Like the relief of being wanted was overwhelming. “Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, “you’re still wearing the hoodie.” You laughed against him, breathless. “You bought it for me.”

“I know,” he said dragging his hands under the hem, bunching it up around your ribs so he could touch bare skin. “That’s the problem. You wearing my clothes when you feel like you’re losing me? That’s mean.” You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again, tugged at the waistband of his pants. You were desperate to feel more. To feel all of him.

He lifted you onto the kitchen counter without warning, the edge digging into your thighs but you didn’t care. All you could feel was the heat of his body, the growing hardness pressing into your hip and the sound of his breathing getting heavier with every second. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, biting the underside just hard enough to make your stomach tighten. You were so wet you could feel it and when his fingers slid under the band of your underwear and dipped between your legs, he groaned. His forehead falling against your shoulder. “God, baby,” he said. “You’re soaked.”

“Then do something about it.” He didn’t tease. Didn’t build up to it. Two fingers slid into you slowly, curling with that same pinpoint precision you always forgot about until he was inside you again. You gasped and grabbed at his shirt, nearly coming apart right there.“You’re always like this for me,” he murmured, lips dragging over your throat. “Even when we’re fighting. Even when you’re mad. Like your body knows.” You whimpered and he chuckled—low, rough, still hurt under all the lust.

“Yeah. That’s right.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him closer and he let out a breathless laugh, pulling his fingers out so he could shove his pants low enough to free himself. You tried to pull your underwear off completely but he grabbed your wrists, stopping you. “Leave them on,” he muttered. “Wanna fuck you with them still on. Pushed to the side. Want you messy for me.”

You moaned softly as he lined himself up, sliding inside with one smooth but unrelenting thrust. Your breath hitched, hands scrambling for anything to hold on to. He felt so deep, so full, you couldn’t think. “God, Spencer—”

“You feel that?” he rasped. “That stretch? That fullness? That’s mine.” He didn’t move for a moment. Just stayed buried inside you, gripping your waist like he was grounding himself in the feel of your body. “I almost lost this,” he whispered. “I thought I was losing you. You know what that did to me?”

Your throat tightened. “I love you,” you said, quiet and raw. He groaned and pulled out just enough to slam back in, making you cry out. “I know,” he hissed. “I know, baby.” Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging until he gasped. His laugh was wild, right against your skin. Then he started to move. Hard and fast, a rhythm fueled by every fear and every feeling he didn’t know how to say out loud. The slap of skin, the wet sounds between you and the harsh breaths—you couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t think of anything else. He reached down and grabbed the backs of your thighs, lifting your hips slightly to hit even deeper and you nearly sobbed. “Shit—Spence—”

“That’s it,” he panted. “That’s my girl. So good for me.”

“Yours,” you whimpered. “Say it again.” And you did. You did until you couldn’t anymore, until you couldn’t think about anything but him. He kissed you, open-mouthed and messy. His thrusts getting faster, rougher, his voice breaking around the words, “I love you.” he pants, “No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to make you feel like this. Yeah?” you could barely respond, “Yes—yes—Spence, please—”

“You’re making such a mess on my cock, baby. You like it when I fuck you like this huh?” You were barely breathing. Your moans were punched out of you with every snap of his hips.“Gonna come,” you choked. “Yeah?” he said, grinning now. “Do it. Come for me. Come on my cock like you were made for it.” Your whole body clenched, legs locking around his waist as your orgasm hit, crashing through you like a wave. He didn’t stop. Rode it out, held you tight, eyes locked on yours as he fucked you through it.

The way your body locked up, thighs trembling around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders like you were trying to stay tethered to the earth. Your mouth opened in a silent moan at first, head falling back and Spencer watched, completely entranced as it bloomed across your face.

“Fuck,” he groaned, arms tightening around you, “fuck, baby. You look so pretty when you come.” Your walls clenched down around him, fluttering and tight. You were soaking him all over again as he kept fucking into you without pause. He wasn’t letting up. Not when you were this wet, this open for him. Not when your body was already responding again, too sensitive to handle the pace but still twitching like it wanted more. “Spence—” you whimpered, voice broken and caught in your throat. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he whispered, hips rolling a bit slower now. “You will. You’re gonna take all of it. Just like that.” His hands splayed against your lower back, anchoring you in place as he thrust slow, firm strokes that made your eyes roll back. “Still so tight,” he muttered, breath hitching as he felt your muscles fluttering again. “Even after you came all over my cock, you’re still gripping me like you need it. Is that it? Huh sweetheart? You need this?” You nodded, helpless. “Yeah,” he coo’d, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My smart girl. My good fucking girl.”

