#I’M GONNA WRITE ABOUT HIM LOADS

[satoblue]

can’t sleep . . . watching caleb edits on tiktok and drooling

[maskedbyghost]

Part 2 of fuck buddies with Simon (now with extra emotional damage)

You didn’t text him, you didn’t call, you didn’t chase.

But you did send one final message.

“This is the last time, Simon. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be someone you only need when you’re lonely or angry or tired. I wanted you, not just your time or your hands or your body. You don’t have to say anything—I’m just letting you know I’m done. Please don’t come back. I won’t open the door.”

Then you blocked him.

Phone, socials, everything. And not in some dramatic, screaming, flinging-plates kind of way.

And for the first few days, nothing happened. No messages, no banging on the door, and no surprise visits in the middle of the night. Just silence.

But on Simon’s end?

Hell broke loose.

He didn’t even notice the message right away. He was halfway through watching a game when he opened his phone and saw it sitting there, timestamped four hours ago. He read it once, then again, and then stared at it like maybe if he glared hard enough, the words would disappear.

But they didn’t.

He tried to reply, of course. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for longer than he’d admit. But when he hit send, the message didn’t go through.

His jaw clicked tight. Something cold and ugly twisted low in his chest. He tossed his phone onto the couch and paced. He thought about showing up at your place but didn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know what he was going to say.

It hit him, slowly. That you weren’t bluffing. That you meant it this time.

That he fucked it. Bad...

A month later

You’re sitting across from a guy who actually listens when you talk. He laughs at your jokes, asks you questions. He looks at you like he’s interested—not just in your body, but in your thoughts, opinions, and favorite takeout order.

It’s... weird. Not bad weird. Just different. Good, even.

You're at a quiet restaurant, corner booth, tucked into a little space with candlelight and soft jazz playing overhead. You’re just reaching for your drink when you hear it.

The click of a safety being flipped off, before your date goes still.

“Don’t move,” a voice says, low and dark behind him.

You know that voice.

Your blood runs cold before you even look at him.

Simon stands there, one hand is braced on the back of your date’s chair. The other? Holding a gun pointed directly at the side of the poor guy’s head.

“Simon—what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, scrambling out of the booth.

“I just wanna talk,” he says, voice way too calm for someone with a loaded weapon in hand.

Your date is sweating, hands raised. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”

“Did I ask you what you wanted?” Simon snaps. Then he smiles. Smiles. “You’re gonna get up and leave. Right now. No questions. Go.”

The guy doesn’t argue. He bolts so fast he almost trips over a chair.

You stand there, staring at Simon like you’re seeing him for the first time. And in a way, you are.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask, shoving him back. “Are you insane?”

“I said I just wanted to talk,” he mutters, sliding into the booth like he didn’t just commit a felony in front of three tables.

“Jesus, Simon. You scared the hell out of him. You scared me. You don’t just pull a gun on someone because you’re feeling jealous!”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, lying through his teeth.

“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t get to show up here like this. You don’t get to throw a tantrum just because I moved on. You made it clear how you felt—or didn’t feel. Remember that?”

Simon’s hands are curled into fists on the table. He looks like he’s about to explode. But instead of yelling, he just leans forward, jaw clenched so hard.

“I fucked up,” he says. “I know I did.”

“Yeah,” you say coldly. “You really did.”

-

Aftar that, he doesn’t text you. After all, he is still blocked, so he can't.

So he writes notes. Slips them under your door, even though you never respond.

"I miss you." "I keep thinking about what you said. You're right. I treated you like shit. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to try." "Still can’t sleep. I keep rolling over expecting you to be there. You're not."

You don’t write back.

Then the gifts start showing up. A bouquet of roses, your favorite. A playlist on a USB drive. A book you mentioned once, two years ago, that he somehow remembered.

He shows up to your building sometimes. Just sits on the steps, waiting, but not in a creepy way—he knows to keep his distance. But he’s there. Rain, cold, whatever. He waits.

One night, you come home late, and he stands when he sees you. “I’ll go if you want,” he says quietly. “Just... let me know you’re okay.”

You don’t say anything. Just unlock the door and go inside.

He doesn’t leave for another hour.

Two months in.

He catches you on your way to work.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, walking beside you like he belongs there. “Just... give me a chance to make it right. Let me earn it.”

You stop walking. Look at him.

He looks rough. The beard’s thicker, the eyes are darker, and the weight of regret sits heavy on his shoulders.

“You can’t fix this with flowers and sad eyes,” you say. “I needed you. And you made me feel like a mistake.”

“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve another shot. But I’m still gonna try. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”

“And what if I never change my mind?”

“Then I’ll still keep showing up.”

He means it.

You can see it in the way he looks at you now—not hungry, not possessive. Just wrecked. Like he lost something irreplaceable and knows it.

You don’t let him follow you to work.

But for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel as angry. Not because he’s forgiven. Not even close. But because he finally looks like he’s suffering the way you did.

Three months.

You’re out with friends when he shows up again. This time, unarmed thankfully.

You’re tipsy, laughing, leaning into someone else’s shoulder—some other guy’s—and Simon sees it before you do. You turn and there he is, standing just far enough to not make a scene, but close enough to make your heart drop.

You think he’s going to come over. Ruin the night. Scare the guy off again.

He doesn’t.

He just nods at you. One short, respectful tilt of his head. Then he walks away.

No words, nor begging, trying to guilt you into anything.

And that gets to you more than the thousand apologies he could’ve offered.

Four months.

It’s your birthday.

You don’t tell anyone. You keep it lowkey on purpose, like if no one says anything, you can just pretend it’s any other day. You don’t want the reminders. You don’t want the well-meaning texts from people who don’t know what you’ve been dealing with. You definitely don’t want to wonder whether or not Simon remembers.

But he does.

You find out when you get home and there’s a small package sitting at your door. No note. No name. Just your initials written on the wrapping in the handwriting you know better than your own.

You think about throwing it away. You almost do, but curiosity wins, and inside the plain brown paper is a little black box.

You open it and your breath catches.

It’s that necklace you once pointed at in a store window downtown—months ago, maybe even a year. A tiny silver ghost on a chain. You made some stupid joke about how it looked like him: “emotionally unavailable, disappears without warning, weirdly endearing.”

He didn’t laugh at the time. Just rolled his eyes and muttered something like “you’re annoying” under his breath.

You never mentioned it again, but he remembered.

You stare at it for a long time. You don’t cry, don’t smile either. You just sit there on your hallway floor, turning the necklace over in your hands until your legs go numb.

Then you put it back in the box and tuck it in the drawer by your bed.

You don’t wear it, but you decided to keep it.

And the next day, for the first time in months, you catch yourself wondering how he’s doing. Like maybe he’s not just doing this to win, maybe he means it.

Still, you don’t reach out.

Not yet...

Five months.

He finally knocks.

It’s late. Not obscenely so, but enough that you’re in sweats and no bra, and part of you is tempted to pretend you’re not home.

But something in you says open the door.

So you do.

Simon looks like hell. Wet from rain, hair flat to his skull, hands shoved into his jacket like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

“I wrote it down,” he says, holding out a thick envelope. “Everything I wanted to say. Everything I should’ve said before.”

You stare at it like it might burn you. “Why now?”

His throat bobs. “Because I thought giving you space would be enough. But space doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean I stop showing you I care. I just... I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”

“And now you do?” you ask, arching a brow.

“No,” he says. “But I’m learning. And I’ll keep learning, with or without a second chance.”

You take the envelope. You don’t invite him in. But you do say, “Good night, Simon,” soft and tired.

And he smiles, just barely.

You read the letter that night. You weren’t going to, but you do.

It’s messy. Honest. Full of crossed-out lines and little notes scribbled in the margins. He writes like he talks—short sentences, straight to the point—but you can feel how badly he wants you to understand.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable. That’s not what you are. That’s not what you ever were.”

“I never knew how to show you I gave a fuck. That’s on me.”

“I kept thinking if I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t expect anything. But you did. And I should’ve met you there.”

“I think about your laugh. I hear it sometimes when I’m dead tired. It makes me hate myself.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. But if you ever do, I swear I’ll never leave you wondering again.”

You fall asleep with the letter in your hands, crumpled a little at the edges.

You don’t message him the next day.

But the next week?

You text one word.

“Coffee?”

PART 3

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

do we still hate him guys??

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay

[thebibliosphere]

I’ve had an increase in rainbow aura with my migraines lately (I used to get them once a year, if that. Now, I’ve had it twice in one month) so I’ve become somewhat paranoid whenever something flashes over my vision.

Sometimes, it's just light reflecting off my phone, but it still makes me freeze up in a fear response when it happens because it usually means I’ve got about 20 minutes before I’m in agony.

Apparently, this new paranoia extends into my dreams now, too, because I was running down a long corridor, aware that there was something behind me that I needed to escape, but all of a sudden, in my dream, rainbow zigzags consumed my vision, and I stopped, dead and went, “fuck, migraine.”

That's when I became aware of James Bond/Daniel Craig standing beside me, gun drawn.

“Oh, shit. Do you need to lie down?” he asked while I stared at him.

I said, “What about the thing chasing us?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, darling. If you need to lie down you can lie down. I’ll just kill them.”

I blinked at him for a bit, still winded from running then said, “Sure,” starting to get to my knees, ready to lie down on the cold stone floor beneath us.

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Kill ‘em. I’m just gonna...” I gestured vaguely at the floor. “Be right here, I guess.”

“You can go upstairs, you know,” he said, loading a fresh clip into his gun. “This museum has a hotel on top of it.”

“Oh good,” I said, starting to suspect this was a dream and not Daniel Craig about to murder the people chasing me because I had a migraine. “I’ll do that then.”

So I got back up and started climbing the stairs that looked an awful lot like the stairs in the Kelvin Grove Art Gallery, only to abruptly walk into Deathstroke and Nightwing doing their best to kill each other in the corridor of what was clearly a hotel based on the room service tray Nightwing was using to deflect projectiles.

They froze. I looked at them. They looked at me. “I’ve got a migraine,” I said,

“Shit, sorry,” Nightwing said, putting down his tray as both men stepped back to let me walk down the decimated corridor. “We’ll be more quiet.”

“Room 13 is open,” Deathstroke helpfully informed me.

“Is there a body in it?” I asked, now leaning against the wall, less walking along, more sliding.

“Not anymore.”

“Do you need anything?” Nightwing asked, “pain killers? Ice pack?”

I waved them off and made my way into room 13 where David Jason dressed as Detective Jack Frost looked up at me from the book he was reading on the bed.

“This is a dream,” he informed me.

“No it isn’t,” I said, despite knowing it was as I hobbled over to the bed and flopped down beside him. “And this room was supposed to be empty.”

“Open, not empty,” corrected Jack Banon who had taken David Frost’s place, dressed like young Alfie from Pennyworth as he sat beside me on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “There’s a very distinct difference between the two. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Who do you think moved the body?”

“I need to sleep,” I said, “if I can fall asleep, the migraine might go away.”

“That's all right,” he said. “You do that. I’ll make sure no one else comes in. Oh, just one thing before you do.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something I couldn't quite see and held it out to me. “You’ll need this.”

“What is it?” I said, my brain doing the dream thing where it refuses to read books or interpret numbers correctly. “I can’t see, what is it?”

“Oft, sorry. Can’t tell you that. More than my job’s worth.”

“You’re job...”

“Yeah.” and thats when he leaned over, stuck me with a needle and said, “Night night.”

And I woke up to the sound of @mothman-etd getting into the shower and Holly Mop wiggling under thre covers with me.

First words out of my mouth were, “What the fuck?”

And then I immediately pulled up Tumblr to write this down before I forget it because what the fuck.

Didn't wake up with a migraine though so... *knock on wood*

[shwrtcakez]

Wanna be going for a walk when a van keeps following me around, but I don’t notice until it’s much too late. I’m already tied up in the back, my legs open and my mouth gagged. The window is open, cold air rushing against me, my clit and nipples rock hard…

It’s night by the time the car stops. It’s too dark to see where I am, though I know it’s in the middle of nowhere, no cars are gonna be driving by anytime soon. Even if I could scream, no one would hear me out here.

The driver gets out and opens the back doors, his hard cock already lining up with my virgin pussy. He forces every thick, painful inch into the soft, tight warmth, knowing I must love this since my cunt is dripping wet, and I’m not even pretending to struggle.

He uses his new fleshlight, fucking load after load into me, pounding babies into my ready, willing womb.

I don’t even try to stop him, my eyes rolled back as he rapes my virginity away. The sound of his heavy, full, aching balls slapping against my ass just makes him fuck me harder, which makes my cunt even more drippy.

I know my womb is happily accepting each fertile drop of cum pumped into me, and I can’t do anything about it.

I knew I should’ve gone on birth control…

When he’s finally gotten his fill, and he gets back in the drivers seat, I’m relieved. Until he starts driving to the worst part of the city.

He binds my hands to my knees, and presses me face down, cunt up in a dirty alleyway. He takes a marker and writes “freeuse” on my ass and thighs, my defiled pussy still leaking his cum.

[checkeredflagggs]

Please Don’t

Pairing: max verstappen x girlfriend!reader

summary: max didn’t realize that an increase of pregnancy hormones would also mean an increase in willingness to fight people in his behalf…or the 5+1 fic of fighting people for love

a/n: seriously redbull??? This was not what I had planned next but c'est la vie…

a/n2: I have a request for another piece of this series that I’m really looking forward to writing — there’s a little Easter egg for that in this one!

a/n3: congrats max!

