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avayarising · 2 years ago

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They are absolutely not stupid or dumbasses, either of them. Just ignorant of the concept of soulmates, through no fault of their own.

If either of them ever looks up the phenomenon of ‘writing appearing on arm’ they will gravitate towards and preferentially look at results from the scientific literature, where the word ‘soulmate’ is not used (because it’s a very loaded term).

So Danny or Tim, reading up on it, will see lots of speculation on the nature of the carriers, and elucidations of the mechanism of the temporary skin pigmentation change, and glean from their reading that it’s a rare phenomenon that links two (or more) people together, and perhaps if they are still interested after that they will look at psychology journals where they will see studies on personality differences and similarities between members of skin pigmentation linked groups, and differential performance of linked and unlinked individuals in various tests and simulated situations. All with very small sample sizes, of course, because rare.

They will not pay any attention to lurid romance novels, teenage magazine agony aunt columns, tabloid speculation about celebrities’ love lives, or the occasional chatter of their school friends hoping they will be one of the few to ‘get a soulmate’. They have things to do and physics questions to answer.

Most psychologists in particular would heavily dispute the idea that people linked via skin pigmentation are Destined To Be Together, whether romantically or not, and there’s a lot of speculation in the physics journals about quantum entanglement and what coincidences in charge and spin lead quarks in distant and separated people to become entangled thus producing a cascade effect resulting in marks being reflected on the other person…

In short, despite popular western culture, most serious scientists are working on the assumption that ‘soulmates’ are linked by utter coincidence or at least on criteria that have nothing to do with personality, and any greater personal compatibility than normal is caused by social expectation or by spending years writing to each other and getting to know each other, and is nothing to do with Destiny at all.

So Tim and Danny, not readers of romantic fiction in general and certainly not the sort where having a soulmate is like having purple eyes, simply do not connect the popular idea of soulmates with what’s going on on their skin at all.

DpxDc AU: Tim as a child was never given a lot of information regarding the scribbling messy handwriting that appeared over night all over his arms- naturally he came to his own conclusions.

Tim Drake was home entirely alone at 9 years old and was about to go out for the night to test his brand new long exposure camera lens when he sees the writing on his arm. It’s not English, like he assumed it was at first, but it was using the alphabet to represent… Tim isn’t bad at math but this formula is complex for his little genius brain.

Looking at his camera, he decides he can spare a moment to look it up, solve it, and get back out into old town Gotham in time for Batman and Robin’s final patrol lap. He does just that, finding the problem to relate to some aerospace engineering and then quickly deduces what laws and theorems need to be applied. He finds a pen, writes down his findings in much neater handwriting onto his arm, and goes out. It’s barely a remarkable night at all. He gets a much more memorable photo of Robin roundhouse kicking a hench person.

Things just continued on that way. Tim would find some complex math, physics or chemistry prompt on his arm (surrounded by various question marks or notes or sad faces)- he’d answer it as best he could and move on with his life. Perhaps his parents were manifesting these pop quizzes? Perhaps his subconscious felt guilty about abandoning his studies for more Bat related pursuits? Tim really didn’t care to think much about it once he became Robin- there was too much on his plate and too many peoples problems for him to fix.

Notably, however, after the attack at the Tower, the pop quiz appeared and Tim wrote back that he wouldn’t be able to find an answer to this one. It was the only time Tim questioned the markings appearance and it was because the next thing that appeared was “Hope you feel better soon.”

… his parents wouldn’t include that on a pop quiz. Cursed then. Tim decided it must be a curse, whatever, he’d deal with the implications later in life.

Tim then has the worst year of his life, hes 15, no longer Robin and the questions from his curse are getting less math oriented and more… philosophical. A lot of mentions of death that, in hindsight helped him actually grieve, and a lot of theories about dark matter and souls. Tim answers back as best he can but he’s drained and his answers aren’t very good in his opinion. He gets minimal feedback.

It all comes to a point that he’s at a family dinner, Bruce is at the head of the table, Jason has promised just to stay for dessert, Damian hasn’t thrown a single insult his way and Steph was laughing at him- when a new theoretical model appears on his arm.

“You’re just as bad as Bruce, Timberly. Hiding a soulmate from all of us, how fucking typical.” Jason points out, while watching Tim scribble back some math with a question mark onto his arm.

“A what? No, this is just a curse. I get pop quizzes every now and then.” Tim bats away Steph who rapidly approaches and began to analyze his arm (the rest of the family isn’t far behind).

“Drake. Explain how you came to this conclusion.” Damian seems more curious than anything, if his lack of insults was anything to go off of.

“Since I was young I’ve had at least weekly math check ins, I never had a parent or anyone else around so I assumed my parents had me cursed to ensure I stayed on top of my studies. Sometimes it’s physics or chemistry, for a while there it was a ton of philosophy and behavioral psychology.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Master Tim, I believe the lack of adults in your life has led you towards a false conclusion. That is most certainly a soulmate mark. The individual to whom you are responding is undoubtedly your other half.” Alfred attempts to calm the room before explaining to Tim. Tim isnt sure if he believes the butler, though Alfred only very rarely lied, so he grabs the pen once more. He writes his first question back: “Who am I to you?”

The room waits in anticipation and within moments a brand new line appears on Tim’s arm and he is vindicated: “We do math together???”

——

The reason Danny is failing English is because his built in homework helper sucks ass at metaphors and has apparently never read any classic literature. The tutor on his arm is great at puzzles and math tho.

Danny gets a reply back one night that he wasn’t expecting (Who am I to you?) and he mentions it to Jazz. Who goes insane that Danny didn’t even question it and just went with “meh, probably haunted” as his explanation for the phenomenon for all these years.

Apparently, if Jazz was right, he had a soulmate who was uh, super fucking smart. That was an overwhelming thought.

The next day Danny is in crisis mode and writes back “Wait, WHAT AM I TO YOU??? Can I help on your homework??”

