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misswynters · 7 months ago

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Ekko being protective while you are expecting

– short drabble

featuring. ekko x pregnant! reader

this was a late night thing so if there’s any mistakes let me know

Bright, golden sunlight filtered through the cracked glass of Zaun’s upper levels, casting a warm glow over the patchwork city. Rustic smell lingered throughout the entire city even in the places were you would think it would be. It was a sharp contrast to the pristine towers and polished streets of Piltover, but you’d come to love the chaotic beauty of Zaun. Its grit and resilience mirrored the spirit of its people, and despite everything, it had become home.

You adjusted the basket on your hip as you weaved through the narrow alleys, a small smile on your lips despite the slight strain in your back. The sounds of the city surrounded you: children laughing as they ran between stalls, the hiss of steam escaping from overhead pipes, and the occasional distant hum of machinery. Though Zaun was far from perfect, it had a heart. A fierce and determined spirit that had drawn you to it.

A boy darted out from a corner, his face smudged with dirt and his eyes wide with curiosity. “Miss!” he called out, holding up a small metal trinket he’d likely scavenged. “For good luck!”

Your heart melted at his gesture, and you crouched carefully to meet him at eye level. “Thank you, sweetheart,” you said warmly, taking the trinket and ruffling his hair. “Here, this is for you.” You handed him a piece of fruit from your basket, earning a toothy grin before he bolted off, his laughter echoing through the alley.

“Shouldn’t be out here on your own,” came a low, familiar voice from above.

You straightened, glancing up to find one of Ekko’s scouts perched on a rusted ledge, his sharp eyes scanning the area. He nodded at you before disappearing into the shadows, leaving behind only the faint sound of his boots against metal. You sighed, shaking your head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Ekko.

Ever since you’d told him you were expecting, his protectiveness had gone into overdrive. If he wasn’t by your side, he made sure someone else was. and it wasn’t just for appearances. You knew how much he cared, how deeply he felt the responsibility to keep you safe. But it didn’t stop you from feeling a bit smothered at times.

You resumed your walk, stopping occasionally to hand out bread or share a kind word with someone in need. It was who you were, helping others brought you joy, even if it meant ignoring the occasional twinge of discomfort in your back. But as you reached out to give an elderly woman a loaf of bread, you felt a familiar presence behind you, the air around you shifting.

“Thought I told you to rest,” Ekko’s voice came, soft but firm.

You turned, your heart skipping at the sight of him. He leaned casually against the corner of a building, his staff slung over his shoulder, his sharp gaze fixed on you. His white hair gleamed in the sunlight, and there was a mixture of exasperation and fondness in his expression as he approached.

“I’m fine, Ekko,” you said, offering him a small smile. “I was just—”

“Helping people,” he interrupted, his lips quirking slightly. He stepped closer, his presence grounding, and his eyes softened as they drifted to the curve of your stomach. “I know, you’re always helping people.”

“It’s important to me,” you replied, your hands resting over his as he reached out to touch your bump. His palm was warm and steady, and for a moment, the world around you faded away.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s why I love you. But you’ve got to let me take care of you now. Both of you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten with emotion. You leaned into him, letting his strength envelop you. “You already do,” you whispered, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’ve never felt safer.”

Ekko chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around you. “Good. Because I’ve got eyes everywhere, just so you know. You can’t take two steps without someone reporting back to me.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I figured as much. You’re like a hawk.”

“Damn right,” he said, his lips brushing against your forehead. “You’re my whole world now. You think I’m just gonna let you wander off into danger?”

“Danger?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “I was handing out bread, not fighting Chem-Barons.”

He laughed, the sound low and rich, as he pulled you closer. “Doesn’t matter. This place has its risks, and I’m not taking any chances. You’re extremely important to me.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you reached up to cup his face, your fingers brushing along his jawline. “I’ll be careful,” you promised, your voice soft. “For you, the boy who worries.”

“For me,” he echoed, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “And for them.” His hand rested protectively over your stomach, his touch radiating warmth and love.

Ekko’s arms lingered around you for a moment longer before he sighed, resigned. “Fine,” he muttered, his tone light but firm. “But I’m coming with you. Not taking my eyes off you.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his protectiveness, even if it sometimes felt overbearing. “I don’t need a bodyguard, you know.”

He raised a skeptical brow. “You’re carrying our kid in Zaun. You need a whole army.”

Despite the exasperation in his words, there was no mistaking the affection in his voice. He took your basket from you, his staff resting casually on his shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Lead the way, sweetheart,” he said, a playful edge to his tone, though you could see how his eyes darted to every shadow and figure as you moved through the streets.

You stopped occasionally to talk to people—an older man with a limp, a mother trying to soothe her crying baby, a group of kids selling hand-crafted trinkets. Each time, Ekko hung back slightly, letting you do what you did best but staying close enough that he could intervene if needed.

At one point, you crouched to hand a young girl a piece of fruit, smiling as she thanked you with wide, grateful eyes. Ekko’s gaze softened as he watched, a quiet admiration blooming on his face. This was why he fell for you. Not just your kindness but the way you carried it so effortlessly, even in a place as harsh as Zaun.

But as the day wore on, the basket grew lighter, and your steps began to slow. You passed by a rickety stall that had toppled over, its contents—a pile of salvaged wood and fabric—spilling onto the ground. Without thinking, you bent down to help the vendor gather the scattered pieces.

“Careful,” Ekko warned, his voice sharp with concern as he moved closer.

“I’m fine,” you said lightly, reaching for a particularly large plank. But as you tried to lift it, a sharp twinge shot through your back, and you let out a soft gasp, immediately straightening up.

Ekko was at your side in an instant, his hands on your shoulders. “What happened?” he asked, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed his worry.

“Just… a twinge,” you admitted, wincing slightly. “Nothing serious.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Let me see.” Without waiting for a protest, he gently guided you to lean against a nearby wall, his hands running lightly over your back. “Does it hurt here?” he asked, pressing gently along your spine.

You winced again, and his jaw tightened. “That’s it. You’re done for the day.”

“Ekko—”

“No,” he said firmly, his hands resting on your hips as he looked you in the eye. “You’re done. You’re already doing too much. What if something worse happens? What if—”

He stopped himself, taking a deep breath to steady his voice. The panic was there, just beneath the surface, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I don’t like seeing you get hurt,” he said softly.

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words. Reaching up, you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin. “I’m okay,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I promise.”

But Ekko wasn’t having it. He pulled back, taking the basket and slinging it over his shoulder. “We’re going home,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you’re not carrying anything heavier than a pillow until this baby’s here.”

Despite the sternness of his words, his hand was impossibly gentle as it found yours, intertwining your fingers as he led you back through the streets. Along the way, he shot sharp glares at anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive.

When you finally reached the hideout you shared, he helped you settle onto the bed, fussing over every detail. He would bring you water, adjusting the pillows, even insisting on propping up your feet.

“You’re ridiculous,” you teased, though your smile betrayed how much you appreciated his care.

“Yeah, well, you love it,” he shot back, his grin softening as he sat beside you. His hand found your stomach, his thumb brushing in gentle circles. “I just want to keep you comfortable.”

“You already do,” you said, leaning into him. “More than you know.”

Ekko leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there. “Still,” he murmured. “I’ll always do more.”

As the two of you sat there, the weight of the day finally beginning to fade, you realized just how lucky you were. To have someone like ekko be the father of your child.

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pitlanepeach · 27 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Forty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, slight smut, a bit of general anxiety.

Notes — Welcome to Miami!!!!!

2024 (Miami—Imola)

The McLaren garage was quiet in that early-morning lull before the chaos. Screens still black. Tyres covered. Mechanics nursing coffees and stretching into the day. Amelia stood just inside the halo of overhead lights, hands on her hips, watching her car, her car, come alive in pieces.

The floor gleamed with fresh resin. The side-pods were lean, smooth, seamless in their curvature. The front wing was finally the right spec; the airflow data had confirmed it. The new floor geometry played nicer with the updated rear suspension. The whole package, finally cohesive.

It had taken months of pushing. Quiet conversations. Brutal ones. Drawings on the back of napkins, pacing in her kitchen at 2am. And it was all here now, carbon and copper and logic made real.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just circled the car slowly, one hand brushing against the wing mirror, the leading edge of the nose, the curve of the intake. Reverent, almost.

Tom stood a few feet back, sipping from a thermal mug. He was always nearby at the moment; watching and learning. “Looks different,” he said.

Amelia nodded. “This is the car I designed from the beginning. No compromises. No shortcuts.” She crouched beside the floor, fingers tracing the sculpted undercut, the exact shape she’d fought for. “We’ve been patch-working upgrades onto old foundations. But this; this is a clean slate. It’s mine. Finally.”

“So it’s ready?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah. It’s ready to win.”

Lando ducked into the garage then, still in joggers and a hoodie, yawning around a protein bar. He caught her eye, then stopped mid-step. “Holy shit.”

Amelia nodded.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. Studied the car with wide eyes, taking in every minor adjustment, every small change that’d somehow made the entire car look different. Meaner.

“It looks fast.” He breathed.

“It is.”

He turned toward her, something quiet in his expression. “You happy?”

Amelia didn’t blink. “I’m relieved. Now it’ll do exactly what I designed it to do.”

Oscar wandered in a moment later, eyebrows lifting when he saw the chassis. “Oh shit, this the final spec?”

“The one I promised you both,” Amelia muttered.

Oscar grinned, circling the nose. “Looks like a weapon.”

Amelia hummed. “That’s because it is. All the patchwork’s gone. This weekend, you’ll both be driving the car I built for you from the ground up.”

Tom, now beside her, tapped his pen against his notebook. “You going to name it?”

Amelia looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It already has a name — and that name has my initials in it anyway. Why would I give it another name?”

Oscar shrugged. “I name my chassis something new every weekend.”

“That’s because you’re weird.” She told him.

But later, when they were running race simulations and Lando had slipped out for media, she sat alone beside Oscar’s car, one hand resting lightly on the side-pod. Just for a second. And under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear: “Don’t let me down.”

Because it was all here now; her vision, her work, her legacy in motion.

And in Miami, for the first time all year, she was finally going to see her car on track.

—

Even in Miami, the F1 Academy paddock felt smaller. Tighter-knit. Less spectacle, more steel. It reminded Amelia of the early days she’d watched on flickering TV screens—before race suits were tailored, before engineers had agents. When she’d been three feet tall and already knew more about car setup than most of the men working on them.

She walked beside Susie, the low hum of tyre warmers and generators buzzing faintly underfoot. The air smelled like brake dust and fuel. It smelled like home.

“You don’t get much spare time,” Susie said, glancing down at the curve of Amelia’s bump beneath her papaya hoodie. “So thanks for making this one count.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Amelia said, eyes scanning the compact garages. “These girls are the future of motorsport.”

A mechanic rolled a jack across their path. A knot of young drivers stood nearby, still in their fireproofs, talking fast, voices tight with nerves.

Susie called one over. “Chloe. Come here a sec.”

Chloe Chambers jogged over, ponytail bouncing, already grinning like she knew exactly who Amelia was.

“Amelia Norris,” Susie said, pride softening her voice. “Meet Chloe. One of our brightest. She’s been dying to pick your brain.”

Chloe stuck out a hand, eyes wide. “I’ve watched every onboard from Oscar since you started working with him. And you basically built this year’s McLaren, right?”

Amelia glanced at the hand, winced, then gave a small shrug. “Built it. Argued over it. Cried about it once or twice. So—yes.”

Chloe lit up, dropped her hand like she didn’t even register the rejection. “I want to do what you do. I mean—I want to drive first. But also understand the car. Maybe even design one. Someday.”

Amelia's smile tugged sideways, something more serious behind it. “Then don’t let anyone tell you to choose. You don’t have to.”

A few more girls wandered over—Doriane, Abbi, Maya. One asked if it was true she’d rewritten part of the ride height algorithm in the middle of the night, thanks to pregnancy nausea.

“It’s true,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t recommend it. I couldn’t stand the smell of carbon fibre for three days.”

They laughed, young, high, unfiltered, and something eased in her chest. She didn’t feel like a figurehead here. Not a myth. Just one of them. Older, yes. Blunter, definitely. But still part of it.

“Do you still get nervous?” One asked. “Being Oscar’s engineer?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But sometimes, I get… quiet before an upgrade. Or a tough strategy call. But I trust the hours I put in. That’s how you survive in this job—you trust the work, then you trust yourself.”

They asked for a photo. She said yes.

Afterwards, stepping back into the heat and light, Amelia felt something shift beneath her ribs. Not the baby. Something else.

“These girls,” she murmured. “They’re so—”

“Ready,” Susie finished. “They just need someone to show them what’s possible.”

Amelia looked down at her belly. The baby kicked once, low and firm. She wondered—would her daughter want this one day? The speed. The noise. The risk.

Would she want her to?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this: she wanted the door to be open. And she wanted it to stay that way.

“Well,” Amelia said, eyes back on the track. “Let’s make sure the road stays clear.”