Masterlist | Taglist

Duckies Rookies Masterlist

Private Messages, Max and y/n

f1

liked by user, y/n, user, and 934,821 others

f1: BREAKING: Daniel Ricciardo to leave RB, the team have announced

view all comments

user1: NOOOOOOO

↳user2: what the fuck

↳user1: I am utterly heartbroken

user3: did you see the paddock this weekend??

↳user4: it’s obvious they all knew even if it wasn’t said…

↳user5: I’m so fucking mad — they didn’t give him a proper goodbye! 😡

user6: Danny legit looked like he was gonna cry…

↳user7: I don’t fucking blame him

↳user6: fuck redbull

↳user7: fuck marko and Horner

user8: ok but did anyone see y/n??

↳user9: she was not fucking around this weekend

↳user8: I didn’t even think she was supposed to be in Singapore?

↳user9: I didn’t either — I thought max had said she was still back in Monaco

↳user8: do you think that she flew last minute just to be there for Daniel?

↳user9: oh my god

user10: omg i was in the paddock this weekend and y/n was a BEAST. she showed up, she verbally flayed the redbull management, she slayed, then she left

↳user11: you have to spill everything!

↳user10: ngl I couldn’t hear everything but when she saw Horner I swear to god she pulled something out of her purse and threw it at him

↳user11: what a fucking Queen

↳user10: they disappeared back into the garage proper after that but man…

user12: raise your hand if you’re not shocked y/n went to bat for Danny 🙋🏾‍♀️

↳user13: 🙋🏻‍♂️

↳user14: 🙋🏼‍♀️

↳user15: I’m a new fan — why aren’t we shocked?

↳user12: don’t worry hun I got you — Danny and max are really close (going back to their days together in redbull)

↳user12: and y/n has said multiple times that she thinks of Danny as an big brother — he’s stepped in and helped her out with a few things over the years apparently

↳user12: and she’s been very vocal in previous years (against McLaren 🤮) about how certain teams have treated Danny — who’s given so much to the sport

↳user15: ooooohhhhhhhh thank you!!

↳user15: then 🙋🏽‍♂️

y/n

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris, charles_leclerc and 1,823,193 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

y/n: THATS MY MAN!! I GUESS WINNING IN THE FASTEST CAR ISNT FOR EVERYONE HUH?

view all comments

user16: damn Queen 👸🏻 dragging team principals all over the grid

user17: ok but is it just me or is y/n dodging the drinks tonight?

charles_leclerc: Congratulations!

maxverstappen1: mijn leeuwin…really?

↳y/n: THERES MY CHAMPION!!!

↳y/n: YOU DID JT!!

↳y/n: AND SOMEONE HAD TO SAY IT

↳maxverstappen1: 😂😂

lewishamilton: A well earned win man 🖤

user18: am I missing something? Was there something funny about her caption?

↳user19: haha a little bit — Brown (McLaren’s ceo) had made a comment previously that max only won WDC with the fastest car

↳user18: ohhhhh! So she’s pretty much saying suck it?? liked by y/n

↳user19: knowing y/n? Yes

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Bluesky

user20: oh my god this is exactly what I needed #teammax

user21: come on max went too far — to put George’s head into the wall?? #teamgeorge

↳user22: oh come on — we all know that’s a load of shit #teammax

user23: can I say something?

↳user24: go for it

↳user23: I’m #teamy/n cause I know max wouldn’t do anything but race his best but y/n? Oh she’s got that rabid energy to her

↳user24: bold but I agree

↳user25: I’m sat. I’m seating. I need to know how y/n responds

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, The Pride

assholegossippage

liked by user, user, user, and 1,293,933 others

tagged: y/n

assholegossippage: y/n l/n, longtime girlfriend of F1’s World Champion Max Verstappen, looking disheveled as she shows off her pregnancy belly

view all comments

user26: wow

↳user27: I’ve never seen such a fucking asshole comment before

maxverstappen1: Have fun hearing from my lawyers.

↳user28: Max I’m gonna need you to fucking bury them

↳y/n: Max!

liamlawson30: What fucking bullshit is this??

↳isackhadjar: Why would you say something like this?

↳user29: loving the kids coming to mom’s defense!

↳isackhadjar: Of course we are!

↳y/n: let’s not pick to many fights guys…

olliebearman: This is such disappointing behavior ☹️☹️

↳y/n: It’s fine Ollie

↳olliebearman: It is not!! They have no right!

↳user30: You tell them Ollie!

jackdoohan: Trying to shame a pregnant women for going outside? Do you have no shame??

↳gabrielbortoleto_: obviously not…

↳y/n: you guys…

↳user31: when they’re protective…

kimi.antonelli: Che essere umano disgustoso! What a disgusting human being!

↳y/n: Kimi…

↳kimi.antonelli: No! They can’t say these things!

Private Messages, The Pride

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @evie-119 @sugarfreerbr @princessesgarden @tukes @mayax2o07 @teti-menchon0604 @galaxygurlll @star73807-blog @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @lilymaleshka @kuolonsyoja @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @hannahmotors10 @moonypixel @dying-inside-but-its-classy

[houseofaegon]

Don't Let Go ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. rough sex, emotional sex, public sex, mental health themes (trauma, guilt, PTSD), depictions of breakdowns, emotional, angst, praise kink, possessiveness, aftermath of violence, unprotected p in v, guilt, self-loathing, established trauma bond.

Summary: The mission was supposed to be clean. Routine. But nothing is simple when the Sentry is involved, when Bob loses control, and the Void takes over. And when he does, you're the only one who can pull him back.

Word Count: 4658

Author's Note: don't even ask me if I'm okay cause the answer is no. I'm destroyed. completely destroyed and emotionally wrecked. i am ruined. bob reynolds ruins me. if you finished this and also felt like your heart's been pulled out and kissed back to life, welcome to the club. my inbox is open if you want to send me your therapy bill—just know I’m probably gonna have to come with you cause what the fuck. i love you bobby you're everything to me!!! if you want to be added to my taglist just comment below!! <333 feel free to cry with me in the comments and scream in the reblogs. i need to go outside and touch some grass, reconnect with nature and breathe cause my heart is destroyed after this one. i literally can't stop writing for bob what the hell!! bucky is jealous cause bob's taking up space in my mind that used to belong to bucky. lewis pullman you babygirlllllllllllll

masterlist.

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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Detain the targets, secure the entire facility, and minimize civilian casualties. Standard Thunderbolts cleanup. You'd done this dance before—storm in, assert dominance, extract data and bodies. Easy.

But you knew the moment Bucky said, "Bob's on this one," everything in your chest went cold.

The tower was quiet, too quiet, until it wasn't. Until the entire place was filled with hurried footsteps, shouts bouncing off the walls, and orders being thrown like grenades, gear bags being slammed open, weapons loaded with sharp clicks, and comms lighting up with rapid-fire intel. The whole floor shifted into emergency mode.

You'd barely finished gearing up when Yelena grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the elevator, her expression tight, mouth set in that grim, no-bullshit line that only ever meant bad news.

"Valentina wants all of us on-site," she muttered, pressing the call button with enough force to crack the panel. "Right now. Facility breach. Something about biotech. Hostages."

"Since when do we scramble before briefing?" you asked, yanking the zipper of your new tactical suit closed, holster strap still half-loose dangling on your hip. "Do we even have a plan?"

Yelena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

When the elevator doors opened, Bucky was already inside, pacing back and forth. His jaw clenched, comms piece buzzing with chatter. He looked up when he saw you—but he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Jeez, so much for a good morning.

"Let me guess," you said, stepping into the elevator next to him. "Valentina's stunt?"

"She pulled Bob in last minute," Bucky said, his voice laced with frustration. "Didn't even care to fucking tell me. I found out when I saw his name on the team feed. Walker's there with him, Ava too."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you froze. "She put him first? With Walker?"

“She wants to see if he's still 'field-capable.'" Bucky's voice dripped sarcasm. "Her exact words. She thinks this is some kind of game. Like we're testing out a new drone, not a man who nearly blacked out half of a city six months ago."

“Is she out of her fucking mind?” you hissed. “Bob’s not—he’s not ready. He shouldn't be anywhere near this.”

“No shit,” Yelena muttered from the other side, crossing her arms. “And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up if he loses it again.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to damp down the rolling anger in your chest. Not at Bob—of course not, this wasn't his fault. You were mad at Valentina and her fucking need to push him to the edge. "Great," you muttered, rubbing your face with a hand. "Let's all just hold hands and pray he doesn't crack."

The VTOL sliced through the clouds like a blade, engines humming low and tense. Rain battered the sides in sharp bursts.

You sat strapped between Yelena and Alexei, your harness tight across your chest, heart beating even tighter beneath it. Across from you, Bucky was locked in, jaw clenched, staring out the side window with a look that could shatter the glass any moment. When he finally looked away from the window, he fixed his gaze directly on you.

"I need you to be ready," he said, voice low and rasped. "In case Void—" He paused, breathing raggedly. "In case Bob snaps."

You blinked. "Bucky—"

"If it happens," he cut you off, "if he breaks... don't wait for an order. Do not hesitate. You hit him with everything you've got."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because you hesitated.

Not because you didn't understand the danger. Not because you didn't know what Bob was capable of when the Void took hold. You'd seen it. Firsthand. The devastation. The aftermath. The look in his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—when he realized what he’d done.

But you'd also seen something else. You'd also seen the other side of him. The guilt

You'd been there the last time. When the Void clawed its way up his throat like poison, he dropped to his knees, shaking, burning with power, guilt, and fear. You were the only one who could get through to him. The only one who could touch him without him recoiling like he might shatter.

You'd whispered his name and watched his fist unclench slowly. You'd put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat slow. You'd seen how the black storm slowly evaporated, leaving a broken man sobbing against your chest.

That night was the worst for Bob.

You remember it vividly—his body trembling against yours, eyes wide and hollow after the Void had finally disappeared. He hadn't said a word. Just sank to the ground, hands fisting in his hair, like he was trying to hold his skull together.

You’d dropped down beside him, pulled him close, felt the heat radiating off his skin like a fever breaking. And when he finally clung to you—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder—it wasn’t just desperation. It was terror. Like if he let go, he’d fall into some pit that never ended.

He cried.

God, he cried so hard.

And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to soothe it away. You just held him. Let him shake. Let him break.

That night, you stayed with him.

He pulled you into bed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just moved toward your body like it was instinct, like your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His fingers curled in your shirt, his face buried in your chest, breath hiccuping between exhausted sobs.

You thought he’d fall asleep eventually.

He didn’t. Not right away.

He kept whispering, voice barely audible: “Don’t leave. Please. Just… don’t leave.”

And how could you?

You didn’t.

So you stayed.

And when he finally passed out—curled around you like a second skin, little soft snores slipping past parted lips—you just watched him. His face was peaceful for once. Almost boyish. His lashes fluttered when he dreamed, but he didn’t cry out. Not with you there.

You tried to slip out once.

Just to stretch. To breathe. But the second your body shifted away, his arms tightened like a vice, dragging you back in, even in his sleep. Like his subconscious couldn’t bear the thought of you disappearing.

From that night on, it became… a thing.

Every time he had a nightmare. Every time the Void started to whisper again. Every time he needed quiet but didn’t know how to ask for it—he came to you.

He never knocked loud. Just a soft tap on your door, barely audible. You’d open it to find him standing there, shoulders hunched, hair messy, eyes big and guilty and so shy. Like he hated himself for needing you but couldn’t help it.

“Can I…?” he’d start to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And you’d always let him in.

Always.

God, you loved it. Loved being the one person he came to. The one place he felt safe. The way he melted into you the second the door shut. The way he’d sleep tangled in your arms, legs hooked with yours like he needed as many points of contact as possible to stay grounded.

You never told anyone.

You never wanted to ruin it.

It was quiet. Sacred. Yours.

And now, strapped into this VTOL, Bucky’s words still echoing in your ears—“Don’t hesitate. Hit him with everything you’ve got”—all you could think about was how peaceful he looked in your bed. How tightly he held you. How terrified he was of being alone.

Because what if you could reach him again?

What if hitting him wasn’t the answer? What if all he needed was someone to see him before he disappeared completely?

Bucky must’ve seen the flicker in your expression, because his voice dropped lower.

“I know you’re close to him. I know he listens to you more than anyone else. But if that stops—if he doesn’t hear you this time... don’t let him take you down with him.”

He’ll hear me, you thought, jaw clenched.

He has to.

Yelena’s hand reached over, slow and steady, her fingers brushing against yours before curling around them. Her grip was warm, firm—anchoring. You turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

She gave you a small, quiet smile. The kind that didn’t promise everything would be okay, just that you wouldn’t be alone when it wasn’t.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. "We'll be right behind you."

You squeezed her hand back, once.

"Visuals confirm contact inside the facility," the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms. "We’ve got movement near the lab sector. Hostiles engaged. Sentry’s already on-site."

You looked up sharply. "Already?"

He wasn’t supposed to engage alone.

Bucky swore under his breath, ripping the earpiece out and jamming it back in. "Why the fuck didn’t you wait for us—"

Ava spoke through the comms, her voice shivering. “He didn’t wait. I told him to stand down, and he just… went in.”

Then the ground came into view through the viewport—flames licking up from the roof of the biotech facility, smoke pluming into the sky, the perimeter in total disarray.

"Doors open in twenty seconds," the pilot called.

You shivered. You could feel it. That humming tension in your bones, the kind that only came right before everything went to hell.

He's already slipping.

"Get ready," Bucky barked, snapping his rifle into place as he stood. "Move fast, eyes sharp. We don't know how bad it is yet."