Danny gets vindicated when the writing on his arm presents a shit ton of dates and information for an unsolved Gotham cold case. See, Haunted.

———

Eventually between Danny becoming the top candidate for astrophysics at Wayne Enterprises and Tim Drake being outed as having contributed tips to the GCPD that solved cold cases- they meet and realize just how dumb they’ve been.

#dpxdc #maths tutor soulmate au #soulmate identifying marks #personally I like the idea that the scientists are right #there’s nothing romantic or destined about it #just a few people who through some random quirk of quantum mechanics #are randomly assigned a penpal by the universe #in western cultures it’s assumed that that makes them your one true love #and that has led to various tragedies and distressing situations over the centuries #(as well as some that worked out rather well actually)#now we’ve got dick the romantic who fully believes in soulmates and is happy for tim but a little jealous #jason the literature fiend who knows all the tropes but didn’t believe it actually happened in real life #damian the league kid who was never taught about soulmates at all and who is fascinated by everything dick tells him #all trying to push tim to connect with his ‘soulmate’#tim is quite happy with his pop quizzes thank you very much #they’re a fun challenge and he’s learnt lots of new things #danny is happy to have a homework penpal #when they do meet up it will be to continue to exchange questions and information #because some things are easier to go back and forth on in person #they will come up with so many new ideas and have a great time #dick is disappointed there’s no kissing #but they’re too busy vibing

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vatelixx · 8 months ago

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The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid smut #sub spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid #giving him the happiness he deserved #he is my roman empire #his excess trauma is also #my #roman empire #thank u and good night america #i’m not even american

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bitters-n-sweets · 28 days ago

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take a break — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader Robby is finally on vacation in Bali. He can't quite turn off the part of him that stays alert, but then he meets someone who somehow silences all the noise.

warnings: angst. smut 18+, minors go away. this feels very romantic to me. i loved writing this. i never intended to include smut in this actually, i find it challenging, but it felt like a great addition to the story. pls be nice :") [p in v sex, no protection—don't do this kids, oral!fem receiving, fingering, swearing] not proofread. 4.4K words -- i think this is also the longest fic I've written so far masterlist

It just finished raining, and the air feels sticky with heat and flowers. Robby's on his third day of vacation in Bali, and he's yet to do anything on this island they call paradise. No tours, no yoga by the beach, not even a swim.

It's beautiful here—almost painfully—but he keeps checking his phone like someone might page him. Old habits. No one’s paging him. Time zones are a buffer, and besides, he’s on the other side of the world. What could he possibly do?

He’s halfway through drinking from his coconut, perched on a wooden lounge chair by the beach, when he hears a voice beside him, amused and warm.

"You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem with your drink."

He looks up. You’re barefoot, sun-kissed, wearing loose cotton pants and a tank top, your hair a little wild from the humidity.

Robby blinks. "Is it that obvious?"

You motion to the seemingly permanent frown on his face.

Robby's seen you around the resort before. Always by yourself, with two books in one hand and a drink in the other. He thought about saying something multiple times, but always chickened out. Something about you felt... unapproachable. Not in an intimidating way, more in a you’re living fully and I’m not sure how to do that so I don't want to possibly ruin it for you way.

Now you both sit in silence, while Robby continues to check his phone again and sighs. That's when you hand him your book. "Here."

He blinks down at the cover. A Man Called Ove.

"One of my favorites. You should read it." You say, "Better than constantly checking your phone and regretting it a second later."

Robby snorts. You have a point.

"You lend books to strangers a lot?"

"If they look like they've been through some rough shit, yes."

That startles a laugh out of him—genuine, low, a little rusty. "I’m Michael. Robinavitch. You can call me Robby."

You offer your name in return, then nod toward the book. "Give it a chance. Let me know what you think."

"What makes you think I'll give your book back?"

You smile, stepping toward the path back to the resort. "I've seen you around the resort. And if you don't, I'll hunt you down."

You're feeling particularly exhausted today. One, because you just went out surfing for the entire day yesterday, but also because today, you were supposed to be walking down the aisle with the most beautiful dress, about to marry the love of your life. Instead, you're in a hotel room halfway across the world, alone, and feeling like shit.

Well, you suppose the day wasn't half bad. You finally managed to talk to the broody, quietly handsome guy who looks like he’s seen too much and somehow still comes off calm and steady. A smile tugs at your lips. He’s more charming than you expected.

Bali was not a place you thought you'd visit alone. You always imagined you'd be here with your ex-fiancé, drinking and watching the sunset. So you decide it's time to take care of yourself, wear that sundress you've been saving for a special occasion, and head to the resort's bar.

You sit down at your table, putting your book down and picking up the menu, when someone clears his throat, standing next to you.

Robby.

"This seat taken?"

You try to hide your smile. "Be my guest."

He smiles and sits across from you, putting his your book down on the table. He looks good—too good. He’s traded his usual loose t-shirt for a navy polo that clings in the right places, and linen pants that make his long legs look impossibly relaxed.

"You clean up nice." You say.

"You look beautiful." Robby counters, "Can I ask what's the occasion?"

You chuckle nervously, not ready to share the sad part of your life yet. Thankfully, you're saved by the waiter coming to take your order.

"Do you drink Rosé?" Robby asks after ordering your meals. And you nod, surprised. "Great, let's open a bottle of dry Rosé." He says to the waiter.

You raise your brows once the waiter leaves. "Didn't take you for a wine guy—let alone a Rosé? You're full of surprises, Michael."

"You sound like my mother when you call me like that." He groans.

"'Michael'?"

"Yes, and she also mocks my drink choices."

You laugh. "So what's the story?"

"A friend gifted me a dry Rosé one time as a joke. I didn’t want to waste it, so I drank it. Turns out, I liked it more than I wanted to admit. But keep that between us."

You hum, "Ah, yes, can't have you ruin your naturally broody aura."

"Me? Broody?" He snorts like it's ridiculous. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely are."