Susie nodded, a quiet kind of promise in her voice. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

—

The room was dark.

Not pitch-black—just enough light from the closed blinds to trace the edges of things. A spare media suite deep in the team hospitality unit, soundproofed from the bustle outside. Cold air whispered from the vents overhead.

Amelia sat curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands. In her lap, she twisted the stim toy between her fingers: click, roll, flip, snap. Again. Again. Again.

Her morning had unravelled in that invisible way it sometimes did. Nothing catastrophic—just too many voices, too many schedule changes, someone touching her shoulder without warning. The wrong texture on the cutlery at breakfast. The wrong smell in the paddock. She’d swallowed it all down with a brittle smile until she couldn’t anymore. Now the inside of her head felt raw and overlit, and only silence helped.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

The door opened.

Soft, slow. No bright light flooding in. Just a narrow slice of hallway glow and a silhouette. Lando.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside, closed the door again behind him. Let the dark settle. He moved quietly, then sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder with hers.

A beat later, the door creaked again. Oscar this time.

She didn’t look up, but she knew him by the shape of his walk, the subtle way he moved like he was trying not to wake a sleeping cat. He settled on her other side, crossed-legged, just close enough to touch but not quite.

Nobody spoke.

Amelia kept clicking. Rolling. Flipping. Snapping.

And slowly, her breathing evened out.

Lando reached over and gently brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She let him. Then let her head tilt sideways until it rested lightly on his shoulder.

Oscar stayed quiet, respectful in that way he always was with her—like he got it, even if he didn’t always understand. He just existed beside her, like a grounding point.

The toy made a soft clack as she turned it over again, her fingers finding the rhythm she liked best. The baby shifted inside her, low and firm. She exhaled slowly.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t asking her what she needed. They just were. Present. Patient. Steady.

It hit her, then, with quiet force: how deeply she was loved. Just… for being.

She blinked hard. One tear, maybe two. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that came when the pressure released, even just a little.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

Lando rested a hand on her hip, tracing soft circles on the red, itchy stretch marks. Oscar leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Amelia let the dark hold all three of them.

And she knew that soon, she’d feel okay again.

—

Amelia had gone out for air.

That was the plan, anyway—just ten quiet minutes away from the structured chaos of media day. No cameras, no questions. Just walking, hoodie on, head down, hands in her pockets.

But somewhere along the paddock hospitality row, she saw them—six or seven VIP fans lingering near the McLaren garage, lanyards bright, eyes wide, trying not to look starstruck and failing. Most of them were young women. One had a notebook. Another had made her own earrings out of mini DRS wings. A third was nervously adjusting the hem of her papaya windbreaker.

They saw her before she could disappear.

“Hi—sorry—Amelia?”

She could’ve smiled and nodded and kept walking. Instead, she stopped. “Yes,” she said. “Hello. You’re not supposed to be standing there. You’ll block the tyre trolleys.”

One of them blurted, “You’re, like… kind of our hero.”

Amelia blinked at them. “Why?”

Which made them all laugh awkwardly.

“I mean,” the DRS earring girl said, “you built the car. Everyone knows it. You’re the reason we’re consistently getting podiums again.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Amelia said bluntly. “But thank you.”

The girl with the notebook held it out. “Could I maybe ask you a few questions? Just for fun?”

Amelia glanced around. There was a patch of artificial turf by the hospitality tents where a drinks cooler sat forgotten. No cameras. No execs. No schedule.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to sit down. And I want something to eat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was cross-legged on a grassy patch, a fizzy drink in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated girls. Someone had scrounged up crisps and trail mix from a hospitality unit. It was, essentially, a picnic.

She’d taken a napkin and a pen and was now drawing vortex flows and side-pod shapes in clean, confident lines, explaining how turbulent air off the front wing could be used as a tool, not just a nuisance.

“People always think air is the enemy,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a language. And if you understand what it’s saying, the car will behave for you.”

Someone gasped. Someone else scribbled furiously. One girl offered Amelia a gummy bear, which she accepted without breaking eye contact from the diagram.

“Do you… want your daughter to be an engineer too?” One asked, softly.

Amelia paused. “I want her to believe that she can be anything she wants to be.”

That was when Lando found her.

He was coming from an interview and nearly missed the scene entirely. Then he spotted her—Amelia, sitting in the middle of the grass like a camp counsellor or a pre-school teacher, surrounded by fans who all looked like they were in total and utter awe of her.

Oscar arrived seconds later. “Is this… what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a cult,” Lando whispered. “My wife has created a cult and she is their leader.”

One of the girls spotted them and nudged the others. The whole circle turned.

“Oh. Hi,” Amelia said, gesturing vaguely to them. “They asked me about ground effect. I got carried away.”

Lando sat down beside her without a word. Oscar followed, grabbing a crisp from the communal bowl like this was all perfectly normal.

“We’re learning,” Oscar said solemnly. “Let’s not interrupt the professor, Lando.”

One of the girls burst into laughter. Amelia handed her the napkin diagram and grinned.

And there, in the middle of a media day she’d meant to escape, Amelia Norris held court not to journalists or executives; but to the next generation. Bright-eyed. Hungry to learn. Eager to belong.

—

Later, Lando slipped an arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

“So,” he said, voice light but steady, “when our daughter’s old enough, do we risk teaching her about vortex generators and having her build a wind tunnel in our bathroom?”

Amelia rolled her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “Who knows? She might put us all out of a job.”

He laughed softly. “She’ll definitely get your brains.”

“And your stubbornness.” She gave him a sidelong look. “And adrenaline addiction.”

“Great combo.”

They walked slowly back toward the garage.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If she wanted to race,” Amelia started, her hand moving instinctively to her hip, “would you want that for her?”

Lando scrunched his nose, bit his lip. “God. Uh…” He paused, searching her eyes. “I’d be worried. Not happy about it, but if it’s what she wanted, I’d make it happen.”

She studied him. “You’d make it happen even if it made you unhappy?”

“Worried,” he corrected gently. “Worried sick, probably. I’ve crashed, seen the worst of it. You know how dangerous this sport is. Would you be okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’d tell her the risks, the stats. Karting? Sure. But racing professionally… I don’t know.” She hesitated, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Lando cupped her cheek. “It’s okay not to know yet.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, staring into his eyes as panic fluttered beneath her skin. “Why don’t I know? I should.”

He pulled her close, voice low. “It doesn’t work like that, baby. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled, clutching his shirt. “Parenting is already hard and she isn’t even born yet.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, with a shaky kind of inhale. “Yeah.”

—

Amelia sat on the couch in their hotel room, fiddling with her stim toy, brow furrowed. The past few weeks had been… confusing. She knew about pregnancy hormones, but this sudden surge in her sex drive? That was new and confusing territory.

Lando entered the room, carrying a glass of water. He caught her eye and smiled, but there was a flicker of something (nervousness?) in his gaze.

“You okay?” He asked, voice a bit higher than usual.

Amelia bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Is it… normal to suddenly want sex all the time? Like, nonstop?” Her voice was blunt but uncertain. ‘I’m nervous to look it up in-case weird stuff comes up.”

Lando’s face flushed, and he scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, yeah. Totally normal. Second trimester… hormones and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amelia blinked, surprised by his sudden heat.

Lando shifted closer, cheeks still pink. “I mean, it’s… well, you’re pretty irresistible right now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Irresistible?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. So, uh… we can make you feel better, if you want?”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. The kiss was soft but full of promise, and Amelia’s heart sped up in that familiar way; equal parts surprise and warmth.

When they parted, Lando grinned sheepishly. “You want to?”

Amelia stared at him. “Yeah. Now. And then again a few more times. And tomorrow morning before we go to the track.”

He stared at her for a beat before he smiled wide, sharp little fangs and all.

—

Amelia lay awake.

Her head rested on Lando’s chest, his hand soft against the curve of her belly. His breathing was slow, steady, familiar. She could feel the faint shift of it under her cheek.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle circles over the sheets.

She hadn’t expected to want him like that. Not with this body — not now, not so much. And yet…

Flashes of the night flickered across her mind like bright sparks.

Lando’s laugh, half-muffled against her neck.

His voice, rough, whispering, “You sure? You’re sure?”

The way he’d kissed the inside of her wrist every time.

Her hoodie halfway off, clumsily caught around her elbows.

The sound she made when he touched her lower back — sharp, surprised.

His thumb brushing gently over her bump, reverent. “Hi, baby,” he’d whispered, “Your mum’s kind of a goddess.”

She blushed in the dark just thinking about it.

But what stuck with her most wasn’t the heat — it was how seen she felt. How known. How safe.

She’d spent most of her life learning to translate herself for the world. She thought that’s what relationships would always have to be — filtering, explaining, shrinking things down.

But with Lando, she had never once had to do that.

He read the pauses in her voice like she would read telemetry. Felt her silences without trying to explain. Met her confusion with patience, not pity. Anticipated the needs she hadn’t even decoded herself yet.

She tilted her head, studying him in the quiet.

She hadn’t just fallen in love with him all those year ago.

She’d grown into love with him — steady, real, elemental.

And somehow, impossibly, he kept giving her more reasons to love him even more.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, so soft he didn’t stir.

Then closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

—

The bathroom lights were aggressively bright for how little sleep Amelia had gotten.

She was perched on the closed toilet lid, sleep-shirt inside out, bump resting on her thighs, and a toothbrush in her mouth. Her phone leaned against a half-used roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Pietra’s face filled the screen, already smirking.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” Pietra said with wide eyes.

Amelia spat into the sink. “I had sex for four hours straight last night.”

Pietra choked on her iced coffee. “Good morning, mami.”

Amelia shrugged like she was reporting on tyre deg. “Hormones.”

“Second trimester hitting like DRS on the main straight, huh?”

She nodded seriously. “It’s physiological. There’s blood flow redistribution and heightened sensitivity in—”

“Stop,” Pietra laughed. “You can’t do the engineering breakdown of your sex life.”

Amelia grinned, a little proud. “I definitely can. Do you want to see my graphs?”

“No graphs.Please. No vibes. How’s Lando coping?”

“Hydrated. Exhausted. Still asleep,” she said, brushing through her tangled hair. “He kept making these noises like he couldn’t believe what was happening.”

Pietra chuckled. “Yeah, he’s down bad for you, my girl.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “He, like, kept kissing my wrist.”

“Amelia. Please.”

“No, like he held it and did it twice.”

There was a pause.

Pietra blinked slowly. “That’s so sweet.”

“He made me feel like myself again.” She flushed.

Pietra was quiet, her smile gentler now. “Because you are.”

Amelia nodded once. “He’s also half-worried that our daughter might invent a bathtub wind tunnel.”

“Oh God,” Pietra said, grinning again. “That little girl is going to make him go grey. I hope she cuts up her dolls and builds a diffuser from their severed limbs.”

“She won’t have dolls.” Amelia said dryly. “She’ll have CFD software.” Even though her tone was flat, the twitch of her lips betrayed her joke.

Pietra laughed. Amelia finished tying her hair into a low, slightly messy ponytail. A streak of sunlight cut through the window, warming the tiles beneath her feet.

“I should go,” she said. “Track walk in forty-five minutes.”

“Tell Lando I said ‘well done’.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No. That’s weird.”

“You love me anyway!”

Amelia ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror for a second.

Messy. Flushed. A little wild-looking.

Entirely herself.

And deeply, deeply loved.

—

The heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the whole paddock buzzing with anticipation. Miami was loud, chaotic, full of pastel shirts and bass-heavy DJ sets; but the McLaren garage felt like a storm waiting to break.

Amelia had one hand on Oscar’s halo as he settled into the car. Focused. Calm. Starting fourth on the grid. It was a good starting position, but they both knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb through the field — if they even managed to keep their position into turn one.

“Conditions are fine. Brakes might take a while to come in. Let the tyres come to you.”

Oscar looked up at her, half-grinning under his visor. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll scream at you over the radio for being annoying and not listening to me.”

He laughed. “As usual.”

She patted the car once, stepped back, and moved to her tiny little thrown-together desk just as Lando passed her on his way to climb into his car. His hand grabbed her back. Their eyes met. He gave her a look; small, private, thrilling. The kind of look that said: I think today is the day.

She nodded once. Just once.

She’d believed in him for years now — since before Sochi, since before he’d even been given the full-time McLaren seat.

He was capable of incredible things.

—

The first 20 laps were a blur of strategy juggling and telemetry surges. Amelia was locked into Oscar’s race; managing his energy deployment, traffic, undercut threats.

He was driving sharp. But something wasn’t sticking.

A slow pit stop on Lap 32 killed their momentum. They dropped back into traffic. She clenched her jaw, recalculated in seconds, called Plan C.

“Ducky, don’t lose steam. We’re still in this for good points. Head down.”

“Copy,” he said, clipped. Frustrated, but fighting.

But further up the field, Lando was flying.

And then there was the safety car.

Chaos. All improper preparation and garages rushing.

And then Lando exited the pits. And he hadn’t just made up a few positions — he’d taken the lead.