Yelena stood up, nodding once, checking her gear. You followed closely behind.

“Hostiles are still active inside,” came another voice—Walker’s, sharp and panicked over comms. “But it’s—fuck, it’s a massacre down here. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. I can't see him. He’s not fucking responding.”

Your heart clenched.

“Bob,” you whispered, barely audible.

Then: a boom.

A section of the lower level erupted in a plume of golden-white light, fire tearing up through the concrete as the building shook from the force of it. A pulse of energy rippled outward, flattening a chunk of the south wall like paper.

The VTOL lurched slightly from the shockwave.

“Doors opening!” the pilot shouted. “Deploy, deploy—go, go!”

The ramp dropped—and the storm hit you in the face.

Rain. Smoke. Sirens. And somewhere beneath it all, a familiar hum.

You ran.

Boots pounding against the rooftop, leaping the last few feet to the access hatch. Bucky and Yelena flanked you, weapons drawn, slicing through the chaos with practiced precision.

You barely had time to adjust before Bucky grabbed your arm, spinning you toward him. His face was grim, soaked, eyes blazing.

“Go!” he shouted over the roar. “You need to find him!”

“What about—?”

“We’ll handle the rest!” he cut in, already moving, already aiming down the chaos below. “If anyone can reach him before he turns this whole goddamn place to ash—it’s you. Yelena will be right behind you. Walker and Ava are already inside. Go!”

Your breath hitched.

Then you nodded, once, sharp and sure.

And you ran—straight into the smoke, straight into the fire.

Straight toward him.

The inside of the facility was a warzone. Emergency lights flickered through thick smoke. Sparks rained from broken ceiling panels. The walls were scorched, the tile beneath your boots cracked and slick with blood and water. You passed fallen bodies—some hostiles, some just gone, disintegrated into scorched outlines and ash.

He’d been here.

You ran faster. Your breath became shorter. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

And then you saw him.

Floating.

Just inches off the ground, his body trembling with power barely held in check. His suit was torn, soaked, blood-slick. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled in like claws.

He hand't noticed you yet. He was talking to himself, low and frantic, like he didn't even realize sound was coming out of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I tried, I tried, they didn’t listen—I told them not to run—why did they run—”

Your heart clenched. You took a breath, steady and slow. Lifted your hands, palms open, non-threatening. Stepped forward, one careful step at a time.

"Bob," you whispered.

His head jerked up like a struck animal. His eyes were pitch black. Not just his pupils. Everything. You could see the Void slowly taking over control of his entire body. Crawling across his skin in veins of shadow, threading through him like poison, claiming more and more by the second. There was nothing human in his face.

Then he saw you.

You took another step forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Bob," you said again, softer now.

His lips parted. The black in his eyes shimmered, like something beneath it was trying to break through, trying to remember.

You took another step.

"I'm here," you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "It's me."

"GET DOWN!" a voice screamed behind you.

You barely turned in time to see the soldier—young, shaken, finger already tightening on the trigger of his rifle, aimed straight at Bob.

“No!” you shouted, throwing a hand out. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!”

But it was too late.

You whipped back toward Bob—and his hand was already rising. Not fast. Slow. Deliberate.

Eyes locked on the soldier, face blank and unreadable, voice low and distant.

“Mine.”

“Bob!” you screamed, adrenaline tearing through your veins like lightning. You rushed toward him, arm outstretched. “STOP! STOP!”

A pulse of black energy burst from his palm. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t explode. It just erased. The soldier was there—and then he wasn’t.

No scream. No blood. Just a curling wisp of smoke, and a blackened shadow scorched into the tile where he’d stood. Like reality itself had been scrubbed clean.

Your breath caught. Your body froze.

The soldier was gone. Just like that. And Bob? He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, hand still raised, void energy curling around his fingers like it wanted more.

You moved before you even realized it.

You ran.

“BOB!” you screamed, voice hoarse with panic.

You slammed into him, hands flying up to grab his face—rough, desperate, grounding. Your fingers dug into his jaw, into his cheeks, trying to feel him, shake him loose from the darkness overtaking his body.

“Bob! Look at me!” you yelled, tears already slipping down your face. “Fuck—look at me, please!"

His head twitched in your grip, eyes still black, but they widened. Like he didn’t know how you got so close. Like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

“You promised,” you choked out, forehead pressed against his. “You promised you wouldn’t let this happen again. You said I could help you. You let me in. Bob, please, I know you can hear me. Let me in. Let me help you."

And then—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The black void in his eyes gone, replaced by fear. Replaced by gut-wrenching guilt.

And suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your arms, trembling hard. Holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped, voice splintering in his throat. “I just… he—he pointed that gun at you. I—”

His knees buckled.

You caught him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped again, clinging like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay—I got you. I'm right here."

You could feel it under your hands—the tension building again. The static crawling across his skin. He was shaking harder now, like he was trying to hold himself together with bare hands and sheer will, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“I told them,” he growled, voice rising, wild and hoarse. “I told them not to send me. I told them—I told them!”

“Bob,” you tried again, your hands cradling his face, trying to ground him. “Stop—just breathe, okay? Look at me. Just look at me. It’s over. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Bob—”

“Holy shit,” someone gasped.

You turned. Too fast. The team stood there. Yelena’s eyes were wide. Ava’s mouth hung open. Alexei looked stunned. Bucky was frozen mid-step.

And Walker? Walker’s gaze went straight to the scorched mark on the floor, and his lip curled.

“What the fuck did he do?”

That was it.

You snapped.

“You were supposed to look out for him!” you roared, your voice echoing down the hall like a whipcrack. “You knew he wasn’t ready! You knew, and you left him in there anyway—what the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Don’t yell at me because your little pet project finally snapped—”

You stepped toward him so fast Yelena actually reached out to stop you.

“Say that again, Walker.” you dared, low and deadly. “Say it. Fucking say it again.”

“Guys—” Ava started.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered behind you.

And that’s when you realized—Bob wasn’t in your arms anymore.

You turned, panic already in your throat. He was standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched. His shoulders were shaking, his jaw tight, like he was about to split open.

The way they were all looking at him. Like he was a monster.

And he saw it. He saw everything.

“No, no, wait—” you started.

But he was already moving. He shoved past you, not roughly—never roughly—but like he couldn’t stand to be touched anymore. Like he didn’t deserve it. And then he ran.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran after him.

You found him down a back alley, drenched in rain, his back pressed to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you could see it—how close he was to falling apart, how the power still surged beneath his skin, barely contained. His body shook with it, with guilt, with the kind of rage that didn’t know where to go.

You took a step closer and he shifted like he was going to bolt again, eyes flicking to the shadows like he could vanish into them.

You grabbed his wrist. Tight. “Don’t run.”

That stopped him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t turn.

“Bob,” you said, softer now, over the pounding rain. “Please. Look at me.”

He turned slowly—and god, the look on his face broke you wide open. Soaked, shattered, eyes full of guilt and too many unsaid things. He looked like he didn’t believe he deserved to stand in front of you. Like just being seen by you hurt.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate.

Like he needed your mouth to remind him he was still real.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. You collided like two storms, all sharp edges and soaked skin. His mouth crushed yours, messy, uncoordinated, bruising. You dragged your hands through his rain-slick hair, pulled him closer until your bodies slammed together. He groaned your name like it hurt to say it, like it ripped something open inside him just to speak it.

You kissed him back with everything you had, dragging your fingers through his soaked curls, pulling him closer, crushing your lips to his until your teeth clacked and your breath fogged the air between you. He whimpered into it, raw and broken, hands clutching your waist through your suit like he didn’t know where to touch, like he needed to touch everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against your lips, voice already hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—” His words cut off with a sob. You shushed him with another kiss, slower this time, lips brushing his like a promise.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice broken. “God—I need you, I need you so bad—I can’t—fuck—don’t let go—please, don’t let go—”

Your gear hit the wall behind you, water slapping between you like applause. His mouth was on your throat, biting, sucking, moaning, as your hands worked beneath his already ripped suit, shoving it aside, frantic to get to skin. His hips rocked into yours like he couldn’t stand being apart from you even for a second.

“Please,” he groaned again, breath hot against your ear. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—fuck—just let me have you.”

You gasped, arching against him, letting him press you tighter to the bricks. You were already soaked—skin flushed, thighs shaking—and the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in his world snapped something open inside you.

You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, desperate. “Take it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Take anything. Everything. I’m all yours, Bob.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it.

Your suit came undone in ragged pieces, his hands tearing at fastenings with trembling fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist as he shoved your soaked underwear aside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, grinding his cock against your slick center until you cried out, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want it, don’t you? You want me to lose it for you—inside you—?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, tilting your head back as he pushed in. “Yes, yes—please—”

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers clawing at his soaked suit, legs tightening around his hips. He was so deep, so hot, so real, and the way he fucked you—fast, rough, relentless—was like he didn’t know if he’d survive without this. Without you.

Every thrust hit something raw, something needy, his voice ragged against your ear. “You’re mine—you’re mine, say it—fuck, say it—”

“I’m yours,” you cried, body shaking. “I’m yours, Bob—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He sobbed against your throat, thrusting harder, faster, panting between curses and broken prayers. “You’re perfect—so perfect—god, you feel so good—you make everything quiet. You make it all fucking stop—”

And when you came, it hit like a shockwave—your whole body convulsing around him, mouth open in a wordless scream as he slammed into you, burying himself deep and coming hard, spilling inside you with a desperate cry of your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He held you afterward like he might never let go, still shaking, still breathing like he’d run through hell. His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, and this time, it was a vow.

His breathing was ragged.

Shallow gasps against your neck, chest rising and falling like he was still trying to outrun something only he could see. The rain hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets around you, but neither of you moved. You stayed wrapped around him, trembling, your back against the soaked alley wall, his body still buried in yours, shaking with the aftershocks.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His arms stayed locked around your waist like a vise, like if he let go even a little, you’d disappear. You felt him swallow, once, twice—and then his shoulders began to shake in a different way.

“Bob?” you whispered, hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his soaked hair. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

He sobbed.

Quiet at first. Just a ragged breath that stuttered out of him like it had been waiting for too long. Then another. And another. His whole body trembled, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he finally—finally—let himself fall apart.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he choked out. “I tried—I tried so fucking hard—I just wanted to be useful, I wanted to help—and I killed him—”

You shushed him softly, rocking him gently where you stood, your hands stroking down his back.

“You came back to me,” you said, voice low. “That’s all that matters. You came back.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he rasped, holding you tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You do. You do. You’re still here. You’re still you. That’s all I care about.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever—him wrapped around you like a lifeline, your bodies still locked together, breathing in sync. The heat between you slowly cooled, but the weight of it all stayed heavy, real.

Eventually, his head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you were real. Like maybe you were the only thing left in the world that hadn’t abandoned him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing over the scar just below his eye.

“I know,” you said. “But I’ve got you.”

And he leaned into your hand like a man starved for touch.

Back at the tower, everything was chaos—shouting, agents scrambling to do damage control, the team fighting with each other, trying to put the blame on someone—but none of it touched you. Not when you had him. Not when he never once let go of your hand.

You didn't go to the infirmary. Didn't sit through the debrief. Bucky tried to say something, but you just shook your head. Bob didn't even look at him. At no one.

You led him straight to your room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his body sagged like the air had left him entirely. You helped him out of the rest of his suit, piece by piece, your fingers gentle even when your heart still ached from the weight of it all. He did the same for you, so soft, so gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled him into your bed without a word.

He followed like he always did. Like he couldn’t not.

He wrapped around you the way he always did—legs tangled, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. But this time it wasn’t just comfort.

It was clinging.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just held on.

You stroked his hair, tracing slow patterns into his scalp, letting your breath match his until he calmed, until that tremble in his shoulders finally stilled.

But he still didn’t sleep.

You felt him shift closer, nose brushing your collarbone. His voice, when it came, was wrecked and so, so quiet.

“Do you think they’ll ever look at me the same?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

You didn’t answer right away. You could feel how tightly he was holding his breath, like he was bracing for the worst. You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through the back of his hair, your lips brushing against his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “They know it. Even if they won’t say it out loud. This—what happened—you didn’t want this. And they know that.”

He didn’t reply, not at first. But you felt it—the way his chest stuttered, how he finally let himself breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken.

“I know.”

“I was so close,” he said, voice cracking like glass. “I could feel it. Like I was right there. One more second and I wouldn’t have come back.”

“But you did,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He shuddered, breath hitching again as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Leaving a soft kiss that made your heart clench. “You’re the only one that brings me back,” he whispered. “The only one.”

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him tighter.

And finally—finally—he started to drift.

It wasn’t peaceful. He twitched. Mumbled things you couldn’t make out. Flinched like his dreams were still trying to drag him under.

But he didn’t wake.

Because you were still there.

And he knew it.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos

[sturniluvr]

Record breaker

Lando Norris x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: none I don’t think apart from maybe a few spelling mistakes 😭

Summary: Lando’s girlfriend and parents watch him win in Monaco for the first time, and break the record for the fastest track time in Monaco

A/N: Feels like I forgot how to write writing this😭

❗️semi-proof read❗️

It’s the Monaco Grand Prix weekend. Y/N and Lando make their way through the paddock towards the McLaren garage alongside Lando’s parents, Adam and Cisca. Before parting ways, she glances at Lando. 

“Be careful, okay? I love you” she says softly, looking at the curly hair man, who smiles and plants a quick kiss to her forehead. 

“I’ll be fine baby. I love you too. See you after quali” Lando replies before making his way into the garage, tapping the bar as he walks through as he always does. 