With the food almost immediately devoured, you're left with wine and each other's company. The ocean hums in the distance, with the breeze prickling your skin. Robby’s gone quiet, admiring the view, the half-full glass of rosé resting loosely in his fingers.

"So, how do you like the book so far?"

He exhales, tipping his head back. "I wasn’t ready to love it. But it... got to me."

You grin. "Ove grows on you, doesn’t he?"

"Yeah," Robby murmurs. "Grumpy bastard made me feel things I wasn’t in the mood to feel."

You laugh. "That's the point. He's angry at life, but still shows up for people. Even when he doesn’t want to."

Robby nods, quiet for a second. "I think I know what that feels like."

You glance at him, surprised by the honesty. His jaw is tense, but his eyes are soft. You wonder if you should ask—but something tells you this moment is already fragile, and curiosity might crack it too soon.

Instead, you wait.

"I'm an ER doc." Robby swirls the wine in his glass absentmindedly. "Lots of chaos. Long hours. Lots of traumas, deaths… I used to think I was built for this line of work. The pressure, the adrenaline... the fixing things. And sometimes I still do. But lately…"

You don’t speak. You let him go on, because he needs to.

He takes a deep breath. "Lately I’ve been wondering if it's all catching up with me. Like—I walk around carrying everyone else's worst days, and I don’t even notice the weight until I sit still." He continues. "I’ve seen kids come in with gunshots. Mothers who collapse from exhaustion. People screaming for someone to save them, and you just have to keep moving like it doesn’t get to you. Like you’re above it. But you’re not. Not really."

Robby then takes a sharp breath. "Sorry. I'm not usually this..."

You offer him a small smile. "Broody?"

That earns a faint smile, but it doesn’t erase the weariness from his expression.

You figured it's only fair you share your story, too.

You put your wine glass down, your finger tracing the rim. "I was supposed to get married today."

That catches him off guard. His eyes widen, gently. "Oh. Today? As in—today today?"

"Yeah," You laugh under your breath, "Booked the venue and everything. Until 6 months ago, I found out he was cheating on me with one of my bridesmaids. Classic."

"Prick," Robby mutters.

"Right? So I pulled the plug on the wedding, and I've been traveling the world ever since. Running away, I guess. I was so caught up in the relationship that I think I lost part of myself." You sigh. "So now, I'm re-finding myself. Yay."

Robby chuckles. "And how's it going so far?"

You smile, "Let's just say I'm glad I'm not spending today alone."

He mirrors your smile, lifting his glass to cheer. "Me too."

"Walk with me?" you ask, gesturing toward the beach after you've finished your wine.

Robby doesn’t hesitate. "Lead the way."

You both kick off your shoes by the beach entrance and walk slowly along the shore, the water brushing your feet gently. You can feel the wine in your system now. The salty air hits your skin and lets your hair flow freely. Robby has never seen anyone more beautiful. He's glad it's dark out now, or you would've seen him blush.

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you. Half-lidded, faintly flushed from the wine and maybe something more.

"I don’t usually let myself relax like this." He murmurs.

"And yet here you are, walking barefoot on a beach with a stranger, wine-drunk and poetic." You laugh lightly.

"Stranger?" He repeats, stepping in front of you gently, making you stop.

"No?"

"Feels like I've known you longer." He smiles lazily.

Your heart kicks up a notch, not sure what to say, so you just smile, turning to look towards the sea. The breeze has picked up, cooler now that the sun has long dipped below the horizon. You cross your arms, trying not to shiver, but the goosebumps along your arms give you away.

Without a word, Robby steps behind you. You feel his warmth before you feel the touch—his hands gently brushing your arms, then slowly wrapping around your waist. His chest is solid and steady against your back, and you let yourself lean into it, just a little.

He’s quiet, but you can hear the soft rhythm of his breathing, feel it where your shoulders meet his. The sea hums in the distance, but all you can think about is how your heart is racing—and how you can feel his breath on your skin.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met." He says.

You chuckle and glance up at him, suddenly meeting his eyes. "That's the Rosé talking."

"Maybe," he says, almost to himself. "Or maybe I just really want to kiss you."

Your breath catches. That weightless feeling flutters in your chest, and the world seems to narrow to just the space between your mouths. He waits for your permission—doesn’t lean in right away, doesn’t push. Just watches you, his fingers still resting lightly on your waist.

So you give in. You lean up and close the space between you. It's slow, exploring new ground, like you're testing the heat between you. Robby’s lips are soft, warm, and his beard grazes your skin in the most deliciously distracting way. His hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, and you find your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw.

The kiss lingers on your lips even after it ends, like you don't want it to be over. Robby pulls back just enough to look at you, still hazy, still drunk on the moment. His hand is still snug at your waist, like he’s afraid to let go too quickly.

"I don’t want to overstep," he whispers, "But if I asked you to come back with me… would that be okay?"

You hesitate for a second, because something about this feels different than just a vacation fling, but you can't talk about it yet. You don't want to.

"I was hoping you’d ask," you murmur against his lips.

That earns you a smile and another short make-out session that leaves you breathless.

"Are we leaving or what?" You ask in between kisses.

He chuckles, "So impatient."

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and you walk together barefoot, tipsy, and a little giddy from everything that’s happened tonight. The resort glows softly in the distance, lanterns swaying with the wind.

Once inside his room, you walk in slowly as if it doesn't look exactly like yours. The mood shifts. Robby closes the door behind you, and for a second, neither of you says anything. You just look at each other in the dim light, the tension from earlier about to snap.

Robby takes the first step closer to you, dragging his finger to lift your chin so he can kiss you again. And again. And again. And you sigh into his arms, hands on his broad chest.

"You can stop me any time."

"I won't."

He kisses you again, deeper this time. His hands slip around your waist, then your back, and up to where the straps of your dress rest. You can feel your heart flip when he hooks it on his finger, slowly peeling it off your shoulder, as if giving you time to push him away, but teasing at the same time.

