#engine cradle

[sw5w]

Droidekas Arrive

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:50:48

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― The garage door slams shut with a muffled thud, sealing you both in the dark garage. The car is still warm from the drive home, engine ticking as the leather seats creak under Nanami’s weight. His tie hangs loose around his neck, silk fabric slithering between his fingers as he cages you against the backseat- his knee forcing your legs apart. 

"Seven days…," he grits out, the numbers sharp as his cursed blade… It was rare to hear him talk like that…

"Kento… please don't be mad… w-we ah~," impatient, his large hands shove your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric around your waist, "We've been so busy with the girls lately." your hands tremble as you run them over the lapels of his jacket.

He catches your wrist and pulls your hand to his mouth. A shiver races up your spine as he kisses your palm, tongue hot and wet as it traces along your skin. His teeth are just as sharp, grazing against your skin in a warning, "I don't want excuses," Nanami growls, the low sound going straight to your cunt, "I want you."

His breath carries hints of bourbon and mint from dinner- restraint absolutely snapped, the kind that’s been simmering all week between packed lunched, overtime with Gojo, and your second grader’s nightmares about how daddy doesn’t come back home from work one day… 

Nanami refuses to waste any more time. Like he said, it’s been seven fucking days. He’s missed having you all to himself. The feeling of your velvety walls wrapped around him- strangling his cock just how he likes it. 

Without hesitation. His thumb hooks into your lace panties, tearing them sideways with a rip that makes you gasp and arch, "F-fuck, Kento-!~"

"Quiet," he growls against your neck, calloused palm smacking your clit once, twice, the crack echoing off the tinted windows, "You've been begging for this all night." The sound of his pants zipper fills the small space, his cock springing free- heavy and angry red with a bead of precum drooling at the tip. "Squirming in your seat. Smirking at me as your heel grazes my thigh."

He doesn't prep you- doesn't need to. Your pussy has been dripping since the appetizers, and he knows, the bastard, smirking as he swipes his tip against your entrance, "Look at you," he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, coating himself, "So wet for me already. You missed my cock so much, hm?"

Fuck, yesyesyes you missed his cock, missed the stretch and burn and ache when he first plunges into you. A breathless, "Yes~♡ " falls from your lips, followed by a desperate moan as his fat cock rams into your soaked cunt without warning- filling you, stretching you out.

You do your best to choke back a scream. You know better, know to keep your voice down in case your girls and Yuji have fallen asleep- the last thing you need is to wake them. But Nanami is merciless, fucking you open, the squelch of your juices loud enough to drown out any other noise in the confined space, his hips snap up- slamming into you as he fucks you against the leather seats.

"I—fu—I've s'missed you, Kento~"

Nanami's eyes soften then, a small smile forming as his hand cradles your face. The pad of his thumb traces the outline of your lip before pushing in, his gaze darkening at the way your lips part for him so willingly.

His grip on your jaw turns bruising, the way his lips smash against yours- it's painful, but the sting is delicious, "You kept teasing me about wanting another kid," he grunts, sweat dripping off his jaw onto your heaving chest.

His wedding band catches the moonlight streaming through the garage window as he grips your throat, not hard enough to hurt- yet.

"Maybe I will put a third in you tonight. Watch you swell up again…" His voice drops, gravelly and low, "You'd look so beautiful like that, again."

You claw at the part of his chest that's exposed, the fabric wrinkled beyond salvation, and moan, "Y'already... nnf... can't handle two—hah!~"

He slams deeper- hand fisting in your hair cutting you off-  "Try me."

His Mercedes rattles as he flips you onto your knees, face mashed against the fogged window. His palm cracks against your ass, reddening the skin before he yanks your hips back, spearing you in one vicious stroke. Your tits crush against the seat, nipples rubbed raw by the upholstery as he drills into your g-spot.

Somewhere upstairs, he hears a floorboard squeak… The sound traveling easily through the thin wall that connects the garage to the house. Nanami freezes, cock twitching inside you. 

Then, unmistakable in the sudden silence, comes the patter of small feet and excited voices from within the house.

"Daddy and Mommy are home!"

"Shh! Remember what big bro Yuji said? We should be sleeping!"

Nanami’s eyes narrow, "S-shit." He rams home once more, burying his groan in the crook of your neck as he spills, hot and thick, painting your walls white as it floods your womb. His cum leaks down your trembling thighs as he collapses against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade with a defeated thud while muttering, "...they're awake-"

So much for having you to himself the rest of the night…

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Nine months later, Nanami Kento is changing diapers at 3 am, dark circles under his eyes but with a tender smile that lights up the pink nursery.

"Worth it."

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

[vunblr]

Roots and Branches

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Word Count: About 18.6k.

notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.

Lumberjack AU Masterlist

The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.

It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.

The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.

For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.

Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.

“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”

She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.

Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.

“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.

The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.

She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.

Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.

Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.

As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.

He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.

He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.

She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.

He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.

Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.

“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.

She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”

Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”

She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.

Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.

Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.

She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.

She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”

He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”

She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”

When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.

“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”

Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”

He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.

Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.

He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”

She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”

He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.

He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.

Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.

“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.

His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.

Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.

------------

She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.

It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.

Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.

By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.

“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.

Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.

----------

Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.

After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.

At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.

“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.

She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”

Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”

After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.

Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.

The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”

Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”

“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”

Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”

Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.

“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.

She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”

Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”

Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.

“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”

“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”

She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.

The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”

Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.

Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”

“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.

As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”

“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”

Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”

Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”

The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.

Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.

As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.

A storm was coming.

It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.

He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.

Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.

It was shaping up to be one of those nights.

When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.

The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.

She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.

The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.

The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.

On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.

One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.

And then, unbidden, he thought of her.

The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.

------------

The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.

“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.

“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.

They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”

She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”

Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”

“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”

“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”

“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.

He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.

Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.

And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.

The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.

As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.

She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.

Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”

The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”

His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.

The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.

She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”

Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.

“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.

It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.

Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.

“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.

She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.

She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.

“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.

“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.

She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.

The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.

One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.

As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.

Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.

There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.

When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.

“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”

He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”

She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”

She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.

“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”

His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.

“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.

He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.

He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.

He was interested.

Shit.

Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.

On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.

And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.

He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?

Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.

For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.

And then there was Bucky.

Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.

Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.

-----------

Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.

So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.

The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.

Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.

“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”

Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.

He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.

“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”

Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“

“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”

For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”

----------

The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.

Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.

She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.

The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.

By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.

She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”

Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”

Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”

“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.

“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”

Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”

She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.

The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.

Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.

Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.

“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.

“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.

“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”

He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”

“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.

She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”

He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.

Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.

He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.

That should be illegal.

“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”

“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”

As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.

She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly

He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”

That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”

The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.

“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”

Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”

Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.

She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”

Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.

“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”

Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.

She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”

He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.

Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.

She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.

With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.

That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.

She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.

An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.

She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.

Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.

Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.

“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.

He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”

“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”

Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”

“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”

“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”

She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.

“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.

Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”

Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.

Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.

The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.

The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.

The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.

She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.

Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.

And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.

Don’t kid yourself.

The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.

God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.

Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.

----------

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.

“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”

Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.

Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.

“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.

It wasn’t Dorothy.

Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.

She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”

He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”

As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.

She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.

The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.

After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.

“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.

He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.

“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.

“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.

When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.

She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”

Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”

“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”

He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.

“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”

He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.

Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

---------

The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.

“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”

Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”

“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”

He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.

He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.

“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”

Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.

“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.

He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.

“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”

Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”

“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”

Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.

Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”

As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”

Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.

His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.

Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”

“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”

“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”

“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”

Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”

He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”

“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.

He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”

She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”

His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.

Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”

She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”

“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”

She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”

Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”

A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.

She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”

Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”

She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”

He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.

She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:

Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.

A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.

The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.

She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”

She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”

She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.

Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.

As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“This too clingy for you?”

A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.

“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.

Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.

His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.

The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.

Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”

She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.

He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”

She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.

She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.

“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”

She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”

A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.

He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”

Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.

Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”

Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”

Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”

Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.

Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”

Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.

“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”

And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.

“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.

“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.

His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”

Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.

Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”

Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”

“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.

His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.

“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”

Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”

She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.

“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.

She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.

He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can you do one with the reader being Lewis daughter (toddler or young kid) and being close to Toto and her always leaving Ferrari to go see him?

Mercedes new team principal

The sun was already bright over the Monza paddock, the tarmac glowing with early warmth and the energy unmistakable—media, mechanics, drivers, all buzzing around like bees in a hive. But no one, absolutely no one, entered the paddock with as much unshakable confidence as five-year-old Yn.

She skipped along in her little light-up sneakers, wearing a red Ferrari cap pulled low over her forehead and dragging her tiny pink backpack behind her. One of the straps kept slipping off her shoulder, but she didn’t care. Her brown curls bounced with every step, and her eyes scanned the paddock like she owned the place.

And in many ways, she did.

Lewis leaned against the Ferrari motorhome, arms crossed and a knowing smile pulling at his lips as he watched his daughter make her grand entrance. “Morning, sunshine,” he greeted, kneeling down as she bounded toward him.

“Hi, Daddy!” she chirped, throwing her arms around his neck with a thud. He lifted her up with ease, cradling her against his chest for a moment.

“Ready for a big day?” he asked.

Yn pulled back just enough to look him squarely in the eyes. “I have to see Uncle Toto first.”

Lewis tried—genuinely tried—not to laugh. “Do you?”

“He said I could be team boss today,” she added with an extra nod of importance.

Lewis arched an eyebrow. “I see. So, Ferrari’s not enough for you anymore?”

She giggled, wiggling out of his arms. “I’m both! I’m boss of everything!”

With that, she grabbed Lewis’ hand and tugged him toward the Mercedes side of the paddock. Her little legs moved fast, like she was leading an army to war. Or lunch.

Just as they approached the sleek silver and teal hospitality unit, the door opened and out stepped Toto, tall and broad-shouldered, adjusting his watch. His eyes immediately found Yn, and the smile that spread across his face could’ve melted an iceberg.

“Ah! There she is. My chief strategist has arrived,” he said in that warm Austrian accent, crouching down to meet her halfway.

“Uncle Toto!” she squealed, barreling into his arms. He swept her up easily and twirled her once before settling her onto his hip.

“Did you bring your notebook?” he asked seriously.

“I brought my unicorn notebook,” she said, pulling the glittery thing from her backpack. “And I drew you a new car!”

She flipped to a page she’d scribbled in earlier that morning, revealing what looked like a car with wings, a rainbow trail behind it, and a big number “44” in purple at the front.

Toto took the drawing like it was the most sacred blueprint in motorsport. “This,” he said solemnly, “is a game-changer.”

Yn nodded with complete self-belief. “It flies.”

Lewis watched the exchange with his arms crossed and the familiar expression of a dad who’s not surprised anymore. “I see how it is,” he said mildly. “Two Ferraris, but her soul’s in Brackley.”

“She’s got taste,” Toto said with a wink.

Yn reached into Toto’s pocket and fished out a chocolate chip granola bar like she knew it’d be there. Toto gave her a knowing look. “One per morning,” he said, mock-stern.

“I didn’t have breakfast yet,” she replied innocently, even though Lewis snorted immediately.

“You had oatmeal and a banana an hour ago.”

“I forgot,” she said through a mouthful of chocolate.

Toto set her down gently and handed her a tiny pair of headphones. “Come on, boss. Time for morning briefing.”

Yn walked into the Mercedes garage like she was in charge—because to everyone watching, she absolutely was.

She high-fived a mechanic, gave stern nods to an engineer reviewing telemetry, and made her way to Toto’s chair at the pit wall setup. When she sat down, her little legs didn’t even reach the floor.

Toto crouched beside her. “Alright, what’s today’s plan?”

“Dad wins,” she said immediately.

“Oh?”

“But only if you give him the special tires,” she added, pointing to a random chart full of tire data.

Toto nodded sagely. “I’ll see what I can do.”

George appeared from the other side of the garage, sipping a protein shake and smiling at the sight. “Morning, Madam Boss,” he said, giving a dramatic bow.

“Hi, George!” she beamed.

He leaned in, “You know, I have a race strategy idea.”

Yn looked at Toto first. “Is George allowed to do that?”

Toto raised an eyebrow. “We’ll let him speak—for now.”

George grinned. “What if we put Lewis in the Mercedes again, just for this race?”

Yn gasped. “That’s cheating!”

Toto pretended to look offended. “George, we run a serious program here. No bribing the boss.”

“I didn’t bribe her!” George said, laughing.

Yn crossed her arms. “Daddy stays with Ferrari. But he can borrow our energy boost.”

George blinked. “Energy boost?”

“I drew it,” she said, flipping open another page in her notebook. This one featured a rocket strapped to the rear wing.

George and Toto exchanged a glance. “We’ll get R&D on that,” Toto said with a straight face.

By mid-morning, Yn had visited every corner of the Mercedes garage, and somehow everyone had either been handed a sticker, given an order, or recruited to draw “secret car designs” on pink paper. One mechanic even had a unicorn sticker on his headset, placed there by Yn with total authority.

Meanwhile, back at Ferrari, Charles had finished a morning sim session and found Lewis standing near the coffee machine, sipping a cappuccino and watching something on the overhead paddock screen.

“Where’s your shadow?” Charles asked.

Lewis gestured toward the screen, where Yn was now holding a clipboard twice her size, standing next to Toto during a debrief.

Charles burst out laughing. “I can’t believe Toto lets her run the place.”

“He doesn’t let her,” Lewis muttered. “She just does.”

Charles nodded. “Respect.”

“She gave feedback on tire degradation this morning.”

“No way.”

“I wish I was kidding.”

Back at Mercedes HQ, Toto set a small bowl of grapes in front of Yn and handed her a cup filled with apple juice.

“You need to stay hydrated, Boss,” he reminded her.

She was busy coloring a new helmet design, this time with sparkles and lightning bolts. “I’m gonna design Lewis’ helmet next,” she declared.

Toto smiled. “You think he’ll wear it?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll fine him,” she said sweetly.

Just before the track walk, Toto crouched beside her again. “Do you want to come to the grid with me later?”

Yn grinned and nodded fast. “Can I have my own radio?”

“Of course. Only the best for our Team Principal.”

By noon, she’d snacked with Susie (who she adored), reorganized the rubber tire gloves into rainbow order, and taken an unofficial vote on which car looked cooler—Ferrari or Mercedes. She refused to share the results, claiming they were “confidential data.”

When it was finally time to head to the grid, Toto hoisted her up onto his shoulders as they made their way through the pit lane. Photographers clicked away, amused by the sight of the most powerful man in the paddock being ridden like a horse by a glitter-covered five-year-old general.

When Lewis saw them, he grinned wide and held his arms open. “Come here, monkey!”

Yn slid off Toto’s shoulders and ran to him, jumping into his arms.

“Did you tell everyone to let me win?” he whispered into her hair.

“I said if they don’t let you win, they can’t have juice boxes.”

Lewis kissed the top of her head. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

She nodded proudly. “I’m the boss.”

And no one—not even the actual team principals—dared argue otherwise.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[dollerin]

𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑺 𝘊𝘈𝘙 ۶ৎ 니키

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝑳𝐔𝐃𝐄 ─── when your boyfriend wants to show off the fact that he finally got a car.

𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑎 𝑟𝑖𝑘𝑖 x f. reader romance non idol au suggestive physical touch making out 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝗐𝖼. 677 ─── 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒

riki had been raving about his dream car since the both of you started dating. it was something he looked forward to nearly every single day (other than seeing you) and you didn’t mind.

he was absolutely obsessed with the thought of going on late night drives with you, drive-in movies or even just being parked outside of your house after a date, holding you.

so once that message came through on your phone, “be ready in 10 ;)” you knew his dream had come true.

the engine rumbled lowly outside of your home, the moon reflecting off of the sleek paint of the car. he sat inside of it, one hand gripping the steering wheel while he waited for you.

you locked your door behind you before heading straight to the passenger side. the window rolled down once you got close enough.

“hop in, pretty.” he said with a small smirk, unlocking the door for you. you shook your head, climbing in without a word.

“you like?”

you hummed, glancing at the interior of it. sleek, bold, definitely riki.

he pulled off down the road again, foot pressing down on the accelerator lightly at first.

it was quiet between the both of you for a moment, other than the hum of the car and the quiet bass of whatever r&b song he had playing on the radio.

he glanced over at you briefly, one hand still rested on the wheel while the other moved to rest on your thigh, squeezing it gently.

your eyes shifted over to him, watching as he kept his gaze on the road, his lip tucked between his teeth in concentration.

“never thought someone could look so good while driving,” you murmur, but still loud enough for him to hear.

he huffs out a laugh, “oh yeah?”

your hand comes to rest on top of his, looking down to see his fingers twitch in surprise.

“yeah.”

the compliment seemed to fluster him a bit, his hand squeezing your thigh again, grip tightening.

“you know what else i look good while doing?” he asked, making you raise your eyebrows. “parallel parking.”

you swatted at his arm, causing him to chuckle, “what? what’d you think i was gonna say?”

you shook your head, leaning over to kiss his arm before laying your head against it.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah, but you love me.”

“unfortunately.” you snorted.

a few minutes later, he pulled into an empty lot, the gravel crunching under the car’s tires. he parked with a flick of his wrist, the engine still humming quietly.

“back seat,” he murmured, voice husky. “wanna show you something.”

by the time you climbed into the back seat and he met you there, his hands were already on you, gripping your waist and pulling you on top of him.

“thought you wanted to show me something?” you asked, tilting your head with a teasing smile.

“yeah, yeah. i will.” he grumbled, already leaning in. his lips crashed into yours before you could say anything else, all heat and want.

he sighed into the kiss, his grip on you tightening like you were going to disappear. calloused hands drifted up into your shirt, resting on your sides.

your hand came to cradle his jaw, fingers tracing over his skin as you tilted your head, leaning in and deepening the kiss.

riki’s brows furrowed as he groaned into your mouth, feeling your lips move slower now, more deliberate.

one of your hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck—fingers raking over it.

his lips trailed down further— over your cheek, your neck, and stopping at that spot under your ear that was extra sensitive.

“mm.. right here, huh?” he mumbled against it, lips brushing over your skin. he felt the way you shivered, the little breaths that escaped you.

you tilted your head to give him more access, your fingers gripping the fabric at his shoulders.

you hum, “we should really get going.”

“why?” his fingers trace patterns over your jeans. “i was just getting started, baby.”

🌺: hey so i hate this! milan try to stop using tate songs in your fics challenge

[charlotteking27]

My Woman

Carlos Sainz x reader

Summary: You're a Williams race engineer constantly battling sexist journalists. When Carlos finally intervenes, his declaration leaves you breathless: "I'm not defending you because you're a woman—I'm doing it because you're my woman."

Requested: yes by @totheluna

Warning: first-ever Carlos fanfic

The sun in Monaco cast long golden shadows across the Williams paddock as the afternoon faded into evening. The Mediterranean breeze carried the scent of sea salt and expensive cologne, mixing with the sharp smell of racing fuel and hot tarmac. You stood near the hospitality area, your Williams polo clinging to your body in the humid air. Tendrils of hair escaped your ponytail to frame your face as you finished your interview with Sky Sports.

The adrenaline from discussing tire strategies and aerodynamic updates still buzzed in your veins when you heard voices cutting through the ambient noise.

"I still don't understand why Williams hired her," one older journalist said to his colleague, his tone dripping with condescension as he gestured toward you with his coffee cup. "There are plenty of qualified men who could do that job better. Pretty little thing like that? She's probably only here because she's warming Sainz's bed."

Heat flooded your cheeks, mixing humiliation and anger. Your hands clenched into fists, manicured nails digging into your palms. You had sacrificed everything to reach this point—countless sleepless nights studying computational fluid dynamics and years proving yourself in junior categories while fighting twice as hard for half the recognition.

"Ignore them, cariño," a voice like warm honey and smoke said behind you.

You turned to see Carlos approaching, and your breath caught. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, all lean muscle and controlled power beneath his fitted Williams shirt. The fabric stretched across his broad shoulders, and his dark hair was perfectly tousled from removing his cap. But it was his eyes that undid you—those deep brown pools that seemed to peer into your soul, now burning with barely contained fury as he had clearly overheard the conversation.

"Carlos, don't," you said, stepping back as he reached for you, your voice trembling. "I don't need you to defend me because I'm a woman. I can handle myself."

He froze, his hand suspended between you. Something dangerous flickered across his features. The setting sun caught the sharp line of his jaw, casting shadows that made him look otherworldly yet utterly masculine. When he spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, marked by the thick Spanish accent that always sent shivers down your spine.

"I'm not defending you because you're a woman," he said, each word deliberate and heavy. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his intoxicating cologne—something woody and expensive that made your head spin. "I'm doing it because you're my woman."

The possessiveness in his tone made your knees weak. His large, calloused hands—hands that could control a Formula 1 car at 300 kilometers per hour—came up to cradle your face with infinite gentleness. Despite your earlier protests, you felt yourself melting into his touch as his thumbs traced the curve of your cheekbones.

"Do you understand the difference, mi vida?" he whispered, his face so close that you could feel his warm breath fanning across your lips. Your heart raced faster than any engine as his intense gaze searched yours. "Yes, I would defend any woman from those ignorant jerks. But you? My God, you are everything to me."

As he continued, his voice dropped to that husky tone that made heat pool low in your belly, causing your lips to part slightly and a soft gasp to escape.

"You're mine to protect, mine to stand beside, mine to worship every single day," he murmured, one hand sliding down to rest at the base of your throat, feeling your rapid pulse beneath his fingertips. "Not because you need it, hermosa, but because I need to do it. When someone disrespects the woman I love, they disrespect my entire world."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness but from the overwhelming emotion coursing through you. The paddock around you blurred and faded, leaving only Carlos and the magnetic pull between your bodies.

"I see how brilliant you are," he continued, resting his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. "I watch you work magic with those computers, turning data into speed, making our car fly when everyone said it was impossible. I see how other engineers come to you for advice, how they respect your mind and your talent."

His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you against his firm chest. You could feel his heart racing as quickly as yours.

"Those men see nothing. They know nothing," he said, his voice fierce with conviction. "But I know you, cariño. I know how you taste like coffee and determination in the morning. I know how you curl into me at night, trusting me with your dreams and fears. I know the little sound you make when you finally solve a problem that's been bothering you for days."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, his touch reverent.

"So yes, I will defend you," he whispered, his lips barely brushing yours as he spoke. "Not because you cannot defend yourself—you are the strongest woman I know—but because you are the love of my life, and I would burn this entire paddock down before I let anyone make you doubt your worth."

The tender moment shattered with the sound of approaching footsteps. The same journalist who made the crude comments walked by with his colleague, their voices carrying in the evening air as they continued their harsh conversation.

"I honestly don't know what Williams was thinking, hiring her when there are so many qualified—"

Something snapped in Carlos. His entire body went rigid against yours, the gentle hands that had been cradling your face now trembling with barely controlled fury. You felt the shift in him immediately—from tender lover to protective predator in a heartbeat.

"Hey, son of a bitch," Carlos called out sharply, his voice cutting through the evening air. The journalist stopped mid-sentence, turning with a startled expression as Carlos stepped away from you, his movements predatory and dangerous. "Do you have something to say about my girlfriend? Let's hear it to my face instead of whispering like a coward."

"Carlos, don't—" you started, but he was already moving forward, his hands clenched into fists.

The journalist's face went pale as he realized he'd been caught, but Carlos didn't care about diplomacy. "You think she doesn't belong here? That she's just some decoration pretty enough to warm my bed?" His Spanish accent thickened with rage, each word dripping with venom. "She has more talent and intelligence in her little finger than you'll ever have in your pathetic existence, and if you ever dare to disrespect her again—"

"Carlos, stop!" you said urgently, rushing forward to grab his arm before he could close the distance. You could feel the tension in his muscles and see the fury blazing in his beautiful brown eyes. This was about to become very public, and the last thing either of you needed was headlines about Carlos Sainz getting into a physical altercation. "My love, he's not worth it. Please."

Carlos looked down at you, his chest heaving with barely controlled anger. For a terrifying moment, you thought he might ignore your plea, but then his gaze found yours, and you saw the internal struggle on his face.

The journalist, sensing an opportunity to escape, hurried away with his colleague, but Carlos's eyes remained locked on yours. Slowly, you felt some of the tension leave his body, comforted by your touch.

"Breathe, cariño," you whispered softly, your hands smoothing over his chest as you felt his heart racing beneath your palms. "I'm okay. We're okay."

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, switching to his native tongue in his passion. "Every brilliant, fierce, beautiful part of you. Anyone who tries to diminish you will have to go through me first."

The kiss that followed was soft yet claiming, tender yet passionate. His lips moved against yours with practiced familiarity, yet every kiss felt like the first. When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, his eyes were dark with desire and love.

"I love you, too," you whispered, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble that would tickle your skin later when he kissed your neck. "And I love being your woman."

His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face and making your heart skip a beat. "Good," he murmured, pressing soft kisses along your jawline. "Because I'm never letting you go, mi amor. Never."

From across the paddock, you noticed the journalists watching your intimate moment, their expressions shifting from smug dismissal to uncomfortable recognition of their mistake. But you barely cared anymore. Let them watch. Let them see how Carlos Sainz Jr. looked at his woman with reverence, desire, and unshakeable love.

Carlos noticed your gaze and turned, wrapping his arm possessively around your waist as he guided you toward the Williams garage. His movement was fluid and protective, his body shielding you from prying eyes while his hand rested on the curve of your hip.

"Come on, princess," he murmured into your ear, his breath sending delicious shivers down your spine. "Let's show them what magic my brilliant woman can work to make our car dominate tomorrow."

As you walked together through the paddock, the setting sun painting everything in shades of gold and amber, you marveled at how perfectly you fit together. His tall frame beside yours, the way your bodies moved in sync, the protective curve of his arm around you—it felt like destiny.

"Carlos?" you said softly as you reached the garage, where mechanics were still fine-tuning his car under the bright lights.

"Yes, my love?"

You turned in his arms, looking up into those beautiful brown eyes that held your future. "Win tomorrow. For us. For this."

His grin was wicked and confident, full of the charming cockiness that had first drawn you to him years ago. He cupped your face once more, his thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture so intimate it made your breath catch.

"Always, cariño," he promised, his voice thick with love and determination. "I'll win every race for the rest of my life if it means coming home to you. You are my everything."

The promise hung between you in the warm Monaco air, as eternal and unbreakable as the love burning in his eyes.

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[ninisdollie]

pinky promise - park sunghoon 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

"In which Sunghoon is completely obsessed with his dumb, beautiful, sparkly girlfriend"

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x sunghoon, bimbo! reader, established relationship, i made reader extra bimbo so she has a boob job and a nose job, fluff, crack, not a full smut scene but dumbification, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked!! likes and reblogs are appreciated.

notes: this was on my drafts for so long omg, my bimbo reader x member saga continues, who should be next? let me know <3

The first time Sunghoon saw you, he didn’t really like you, he thought you were a walking headache.

You were in his economics lecture, twirling a glittery pen and chewing pink gum like it was a full-time job. You wore a tiny top which was definitely inappropriate for college, with the word “PRINCESS” bedazzled across the chest, your notebook filled with hearts and sparkly stickers instead of actual notes. You were staring at the ceiling probably thinking about which shade of pink was your favourite. He thought you were ridiculous.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Your perfect blowout, impossibly shiny and curled at the ends like you'd just stepped out of a salon. The soft swoop of your lashes. The way your perfume, something sweet and expensive, lingered in the air whenever you walked past. The sound of your gum popping mid-lecture. It was maddening.

When you waved at him across the hall the next day, he looked behind him like you had to be talking to someone else.

You started sitting next to him in class. Talking to him between lectures. Asking him dumb questions like, “Do you think cats get embarrassed when they fall?” or “What if my lip gloss is too sparkly for school—like, legally?”

He tried to ignore you. He really did. But then you started bringing him little things, an extra coffee, snacks with cute sticky notes that said “Don’t forget to eat, cold boy” and before he knew it… you were just there all the time. 

Everyone knew who you were, daddy’s girl, had a nose job at sixteen  and a boob job at eighteen. Everything about you screamed money, privilege, and zero shame. You parked your bubblegum-pink convertible outside like you owned the damn place, engine still purring, music blasting some sugary pop anthem. Designer sunglasses perched on your nose, lips glossed and shiny like a reality show.

And Sunghoon hated girls like you. 

Until he didn’t anymore. 

You drove him fucking crazy.

And nothing pissed him off more than the fact that no matter how many times he rolled his eyes at you or snapped at you to “use your brain for once,” he always ended up with you curled up on his lap by the end of the night, pouting, giggling, and completely unaware of how obsessed he was.

The bowling alley lights glowed neon pink and blue, a dreamy haze over the slick floor and rows of plastic seats. You bounced up to the lane, pink ball cradled in both hands, wearing a pleated micro skirt that had absolutely zero business being worn in a bowling alley.

Sunghoon already had one hand to his temple.

“Okay, okay—watch me this time,” you chirped, sticking your tongue out with confidence that was completely unearned.

He watched. Unfortunately.

You swung horribly. The ball dropped with a loud thud that made a few kids in the next lane flinch, then rolled with tragic optimism straight into the gutter, again.

A long, painful silence.

You turned around with a hopeful smile, one acrylic nail to your bottom lip, your brows sticked together 

“Did I hit… like, any of them?”

Sunghoon stared at the untouched pins. 

“You hit my will to live. That’s what you hit.”

You burst out laughing, completely unfazed, trotting back to him with a giggle and zero shame. 

“It’s not my fault the ball’s heavy! And slippery! And the floor is so weird, like, what even is oiling the lane? Is that real?”

Sunghoon blinked, already regretting choosing bowling for your weekly date. 

“Yes. That’s real. It’s literally part of the sport.”

You leaned dramatically onto his shoulder, rolling your beautiful eyes decorated with pink shimmery eyeshadow. 

“Ugh, sports.”

He side-eyed you, lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile. 

“You are unreal. Actually brainless.”

“Brainless and beautiful,” you hummed proudly.

He handed you a bottle of water with the calmness of someone who had already accepted defeat on every level, of someone that loved his girlfriend so much even if she was getting on his nerves. 

“At this point I’m surprised you didn’t throw the ball backwards.”

“Oh my god, is that allowed?!”

He closed his eyes. 

“I’m going to need a refund on this date.”