The garage erupted. Amelia nearly stood up from her station. She felt it before the numbers confirmed it — Lando was about to win his first Grand Prix.

She could barely breathe.

—

Oscar crossed the line P6. Solid points. Not what they hoped for, but not failure.

But Lando…

Lando held off Max for the last five laps like his life depended on it. No mistakes. Just pure, blistering pace and nerves of steel.

And then—

“Lando Norris. That’s P1. You are a Formula One race winner!”

Will’s words cracked through the comms.

The garage exploded.

Amelia didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the console like it would float her back to earth.

He’d done it.

Finally.

No more self-doubt. No more what-ifs.

Lando won.

Her husband, who stayed up with her until 3am looking at ride height data; had won.

And he did it in the car she built for him.

"We did it, Will. Amelia — baby, we did it. We did it!" He said over the radio.

The first race it was fully her spec — and sure, they’d gotten ‘lucky’ with the safety-car, but luck was insubstantial. His pace said it all.

He’d won. And he’d won by a mile.

—

The moment she found him in Parc Ferme, still helmeted, still breathless, still shocked, she ran.

Not far; just to the holding area, where only a few people were allowed. But she was McLaren’s lead engineer. She was also his wife.

She had every right.

He turned and saw her and the helmet came off in one swoop.

His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed, disbelieving.

She launched into his arms and he caught her without hesitation, arms around her waist, face buried in her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I won. I fucking won, baby.”

“I can believe it,” she said, steady and breathless. “I knew it was coming. How long have I told you that this would happen for you? You’ve been driving like a winner all year, Lando.”

He kissed her, fast, messy, barely containing the wild joy in him. “Tell me you saw the move on Max.”

“I saw it. It was amazing.”

He laughed against her neck, giddy and stunned and vibrating with relief. “I did it, Amelia.”

“You did.” She leaned into him, eyes pricking with tears. “I am so, so proud of you. So proud.”

—

They went to a few parties. Smaller ones. Danced together — Lando being celebrated in exactly the way he deserved.

He hadn’t been all to keen on the idea of his visibly pregnancy wife going into the Miami nightclub, but she’d insisted they go. Even just for a little while.

Oscar and Lando stayed close — like bodyguards. Max was no better, hovering, constantly bringing her water. It was sweet. It was nice to still be involved in the celebrations.

His trophy sat on their hotel room table.

Lando was in the shower, singing Queen, completely off-key.

Amelia sat on the bed in one of his t-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other tracing the MCL38-AN etched into the side of the silver.

Their daughter kicked.

She smiled. “Your dad,” she whispered, “is a Formula One race winner.”

—

They touched down just before dawn, Heathrow still hushed in early morning fog. Amelia’s body ached with the kind of deep exhaustion that only adrenaline can leave behind; but her hand never left Lando’s.

He’d won. That wasn’t going to stop echoing in her head any time soon.

By the time they got to his parents’ house, the sky had cracked open with gentle rain. The front door opened before they even rang the doorbell.

His mum pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. His dad hovered behind, proud and misty-eyed in the quiet way he always was. There were champagne flutes already out in the kitchen, a cake someone had clearly stayed up late decorating — “P1, Finally!” scrawled in sugar icing.

But what caught Amelia off guard was how his mum hugged her too.

Carefully, because of the bump. But tightly. Fully. Without hesitation.

“We were watching,” she said, her voice warm in Amelia’s ear. “I’ve never screamed so loud in my life. He wouldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?”

Amelia blinked. Didn’t know what to say to that. Just squeezed her hand and nodded.

—

Later, in the quiet of Lando’s childhood bedroom, Amelia lay curled into his side beneath soft, over-washed sheets. The walls were still plastered with old racing posters, a few crooked photos of karting days — a little shrine to where it all began.

The trophy was on the dresser.

Not a glass cabinet, not a pedestal. Just… sitting there. Like it belonged next to a lava lamp and a stack of F1 magazines from 2009.

Amelia snorted at the sight of it. “You really just plonked it there?”

“It’s weird, right?” Lando said, his voice drowsy. “Feels like it should be… more. But also not. I don’t know.”

“It’s exactly right,” she said. “It belongs where you started.”

He looked over at her. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a moment, “It’s strange. Everyone talks about how hard it is to get here. To win. To be part of something like this. But nobody tells you how hard it is to… stop. To come down from it. To believe that it’s real.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her closer, hand on her belly. “She’s gonna know,” he said softly. “Our daughter. She’s going to grow up knowing this is possible. Because she’ll have you. And she’ll have me too.”

“You,” Amelia said firmly, “are going to be her favourite person.”

He flushed, kissed her shoulder. “You’re both my favourite.”

—

Breakfast was a chaotic, sweet mess. His younger cousins had come by with orange balloons and mini trophies made of Lego. His grandmother insisted on touching Amelia’s belly and declared, in full authority, that the baby would be born with racing boots on already.

Someone pulled out a bottle of something sparkling, and Lando looked like he might cry for the tenth time in 48 hours.

Amelia stepped outside with her tea, just for a moment. The garden smelled like damp grass and daffodils.

Lando came out after her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nose pressed into her neck.

“We really did it,” he murmured.

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “We.”

She leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

For once, she didn’t argue.

—

The highly sought after private clinic was tucked behind a row of converted barns; all soft wood beams and white walls, the kind of place that smelled faintly of lavender and sterilised plastic. Quiet. Private. No waiting rooms. No fluorescent lights.

It had taken Amelia weeks to agree to in-person visits. Not because she didn’t trust the care, but because the idea of new faces, new spaces, new sounds — it made her skin hum in the wrong way.

But this midwife, Fiona, had been patient. Kind. Spoken to her over the phone like Amelia wasn’t strange or fragile or complicated. Just… herself. And today, for the first time, they were meeting in real life.

Amelia sat in the softly-lit consultation room, sleeves pulled over her knuckles, while Lando leaned back in the chair beside her, fingers loosely linked with hers.

The door opened, and Fiona stepped in; mid-forties maybe, silver at her temples, Doc Martens under a midi skirt. Exuding a calm energy.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said with a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia blinked at her. “You don’t sound as tall as you do on the phone.”

Fiona laughed, delighted. “That’s a first. Most people say I sound shorter.”

Lando grinned. “She’s very good at spatial audio. It’s… sort of freaky.”

Amelia elbowed him lightly. “It’s not freaky. It’s useful.”

“I know, baby,” he said, kissing her hair.

Fiona sat, not rushing. Just matching the room to Amelia’s pace.

“Shall we talk through everything slowly?” She offered. “We’ll do the checkup, listen to baby’s heartbeat if you’re feeling up for it — and then talk about next steps. I’ve got your notes printed exactly how you like them. Font size 13, double spaced.”

That surprised a smile out of Amelia. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

—

Fiona talked her through every step before touching her. Let Amelia guide where the Doppler went. Gave her control.

The heartbeat came through — fast and steady and perfect.

Lando stared at the screen like it was made of gold.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s our girl.”

Amelia stared at the graph. “Still sounds like a horse galloping.”

“Strong horse,” Fiona said. “Very healthy.”

They spent another fifteen minutes going over nutrition changes, sleeping positions, birth plans. Fiona never pushed. Never filled silence with filler words. Just waited.

“You’re very good at this,” Amelia said finally. “I don’t like many people.”

Fiona smiled gently. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

—

They stepped back out into the quiet spring air, a softness between them.

Lando opened the car door for her, waiting until she was settled before getting in himself. He looked over at her, one hand finding hers on the armrest.

“I like her,” he said.

“I don’t hate her,” Amelia replied, which was even better.

“You did so well,” he added softly. “I’m really proud of you.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because I know how much it costs you to do things that feel uncertain,” he said. “And you still showed up for her. For our daughter.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled, caught off guard by the depth in his voice.

“She deserves someone better than me, sometimes,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s getting someone more brilliant, more brave, more herself than anyone could hope for.”

She kissed him. “Okay. Take me to get some chicken, please?”

—

The kitchen was full of soft light and the smell of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. There were too many voices, too many overlapping stories, the occasional clink of cutlery — but somehow, it didn’t overwhelm Amelia the way it usually did. Maybe it was the dimmer switch Lando had installed last year. Maybe it was the way he kept checking in with her from across the room. Or maybe… maybe it was just the peace that came from knowing her daughter was still tucked safe inside her, heartbeat strong.

Dinner was warm.

They passed around the scan print-outs — Lando sliding them carefully across the table. His mum teared up a little at the clearest one, where the outline of a tiny face and curled fingers was visible.

“She’s so beautiful already,” Cisca whispered.

“She looks like an angry shrimp,” Amelia said flatly, which made Adam chuckle into his wine.

“An angry shrimp with a big Norris head,” Lando added.

“Oi,” Adam said. “Watch it.”

“She’s got Amelia’s precision, though,” Lando added, turning the scan toward his dad. “Perfect symmetry in the profile. Look at that jawline. Look.”

“She’s 38 centimetres long, Lando,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised. “She’s still just a smudge.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Let me have this.”

—

Cisca topped up everyone’s water and gently set her glass down. “Have you two thought much about… the birth yet? Or after? What it’ll look like, who you want with you, where?”

Amelia nodded immediately, already sliding her phone from the edge of her placemat. “Yes. I’ve got it all planned.”

She pulled up a bullet-pointed note, clean and colour-coded. “I’ll be labouring at home for as long as is medically safe, with Fiona monitoring. Then transferring to the birth centre — the one with the adjustable light panels and hydrotherapy. I’ve selected a playlist that aligns with optimal relaxation frequencies, and Lando will be coached on pressure-point guidance in case I don’t want verbal input. We’ll have backup bags packed and pre-positioned in the car by Week 37.”

The table went still for a moment. Not unkind. Just… a bit awed.

“And after?” Adam asked gently.

“Fiona will do at-home checks. I’ll be off work technically, but I’ll still be supporting Oscar’s data remotely if we’re out of hospital. I’m going to stay with my mum in Woking. Sleep will be rotational in the first two weeks depending on Lando’s schedule, but my mum had already agreed to step in. Breastfeeding is Plan A, bottle Plan B. I have a spreadsheet.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Cisca reached over the table, her hand warm as it closed gently over Amelia’s. “That all sounds wonderful, my darling. But, and this is only a but, if it doesn’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, don’t panic,” she said. Her voice was soft but certain. “Sometimes babies decide to do things their own way.”

Amelia didn’t flinch from the contact — rare for her. She just looked at Cisca’s hand, and then at her face. “I know that,” she said, a little stiffly. “Logically.”

“But knowing it logically isn’t the same as feeling okay when it happens,” Cisca said gently.

Amelia looked down at the scan photo in front of her. Then quietly, almost like a confession, “I want to do it right. I want her to feel safe from the second she arrives.”

“She will,” Lando said, reaching for her hand under the table. “Because she’ll have you.”

—

The door was already open before they even made it up the path.

“There she is!” Zak’s voice boomed from the hallway as Amelia climbed out of the car, Lando trailing behind with his hand protectively on the small of her back.

Tracey appeared right behind him, dish towel still slung over her shoulder. “Let her breathe, Zak, Jesus.”

Amelia barely had time to blink before she was enveloped in one of her mother’s trademark, over-long hugs — all vanilla perfume and chaotic warmth.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Tracey murmured, hands sliding down to press lightly at Amelia’s bump. “My granddaughter’s in there, that’s crazy.”

“She’s the size a watermelon,” Amelia said, dry. “A big watermelon. But still.”

Lando grinned. “Not for long. She’s growing every day.”

Zak clapped a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re gonna be a dad, son.”

“Same,” Lando replied with a breathy laugh.

—

The Browns’ home was bigger than you might expect, but still carried the energy of a family who talked over each other and left laundry on stair banisters. The TV was on in the background playing a re-run of some F1 docuseries, and Zak had already pulled out a bottle of strawberry alcohol-free wine.

“No, Dad,” Amelia said, waving him off. “No bubbles. I’ll get heartburn.”

“I’ve got ginger beer!” Tracey called from the kitchen. “And saltines!”

Amelia drifted toward the fireplace, fingers brushing over old framed photos. There was one of her as a little girl with a screwdriver in one hand. Another of Zak holding her on his shoulders at the Silverstone track.

She stared at that one for a beat too long.

“You okay, kiddo?” Zak asked gently, appearing beside her.

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just remembering.”

“You’d sit on the garage floor with the brake calipers,” Zak said, fond. “You used to name them.”

“They needed names. They had personalities.”

“You said one was ‘grumpy and over-torqued.’ You were five.”

She let out a tiny laugh.

—

Dinner was loud. American-style pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans drowning in butter. Tracey refilled everyone’s drinks every ten minutes. Zak told old stories about testing sessions Amelia had half-forgotten.

Later, Amelia found a quiet spot in her childhood bedroom, lights dimmed, the duvet still vaguely smelling of fabric softener. Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching her brush her fingers over an old model car she’d built with Zak when she was nine.