You let the strap fall down your arm, and the other one soon follows. Robby’s gaze follows the motion like he’s watching something sacred, like he's not sure if he's allowed to want this but can't help himself anyway.

His fingers trail over your now-bare shoulder, and you shiver, goosebumps forming on your skin.

You take his hand and slowly make your way towards the bed, sitting down and placing your hands on his waist. You tug at his shirt, hinting you want it off, and he obliges, the shirt gone in one swift motion.

"You’re beautiful," He groans as he leans down to lie on top of you. "God."

You memorize the feel of him: warm skin, a strong chest under your palms, the steady rhythm of his breath stuttering slightly when your hands roam lower to reach his belt. He lets you undo it. Lets you unbutton his pants and pull them down as he peppers kisses throughout your body.

You let out a soft moan when his hand trails up your naked torso, hesitantly, ever so gently caressing your breast, teasing your nipple with his finger, while his mouth makes its way down to latch onto the other.

"Fuck, Robby." Your hand goes up to tug on his hair, earning you a lustful groan, while your other hand grabs onto his arm as an anchor.

Your head is spinning, and something is itching. You buck your hips up to meet his, and now his hand is pinning your waist down.

"You really need to work on your patience." He teases and stops kissing you.

"Can you really blame me?" You daringly take one of his hands, resting it on the slick heat between your thighs.

"Fuck." Robby closes his eyes, pressing his thumb to where he can feel your clitoris is, the sensitive bud poking out and pushing against your panties.

You throw your head back, hips bucking against his hand.

Robby slowly slips the little piece of clothing off, and you watch as his fingers smooth over your slit. He keeps his eyes on you as he lowers himself. You swallow as you anticipate what he's about to do.

"So fucking wet." He murmurs, leaving kitten licks on your clit.

You can only moan while he has his way with you. His hands are holding your thighs open for him, and you try your best to keep eye contact, but it's only making you falter faster. His eyes are dark, lustful, hungry, and you feel like you could cum just from watching him.

He gently sucks on your swollen bud, and you lose your mind when he inserts one finger. Then two. Your slick makes it easy for his fingers to move around and find your sensitive spot, he found it almost immediately, he can tell by the way your eyes roll back and how you clench around him every time.

"Robby—" You sigh with pleasure—a warning, bucking your hips again, and this time he lets you, feeling you're close to the edge. His fingers move expertly in and out of you, curling just at the right spot. Your breaths become erratic, following the pace of Robby's fingers. "Come, sweetheart." He says, almost as a command, and your body arches moments after, breath catching in your throat as waves of pleasure crash through you.

Robby doesn't immediately stop. He pumps his fingers a few more times until you're trembling away, and with a proud smirk, he pulls his fingers out, licks them to taste you—making sure you're watching—before hovering on top of you to kiss you.

You can taste yourself in his mouth, and you whimper, feeling him pressing against your cunt. You're still sensitive, but it feels like you're desperately hungry for more. More of Robby.

Robby tries to pace himself, he doesn't want to rush. He wants to cherish this, drag this out, because he doesn't want this to end. He wants to keep feeling your plush lips against his, your soft touches, your hands in his hair, your body pressed firmly against his.

"Robby," you whisper, your voice barely more than air, "I want you. Please."

And he loses all of his resolve.

Robby bites his lip as he sees your disheveled state. Lips swollen, hair a mess, hooded and hungry eyes, how can he say no to you?

He takes his boxers off, freeing his cock and letting it spring back up to his stomach. You gasp at the sight. He's gonna kill you. First with his gentleness, second with his cock, because you don't think you can handle that.

"Fuck off." You unintentionally comment.

Robby lets out a laugh. "Relax."

"Are you kidding?"

He just shakes his head and hovers over you again, but this time you push him over so he's sitting and you're on top, your sopping wet cunt sitting on his aching cock.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me." He closes his eyes and groans as you drag your hips along his length.

You decide neither of you would last any more teasing, so you take him in your hands, covered in your wetness and his precum, and push him against your folds. Your walls squeeze him as he bottoms out inside you, and you have to hold still for a while.

Robby's hands grip your waist and you're sure it'll leave marks in the morning, but you don't really care. You lift your hips slowly, leaving just the tip before slamming yourself back down, eliciting a moan from both of you.

You're set on a pace, slow, steady, allowing you to have control, but it's not enough. You groan and bury your face in Robby's neck. "Robby…"

"Hm?" He teases, like he knows what you're about to ask for.

"Please," You whisper. "I need…"

He pulls you from hiding your face, a confident smirk on his. But he decides to be merciful this time. Chuckling, he moves so you're now flat on your back again, legs tucked up and pressed onto your sides.

"Tell me if you want to stop, okay?"

You manage to let out a giggle. "Robby, don't worry—" your words are immediately cut off when he reinserts himself, the position makes it feel completely different from before. "—Holy fuck."

Robby starts slow, letting you fully adjust before feeling you clench around him, and he picks up the speed. You feel like the air is knocked out of your lungs, only able to take short breaths as Robby brutally drives into you, making you feel all of him.

You can't even moan anymore, your mouth just hangs open as you put your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss you can't properly do. Strings of fuck—Robby—so deep—fuck—you feel so good are the only things you can muster as you feel your high approaching again.

You couldn't even warn him when your orgasm hits you. Your nails just dig into his shoulder as your eyes roll back, back arching as far as it could go, and walls spasming around him. He grunts, nibbling on your neck as his hips stutter, not expecting you to get so tight.

"Fuck." He moans as he spills inside you, staying still for a minute to catch his breath and make sure you're okay.

You're still panting and twitching under him, eyes still closed, but your hands draw small circles on the back of his head.

"'M gonna pull out now." He warns and you hum, moaning again when he does.

He stands up to get a towel to clean you up, "Don't go anywhere." He jokes.

You chuckle. "Don't think I can."