You gasped, playfully smacking his chest. 

“You love this. Don’t lie.”

“I love winning. You’re making that impossible by association.”

You let out a dramatic whine and flopped down into the seat next to him, pink gloss shining under the lights. You looked up at him through your fake lashes, blinking innocently. 

“You could let me win…”

He turned to you, full deadpan. 

“Not even if I was dying.”

You pouted. 

“What if I kissed you?”

His expression faltered. Just slightly.

He hated how easily you got to him, how ridiculous you were, with your glitter and your fake tan and your complete inability to understand basic physics, and how despite all of that, his stomach still flipped like a middle schooler every time you leaned in close.

“…Still no,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

But his ears turned just a little pink.

You grinned. 

“Okay. One more try. Watch this.”

Sunghoon leaned back with a long, suffering sigh, arms crossed as he watched you approach the lane like you were about to do a runway walk, not a sport.

You tossed the ball.

This time… it clipped the edge. Wobbled. And one lonely pin wobbled, wobbled…

Then fell.

You screamed. 

“I got one!”

You spun around, throwing your arms up like you’d just landed a triple axel in the Olympics.

“Babe did you see that?! I got one!”

Sunghoon clapped once, dryly. 

“Congratulations. You’ve reached the motor skills of a toddler.”

But when you threw yourself into his arms, giggling with pride, he caught you instantly, hands settling at your waist like second nature. Your breath was warm against his cheek, your lip gloss a little smeared from all your shouting, and god, you looked so proud of yourself.

So happy.

He couldn’t help it. His jaw softened, and his eyes flicked down to your lips. You noticed, grin stretching a little wider.

“Still not letting me win?” you whispered.

He groaned softly, then finally leaned in, brushing your lips with his, warm, slow, and just a little smug. His kisses were always the sweetest, but also the neediest, like he couldn’t resist tasting your cherry gloss on his tongue and how your plump lips - natural, because your father refused to let you get another thing done - moved against his. 

“You’ll never win,” he murmured against your mouth.

“But I got you to kiss me,” you whispered back.

He pulled away with a tiny smirk. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not terrible at bowling.”

You beamed. 

“So you admit I’m good at something.”

Sunghoon sighed, defeated.

“Yeah. Being annoying.”

Later that night, your legs were draped lazily across Sunghoon’s lap as you half-watched a rerun of Gossip Girl on his TV, spooning pink-frosted ice cream into your mouth with the tiny gold spoon you refused to let go of. Sunghoon had tried to take it from you earlier, saying it was impractical.

You nearly bit his hand.

Now he sat there, half-annoyed, half-smitten, poking at the remote and occasionally shooting side-eyes at your terrible taste in TV, which he was definitely not going to admit he had started following.

“I still don’t understand how someone could bowl that badly,” he muttered out of nowhere, shaking his head like he was personally offended.

“I have delicate wrists,” you said simply, licking ice cream from your spoon. “I’m not built for violence.”

“You’re built for chaos.”

“You’re built for being rude.”

“I’m built for reality,” he muttered.

You grinned, wiggling your toes against his thigh, until you suddenly sat up with a little gasp.

“Wait—I forgot!”

“Oh no,” he said immediately.

You bounced off the couch, your fuzzy pink slippers flopping, and grabbed your oversized Juicy Couture tote.

“I got you a present!”

Sunghoon looked like he was preparing for war.

 “A what?”

“A little something,” you said brightly, pulling out a small, glossy pink box wrapped in a glitter ribbon. “A sexy thank-you gift. Because I’m sweet like that.”

So, he opened it.

And immediately froze.

Inside was a pair of black boxer briefs. At first glance, normal. But upon closer inspection, covered in little high-res photos of your face.

Pouting. Blowing kisses. Winking. Tongue out.

He held them up in horror.

“What the actual hell—”

You squealed.

“Aren’t they adorable?! Look, I picked the kissy face from my summer vacation selfie. That one’s your favorite, right?”

His jaw dropped slightly.

“You put your face on underwear.”

“Your underwear,” you corrected proudly. “It’s a custom print!”

He blinked again.

“You seriously expect me to wear these?”

“You’re gonna love them.”

“They’re deranged.”

“They’re personalized.” You pouted, staring at the boxers on his hands so proudly “You’re so ungrateful. I almost ordered the thong version.”

His nose scrunched.

“Why is that worse?”

“They had hearts that said ‘Daddy’s Favorite’ all over the front. You would’ve looked so cute.”

“I’m going to take your access to online stores.”

“You’re in love with me.”

He groaned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I feel like I’m in a relationship with a walking pop-up ad.”

You rolled onto your side and propped your chin in your hand. “You say that, but I caught you smiling. Admit it.”

He looked down at the boxers again, defeated.

“I’m going to burn these.”

“You’re sooo going to wear them to bed.”

“I am not.”

“I’m going to take a picture when you do.”

He looked at you with genuine concern.

“You should donate your brain to the science, i genuinely have no idea how the fuck it works.”

You grinned wider, then crawled into his lap and tugged the boxers from his hand, holding them up between you like a trophy.

“You know,” you said playfully, brushing your lips against his jaw, “you’re kind of hot when you’re annoyed.”

His hands settled instinctively on your waist, and despite the chaos, despite the insanity of your gift, he didn’t push you away. His fingers tightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered again.

“And you like it.”

You kissed him softly, sugary-sweet and smiling against his mouth, and he let out a low breath like he was surrendering to a war he’d already lost.

“Thank God you’re cute and have fake boobs” he said under his breath.

“I’m gorgeous,” you whispered, kissing him again. “And you’re obsessed with me.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed, nuzzling into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, and somewhere on the coffee table, your face-covered boxers sat like the world’s most deranged declaration of love.

And the next morning, when you woke up early and peeked under the blanket?

He was wearing them.

In the bedroom, Sunghoon worshipped you 

He spoiled you, yes. Bought you pretty things, let you crawl into his lap just to be kissed, whispered soft pet names against your throat like they meant something sacred. But when it came to sex, he didn’t just spoil, he ruined.Constantly. Proudly. He loved how soft you got under him. How pliant. How you went quiet and fuzzy the second he touched you, all that usual chatter melting into breathy gasps and broken whimpers like you’d been made to be used.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a ritual.

That was the part that made his blood run hot, the way you gave in so easily. Like your body had memorized what he needed before he even asked. Like you were wired to fall apart for him.

You were perfect for him. Sweet. Obedient. Dumb in all the ways he liked.

Sometimes you wore lace just to catch his attention. Sometimes you whined for his hands in that sugar-sweet voice you knew drove him crazy. And sometimes, like that night, you were already breathless before he even undid his belt, squirming under his gaze like you needed him more than air.

And Sunghoon? He lived for it.

He lived for the way your thighs twitched when he called you his dumb little doll. For the way your breath hitched when his voice dropped and he ordered you to spread your legs. For the way you sighed his name like a prayer every time he said, “Good girl.”

He teased, he degraded, he controlled every second,  and yet never once crossed your boundaries. Even when he was deep inside you, voice low and filthy in your ear, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, the care never left his touch.

And when it was over, when you were limp and trembling in the sheets, too blissed out to speak, he always gathered you into his arms. Always pressed a kiss to your temple. Always whispered soft, quiet things while he cleaned you up and tucked you into his chest.

But tonight, you knew you were pushing it.

The second you made that little comment — pouty and venom-laced — about him forgetting his wallet at brunch, you felt the air shift. Saw that flicker in his eyes. Not anger, not quite. No, Sunghoon never wasted energy on petty things.

It was something darker.

And now, your wrists were pinned above your head with one of his hands,  fingers wrapped snug around your wrists, his rings cold against your skin. Your legs spread wide, your body flushed and trembling, caught in that hazy place between bratty resistance and desperate submission.

“Still got that attitude, baby?” he murmured, voice low and slow as his free hand traced a path down your torso, nails grazing just enough to make you twitch. “Or did I fuck it out of you already?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to whine, maybe to say his name, but all that came out was a gasp when his fingers slid between your thighs, two slow strokes over your soaked panties. He smiled like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“God, look at you. All that attitude earlier and now you’re fucking dripping.”

His hand cupped your sex through the fabric, warm and heavy. His palm pressed down, applying just enough pressure to make you buck into it, and he tisked, shaking his head like you were being difficult again.

“Didn’t I say you don’t get to be in charge tonight?”

His fingers gripped your jaw, turning your face to meet his. The heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

“You know the rules, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “No thinking. That pretty little head of yours belongs to me tonight.”

You whimpered. Nodded. Your voice barely worked, hazy, pliant, floating somewhere between arousal and surrender.

“Mhm… yours.”

And fuck, did that make something snap in him.

He released your wrists only to grab your hips and flip you onto your stomach, not bothering to be gentle. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he leaned over you, breath hot against your ear.

“That brat from earlier?” he growled, rutting his hips against your ass. “She gone now?”

You nodded frantically into the sheets, muffled moans escaping your lips.

“You sure?” He dragged his cock, hard and leaking, along your soaked slit, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Because if I hear another whine outta that mouth, I’m not gonna let you come. Understand me?”

“Y-yes—” you managed, though it came out as more of a sob. “I’m sorry…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

And then he was inside you — deep — all at once. No warning. No slow stretch.

Just a sharp, claiming thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and left you shaking. You gasped, nails digging into the sheets, tears prickling at your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He stilled for a second, letting you adjust because even mean, he never hurt you, and then he began to move. Hard. Every thrust deliberate, punishing, meant to remind you of exactly who was in control.

“There she is,” he whispered, dark eyes eating you alive. “My sweet, stupid girl.”

He set a brutal rhythm, one hand gripping your thigh while the other held your jaw in place so he could watch your expression crumble.

“Stay dumb for me,” he growled, voice ragged now, hips slamming into yours. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

“This what you wanted?” he hissed between clenched teeth, skin slapping against yours with a filthy rhythm. “Act like a brat so I fuck you stupid?”

You couldn’t answer,  your mind was blank, body on fire, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him. He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, lips at your ear. 

“You’re such a fucking mess for me. So easy to break. Just a few minutes and I’ve already got you drooling on the sheets.”

His hand slid under you, between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with his thrusts. You choked on a moan, loud, needy, helpless.

“Look at that. Can’t even form words anymore,” he mocked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “My dumb little doll. All that sass earlier and now you’re too fucked-out to talk.”

Your thighs were trembling violently now, breath coming in shallow pants as the pressure built, your orgasm looming, cruel and inevitable.

Sunghoon knew. Of course he knew. He groaned, low and rough, hips slamming into you deeper.

“You close, baby?”

You sobbed something incoherent.

“Use your words. Come on.”

“Y-yes—yes, I’m—please—!”

He didn’t let up. Not for a second.

“You gonna come all over my cock after being a fucking brat in public? You think you deserve that?”

You shook your head, didn’t trust yourself to speak, but your body betrayed you, tightening around him as the orgasm hit. It crashed into you hard, like lightning through your veins, and you screamed, stars bursting behind your eyes. You didn’t even register him groaning your name, hips jerking as he came inside you moments later.

The room spun. Your limbs felt heavy. Your brain buzzed with static. And yet, even as your body trembled in the aftermath, Sunghoon’s touch softened, his voice dropped.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Took me so well. You did so good, baby.”

His hands rubbed slow, grounding circles into your thighs and lower back.

“You okay?”

You managed a nod, dazed, boneless, but safe.

Because no matter how rough he was, no matter how mean he got when you pushed his buttons, Sunghoon always took care of you after.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, soft voice after a while.

He stroked your arm, kissing softly on your shoulder before looking at you.

“Yes, babygirl?”

“Do you love me?” You batted your fake eyelashes, still perfect on your eyes even after the intense sex session.

He looked at you with shiny eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you were asking him that.

“Of course, baby. I love you.”

“Pinky promise?” You put out your hand, sticking your pinky and he laughed softly before locking it with his.

“Pinky promise.”

[sw5w]

Let's Go!

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:51:46

[snail-day]

Kiss The Fish

Based off of this little blurb I did a while back <3

Yandere Siren! Gojo x Blind! Reader

TW: Yandere, Monsterfucking (two of them? tentacle like?), Cream pie, dubcon/noncon, body horror, gore, open ending, drowning, power imbalance, Death, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you @eevwrites for staying up late and yapping about this with me (and for playing minecraft while we yap <33) I hope you get the best sleepies in the world.

The last thing you remember before being swallowed whole by the icy Pacific was a push.

Not a stumble. Not some tragic misstep. A sharp, deliberate shove between your shoulder blades that sent you lurching forward into nothing.

Air was torn from your lungs before you even hit the water.

Your scream—high, broken, instinctual—shattered against the wind as you flailed, hands slicing through space. There was nothing to cling to. No railing. No mercy. Just the flutter of your ridiculous dress, too many ruffles, far too many bows, the weight of the fabric blooming outward like a funeral wreath as gravity dragged you down.

Down, down, down.

The water. It didn’t embrace you. Instead, it devoured you. Freezing and fast, it surged into every crevice—your nose, ears, mouth, anywhere it could reach. Your body convulsed from the shock, muscles seizing as icy tendrils coiled around your limbs, yanking you deeper into the obsidian belly of the ocean. There was no up or down. No light to orient yourself by. Just a cold so sharp it felt like knives against your skin.

You couldn’t see. You never could. But here, in the deep, it was different.

It wasn’t just darkness—it was nothingness.

Blindness on land meant familiarity. The warmth of your room. The soft echo of your breath. The subtle brush of breeze through the window.

 But this?

This was a vast, voiceless void. A pressure-cooked silence. A sensory grave. You didn’t know which way was the surface. Which way meant life?

Or which was meant to be death. 

You kicked, desperate. Clawed through water too thick to move in. Bubbles streamed from your lips like tiny screams, and still you sank. Panic howled inside your skull, thundering louder than the boat’s fading engine. You tried to remember how drowning worked - wasn’t there a moment where you blacked out? Where the pain stopped?

The cold chewed through your nerves. Your chest ached, lungs locked in an unbearable vice, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. You thrashed, weightless and leaden all at once, your heartbeat a deafening war drum in your ears.

And then something touched you. 

Brushed against your ankle.

Too warm and sentient. It coiled around your leg like a serpent, slick and possessive.

Your mind screamed louder than your body ever could. Adrenaline surged in one final, useless wave: fight or flight. But you couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t flee. All you could do was feel.

Arms wrapped around you — solid, strong, inhuman.

Not cold. Not like the water. No, this was a heat that radiated into your bones, cradling you like a lover, lifting your limp body with agonizing gentleness. Hands - clawed, maybe - pressing you close to a chest that thrummed with something alien and melodic.

You were being carried.

Up. Or down. You couldn’t tell. You could never tell.

Were you still dying? Was this death? Were you hallucinating some mythical savior in your final moments? Something old and godlike from the sea?

You think you felt a tail. It curled and shimmered through the water like silk, bracing you tighter against something solid.

You suddenly felt something rough against your skin, sand, it scraped against your palms as you were laid down —  the shore, warm and coarse and real. You coughed violently, bile and salt and sea pouring from your lips in heaves. Your ribs burned. Your lungs clawed for air.

There were sounds now — real ones. Waves. Wind. The ragged sob of your breath. And something else.