“You okay, baby?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m nervous to be staying here again, after having the baby. I wish we could just… have her in Monaco and disappear for a few months.” She frowned. “We didn’t plan our timing very well, did we? You’ll be mid-season, and Oscar won’t have me there, and—“

Lando crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.“Hey. Hey, calm down, baby. I think that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” he murmured. “You’ll want your mum, yeah? She’ll be able to help you adjust without being overbearing.”

She hummed against his chest, her hands closing around his shirt. “What if you’re not here when it happens?”

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll come home as soon as possible, baby. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to miss a single session.” She said, hotly. “But I want you with me all the time and I can’t have both, can I?”

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He murmured. “It’s fine, baby.”

—

Amelia stood at the edge of the test platform, squinting at the flow viz spread across the prototype floor. She wasn’t officially here to work, just visiting. Just dropping in. Just… checking the numbers. Seeing the model. Touching the damn tunnel wall like it could somehow speak to her.

“It’s still bleeding airflow here,” she muttered to herself, pointing at the front of the floor, just under the bargeboard curve. “Boundary layer’s detaching early.”

“Still better than Ferrari’s design,” someone mumbled behind her.

“Low bar,” she shot back.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers danced automatically across the control screen. Toggling split channel overlays, flipping between computational fluid dynamics layers. She could feel her heartbeat syncing with the faint thrum of the tunnel, her mind slotting into gear like it always had.

Until she felt someone step beside her, too quietly for a regular engineer.

“Amelia,” Oscar said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

She blinked, her brain still five seconds behind in aero-language.

He glanced at the setup, then at her bump, then back to her face. “Did you… sleep at all last night?” He asked.

“I took a nap on Lando’s thigh for twenty-three minutes in the car,” she said.

Oscar huffed. “Very normal. Very healthy.”

She turned back to the airflow sim. “This isn’t right. The adjustment from the Miami spec — it’s throwing off drag balance on the mid-straight.”

“Amelia.”

She didn’t answer this time. Just kept muttering corrections under her breath, lips moving like she was translating a language no one else could see.

Oscar stepped closer, then placed one hand gently on her wrist — not to stop her, just to connect.“You’ve been here for hours. You can come back to this later,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be here without doing something.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But we’re not racing this week. And you’re allowed to just… exist in this space without trying to fix every tiny issue that you see.”

Amelia looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut again. He didn’t push. Just stood with her in the quiet hum of the room, solid and calm.

Eventually, she whispered, “My brain’s too loud when I stop.”

“Then let me help you turn the volume down,” Oscar said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go sit by the lake for a bit.”

—

They ended up outside with two mugs of ginger tea that Oscar had somehow convinced catering to let them take out of the dining hall. Amelia sat with her feet up on the bench edge, dress stretched over her bump, breathing slower now.

She watched the fountain spray in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For not treating me like I’m fragile,” she said. “But also not treating me like I’m a machine.”

Oscar smiled sideways. “You’re a human. A terrifyingly brilliant, data-possessed human. But still.”

She let out a tired laugh and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell Lando I had a moment.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’ll stay between us and the ducks.”

She smiled. “My ducky and my ducks — conspiring together. Cute.”

He rolled his eyes.

—

The morning sun hit the Emilia-Romagna pit lane with a sharpness that reminded Amelia of why she loved racing. Clean, brutal light cutting through the lingering coolness of dawn.

She stood just inside the garage, eyes scanning telemetry streams on her iPad, but her mind elsewhere. This was her second-to-last race before maternity leave. A strange mix of accomplishment and anticipation knotted inside her.

Lando caught her eye across the garage, giving a small thumbs-up. She returned the gesture with a faint smile.

Oscar approached, carrying his helmet. “Ready?” He asked.

“Of course I am.”

—

During a quiet moment before qualifying, Amelia slipped out from behind the pit wall to find Lando.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. Just… thinking about how this is all starting to feel a bit too much like a goodbye for my liking.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll hold the fort. You’ll be back before you know it. You don’t need to worry.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. But it feels… weird.”

He held her. Kissed her. “You’ll be fine, baby.”

—

The race was intense. Strategy calls fired rapidly, tyres switching, gaps closing. Amelia’s voice came calm and precise over the radio, guiding Oscar through every corner, every lap.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Oscar finished fourth — solid, but just off the podium. Amelia exhaled, a complex wave of pride and bittersweet acceptance washing over her.

Lando’s race had been even more intense; a nail-biting late charge from Lando, a nail-bitingly close finish between him and Max.

They’d take second.

But she could see it. Hear it.

Her husband had enjoyed winning. And he was hungry for more.

—

Back in the garage, the team gathered around the screens replaying Lando’s brilliant win at Miami — a reminder of the highs to come. Amelia let herself smile, feeling the warmth of the team around her.

Lando slipped an arm around her waist. “Only one more weekend to go,” he murmured.

She leaned into him. “Yeah.”

Tom gave them a nervous smile. “I feel ready to take the reins. Do you think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you could possibly be.” Amelia told him.

Oscar laughed a bit. “I feel like I’m being passed between my divorced parents.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous, ducky.”

NEXT CHAPTER

513 notes · View notes

sophiewritesworld · 2 months ago

Text

Chained - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Plus size female Reader Warning: MDNI 18+, porn with a tiny plot Summary: Eddie and you finally get to try the handcuffs after he joked about them and you just gave him the green light.

The air in Eddie's trailer hums with the low crackle of a Metallica cassette spinning in his ancient stereo, the kind of background noise that makes everything feel a little more electric. You're sprawled on his bed, the patchwork quilt soft under your curves, your oversized Iron Maiden tee riding up just enough to show a sliver of your plush hips.. Eddie's across the room, rummaging through a drawer with that chaotic energy he never quite shakes, his dark curls bouncing as he mutters to himself.

"Swear I put 'em in here," he says, tossing a couple of D&D manuals onto the floor. "Not like I'm cuffing people every day, y'know?"

You laugh, propping yourself on your elbows, the motion making your body shift in a way that catches his eye. He pauses, ringed fingers frozen mid-search, and gives you that lopsided grin that still sends your heart into a tailspin. "What?" you ask, arching a brow.

"Nothin'," he drawls, but his gaze lingers on the way your shirt clings to your chest, your softness a contrast to the sharp edges of his world. "Just... you look good on my bed. Real good."

Heat creeps up your neck, but you play it cool, kicking a leg out to nudge his thigh as he finally pulls a par of silver handcuffs from a drawer. They dangle from his finger, glinting in the dim light of the lava lamp on his nightstand. "Found 'em," he announces, like he's just unearthed treasure. "You still wanna try this, sweetheart?"

You nod, your stomach fluttering with a mix of nerves and excitement. You and Eddie have been together long enough to explore each other’s bodies with confidence—his calloused hands worshipping every curve, every roll, every inch of you—but this is new. The idea came up a week ago, half-joking over pizza, when he’d teased about “locking you up” for stealing his last slice. The heat in his eyes when you’d said, “Maybe I’d let you,” had planted the seed.

Now, here you are, watching him twirl the cuffs like they’re an extension of his stage persona—confident, a little cocky, but with that undercurrent of care that makes you trust him completely. He kneels on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and crawls toward you, his ripped jeans scraping against the quilt. “Ground rules,” he says, voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that does things to you. “You say stop, we stop. You say slow, we slow. You say ‘Eddie, you’re a genius,’ I’ll probably agree.”

You snort, but your pulse quickens as he straddles your thighs, careful not to press too hard. His hands find your wrists, thumbs brushing over your pulse points. “You’re sure?” he asks again, softer now, his brown eyes searching yours.

“I trust you,” you murmur, and it’s the truth. Eddie’s never made you feel anything less than adored, his affection a steady anchor in a world that hasn’t always been kind to your body. He leans down, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re breathless, your fingers curling into his hair.

When he pulls back, he’s got that mischievous glint in his eye. “Arms up, princess,” he says, and you obey, stretching your arms toward the headboard. The metal of the cuffs is cool against your skin as he clicks one around your wrist, then loops the chain through a slat in the headboard before securing the other. The click echoes in the quiet, and you tug lightly, testing the restraint. It’s firm but not tight, leaving you just enough give to squirm.

Eddie sits back on his heels, admiring his work. “Well, damn,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you.” His hands skim down your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. “All mine, huh?”

Your breath hitches as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna take my time with you,” he whispers, and the promise in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Eddie’s hands are everywhere but where you want them, and it’s driving you wild. He’s still straddling you, his weight a comforting pressure, but he’s taking his sweet time, savoring the way you’re laid out beneath him, wrists bound and body open. The handcuffs rattle softly as you shift, the sensation of being restrained amplifying every touch, every glance.

He starts at your neck, lips grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath warm and teasing. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at your skin. His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up to expose your stomach, and he pauses, eyes darkening with that reverent look he gets when he sees you bare. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he says, and it’s not just a line—Eddie means it, every word a balm to any lingering insecurities.

His fingers trace patterns over your belly, dipping into the soft give of your flesh, and you squirm, the cuffs clinking as you tug against them. “Eddie,” you whine, half-laughing, half-desperate. “You’re teasing.”

“Am I?” he asks, all mock innocence, but the smirk on his face gives him away. He leans down, kissing a slow path across your collarbone, then lower, his curls tickling your skin as he nuzzles the tops of your breasts. Your bra is still on, a lacy number you picked just for tonight, and he groans softly as he cups you through it, thumbs brushing over the fabric. “This is torture for me too, y’know,” he says, voice rough. “Wanna touch every inch of you at once.”

“Then do it,” you challenge, arching your back to press yourself closer. He chuckles, low and wicked, and finally tugs your bra down, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry gaze. His mouth is on you in seconds, kissing, licking, worshipping, and the sensation is overwhelming, your hands straining against the cuffs as you try to touch him.

“Can’t,” you gasp, the metal biting gently into your wrists. “Eddie, I wanna—”

“Shh,” he soothes, looking up at you with those big, soulful eyes. “Let me take care of you.” His hands roam lower, skimming the waistband of your leggings, and he hooks his fingers into them, tugging slowly. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart,” he says, and you do, letting him peel the fabric down, leaving you in just your panties.

He pauses again, sitting back to take you in, and the way he looks at you—like you’re a work of art, like you’re everything—makes your chest ache. “You’re perfect,” he says, almost to himself, and then he’s moving again, hands gliding up your thighs, squeezing the softness there. He spreads your legs gently, settling between them, and your breath catches as he kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. He looks up, grinning, and there’s something almost feral in his expression, tempered by the tenderness in his touch.

“Patience,” he says, but his own voice is strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. He kisses higher, closer, and you’re trembling, the cuffs a constant reminder that you’re at his mercy—and loving every second of it. His hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your softness as he kisses you through your panties, the thin fabric a maddening barrier. You’re panting now, your body arching toward him, the handcuffs rattling as you pull against them, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer.

"Eddie, please," you beg, and the sound of your voice- needy, raw- sees to snap something in him. He growls softly, a sound that vibrates through you, and hooks his fingers into your panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. The cool air hits you, and you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth as he finally, finally gives you what you want.

He’s relentless, his tongue and lips working you with a skill that makes your head spin, each movement precise yet hungry. Your thighs tremble, and he holds them steady, his rings cool against your skin. The cuffs keep your hands pinned, and the helplessness only heightens the sensation, every nerve ending alight as he pushes you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled but fervent, and the vibration sends a jolt through your body. You’re moaning now, loud and unashamed, and he loves it, you can tell—his eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and wild, and the connection is electric.

You’re close, so close, and he knows it, slowing just enough to draw it out, to make you feel every second. “Eddie,” you whimper, and he hums in response, the sound pushing you right to the brink. When you finally shatter, it’s like a wave crashing over you, your body shaking, the cuffs clanking as you writhe against them. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re gasping, oversensitive and boneless beneath him.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch he can reach, and when he reaches your face, he’s grinning, his lips glistening. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing his nose against yours.

You nod, still catching your breath, and he kisses you, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on him. It’s intimate, overwhelming, and you tug at the cuffs again, wanting to wrap your arms around him. “Let me out,” you murmur against his lips. “Wanna touch you.”

“Not yet,” he says, smirking. “I’m not done with you.” He shifts, pulling off his shirt, and you drink in the sight of him—lean muscle, scattered tattoos, the faint scars from his past. He’s beautiful, and he’s yours. His jeans are next, and when he’s down to his boxers, he settles over you, the weight of him grounding you even as your heart races.

He kisses you again, hands roaming, and you feel him, hard and ready against your thigh. “You want this?” he asks, voice low, and you nod, desperate for him. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing a condom, and you watch as he rolls it on, his movements quick but careful.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow, deliberate, and you both groan at the sensation. He fills you perfectly, and the cuffs make it all the more intense, your body completely open to him. He moves, steady at first, then faster, his lips never far from yours, whispering praise and filth in equal measure.