You were barely coherent. Every thrust sent sparks down your spine, each one threatening to knock you over the edge again. Your legs had gone numb, your hands scrabbling for anything to hold but Spencer was there, keeping you steady, whispering the filthiest things into your ear while he fucked you slow and deep. “Gonna make you come again,” he murmured, lips dragging along your jaw. “Just like this. Gonna stay inside you until you’re soaked and shaking. Until you can’t think of anything but how good I make you feel.”

You whimpered, legs twitching again. The overstimulation was dizzying but your body wasn’t stopping. Not even close. “Please,” you whispered. “Spencer, I need you.”

“You have me,” he said, voice sharp and certain. “You have me, baby. Always.”Your head dropped to his shoulder as another wave built up in your stomach, slow and molten. Your breath stuttered. Your body started to tremble again, and Spencer felt it. “Yeah,” he whispered. “There she is. Look at you.” He pulled back just enough to watch your face, to see the way your brows scrunched, lips parted in a cry that never fully formed. He didn’t blink. “Come for me,” he said, low and rough. “I want to feel it. Right now.” And you did.

A second orgasm tore through you, twice as intense as the first. Your whole body jerking in his arms, cunt clenching so hard around him that he nearly lost it right there. You moaned his name, a soft broken sob against his neck and he held you through it, still moving, still whispering praise against your skin. “So good f’me,” he groaned. “That’s it. You’re so good. So perfect like this—messy and mine.” He didn’t stop.

Even as you trembled, even as you gasped for breath, he kept going. Fucking you through the aftershocks, keeping you full and stuffed and close. You could feel him starting to unravel, his rhythm faltering, breath catching, jaw clenched like he was holding back everything until you were ready to fall apart with him.

You felt it in the way he gripped your hips tighter. The way his voice dropped into something ragged, something helpless. “You want me to come inside you?” he asked breathlessly, brow pressed to yours. “You want me to fill you up?” You whimpered, barely a nod, barely a sound and his eyes darkened like it was the only answer he’d ever needed.

He couldn’t hold back anymore. Not after everything—your second orgasm still rippling through your body, slick dripping down his cock, your eyes glazed and dazed and stuck on him like he was the only thing tethering you to reality. You were wrecked and trembling and still letting him fuck you deep, whispering his name with every breath like it meant something holy. And to him, it did.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice shattering as he fucked up into you harder now, sloppier, chasing the edge that had been threatening to snap since you started pulsing around him. “I’m—shit, baby, I’m gonna come—” You whined into his shoulder, nails dragging down his back and that was it. Spencer’s hips stuttered, the rhythm falling apart entirely as he buried himself as deep as he could go, forehead pressed to yours. His whole body tensed—his breath caught—and then he came, hard and hot inside you. A broken groan tearing from his throat like he���d been holding it back for weeks. “Jesus,” he choked, his hands gripping your hips to keep you right where he needed you. “Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good—made to take it, I swear…”

You felt him pulse inside you, ropes of it filling you up. The warmth flooding through you in slow, overwhelming waves. Spencer kept moving through it—slow thrusts that pushed it deeper, that kept him grounded while the orgasm tore through him like a lightning strike.

“Shit,” he whispered again, like he couldn’t say anything else. His voice cracked on it. You reached up and held his face, brushing the sweaty hair off his forehead and he leaned into your touch like it was oxygen. He didn’t pull out, not yet. Just stayed there, still hard inside you and breathing like he’d just run for miles and finally found his way home.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth like a confession. “Even when we’re like this. Especially when we’re like this.” You nodded, still catching your breath. You felt ruined. You felt whole. And even though nothing was fixed yet, even though the fight still lingered somewhere in the background—you knew you’d be okay. Not just because he came back to you. But because he never really left.

[be4chywritez]

sweet like honey | max verstappen

max verstappen x fem!reader

"you're to sweet for me."