Y/N, Cisca and Adam head into the McLaren hospitality and onto the balcony hovering above the pitlane. She glances down at the bustling pitlane, thriving with team mechanics preparing the cars for qualifying, a few sky sports presenters and camera crews. Before q1 starts, she grabs a headset and puts it on, adjusting it slightly. The light goes green at the end of the pitlane, and the first qualifying session gets started, Y/N, Cisca and Adam watching intently. 

Time skip to end of qualifying

A huge grin breaks out on Y/N’s face as she watches Lando storm across the finish line, taking pole position for the race tomorrow and setting a new track record of 1.09.954. We make our way down to parc ferme and spot Lando, getting weighed. After he’s been weighed, Y/N wastes no time in wrapping her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder as Lando wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground slightly.  

“Well done, my love. I knew you could do it” The Y/H/C haired girl mumbles softly, Lando’s smile growing wider under his helmet at his girlfriend’s praise 

After a moment, he gently places her back down and wraps an arm around each of his parents, Adam and Cisca also whispering words of praise to their son. Y/N smiles as she watches the three share this sweet moment. After a moment, Y/N hears a member of McLaren’s PR team call Lando over for his media duties. She gives his hand a soft squeeze. 

“I’ll wait for you in your drivers room” she says softly. Lando nods, giving her hand a gentle squeeze back before reluctantly letting go of her hand. 

“Okay, I shouldn’t be too long” he heads off to the media pen to do his post quali interviews.  

Y/N heads through the garage and across the paddock towards the McLaren motorhome. She heads to Lando’s drivers room and sits down on the sofa and pulls her phone out of her pocket, scrolling through social media. 

She opens Instagram and repost a few posts about Lando’s pole on her story, and presses the small ‘+’ button by her profile.

Y/user added to her story

—————

Mclaren

Liked by: y/user, lando, ln4, maxfewtrell and others

Mclaren: IT'S POLE FOR LANDO! 🏁

Sensational work by LN4🧡

comments:

y/user: never a doubt🧡🧡

lnfour: THATS OUR DRIVER

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—————

Lando

Liked by: quadrant, maxfewtrell, y/user and others

Lando: monaco pole. bam.

comments:

Y/user: so so proud my love!🧡🧡

quadrant: he’s him💪

lnfour: I’m gonna watch that lap on repeat all night

maxfewtrell: never doubted, onto tomorrow 🔥💪

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—————

After Lando finishes doing his media duties, he heads to his drivers room. He opens the door and immediately smiles at the sight of Y/N. He walks in and sits next to her, a small, tired sigh leaving his lips. Y/N puts her phone down and reaches a hand up and runs her fingers through his damp curls, Lando's eyes fluttering shut in contentment being back by her side after his tiring quali session and media duties. 

“You done for today now?” she asks softly, tilting her head down slightly to look at him. Lando nods silently, finally lifting his head up and looking at her. 

“Yeah, jus’ wanna go home and shower and go to bed” he mumbles, a tired chuckling escaping his lips. She chuckles softly and nods, patting his leg, silently gesturing for him to get up. He rubs his eyes and stands up and changes out of his race suit, his movements sluggish. 

Once he's ready and changed, he grabs his bag and holds his hand out for her to take, which she does and intertwines their fingers together as the couple leave his drivers room. They call out a goodnight to the remaining members of the team that were still in the garage and make their way through to the paddock. Lando and Y/N meet up with Lando’s parents and the four of them make their way through the paddock and towards his Lamborghini Urus and begin the short drive back to Lando and Y/N’s shared apartment. 

Once they're back at their penthouse apartment, Lando and Y/N bid goodnight to his parents as they make their way the guest bedroom. Y/N grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, always making sure she has one for bed. 

Y/N makes her way to the bedroom after getting her glass of water, the sound of the shower running hitting her ears, knowing Lando’s having a quick shower before bed. She gets her pyjamas on and does her usual nighttime routine before getting under the covers and reaching for her phone charger and putting her phone on charge. She scrolls through her phone for a bit while she waits for Lando to finish in the shower. 

Lando finishes in the shower and turns off the water, wrapping a towel around his waist and stepping out the shower. He quickly brushes his teeth and changes into a clean pair of boxers before making his way into the bedroom, smiling softly at the sight of Y/N under the covers, even in her most natural state, he can't help but think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. 

Lando climbs under the covers and gently tugs Y/N towards him, her head coming to rest on his bare chest. He reaches a hand up and gently runs his fingers through her hair, a movement he’s learnt after many years, helps soothe the freckled girl in his arms. He plants a soft kiss to the top of her head. She lets out a soft yawn, feeling completely at ease in the familiar embrace of the blue eyed man she was lucky enough to call her boyfriend. 

“Tired, baby?” he murmurs softly, his fingers continuing their soft ministrations through her hair. 

She nods softly, her eyes getting heavier by the moment. Lando smiles fondly at her, planting a soft kiss to her forehead. 

“Mmm, love you, Lan” Y/N murmurs, her eyes half shut as she sluggishly drapes an arm over his torso, his heartbeat steadily beating against her ear. 

“I love you too, my love. Let’s get some sleep” he smiles, his own eyes shutting as the couple drift off to sleep, safe and happy in the embrace of one another. 

The next day

Lando and Y/N arrive at the paddock, Lando occasionally signing stuff or taking photos with fans as they make their way to the Mclaren motorhome, a small smile on Y/N’s face as she watches Lando with his fans. Once he’s done, the couple make their way into the Mclaren motorhome and head towards Lando’s drivers room so he can get into his fireproofs and race suit. Lando changes into his race suit, a determined look on his face, determined to win the race later today. 

The couple make their way over to the garage. Y/N holds Lando’s helmet for him while he pulls on his gloves and balaclava. 

“be careful please” the Y/E/C eyed girl says softly, knowing how dangerous Monaco can be. Lando smiles softly as he takes his helmet from her. 

“i promise I'll be careful. I'll bring that trophy home, Y/N/N” He grins, pulling his helmet on. Y/N plants a soft kiss to his helmet where his lips would be a small tradition they've always had since he's been in formula 1. 

Y/N grabs a headset as Lando leaves the garage to head to the grid and slips the headset over her ears so she can listen in on his team radio. 

The race gets underway with a smooth start for Lando, successfully holding off Leclerc in p2. 

End of the race

Y/N cheers loudly as she watches Lando cross the finish line in p1 alongside Lando’s parents, tears of joy filling her eyes. The three of them make their way down to parc ferme as Lando, Chares and Oscar parks their race cars behind their respective stands. Y/N watches, smiling widely as Lando stands on the front wing, cheering and jumps off, running towards the Mclaren crew who congratulate with words of praise and pats on the back. 

Lando celebrates with his team, his smile wider than ever. He then moves to hug his parents, the two elders praising him and kissing his cheek. Lando’s eyes lock with Y/N’s, his smile growing wider if that's even possible at the sight of her smile and happiness, her smile just as bright as his, making her look as beautiful as ever. He gently pulls her forward and immediately wraps his arms around her waist and hugging her tightly. Y/N reciprocates his hug, wrapping her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. 

“You won Monaco! I'm so so proud of you” she mumbles into his shoulder. Lando hugs her tighter, holding her closer. 

“I did, baby, I did” he responds, a small chuckle escaping his lips, his hand coming up to rest on her waist, looking down at her, taking in her features, his heart bursting with love for the girl in his arms. 

He leans down and presses a kiss to her lips, not caring about the cameras and people surrounding the couple. He gently nuzzles his nose against hers as he speaks, his voice soft and low, just for her to hear. 

“I love you so much” she smiles softly at his words, a stray tear of happiness falling down her cheek 

“I love you too, so so much” 

Lando plants another quick kiss to her cheek before reluctantly letting go of her to head to the podium. Everyone all turns their attention up to the podium as the podium celebrations start. Y/N pulls her phone out as Lando walks out onto the top step of the podium and takes photos and videos, unapologetically proud of him 

Lando grins when he sees Y/N recording, throwing a quick, cheeky wink her way. He does his champagne pop and Lando, Charles and Oscar, all spray each other with the champagne. 

Once the podium celebrations are over, Y/N waits for Lando in the Mclaren motorhome with his parents, the three chatting amongst themselves as they wait for the racer. 

McLaren

Liked by: maxfewtrell, y/user, lnfour and others

McLaren: LANDO’S FIRST WIN IN MONACO! 🇲🇨

LANDO NORRIS IS THE MONACO GRAND PRIX WINNER!🧡

comments:

Y/user: NEVER DOUBT A DOUBT!!🧡🧡

lnfour: FASTEST LAP ON THE LAST LAP🥵😮‍💨

davidbeckham: congratulations @/mclaren @/lando👏🏻🧡

Quadrant: huuge🔥

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—————

Y/user

Liked by: lando, McLaren, pietrapilao and others

Y/user: MY BOYS A MONACO GP WINNER!!!🧡🧡🧡Lando words cant describe how proud I am of you! I love you so so much🧡

tagged: Lando, McLaren

comments:

lando: my good luck charm🧡forever my biggest cheerleader 🫶🏻 ♥︎ by author

↪️ Y/user: forever and always🧡

maxfewtrell: never a doubt🧡well done mate👏🏻 ♥︎ by author

mclaren: our driver🧡 ♥︎ by author

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—————

lando

liked by: y/user, riabish, lnfour, maxfewtrell and others

lando: Monaco win. For you mum, dad and of course my biggest cheerleader, Y/N❤️

comments:

y/user: so endlessly proud of you baby🧡 ♥︎ by author

↪️lando: I love you🧡🧡

McLaren: 🧡🧡🧡

lnfour: never knew a post could make me more n more emosh with every slide😭

Riabish: 👏👏

francolapinto: well done landinioooo top weekend👌🏻

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[cressidagrey]

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Welcome to Mysterious Mrs Piastri's Mondays. Apparently this is a thing now. (Ever since I hear that interview where Kimi was asked which subjects he's scared off an the answer was Math, I knew I was gonna write this.)

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Kimi Antonelli didn’t ask for help lightly.

Especially not with math.

He was a racing driver, not an idiot. He could handle telemetry, fuel loads, braking calculations, tyre degradation graphs — all of it — without blinking. He’d memorized braking points at Spa, figured out fuel maps on the fly, and survived radio calls with engineers who thought “you’re fine” covered every possible scenario.

He was good at numbers. At racing numbers.

But this assignment?

This nightmare of partial derivatives and matrix transformations?

It stared at him from his tablet like a personal attack, every line of notation a new insult to his intelligence.

After twenty minutes of glaring at it — tapping his pen, checking his notes, checking them again as if they might have magically rewritten themselves — Kimi finally let out a groan of pure, unfiltered despair.

He flopped face-first onto the hospitality couch, tablet slipping from his hands onto the seat beside him.

Without lifting his head, he announced, voice muffled against the cushions: “I’m going to fail math and bring shame to the entire grid.”

The nearest breathing human — unfortunately — was Ollie Bearman, who looked up from where he was very happily slurping a suspiciously neon smoothie.

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?”

Kimi lifted one arm limply and waved the tablet in the air like a white flag of surrender.

“This. Derivatives. Partial equations. I don’t know. Numbers are evil.”

Ollie blinked once. Then grinned — the kind of grin that meant he was enjoying Kimi’s suffering way too much.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Arthur Leclerc almost failed stats back in F3.”

Kimi turned his head enough to squint at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Like, barely passed.”

Kimi perked up slightly, seizing onto the news like a lifeline. If Arthur — who had a literal racing dynasty backing him — struggled, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

“How’d he survive?” Kimi asked, sitting up slightly.

Ollie’s grin widened.

“Oscar.”

Kimi stared at him. “Piastri?”

“Yep. Quiet nerd back at Prema. Absolute lifesaver. Helped Arthur cram for finals and everything.”

Kimi narrowed his eyes. He thought about Oscar: quiet, steady, terrifyingly good at everything he touched, like someone had programmed him in a lab.

Of course Oscar would have hidden superpowers. Of course.

Kimi hesitated, pride warring with desperation.

And then sighed dramatically, letting his head thunk back against the couch.

“Fine,” he said. “Find me Piastri. I have no pride left.”

Which was how, ten minutes later, they ended up with Oscar Piastri sitting cross-legged in the McLaren motorhome, frowning deeply at Kimi’s tablet like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Oscar muttered, squinting, “it’s not impossible. It’s just badly worded.”

Kimi leaned forward, full of hope — desperate, grasping hope.

Maybe this would be fine. Maybe Oscar Piastri — quiet, unflappable, secret nerd of Prema lore — could fix this disaster.

Five minutes later, that hope was dead.

Oscar exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be honest with you, mate: I have no idea what they’re asking for.”

Kimi flailed, waving his hands like he could physically summon better news. “But you saved Arthur! You’re the math guy!”

Oscar held up a hand, grimacing. “That was basic stats, Kimi. You know, averages. Standard deviations. This—” he pointed at the tablet like it might bite him, “—this is multivariable calculus meets actual sadism.”

Ollie Bearman, who had been perched nearby pretending not to watch the trainwreck unfold, snorted into his water bottle.

Oscar sighed again, this time reaching for his phone.

“No—” Kimi said, panicked, feeling his dignity slipping further into the abyss. “Don’t call someone. Don’t bother anyone. I’ll just fail and move to a cabin in the woods, it’s fine—”

Oscar was already dialing.

“Relax,” he said, calm as anything. “Felicity’s here. She likes this stuff.”

Five minutes later, Felicity Piastri wandered into the motorhome.