Eddie’s pace is relentless now, each thrust driving you higher, your body arching to meet him despite the cuffs holding you in place. The headboard creaks, the handcuffs rattle, and the trailer is filled with the sounds of you—moans, gasps, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. His hands grip your hips, lifting you slightly to hit just the right angle, and you cry out, the pleasure almost too much. “Look at you,” he pants, his voice rough with need. “So fucking beautiful.” His curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes are locked on yours, intense and adoring. You feel worshipped, cherished, and the way he moves, the way he fills you, makes you feel like the only thing that matters in his world.

You’re climbing again, the coil in your belly tightening, and he senses it, leaning down to kiss you, his tongue mirroring the rhythm of his hips. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and it’s a command wrapped in a plea. You do, your body seizing as the orgasm rips through you, stronger than the first, your vision blurring as you clench around him.

He groans, his rhythm faltering, and you know he’s close. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, and with a few more thrusts, he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he buries himself deep. For a moment, you’re both still, breathing hard, connected in every way that matters.

He collapses onto you, careful not to crush you, and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You’re incredible,” he says, voice soft now, and you smile, still dazed. He reaches up, fumbling with the cuffs, and finally frees your wrists, rubbing them gently where the metal left faint marks.

“You okay?” he asks, inspecting your skin, and you nod, pulling him down for a kiss. Your arms are sore but you don’t care, wrapping them around him, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Better than okay,” you say, and he grins, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest.

The Metallica tape has long since stopped, leaving just the hum of the trailer and the sound of your breathing. Eddie’s hands trace lazy patterns on your back, and you feel safe, loved, utterly content. “So,” he says after a while, his voice playful again. “Handcuffs. Yay or nay?”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “Yay. But next time, you’re wearing them.”

His eyes light up, that mischievous spark back in full force. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, pulling you closer. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

421 notes · View notes

ahqkas · 7 months ago

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“HE MOVES MOUNTAINS AND POUNDS THEM TO GROUND AGAIN — bruce wayne.

PAIRING! bruce wayne 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! bruce likes to spoil you, especially during christmas WORD COUNT! 3.4k WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, bruce ‘let me spoil my girl’ wayne + lmk if more! NOTES! wanna be spoiled by a rich guy sb , header bellow belongs to @/v6que © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE STREETS OF GOTHAM, OFTEN SO COLD AND CRUEL WERE CHANGED UNDER THE FIRST TRUE SNOWFALL OF THE SEASON. Blankets of pristine white coated the rooftops, softening the jagged skyline into something almost whimsical. The sidewalks were a patchwork of footprints and slush, as bustling crowds meandered through the early morning chill. Each breath of air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby stand, mingling with the crisp bite of snow.

Children’s laughter rang out in bursts, slicing through the muffled quiet that came with the falling flakes. A group of them had gathered at the corner of Robinson Park, throwing handfuls of powdery snow at one another while some tilted their heads back, tongues outstretched, hoping to catch a flake or two. Their squeals of delight painted the city in a light Gotham rarely allowed itself to wear.

Storefronts glowed with soft, twinkling lights, festive decorations hanging from doorways and window displays dressed in shimmering reds and golds. Every shop seemed to beckon, promising warm escapes and holiday cheer, from tiny mom-and-pop bookstores to designer boutiques with mannequins posed elegantly in the latest winter fashion. Salvation Army bells jingled near donation buckets, blending with the soft hum of carolers just off the main avenue.

The energy was infectious—families strolled arm in arm, couples leaned into one another for warmth, and even the loneliest passerby seemed to walk with a lighter step.

Christmas was approaching.

That was how you found yourself walking arm in arm with Bruce, the world narrowing to the warmth of his presence beside you despite the winter chill. His grip on your arm was steady and sure, his hand a comforting weight where it rested over yours. Even through your gloves, you could feel the faintest trace of his warmth, a contrast to the icy air that kissed you cheeks.

He guided you effortlessly through the busy crowd of people, and his towering frame acted as an anchor amidst the chaos. You noticed the way heads turned, how people instinctively parted to let him through—not just because he was Bruce Wayne, the name that commanded attention, but because he carried himself with a quiet, natural authority. Still, his touch on your arm was gentle, not hurried, as though he had no place to be except here with you.

“Do you think it’s going to stick?” you asked, nodding toward the layer of snow coating the rooftops and trees. Your breath slipped through your lips in visible puffs.

Bruce glanced skyward, his eyes softening in the glow of string lights overhead. “It’s Gotham,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “The snow never lasts long. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it while it’s here.”

There was something so rare about seeing him like this—relaxed, his usual sharp focus softened by the holiday atmosphere. His other hand reached up briefly, brushing a stray snowflake from her your before it could melt, his touch so natural it made your heart stutter. “You’ll let me know if you’re getting cold, won’t you?” he added, his gaze flickering down to you, concern laced in his words.

You tilted your head, a playful smirk curving your lips as you glanced up at him. “I’m fine, Bruce. I’ve survived Gotham winters before.”

The words were teasing, but when he looked down at you with that gentle, pointed expression—his brow slightly furrowed, lips tight with that quiet intensity—you felt the weight of it, as always. It was as if he could see through you, straight into your heart, expecting an answer more than just your usual wit. He always wanted to hear it. A simple reassurance, whether you were okay in his arms after a quality night with him or sharing a quiet moment in the middle of the city’s frenzy.

Your smile softened as you met his gaze, the teasing edge fading into something more genuine. “I’m okay,” you assured him quietly, words a whisper that seemed to linger in the cold air between the two of you. “Really.”

Bruce’s expression softened, but there was still that hint of concern in his eyes, the faintest crease in his brow. His lips parted for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “I know you are,” he admitted. “But I like hearing it anyway.”

Your heart fluttered, and you gave him a soft, affectionate smile before he shifted his attention. Bruce pulled his phone from the pocket of his coat, the sleek device easily fitting in his hand, and he flicked through it with practiced ease. The light from the screen cast a subtle glow across his sharp features, revealing the concentration as he scanned his list.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Alfred’s gifts—need to pick up something special for him . . . then there’s Damian, Dick . . . Jason . . . oh, and Tim.” He paused, scrolling through the notes app, his brow furrowing just a little as he went over his meticulous list of people to buy for. “It’s harder than it sounds—every one of them has something they’ll really like.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the contrast between his usual effortless decisiveness and the almost comical way he planned out every detail. It was such a Bruce thing to do, and yet it was endearing in its own right. “It’s just shopping, Bruce,” you teased. “You’ve got enough money to buy Gotham if you really wanted. Just get them whatever’s shiny and expensive.”

He shot you a glance, lips quirking into a barely-there smile. “Not for them,” he replied, voice thoughtful. “They’re not impressed by the shiny stuff. I want to get something meaningful, even if they act like they don’t care.”

Your teasing smile faded into something softer, touched by the sincerity in his words. He was always thoughtful, always careful, and it was something you’d grown to admire more than anything else. But you still had to comment, your voice light again to keep things from becoming too serious.

“Alright then,” you said with the twinkle in your eyes Bruce adored to see, “just don’t forget the part where you buy me something too. You know, for the ‘special girl’ in your life?”

The man gave you a look, not quite amused but not entirely serious either, his fingers scrolling on his phone as he half-listened. “Of course. You’re on the list, don’t worry.”

The way he said it, though, with that glimmer of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, let you know he was absolutely serious with it. And you knew, in his own quiet, understated way, Bruce would spoil you just as much—if not more—than anyone else.

As you continued in your stroll down the street, the quiet chatter of the crowd around thr two of you felt like distant noise, a soft hum that blurred into the background as your gaze drifted to one of the storefront windows. Nestled in the corner of the display was a delicate bracelet—its silver links shimmering beneath the soft glow of the shop’s warm lights. Each facet of the small diamonds glistened, catching the light just right, creating a mesmerizing sparkle that seemed to draw you in without you even realizing it.

Your heart skipped a beat as you took a step closer, breath caught in your throat as you admired the elegance of the piece. It was everything you loved—simple, yet exquisite, with just the right amount of subtle luxury. You could already imagine it on your wrist, the way it would catch the light, how it would complement the delicate necklace you wore around your neck. But, of course, you couldn’t be too obvious.

You quickly forced your feet to move, pulling your gaze away with an almost guilty glance toward Bruce. You could feel the warmth of his presence beside you, and you tried your best not to linger too long, not wanting him to see the longing in your eyes. It wasn’t like you wanted him to buy it for you—you weren’t the type to ask for extravagant things—but the thought of having something so beautiful . . . well, it made your heart ache just a little.

But of course, Bruce noticed.

He always did.

Without skipping a beat, he slowed his pace to match yours, his sharp eyes flicking toward the window where you had just stopped. He said nothing at first, but his gaze was keen, taking in the way your attention had been captured by the bracelet. It didn’t take much to read the silent longing in your eyes, and though he didn’t say a word, his lips twitched upward in that knowing, almost amused way he often did when he could see through you better than you could see yourself.

“Something catched your eye?”

You turned to face him, offering a quick, almost embarrassed smile. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you waved a hand dismissively, though you couldn’t quite hide the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. “Just . . . admiring.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly, as if debating whether to push you further or let it slide, but his gaze never left yours for a moment. “You know,” he started, his voice low, with a hint of amusement. He was enjoying the moment. “I’m pretty sure I could arrange for that bracelet to be . . . yours, if you really like it.”

Your heart skipped again, and you couldn’t help but laugh, though the sound was breathless. “Bruce, you don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he interrupted, his gaze flicking back to the bracelet. “You deserve something beautiful.”

You met his eyes, a warmth blossoming in your chest at the way he spoke so naturally, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. You didn’t need to ask. He’d already thought it through, already seen something you hadn’t even let yourself admit.

Bruce, as always, seemed to be one step ahead of her.

Before you could protest, he gave your hand a gentle but firm tug, guiding you toward the shop entrance with a determined stride. Your protests, half-hearted as they were, barely made it past your lips before you found yourself caught in his wake.

“I don’t think I need anything,” you started, but the words felt flimsy as he nudged open the door for you to enter first, the warm air from inside the shop spilling out like an invitation. The shop was just as elegant as the bracelet itself, filled with gleaming displays of luxury and an array of fine jewelry that made your eyes sparkle. Even the air smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive perfumes, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place in your cozy winter coat compared to the sleek interior.

Bruce, however, seemed perfectly at home.

He was already scanning the shelves with the kind of focus he reserved for planning an important mission, his eyes darting between the glimmering items like a child in a candy store. “What do you think of this?” he asked, pointing to a necklace encrusted with gorgeous diamonds, its center stone a vivid shade of sapphire. “Or this?” His finger then hovered over a ring so opulent it seemed to catch the light from every angle, a stunning emerald set in platinum, polished to perfection. “I’m sure you’d look incredible in this one.”

You had to laugh, despite yourself. “Bruce, they’re beautiful, but I don’t need anything like that,” you said, trying your best to steer him toward a less extravagant choice. You couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by how effortless he made it look—like money was a toy for him, to be spent and discarded without a second thought. But you weren’t that girl. You didn’t need diamonds and gold to know he cared.

Bruce merely glanced at you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I’m not saying you need it,” he explained with a knowing glance, “but you deserve it. Every piece in here, and more.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through you at his words. “I’m really fine with just looking.”

Yet, his hand never wavered as he pointed again—this time toward the stunning bracelet you eyed earlier, a sleek chain with delicate diamonds set into its links, glistening under the shop’s overhead lights. “What about this one?” he asked, voice smooth and persuasive, as though he knew exactly you would choose this one. “It would go so well with the necklace you already wear.”

Oh, he knew you so well.

Your breath caught for a moment. There it was—the same bracelet you’d seen outside, now glowing with the same captivating brilliance up close. You felt your resolve falter, but you quickly steadied yourself. “Bruce, it’s beautiful, but—”

He cut you off, his voice warm but insistent. “I know what you’re thinking, but I can tell you right now, it’s not too much. Not for you.” His gaze softened as he met your eyes, almost pleading with a subtle intensity that you couldn’t ignore. “Let me spoil you, sweet girl, just a little. You’ve earned it.”

You swallowed, your cheeks warming up with emotion at the sincerity in his words. It wasn’t the extravagant pieces he had pointed to earlier that made your heart swell; it was the thought behind it all. He was offering what you had always dreamed of—the luxury, the feeling of being cared for so much that it made you almost melt.

“Bruce, really,” you tried again, voice softer, more vulnerable now. “I don’t need any of this.”

But his eyes, dark and unwavering, held yours, and you knew—he was determined. And deep down, you knew there was no way to say no.

Your words hung in the air for a moment as you smiled sheepishly, trying to ease the tension you could feel building between them. “I was just window shopping. I wasn’t planning on buying anything. It’s just . . . pretty to look at, that’s all.”

But when Bruce’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing ever so slightly, lips pressing into a thin line—you instantly knew you had made a mistake. His posture straightened, his gaze hardening in that way you knew too well. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but something else—something deeper, like he’d just been presented with an insult he hadn’t expected.

“You were just window shopping?” His voice was soft, but there was a steel edge to it now, one that told you he wasn’t pleased with the idea of you limiting yourself to just looking. “With me?”