The room is quiet now, only the sound of the AC and the steady rhythm of your breaths can be heard. You're both tangled in the sheets, your leg draped over his, skin still warm from everything that just passed between you. Robby lies on his side, one arm wrapped around your waist, fingertips gently grazing your back in slow, absent-minded strokes. You’re tucked into his chest, your head resting in the curve of his shoulder, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest.

Eventually, he presses a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering there.

"You're kind of amazing," He mutters.

"Kind of?" You raise a brow.

He huffs a quiet laugh, "I’m trying not to let it go to your head."

You shift, propping your chin on his chest so you can look at him. His hair is tousled, his eyes soft, still heavy-lidded. "Too late."

He smiles and presses another kiss to your lips.

"Do you always kiss like that on vacation?" You tease.

He chuckles, "Only when I meet someone who gives me their favorite book."

"Pretty exclusive club."

"You're the only member."

You nuzzle closer into him, smiling into his chest. "I'm not gonna lie," You start, "This all feels a little surreal. I never thought I'd meet someone like you. You make all of this feel… right."

"I feel the same way." He admits, "I want to pause everything and just stay in our little bubble."

The silence stretches comfortably for a moment. And then, you get a gut-wrenching realization. "Oh. Right. You said you're only here for a week."

He nods, voice tighter, his hand still tracing along your side. "Yeah."

"So we’ve got, what… four more?"

"Mm-hm." He pulls you close to him, perhaps it's a way so you can't see his sullen expression. "Four more days in the bubble."

And it's hardly enough time.

The next few days blur in sunlight and ocean breeze, you take Robby on winding motorbike rides, wild ATV tours through the jungle, surfing lessons where you both wipe out laughing, and quiet moments snorkeling with whale sharks. You try to make as many memories as you can, all the while masking the dread of his departure. And at night, it’s always the same—his touch like a promise, your body moving with his in the dark, like you're both pretending the end isn't coming.

You both made the silent decision not to say where you’re from. Maybe if you find out he lives just hours away, it’ll make this too real. Too painful. Better to keep things suspended in this bubble, this almost-fairytale. Better to let it end on a hopeful note, instead of a practical-hurtful one.

You’ve told yourself this is just a fling. That some people come into your life for a reason, and maybe Robby was never meant to stay. Maybe he’s just a beautiful lesson in loving deeply and letting go.

You try not to cry in front of him. You want to make the goodbye easier than it feels, to shield him and yourself from the ache that's already blooming in your chest. You try to seem light, even when it’s breaking you.

It’s not easy for Robby, either. If he could, he’d offer you his world—just to wake up beside you every morning and fall asleep with you tucked against his chest. But it wouldn’t be fair. He could never ask you to upend your life for him, no matter how much he wants to.

And maybe that’s the hardest part, he wants to do this right. He wants to believe this is more than just a vacation high. But what if his reality—grueling shifts, emotional exhaustion, his work-life imbalance—ends up driving you away? There’s so much he wants to say, but maybe silence is the merciful choice.

It's the night before he leaves, and you can't say goodbye. But it’s there, hanging unspoken in the humid air between kisses, in the way you cling to each other just a little tighter. You talk quietly about nothing at all, and everything at once—movies you haven’t seen, food you miss, a joke about whale sharks that makes you both laugh a little too hard at 1AM.

At one point, while tracing lazy circles on his chest, he asks, "Should I go before you wake up?"

You don’t answer right away, but then nod. Robby can see your lips quivering slightly.

He pulls you closer to him, but neither of you falls asleep quickly. You make love again, slower this time, as if trying to memorize each other’s skin. As if trying to stretch the hours. You fall asleep tangled together, heartbeats in sync.

By the time the soft blue of dawn creeps up, Robby’s already awake. He moves quietly, getting dressed in the soft light, careful not to wake you. Before he leaves, he pauses by your bedside. You’re still curled under the covers, looking peaceful and beautiful.

He looks at you like he’s trying to remember everything.

Then he pulls something from his bag—a folded piece of paper—and tucks it gently into the book you gave him. His fingers linger on the cover for a beat too long.

He leaves without a sound.

You wake hours later to an empty room, your chest already aching before your mind catches up. You sit up slowly, the sheets cold beside you. You scan everything in your room, maybe Robby had left something behind that you could keep as a memento.

Then you see the book. You open it to find the note inside:

"You changed something in me. Thank you for letting me be yours, even just for a moment."

And that’s when you finally let yourself cry.

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part two for a reunion is out!

#michael robby robinavitch x you #michael robinavitch x female reader #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #robby x reader #robby x female reader #robby robinavitch #dr robby x reader #robby robinavitch angst #michael robinavitch x you #michael robinavitch smut #robby robinavitch smut #dr robby angst #robby robinavitch x fem reader

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thelostconsultant · 13 days ago

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Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: Oscar finds out he has a son, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to be the father he deserves.

Note: Oscar is in his early 30s in this. Also, I've been going through the trash can (exported posts from the old blog), so most of it might be familiar.

“We would like to meet Oliver’s father. His biological father,” the principal clarifies as he glances over at your boyfriend. You’ve been together for three years, he has been by your five-year-old’s side for over half his life, why isn’t he enough?

But he insists on meeting him, saying if he was dead and you could prove it, or if your boyfriend was your husband, they would move on with the enrollment, but you have confirmed that you aren’t married and the biological father is alive, so now they want to have a chat with him. He doesn’t even care about the tiny little detail that said father has absolutely no idea he has a child.

What a bunch of morons.

In the evening, while your son is reading a book about cars in his bed with your boyfriend, you sit by the dining table with your phone in hand, trying to figure out what to do. This fancy private school is perfect, they know how to handle intelligent kids like Oliver, and you want the best for him. You want to make sure he doesn’t get bored, that he will get the kind of intellectual challenge in school that he needs.

At the age of five, he can read on his own just fine, he even learned some Spanish from your boyfriend, and he’s a quick study in general. It’s infuriating how he’s a mini version of his father, from his intelligence to his looks, everything reminds you of him.