Flapping.  Not wings. Fins? Something slick and heavy shifting just beside you.

You curled inward instinctively, salt-stiff dress sticking to your legs, the weight of it dragging at your limbs like seaweed. Your hands trembled as they tried to find purchase in the sand. Your mind reeled. Still blind and helpless. Still something’s prey.

But then — a touch.

Wet fingers grazed your cheek again. Long, reverent. A thumb ghosting under your eye, almost like it missed you. As if it had longed for you. A claw caught briefly on your skin — not enough to cut, but enough to remind you. It wasn’t human.

And neither, perhaps, were you anymore.

Warm breath fanned over your mouth. Close. So close. Your lips parted without thinking, tasting salt and something else. Something sweet and sea-born. Something his.

“...Thank you,” you rasped, voice nothing more than salt-burned air.

Silence followed.

And then finally, a hiss. Drawn out. Fragile. Starving. Not angry — at least, not yet. Just yearning.

And then it all shattered.

The thunder of boots on sand.  The crackle of dry seaweed under heavy feet. The roar of men cheering. A voice like rusted knives, thick with blood and fish oil and stale wine. Your father.

“The siren,” he breathed, awed. “You caught it.”

Caught?

Slender hands seized you next before you could think more on your father’s words. Delicate only in size, but not in touch. You knew her — one of the housemaids. She smelled like lavender soap and liniments used for scrubbing backs. Her fingers were cold, her grip clinical.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, dearie,” she murmured. Not unkind. But distant. Oblivious.

You were lifted roughly. Boneless in her arms, your soaked dress clinging like dead weight. Hair matted across your face. Lips split and slack. Your limbs swayed with every jarring step she took —  legs dangling, knees bumping against her hips.

And from the surf — he screamed.

A sound that did not belong on land. A noise that split open the air like lightning through rotted wood. Not pain or even fury. Something older. Hollow. Ancient.

And then came the metal. The rattle of chains. The dry hiss of nets. The guttural commands of armed men thick with salt and ego.  Shouts of strategy turned into panic.

“Harpoons — now!”

“Hold him down, he’s - he’s not —”

“Jesus Christ, what is that thing — ”

The air turned metallic. Heavy. The scent of copper and salt and him filled your nose like smoke before a firestorm.

Ripping.

You heard it. Felt it in your chest.  The wet, sickening tear of flesh split apart. The squelch of something soft and vital spilling onto the sand.

The maid’s hands clenched tighter. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. Her breath came faster. She started to run.

Those screams.

Not sharp anymore. But gargled. Choking. Drowning in their own blood.

And above it all, the low, keening hum of something monstrous. A sound no human throat could ever replicate. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your heart pounded like it might crack your ribs. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body knew before your mind could catch up —  something beautiful and horrific was behind you. Something not meant to be seen.

The maid hissed, as if realizing you were listening too hard.

“Be thankful you’re blind,” she whispered.

And for the first time in your life. 

You were.

Because you didn’t see the way he moved. Didn’t see the way his mouth unhinged. Didn’t see the bones he snapped like a twig or how the blood sprayed across the surf in thick, arterial arcs.

Didn’t see the smile.

But you sure felt it.

Every step the maid took trembled under the weight of it. You felt her flinch when something wet hit her back.  You heard a body collapse, still twitching, not far behind.

There, on the blood-soaked beach. He waited.  In the aftermath of the slaughter. In the salt-slick cradle of death.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A small part of you had sunk inward long before you sank into the bath.

Now, half-limp in the scalding porcelain tub, you sat in silence while a new maid—young, quiet, smelling faintly of chamomile and starch—worked her fingers gently through your hair. Her hands were steady, but you could feel the tension in them, like she didn’t quite want to touch you.

You didn’t blame her.

The water had long since cooled from soothing to lukewarm, but you hadn’t moved. You let it swallow your body, inch by inch, up to your chin. Your fingertips had gone pruned. Your spine ached. Your throat still burned from salt and screaming.

The scent of blood clung to you, despite the scrubbing.

Despite everything.

Your father had come back.

Not quietly, and surely not clean.

You heard him retching in the next room. Heard the thick splatter of bile against tile, the wheezing gasps of a man whose stomach had turned itself inside out from guilt, grief, or perhaps just the stench of what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t say much when he staggered past the door — just offered a few garbled apologies. Maybe to you. Maybe to some half-forgotten god. Maybe to himself.

But at the end of it all, he lived.

He lived.

When twenty others didn’t. When blood soaked the beach like high tide. When something divine and dreadful rose from the surf and punished every hand that tried to pull you away.

You turned your face slightly toward the door, your voice still too hoarse to speak aloud.

Why him?

Why was he spared?

Out of everyone on that crew—strong, cruel, and desperate men—he was the only one left gasping on the shoreline. Shaking. Pale. Alive.

And you had a feeling. A terrible feeling. It wasn’t mercy. It was scent.

Yours.  

His.

You shared blood. Skin. Smell. Something primal. Maybe that was enough to keep your father breathing. Or perhaps, the creature in the water hadn’t spared your father out of grace. Maybe mercy had nothing to do with it.

It took nearly a month for things to return to a version of normal. Not true normal — not the warm, salty kind that clung to your skin after sunbathing, or the familiar creak of dockwood beneath your shoes — but something brittle. Fragile. Like a painting of normalcy stretched too thin over something dark and wet and unspeakable.

The beach was off-limits for weeks. You’d ask quietly, and your requests would be met with stammered refusals, soft curses, and sharp silences.

No walks. No wandering.  No tapping your cane along the pier. And certainly not alone.

Your father wouldn’t speak to you as much. Dinners were now quiet. His voice, once booming and sure, had dulled into a rasp. You could hear it catch in his throat like a hook when he thought you were asleep — prayers muttered to gods he hadn’t believed in before, hands shaking with what he claimed was fatigue but smelled like guilt.

When he returned from that cursed night, it was with blood crusted under his nails and a stench that clung to his skin for days. He brought no crew with him. Only the memory of the beach turned battlefield.

The authorities said there wasn’t enough evidence. The accounts were too conflicting. Too surreal.

Only one thing saved him: the maid.

The girl who dragged you off the shore, half-conscious, while the sea behind you boiled with screams. She testified. She lied. Beautifully. It was said that the storm had come in fast. Said the men panicked. That they’d drowned. That your father had saved you.

No one questioned her too deeply. No one wanted to know the truth.

And when the rumors cooled — when curiosity waned and fear became background noise — you were allowed to return.

Daylight only.

Never alone.

But you found a window. A moment. A lull in supervision.

The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the familiar path, cane in hand. The gentle tap-tap of its tip brushing the boardwalk comforted you, even as the stillness pressed in from all sides. The sand was warm beneath your soles. The breeze carried the same scent it always had — brine, distant saltweed, the breath of something old and watchful out beyond the rocks.

But something was missing.

No fishermen calling to one another or the creak of nets drawn tight with the morning’s catch. Not even the hum of boats lapping against the dock, thick with engine oil and fish blood.

Just silence. Thick, expectant silence. They were all out at sea, the rumors said. Hunting. Hoping to capture what your father failed to, or avenge those who never came back.

You found your way to the edge of the dock, your cane dipping once against the final plank before you lowered yourself to sit. Carefully. Cautiously.

Your dress bunched awkwardly at your hips. The hem hung limp, brushing the wooden slats. You let your legs dangle over the edge, the water licking just beneath your shoes.

And there, with the sun high and the shore silent, you felt it.

Not quite a touch or a sound, but the feeling of a presence. A weight that pressed against your back like the heat of a stare. The kind of attention that tightens your breath. That makes your throat dry. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening — not exactly. Just… knowing.

You stiffened. You gripped your cane tighter.

It could’ve been anxiety or even the wind. Perhaps, the memory of blood-soaked sand and the screams you never saw.

But it felt specific. Personal.

And then, without warning, the water beneath your feet shifted. Not violently. Not enough to splash. But enough to ripple. Enough to feel. A current brushed up against the dock post. A shiver licked across your ankle. Barely a whisper. Like a fingertip. Or perhaps a breath. 

And in the stillness, in that space between heartbeat and breath. 

You knew you weren’t alone.

The creature—your savior, your curse—had never left. Waiting.

You heard it first. A splash. Small. Intentional. Too precise to be the tide. Water stirred beneath your dangling feet, rippling gently, reverently, like the sea itself was exhaling just for you.

A hand, wet and cool, brushed against your ankle. The sensation made your breath catch. You didn’t recoil. You should have. But the contact was cautious, almost hesitant. Curious.

You could feel the texture of it: The webbing between long fingers. The faint resistance of slick skin. The subtle drag of scaled flesh against your calf, the way it clung like velvet soaked in salt.

And then—his voice. A sound so low and sorrowful it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you.” A whine, cracked at the edges. Yearnful. Soft. Like a child left out in the cold. Like something that didn’t know how to be anything other than lonely. His voice draped itself over your shoulders like a blanket of warm fog, soothing, silken, just a little too perfect.

You shivered. Not from cold. From the way his voice pulled at you.

That’s what sirens do, don’t they? Lure. Lull. Captivate.

Or so you’ve read.

Your knowledge was limited to what little information your fingers could find pressed into Braille pages. Most academic papers weren’t keen on accessibility. Myths don’t translate easily. Neither do monsters.

And yet — he did. Every syllable of his voice seemed designed to bypass logic. He didn’t speak so much as sing. A song without melody. A hum beneath his words that resonated somewhere deep in your ribs, like a forgotten chord being struck in your soul.

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to scream or to respond. But no sound came.

Just the fragile press of breath against your lips. Just him, half in water, half in shadow.

You couldn’t see his face.

But you didn’t need to.

Not when you could feel the devotion in the way he touched you, like a man in prayer, reverent and trembling. His fingertips, half-wet, half-scaled, ghosted over your skin with the care of someone handling something sacred.

And you knew.

He hadn’t just missed you. He had ached.

“...You missed me?” you asked softly, breath catching in your throat.

There was a pause. Then the feeling of hair brushing against your calf, slick, heavy strands brushing against your leg as he leaned in, pressing the curve of his face against your calf like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. A sigh left him content and broken.

Then came the kisses.

A trail of them. Quick, warm, damp down your shin, over your ankle, to the very tips of your toes. Little presses of lips, too eager, too desperate, like he didn’t care how strange or humiliating the act was.

You flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, only to feel a sharp pinch, a claw digging into your skin, just enough to stop you. Not enough to pierce — yet.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Mmm?” he hummed, a low vibration in your bones, amusement curling like smoke through every syllable. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. A wet, sticky joy.

“You torment me,” he whispered. “Bewitched me. How cruel of you… to make something like me weak.”

The last word hit like a bruise. But you wouldn’t use the word weak to describe him.

Never him.

Not when the sea had screamed for him.

Not when twenty men had died on the beach.

Not when your father still woke in the night, gasping your name and whispering his.

He wasn’t weak; instead, he was just starved.

For you.

“You’re confused,” was all you managed, the words small, almost a laugh—bitter at the edges. A weak protest. A failing defense.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort…”

But he didn’t like that.

The claw at your leg sank deeper, just enough to warn. Enough to draw a sharp sting, a gasp. You winced, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—you wanted to plead. To yield. To give in to whatever he was, whatever spell he had woven in the deep.

But then he hummed. Low. Lulling. Almost sweet.

On the other hand, his free one came up to cradle your face, as gentle as the claw was cruel. Cold, wet skin pressed against your cheek, thumb brushing across your lip like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth by touch alone.

You felt the tremble in his fingers. The ache in his stillness.

And then he muttered, more to himself than to you: “How good would you taste…?”

The words were soft. Almost tender. Almost human. “If I dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, held you there until your lungs collapsed, until your breath stopped struggling in your chest, until my teeth sank into your skin…”

His thumb dipped into the corner of your mouth. Not forceful. Curious. Possessive. “…and tore your throat out.”

You froze. Your blood pulsed behind your eyes. Your lips parted, not in response but in terror. A pause. A sound caught in his throat—not a growl. A whine. Fragile. Desperate.

“I dream of that,” he whispered, voice cracking like driftwood splitting in the tide. “Every night. For you.”

Another breathless pause. The confession was too heavy for even him. “To die at my hands. For your flesh to stain my teeth. For you…”

The claw on your face jerked. You felt it. Sharp. Sudden. A slice blooming just beneath your cheekbone. Warm blood welled. Traced a slow line down your jaw.

And still, he held your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “For you to love me… as much as I love you.”

His voice shattered on the last word. Not rage. Not a command. Just heartbreak.

The kind of love that doesn’t know how to be gentle. The kind that drowns what it can’t bear to lose.

You slapped his hand away. A sharp, wet smack as your palm struck skin, slippery and cold and too real.

Perhaps it was a stupid mistake, but you didn’t regret it. Not even as silence stretched thin between you.

He didn’t growl or retaliate. Instead, he laughed.

A sound, soft, and breathless. Delighted, amused, like wind catching the edge of a bell. A beautiful sound. Inhuman in its lightness. The kind of laugh that said: You’ve misunderstood everything.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice is low, firm, trembling at the edges. “You murdered them.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just quiet, weary horror. You heard him shift in the water. Felt the slight pull at your ankle where his claw still curled. A gentle splash as he exhaled through his nose.

And then—a hum. Resonant. Thoughtful. Like he was rolling the word ‘murder’ over in his mouth, tasting it. Considering it like one might consider a foreign language or a flawed metaphor.

“Is it murder?” he mused, tone feather-soft. “They threw you in, did they not?”

You flinched.

The memory hit like cold water again. The push. The fall. The salt clawing at your lungs.

“You were to be my meal that night,” he continued, almost dreamily. “A gift. An offering. Dressed in white, ribboned like a feast. I would’ve eaten you whole.”

Another pause. A breath. His lips ghosted across your knee as he whispered: “I still might.”

He said it with such tenderness that it made your stomach twist. As though devouring you was the most romantic thing he could imagine. 

As though that was what love was—possession so complete it leaves nothing behind.

And yet, he let you go. You weren’t sure why.

Perhaps he heard the distant churn of engines—ships cutting across the sea, their steel hulls humming with human voices and guns. Perhaps the scent of strangers carried on the breeze. Perhaps he didn’t want to share you with witnesses.

But he didn’t speak another word.

All you heard was a soft chuckle, low and breathy, and then the strange sensation of his cheek resting against your calf—warm, tender, almost shy.

You flinched when you felt the skin damp—wet. Not from seawater. From blood. Yours. And still, he stayed like that. Nuzzled close. Like he didn’t want to move. Like letting you go took more from him than the killings ever did.

But he did.

And the next morning, you returned. You weren’t sure why. You told yourself it was curiosity. That it was unfinished questions. That it was part of healing. But each day, your feet found their way back to the edge of the dock. Each day, you dipped your toes in and waited. And each day, the sea answered.

Eventually, you gave up the dock entirely.

It was Satoru who had guided you to the rocks, flat and warm beneath your hands, bleached by sun and tide. He would circle you as you sat, humming low, half-submerged, his voice curling around your ankles like ribbons. You never felt him fully. Just fragments. The brush of a hand. The flick of a tail. The soft splash of him surfacing beside you to let his fingers trace your wrist like he was memorizing the weight of your pulse.

You learned his name.

Satoru.