For a moment, you were silent, surprised by the strength of his reaction. It almost felt like he’d been wounded, as if the idea of you standing in front of something so beautiful—something you deserved—without actually taking it, was too much for him to bear. The hint of disappointment in his voice caught you off guard, a realization dawning on you that you’d underestimated him again.

“Bruce,” you started, your tone softer now, trying to piece together the right words. “It’s not that I didn’t want it . . . I just didn’t want you to—”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “No. You don’t just window shop when you’re with me, sweetheart. Not for things like this. You see something you like, you take it. And I’ll make sure you get it.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but the gentle cut-off from him stilled the words before they could escape. And before you could even process the shift, his fingers were already moving—sliding his sleek black card from his wallet with an ease you had come to expect, but it still made your heart flutter every time he did it.

The sound of the card swiping against the boutique’s terminal felt like a soft crack of thunder in the quiet of the shop, and the realization you her all at once—he wasn’t just offering to buy you the bracelet. He was already doing it.

The cashier smiled warmly, already taking the sleek black card and ringing up the bracelet. The sparkle of the diamonds under the soft shop lighting seemed to mock your hesitation, making the choice you had avoided all along suddenly seem inevitable. Your gaze flicked from the bracelet to the man who liked spoiling you a little too much, then back again, your chest tightening with a swirl of emotions.

Bruce caught your eye, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t take no for an answer when it comes to you,” he murmured quietly, his words soft but sure, as though the decision had been made the moment he saw you admiring the piece. “You deserve to have everything you want.”

“I . . . I didn’t want to feel like I was asking too much,” you admitted softly to him, fingers lightly brushing the delicate fabric of your scarf.

He stepped closer and his voice lowered just for you, the softness of it carrying a weight that made your cheeks warm up. “Sweetheart, you’re not asking for anything. You’re not asking too much. You never have to. Let me spoil you, let me take care of you.”

Before you could give him a response, the cashier handed him the small box containing the bracelet, wrapped with a care that only seemed to make it more precious.

“Enjoy the holidays, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce turned to you then, the box resting in his hand, his dark eyes fixed on you with an almost expectant look.

“Go ahead,” he urged, his voice soft but firm, “Try it on. It’s yours just like I said it would be.”

Your fingers hovered over the delicate box, the weight of Bruce’s words lingering in the air like a soft promise. You opened it slowly, almost reverently, and your breath caught in your throat as you saw the bracelet in its full brilliance for the first time up close. The diamonds caught the light, glinting like tiny stars, each one reflecting a different facet of the warmth you felt deep inside. It was beautiful, in a way that made you feel a little lightheaded, and as you slipped it onto your wrist, you couldn’t help but glance up at Bruce, who was watching you with an almost proud smile.

“It’s perfect.”

Bruce’s eyes softened with something close to satisfaction, but the teasing smirk tugging at his lips was unmistakable. “I told you it would be,” he said, his voice rich with affection—and something else, something playful that you knew all too well.

You smiled, reaching up to adjust the bracelet slightly, the delicate metal cool against your skin. “I wasn’t expecting you to actually buy it, though,” you admitted, still a little embarrassed by the extravagance of it all. “You could’ve just let me keep window shopping.”

“Window shopping, huh?” He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “You’re with me now. Window shopping isn’t a thing, sweetheart. Not for you. You deserve more than that.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but before you could say anything else, Bruce’s voice turned more teasing, that mischievous edge creeping back in. “Although,” he began, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something more, “now that you have that beautiful bracelet, I wonder what else you might need. I’m sure there are plenty of other lovely things out there for you. More necklaces? Maybe some earrings? Or,” he paused dramatically, looking you up and down with a grin, “how about a whole set?”

You rolled her eyes, half-amused and half-embarrassed by the thought of being so utterly spoiled. “Bruce, I don’t need a whole set.”

“Oh, but I insist,” he teased, his smile widening. “There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when it comes to you. I’d spoil you rotten if I could.”

You could hear the amusement in his voice, but there was a layer of genuine affection beneath it all. It was the way he looked at you, the way he spoke—like you were the most precious thing in the world to him, and nothing was too much to give.

For a moment, you let yourself bask in the warmth of that feeling, your new bracelet gleaming against your wrist, a symbol not just of his generosity but of something much deeper—the connection the two of you shared. “You’re impossible,” you laughed softly, but there was no real heat in your words. Only affection, and the quiet joy of being loved in a way you’d never quite expected.

Bruce’s smile softened, and he leaned in just a little closer, his voice low and sincere. “I’m not impossible, sweetheart. I’m just getting started.”

660 notes · View notes

dmitriene · 6 months ago

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cw: subby simon.

simon ghost riley likes you a little sharp, adorably so, with your fingernails digging painfully at his nape, rousing searing sparks down his rippling, arching back, with your teeth's bared out at him in a giddy snarl before sinking into the full meat of his muscled shoulder, stinging when you close your jaw around, eyes fluttering at him, heavily pleased with the hitched growl that escapes his parting lips, turning out in a prolonged sigh, his touch on you more gentle, a barely tangible brush of his fingers along the dip of your waist.

a slow, tender pats here and there over your supple curves, unlike your gnawing, scraping and tearing in his skin, leaving thin, crisscrossed scratches over his broad back and twitching shoulders, patchwork of bruises that stand out a pretty purple over the gentle flush that spreads down simon's tilted neck, curved aside to let you nuzzle in and mouth as long as you want, devour him and rip at his pliable body, pressing your own down, weight sinking, settling teasingly over the damp, swelling bulge in his boxers, and he's gone.

wrapped around your finger willingly, and simon enjoys to be on the submissing, receiving end, let your hips rock languidly, the plump fat of your ass rubbing over his barely clothed cock, feeling the light throb, how his calloused fingertips dip in the slope of your waist, flexing, throat rumbling with tiny, guttural moan, delicate, long eyelashes fanning against the carved out, dark circles beneath his heavy dropped and dazed eyes, as his pupils dilate, outcompeted by the lust and adoration, painted all over his pretty, dumbfounded face.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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dacrystalsim · 8 months ago

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The Sims 3 Teen Style Stuff

The Sims 2 Teen Style Stuff converted to The Sims 3! This pack includes 43 items, 7 wallpapers, 4 floors and a collection file with a custom icon. This pack is base game compatible, please let me know if you're having any issues with it.

How to download:

There are 2 versions, please download only one!

Teen Style Stuff-Merged: Merged version.

Teen Style Stuff-Unmerged: Unmerged version, mix and match to your liking.

Download links:

[SFS] | [MTS]

Credits: EA / Maxis for the original meshes and textures. Special thanks: TS3CreatorCave discord server for all the help and tips and @virtual-hugs for testing the wardrobes and vanity table for me ❤ @xto3conversionsfinds @pis3update Polycount and CASTable channels under the cut.

Polycount: Surfer Racka H 1024 / M 716 Anthony Roc Board Hanger H 1119 / M 807 The It Poster H 216 / M 56 Pear ShinyStation XTR H 974 / M 775 Curves Music Manager H 1118 / M 782 EDUKATE Shelf H 1216 / M 910 Pompadour Dresser H 1161 / M 1021 Roll On H 1480 / M 1110 The Television Television H 1430 / M 1132 Light Waves Ceilling Lamp H 1566 / M 1096 Dirty Clothes Pile H 2 Swervy Curvy Desk H 1226 / M 1140 Curves and Swerves End Table H 411 / M 367 Simple Single H 2256 / M 1578 Simple Double H 3054 / M 2110 Fluffy Rocker H 1098 / M 768 Higher Education H 1340 / M 966 Nova Table Lamp H 692 / M 558 Wall Flare Lamp H 518 / M 414 Lumosity Candle Holder H 601 / M 417 Seat of High-Backed Terror H 1412 / M 1059 Four Star Ceilling Lamp H 1532 / M 1232 Tall and Terrible Armoire H 2766 / M 2274 Mirror on the Wall H 884 / M 621 Patchwork Desk H 1460 / M 1460 Patchwork End Table H 1276 / M 892 Side by Side H 4492 / M 3270 Coture Clothing Chest H 3320 / M 2438 Ahead of the Table H 1610 / M 1126 The Better Bookshelf H 1302 / M 946 Cork It Over Memory Board H 144 / M 100 Princess Collection Coat Rack H 1520 / M 1103 Fine Finish Desk H 2264 / M 1848 You're So Vanity H 2073 / M 1451 Subtle Touch End Table H 1392 / M 974 Fit for Royalty H 2904 / M 2134 Fit for Royalty V2 H 2112 / M 1492 You're So Vanity Chair H 664 / M 464 Stay Out! Poster H 10 Hollywood Print H 48 Bullseye Throw Rug H 20 TuneJammy Blammer Boombox H 1450 / M 1014 Create a Collage Poster Set H 4

#ts3cc #ts3cc download #ts3 cc finds #sims 3 cc #ts3 teen style stuff #2to3 download #sims 2 to sims 3 #s2tos3 #ts3 #sims 3 #sims 3 teen style stuff #ts2 to ts3 #dl #dl: buy

867 notes · View notes

scealaiscoite · 1 year ago

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.☽༊˚ a hundred assorted prompts

¹⁾ raspberry lip gloss

²⁾ pajama bottoms

³⁾ a silver lighter

⁴⁾ fresh honey

⁵⁾ flushed cheeks

⁶⁾ a fogged-up mirror

⁷⁾ the imprint of a belt buckle on skin

⁸⁾ helium balloons

⁹⁾ a broken cocktail glass

¹⁰⁾ old playing cards

¹¹⁾ chipped green nail polish

¹²⁾ a brown leather wallet

¹³⁾ bullet holes in a wooden wall

¹⁴⁾ seashells lined up along the curve of a spine

¹⁵⁾ beaded curtains

¹⁶⁾ pomegranate seeds

¹⁷⁾ a carabiner heavy with keys

¹⁸⁾ fresh-cut orchids in a pottery vase

¹⁹⁾ vending machine cigarettes

²⁰⁾ an out of date map

²¹⁾ a creaky wooden gate

²²⁾ a minifridge stocked with budweiser and paracetamol

²³⁾ snapdragons growing between pavement slabs

²⁴⁾ smudged yellow eyeshadow

²⁵⁾ slept-in braids

²⁶⁾ library books that’ll never be returned

²⁷⁾ a pink-tiled shower

²⁸⁾ a honeybee on a linen shirtsleeve

²⁹⁾ burnt popcorn

³⁰⁾ watching an eclipse from bed

³¹⁾ a black lace bralette

³²⁾ a tattered patchwork quilt

³³⁾ blue raspberry bubblegum

³⁴⁾ a rusted fishing rod and a dried-up lake

³⁶⁾ the taste of whiskey on someone else’s lips

³⁷⁾ rose-scented candles burned down to the wick

³⁸⁾ crescent-shaped coffee stains on a wooden tabletop

³⁹⁾ odd socks

⁴⁰⁾ a loose thread on a jumper sleeve

⁴¹⁾ warm sheets on cold skin

⁴²⁾ amber-tinged perfume

⁴³⁾ gold jewelry

⁴⁴⁾ a calloused palm against a soft cheek

⁴⁵⁾ a busted headlight

⁴⁶⁾ sunrise from a jail cell

⁴⁷⁾ hand tattoos that weave around fingers

⁴⁸⁾ coconut shampoo

⁴⁹⁾ a doorbell sounding in the middle of the night

⁵⁰⁾ ladybugs crawling across a headstone

⁵¹⁾ grass stains on blue jeans

⁵²⁾ a loaded saddlebag

⁵³⁾ a dusty wine cellar

⁵⁴⁾ a bikini top draped over a bedpost

⁵⁵⁾ snow in july

⁵⁶⁾ dirt-red mountaintops

⁵⁷⁾ goosebumps in a heatwave

⁵⁸⁾ an empty dinnertable

⁵⁹⁾ a fresh manicure and bruised knuckles

⁶⁰⁾ zombie movies

⁶¹⁾ bitten lips

⁶²⁾ dark eyes full of tears

⁶³⁾ a soft cast in summertime

⁶⁴⁾ stale coffee in paper cups

⁶⁵⁾ frozen peaches on a black eye

⁶⁶⁾ acrid smoke

⁶⁷⁾ bound hands

⁶⁸⁾ animal tracks

⁶⁹⁾ unwound vhs tapes

⁷⁰⁾ cartoon plasters

⁷¹⁾ lipstick marks on shirt collars

⁷²⁾ silver bangles

⁷³⁾ sharing a coat in a downpour

⁷⁴⁾ fields with grass at waist-height

⁷⁵⁾ daisy chains up to your forearm

⁷⁶⁾ rolled-up shirtsleeves

⁷⁷⁾ the smell of bleach in a dark room

⁷⁸⁾ a shared sleeping bag

⁷⁹⁾ a new haircut

⁸⁰⁾ swimsuit tanlines

⁸¹⁾ perfume clinging to a pillow

⁸²⁾ lollipops dangling between lips

⁸³⁾ a badly-timed grin

⁸⁴⁾ old books

⁸⁵⁾ tongues stained from slushies

⁸⁶⁾ waking up in a hailstorm

⁸⁷⁾ dying sunflowers

⁸⁸⁾ colourful sunglasses

⁸⁹⁾ the last pew

⁹⁰⁾ tall, rattling windows in a storm

⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

⁹²⁾ sticks of incense burned down to the last

⁹³⁾ bunk beds

⁹⁴⁾ matching sets

⁹⁵⁾ ruined mascara

⁹⁶⁾ a boxing ring

⁹⁷⁾ stained glass windows

⁹⁸⁾ fairy forts

⁹⁹⁾ a cluttered bedside table

¹⁰⁰⁾ a hangover in the evening

#i can’t even try and explain where this came from lad #prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #fic prompts #drabble prompts #aesthetic prompts #soft prompts #random prompts

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bimmyjimmy · 2 months ago

Note

Stumpy puffy raccoon tail

Thick wool like a sheep

Curved ears like a mouse that is also a devil

Round head like the worlds most throwable rock

Face like a cartoon mountain lion

Absolute patchwork beast of a guy. I love him.