Max doesn't like how nice you are towards him.

beachy’s masterlist🐚

prompt list

Max isn't sure why he doesn’t like you. You’ve never wronged him, never talked bad about him, or been rude in any way. But for some odd reason, Max hates you.

Maybe it’s the Verstappen genes kicking in, that innate tendency to be an asshole. Or maybe it’s bred into him to keep sweet things like you at a distance. So, you can imagine his shock and horror when he sees you perched on the couch, flipping through a book in his friend’s Italian villa.

Your eyes meet his, and a smile graces your lips. You place the book in your lap, and he watches as your eyes brighten at the sight of him, the same way they might light up at the sight of a pretty flower.

Your small yellow sundress barely covers your upper thighs, and Max can’t help but stare before quickly looking down at his phone, not wanting to be too obvious about his boyish gawking.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice warm and rich like honey, drawing his attention whether he wants it or not.

He hears you, of course, but pretends to focus on his phone. His thumb moves slowly over the screen, though nothing he sees holds his interest. It’s the way you say his name that sticks in his mind, making it impossible to ignore.

“It’s nice to see you,” you continue, your tone sincere as if you mean it more than you should. You settle back into the cushions, your dress slipping a little higher on your thighs, and he catches himself glancing before looking away again.

Max lets out a quiet huff, his eyes still fixed on his phone, but his attention is all on you now. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, almost guarded.

You shift, crossing your legs under you, the air feeling warmer, closer. “A surprise, I guess,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the kind that lingers, soft and effortless.

Max clenches his jaw, forcing himself to look back at his phone. Still, he’s hyper-aware of your presence, of the subtle scent of your perfume lingering in the room. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, even as his chest tightens.

“Yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s afraid to say anything else, and you let the moment settle, content with the quiet between you.

Just then, his best friend Jamie stumbles in, holding a glass of chardonnay. “Maxie,” he coos, squishing Max’s cheeks together, making his lips pucker. Close behind comes your best friend, Mila—Jamie’s girlfriend.

A few others join the group, a mix of Jamie and Mila’s friends, and Max’s brow furrows as he realizes that they’re all couples. He internally groans, watching your eyes flit around like a lost puppy.

“Alright, everyone,” Mila announces with a clap of her hands, “time to head up. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

One by one, the group starts dispersing, grabbing their things and heading upstairs. Max lingers, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but he’s acutely aware of you standing up from the couch, smoothing down the hem of your dress.

You move with an easy grace, slipping past him with a soft, “Goodnight, Max.” There’s no sarcasm, no bite—just genuine kindness that he doesn’t understand. You flash him a small smile before heading toward the stairs.

Max’s jaw tightens as he watches you go. You’re far too calm, far too kind for his liking. It makes him uncomfortable, like you’re holding a mirror up to the way he behaves, forcing him to see the stark contrast between you.

He takes a deep breath, tucking his phone into his pocket, and follows behind the group. The villa is beautiful, the soft glow of the lights casting long shadows across the walls as everyone makes their way to their respective rooms. His room is at the far end of the hall, and as he reaches it, he notices you standing just outside the door next to his.

“Looks like we’re neighbors,” you say lightly, your voice warm and soft. You hold your toothbrush and a towel, your yellow sundress replaced by pale pink silky pajamas, and there’s something almost disarming about how comfortable you seem.

Max nods, his expression neutral. “Yeah.”

You don’t push the conversation, only smile again as you step into your room. “Sleep well, Max,” you say over your shoulder, as if you mean it.

He huffs quietly, more out of habit than frustration, and slips into his own room. The door closes with a soft click, and he leans back against it, rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, he stands there, in the silence of the room, staring at nothing in particular. He doesn’t know why your kindness unsettles him so much. It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but that’s exactly the problem. You’re too nice. Too understanding. And for some reason, it gets under his skin.

Max changes into a T-shirt and shorts, moving about the room on autopilot. He keeps hearing your voice, soft and sweet, lingering in his thoughts.

Finally, he pulls back the covers and slides into bed, trying to shut everything out. But it’s quiet now—too quiet. And even though you’re just on the other side of the wall, he can’t stop thinking about you.