And if you meet F1 fans together, someone surely goes, “He looks so much like Piastri at his age!” Sadly, that isn’t a coincidence, and the poor kid picked up on the whole you-look-like-him thing and chose him as his favorite driver.

Sometimes you consider telling him. Oliver, not Oscar. God, there’s no way you will ever tell him the truth. He has his own, certainly busy life and he probably doesn’t need a child in it. Yes, you saw the photos, he’s good with kids, but meeting one for a few minutes isn’t the same as having your own.

Your son on the other hand can find out when he gets old enough to understand why you left and went no contact with his father. That was over five years ago anyway, so you had time to figure out what to do. Until then, you make sure the few photos of you and Oscar are stored somewhere safe in case he wants to see them when the time comes.

Now you are cornered, your hand forced by that damn principal. You have no idea if he’s still using that old social media profile of his, but you have to try. So, you take a deep breath and start a video call, deep down hoping he won’t answer. You aren’t ready to talk to him, not yet, but you have no choice. And then his face shows up on your screen, the sight bringing back memories you’ve been trying to forget for years.

“Hey. Are you sure it’s me you wanted to call?” he asks, although there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

Nodding, you let out a sigh. “Hi. Yeah, um… I don’t even know where to start.”

“At the beginning?”

Silence follows his words, your brain in overdrive as it try to find the best way to start. But maybe being straightforward is the right answer. “I have a son. He’s five,” you add, hoping the meaningful look you’re sending his way can be seen over the screen.

After a few seconds of heavy silence, you can see the wheels turning in his head as he does some math. “Wait, five? We… That was a bit over five years ago. Could he…?”

“Yeah,” you confirm. “He’s your son.”

His face is emotionless for a while as he tries to process the news, but this is nothing new, he’s the king of hiding emotions. But then, just as you think he will end the call, he lets out a sigh. “Why now? What do you want from me? Money?” he asks, although you can tell he’s unsure about this whole situation.

The fact he assumes you want money only makes you angry. “It’s not your money I need. Hell, I don’t even want you to meet him,” you snap. “The thing is, there’s this private school I want to send him to, and they have this stupid rule to have both parents present at a parental interview. Since my boyfriend and I never got married, they want to see the biological father. That’s all I want. A meeting with the principal.”

Oscar puts up a finger as he bites on his lower lip, his eyes focusing on something behind his phone’s camera. “Let me get this straight. After all these years, you say I have a son, but I’m not allowed to meet him?” he then asks, looking back at you.

“Yeah.”

“One meeting,” he then states, his voice serious. “You let me meet him once and I’ll talk to that principal.”

“Oscar, come on.”

“That’s the deal I can offer.”

You don’t have a choice, you know that. If he doesn’t do it for Oliver, he will have to go to another school. Letting out a sigh of defeat, you nod. “But we don’t tell him that you’re his father. He watches F1, and since he looks a lot like you, he decided that you’re his favorite driver. That’s all you’re gonna be, nothing more.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I,” Oscar begins hesitantly, and you can see as he sits down on his couch and looks up at the ceiling. “You just told me I had a son. What do you want from me, to forget it? I want to meet him. I want him to know who I am.”

“He’s five. If he finds out, he’ll want to see you again. He will want you to be a part of his life. I don’t want that.”

You can see he’s uncertain about this. He probably understands that becoming his father would mean he will have to regularly visit the two of you, and even if you all kept it a secret, there is still the risk of the truth slipping out and making it into the headlines. “Is he anything like me?” he suddenly asks, his eyes softening as he watches you.

A smile creeps on your lips as you think about this, because it’s so painfully obvious to you that you can’t deny it, no matter how badly you want to do that. “He’s a highly intelligent little smartass, just like you. And his looks… A mini you, no doubt.”

Oscar nods. “Then I want to be a part of his life. Let me spend time with him,” he asks, seeming relaxed.

“Two hours.”

“No, I’ll stay for a week, and I want to see him every day,” he’s quick to clarify. “I can look out for him while you’re at work.”

Whatever happened to the idea of meeting Oliver once? That’s not what you have just discussed, and now he’s changing his demands? “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” is all you say in the end.

“You said it yourself, I’m his favorite driver,” he points out with a smug smile. “We’ll be fine.”

You are doing this only because of the school. You remember what Oscar can be like; if he makes up his mind about something, he definitely isn’t about to let his plan go. Now he wants a week with his son, and you know that’s the only way he will do what you need from him. “All right. Can I send you the school’s number so you can make an appointment? I told them you travel a lot, so they’ll need to be flexible.”

“Sure, I’ll call them as soon as I can.” You thank him, and are just about to say goodbye when he speaks up again. “Wait, can you send me a photo or a video?”

“Yeah, I have a few hundred of those,” you reply with a smile.

Oscar remains silent, but he lets out a sigh and you know something is on his mind, something he wants to tell you. “I still have a hard time believing it, you know.”

“You seemed pretty confident when it came to getting to know him.”

“I wanted to use my chance to corner you,” he admits. “But this? That I have a son? Hard to believe.”

“Well, he’s yours. You’ll understand it when you meet him,” you tell him kindly.

After you say goodbye, you go up to check on Oliver and your boyfriend, but by the time you get there, they are sleeping soundly with the open book resting on your son’s chest. With a smile, you take the book and lean down to give both of them a soft kiss. You can’t help but wonder how your little family’s dynamics will change with Oscar’s presence.

Well, it isn’t really your son you are worried about, the main issue is your boyfriend. Oscar is a famous F1 driver, someone your son idolizes, of course he feels threatened. You told him it would be okay, that you didn’t have feelings for him anymore, but he didn’t seem convinced. Maybe if they meet and he sees you are indifferent, he will finally trust you a lot more. One can hope, right?