He said it as if it were something unspoken, something soft, something only you were allowed to speak.

Sirens were meant to be lonely — your fingers had told you that much, searching across faded braille in myth-soaked pages. Loneliness made them dangerous. Starved. But some texts spoke of others. Of merfolk. Creatures not quite siren, not quite human. How they have mates.

One day, without thinking, you asked: “Do you have one? A mate?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

You were perched on the smooth spine of a seaside rock, sun warming your back, the sea misting your face. He floated beside you, so close you could hear the water sliding across his skin.

You don’t remember how that started, when you let him bring you here. When you stopped resisting the pull.

A foolish mistake. But not one you remembered making. Not clearly.

There was a pause. A shift in the water.  Then a hum, low, laced with amusement.

“I’ll tell you…” A cheeky laugh left his lips, “If you come in.” The words were playful. Lilting. Teasing like a lullaby. And as always, followed by touch—his fingers dragging along your calf, just enough pressure to remind you that you belonged to him, that he'd been patient, so patient.

Your throat tightened. “I can’t swim,” you said quietly.

You expected mockery. Dismissal. But instead, he laughed again.  Light, musical, pleased. A sound that would’ve been lovely if it weren’t brushing up against your fear like velvet against raw skin.

“Obviously,” he said, with a grin you could hear. “But I can guide you.”

One hand settled on your thigh. The weight of it was gentle, but beneath the surface, you felt his claws held back, barely restrained. His skin was slick and cool, damp from the tide, and his thumb rubbed small, slow circles against your leg like he was soothing a trembling animal.

You hesitated.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the rock, nails scraping over lichen-slick stone.

This was a bad idea.

Everything about this was a bad idea. Your mind was racing. 

This was a bad idea. One that could end horribly. An image appeared in your mind, one you would not like to reflect on. 

“Just fully submerged,” he coaxed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We won’t leave the rock.”

The promise hung in the air between you like a web. Sticky. Shimmering. False.

You could feel the water now, lapping just below your knees. You could feel him, shifting beneath the surface, his tail brushing against the rock like a current, coiling and uncurling like a waiting serpent.

And his voice—soothing, low, beautifully wrong—threaded through your thoughts, warm as blood in your ears.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You’re not sure if you trust him or if you’re even sure it even matters anymore. Still, gently, cautiously, you slip deeper into the water. Your breath stutters. Your pulse flutters.

You’re an idiot.

His hands are already there to catch you. Guiding you.  Fingers curling around your wrists, pressing them to the slick surface of the rock. Anchoring you. Positioning you. His tail wraps around your legs next, slow and deliberate. The cool, scaled muscle coils up your thighs, tighter than it needs to be. You can feel every shimmer, every shift in his body as it glides over your skin. And then, his chest. Bare. Cold. Pressed flush against your back. You shudder. His breath ghosts over your shoulder, over your throat, thick with salt and something sweeter.

This is a mistake. You know it. Like prey entering the predator’s den. Because you can feel teeth. Just barely. Grazing. Waiting.

And yet, he speaks. “I suppose I owe you an answer,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, too calm for how tightly he’s holding you.  “It’s… complicated. There’s Suguru…”

Your brows knit. His tone is strange, bitter, breathless, threaded with something almost childishly resentful. As he speaks, one hand slips to your front, tracing the laces of your corset with idle curiosity.

Rrrrip. The fabric tears like paper in his claws. Your breath hitches. You go rigid in his hold. “But Suguru…” he sighs, soft and wistful. Pouting. You hear it in his voice, like a child denied something precious. “Suguru is a male.”

A simple statement, but full of meaning. A declaration. A boundary. A grievance.

Then, his soft lips on your neck. Soft, scattered kisses trailing downward. feather-light, open-mouthed, suckling gently like he’s soothing the places he wants to bite.

“Can’t have babies with a male, you know…” The words make your blood run cold. Your breath stutters.

His hands move again, greedy, unhurried. One cups your breast, his palm cold and slick, thumb brushing over your nipple as though curious how you'd react. The other slides downward, slipping beneath the ruined hem of your dress, fingers trailing heat and water in their wake. You remember hearing a snap earlier, like claws being clipped. 

The memory drifted away at the sound of another rip. Your tights. Then your panties. A mutter under his breath, “Useless things.”

He keeps you turned, body flush to the rock, your front pressed to sun-warmed stone, the rest of you buried in his hold. His tail tightens, muscles rippling beneath scaled flesh as he coils more tightly around your legs, locking you in place with a possessive firmness that trembles with restraint. 

The water churns around your waist, lapping against your hips like it’s breathing in time with him. His hands move like he’s sculpting you - mapping, claiming, memorizing. You can feel him everywhere. On your throat, your breasts, your thighs. Inside you.

And all you can do is hold on. Tremble as he explores your body, his hands tremble slightly. You guess not in fear, but rather in excitement.

“At first,” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your shoulder, his voice a purr of reverent confusion, “when I saw you, I thought it was mating season. I was a bit worried...”

Your breath hitched, then cracked into a silent scream as his teeth sank into the column of your throat. Sharp. Blunt. Too deep to be teasing. Pain bloomed across your skin, blooming hot and fast before it dissolved into something murky and unbearable.

He groaned—shuddered—like your blood, your taste, was a relief. “I was so confused,” he went on, voice hitching, breaking, as his hand dipped lower.

Between your thighs. 

Over your folds.

Inside you.

A moan punched through him, sudden and guttural, and he all but arched against your back, tail jerking with the force of his need.

“Fuck...” his breath trembled, lips trailing up your neck, nibbles against the skin, “you’re so warm, so fucking warm...” His fingers curled inside your core, slow and possessive, drawing wet sounds from your body like music only he was meant to hear.

“Because,” he gasped against your ear, voice raw with bewildered joy, “I’d already gotten rid of my eggs for the season. Guess we have to wait until the next.”

As if that meant something. As if that justified anything. You could feel the way he trembled behind you, his chest heaving, his cock hard and pressed against the small of your back, restrained only by the last thread of reverence still clinging to him.

“And yet—you, this soft little thing in the middle of the ocean—you ruined everything.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, pressing soft, wet kisses to the skin just above where your blood still trickled.

“My instincts told me to ignore you. But my soul—” he moaned again, thrusting his fingers deeper, spreading you open wider—“told me you were mine.”

You couldn’t do anything but moan—soft, broken, trembling—while he lapped at the blood trickling from your throat. Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate. Lingering. Worshipful.

You felt dizzy. Hollowed out. Heat curling in your belly like a fever that couldn’t break.

Then his fingers—still slick and buried deep—curled inside you with intent, spreading, stretching, preparing.

And that’s when you felt it. Something hard pressed against your back—thick, ridged, hot even through the water.

Not one. Two.

Your blood ran cold.

“There’s… two.” You whimpered out in between a moan, a sharp bite on your shoulder, and left your hands gripping the sun-kissed rocks for salvation.  The realization made your breath stutter in your chest, panic beginning to flicker beneath the haze.

He felt it.  Of course he did. He always felt everything. Immediately, his touch changed. Softer. His hands, once possessive and firm, became coaxing, stroking your face as he guided your chin toward his. A whisper of pressure. A kiss before the fall.

“Shhh,” he breathed, brushing your lips with his own, “It’s alright. You’re doing so good.”

His fingers slipped out of you, and one of his lengths took their place, pressing inside with a force that made your lungs seize.

The thrust was smooth. Deep. Too deep.

Your scream never made it past your mouth—his tongue was already there, swallowing it, muffling your panic with something wet and hot and hungry. His kiss was messy, teeth dragging across your lips, fangs nicking you just enough to remind you what he was.

Your hands scrambled against the stone. Your body fought to stretch, to fit around something it was never meant to take. As his other cock bounced against your clit, making the sensation so much more unbearable. 

He groaned—more a laugh than a sound of pleasure—as he sank deeper, letting you feel every inch, every twitch of his body moving inside yours.

“Hah…” he panted, voice thick with delight, “I’m not usually this gentle, you know…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just enough to make your body jerk forward. 

“You can ask Suguru when you meet him.” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel in its fondness “He’s always scolding me for being so — fuck — rough.”

You winced as the tip of him pressed up against your cervix, an ache blooming sharp and unforgiving somewhere behind your hips. The pain had teeth, hot and blossoming like fire underwater. And still, he kissed you again, lips wet and unrelenting, fangs dragging across the plush of your bottom lip like he was tasting you from the inside out.

“But with you…” he murmured, voice thick with wonder and ruin, a shudder rolling down his spine, “you’re worth savoring.”

You felt yourself begin to unravel, limp in his arms, breath shallow, nerves frayed like salt-wet lace. The drag of his cock was too much, too deep and consuming. His teeth mapped your skin with feverish precision, each bite sharper than the last, each one punctuating a devotion that veered far past human. The water churned around you, thick with heat and the iron-slick scent of blood.

He trembled behind you, groaning low and guttural as his hips pressed flush to yours, his body locking into place. You felt the full weight of him, the heat, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of it. And then, hot, sticky, release. A surge deep within you.

His moan, if you could call it that, was a high, pitchy, cracked thing. Like something old and lonely, remembering how to pray. Claws skimmed your belly and thighs, possessive, trembling. Holding you close. Ensuring every last drop stayed inside. 

Your hands slipped from the rock.  You didn’t remember letting go. He caught them easily—captured them—and pressed them flat to his chest, where something beat too fast, too shallow. Like a bird trapped beneath his ribs.

“S–Satoru,” you choked, voice thin and laced with salt, terror curling at the edges.

He pulled out of you, slowly or maybe those things, the lengths of him, were curling back into the shadow of his tail. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Siren biology wasn’t recorded in braille. No one thought it was worth transcribing. Or maybe you’re the only one who survived to tell the tale. 

“Shhh…” he whispered, soft as a lullaby, “just taking you with me.”

He laughed, breathless, light, euphoric. Like you’d given him the greatest gift without ever meaning to. As if dying for him would be enough. His hands slid down your back, down your thighs, holding you tight like a bride. 

The rock’s warmth faded behind you. The warmth of the sun was lost to the cool ocean waves.  He nuzzled against your throat again, lapped away the drying blood with reverent little swipes of his tongue, then trailed up to kiss your jaw, your lips, soft and slow, as though you weren’t drowning.

Down. 

Down. 

 Down.

Into the dark. Surrounded by pressure. The water surged past your ears. You tried to breathe. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing every desperate sound, every last shudder of protest.

You felt your body go slack. Felt your lungs burn. Your thoughts began to scatter like bubbles rising too slow to reach the surface.

And just before the black took you. 

You thought, distantly,

If this is death…

…maybe it’s better to not be awake for it.

[cressidagrey]

Family Traditions

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Lando finds out about a Piastri family tradition. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando had expected Miami to be loud. He hadn’t expected it to feel quiet beside Oscar Piastri.

The city was buzzing with race weekend electricity—neon signs blinking against glass, palm trees lit up from below, the distant pulse of music weaving through the air like static. Most of the drivers were either holed up with their engineers or attending overpriced sponsor dinners at rooftop bars.

They were supposed to be heading to one of those dinners.

Instead, Lando was standing outside a kitschy tourist gift shop, watching Oscar inspect a faded pink t-shirt that read I Survived the Miami Heat under a cartoon flamingo in sunglasses.

Lando blinked. “You’re not actually buying that.”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. He flipped the tag, checked the fabric like it mattered. “It’s 100% cotton. She’ll love it.”

“She—wait. Bee?”

Oscar nodded, already moving to grab a smaller size. “I get her a shirt in every city.”

Lando stared. “Every city? Like—since when?”

Oscar shrugged, distracted as he sifted through the kids’ section with the ease of habit. “Since last year.”

And suddenly, Lando saw it—how naturally Oscar moved past the mugs, magnets, and tourist bait. How he honed in on the children’s rack like his brain had filed the store layout by instinct. He paused at a glitter-print top, muttered something under his breath about how that’ll flake in the wash, and kept going.

Lando followed him, still stunned. “You never talk about this.”

“It’s not for talking,” Oscar said simply. “It’s for her. Just… something small so she knows I was thinking of her. Even when I’m far away.”

And something about the way he said it—so quiet, so matter-of-fact—settled behind Lando’s ribs like weight.

Oscar finally held up a pale blue shirt with a little beach scene and a smiling sun. “This one. She’ll like the dolphins.”

Lando watched as he paid, folded the shirt so precisely it could’ve come from a boutique, and tucked it into the bag like it was made of glass.

Outside, the Miami air hit them with a wall of heat. Traffic blurred past. Laughter floated down from a rooftop bar. But all Lando could think about was the bag in Oscar’s hand.

“How many does she have?” he asked.

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-eight, I think? I lost track when she started organizing them by fabric content.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Of course she did.”

“She’s got a whole drawer just for them,” Oscar added, glancing down at the bag like it held a secret. “Felicity says we’ll need vacuum bags soon.”

They walked for a bit in silence. Lando kept sneaking glances—at the gift shop fading into the background, at the way Oscar cradled the handle of the paper bag like it was tethered to something deeper.

And suddenly, Lando didn’t see Oscar the way everyone else did.

Not just the reserved one. The quiet one. The sharp one who never cracked under pressure.

He saw it all differently now.

Oscar didn’t brag about being a dad. Didn’t post curated fatherhood moments on social media. But he carried Bee with him everywhere. In every tiny routine. In the care with which he picked out a souvenir shirt. In the way his voice softened when he talked about her. 

He didn’t talk about his love.

He wore it.

They walked in silence for a moment.

Lando cleared his throat. “You know… I always think of you as, like, the calm one. Logical. You do math mid-corner. You’re composed even when you’re about to throw up in your helmet.”

Oscar snorted. “Appreciate that image.”

“I’m serious,” Lando said, laughing. “You’re chill. Private. But I didn’t see it until now.”

Oscar slowed a little as they passed a gelato cart. His gaze flicked to the flavors—mango, strawberry—and Lando could almost hear him thinking, Bee would’ve picked both.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Oscar said after a pause. “I just never needed anyone else to see it.”

Lando frowned. “Don’t you want to share that, though? Show the world how much they mean to you?”

“I do,” Oscar said. “Just not loudly. I’m not trying to win points for being a good dad. I’m trying to be one. For them. Not for Instagram. Not for a sponsor highlight reel.”

He lifted the bag slightly. “This? It’s just for Bee. She’ll get it when I get home. She’ll squeal like it’s made of gold. And then she’ll wear it to kindergarten and tell everyone dolphins are her favorite animal. Even though last week it was frogs. Then she’ll fold it and put it in the drawer. Maybe one day, when she’s older, she’ll look at all of them and know—really know—that I was always thinking of her. Even when I wasn’t there.”

Lando swallowed past the lump in his throat. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”

Oscar smiled, soft and certain. “She had me the second I heard her heartbeat.”

And Lando—who had known Oscar for years, who had raced with him, laughed with him, endured endless simulator hours and team debriefs—suddenly felt like he was seeing his teammate clearly for the very first time.

Not just as a driver.

But as a compass. A man who carried his love not like a burden, but like a map—guiding him back to the people he loved, no matter how far away he went.

“You’re gonna make me cry in the middle of Miami,” Lando muttered, sniffling. “It’s disgusting.”

Oscar chuckled, and they kept walking.