In the middle of the night, he’s still awake, tossing and turning, when there’s a soft knock on his door. Max sits up, frowning slightly, wondering who it could be at this hour.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads across the room, opening the door just a crack. It’s you, standing there, a little sheepish, your arms crossed lightly over your chest.

“Sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… my room's really hot. I think the AC is broken.”

Max blinks, unsure of what to say at first. Part of him wants to tell you to deal with it yourself, but another part of him can’t ignore it.

His eyes linger on you more than he’d admit—your hair sticking to your neck from sweat, your cheeks flushed, and you nibble your lip nervously. Your tank top has ridden up, a sliver of your hip exposed, and Max does everything in his power to push those thoughts away.

“Uh… you could just crack open a window,” he suggests, his voice a bit rough from sleep. He knows the words sound hollow even to him. He doesn’t want you in his space, yet part of him doesn’t want you sweating alone either.

You fidget slightly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I tried, but it didn’t help. I just thought… maybe I could crash in here?” The words hang in the air, hopeful yet tentative.

Max’s heart races at the idea. The prospect of sharing the bed makes his palms sweat. It’s one thing to be in the same room, but sharing a bed? He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he weighs his options.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of something deeper in his tone. The image of you curled up beside him—too close for comfort—sends a shiver down his spine.

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” you offer a nervous smile, clearly not wanting to invade his space, so you back away, ducking into your room. He watches you until the door is shut behind you.

Max stands in the doorway, his heart racing as he processes the moment. He’s not sure why he feels such a strong urge to call you back, to insist that it’s okay, but the words remain stuck in his throat. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling a mix of irritation and something else—something he’s not ready to name.

As he paces back to his bed, he tries to shake off the lingering image of you standing there, your flushed cheeks and nervous smile. He lies down again, staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you’re just a wall away.

A few moments pass before he hears a soft, muffled noise from your room—a sniffle, maybe? It makes his chest tighten at the thought of you crying because you're uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, tossing an arm over his eyes. He’s not going to sleep if he keeps thinking about you like this.

After what feels like an eternity of tossing and turning, he finally sits up, his decision made. He stands up, his heart pounding in his chest, and makes his way to your door. He raises his hand to knock but hesitates, uncertainty flooding in.

“Why the hell am I doing this?” he mutters, his self-doubt creeping back in. But the thought of you feeling uncomfortable alone is enough to push him through. He knocks softly, the sound barely more than a tap.

“Hey,” you call from inside, and he can hear the surprise in your voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, his voice worse than he intended. “I… just thought maybe you could come back. It’s probably not that hot here.”

There’s a brief silence, and he can imagine the look on your face—surprised and perhaps a little hopeful. “Really?” you ask, and he can’t help the slight smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

The door swings open, revealing you still in your silk-clad pajamas. He rips his gaze away, feeling a tightness in his throat. He doesn't utter a word, just turns around, walking to his room. He can hear your feet padding behind him, and you close the door behind the both of you.

Max keeps his back to you as you quietly follow him into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The air feels heavier now, thick with unspoken tension as you stand there in the dim light, waiting for him to say something. But Max doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight for the bed, pulling back the covers on one side, his movements stiff and a little too deliberate.

“You can take the right side,” he mutters, not looking at you, as he slides under the covers on the left. His heart is pounding, though he tries to act like everything is fine.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to thank him or just keep quiet. Deciding not to push it, you simply nod, even though he isn’t looking at you. You cross the room and slip into the bed beside him, careful not to make any sudden movements.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he can feel the same tension thrumming between you that you do. The bed feels impossibly small now, the space between you a thin sliver of air that crackles with awkwardness.

You lie still, facing away from him, but you can feel his presence—so close and yet so distant. The sound of his steady breathing fills the room, and you wonder if he’s doing the same as you, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep.

Minutes stretch on, and the silence between you is deafening. Every creak of the bed, every shift in the sheets seems louder in the stillness of the night. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice so soft it barely breaks the silence. You don’t expect a reply, and for a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of your own breathing.

Then, finally, Max shifts slightly beside you. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough, but there’s something different in it now. Something that isn’t as cold as before.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Maybe he isn’t as indifferent as he wants you to think. You curl up a little more, trying to make yourself comfortable, even as the tension lingers in the air between you.