Your poetic words have left him speechless

#ask #cats of tumblr #cat #cat blog #catblr #curly cat

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v-killallspiders · 2 months ago

Text

HEIR TO THE STARS

Mark Grayson x Kryptonian!Reader

CHAPTER TWO: TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

It had been three hours since Omni-Man had left the planet. It had been three hours since Mark Grayson’s battered, bruised body was recovered from the side of the mountain he had been abandoned on. It had been one hour since Mark Grayson had left surgery.

You had been standing outside Mark’s hospital room for one hour. You weren't sure why. You didn’t know Mark and Mark sure as hell didn’t even know you existed - probably still wasn’t aware of your existence after your three second interaction a few hours ago. You were probably the last thing on his mind at that moment with his father tearing the city apart in a fury.

You were broken out of your stupor by the sound of the door softly opening and closing, Debbie Grayson momentarily leaving her son’s bedside. Debbie looked confused for a beat before recognition dawned on her, “You.. you tried to save him. Tried to save my boy.”

You said nothing for a moment, simply taking in the older woman’s features. Mark was definitely her son, from those soft eyes to the curve of his mouth.

“I did,” you stated simply, giving her a small nod, your hand flexing slightly in the cast you had been given, “I should’ve done better. For him, for you, for everybody else.”

Debbie’s features softened, this was a girl the same age as her boy, her sweet boy. A girl who could’ve been her daughter, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Carrying some sort of misguided guilt because she wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t fast enough to protect people from her husband. Debbie had to hold back the sob she so desperately wanted to let out. Instead she held strong, both for her and the young girl in front of her. Debbie took small, cautious steps towards you, as if approaching an injured animal.

“You tried, that’s all that matters and all that should matter,” Debbie murmured, hands rubbing softly up and down your arms. She nodded towards the room, “Go, I think he’d want to meet you.”

You said nothing as you looked into Debbie’s kind eyes, trying to find any sort of lie or hesitation in there, any sign that she would rather you leave. You found nothing, just pure, unwavering honesty and softness.

You hesitated before backing away from Debbie and making your way towards the room. Using your uninjured arm, you slowly pull the handle down to open the door. The sight that greets you inside is gut-wrenching. Mark looked so small laying in that bed. Smaller than you had ever seen before with his usually large presence and unwavering grin. His face was a patchwork mess of bruises, you couldn’t even see his one eye properly with how swollen and purple it was.

You clench your jaw. This was your fault. If you’d have been smarter, stronger, faster- you could’ve beat Omni-Man. Could’ve saved Mark, could’ve saved all those other people in Chicago. If you’d have just been what Cecil had actually raised you to be, not this pathetic mess-

“You’re that girl..?” he whispers quietly, his voice raspy from unuse. You immediately try to leave the room, not prepared to actually talk to Mark after spending so many months watching over his shoulder like a guardian angel.

“Wait!,” Mark exclaims, trying to get up from the bed, grunting from the pain, “Don’t go, please.”

You freeze, hand firm on the door handle, prepared to flee at any point, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Y/N,” you reply softly, turning around to face Mark head on, for the first time ever.

“You’ve always been there haven’t you?” Mark asks, not accusing but not quite questioning either, “Always been over my shoulder, watching? Waiting?”

“You saw me?” You asked, completely avoiding his main question, eyes trying to look everywhere but at him.

“No, but I could always feel you. It was driving me crazy,” he murmurs, upper body flopping back onto the bed now that he knew you weren’t about to run off.

You didn’t say anything, simply moved to sit in the chair by his bedside.

“Why,” he asked, shutting his eyes as he leaned back into his pillows.

“Cecil was… concerned,” you paused, trying to find the right words to say that wouldn’t paint your father as a paranoid freak. Not that it would be an incorrect assumption to make.

Mark barks out a dry laugh, his jaw clenching, “Cecil wanted you to make sure I didn’t step out of line, huh?”

“Mark…” you sighed, “It’s not like that.”

Yes it was. Cecil didn’t have a full contingency for Omni-Man so he’d be damned if he had nothing for the older alien’s kid son. Although, you weren’t privy to the full details as to what Cecil had planned, which was frustrating in itself.

“Dont! Don’t sit there and lie to me please…” Mark snapped, before exhaling deeply, “Would you have ever come to me - if my dad didn’t decide to rearrange my entire fucking face?”

You flinch at his tone, “I don’t- I don’t know, Mark.”

Mark just nods in defeated silence, refusing to look at you.

“I’m Mark Grayson, what’s your name?” He suddenly blurts out, finally making eye contact with you, a slight twinkle in his eyes - a far cry from the defeated look he had mere moments ago.

You stare at him unblinking before a soft smile breaks out on your face, “I’m Y/N Stedman, let’s be friends?”

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #invincible #invincible x reader #fem!reader #female reader #kryptonian!reader

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bernardsbendystraws · 4 months ago

Text

Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: One night at a party seems to change everything. A strange man with a friendly smile and a sleeve of patchwork tattoos seems to make you feel at home for a change. You're finally happy to have made a good friend to lean on - especially when it comes to your not-so-great relationship with your boyfriend. But what happens if you lean too much...what happens if you fall?

Warnings: Fluff and angst.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ FINAL CHAPTER ]

18: Fresh Air

wc: 1200+

Burnt toast filled my senses. My mind stirs to wandering thoughts as I slowly start to open my eyes.

“Shit!” I hear Matt's panicked voice making me smile as I get up, stepping through the hallway as I see him come into view, surrounded by smoke erupting from the toaster. Giggles push through my lips, the sound making his head swivel towards me, his cheeks flushing as his eyes go wide.

“Having fun there?” I tease.

Scratching the back of his neck, Matt shrugs, “I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed, I… sorry for waking you up.”

I shake my head from side to side, walking around the kitchen island to shuffle my hand through his messy hair. “I don’t mind,” I remark, letting my hand fall down to cup his cheek as his eyes peer into mine.

It could be the lingering sleep, but something just feels so right, so peaceful. I find myself staring into his eyes, unable to peel my gaze away as he curves his arm around my back, pulling me flush against him.

“You look really pretty,” he breathes, his eyes shifting between my own as I feel my heart pound in my chest. It’s intoxicating. The warmth of his words wash over me like sunlight, a glow of pure joy making my skin prickle with goosebumps.

“I, uh - thank you.” I blush as he leans down, brushing his nose against my own.

It feels different. There’s no pressure, just us.

___

“Are you warm enough?” he asks, tucking the blanket around me as I sit in his lap. He had insisted on sitting on the balcony, and on having me sit in his lap, but I wasn’t complaining.

I hum in response, nuzzling my head into his chest more as he hugs me closer. His hands tangle through my hair, gently massaging the roots as he rocks us with a soft motion. “That feels so good,” I say.

“Hmmm, good,” he coos.

The silence is so calm. I find myself sinking against his body with complete relaxation, my bones feeling as if they’re melting to mold against him.

“I’m not ready to go back,” I sigh, dreading the thought of going back home, facing the pressures of everything I’d wanted to avoid.

Matt looks down at me, his hand cradling my cheek as his eyes softly gaze down at me. “I know, me either. I love this… the view, the mountains. I love yo-”

He cuts himself off, his lips opening with a large huff of air as I go stiff in his arms. “I - you don’t need to say it back, but.. I need you to know,” he says, his eyes squinting with emotion as he rubs his thumb along my jaw, “I love you.”

My eyes go wide. I feel my spine tingle, my body pulsing as I try to wrap my head around the words.

“You don’t have to say it back, I-”

“I love you.”

The interruption makes us both go silent. All thoughts run blank as I let my heart echo through my veins, pure instinct and emotions leaking through my lips.

“I really love you. I mean it,” I repeat.

Matt’s eyes gloss over with an innocent devotion. He hugs me tighter, his forehead resting against my own as he lets out a small laugh of endearment. “Even with the burnt toast and boney ass?” he jokes.

I scrunch my nose, humming as I let out a small snicker, “Especially with the burnt toast and boney ass.”

It’s so stupid, but it’s breathtakingly innocent. So genuine and raw it makes my bones vibrate inside my body.

“Promise that nothing changes when we go back. Please.”

The vulnerability leaking from his voice makes my heart clench in my chest. I find myself in pain even at the thought of losing him, losing this.

“I promise.”

___

It was almost sad coming back. Rumors were spreading like wildfire. Hayden kept yapping, name dropping me as my reputation got dragged through the dirt. And the more people said, the more quiet I got.

I promised Matt, but I didn’t expect to put his life in a negative spotlight. The promise lingered in my mind as I peeped through my blinds, seeing a crowd of people stalking outside since someone had leaked my address.

There was no proof, but I knew Hayden did it. Something about the way he was thriving off the attention from the public, showing a fake pout as he told people to ‘be kind.’

The knock on my door catches me off guard. Although people were watching outside, no one was knocking.

Stalking over to the door, I gasp looking through the peephole. Matt. I rush to open the door, pulling him inside as I lock the door quickly.

“What are you doing here? Are you stupid, you’re gonna get blasted on the inter–”

Matt grabs both of my forearms, his disheveled appearance accompanied by his heavy breaths. “I don’t care. You made a promise. You… don’t let this come in between us, please,” he begs, looking into my eyes before taking a deep sigh, “Please. You - you promised.”

I did promise. But, I never expected that promise to hurt him like this.

“Matt, I… I don’t want to drag you into–”

Cutting me off once more, he grabs both my hands in his, kissing my knuckles. “I don’t care. I don’t care about anything if I can’t have you. I… I love you, please don’t - please,” he whispers, pulling my hands to his chest, his pounding heartbeat thumping against my palm.

“I love you so much, I just - I don’t wanna hurt your reputation. I know you say you don’t care–”

“I don’t.”

As I go to push back, I feel him grab my hand, dragging me in his footsteps as he marches towards the door.

Sunlight invades my vision as he guides us outside. My eyes go wide as I look up to see phones all pointed at me.

“Matt, what’s going on?” I hiss, shying into his hold as he hugs me closer.

His eyes venture into mine with love, raw emotion seeping through as I feel myself forget about our surroundings.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

Nodding, I find my breath hitching in my chest as he leans down. His nose presses into the side of my cheek, his lips finding their way to my own as he softly kisses me. My spine straightens as I gravitate towards him. I let my hands plant themselves on his shoulders as his lips mold onto mine, soft passion chasing between our movements.

The ringing in my ears is subtly interrupted by shuttering camera sounds. I tense in his hold as I look around, my eyes widening as I see dozens of phones pointed towards us.

“Matt…” I whisper, my hands clasping into his shirt, “-what’re you doing?”

Gently, he grabs my chin. I feel his warm breath against my lips, his mouth venturing closer to my own once again, kissing me softly as he muffles against me;

“Just needed some fresh air.”

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jollytacocandy · 3 months ago

Text

Marked by the Butcher:

Thomas Hewitt X Plus sized female reader

TW: Kidnapping, violence, typically TCM stuff

Enjoy and let me know your thoughts as this is my first TCM fanfic!

You woke up to the smell of rust and rot.

Your head pounded, throbbing with every slow, disoriented breath you took. The world around you was dim, shadows stretching over warped wooden walls. The air was the ick, stale, and each inhale burned your throat.

Panic clawed its way into your chest as reality settled in.

The gas station. The van breaking down. The old woman at the gas station smiling so sweetly as she offered help.

Not long after, chaos followed.

Hands grabbing. Screaming. The cracking sounds of your friend's skull. The blood. The sharp sting of something slamming against your skull. Total darkness.

And now… this.

Your breathing quickened as you tried to move, wrists aching from the rough rope binding them. Your legs weren’t tied, but they felt weak, like you’d been out for hours. Your eyes darted around the room—an old storage space, maybe a basement. Dim light seeped through the cracks of a door across from you, casting long, jagged shadows.

You want to cry, you want to scream, but you are too tired, too weak with no water or food for the past day awaiting for your deadly fate to come.