A bit over a week later Oscar is sitting in his rented car in the school’s parking lot, thinking about how this conversation could go. According to you, they are aware of the fact he didn’t know Oliver existed until recently, so he hopes they don’t expect him to talk about what he’s like. Sure, over the past week he asked you about him, he wanted to prepare for meeting him, but they haven’t met in person. How could he know what to say? After taking a deep breath, he gets out and goes inside, feeling more nervous than he does when he’s getting in the car before a race.

If he’s this nervous now, what will he feel like before meeting his son?

Spending years in a boarding school prepared him for this meeting, and the principal is everything he imagined him to be. He’s polite, not making a fuss over the fact he is–let’s say–famous. He even apologizes for the mess he caused, saying he understands it was probably quite a shock for him, but this is the protocol, and they can’t make an exception. Oscar keeps nodding, even assuring him it’s okay, although deep down he’s still confused and unsure of things.

All of this despite his conversation with his mother, who was overjoyed when she saw a video of Oliver, saying he was truly just like him, and she couldn’t wait to have the chance to meet her grandchild in person. But she also told him maybe this was the best thing that could happen to him. Having a child is truly an experience, and since he was still five, they had the chance to have a wonderful relationship. “You say he loves F1. Just imagine how happy he would be if he could go to some race weekends with you. You could teach him so much about racing, and you could bond over that,” she said.

After he parks in front of your house in the afternoon, Oscar goes to the trunk to get everything he brought with himself. From signed merch from both himself and Lando–just to be sure–to toy racing cars, he has a wide variety of gifts. Something will hopefully become a favorite, an item that he will keep close to himself. Maybe he went overboard, maybe he could’ve brought only one thing, but he had no idea what Oliver liked, so he couldn’t pick just one item.

“Please, don’t tell me you brought all this for him.”

He looks up with a questioning hum, only to find you standing next to him on the sidewalk. Seeing you again brings back memories of your time together, of all of your little adventures during the short time you spent together, and he can’t help but wonder if you fled because you found out you were pregnant. If you didn’t leave him so suddenly, would things be different now? Would you be a big happy family?

Clearing his throat, he flashes a sheepish smile at you. “I couldn’t choose,” he admits as he grabs the duffel bag and follows you to the front door. He can’t help but wonder what he can expect, and he has to ask you the most important thing. “Did you tell him that he was meeting his father today?” You nod. That’s good. “Is he excited?”

You bite on your lower lip as you watch him, clearly thinking about how to answer the question. But after a short break, you let out a sigh. “He’s a little confused, I think. My boyfriend, Alejandro, met him when he was only two, the three of us spent a lot of time together, and he moved in last year. Oliver… He assumed my boyfriend was his dad, which in a way he is, but we had to sit him down and explain the situation to him,” you say, looking sad all of a sudden.

It’s clear now why you were so against telling Oliver the truth. You want him to be close to your boyfriend, and you’re probably afraid things between them will change once he gets into the picture. Maybe you’re even afraid things between you and your boyfriend will change too. He can’t blame you for that, but now that he knows he has a son, Oscar wants to be a part of his life. He doesn’t want to be some asshole who ignored his own blood.

Once inside, he puts the bag on the floor and follows you to the living room where Oliver is watching some cartoon on TV. Now that he sees him in person, he feels warmth spread through his body, because this kid looks exactly like he did at his age. You clear your throat next to him to get your son’s attention, and when the kid notices him, his eyes grow wide from surprise. He gets off the couch and slowly walks over to them, his eyes never leaving his face as he tries to process who their guest is.

“Hello, Oliver,” Oscar says as he crouches down.

“You’re Oscar Piastri!” he yells excitedly.

Oscar can’t help but chuckle at this. “I am.”

You reach out to ruffle your son’s hair, then lean down to be on somewhat eye level with him. “Honey, remember when I said your daddy was going to jump in to see you?” The little boy nods. “It’s Oscar. He’s your dad,” you tell him softly.

Suddenly the excitement is replaced by disbelief, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of you as he tries to process what he’s just been told. The corners of Oscar’s lips curl into a smile as he watches him, waiting patiently for the child’s decision.

“So he’s my dad?” Oliver asks, earning a nod from you. “Does this mean I’m a Piastri?” It’s Oscar’s turn to nod. “Mom, why am I not called Piastri?”

His eyes move over to you just in time to see you gulp, clearly having trouble figuring out what to say to that. He can’t blame you for your confusion, it probably haven’t occurred to you that one day you will have to respond to this question.

With a kind smile, he puts a hand on your arm, then turns to his son. “Because I’ve been away for a little too long. But I’m here, your mom and I can discuss if we could change that if you want,” he finishes, barely daring to glance up at you, expecting to meet an angry look in your eyes.

But you don’t look angry, if anything, you seem relieved that he came to your rescue. There’s a glint in your eyes, though, that tells him you aren’t happy that Oliver brought up his surname. As he thinks about it, it occurs to him that you have mentioned how you considered your boyfriend to be his father in a way, so maybe you will have rather given him his name.

You place a soft kiss on your son’s head, then inform him that you will leave the two of them alone so they can get to know each other. Father and son watches you leave the room, then he turns back to the child with a smile. “I brought you some things. Wanna see them?” he asks him, and when the little boy nods, he goes to grab his bag.

As he opens the zipper, Oliver stands by his side, watching his every move with a happy smile on his face. Oscar pulls out the gifts, one by one, and can’t hold back his laugh as he watches his son proudly wearing his new baseball cap and shirt as he examines the toy car in his small hands. He begins to talk about the last race, excitedly recounting the most memorable moments, including the end when his father crossed the finish line first. His big brown eyes turn to him, then he says that he’s so happy he’s here.

When he wraps his short arms around him, Oscar does the same and even presses a kiss on the kid’s head. There is undeniably a certain connection between them that he can’t explain, but they both know it’s there, otherwise his son probably wouldn’t be this chill with the idea of being alone with a stranger. Okay, that and the fact he’s his favorite driver.