As the night drags on, you begin to drift in and out of sleep. The heat from the earlier part of the night is gone now, replaced by a cooler breeze that drifts in through the open window. The sheets are soft, and for the first time since you entered Max’s room, you start to relax.

Just as you’re on the edge of sleep, you feel something shift again. Max turns slightly, the mattress dipping as he moves closer—just barely, but enough for you to notice. His arm brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin sends a small jolt through you.

You stay perfectly still, wondering if he did it on purpose or if he’s just restless. Either way, you don’t move, afraid to disturb the delicate balance between you.

Your mind races—what if you roll over onto him in your sleep? What if you start snoring?—and the nerves bubble up, spilling out before you can stop yourself.

“So… I haven’t slept in a guy’s bed in ages,” you blurt out, staring at the ceiling. Max barely reacts, his only acknowledgment a low, noncommittal “Mhm,” but it doesn’t stop you from talking.

“Yeah, it’s been, like… a long time. I’m more of a 'sleep with a thousand pillows' kind of person, you know? Gotta have the right setup.” You laugh a little, mostly to yourself, feeling the need to fill the quiet. Max doesn’t respond, but you keep going, too nervous to stop. “Oh, and I’m really bad with directions, like, I get lost in grocery stores. Once, I ended up in the freezer aisle for thirty minutes just trying to find the cereal.”

“Mhm.”

His replies are half-hearted at best, but you don’t mind. If anything, the sound of his quiet indifference weirdly helps soothe your nerves.

“Oh! And I can’t swim,” you say with a laugh, thinking it’s just another random fact to throw out there. But this time, Max’s head snaps toward you.

“You came to the amalfi coast, and you can’t swim?” he asks, his voice sharper than before, with a hint of amusement. His eyes narrow slightly, and you can’t help but grin.

“Yeah,” you reply, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Figured I’d just, you know… stay on the shore.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” you say, laughing softly, your nerves easing a bit. “But I’m good at other things. Like… did you know I can recite the entire script of Finding Nemo? Well, mostly.”

Max rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Great skill.”

You keep talking, the words flowing easier now. Your voice fills the room, soft and rhythmic, and even though Max doesn’t say much, you can feel the tension in the air start to shift. His body relaxes slightly, the space between you feeling a little less awkward.

“And another thing, I’m a terrible cook. Burnt spaghetti once. Didn’t even think that was possible. It’s water and noodles, right?” You laugh again, and this time Max lets out a quiet huff—almost like a chuckle, though he’d never admit it.

Your voice is like a steady hum, lulling the room into a gentle calm. You talk about everything and nothing, the words spilling out in a quiet stream. Max listens, his responses becoming softer, almost inaudible, but it doesn’t matter. His breathing slows, his eyes fluttering shut as your voice washes over him.

You don’t notice when he finally drifts off, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. But somehow, you feel it—the way the energy in the room has shifted, his earlier sharpness melted away into something softer, more relaxed.

The next morning, sunlight spills through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You stir first, the warmth of the bed enveloping you, your body reluctant to wake. For a moment, you forget where you are, and then it hits you—Max’s bed, Max’s room. You blink your eyes open slowly, turning your head slightly to see him still there, asleep.

He’s lying on his back now, the sheets tangled around his waist, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. His face is serene, the harsh lines you’ve come to associate with him softened by sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, giving him an almost boyish look, something so different from the hard-edged man who usually glares at you.

You feel a strange flutter in your chest as you look at him, this version of Max—unguarded, vulnerable. It’s a side of him you never thought you’d see, and it’s almost too intimate, too close. You shift a little, trying not to make any noise, but the bed creaks softly under your weight.

Max stirs, his brows furrowing slightly as he slowly wakes up. His eyes open halfway, still hazy with sleep, and for a brief moment, he looks at you without the usual edge in his gaze. It’s like he’s forgotten for a second who you are, where he is.

Then, reality seems to settle back in, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly, though there’s no real malice there. Just a kind of gruff annoyance.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, his voice rough and low, thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply softly, offering a tentative smile.

He shifts, pushing himself up on his elbows, the sheet falling further down his waist, revealing more of his toned torso. You can’t help but glance, quickly averting your eyes when you realize you’re staring.