You jump as you hear the door swung open and the heavy footsteps that follow. You hold your breath as you see a large man, his massive frame nearly swallowing the entire room. You see his gortesque mask made from human flesh and the smell nearly makes you want to vomit.

Thomas stood at the edge of the table.

Looming. Watching.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as you stared at the ceiling, refusing to meet his gaze.

You couldn’t.

If you did, you weren’t sure what you’d see.

Or worse—what he would see in you.

A sharp noise scraped through the tense silence—the sound of a knife dragged across the wooden table. Your body tensed, wrists twisting against the bindings. The more you struggled, the deeper the rope bit into your skin, but panic made you pull anyway.

A heavy exhale came from behind the mask.

Then, slowly, a large, calloused hand reached out.

Your stomach twisted as rough fingers gripped your chin—not cruel, not bruising, but firm. Unyielding.

You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to twist away.

Thomas inhaled sharply. His fingers tightened just a little, just enough to still your movement.

Gentle but deliberate—he tilted your head.

Your breath hitched.

His grip didn’t hurt, but there was no mistaking the strength behind it. He wasn’t asking. He was making you.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open.

And you saw him.

Up close, his mask was even more terrifying. The seams were uneven, rough stitches holding the grotesque patchwork together. His dark eyes—intense, unreadable—were the only thing visible beneath it.

They bore into you. Searching.

What does he want?

You swallowed hard, body trembling as he studied your face. His fingers twitched slightly against your jaw, like he wasn’t used to touching this way. Like he was testing something.

Your breath stuttered as his grip softened, his thumb barely grazing your cheek. The touch sent a shiver down your spine.

Thomas is excited. He's never seen anyone like you. You're different, not like the other outsiders. His gaze dragged over her body, slow and deliberate. She was soft.

Not like the others who came through here, all sharp angles and hollow frames. No, she had fullness. Thick thighs pressing together, hips wide enough to fill out the worn denim she wore. The curve of her stomach rose and fell with each unsteady breath, plush and warm, not taut with starvation or rigid with fear.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

She wasn’t small. She wouldn’t break too easily.

He felt himself stiffen at the thought.

She wasn't like the others.

She was perfect.

She was his.

#tcm #thomas hewitt #leatherface #luda mae hewitt #texas chainsaw massacre #thomas hewitt x reader

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octaneink · 3 months ago

Text

Pancakes

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary: A look into one morning of the Lenney family Warnings: None! Notes: I watched a PewDiePie video and Björn gave me baby fever that inspired this...

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, pooling in molten gold across the dishevelled duvet. It caught on the faint sheen of dust suspended in the air, turning each mote into a tiny, glittering star. Your foot, pale and cool, had escaped the warmth of the covers, resting just where the sunlight spilled onto the bed. Will’s legs were still entwined with yours, his skin radiating the kind of heat that only came from deep sleep.

His arm, heavy and unyielding, draped across your waist, fingers resting lightly against the curve of your hip. Even in sleep, his touch was deliberate, as though some part of him remained vigilant, unwilling to let you slip away. It was a gesture that had become as familiar as the rhythm of your own breathing, a quiet reassurance that had lingered since those early days when everything between you felt fragile and new.

You turned your head slightly, studying him. The sunlight caught the rough texture of his stubble, turning it into a patchwork of gold and shadow. His chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep, the faintest flicker of movement beneath his eyelids hinting at some dream playing out in the quiet of his mind. For a moment, the world felt suspended, held in the delicate balance of this stillness.

Then, the door exploded open with a crash that made the walls shudder.

“Mummy! Daddy! Look at me!”

Oliver stood silhouetted in the doorway, pyjama pants sagging over mismatched dinosaur socks, arms triumphantly raised above his head. The plastic stegosaurus clenched in his fist still dripped bathwater from last night’s “ocean expedition.” His grin was wide enough to split his face in two, eyes sparkling with the kind of uncontainable energy that only a five-year-old could muster at this hour.

Before either of you could react, he launched himself onto the bed with the force of a cannonball. The mattress groaned in protest, and Will’s arm tightened reflexively around your waist as the impact jolted him awake.

“Christ, Ol—” Will’s voice was thick with sleep, half groan, half laugh. “Since when d’you turn into a bloody wrecking ball?”

Oliver was already scrambling, his giggles bubbling up like a spring as he tried to clamber over Will’s chest. Will caught him mid-motion, his large hands engulfing Oliver’s tiny frame, and pulled him into a headlock. Oliver shrieked with laughter, his curls bouncing wildly as he squirmed, his dinosaur still clutched tightly in one fist. Will’s laughter rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the bed and into your bones. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the lines there deepening in a way that made your heart twist.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, watching them. Will’s hands, calloused and scarred from years of work, moved with a surprising gentleness as he tickled Oliver’s sides. There was a precision to his touch, a carefulness that belied his size and strength. Oliver’s laughter filled the room, high-pitched and unrestrained, bouncing off the walls and mingling with Will’s deeper, richer tones. The framed photo on the nightstand wobbled precariously, its glass still smudged with the faint outline of peanut butter fingerprints from yesterday’s snack-time chaos. It was a picture of Will holding Oliver for the first time, his face a mixture of awe and terror, as though he’d been handed something both precious and fragile.

You didn’t say anything, just let the moment settle over you like a blanket. The sunlight, the laughter, the way Oliver’s tiny hands flailed as he tried to escape Will’s grasp—it all felt like something you wanted to hold onto, to tuck away in a corner of your mind where it could never fade. Will’s laughter softened, his grip on Oliver loosening as the boy finally wriggled free, collapsing in a heap of giggles between the two of you. His curls were a wild halo against the pillow, his cheeks flushed pink with exertion.

The word burst out of Oliver like a firework, his voice still thick with sleep but already brimming with the kind of enthusiasm only a child could muster at the crack of dawn. “Pancakes!” He gasped between giggles, his breath warm and faintly sour, the way it was always in the mornings. “The chocolate ones, with the—the sprinkles!” His hands flailed as if trying to physically shape the idea, his dinosaur forgotten on the bed.

Will groaned, running a hand over his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. “Sprinkles, eh?” he muttered, his voice gravelly with sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling around his waist and revealing the faded tattoo curling along his ribs—Mum’s lasagna recipe in looping, slightly smudged script, a relic of his eighteenth birthday and a pub crawl that had ended with more regrets than he cared to admit. “Thought you were a ‘big boy who only eats broccoli’ now?”

Oliver’s face scrunched up, his nose wrinkling in a way that was so eerily reminiscent of Will’s thinking face it almost made you laugh. “Broccoli’s… sneaky,” he declared after a moment, his tone solemn, as though he were imparting some great wisdom. “Hides in pancakes.”

Will stood, stretching until his joints popped, and Oliver immediately latched onto his hand, tugging him toward the door. “C’mon, Daddy, before Mummy eats all the chocolate!” he insisted, his voice rising in pitch with every word. Will shot you a look over his shoulder, half-exasperated, half-amused, as he let Oliver drag him out of the room.

You followed, your bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The hallway was bathed in the pale gold of morning light, the walls lined with more of Oliver’s artwork—stick-figure families, unrecognisable animals, and the occasional abstract splatter of colour that he insisted was a “dinosaur storm.” The kitchen door swung open with a creak, revealing a space that was equal parts chaos and charm. The lingering scent of burnt toast mingled with the sharp tang of lemon-scented detergent from last night’s hasty clean-up.

Will nudged the fridge door open with his elbow, the hinges creaking softly in protest. Inside, the shelves were a chaotic mosaic of half-empty condiment bottles, Tupperware containers with mismatched lids, and a single wilting head of broccoli that Oliver had sworn he’d eat “tomorrow.” On the door, a collection of Oliver’s crayon masterpieces was taped haphazardly—lopsided rainbows, vaguely recognisable sea creatures, and characters from his favourite books, their colours bleeding into one another where he’d pressed too hard with the crayons. The fridge itself was a patchwork of magnets, receipts, and a shopping list that had somehow turned into a doodle of a dragon wearing a top hat.

Will reached for the egg carton with two fingers, his movements careless but practiced. The bottle of maple syrup behind it wobbled precariously, threatening to topple, and he caught it with a muttered curse before it could hit the floor. “Right,” he said, setting the eggs on the counter and turning to Oliver, who was already bouncing on his toes. “Your mum thinks she’s clever volunteering me, yeah?” He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you—” He pointed a finger at Oliver, who was perched on his designated “helping stool,” a splintered IKEA step salvaged from the garage and repurposed with more optimism than sense. “—You’re my secret weapon. Grab the chocolate chips before she notices.”

Oliver’s eyes lit up, his grin stretching wide enough to show the gap where his front tooth had been stubbornly loose for weeks. He scrambled down from the stool with the kind of uncoordinated enthusiasm only a five-year-old could muster, his mismatched socks slipping slightly on the linoleum as he hit the ground. He shot toward the cupboards like a comet, his curls bouncing with every step. The door squeaked as he yanked it open, and for a moment, all you could hear was the rustle of bags and the occasional clatter of something being pushed aside.

He emerged triumphant, clutching the bag of chocolate chips in both hands like it was the crown jewels. “Got it!” he announced, his voice ringing with pride. He clambered back onto the stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and set the bag on the counter with exaggerated care. Will leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with a smirk that hovered somewhere between amusement and mild concern.

Oliver’s small fingers fumbled with the top of the bag, his tongue poking out in concentration. For a moment, it seemed like he might actually manage to open it without incident. Then, with a sharp tug, the bag tore open far more than intended, sending a cascade of chocolate chips spilling across the counter and onto the floor. They bounced and skittered in every direction, a few rolling under the fridge and one landing inexplicably in the sink.

“Oops,” Oliver said, his voice small but tinged with the faintest hint of mischief. He looked up at you and Will, his grin sheepish but still firmly in place.

“Bloody hell—” Will started, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“Language,” you singsonged, stepping forward to hip-bump him out of the way. You crouched down, sweeping the scattered chocolate chips into your palm with a practiced efficiency. Oliver watched, his chocolate-smeared grin faltering slightly as you straightened up and raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?” you asked, your tone light but firm. “What do we say when we make a mess?”

Oliver rocked sideways, his small hands gripping the edge of the counter for balance. His face scrunched up in thought, his nose wrinkling in that way that always made your heart soften. “Uh….” He drew the word out, dragging it into a long, uncertain hum. “...Thank you?”

Will’s snort of laughter turned into a cough as he tried to stifle it, his shoulders shaking with the effort. You shot him a look, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Without breaking eye contact, you plucked a chocolate chip from the pile in your hand and lobbed it at his head. He ducked, but not fast enough—it bounced off his temple, and he grinned, unrepentant. Oliver giggled, the sound high and bright, and you couldn’t help but join in.

“Alright, sous-chefs,” you said, brushing your hands off on your pyjama pants. “Let’s get this batter made before someone loses an eye.” You handed Oliver the whisk, his small fingers gripping it like a sword, and guided him to the mixing bowl. Will leaned against the counter, watching with an amused smirk as you measured out the flour, your movements quick and practiced. Oliver stood on his stool, his tongue poking out in concentration as he stirred, his curls bouncing with every exaggerated motion.

“Faster, Ol,” Will teased, his voice low and warm. “You’re not mixing cement.”

Oliver scowled, his little face scrunching up in mock seriousness. “I’m doing it properly,” he insisted, though his whisking slowed to a more manageable pace. You added the milk in a slow stream, guiding his hand to keep the batter smooth. Will reached over to toss in a handful of chocolate chips, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and you caught the faintest hint of a smile before he turned away to preheat the frying pan.

When the batter was ready, you stepped back, letting Will take over. He tied an apron around his waist with exaggerated flair, the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders. “Stand back, amateurs,” he declared, flipping the spatula in his hand like a seasoned chef. “This is where the magic happens.”

Oliver perched on his stool, his eyes wide as Will poured the first ladle of batter into the pan. The butter sizzled, filling the kitchen with the rich, golden smell of pancakes. Oliver launched into a dramatic retelling of his dream, complete with arm-flapping reenactments that nearly knocked over the milk jug. “And then the T-Rex ate the swing set,” he exclaimed, his voice rising with every word, “but I said NO, that’s Mummy’s coffee place!”

Will’s spatula flicked upward, sending a pancake soaring. Oliver shrieked as it somersaulted through the air—

—and stuck to the ceiling.

A dollop of batter plopped onto the stove.

“Well.” Will scratched the back of his neck, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Five-second rule?”

“Daddy.” Oliver’s scandalised whisper dissolved into hiccuping giggles as Will hoisted him up, both of them craning to poke at the dangling pancake with a wooden spoon. You pressed your lips together, your shoulders trembling, until Will’s faux-innocent “What? It’s elevated cuisine” broke the dam. Your laughter tangled with theirs, loud and unguarded, the kind that left your ribs aching.

What do we think? I didn't really know how to end this... I had this planned to be posted after the angst, just as a little sorry. Took longer than expected!

#willne #will lenney #willne x fem!reader #will lenney x fem!reader

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