They sit down in the middle of the living room, and Oliver decides to talk about his favorite books, proudly telling his father that he knows how to read, and that, according to you and your boyfriend, he’s really good at it. “The other kids can barely read yet,” he says with a smug smile, “and I’m already learning math!”

“Do you know how to play chess?” Oscar asks him, but the boy only shakes his head. “I should teach you. I started when I was younger than you, and my mom refused to play with me after a while.”

“Because you were so good?”

With a shrug, he stretches his arms above his head. “I don’t know, but I guess I was better than her. Not sure about other people, though,” he admits with a warm smile.

Oliver lets out a thoughtful hum. “Is she as awesome as my mom?” he suddenly asks, looking back at him.

A laugh escapes him at the thought, which makes his son tilt his head to the side in question. “That depends on who you ask. She loves to embarrass me online, which isn’t always a good thing, but I love her, she’s the best mum I could ask for. And there are a lot of people, especially my fans, who absolutely adore her for this gentle bullying,” he adds with a laugh.

“My mom would never do that,” Oliver states, his little nose scrunching at the thought. “She loves me too much.”

The two of them spend the next hour or so talking, sometimes stopping when the little boy gets distracted by something he caught on TV. But he seems interested, he wants to learn as much as he can, and it’s true the other way around, because Oscar asks a lot of questions too. He hasn’t even noticed how much time have passed until you walk in to tell your son it’s time for dinner, a statement that comes with the question whether or not his dad is allowed to stay.

You don’t let him stay, saying he’s probably tired from traveling so much, then give him a begging look to make him speak up too. Oscar lets out a sigh and forced a smile on his face. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m staying for a few days and your mum let me come to see you every day,” he says happily. “In fact, I’ll be looking out for you tomorrow while she’s at work. How does that sound?”

Oliver squeals from happiness before he hugs you both, thanking you over and over again for letting him come over. “Can we go to the zoo?” he asks with bright eyes as he looks over at his father.

“Sure, whatever you want,” Oscar responds with a nod.

“Okay, time to wash your hands, Alejandro will be home soon, so we can start to eat,” you ask your son. Once he says goodbye to Oscar and disappears, you turn to him with a forced smile. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

With a sigh, he steps closer to you. “You were right, he’s a lot like me,” he begins quietly, then stops to consider what to say.

He knows deep down that you want him to stay away, you don’t want him to ruin the balance of your little family, but how can he give you that after getting to know his son? Oliver is his blood, he’s truly a mini version of him, there’s no way he will turn his back on him now.

You know. After all these years, despite your time together being so short, you still know him well enough to know what was going on in his head. “Just don’t break his heart, okay?” you ask, earning a nod from him. “Thanks for… everything. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“Are you a hundred percent sure you want to take him to the zoo?” his mother asks later that day when he calls her.

Despite being excited to hear everything about her grandson, she seems a little uncertain since hearing about his plan for the next day. Oscar, obviously, knows the problem. Oliver looks just like him, if people see them together—and they will, there’s always someone who recognizes him—the rumors will spread like wildfire along with some photos to prove it.

And then some journalist will figure out he’s your son, and they’ll check every paparazzi photo of him with his past girlfriends.

So, yeah, he knows the risks, but deep down he doesn’t care. And if they find out, then what? He likes this kid, he wants to be a part of his life, he wants to be the kind of father Oliver deserves.

“Sooner or later the secret would be out, Mum,” he points out.

She lets out a sigh. “Yeah, but are his mother and her boyfriend ready for this?”

Crap. This he selfishly didn’t consider.

The two of them chat a little longer, and this time he’s willing to listen to a lecture and some advice without interrupting his mother. He needs all the help he can get at this point. Anything to make the right decision at the end of the day.

Two hours later he’s standing in front of your house, leaning against the side of the car with his phone in hand. His thumb hovers over your name as he’s trying to decide whether or not to call you at this time of the night.

The clock says it’s almost midnight. Maybe you’re already sleeping, maybe—

“Oscar?”

His head snaps up, and he sees you stand in the door. Gulping, he pushes himself away from the vehicle and walks over to you. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but we need to talk,” he says.

You nod. “Okay, I’m all ears.”

And then he explains everything; the zoo, the possibility of the world finding out his connection to Oliver, the rumors, the gossip sites, the scrutiny. This is more than what you went through while dating him, and it will affect all three of you.

He can see the exact moment you understand the weight of it all, he sees the way the blood drains from your face and you rub your eyes with the heel of your palms.

This is the point where you’ll say that’s enough, Oscar’s sure of it, but then tears appear in your eyes, and he instinctively cups your face to force you to look at him. He doesn’t have to ask anything, you start to talk without his question.

“Alejandro moved out. Temporarily, at least that’s what he said. Oliver… He kept talking about you, about how cool it is that you’re his father, and he got a little upset that I didn’t point out he was technically a stranger unlike the man who’s been raising him.”

With a sigh, Oscar pulls you into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay. I can talk to him if you want me to,” he offers.

You look him in the eye, then shake your head. “No, and… I think you shouldn’t be around Oliver either. Birthday, Christmas, one visit during the summer break. The only times you can see him,” you state quietly.

“What? No!”

“Do what’s the best for him. Please.”

For a moment, Oscar hesitates. Yes, he understands your point, but he doesn’t want to let go of his son. Not now that he knows what a cool kid he has. Anger slowly takes over, and before he can stop himself, he says, “Don’t want me to start a custody battle,” he says.

“Come on, you travel around the world for the best part of the year, you’re single as far as I know, no judge would give you custody.”

He’s not like this, he barely loses his temper, but now he’s so angry he might blow up. “Why do you have to complicate things every single time?!” he spits. “I’ll talk to your boyfriend and put an end to this nonsense. He’ll have to accept that I’m here, and I’m here to say. Damn it, I’ll even move here if that’s the only way I can be around Oliver.”

This leaves you speechless, and then you just slap him across the face and march back inside the house.

Well, that’s not what he expected.

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula 1

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