Max runs a hand through his messy hair, yawning as he glances at you. “You talk a lot in your sleep too, or is that just when you’re awake?” he asks, a hint of that familiar sarcasm creeping back into his tone, though there’s no real bite behind it.

You chuckle lightly, relaxing a little. “Only when I’m awake, I promise.”

He grunts, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence between you less awkward than you would’ve expected. It’s almost… comfortable.

Max stretches, his muscles flexing slightly as he does, and you try not to let your eyes linger too long. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, and you’re grateful when he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “how’d you sleep?”

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he shrugs. “Fine, I guess.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, almost begrudgingly, “Didn’t mind all the talking.”

Your heart skips a beat at that, the small admission catching you off guard. You smile, warmth spreading through you. “Glad to know I didn’t annoy you too much.”

Max doesn’t respond, just grabs his phone from the nightstand and checks the time. But you catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he turns away.

He stands, pulling on a shirt and running a hand through his hair again before heading toward the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast soon,” he mutters. “Don’t take too long.”

He steps out before poking his head back in his face serious, “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he says gesturing a finger around towards you and him, right asshole Max is alive and well.

“Right.” you deflate, but none the less walk to your room. You notice the AC now works. 

The warmth of the Italian sun is already starting to filter in through your window as you slip into your pale yellow babydoll dress. The soft fabric feels light against your skin, perfect for the warm weather and the laid-back vibes of the villa.

When you finally make your way downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries fills the air, and you can hear the familiar hum of laughter and chatter. The villa’s terrace is bathed in sunlight, with everyone seated around the large outdoor table, enjoying breakfast. 

Max is already seated, of course, his usual stoic expression in place. He’s leaning back in his chair, sunglasses on, making it impossible to tell if he’s even noticed you. 

An array of colorful fruits and pastries litters the table, couples chatting and laughing as you offer everyone a warm smile while taking a seat next to Mila, who returns the gesture. “How was the room, darling?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. You can feel a pair of laser beams on your face, as if Max is staring into your soul.

“Oh, it was truly nice,” you reply, feeling the tips of your ears heat up with nerves. Mila seems to buy it and turns to address the entire group.

“So, guys, today we’re going to take the yacht around,” she announces, eliciting a few excited hoots from your friends. Your stomach tightens at the thought of being stuck on a yacht, but you brush the anxiety aside.

As the chatter around the breakfast table grows, the knot in your stomach tightens at the mention of the yacht. You toy with the edge of your napkin, trying to suppress the wave of nerves that accompanies the idea of being out on the water, especially since you can’t swim.

Max, still leaning back in his chair, tilts his head slightly in your direction, as if he senses the unease radiating off you. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but you swear you can feel his gaze tracing over you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and you can almost hear his voice echoing in your mind: “You came to the Amalfi Coast, and you can’t swim?”

You swallow hard, forcing a smile as you join in on the group's excitement, even though the thought of being surrounded by water sends a shiver down your spine. Mila stands, gathering everyone’s attention, and starts guiding the group toward the dock.

The villa’s outdoor space spills into a sprawling garden, leading to a private path that takes you to where the yacht is docked. The sunlight glints off the water, almost blinding in its brightness, as you walk with the others toward the sleek, luxurious yacht. Everyone seems thrilled—laughing and talking about the views they’ll see—while you stay quieter than usual, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves.

You tug at the sleeves of your oversized polo, the fabric bunching slightly in your grip as you focus on steadying your breath. The path to the dock feels longer than it actually is, the sounds of the group’s lively chatter fading into the background. You glance at the shimmering blue water ahead and bite the inside of your cheek.

Max lingers just a few steps behind, and you can feel the weight of his presence even without looking. His footsteps are slow and deliberate, as if he’s watching you closely, waiting for any sign of weakness. You try not to dwell on it, though the image of him smirking at your fear lingers in the back of your mind.

As the group finally boards the yacht, you become hyper-aware of the water surrounding you. The boat rocks gently as everyone gets settled, and you grip the railing tightly, trying to hide your discomfort. Max watches you for a moment before walking past you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours.

“Relax,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you, but there’s something almost reassuring in his tone. You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to take a seat with the others, letting the warmth of the sun and the sound of conversation distract you from the vast ocean around you.