The city roared around them—bright, loud, alive—but between them, it was quiet. The bag with the tiny blue shirt swung between their strides like a soft echo of something much bigger.

And somewhere—half a world away, in a house filled with stars, frogs, and the warmth of soft-worn cotton—a drawer waited.

Ready for a new shirt.

Ready for another piece of proof that love doesn’t have to be loud to be unmistakably present.

***

The house was dark when Oscar got home.

It was nearly midnight, and Miami still clung to him—sand in the cuff of his jeans, humidity in his skin, the thrum of race day still humming through his bloodstream like a second heartbeat. His body was sore in the way that came from too much sitting and not enough rest. The flight had been long. The layover longer. But it didn’t matter.

Because he was here. He was home.

They had the win. Lando had his first win.

Oscar had stood back and watched the moment unfold—watched the confetti fall, the photos flash, the jokes fly in press conferences and interviews. He’d clapped Lando on the back and meant every bit of pride in it.

But now… now it was quiet. And Oscar had finally made it back to the only finish line that mattered.

He let himself in quietly, the soft click of the door unlocking sounding louder in the stillness of the hallway. He dropped his duffel by the entryway, shoulders slumping under the weight of the weekend and the travel and the emotional high of watching someone he’d grown up with claim a victory they’d both dreamed of.

The scent of lemon soap and vanilla laundry softener hit him the moment he stepped into the living room—familiar, comforting, home. There was a soft golden glow spilling from the corner lamp, left on like a lighthouse waiting for a sailor to return.

And there, on the kitchen counter, propped up neatly beside the fruit bowl, was a note in Felicity’s looping handwriting:

“She tried to wait up for you. Made it to 8:42. There’s banana bread in the kitchen. We love you.”

Oscar stood still for a moment, the kind of still that only came when your body stopped but your heart didn’t.

He reached for the paper bag next. The same one he’d carried through Miami like it held something delicate. The one Lando had teased him about in the gift shop while tourists took selfies with flamingo mugs and tank tops.

He pulled the tissue aside gently.

The tiny pale blue t-shirt was still folded perfectly inside. The smiling sun, the cheerful dolphins, the quiet promise stitched into every thread: Even when I’m far away, I’m thinking of you.

He set it down beside the note, as carefully as he would have placed a trophy.

Then he moved down the hallway, socked feet silent on the floorboards, the rhythm of his steps unconsciously slowing as he reached the door to Bee’s room.

He pushed it open just a crack.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of the star-shaped nightlight near her bed. She was curled up under her favorite blanket, the one with little constellations on it. Her pajamas glowed faintly—tiny stars twinkling against soft cotton. Button the Frog was tucked beneath her chin like a loyal soldier, and her curls had exploded in every direction, a wild halo of sleep and safety.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe and just watched.

Her chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Her little hand twitched once, reaching for something in a dream. And his heart ached—not with sadness, but with fullness.

This. This was the part no one saw. Not the finish line. Not the press photos.

Just this: the quiet joy of coming home.

He stepped in and adjusted her blanket gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead and smoothing one rogue curl from her cheek.

She stirred, barely, but didn’t wake.

He whispered, “I brought your dolphins.”

Then slipped out of the room, closing the door with the care of someone who knew exactly how to keep the hinges from creaking.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and cut a slice of banana bread, leaning against the counter in silence. The house didn’t feel empty. It felt held. Full of all the little things that made a life.

The shirt sat there beside the note, ready for tomorrow.

Ready for Bee’s excited squeal. Ready for her to declare it her favorite, until the next one.

Oscar smiled to himself, soft and tired.

He didn’t need fireworks. Didn’t need a podium.

He had this. He had them. And that was everything.

***

The next morning was a blur of cereal, milk drips, and tiny sock negotiations.

Bee tore into the kitchen like a whirlwind, hair halfway brushed, dragging Button behind her by one leg and already mid-sentence about how she definitely didn’t need help squeezing her own orange juice.

Felicity was at the sink, mug in one hand, quietly laughing at the chaos while Oscar leaned against the counter, bleary-eyed and barefoot, watching his daughter with a sleepy sort of awe. She really was a force of nature, even at 6:18 a.m.

He slid into the seat beside her just as she climbed into her booster, and without a word, placed the folded paper bag in front of her plate.

Bee gasped—gasped—like he had just handed her the Holy Grail. Her little hands flew to her mouth. “Miami?” she whispered.

Oscar nodded, resting his chin in his hand, watching her with barely-contained amusement.

She opened the bag like it was made of velvet, slowly peeling back the tissue paper and pulling out the dolphin shirt like it might float if she let go.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed. Her voice had dropped to a whisper, full of reverence, as if the dolphins themselves might hear her. “They’re smiling at me again, Papa.”

Oscar felt his chest pull tight. Every mile, every race, every layover—it was all worth it just for that sentence.

“You like it?” he asked softly.

“I love it. Thank you, Papa,” Bee clutched the shirt to her chest like it was a treasure map. “I’m going to wear it forever.”

“Maybe not forever,” Felicity chimed in from the sink, though her voice was warm with laughter, and her phone was already in her hand, camera open. “But at least until you outgrow it and Papa adds it to the drawer.”

Bee’s eyes widened, another gasp escaping her like she’d remembered a sacred duty. “The drawer! I need to fold it and rank it!”

She slid off her chair with a speed that defied gravity, dolphin shirt in one hand, Button flapping in the other as she bolted down the hallway.

Oscar watched her go, shaking his head, a small laugh caught in his throat.

“Snuggle rating pending,” he muttered.

Felicity crossed the kitchen and nudged his knee gently with hers as she sat beside him. “She really likes it. She really loves you,” she added, and this time her voice was quieter. Her hand slipped onto his knee, thumb brushing a circle there like she knew exactly what he needed to hear. “You know, she told me yesterday that she never feels like you’re gone. Even when you are.”

Oscar blinked. “Because of the shirts?”

Felicity looked at him like he’d just missed the point entirely. “Because of you. But yeah—the shirts help.”

He swallowed, something tender and almost fragile in the way his hand covered hers.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kitchen warm with sunlight and the background noise of Bee yelling from her room:  “THE NEW ONE IS SOFT LIKE A PILLOW BUT WITH BETTER VIBES!”

Oscar chuckled. “What does that mean?”

Felicity shook her head, grinning into her mug. “You’d have to ask the pillow.”

Then she looked back at him, smirking. “You know, Lando texted me after you bought that shirt. Said he cried in the middle of a tourist shop.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “He told me it was ‘disgusting.’”

“He said, quote: ‘Disgusting. I nearly cried in a tourist shop. I want to hug Bee and write a novel about fatherhood. I’m spiraling.’”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Felicity stood and reached for the dish towel, only for Oscar to wrap his arms around her waist from behind.

“Still think I should’ve bought the flamingo one,” he murmured into her shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she replied, leaning back into him with a smile.

“Lucky,” he echoed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He looked down the hallway where Bee’s voice had now reached a new level of excited shrieking.

“AND IT’S 100% COTTON!”

Oscar closed his eyes and smiled against her hair. “I think I’m the luckiest person alive.”

Felicity turned in his arms, looked up at him, and said simply, “We are.”

And somewhere, in a small bedroom lined with dreams, a frog prince plush, and the faint glow of plastic stars, a drawer clicked shut around a new memory—folded soft and pale blue, sunlit and sea-sweet, nestled right between “Baku: Fast Fast FAST” and “Melbourne: I Was Born Here.”

A drawer full of shirts. A drawer full of love.

Proof, once again, that some things don’t need to be loud to be absolutely everything.

[olisticks]

Nikto who, while sitting on the porch of your shared apartment, smoking a cigarette, hears a tiny meow. Looks down to find a litter of tiny black kittens hidden in the bushes, and one who managed to stumble through the bars of the patio and onto the concrete.

The little thing is so scraggly, and he attempts to guide it back to its mama but it digs its claws into his glove, meowing louder.

Nikto who comes inside cradling three different pitch black kitties in his arms with the mama trailing after and practically trying to bury herself into the leg of Nikto's pants, purring like an engine.

At your look of curiosity and hesitance, he gently plops the babies onto the blanket in your lap, claiming that "they remind him of you. Loud and clingy." And you just can't find it in yourself to be mad at him.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Sports Car | LN4

🎀 summary ━━━━━━━ Based on Sports Car by Tate Mcrae

🎀 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎀 word count ━━━━━━━ 3.6k

🎀 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, public sex?

Based on this request.

The hum of the engine was the only sound filling the air as Lando skillfully navigated the winding roads back toward London. His McLaren, sleek and commanding in its presence, seemed to purr beneath them, its low growl a constant reminder of the sheer power it held. The soft leather seats cradled Y/N in comfort, and the subtle glow of the dashboard illuminated her features in a way that made it impossible for Lando to focus entirely on the road.

The party they’d just left—a birthday celebration for a mutual friend—was already fading into a blur of laughter, champagne, and stolen glances. Outside the car, the countryside had melted into the fringes of the city, the faint glimmer of London’s skyline growing closer with every mile. Inside, though, the world was reduced to just the two of them, bathed in the low hum of the car’s engine and the tension thickening the air.

Y/N sat quietly in the passenger seat, her hair spilling over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the faint light from passing streetlamps. Her eyes, which Lando had caught himself getting lost in countless times before, flickered with mischief as she glanced over at him. She had been unusually quiet since they left the party, but Lando could see the spark in her gaze. He didn’t need her to say anything to know she was up to something.

Lando tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers flexing instinctively against the smooth leather. He didn’t mind the silence; in fact, he loved these stolen moments with her, where it felt like the world outside ceased to exist. The McLaren roared softly as he pressed down on the accelerator, effortlessly gliding onto a stretch of open road.

Her hand rested casually on her thigh, the silky fabric of her dress catching the faint glow of the streetlights. She shifted slightly in her seat, her dress riding up just enough to reveal a hint of smooth skin. He didn’t miss it. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he forced his eyes back to the road, but the air between them grew heavier with every passing second.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Lando teased, his voice low and playful. “Planning something, are we?”

Y/n’s lips curved into a sly smile, her eyes narrowing as she leaned closer. “Maybe,” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with intent. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, sliding across the console until it rested on his thigh. Her fingers brushed against the fabric of his jeans, light but deliberate, sending a shiver up his spine.

Lando’s breath hitched, but he kept his eyes firmly on the road. “You’re going to make me crash, you know that, right?”

She chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent heat pooling low in his stomach. “You’re a professional driver, Lando. I think you can handle it.” Her fingers traced circles on his thigh, inching higher with every pass.

“Y/n,” he warned, his voice strained, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing I like it hot,” she shot back, her tone dripping with confidence. Her hand moved higher still, her fingers brushing the growing bulge in his jeans. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear as she lightly kissed his ear lobe.

Lando’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the wheel. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, though there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice.

Y/n grinned, her confidence only growing as she felt him react to her touch. She shifted in her seat, turning her body toward him as her hand pressed more firmly against him. Her fingers worked at the button of his jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. “What’s the matter, Lando? Can’t concentrate?”

He let out a low groan, his hips jerking instinctively as she slid the zipper down. “You’re going to kill us both,” he said, though there was no real protest in his voice.

“Trust me,” she purred, her hand slipping inside his jeans, her fingers wrapping around his hard length. “You’re in good hands.”

Lando’s breath came in sharp bursts as she began to stroke him, her touch firm but teasing. His body reacted instantly, his cock twitching in her hand as he fought to keep his focus on the road. “Jesus, Y/n,” he gasped, his hips bucking against her touch.

She laughed softly, her thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading the bead of moisture there. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. “Thought it was only fair, I returned the favor.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to her for a moment, taking in the flushed cheeks and the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. She was a vision, and she was his. “You’re lucky I’m such a good driver,” he muttered, though his voice was thick with desire.

Y/n’s smile widened as she continued to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate. “Oh, I know,” she said, her tone dripping with mischief. “But you’re still going to pull over, aren’t you?”

Lando let out a shaky laugh, his resolve crumbling with every pass of her hand. “You’re impossible,” he said, though there was no real annoyance in his voice.

“And yet, you love me,” she replied, her voice soft but filled with certainty.

His eyes softened at that, his heart swelling even as his body throbbed with need. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Y/n’s hand stilled for a moment, her gaze locking with his as the weight of his words settled between them. She had always been guarded, always hesitant to let anyone see the real her. But with Lando, it was different. He saw her, truly saw her, and it scared her as much as it thrilled her.

“Pull over,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the intensity of the moment.

Lando didn’t hesitate. He signaled and guided the car off the road, bringing it to a smooth stop in a quiet spot. The engine continued its low hum, filling the silence as he turned to face her. His blue eyes were dark with desire, a smoldering intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. But beyond that, there was something deeper in his gaze, something unmistakable.

Love.

It was written in the way he looked at her, raw and unguarded, as though she was the center of his universe. The air between them grew heavier, the intimacy of the moment settling over them like a blanket, shutting out everything else.

Y/n’s breath caught as he reached for her, his hands cupping her face as he pulled her into a searing kiss. His lips were soft but demanding, and she melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

“You’re going to kill me,” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer.

“Only if you let me,” she whispered back, her voice filled with promise.

Lando’s lips curved into a smirk as he reached for the lever, reclining the seat so she could straddle him. “Oh, I’m not letting you go that easily,” he said, his voice low and filled with intent.

Y/N’s heart raced as she climbed onto his lap, her dress gathering around her hips as she leaned down to kiss him again. His hands roamed her body, tracing the curves of her waist, her hips, her breasts, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there.

She shivered at his touch, her body responding instantly to his words, his hands, his mouth. “Lando,” she breathed, her voice shaking with need.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her to grind against him.

She moaned softly, her body arching into his as she felt the hard length of him pressing against her. “You,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his. “I want you.”

And that was all it took.

Her dress had ridden higher as she straddled him, leaving her thighs bare against the heat of his body. His hands slid beneath the fabric, fingers exploring the soft curves of her hips with a desperate need to feel her. She shifted against him, the friction drawing a low groan from his lips, his body tensing beneath her as she moved against his hardness. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” Lando murmured, his voice low and rough, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. His breath sent shivers down her spine, and she tilted her head to give him better access. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

She smirked, a little breathless, her hands moving to his chest as she kissed him. Her fingers traced the firm muscles there, savoring the way his skin felt warm and alive beneath her touch. His cock was already free from his jeans and boxers, hard and heavy against her thigh, the heat of it making her ache. She felt his pulse racing, his heart thundering in a rhythm that mirrored her own desperation.

"You’re not so bad yourself," she whispered, her voice teasing as she leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting lower. The sight of him like this, already stripped bare for her, sent a jolt of heat through her core. His dick twitched under her stare, swollen and needy, veins straining against the skin. She bit her lip, her eyes flashing up to meet his as she shifted her weight, grinding against him, letting him feel the wetness of her panties.

Lando’s breath hitched, his jaw clenching as his hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to him. His Adam’s apple bobbed, a low growl escaping his throat. "You’re going to kill me," he ground out, the words strained, his voice thick with want. He struggled to keep his composure, but the way his fingers dug into her hips betrayed how close he was to losing it.