Kimi had seen her around the paddock plenty of times over the last year.

The first two things he’d learned about Oscar’s wife were simple:

1. She was tiny and startlingly pretty — the kind of pretty that could probably kill a man if she wanted to.

2. If Felicity Piastri was somewhere, Bee Piastri, Oscar’s terrifyingly adorable four-year-old daughter, was never far behind.

Today was no exception.

Bee marched in beside her mother, two neat pigtails bouncing with every step, each tied with papaya-colored bobbles (a detail that felt almost aggressively on-brand). A stuffed frog plushie dangled from one hand, like a trusted battle companion.

Both of them — Felicity and Bee — looked unfairly bright and well-rested for how emotionally wounded Kimi felt.

Oscar, completely unbothered by the incoming reinforcements, handed Felicity the tablet without preamble.

She glanced at it. Paused. Then blinked slowly.

“You’re all stumped by this?” she asked, her voice dripping with mild disbelief.

Kimi wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s the notation!” he blurted defensively. “And the question’s vague! And the examples were misleading!”

Felicity tilted her head, looking at him with the kind of fond pity reserved for particularly slow puppies. “It’s literally just a chain rule application with a matrix shortcut.”

“That’s not helping!” Ollie said, muffled into the crook of his elbow where he was laughing himself into an early grave.

Meanwhile, Bee had clambered neatly onto Oscar’s lap without hesitation, perching herself like a queen surveying her court. Kimi noticed absently how Oscar automatically shifted to make room for her — steadying her with one hand, pressing a soft kiss to her temple like it was muscle memory.

“Mama, is it hard?” Bee asked, peering at the tablet with great seriousness.

Felicity smiled. “Not really. But it’s annoying.”

Bee thought about that for a second. Then squared her tiny shoulders like she was preparing for battle.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Oscar sighed deeply. “Bee, it’s complicated—”

But Bee was already moving, plucking the tablet from his hand like it was no big deal, mumbling to herself under her breath.

“Okay, so you take this one first because it’s inside the brackets... and then you swap the middle bits because that’s the rule from the blue notebook... and then you put it all together and it looks like a frog but it’s actually a plus sign.”

Kimi blinked.

Ollie blinked.

Oscar just shook his head like a man who had accepted the chaos a long time ago.

Three minutes later, Bee beamed, handed the tablet back to her mother, and swung her legs happily.

“There,” she said proudly. “Now it’s not grumpy anymore.”

Felicity leaned over, checked the solution... And grinned.

“She’s right,” she said brightly. “Great job, sweetheart!”

Oscar gave a low, half-proud, half-resigned chuckle. “Welcome to my life.”

Kimi stared at the screen.

A four-year-old. A four-year-old had solved the math problem correctly in under three minutes.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He had heard rumors last year — something about Bee spotting an issue with a McLaren suspension load calculation before any of the engineers did.

But seeing it in real time?

Devastating.

Absolutely devastating.

“I— how did you—?” Kimi stuttered, still struggling to comprehend reality.

Bee shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mama says numbers are friends. You just have to make them sit next to each other nicely.”

Kimi blinked down at the tablet, then at Bee, then back again.

Maybe... maybe racing cars was safer. Maybe he should stick to corners and apexes where the worst that could happen was a spin, not having his soul annihilated by a toddler.

Felicity kissed the top of Bee’s head and said entirely too casually, “There you go. Courtesy of a four-year-old.”

Oscar smiled and held out a hand. “Great job, Bumblebee.”

Bee high-fived her father so hard the smack echoed around the motorhome.

Kimi slumped back into his seat, utterly defeated.

Maybe he had brought shame to the grid after all.

Later, Kimi found himself slumped in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, a half-crushed juice box in his hand — courtesy of Bee, who had handed it over solemnly “for bravery.”

The worst part?

He genuinely needed it.

He sipped the apple juice in silence, staring into the middle distance, quietly reconsidering his entire academic career.

Maybe he could just... never open a math textbook again. Maybe he could live the rest of his life solely calculating apex speeds and brake bias. Maybe if he was fast enough, no one would ever ask him to solve another derivative.

Maybe.

Across the room, Felicity leaned against the table, arms folded, smiling sweetly — the kind of sweet that definitely had shark teeth hiding underneath.

“Bee’s better at recognizing patterns than most adults,” she said casually, like she wasn’t casually shattering the egos of Formula One drivers before lunchtime. “She’s been beating Oscar at card games since she was two.”

Oscar, sitting beside Kimi and munching on a cookie he definitely hadn’t earned, patted Kimi’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “She inherited her mother’s brain.”

Kimi just groaned into his hands.

It didn’t help that Bee chose that exact moment to skip past them, Button the Frog tucked securely under one arm and a packet of glittery frog-shaped stickers in the other.

She looked so pleased with herself. Completely oblivious to the devastation she had left behind. Or maybe — horrifying thought — not oblivious at all.

Kimi made a note to himself:

Never challenge Bee to anything involving numbers.

Never doubt Felicity’s terrifying brain ever again.

Maybe just stick to driving cars really fast. It was safer for his dignity.

Probably.

Maybe.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Obsessed with your Dr. Robby writing!!! I need to see your take on obviously jealous Robby where a patient flirts with the reader while she fixes him up and everyone picks up on it the jealousy (and find it hilarious) except the reader who is just like “???”

Tension at The Pitt

Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavich x Surgeon!Reader

Summary: Being a surgeon at The Pitt meant handling chaos with a level head. You were used to high-pressure situations, fast decisions, and—unfortunately—inappropriate comments from trauma patients. What you weren’t used to was Dr. Robby getting tense over it.

The moment they wheeled the trauma patient into the ER, you knew it was going to be a long night.

Gunshot wound, mid-30s, conscious but way too cocky for someone actively bleeding out.

“You’re a pretty one,” the guy grunted as you checked his vitals.

You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at him. Just focused on stabilizing him. “BP’s low. We need to get him to the OR.”

But he wasn’t done.

“I must be dying,” he groaned dramatically. “Because there is no way an angel like you is real.”

From across the room, you heard the sharp snap of gloves.

You felt it before you even saw it—Dr. Robby stiffening beside you, shoulders tensing as he prepped the IV line.

You ignored both of them. Kept working.

But the patient loved an audience.

“Come on, Doc,” he said, shooting you a weak grin. “Let me take you out after this. I mean, after you save my life, obviously.”

“I’m literally about to crack open your chest,” you deadpanned.

“Damn,” he groaned, wincing as you adjusted the pressure on his wound. “I love a woman in control.”

That’s when Robby’s jaw clenched. Tight.

You didn’t see it, but you felt it in the air, the quiet but dangerous shift in his energy.

Still, you stayed focused. “Get the OR prepped,” you ordered.

He looked between you and Robby—who was now standing very still, his hand flexing at his side like he was trying very hard not to react.

And then the patient let out a breathless laugh. “Woah, man. What are you—her boyfriend or something?”

The room froze. Silence. Thick, loaded silence.

You didn’t stop working. Didn’t even blink. But you felt everyone’s eyes shift to Robby.

The patient was smirking, but it was weaker now. Like he had finally clocked the tension in the room.

Robby inhaled slowly, carefully. Then, in the calmest voice you’d ever heard from him, he muttered—“Let’s just focus on keeping you alive, alright?”

His tone was light, controlled, but there was something dangerous underneath. Something that made the patient’s grin drop. Something that made your pulse spike—because you knew Robby. And you knew exactly what that reaction meant.

The second the gurney disappeared through the OR doors, the ER fell into a weird silence. No one was saying anything, but you could feel it—the barely-contained smirks, the stolen glances, the way nobody wanted to be the first to break.

Until, of course, someone did.

“Okay,” Dana finally said, pulling off her gloves with a snap. “So we’re just… not gonna talk about that?”

You exhaled through your nose, giving her a look. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Dana snorted. “Oh, please.”

You sighed. “Dana—”

“No, no, I wanna hear this,” Dr. Collins said. “I mean, not to read into anything, but—”

“But you’re gonna read into it anyway?” you interrupted, raising a brow.

Dana grinned. “Duh.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your chart, fully prepared to ignore this conversation forever.

But then—“That patient was so right,” Javadi muttered.

You froze. Robby, who had been standing at the sink washing his hands, froze too.

Javadi hesitated. “I just mean—the energy? It was giving, like… jealous boyfriend.”

Silence. Your stomach flipped.

Because that wasn’t just a casual statement but an open challenge. And before you could deflect—before you could handle this—Robby turned.

Dr. Robby. The cool, collected, always-in-control attending. Except right now he didn’t look collected at all. He looked pissed. Not at you. At himself.

He grabbed a towel, drying his hands too aggressively before muttering, without even looking at you—“Yeah? Well, maybe that’s because I am.”

A collective inhale.

You blinked. “What?”

Robby tossed the towel onto the counter, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “You heard me.”

The room was dead silent.

Then—“Oh, shit,” Dana whispered under her breath, eyes wide.

The interns gawked. Your brain stalled. Because what the hell had just happened? You were used to subtle tension. Used to stolen glances and things left unsaid. But this wasn’t subtle.

This was Robby snapping—publicly, in front of everyone—and you had no idea what to do about it.

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | after accidentally posting a meme about kimi before he got his first pole position, you’re called to his team truck. what starts as a tense confrontation quickly turns into flirtation

warnings | fluff, mild language, flirting, romantic tension, kissing

word count | 1.0 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇️ f1 masterlist

It wasn’t intentional. Well… maybe just a little.

The meme had been ready since Friday. Kimi Antonelli: the prince of Free Practice Fridays, the ghost of Saturdays. It was funny, harmless… at least until he pulled off a magic lap in qualifying and got his first pole.

And you, on autopilot, posted it right after.

"When you make more shade than lap times," the caption read, over a photo of Kimi stepping out of the car, serious face, dark sunglasses. It was clever. It was viral. It was... a big mistake.

Your phone explodes.

First, the retweets. Then, the messages. After that, PR calls. And finally, the message you were dreading:

Kimi Antonelli: “Can you come to the truck for a second?”

You swallow hard. Take a deep breath. Walking toward the team area has never felt this long.

You find him leaning against the side door, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, a white shirt clinging to his chest, hair a little damp from the heat inside the helmet. He’s not smiling. He’s not even blinking.

“What was that?” he asks, in that tone so... Kimi. Serious. Calm. Lethal.

You try a nervous laugh.

“It was a mistake. I had the post scheduled before quali. I didn’t think you were gonna… well, pull off magic.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“So my mistake was proving you wrong today?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“No?”

There’s a pause. You cross your arms. He studies you like you’re one of his corners on a brand-new circuit. Something shifts in his gaze. It's no longer just irritation. It’s curiosity. Playfulness.

“You know how many memes I’ve seen in the last three months?” he says, stepping closer. “Each one made me want to prove I’m more than just potential.”

Your heart drums. The air between you gets thicker than a gridlock in Monaco.

“And what do I have to do with that?”

“You’re the one posting them.”

“And you’re the one who got a pole. I fixed it, deleted it, celebrated it. What else do you want?”

Silence.

“An apology. In person.” Kimi barely smiles. “Because I want to hear if you sound as sarcastic as you write.”

You look at him. Long. You step closer. Your lips are just inches from his ear when you whisper:

“Sorry, Kimi. I really thought you’d qualify tenth.”

He chuckles. Drops his head for a second like he can’t believe it. Then looks up again. Closer. Sharper.

“You’re worse than I thought.”

“And you’re more intense than I expected.”

“Intense?” he repeats. “This isn’t intensity. This is passion. Whole different thing.”

That tone heats your cheeks. You look away. He notices.

“But you kinda like it, don’t you?”

“Don’t answer that,” you say, smiling even though you didn’t want to.

Silence again. But this time, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s loaded.

The distant noise of the paddock fades as he runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms.

“You know what bothered me most about that meme...” he begins, lowering his voice, “wasn’t what it said. It’s that it came from you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re good. Too good. And I didn’t expect you to be the one doubting me.”

That hits harder than a badly taken chicane.

“I didn’t doubt you,” you murmur. “I laughed a little. But I never doubted.”

Kimi looks at you. Strong. Steady. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he steps closer. Your back touches the side of the truck. His hand rests just beside your head.

“Wanna buy me a coffee to make up for it?”

“Coffee?”

“Or whatever you drink when you wanna make things right with someone who’s looking at you the way I’m looking at you.”

You hesitate for a second.

A coffee. Any excuse would work, but you know it’s not about that. Not when he looks at you like this. Not when his eyes scan your face like they’re trying to memorize it. Not when his voice is no longer a challenge, but a whisper full of intent.

“I could buy you something,” you say, barely audible. “But I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

He tilts his head.

“No?”

“No.”

Your eyes drop to his lips, unintentionally. He notices.

What happens next is quick, but it doesn’t feel that way. Everything slows down.

Kimi leans in, just enough. Close enough for you to feel the brush of his breath on your lips. He smells like hot engine, adrenaline, and something fresh you can’t quite name—but it feels right. Familiar. The air between you vibrates with silent tension.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper. “But if you don’t say anything…”

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

Because deep down, you’ve been waiting for this.

And he knows it.

His lips brush yours like he’s testing the moment’s temperature. Like he’s giving you one more second to back out.

But you don’t.

So you kiss him.

Or he kisses you. You’re not even sure. What matters is that it happens.

Slow. Intentional. Almost tender, though there’s fire underneath. Your heart pounds like it might burst through your chest. Kimi holds you by the waist, not hard, but firm—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your hands end up on his chest, feeling the same wild rhythm that says just one thing: he wanted this too.