As the yacht pulls away from the dock, you try to focus on the scenery. The Amalfi Coast is breathtaking—cliffs draped in greenery, colorful villas dotting the shoreline, and the ocean sparkling beneath the golden sunlight. Everyone around you laughs and soaks up the beauty of the day, but your hands remain clenched in your lap, your mind preoccupied with the endless expanse of water.

Despite your nervousness, you find yourself stealing glances at Max. He’s sitting at the back of the yacht, one arm draped casually over the side, sunglasses shielding his eyes as he stares out at the water. He looks so at ease, completely unaffected by the swaying of the boat or the openness of the sea.

The breeze picks up, ruffling your hair, and as you turn your attention back to the group, you feel the yacht slow down. Mila claps her hands, announcing that they’ve anchored near a beautiful cove, perfect for swimming.

Your stomach drops.

Everyone begins shedding layers, excitement buzzing through the group as they prepare to jump into the water. You stay seated, gripping the edge of your chair as they leap overboard, laughter echoing around you.

Max stands, pulling off his shirt and revealing the defined muscles of his back and shoulders. Your eyes linger for a moment longer than you intend. He catches your gaze just before he moves toward the edge of the yacht, that same smirk playing on his lips.

“You coming in?” he asks, his voice low, almost challenging.

You shake your head quickly, offering a small laugh. “No, I think I’ll just… stay here and enjoy the sun.”

Max arches an eyebrow, clearly not buying your excuse, but he doesn’t push it. He gives you one last look, his smirk still in place, before diving effortlessly into the water.

You watch as your friends giggle and enjoy themselves. Mila waves up at you, and you give her a fake salute. She giggles and goes back to swimming. A few minutes later, several members of the group come up to take a break, Max among them. You hate to admit it, but you watch the water droplets roll off him, his cheeks flushed from the sun, and a tight feeling blooms in your core as you force yourself to look away.

The group is lively, and at one point, Jamie, always the instigator, starts playfully shoving friends toward the edge of the boat, teasing and laughing. You stand at the back, watching, hoping to stay out of the chaos.

But in a moment of playful exuberance, Jamie swings his arm and accidentally nudges you forward. Time seems to slow as you lose your balance, and before you can even process what’s happening, you tumble over the side of the yacht. The water crashes around you, and as you hit the surface, the cold rush envelops you, sending panic gripping your chest. Instinctively, you kick your legs, but the water pulls you under, and you flail in confusion. The world above disappears, and the muffled sounds of laughter and splashing fade into silence.

Just as you start to lose hope, a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back to the surface. You gasp for air, blinking the water from your eyes, and find yourself face-to-face with Max. His expression is intense, irritation etched on his features.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, though his grip is steady and reassuring as he keeps you afloat.

You can’t help but laugh nervously, trying to shake off the fear. “I didn’t want to go in!” you manage to sputter, still clinging to him for dear life.

Max rolls his eyes, the frown returning, though it’s softer this time. “You need to stop thrashing around,” he says, his voice lower now.

As he helps you back onto the yacht, the warmth of the sun hits your damp skin once more. Laughter and cheers erupt from the group as they realize you’re okay, but Max’s presence is the only thing that matters to you in this moment. He doesn’t say anything; his expression remains unreadable as he sets you down.

You catch your breath, water dripping from your hair and running down your arms. “Thanks, Max,” you say, trying to brush off the embarrassment. His usual smirk is absent, and for a split second, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he cares.

But as soon as you’re on the boat, he steps back, leaving you with the others. “Try not to drown next time,” he says, his tone flat as he pulls his shirt back on, the fabric clinging to his damp skin. It feels more like a reflex than a genuine jab, but you let it slide, laughing it off. “I’ll try my best.”

He turns away, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. You shake your head, trying to focus on the laughter around you as Jamie and Mila check to make sure you’re okay. “Really, I’m fine,” you assure them, even as your heart races from the close call.

Just like that, everyone goes back to normal. Lunch is served, and as the yacht heads back to the dock under the fading light, you’re the first one off, eager to touch solid ground once more. You don’t bid anyone goodnight; you’re all too tired for that. You head upstairs to your room, closing the door behind you and shrugging off your damp polo and swimsuit. You hop in the shower, rinsing the salt water off your skin.