She wrapped her hand around him, squeezing gently, a slow stroke that had him shuddering. His head fell back against the seat, a groan tearing from his lips as his eyes shut, his face a mask of pure, unfiltered pleasure. She loved this—loved how easily she could unravel him, how his usual confidence melted into something raw and vulnerable. The way he reacted to her touch, to her every move, was intoxicating.

Her thumb brushed over the slick tip of his cock, spreading the precum that had gathered there. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "Do you want me to take care of this?" she murmured, her tone sweet but laced with the promise of something far more. Her hand moved again, another slow, deliberate stroke that had his hips bucking into her grip. "Or do you want to do it yourself… while I watch?"

“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice strained, his hands gripping her hips tighter. “Fuck, you’re killing me.”

She smiled, her hand moving a little faster. She could feel him twitching in her hand, and it only made her want more. “Good,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. “I want you to feel as crazy as you make me feel.”

Her words were enough to push him over the edge. Before she knew it, his hands, which had been on her hips, lifted her slightly as he moved her underwear to the side. She felt the tip of him pressing against her, and a soft moan escaped her lips, her body already aching for him. He didn’t wait, didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath, as he guided himself inside her, filling her completely.

The stretch was delicious, a perfect mix of pleasure and pain that made her head fall back, a moan escaping her lips as she felt him bottom out. He was so deep, so thick, and she could feel every inch of him as she shifted, trying to adjust to the sensation. But she didn’t need to adjust for long, because soon she was moving, her hands braced against his shoulders as she rode him slowly, savoring every moment.

“Fuck, Y/n,” Lando groaned, his hands moving to her waist, holding her steady as she moved. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move, and it only made her want to go faster. She leaned forward slightly, her hands moving to her dress as she pulled the fabric down, exposing her chest to him. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, his hands moving to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples.

She moaned again, the sensation of his hands on her breasts adding to the pleasure building inside her. She could feel herself getting wetter, her walls clenching around him as she moved, her pace quickening. He was so deep, so perfect, and she could feel every thrust as he filled her, his hips meeting hers with every movement.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she moved faster, her body craving more. “Oh my god, you feel so good.”

He groaned, his hands moving to her hips, gripping her tighter as he helped her move. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “So fucking perfect.”

She could feel the pleasure building inside her, the way her body was responding to him, and she knew she was close. But she wanted to make it last, wanted to savor every moment of this. She leaned forward slightly, her hands moving back to his shoulders as she kissed him, her lips moving against his hungrily. He groaned into the kiss, his hands moving to her ass, gripping her tighter as he thrust up into her, meeting her movements with his own.

“I’m close,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. “So close.”

“Me too,” he murmured, his hands moving to her breasts again, his thumbs brushing over her nipples as he squeezed them gently. She moaned at the sensation, her body arching into his as she felt the pleasure building inside her, the way her walls were clenching around him.

“Come for me, Y/n,” he whispered, his voice rough with need, his hips meeting hers with every thrust. “Let me feel you.”

His words were enough to push her over the edge, and she cried out, her body trembling as the pleasure washed over her. She could feel herself tightening around him, her walls clenching as she came, the sensation overwhelming. He groaned, his hips stilling as he thrust into her one last time, his body shuddering as he came inside her, filling her completely.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies pressed together, their breathing heavy as they tried to catch their breath. She could feel his heart racing beneath her, the way his hands were still gripping her tightly, as if he never wanted to let her go. And in that moment, she didn’t want him to.

“That was…” he started, his voice shaky, his hands moving to her waist as he pulled her closer. “Fuck, Y/n, that was amazing.”

She smiled, her hands moving to his chest as she leaned into him, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmured, her voice teasing as she kissed him softly, her lips brushing against his.

He groaned, his hands moving to her ass as he pulled her closer, his lips moving against hers hungrily. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, his voice rough with need as his hands roamed over her body, already craving more.

The car was still quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and their heavy breathing, their bodies tangled together in the aftermath of passion. Y/n was still straddling Lando's lap, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. She could feel the weight of his cum inside her, the warmth of it making her pulse quicken again. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, her nails lightly scratching the skin as she leaned into him, her lips brushing against his neck.

“Lando,” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with a need she couldn’t suppress. “I… I need to move.”

He glanced down at her, his eyes dark and hazy with desire, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Why?” he teased, his voice low and husky, one hand still gripping her hip possessively. “You’re exactly where I want you.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing as she shifted slightly, feeling the way his cum threatened to spill out of her with even the slightest movement. “I… I don’t know how to get up without, you know… making a mess,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper, her heart racing at the thought.

Lando’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear. “My mess,” he murmured, his voice dripping with possession, sending a shiver down her spine. “You’re going to sit with it, aren’t you? Until we get back home.”

Her breath hitched, her body reacting instantly to his words, a flush of heat spreading through her as she felt herself growing wet again. “Lando,” she protested weakly, her voice trembling as her fingers tightened against his chest. “That’s… that’s so dirty.”

“Good,” he growled, his hands tightening on her hips as he pressed her down against him, making her gasp at the sensation. “You like it, don’t you? Knowing you’re full of me. Keeping me inside you.”

She couldn’t deny it, her body betraying her as she felt her arousal spike at his words. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she pressed her face into his neck, her lips brushing against his skin. “Yes, I do.”

He chuckled softly, his hands moving to guide her as she shifted against him, his touch firm but gentle. “Let me help you,” he said, his voice low and commanding, his fingers gripping her hips as he slowly lifted her off him. She gasped as she felt his cock slide out of her, the sensation of his cum spilling out slightly making her clench around nothing, her body already craving him again.

“Lando,” she moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders as she tried to steady herself, her body trembling with need.

“Quiet, love.” Lando’s voice was low, carnal, as his hands slid down her thighs. Her body shivered against him, her breath hitching when his fingers grazed the edges of her soaked underwear. She could feel his cum already trickling out of her, warm and slick, pooling between her legs. His touch was deliberate, possessive, as he tugged the fabric back into place, covering her pussy with a soft rustle of lace. “There you go. All covered up. But you’re still dripping, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t look away. His smirk was wicked, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Every time you move, you’re going to feel me leaking out of you. Right into your cute little panties,” he said, helping her back into the passenger seat.

She swallowed, her thighs pressing together instinctively. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Mm?” He ran a finger along the edge of her underwear, his touch feather-light. “You like it, don’t you? Feeling me warm inside you, spilling out where only I’ve been?”

Her breath hitched, her fingers clutching the edge of the seat. She couldn’t lie. Not with the way her body throbbed at his words. “Yes.” The word was barely audible, but it was enough to make his smirk widen.

“Good girl.” He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away. “But we’re not done. Not tonight.”

Her heart raced as she watched him tuck himself back into his boxers and jeans, his movements slow, deliberate. His hand brushed against his cock as he zipped up, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She’d never seen him like this—so in control, so commanding.

The engine purred back to life, and Lando’s eyes slid to hers as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “Keep your legs closed, yeah? Don’t let a drop of me go to waste.”

Her thighs pressed together tighter, her pulse quickening at his words. She could feel his cum sliding out of her, soaking into her underwear, and it made her ache for him all over again.

He glanced at her again, his expression softening for just a moment. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “Every part of you.”

She bit her lip, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I… I want you again.”

His hand moved to her thigh, his grip firm but gentle. “Patience, love. You’ll get what you need. But first, you’re going to sit with me inside you until we’re home. Think you can handle that?”

She nodded, her breath catching as she felt another trickle escape her. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

“Good.” He squeezed her thigh once, his eyes locked on the road, but his voice dropped lower, rougher. “Because I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

[kaciidubs]

Talk Dirty [Like You Need Love]

This song has me thinking heavily about expanding this into a fuller fic, so if people end up liking it, maybe I'll go ahead and finish it further! ✧ Summary: Chris was a great friend, picking you up from work whenever you had a late shift - so, it was only fair that you wanted to repay him. ✧  ✧ Word Count: 3.5k ✧ Warnings: Biker!AU, friends to ???, smut, slight dom! Chris, open ended ✧  ✧ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ✧  ✧ Additional Tags: Reader is referred to as Baby, Good Girl, Pretty, Chris is referred to as Baby, Channie ✧ Stray Kids Masterlist ✧ General Masterlist

The streetlights came and went in intermittent strobes, passing over the two of you as his motorcycle hummed along the sparsely occupied street.

Your arms were wrapped securely around his waist just as he’d taught you, the warmth of your body against his back combating the chill of the crisp night air - he really wished he hadn’t forgotten his hoodie in his rush to pick you up.

“Are you cold?” 

As if reading his mind, your voice floated through the comms of his helmet and he shook his head, “I’m alright, baby - don’t worry about me.”

Of course, you weren’t easily swayed - it was a quality he loved about you, no matter how much he preferred to be the one to look out for everyone else, you were always there to double back on him with undeterrable determination; proved by the way you leaned a little more against his back.

He wouldn’t have thought twice about your sweet gesture if it weren’t for the shifting of your arms, your hands slowly splayed against his torso.

“I always worry about you, Chris…” Your voice was soft, dripping with sweet honey as your right hand wandered its way higher, following the soft defined path of his chest underneath his shirt. “It’s hard not to, if I’m honest.”

He took a short breath, unsure if this was truly happening or if his mind was playing tricks on him and twisting your intentions to fit his deep seated desires.

That is, until your left hand carefully danced its way to his thigh, sitting nicely against the cotton of his sweatpants.

“You always do so much for everyone else- do so much for me,” your hand flexed, nails pressing lightly against his thigh, “I just wanna do something for you in return, you know?”

The bike slowed to a roll as you reached a stoplight, Chris keeping the balance with his otherwise unoccupied leg while taking the opportunity to hold onto the outside of your own thigh.

“Be careful with your words, baby - you might give me the wrong idea.”

“Are my actions not enough?” You murmured, inching your hand higher, fingertips brushing along the inseam of his sweats, “Should I do more, Channie?”

His hand left the brake clutch to wrap around your wrist, electricity flowing through your veins like a completed circuit. “You shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t do this.”

“But I want this, I need this.”

Your hand squeezed, your voice filling his head like the intoxicating lull of a siren’s call.

“I need you.”

Green.

Chris tapped your thigh, ignoring the chill that ran down his spine when you seamlessly went back to holding onto him just like he taught you; arms around his waist, your body against his back.

The ride to his apartment felt like second nature with you - much like other things he did with you, if he were honest with himself - and the moment he pulled into his parking spot, his movements only felt more natural.

Switch engine off. Kickstand down.

Your hands slid up his back, gripping his shoulders as you eased yourself off of his motorcycle, and by the time your touch left him, Chris hopped from his seat with learned grace - his hands unbuckling and taking off his helmet in record time.

By the time your own helmet was off, cradled in your arms, his intense gaze caught your eyes, locking you in a stare off that said more than words could convey, yet their true meaning would be lost to memory with what left his lips.

“Are you sure about this?” He breathed, “Tell me right now and I’ll take you home, and we can pretend none of this happened - just, tell me.”

“Chris,” his name fluttered from your lips like butterfly wings, “I meant every word, I’m sure, I’m so sure-”

Before you knew it, his lips were on yours - the warmth of his palm settling on your cheek in a hold that dared your knees to give out from underneath you - but as fast as they’d appeared, they vanished, leaving you dazedly blinking up at deep brown eyes.

“C’mon.”

The journey up to his apartment was a blur; the melodic chime of the front door’s lock welcoming you to the final stage of your decision as he ushered you through the doorway.

Shoes haphazardly kicked off next to another pile of pairs and helmets stored on a shelf, the empty living room was graced with your presence for what felt like half a second before you were finally where you needed to be.

Chris’s room was a place you’d only been inside of a handful of times, if not to stick your head in to announce your arrival when hanging out with his roommates, then to visit whenever he had a new snippet of a song he wanted to share; there wasn’t a chance for a tour then, and there certainly wouldn’t be a tour now.

With a subtle flick of a switch, the once dark room was suddenly bathed in a dim glow from the led lights lining the ceiling - warm and welcoming, much like the arms that wrapped around you from behind, followed by a soft pair of lips you were quickly getting used to pressing against the junction of your neck and shoulder.

His hold grew tighter as his lips ventured higher - a dotted line of kisses, a brush of his breath against the back of your ear, followed by the ghost of his lips along the shell. 

“Are you still sure?”

Your eyelids fluttered, your lips parting to sigh out words evoked from the fantasies of your deepest desires, “I’m yours.”

He turned you around, and for the first time you were able to truly appreciate the feeling of his lips against your own - soft, likely from the myriad of lip care products your friends tease him for, a sensation you could find yourself craving every day and never growing tired of in the end.

You kissed him back with fervor, taking the liberty of cupping the line of his jaw with one hand while the other cradled the back of his neck, the faint curls of his hair tickling your fingertips.

Chris was the first to pull away, gifting you a fleeting peck when you tried in vain to follow him, just to reach overhead and tug his shirt up and off before unceremoniously dropping it to the floor. However, he barely gave you the chance to admire the view as his hands went to help you out of your hoodie while your own hands hastily went to tug up your shirt in the messy, frantic process.

Two articles down, the warmth of his hands were now free to meet your waist and his lips were on yours once more; his hold tightening as he took a step forward, nudging and guiding you backward until the backs of your legs met the edge of his bed. Obliging to his silent request, you sat down, using the strength in your arms to wiggle yourself up enough to lay comfortably on the full sized mattress and welcome the weight of him on top of you until it wasn’t.

Looking up, you were met with his heated stare, all but devouring you with his eyes as he took in the view - though, you figured you fared the same way when your eyes ventured down, following the strong slope of his shoulders before taking in the sight of his chest.

It wasn’t a view you hadn’t seen before thanks to his aversion of shirts in his own home - granted, it was his apartment, so you couldn’t fault him for the times he’d come out of his room to see you happily chatting away with his roommates unbeknownst to him - but you could now appreciate the details you wouldn’t have taken in otherwise such as defined pectorals and the smallest beginnings of abs against his otherwise soft stomach.

Ending the unintentional standoff, Chris lent forward, his fingertips just barely grazing your lower stomach as they went to the button of your jeans, “Can I?”

“Please.”

The corner of his lips ticked up but he ducked his head before you could see the smirk blossom, though you couldn’t find yourself to care once your jeans were undone, lifting your hips to help him shuffle the garment down the length of your legs and watching him give them the same fate as your shirts.

“These too?” He mused with a teasing lilt, eyes flicking from your own to the plain black panties you wore.

A short huff brushed past your lips, an unamused pout pursuing them. “Chris.”

The sound of his delighted giggles bounced off the walls, reducing the heat of arousal to a nice simmer that your nerves greatly appreciated - that is, until his fingers hooked underneath the waistband and slowly pulled them off; the sensation of his knuckles dragging along your thighs drawing a soft gasp from you.

It wasn’t long until they were down your legs, past your feet, and dropped off the edge of the bed, leaving you entirely bare from the waist down.

“Fuck…” He breathed, propping his knee on the bed as his hands slid up from your calves to the backs of your knees, caressing your skin before gently bringing them up and out - exposing your pussy to his pure delight. “Look at you, pretty girl.”

A wave of heat washed over you followed by an embarrassed whimper, “Chris, don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Looking up, he cocked his head slightly, “You said you were mine, which means I’m allowed to compliment what’s mine, yeah?” He bent down, maintaining eye contact as he kissed your knee softly, “You belong to me, right, baby?”