The kiss deepens. Your lips find his with a terrifying ease. There’s no awkwardness. Just need. Just desire.

When you finally pull apart, just barely, both of you are breathing like you just ran a qualifying lap.

He smiles. This time, for real.

“I think that made up for the meme.”

“Only a little?”

“A lot.”

“Then maybe I should post another.”

Kimi laughs. And this time, it reaches his eyes.

“Post whatever you want. But I’ll need the right to reply.” He pauses. “Privately.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Emotional contract. After that kiss, you’re officially my personal community manager.”

You laugh. He looks at you like you’re his new trophy. And you, who were just there to do your job, realize the most important pole wasn’t the one he got on track.

It was the one that made you fall headfirst into this.

Into him.

[burymagdalene]

Off the Map - S. Reid x Reader

In a lovingly competitive game of showing you just how mean your teasing really is, Spencer and reader find out some of Spencer's weaknesses as he's explaining yours.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut (18+ pls pls) tags: attemped soft!dom Spencer, he's easily overwhelmed. Munch!Spencer, teasing, you're both a bit sassy, loads of dirty talk, "talking you through it" of sorts, pinv sex, and some early load busting, screw it! wc: 3.3k a/n: I headcanon season 2 Spencer as someone who likes how it feels to be cocky but gets turned on super easily and struggles to deal with that combo. This is an extension of my thought here!

The spring equinox has finally arrived to salve your freezing limbs like an oil to a rusty hinge. The winter was brutal, you almost froze over completely. Somehow you made it, Spencer’s window is wide open as sun dances over his bed while you two lay on completely opposite sides, legs intertwined and slowly moving together.

Spencer is against his headboard, reading through a case file as your head slightly dangles off the end of his bed. Craning your neck a bit to look up through your bent knees you find his eyebrows slightly pinched, the wheels in his head spinning at the unfathomable speed they always do. 

“Are you almost done?”

“Mm.”

“The case? Are you almost done… would you say we can see it from here?” You laugh softly as your blood continues to rush to your head where you lay.

“No. You’re distracting me.”

His words aren’t sharp, he speaks them in an apologetic way, like it's his fault he’s so easily distracted by you. You guess it sort of is.

“How much longerrrr?”

“Hard to tell with these things. Kidnappings but I can’t find a comprehensible link between the different locations they were taken, it’s almost-”

“I’m gonna shower.”

Spencer hums high in his throat as if to say, “good idea!”, and squeezes your knees tightly between his one more time before moving so you can slip off the bed easily.

Padding to his bathroom, you get a thrill of excitement. You really have only ever showered in his bathroom with Spencer. Showering alone for the first time entices you, it really feels like the space is yours to own alongside him.

You want to read the ingredients to every product he owns and look at his shower wall and trace hearts into the steam.

Waiting for the water to heat with your chin in your hand you can’t help the small grin formed on your lips. You just know how particular and neat he is about his space, it's silly but it feels like an honor to be trusted with his shower. 

Once submerged, you get to look around. You love how Spencer smells so having free reign to look over his products has you giddy. 

Though… he has absolutely nothing to write home about. Soap bar, incredibly uninteresting scentless shampoo and conditioner, and an equally unscented body wash that appears to be bought from a farmers market.

Of course, this is exactly what you should’ve expected but makes you groan when you can’t blast Spencer’s smell all over you like a plug-in Febreze air freshener. 

Shower ending quicker than anticipated, you dry off and put on a spare old t-shirt and boxers you stole from Spencer’s dresser before heading to his room. 

“You know,” you begin while walking back into Spencer’s bedroom, “I was excited to smell like you. Use up all your soap. Whole lotta nothing.” You laugh and sit beside him on the bed. Spencer’s eyes still trained on the case file before he sets it down to look at you.

“Hah. You’d be shocked with how many damaging chemicals there are in body washes, hair wash. Especially for women. The sulfates in all that can irritate your skin, make your hair fall out, and even lead to cancer. Actually, did you know that even lung issues can get worse with sulfates by how they can decrease lung function with fragrance and can make asthma conditions worse. So, you should really use cleaner products.” Spencer rambles on while rubbing one of his hands on your hip.

“Hm. I guess. I usually get sulfate free stuff anyway. You have no faith in me.”

“Good. This way you still smell like you after you shower.” 

“Yeah? What do I smell like?”

Spencer lets out a drawn out sigh. Picks up his case file.

“You’re distracting me.” He sing-songs. 

“Wh- hey! No fair, you banished me to shower and said you’d be done after!”

“I did not.”

“You insinuated…”

“Who has the eidetic memory?”

You huff and rest your head against his shoulder. If he doesn’t want to spend his free time with his lovely, beautiful, and perfect partner (his own words) then he should just let you be close to him in silence.

Silence never was either of your specialties.

After probably two minutes, you start getting antsy. You’re watching his fingers trail across the lines on a little map beside him, close enough to smell the nape of his neck. The glasses on the bridge of his nose slide down slightly.

You trail one of your hands “innocently” to his stomach. Rubbing slowly back and forth, one of your pinkies slips underneath the band of his trousers and Spencer stiffens immediately.

“So is this… how is this less distracting?” Spencer grabbed your wrist loosely, not moving you, but applying a pressure that surely tells himself that he is indeed still in control. He’s still trying his best to work.

You giggle and place a kiss on his temple, move your hand away. Spencer sighs out a laugh and bends down to kiss your shoulder in return.

If rubbing his stomach was too teasing, you have to get your hands on him another way. Knowing this was not going to be any less distracting, if not more than rubbing his stomach, you place your hand down to run slowly up and down the expanse of his thigh.

Spencer doesn’t say anything for a moment before looking over at you with his big pleading eyes, the ones you know so well.

“I’m…too…” Spencer trails off before looking down and chuckling.

Everything about him is contagious, you laugh too. 

“What? What? Thigh petting is off limits too?”

“It. Yeah, it turns me on too much.” His cheeks tint pink.

“Ahh. Right. So how can I touch you in a way that doesn’t pull your focus from work?”

“Umm,” Spencer scoots down a bit from where he was leaning against his headrest and puts the file down, “Uh.”

Giggling you trace a fingernail lighting on the sensitive inside of his arm. 

“Here?”

Goosebumps rise on his skin, his head reels.

“Oh, I get it. Here?” 

You lift that same finger to trail lightly at the skin on his throat, to his collarbone.

“Baby…” He scoots his body impossibly closer to you, his side pressed neatly up against yours.

“Or… should I stop?”

“Ugh. No.” He groans at openly admitting you’ve won him over.

Laughing, you lean in to finally kiss him properly. Now more eager than you were, Spencer kisses you back with an unspoken thanks for being able to pry him away from the inevitable eyestrain he would’ve gotten. He recalls a time where he mentioned to you how sometimes after looking at a map for too long he will blink and look away but it’s burnt into the back of his eyelids.

Spencers hard on pokes the side of your hip as he shifts to lay halfway on top of you. Lifting one of his hands to cup the hinge of your jaw, his fingers slightly squeeze, opening your mouth a bit wider for him to move his tongue against yours. Spencer always feels more confident when your mouth is busy not teasing him till the tips of his ears go red.

A moan at the bottom of your throat comes out and you take that as a sign to deepen the kiss, pushing the back of his head till your lips start to feel numb around the edges.

He pulls away briefly, talking against your lips in rushed out breaths.

“You have signs too. You’re not the only one who remembers erogenous zones. I could distract you pretty easily too.” 

Apparently, nobody has ever introduced Spencer to the phrase “it’s not a competition”, but the underlying proposition has a chill going down your spine.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” Spencer mumbles against your lips, biting your bottom lip softy as a parting gift before he pulls away. “Here. Let's try something.”

With an equally lazy and cocky smile stretched on his pretty lips, Spencer rises and scoots himself across the bed to find where the map he has folded in his case file rests. Pulling it out he hands the map over to where you still lay.

“Spence- huh?” You chuckle, not sure what his motive is.

Spencer starts moving towards you again, “You go look where I circled Milford, Ohio and you read to me where some of those connected lines are going to. Try it.” Spencer laughs softly at your skeptical gaze as you lay flat against his pillow and slowly raise the map over your gaze.

“Um. The red line looks like it’s connecting to… well, Kentucky… Covington?” You hadn’t picked up a physical map since you were a kid probably, you rely too heavily on your gps to continue this game.

While you’re slowly looking at all the drawings Spencer has made over this map in the past, his circles and dots all work together to display the intricate makings of his mind, how his ever impressive thought process manifests itself, it’s beautiful in a way. 

It’s… he’s kissing your inner thigh now?

“Spence!” You giggle, “what?”

“Go on, tell me what else you see.”

You get it now. He’s pressing soft slow kisses on each of your bare thighs now. The initial giggles you had slowly dissipate as realization sets in that you’re getting a taste of your own poison. 

“Uh-um,” you stutter, clearing your throat, “you have a really, pre-precise hand drawn circle-” you gasp at a nip at your thigh at your attempt at humor.

“I know you can do better than that.”

Spencer's tongue laving on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs has gotten you more frazzled than you expected. It feels mean, you only used your hands on him earlier, you wouldn’t be so rude to blatantly-

“Hips up?” Spencer whispers against your skin. His wet kisses are left cooling against your flesh as a warm swipe of wind enters his window and caresses you alongside him.

Wordless, your hips raise, you don’t really care the ways in which you have his mouth against you as long as you get there eventually. Despite popular belief you can be patient.

With Spencers boxers off, and your pussy on display now he takes his fingers and traces the outside of one thigh up and down, each time he trails up he gets closer to where your upper thigh and hip meet.

You remember his snide, you can do better, and refocus your eyes to the map again.

“Shiit… um. Here! Here, you have a red line drawn from Milford up to… C-canada? It’s um, it’s off the map. What does that mean?”

You can feel Spencer's lips smile against the skin of your lower belly while he’s feeling the soft skin of your clit with such a feather light touch it almost feels more intense than direct contact.

“That, my dear, is off the map because earlier you wanted to put your hand under my pants and I was so shocked my pen trailed off. That's what that means.”

Gulping, you let go of the map, it softly flutters to the ground beside you without a sound. With the barricade gone, you and Spencer are making direct eye contact again.

“Oh.”

Your thighs involuntarily tense, wanting to squeeze and hold Spencer in place between where you want him most. Spencer’s fingers spread you open for him to break eye contact with you for a more glimmering wet location on your body.

“Are you sorry?” He mumbles out a prompt so you can end this incredibly taught tension that is about to snap any second.

“I think…it’s harder than I thought, yes I am-”

You could’ve said I think you’ll survive, or not really, but there’s something so perfectly sweet about that funny grin he gets that reads “I actually did it!” All over his face, you have no shame in letting him win.

Before you can even verbalize a punctuation for your apology, Spencer is whimpering and licking a stripe up your pussy, your head falls harshly back against his pillow as you adjust to the swing from light touching to full sensation.

Spencer's too distracted now by his mouthy task so you take it on yourself to reach down and take the glasses off his face for him, he hums against you, still quite mannered even when taking you apart.

With his whole face at your exposal now you are able to grind yourself up and down on his face more eagerly. You and Spencer alike go crazy when he’s eating you out so intensely that his nose is buried into and there’s suspicious glimmering up to his brow bone when he’s done with you.

Totally involved in whatever dynamic today's events created, you want to feed into his clear begging for apologetic sympathy. 

“Don’t, ah, don’t know how you do it. Seeing all those connections- crazy, baby. So smart.”

You’re rewarded with a mix between a whine and grunt against your clit, no doubt that his hidden cheeks are pinking.

Once Spencer begins to take big suctions of your lips and alternates that between smaller suctions against just your clit, any drive to talk in long, legible, sentences flies out the window. You’re so close to coming you can taste it, you’re sure Spencer can too.

You can’t even warn him, not that you need permission, you just reach out to capture his hand in yours so you can squeeze it through the orgasm that is currently sending flashes of light behind your eyelids.

Huffing out a groan, you take a fistful of Spencer’s hair to pull his mouth off of you. 

“Shit that felt good, come here.”

Spencer laughs and crawls up your body to kiss you, his boner kissing your stomach through layers as he does so.

“That felt good?”

“Mm. Want you now.’

He does his usual subconscious small squeak in excitement that you don’t even think he notices and pushes his shirt that you’re wearing up to expose your breasts.

One hand fisting the white fabric, the other rests on one boob as he sucks small marks on your collar and cleavage, never able to fully satisfy his wandering mouth.

“You’re so gorgeous,” a kiss on your neck, “I’m so happy.”

His giddyness is replicated as you pepper his cheeks with kisses, hands finding their way down to his pants again as you pull down the zipper and tug once.

Spencer takes off his pants and underwear with little urgency as you fling your top off to his floor and move to take his button up off as well with trembling fingers.

He snorts lightly, “what’s the rush?”

“D-don’t you want me?” It’s not meant to seem insecure, you kind of wanted it to be bossy and sarcastic, but want has threaded itself so deep into your vocal chords that it just sounds whiny.

“Mhm,” he takes his shirt off and kisses your forehead, you both maneuver down again so he can rest on top of you. Spencer pushes his chin out lightly to tap your forehead, signaling you to lean back against his pillow. “You know that, silly.”

While you begin kissing again, he takes the spare pillow not underneath your head to place it under your hips.

“I’m not lying about before. I also know all the things that make you tick, you like to feel the pressure against your lower back while I’m in you because it releases the tension you store there, makes the pressure of me inside you more intense.”