After your shower, the soft sound of knocking pulls you from your thoughts. You wrap yourself in a towel and open the door to find Mila standing there, concern etched across her features.

“Hey, just wanted to check on you,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes scan your face, searching for any signs of distress. “That fall looked pretty rough.”

You chuckle softly, waving it off. “I’m fine, really. Just a little embarrassed.”

Mila raises an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “You sure it’s not because of Max? I saw the way he pulled you out of the water. It looked pretty… intimate.”

The mention of Max sends a warmth flooding through you, one that you quickly dismiss. “Oh, please. He was just being a jerk, as usual.”

She smirks, crossing her arms. “Or maybe he just likes the attention.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, but a small part of you can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it. “He’s just… Max. You know how he is.”

Mila studies you for a moment, trying to read between the lines. “Well, just think about it. He’s not always the way he acts, you know?”

With that, she leaves, and you find yourself lost in thought, her words echoing in your mind. What if Max really did care?

Later that night, curiosity gets the better of you. You stand in front of Max’s door, your heart racing as you knock softly.

“Come in,” he calls, and you push the door open cautiously. He’s lounging on his bed, scrolling through his phone, and for a moment, you’re struck by how at home he looks.

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft. “I just wanted to thank you… for earlier.”

Max looks up, a flicker of something in his gaze before he masks it with indifference. “You mean for saving your ass?” he quips, his smirk returning. “Don’t mention it.”

You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room. “You know, for someone who supposedly doesn’t care, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

His expression shifts, annoyance flickering across his features. “What do you want me to do? Throw you a parade for not drowning?”

“Maybe just a little acknowledgment would be nice,” you counter, crossing your arms defensively.

He stands, taking a step closer, and the air between you crackles with tension. “I don’t like how sweet you are,” he says, his tone sharp. “It’s annoying.”

“Annoying?” you challenge, feeling a rush of defiance. “Is that really all you’ve got? Because it sounds like you’re just scared of someone actually caring.”

Max’s eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he might snap back. But instead, he steps even closer, invading your personal space. “You think you’re so great, don’t you? All sunshine and rainbows, but it doesn’t work with me.”

Before you can respond, he closes the distance, and suddenly, his lips are on yours—fervent and demanding. His warmth envelops you, slightly chapped against your own, igniting a spark that sends a thrill coursing through your entire body. You’re caught off guard at first, but your instincts take over, and you melt into the kiss, feeling his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer.

As the kiss deepens, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He presses you against the door, his body firm and solid against yours, radiating heat that makes your pulse quicken. The kiss is intoxicating; every second stretches into eternity—his lips moving against yours in a dance that feels both wild and tender.

When you finally pull away, breathless, your heart races as you search his eyes. “Wait… Max—”

He leans in again, his breath mingling with yours, heavy with longing. “You taste sweet,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, a smirk tugging at his lips.

A rush of warmth floods your cheeks at his words. “Is that all you have to say?” you tease, a smile breaking through your fluster.

Max steps back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he watches you intently. “What do you want me to say? That I’m an asshole who can’t help but want you?”

The air between you buzzes with unspoken tension—a mix of frustration and attraction. You feel exhilarated yet confused, unable to ignore the thrill of being this close to him, the chemistry crackling like electricity.

“Maybe you could start by admitting you actually care,” you challenge softly, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Maybe,” he replies, a hint of seriousness in his tone before leaning in again, capturing your lips with his. This time, it’s even more intense; his hands grip your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he can’t get enough of you.

But as the moment stretches on, you pull back slightly, breathless. “Max—”

He leans in again, and you find yourself needing to physically stop him, your hands resting on his chest. “Wait, we can’t just—”

“Why not?” he presses, his voice low and needy, his eyes dark with desire. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

You’re both panting, caught in an electric moment. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” you say, a smile creeping onto your lips despite the chaos swirling around you.

Max smirks, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, but you like it.” He crashes his lips against yours once more, and as he pulls away, he runs his tongue along his lower lip, a boyish smirk breaking through. “Sweet like honey,” he teases, prompting you to laugh and tilt your head back. Without thinking, you pull him down by his shirt collar, kissing him again, lost in the moment.