Your heart jumped to your throat, his words working like a spell against your lust addled mind.

“I belong to you.” You breathed softly, melting into his hypnotizing gaze.

A pleased hum vibrated through him as he dipped his head to kiss the inside of your thigh, his lips brushing against your skin, “Good girl.”

His kisses trailed higher and higher, growing messier and messier as he went - a nip here, a suck there, open mouthed and worshiping until he reached your pussy.

Just as he was about to dive in face first, your hand tugged at his hair, effectively breaking him out of his tunnel vision to give you his undivided attention.

“What’s wrong? Do you wanna stop? I can-”

“No! God, no - it’s just…” You took a deep breath, your bravado escaping you the instant you stopped him, “I want you to eat me out, but I wanna suck your dick too. I wanna make you feel good too, Channie”

“You wanna suck my dick, pretty?” A shiver ran down Chris’s spine at the mere thought, his dick painfully straining underneath his boxer briefs and sweats. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that? Words like that coming from a mouth like yours - you’re a fucking dream.”

His presence left from between your legs and part of you felt silly for missing it until you saw him reaching for his sweatpants - even through the black fabric you were able to make out the noticeable bulge tenting the front - the waistband of Calvin Klein nudging you in the right direction of what he wore underneath.

Pushing both articles past his hips, your eyes were immediately glued to the dips in his pelvis - the Adonis belt, a fitting alternate description of his v-line until your attention jumped to a scattering of hair beneath his navel leading to seemingly maintained pubic hair.

However, your peep show was obscured by his head as he bent forward to take his clothes off the rest of the way, giving you the chance to mentally prepare for the grand reveal. By the time he stood straight again, you couldn’t help the audible gasp that left you, your eyes widening as you took him in all his glory - all of the jokes his friends would make now having validity behind their digs.

“I hope that’s a good reaction…” Chris spoke sheepishly, his ears as red as a tomato as he averted his eyes to the side, one hand twitching to cover himself while the other anxiously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Chris,” your soft call was enough to bring his eyes back to you, just in time to see you undoing your bra and tossing it to the floor, “I really want you in my mouth, baby.”

The air of shyness quickly left him as he smirked, making his way back onto the bed, “Say please.”

Reaching forward, your fingers danced along the underside of his jaw before you whispered, “Please?”

It was almost instantaneous in the way you found yourself straddled over his face, his hands massaging the plush of your thighs as if he couldn’t get enough of the way they squished and jiggled under his hold.

You leaned forward, eyes eagerly taking in his dick from the new angle; he was thick, probably an inch over average if you had to guess, with the prettiest veins that begged for your tongue to trace them.

“Don’t force yourself to take me, okay?” He called from the other end, the feeling of his breath against your cunt sending chills down your spine. “I know I’m… y’know, big, so I don’t want you to hurt yourself to make me feel good - you letting me do this is more than enough, baby.”

“I can do it Channie,” spitting into your palm, you graciously took him into your hand with a slow stroke, “I’ll be okay.”

A low groan escaped him, your sudden touch sending him into the stratosphere, “Just- Be careful for me, alright?”

Humming in agreement, you wasted no time in littering his tip in butterfly kisses and kitten licks, slowly getting yourself used to the bittersweet taste of his precum.

“Shit…” Not holding himself back any longer, Chris slid his hands up to your hips before pulling you back onto his mouth, his tongue eagerly diving between your folds as if it were an ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day.

The action made you jolt forward, though you barely moved an inch thanks to his hold on you, your lips parting to let a moan float through.

“Mm, not too loud, baby,” he spoke against your pussy, kissing the hood of your clit, “don’t wanna wake up my roommates, yeah?”

As much as the idea called to something daring within you, you shook your head, using this as an opportunity to take the first few inches of his cock into your mouth; just enough to have the weight settle on your tongue while your hand stroked what you hadn’t gotten to yet.

“There you go.”

With that, he went back to exploring your pussy with his tongue, dipping past your walls every now and then before going back to dancing around your clit - his hands enjoying their new home on the curve of your ass.

To say the feeling of his mouth on you was mind numbing would’ve been the understatement of a lifetime - it was as if he was eating you out in the most respectfully disrespectful way, the sounds of his lips sucking your clit paired with low, breathless moans before he went back to lapping up your arousal was pure debauchery.

You tried your best to be diligent, bobbing your head in time with the curls of his tongue against your slit while your fist used whatever drool that dripped from your lips as lubricant to keep each stroke smooth and slick - your efforts not going in vain by the way his thigh would flex, or the twitch of his hips - but you were quickly falling victim to the pleasure.

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he mouthed against your pussy, as if moving even an inch away would be detrimental to his psyche, “could stay here forever.”

The thought had you moaning around his cock, pulling away to give your lungs the reprieve of a full breath, only for a whined exhale to follow suit. “C-Chris, please.”

“Please, what?” Flattening his tongue, he licked a fat stripe up before giving your clit the lightest kiss imaginable, “Gonna come for me, pretty? Is that what you want?”

“N-No,” dropping your face to his thigh, you focused all of your energy into keeping your hand moving, “w-wanna make you come first, just- shit, just slow down a little!”

Chris hummed, feigning deep consideration, “But what if I want you to come for me?” His right hand slid further between your legs, his index finger stroking your fluttering walls with the promise of something more, “You said you wanted to repay me - so, let me make you come.”

Your hips bucked, muscles yearning to press back against the pressure to send you over the edge you were dangerously teetering over. “But-”

“Baby,” the velvet drawl of the pet name earned a pitiful hum in response, “you wanna make me feel good, don’t you?” He felt your head nod against his thigh, huffing out a short chuckle before continuing, “You wanna ‘repay’ me for everything I do for you, right?”

“Yes.” You sighed out, eyes fluttering at the feeling of his thumb replacing his finger in favor of toying with your clit.

“Well, guess what?” Dragging his thumb up, he pressed it against your slit, “Watching you come for me- Feeling you come for me is all I could ever want from you,” slowly pushing his thumb past your walls, he ghosted his lips against your inner thigh, “show me how good I’m making you feel, baby - do it for me, please.”

He punctuated his plea by swirling his tongue around your clit once more, thrusting his thumb in time with each flick while his left hand held your hip tightly.

Your mouth fell open, a moan fighting its way through your vocal chords only to come out as choked gasps, “Ch-ah- Channie- Fuck- Channie p-please-”

Pressing his thumb in to the knuckle, Chris wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, humming out a low moan that proved to be the final straw to push you over the edge.

“Chris- C-Chris-!” Lifting your head, you put your mouth over your arm in hopes of muffling the airy moans escaping you, your vision blurring behind pleasure-fueled tears as he worked you through your orgasm.

His thumb slipped from your entrance to make room for his tongue to lap up your cum, drinking you up like a tall glass of water after a day in the sun.

It didn’t take long for you to catch your bearings, going to move away from his face until his hands tightened on your hips in silent challenge, a disgruntled grunt rising from your pure audacity of interrupting him.

“Channie, ‘s too much,” you whined breathlessly, wrenching your hand away from his - still hard - dick in favor of pushing yourself up onto your arms, “c-can’t take it, baby, please.”

Pulling away with a lewd slurp, Chris heaved a heavy breath, combating the lightheadedness of his tunnel vision while you carefully maneuvered yourself away from him - shuffling around to hover your head over a pillow before collapsing in the empty space, your body gratefully welcoming the cool sheets against your skin.

Bated breaths danced in the otherwise quiet atmosphere, Chris’s gaze locked on the ceiling as his lust-fogged brain tried to make sense of what just happened between the two of you.

“Channie?”

His heart fluttered at your soft call of his name, turning his head just to come across a sight that made his breath catch; you, his friend, laying beside him looking beautifully ruined with the golden afterglow of your orgasm that he gave you emanating from your body.

He tentatively licked his lips, goosebumps rising as your taste still lingered in his mouth, “Yeah, baby?”

“I still wanna make you come.” You murmured softly, eyes blinking at him so innocently it almost felt wrong that it made his dick twitch at the sight. “I still owe you, after all.”

Chris huffed out a chuckle, lifting himself onto his forearm before hoisting himself above you, settling his hips between your legs as he caged you in with his arms - this was a sight he could get used to.

“Instead of making this out to be you repaying a debt, how about we turn it into a ‘thank you’ gift, hm?” Leaning his head down, he brushed his nose against yours, “You thank me for the ride and the orgasm,” his lips ghosted against your own, “then I thank you for thanking me.”

“Chris, that won’t make any sense,” your voice was barely a whisper, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, “if you thank me, I’ll just thank you back - we’ll be in a loop.”

“We’ll work out the details later, then.” He murmured before leaning forward, catching your lips with his and sharing your taste off of his tongue.

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons, @kimahreummm, @ta3baee, @snowy-violet @bethanysnow

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[ari-ana-bel-la]

Could I request dad Alex with a two year old and her uncle George keeps stealing her away to the Mercedes garage?

Panda Poe

The paddock was already buzzing by the time Alex arrived, carrying his sugar-sweet little girl in his arms. Yn, all of two years old, blinked up at the early morning lights in her oversized bucket hat, clutching her stuffed panda to her chest. Her long lashes fluttered as she surveyed the bustling chaos around her, a little overwhelmed but comforted by the warmth of her father's hold.

Next to them, Carlos adjusted his sunglasses and stretched, a coffee cup already in hand. "She looks sleepy," he commented, peering at Yn, who gave a quiet yawn and snuggled closer to Alex's shoulder.

"She fell asleep in the car," Alex said, smiling as he rubbed circles on her back. "Didn’t want to wake her, but she insisted on coming with me this morning."

Carlos chuckled. "She's got your determination."

They had just stepped into the main stretch of the paddock when it happened—again.

"Oi!"

Alex didn't even get a chance to react. George appeared seemingly out of thin air, striding over with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Without saying a word, he reached out and plucked Yn from Alex’s arms with the practiced ease of someone who had clearly done this many times before.

Yn blinked up at her godfather, recognized him, and gave the faintest smile. "Uncle Georgie," she whispered, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

"Hello, sweetheart," George cooed, completely ignoring the baffled look on Alex’s face.

"Hey!" Alex called, laughing. "You can’t just keep stealing my daughter like this!"

"Too late! She’s mine now!" George called over his shoulder, already making a beeline for the Mercedes garage.

Carlos stared after them, eyes wide. "Did he just... kidnap your kid?"

"Every. Damn. Race," Alex muttered, sighing as he adjusted his backpack. "She barely gets a moment in the Williams garage anymore."

"At least she likes him."

"She loves him," Alex said. "He’s her favorite. I’m not even mad about it. Just... mildly offended."

—

Inside the sleek silver world of the Mercedes garage, George was already parading Yn around like she was a royal guest.

"She’s in her quiet mood today," he told one of the engineers, cradling her carefully as she observed everything with wide, curious eyes. "But if you talk to her about pandas, she might say something."

"Panda?" the engineer asked softly.

Yn looked at him, blinked, and shyly held out her toy. "This... Poe."

"Oh! He has a name! Poe, huh? That’s a very important-looking panda."

George smiled proudly. "She named him herself. Genius, this one."

From across the room, Toto approached with a rare, soft smile on his face. "And how is my favorite little guest today?"

Yn, still quiet, peered up at him and gave a small wave.

Toto leaned down and gently brushed his knuckles over her cheek. "You are being very brave, coming to this loud place."

George shifted her gently so she could lean back against his chest. "She’s used to it now. I think she likes the buzz."

Yn turned her head toward George. "Buzz," she repeated softly.

"See? She talks to me," George teased, winking.

In the corner, Kimi stood awkwardly, half behind one of the tires, watching Yn like she was a rare animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

George noticed. "Kimi! Come here. She doesn’t bite, promise."

Kimi stepped forward, still tentative. He was young, incredibly fast, and utterly fearless on track, but the tiny human in George’s arms seemed to mystify him.

"She’s really little," Kimi said.

"She’s two. That’s standard issue," George replied with a grin.

Yn stared at Kimi with serious eyes, studying him. Then, slowly, she lifted Poe and offered him.

Kimi blinked. "For me?"

She nodded.

George beamed. "That’s the highest honor you can receive. You’ve officially been accepted."

Kimi took Poe gently, holding him with the care one might offer a Fabergé egg. "Thanks," he said, awkward but genuine.

"She’s quiet, but she watches everything," George said, shifting her so she could sit more comfortably in the crook of his arm. "Like someone else I know."

Kimi flushed slightly. "Not that quiet."

"Oh, you're a chatterbox compared to her."

Yn leaned her head against George’s collarbone, eyes starting to droop. It was barely past nine in the morning.

George looked down at her fondly. "Think she’ll nap again. This is my favorite part."

—

Meanwhile, Alex finally arrived at the Williams hospitality area, only to be met by his team principal.

"Let me guess," the man said with a smirk. "George?"

"George," Alex confirmed. "I swear, I’m going to start putting a tracker on my own daughter."

Carlos laughed behind him. "You know what’s wild? She doesn’t even fight it. She just goes with him. Like he’s some sort of baby whisperer."

Alex exhaled heavily, pulling out his phone. "At least he always sends me photos."

Sure enough, a notification blinked on his screen—George had sent a picture of Yn curled up on his chest, eyes closed, Poe tucked under her chin. The caption read: We’re taking our pre-FP1 nap. Will return the princess at lunch.

Alex rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

—

Back in the Mercedes garage, George had settled himself into a quiet corner with Yn asleep against him. Kimi, after a few minutes of pretending not to care, sat beside him.

"She’s really calm. Doesn’t cry or fuss."

"Only when she’s hungry or tired," George said. "She likes quiet people. You should talk to her sometime when she’s awake. She’d like you."

Kimi glanced at the small girl. "What if I say the wrong thing?"

George grinned. "Mate, you’re talking to someone who panicked the first time she sneezed. You’ll be fine."

A few of the mechanics passed by, smiling or waving. Yn had become a bit of a paddock legend—tiny, quiet, and always dressed in soft colors and sunhats.

Toto walked by again, giving the duo a warm look. "I hope you plan to return her eventually, George."

"Eventually," George said. "But maybe after qualifying. Maybe."

Yn stirred slightly and opened her eyes, looking around sleepily.

George kissed the top of her head. "Hey, starlight. You woke up just in time. Want to see the car?"

She nodded slowly, thumb in her mouth.

George stood carefully and carried her over to the edge of the garage, pointing out his car. "That one’s mine. And Kimi’s is next to it. See the shiny wheels?"

Yn blinked at the car, then turned to George. "You fast?"

He laughed, eyes crinkling. "The fastest, sweetheart."

She looked back at the car, then whispered, "Zoom."

George glanced at Kimi, who was standing nearby. "I told you. Baby genius."

Kimi nodded solemnly. "Zoom."

And Yn giggled. A soft, delighted sound that made everyone within earshot smile.

George beamed. "That’s it. You’re never getting her back, Alex. She’s ours now."

Somewhere, in the Williams hospitality suite, Alex sneezed.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey guys. I hope you enjoyed reading this. I had so much fun writing this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[goldstarz]

got her twice within 30 pulls with no guarantee u guys wish u were me

just know that if I don't get yuzuha you will never hear from me again