Spencer giggles at your dazed expression as he reaches for a condom from his bedside table, 

“You just revert that stress you keep there to your thighs when you squeeze them around me.”

He’s starting to get breathless, his teasing works just as well against himself, the most delicious double ended sword.

A few tantalizing swipes against your clit and entrance and Spencer is pushing his head into you, pulling his lips in to keep his moans from drowning out yours. Which inevitably will happen, and he always gets embarrassed, but right now he has the strength to hold them back.

Your toes curl where they’re pressed against his sides, he’s taking his sweet time stretching you out around him. Which, he knows you die for as well.

“Ah. Always feel so good. Can’t- ahem,” he presses his chest flat against yours, changes topic, “you love when I take you slow because you like when I hold back for us both, b-because you can’t.”

Fuck?

“Spence-” You whimper in shock, he’s exceptionally talkative today. Hellbent on proving to you that he is indeed obsessed over what your biology has learned to want the most.

You can see the way his lips tremble as he’s talking and fucking you slowly, though. His talking you through it has bitten him in the ass, he’s forgotten how much he loves dirty talk that even his own words are breaking him apart.

Voicing the stuff that turns you on is arousing him incredibly. Not something he really accounted for as he feels that familiar sensation in his stomach. 

That’s surely nothing?

Spencer has picked up his speed now, driven by how your whines are building off of each other and curses are falling from your lips.

“If- If I let you be in control all the time-, Jesus… you’d uh.” He pauses his sentence with a loud whine, the thought of what he’s saying making the heat inside him pulsate in a painful way. His tummy is turning at such speeds that it can barely keep up with his words. 

“You’d be like a…bunny- uh jack rabbit. Jesus, I can’t.” His whines crescendo, sealing off this throat to hinder his own sweet talking.

You’re not even sure what’s happening, what’s going on inside his head that has him smashing his face into your neck to cum as he trembles on top of you.

He dirty talked you so hard he couldn’t even take it.

“M’ so sorry.” He’s whimpering against the skin of your neck, hips still moving against you slowly, pulling out everything he has to give you.

Head spinning at how fucking hot this is, you reach one hand down to rub your clit in fast circles as the other one pets the back of Spencers head soothingly. 

Unabashedly moaning loud now, you throb around his sensitive dick while you touch yourself.

“Spence, you’re a piece of work-”

You can’t help but notice your legs digging into his sides, the merit behind his observations remaining strong. 

“Baby- touch me, wanna cum.” You plead to him, Spencer pulls his head from your neck, whipping himself into action.

Still inside, he quickly pushes your hand away to take its place, he’s murmuring god god god as his humiliation and striving to make you cum hard meld in his brain.

When you cum for the second time, Spencer sucks in air sharply between his teeth as your twitching against him pushes him into complete overstimulation. He stays put though, watching the bliss in your face through half-lidded eyes is the biggest reason to take a bit of pain. 

Eventually he pulls out, once you’re dragging him in for a long kiss.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He laughs in between kisses at himself.

“Spencer, you’re so sexy. Such a sweet thing.”

He groans, tugs you on top of him while he’s flat on his back. You push his messied hair off his forehead in tender passes, you’re sure he can feel all your love in the way your nails caress his scalp.

“Mr. talk the talk-”

“Stop!” He laughs anyway. “I’ve never finished so fast.”

“And you’re calling me the jack rabbit!”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Amazing! Now the opposite: compleatly silent reader. Like they dont make any noise at all and scare the fuck out of everyone.

"AAAAAHH! Shit! How long have you been here?!"

"About two hours?"

"Damn... put some bells on your boots or something"

Dead Silent

Pairing: Poly 141 x Silent!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, humor, mild jump-scare style reactions, slow burn polyamory, established team dynamics, reader is very stealthy (like Ghost x10), mild swearing

Author’s Note: This one was so fun to write! I loved flipping the trope from makes noise constantly to makes zero noise and freaks everyone out. The boys are baffled, scared, and absolutely head-over-boots for you. I might continue this later on so we’ll see! Stay tuned!!

Summary: You’re the quietest thing the team’s ever seen—an operative so silent you sneak up on Ghost. But even without words, you’ve got all four of them wrapped around your finger.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

"AAAAAHH! Shit!"

Soap nearly launched the mug across the mess hall. Kyle yelped beside him, clutching his chest.

You stared blankly, standing directly behind them, tray in hand. No expression. No noise. Just... there.

Gaz took a deep breath. "How long have you been there?"

You blinked slowly.

"About two hours," came the calm response from behind you. Price. The only one seemingly unbothered.

"Two hours?" Soap hissed, eyes wide. "Mate, put some bloody bells on your boots or something."

You sat down without a word, not a single clink from your tray. Not even the scrape of your chair.

Ghost entered just in time to see the aftermath—Soap still twitching, Gaz mumbling to himself, Price sipping tea like nothing happened.

"They jump again?" he asked, glancing at you.

You shrugged.

"You're worse than me," Ghost muttered, almost... impressed.

No one ever heard you coming. Not during drills. Not during breakfast. Not during missions.

Price called it a gift.

Ghost called it "creepier than death itself."

Soap called it "a bloody health hazard."

Even when the team tried to track you on missions, you vanished. You never spoke unless absolutely necessary, and even then, your voice was soft—so soft it made people wonder if they'd imagined it.

One night, during a late recon op, the four men sat around a campfire, chatting low while waiting on a signal.

"She's not even real," Soap whispered, glancing into the woods. "She’s a myth. A rumor. She’s the wind."

"She’s behind you," Gaz said flatly.

Soap whipped around. You were crouched five feet away.

"FUCK—!"

"Didn’t mean to scare you," you murmured, voice as calm and deadpan as ever.

"Didn’t mean—!" Soap clutched his heart. "One day you’re gonna give me a cardiac arrest and I’m gonna thank you for it, aren’t I?"

You tilted your head. "Maybe."

That was the moment Soap knew he was screwed.

Ghost, who prided himself on being the stealthiest of the 141, found himself constantly surprised by your presence. You moved through the base like fog—silent, sudden, and impossible to grasp. But what really got him? You never interrupted. You just... waited. Watched. Listened. It unnerved him at first. Then it fascinated him.

Gaz couldn’t get over the calm in your silence. You didn’t fill the space with noise. You just were. When you did speak to him, it felt like a privilege. A gift. Like the universe had chosen him to receive one of your rare, quiet words.

Price? He watched you like a cat watches a laser dot. Curious. Amused. Then thoughtful. Then entranced. You didn’t need noise to lead. You moved through the world on your own rules. And damn if he didn’t admire it.

The four of them didn’t realize they’d fallen for you until the day you disappeared during a raid.

No sound.

No sign.

Just gone.

Panic wasn’t often in their vocabulary—but it was that day.

Price paced. Ghost scanned rooftops. Soap radioed so much it started glitching. Gaz swore under his breath, loading and reloading a mag without thinking.

Then, as the sun dipped low, you appeared.

Not a sound.

Just walking out of the smoke.

Holding the USB drive they needed.

Covered in ash, completely calm.

"Mission complete," you said softly, handing it to Price.

He didn’t speak. Just grabbed you and pulled you into his arms like he wasn’t going to let you go again.

That night, all four of them hovered. Offering water. Bandages. Blankets. Touches that lingered just a little too long.

"Stay," Soap said, barely more than a whisper.

You nodded once.

Later, curled between all of them in a tangled mess of limbs, you didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

And in the silence, they heard everything.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[jennxxe]

Permanently marked.

pairings — erik campbell x fem! reader

summary — he gets your name tattooed over his chest.

warnings — cursing, getting tattooed, he lq wants u to baby him

a/n — manifesting a man like this thru my writing. this is js a cute lil short fic.

He said it like it was nothing. Deadpan, like he was letting you know he was gonna grab a smoke. Not declare lifelong emotional insanity.

“Yeah, I’m getting your name tatted,” he told you, flicking through needles like he was choosing a sandwich order. “Over the sternum. Big.”

You paused, looking up from your phone. “Excuse me?”

Erik didn’t even look up from the tray of freshly sterilized needles he was loading like a psychopath. “You heard me.”

You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Finally, he looked at you—blue eyes steady, unreadable, but something flickered there. Not joking. Not exactly.

“Nope.” He gestured lazily to his chest. “Right here. Over the bone. Big enough to see from space. Maybe throw a little filigree under it, just to piss off my boss.”

“My full name? Not initials?”

“Yeah. Not some weak ass initials or hidden spot behind my ear. Your full name. Dead center.” A beat. “That way if I die, whoever’s scraping me off the pavement knows who ruined me.”

You couldn’t tell if your heart was pounding from horror, arousal, or some toxic cocktail of both. “Are you insane?”

He tilted his head. “Little bit, yeah. Thought we covered that already.”

And then he was shirtless, because of course he was. Sprawled back in the chair like it was no big deal, his pierced chest on display—those little silver rings glinting in the light like they knew they were part of the problem. He had one arm slung behind his head, the other resting low on his stomach. Ridiculously calm for someone about to have your name drilled into his body forever.

The tattoo artist raised a brow. “You sure about this, man?”

Erik didn’t even blink. “Not even slightly. Let’s go.”

You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve talked him out of it. But something about the way he lay there unguarded, cocky, quiet made your throat go tight. This man, with his temper and his filthy mouth and his emotional range of a microwave dinner, was about to mark himself with you.

And he didn’t even flinch.

You watched every second of it. The machine buzzed loud in the silence, echoing in your chest. The lines started sharp, bold, no delicate cursive. Just unapologetic black ink slicing across skin. Your name, letter by letter, carved into him like a dare.

He winced once, maybe twice, jaw clenching but he didn’t say a word. Just stared at the ceiling, fists curled, breathing steady like it didn’t hurt. Like he’d take a thousand needles if it meant making you unignorable.

The artist glanced at you halfway through. “People usually get initials. Or something abstract.”

Erik snorted. “Yeah, and people are cowards.”

When it was done, the skin around the ink was raw and red, a little swollen, like it was still becoming. He sat up slow, hissed through his teeth, then turned to the mirror. Looked at it.

Then looked at you.

“Well?” he asked, like he didn’t just do the most unhinged romantic gesture anyone had ever done in a strip-mall tattoo shop. “You gonna cry, or kiss me?”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You are such a dumbass.”

He stepped closer, eyes still on yours. “Yeah, well. I’m your dumbass now. Legally. Kinda.”

You ran your fingers lightly over the fresh ink and watched him shiver, just slightly. He tried not to show it. He failed.

“If you break my heart,” he said quietly, voice rough, “I’m charging you double to laser it off.”

You laughed, soft. “You wouldn’t laser it off.”

He met your eyes.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’d cover it with a skull and pretend it never happened.”

You go back to your place eventually, pulling up his shirt over his chest as you straddle him on your bed.

“Don’t touch it,” he muttered, voice rough, barely masking how much the fresh ink stung. “It’s pissed off enough already.”

But the second your fingers hovered near the red, swollen skin, he flinched, and then grabbed your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you.

“I said, don’t,” he growled, but his eyes weren’t cold. They were… something softer. Vulnerable, even.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Since when did you get so needy?”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not needy.”

“Sure.”

He sighed again, looking anywhere but at you. “It’s not the tattoo. It’s the stupid aftercare shit. Gotta keep it clean. Dry. No rubbing.”

You leaned in closer, voice dropping low. “So you want me to baby you.”

Erik blinked, like you’d just solved a puzzle he didn’t want to admit he was stuck on.

“Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“That I want you to take care of me.”

You smiled wider. “I’ll take care of you.”

His jaw twitched, and before you could react, he grabbed your hand and pressed it against the fresh ink. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin and just for a moment, the edgy ass exterior cracked.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered, voice rougher now. “Especially not Julia. I’m supposed to be the badass who doesn’t need shit.”

You chuckled softly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

And as you traced the letters slowly, feeling the raised lines beneath your fingertips, he let out a low, contented hum. The closest thing Erik Campbell had to a purr.

[dark-l-angel]

hi!! I saw that you accept request, so I have an idea. It's not really a creative one but I'm obsessed with clingy Jason Todd 😭😭 so I was thinking if you can maybe (please🙏) write something where reader needs to go to work but Jason stops reader because he's needy. Do you get it😭😭

Thank you!

-G.A.

A/N: needy, whiny, bed-hogging Jason who clings like a big heat-emitting emotional weighted blanket telling you to quit that damned job that keeps you away from HIM? YES.. I've been waiting for this moment..

Clingy jason Todd x Reader

Clingy jason, reader is tired of their job. Everything else is fluff

The sun had barely risen. Pale gold light filtered through the curtains you swore you closed the night before, and the shrill alarm on your phone had already gone off.. twice. You were late.

You groaned and shifted, trying to sit up, but you didn’t get far.

There it was. That arm. That damn arm.. muscular, warm, and currently locked like a steel bar across your waist.

"Jason..." you warned softly, already knowing the game he was playing.

He didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. His only response was a muffled grunt into the crook of your neck, his nose nudging against your skin like a sleepy, stubborn dog refusing to move. You could feel his scruff, slightly overgrown, tickling your jaw.

"Jay, I have to go," you tried again, wiggling just enough to reach the edge of the bed.

"Mm-mm" he muttered, holding tighter. "Call in."

"I can’t just call in every time you get clingy-"

"You say that like it’s not a perfectly valid reason.." he interrupted, voice gravelly and deep from sleep. "Tell them your husband is a needy bastard and he’ll literally die if you leave him in this cold, cruel world alone."

You turned just enough to catch his expression.

Eyes still half-lidded, hair sticking up on one side, and that little pout forming on his lips. He looked like trouble disguised as a Greek god wrapped in a blanket burrito. Holding you in one arm while the other hugged a cute pink mochi-cat plushie.

"Jay..." you said again, but this time it was harder to fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He cracked one eye open. "What if I’m cold? You gonna leave your poor man here all defenseless and shivering while you run off to.. what.. type emails?"

"Not defenseless," you snorted. "You have guns, Jason... There's one inside that cat plushie.. and one under our pillows.. and another two in each of the nightstands jay.. "

He chuckled "And yet none of them keep me as warm as you.. and THAT JOB? It’s draining you. And I hate it. I hate seeing you come home exhausted, giving them all your time when I could be giving you everything... I don't fuckin know why you're still insisting on working when i can work instead.."

You looked down at your phone.. the messages of your coworker asking about why you're late..

Jason continued "I don’t want you breaking your back just to survive. I want you to be safe, healthy and happy. I didn’t crawl out of the damn Pit, rebuild my whole damn life, just to watch the woman I FUCKIN love so damn much struggle.. SO.. quit. Stay home. Sleep in. Read your books. Take long baths. Buy shit loads of brands, makeup and skincare... Hell, start that little dream project you've been putting off. I’ll handle the rest. I'm the man in this relationship.. the one who protects, provides, and handles the weight. And my baby? Her only job is to Be soft. Be spoiled. Be mine. You doesn’t ask for luxury.. you expects it. And I make damn sure you get it.. while you.. you? You just focus on looking pretty, being yourself, and let me give you the life you were born to live."

You got beaten quite badly.. yet you rolled your eyes yet you almost couldn't contain your smile. "You’re being ridiculous."

"You like ridiculous. It’s part of my charm. Now shut up and cuddle me."

He tugged you back down with very little effort, pulling your face into his chest and throwing a thigh over your hip like a greedy child with a favorite stuffed animal. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, and his scent.. warm, woodsy, something expensive you could never pronounce.. made it that much harder to resist.

"...Five more minutes," you mumbled into his skin.

Jason smirked, victorious. "That’s my girl."

And five minutes somehow turned into 2hrs. You didn’t even feel bad.

Ps: i really needed to see someone write jason with that speech 🫠💕

"yeah babe... maybe I'll quit". And like that.. his bby girl never came to work again ✨ and she lived happily in her husband's muscular arms forever 💖

[spookyji]

fav place to cum. txt

nsfw, mdni. hmm, i’m in the mood to write hcs like these more than fics rn but also i have a big backlog of asks i need to catch up on eep

yeonjun = creampies, it’s not up for debate. it’s so possessive and addictive, the way he needs to fill you up with his cum and watch it seep out, mark you up inside and out so there’s no doubt you’re his. the corner of his lip pulled up into a smirk when your legs lock around his slender waist, never want him to pull out, hmm? not when he’s hitting that spot every time, rough and fast thrusts that leave you a whining mess, he’ll make you beg for him to cum inside. and there’s nothing better than being filled up to the brim with his cum, insides painted white with his cream. coos at you in a teasing way when your whimpering it’s too much, seed drooling from your cunt when he finally pulls out, dripping down on his sheets. slaps your sensitive folds, all marked up in his cum ‘cause you look so cute when you’re crying from overstim, feels so good to be fucked dumb, gonna let him fill you up again? one load’s not enough.

soobin… obviously inside, but genuinely, all over your boobs is his weakness if he can manage to pull out… maybe it’s better to give him a titjob as foreplay, he’ll cum in like 2 minutes flat. so obsessed with your tits, so soft n plush, the flushed, leaking tip of his cock protruding from the crevice between your boobs, on your knees, hold them in place for him while soobin thrusts messily into your breasts, moaning all over about how good it feels, his eyes can’t move from the sight of his throbbing cock fucking your tits, your pretty fingers squishing the plush of your chest together for him, oh, he’s so fucked, cums all over your tits in a creamy mess, so much milky white spurted on you,, soobin pushing you down on your back, need to clean you up, baby, tongue licking up his cum off your boobs, leaving a warm trail of saliva, face buried in your tits, have to make sure you’re all clean, hmm? tongue swirling over your sensitive nipple, a string of saliva hanging from his lip to the little nub… gonna let him have his way a little longer?

beomgyu’s so into doggy all because he gets to cum all over your ass, make a sticky mess when he pulls out as viscous cream drips down your curves to your thighs,, his favorite after completely ruining your pussy. careful when you beg beomgyu for harder, ‘cause he’s already such an addict for a hard, quick fuck, long bangs sticking to his skin with sweat, hands grabbing at your ass, his head tipped forwards as he pants through his parted lips, feels so good to release so much stress all at once, doesn’t it? the kind of sex that probably gets him complaints from neighbors for being so loud, lewd slaps of skin on skin and beomgyu’s just so big, stuffing you full with every thrust ‘til he’s about to burst,, and he’s so good at it, pulling out and jerking off himself off to finish all over your ass, warm, sticky cum coating your skin as you whine cause it’s such a mess to clean up later,, on another note, he’s still waiting for the day he gets to fuck your ass when it’s covered in his cum

taehyun’s guilty pleasure is covering your face in his cum, hot milky seed that drips down your glasses and on your tongue as you lick it off your lips. you’re so pretty when you’re on your knees in front of him, lips wrapped ‘round his cock, hand tangled in your hair pushing you deeper, a choked sound from your throat before he’ll relent. precum and drool all over your lips, his cock slick with spit, a hint of teeth briefly against the sensitive, prominent veins. the way taehyun adjusts your tilted glasses for you, just before he pushes your head down harder, god, he has so much self control, he could last for so long, your knees sore against the hard floor,, don’t you deserve a treat for doing so well? open up. hot cream spurted all over your face, dripping on your tongue, glasses, and skin, so pretty when milky ropes of cum coat your face. under taehyun’s relentless gaze as you lick it off your lips and swallow,, no, he won’t make you clean all of it up right away, you look too perfect like this.

huening kai’s stamina is too much for you? it’s more than just his favorite place, your stomach, his cum spilt in sloppy ropes all over your skin and on his sheets, oh, he’s so messy. legs thrown over his shoulders so he can thrust deeper, moans slipping from his throat at the sight of the little bulge he makes in your cum covered stomach when you’re full of his cock, your soft skin coated in his cum, another sticky sensation dripping down your thighs from how many loads ago? sex is so messy when it’s kai, he’s just so obsessed with you and your body, he can’t get enough, a white ring around his cock ‘cause he’s already filled you up, too. your legs sore and tired, whiny apologies because he’s still not had enough, just one more, please, you can take it, he knows you can. mhmm, one more load, cums right on your pussy. kai, ‘s messy, you mumble, can barely think straight, but he’s so sweet… and clumsy, using his discarded shirt to try to clean you up a little,,

[storyslover]

plsss can you do one where you’ and lando are both celebs, established relationship on hot ones versus!!!! reader is good with wings and lando we clearly know is rubbish with spice!!! 😭

Heat Check

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader (both celebrities – established relationship) Setting: Hot Ones Versus Episode Genre: Humor, Fluff, Realism, Slightly Suggestive Word Count: 5.8k

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INTRO

The Hot Ones Versus set was exactly as intimidating as it looked on YouTube. A sleek black table. Two rows of sauces. An aura of chaotic pain in the air.

Y/N adjusted her mic and smirked. “You ready to embarrass yourself in front of millions, baby?”

Lando, already chewing on gum to “prep” his taste buds, gave her a look. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I’m mentally prepared. Physically, though? I’m fully expecting to cry.”

Sean Evans laughed from across the table. “This is gonna be good.”

Cameras rolled. Lights came on. The director counted them in.

“Alright, welcome to Hot Ones Versus, the show with hot questions and even hotter wings. Today we’ve got a power couple in the hot seats—Y/N, international superstar and apparently spice queen, and Lando Norris, F1 driver, known for fast laps and a weak spice tolerance.”

Lando raised his hand. “That’s slander. I never said weak, I said sensitive.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and winked at the camera. “Translation: weak.”

Sean grinned. “Let’s get into it.”

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WING ONE – “Classic Hot Sauce”

“You know what’s terrifying?” Lando said after the first bite. “This already has a kick to it.”

Y/N shook her head. “It’s literally the starter wing.”

“Exactly. And I’m already sweating.”

“You always sweat when you’re nervous.”

Lando looked at her. “I’m nervous because of you. You eat scotch bonnets like popcorn.”

Sean laughed. “So, question one—how did this power couple begin? We know you kept it low-key for almost a year.”

Lando took a sip of milk and leaned back. “It was at the Monaco afterparty, remember that?”

Y/N nodded, lips curved. “Yeah. You spilled your drink on my shoes.”

“They were white! I thought I’d ruined your life.”

“You kind of did. But in a cute way.”

He chuckled, eyes soft. “I offered to replace them. She said I could buy her dinner instead.”

“And he was too nervous to kiss me until the third one.”

“Because you’re intimidating.”

“Because I could handle jalapeños and you cried at sriracha.”

Sean held up a wing. “And now here you are. Full circle.”

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WING FOUR – “Los Calientes Verde”

“This one’s tasty,” Y/N said, licking sauce off her finger. “Limey. Fresh.”

Lando was already hiccupping. “I’m dying. Are my ears supposed to ring?”

“Only if you’re a coward.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he wheezed.

Sean leaned in. “Y/N, let’s talk about your latest album. Critics called it your most personal work yet—how did Lando react to being... heavily featured in some of the lyrics?”

Y/N smirked. “He blushed so hard he looked like a tomato.”

“I didn’t know she wrote that song about the balcony in Ibiza,” Lando groaned.

“Oh, you knew. You just didn’t want your mum to find out.”

Y/N turned to Sean. “Let’s just say he didn’t mind the writing process.”

The corner of Lando’s mouth lifted. “I definitely didn’t.”

She gave him a loaded look. Suggestive. Playful. Dangerous.

Sean raised a brow. “Okay, the room is  heating up in more ways than one.”

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WING SIX – “Da Bomb Evolution”

Lando stared at the sauce bottle like it had personally offended him.

“This is the evil one,” he said solemnly. “I’ve seen the memes. I’m not ready.”

“Baby,” Y/N cooed. “You race at 300 km/h. This is just sauce.”

“This sauce doesn’t have brakes.”

Sean gestured dramatically. “Da Bomb Evolution. The moment of truth.”

They both took a bite.

Lando immediately made a sound between a cough and a whimper. His eyes widened. “I can’t feel my lips.”

Y/N winced slightly, but kept chewing. “That... yeah, that’s aggressive.”

Lando stood up, pacing behind the chairs, muttering, “Why is it bitter? Why does it taste like pain?”

“You okay, sweetheart?” Y/N asked innocently, fanning him with a napkin.

“I think I saw my ancestors,” he whispered. “They said turn back.”

Sean leaned in. “Lando, real talk—what’s harder: hot wings or driving through Eau Rouge in the rain?”

Lando, eyes watering, didn’t hesitate. “The wings. Every time.”

“Spoken like a man in distress,” Y/N said, smug.

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WING EIGHT – “Puckerbutt Pepper Company”

Lando was fully slumped in his chair, hoodie half off, eyes glassy.

Y/N, surprisingly composed, dabbed her lips with a napkin. “You good, babe?”

“I’m reconsidering my life choices.”

“You picked this show.”

“You said it’d be fun!”

Sean interjected, “Alright, next versus question—who’s more competitive?”

They both answered at the same time:

“Her .” “Him.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You nearly flipped a Monopoly board because I wouldn’t sell you Boardwalk.”

“Because you only bought it to spite me!”

Sean laughed. “I feel like there's a running theme in your relationship—chaotic flirting and competitive spice wars.”

Y/N smirked. “That's basically our love language.”

Lando turned to her, mouth still burning. “If I survive this, I deserve a back massage. And cuddles. And like... eternal praise.”

“You already get that.”

“Not enough. I’m being a spice martyr here.”

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FINAL WING – “The Last Dab: Apollo”

Sean held up the final wing. “Tradition says we put a little extra on the last wing.”

Lando shook his head. “Tradition can go to hell.”

Y/N didn’t blink. “Load me up.”

Lando stared at her like she wasn’t human. “You’re not real.”

She leaned in. “That’s what you said last night.”

Lando choked on air. Sean nearly dropped the sauce bottle.

“Y/N!” Lando hissed.

She laughed, biting into the final wing with almost zero hesitation.

He followed, grimacing instantly. “This is... this is a hate crime.”

Sean, through tears of laughter, asked, “Final question. What’s next for you two?”

Y/N smiled through the heat. “More music. More racing. Hopefully fewer spicy sauces.”

Lando wiped his face with a napkin. “And if I survive, maybe a vacation. Somewhere cold. Iceland. Antarctica.”

Y/N leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You were brave.”

He gave her a look. “You are so paying for this.”

“Gladly.”

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POST-INTERVIEW: BEHIND THE SCENES

In the dressing room, Lando collapsed dramatically onto the couch, still fanning his mouth.

“I will never recover.”

Y/N sat beside him, bottle of milk in one hand. “You were cute. I think Sean’s gonna ship us now.”

He glanced at her. “You mean you weren’t already shipping us?”

“You were very dramatic,” she teased.

“I nearly died for you.”

“Oh? For me?”

He looked at her, eyes softer now. “Always for you.”

And just like that, the spice was forgotten.

Kind of.

Until he groaned again. “My stomach’s doing things. Bad things.”

She patted his leg, laughing.

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Here it is hope you like it . and my requests are open guys . just ask .