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oceantornadoo · 5 months ago

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inspired by a dramoine fic i read! simon riley x f!reader

it’s the third time today someone has handed you simon’s paperwork and you’re starting to get confused. in fact, there’s the distinct feeling that you’ve missed a memo.

first, it was the visiting captain, so you couldn’t blame him for confusing lieutenants. but then it was johnny turning in his mission report, muttering something about “cannae be late this time if ah give it ye, lass.” which was odd, considering you weren’t his direct report (you were gaz’s). but what really sent you over the edge was getting called into price’s office and being met with a load of folders addressed to one Lt. Ghost (Confidential).

“sir, i’m a bit confused as to why you can’t just give these to him yourself.” price looked up from his desk, eyes flickering from under his boonie hat. “hav’ you seen ‘im today, lieutenant?” you nodded immediately while trying to scoop all of this paperwork (that was not yours!) into your arms. “yessir, i saw him before breakfast and then during training and then…what?” price had silently quirked an eyebrow, his beard echoing the movement. “i haven’t seen ‘im all day, so i figure it’s faster for you to deliver since you’re more well-versed in his movements than i am.” huh. “i’m sure he’s just doing his ghost thing, y’know? slipping into shadows and…”, price patiently gave you an exasperated look, “but i’ll get these to him, sir. see you later!”

the problem was, you knew exactly where simon was. in your office.

his own had an unfortunate ground level window near the track, so he was always complaining about nosy recruits until you offered to share some office space. temporarily, of course. it’s not like you were using all the empty space anyways and it made it much easier to get the opinion of your fellow lieutenant on a report by walking over to his desk, rather than going up and down stairs. that was the second point he made, and who were you to say no?

after pushing open your office door, you beelined for simon’s desk, dumping the stacks of folders on his desk. “wot’s this?” his mask was off so you could see his eyes widen at the mess of papers. “everyone now thinks i’m a drop off box for your paperwork, so i got burdened with all of this when i was doing my rounds.” he nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of his tea. “cheers, love.”

“what do you mean, cheers? don’t you think it’s odd for them to give me your paperwork? and why do we even have so much paperwork? i swear im drowning in it this week.” he snorted at your last sentence, opening the first folder in front of him while you rounded your desk, sitting in your comfy chair with a hmpf. “yer out an’ about more than me, tha’s all.” well, that was true. the infamous ghost was not known to be a sociable person on base. “i guess…” you turned to your old radio, passed down by a retired captain, and turned on simon’s favorite classical station.

“ya want mess or the pub tonight, love?” another great thing about being on base with simon - you never had to pay for dinner. “actually, that thai place we like is doing a special tonight.” he gave you a half-smirk, one cheek ticking up. “bloody raccoon. we had thai two nights ago.” you didn’t respond, instead blinking your best impression of puppy dog eyes at him. simon sighed, then shook his head at his desk. “olrigh’. the things i do.” you smiled and winked, dipping your head back down to your desk. “thanks, si.”

two weeks later, you were prepping for a duo mission with simon. price had been grilling the two of you for the past three hours, making sure you had everything memorized. satisfied, he leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his temples, the feeling of a headache coming on. “one more thing.” both of you snapped your head up at price, desperate to leave and eat. you’d already missed dinner and your stomach was complaining.

“the safe house is pretty small, basically a shack. one bed, no couch. i assumed ‘s fine since y’r datin-“ “‘s fine, captain.” simon cut him off, an out of character move that had you frowning. “it’s fine, cap. not like ive never slept on a floor before.” now price was frowning at what you said. he turned to simon, who shook his head imperceptibly before becoming still again. price’s brow furrowed but he didn’t push further. he got up from his chair, eyes flitting suspiciously between you two. “i’ll see you at 0600.”

“what was that about?” you whispered to simon after as you walked down the hall. “‘s nothin’.” you were missing something but it was so unclear what. “he thinks that we’re datin-“ “said it’s nothin’, sweetheart. he’s an old man. let’s get some food in you, yeah?” you nodded, letting him guide you to the kitchen. price wasn’t that old. and you were not dating simon riley.

the mission was beautiful, your best one in years. it was the first duo mission between you and simon, so the nerves of pulling your own weight had settled in hard. thankfully, your skills balanced each other out and you’d gotten the target in record time. now, all you had to do was wait in the safe house for exfil.

“you were so good.” you whispered once he’d locked the door. he only hummed a response, checking exit and entry points while you set up your packs, scrounging up MREs and testing the shack for electricity. price wasn’t kidding - it was practically a studio apartment. one bed, a bathroom and a decrepit stove. the soldier part of you was fine with it, but that small soft part of you ached for the warmth of your apartment. memories of yelling at simon for using all your shampoo even though he didn’t live there, of him running you a bath after a long day of training.

“you were good too, baby.” he snuck up from behind your spot on the floor and lifted you onto the mattress that had definitely seen better days. you hadn’t even checked it for bed bugs yet. “c’mere.” he pulled you into his lap, unbuckling your tac vest as you pulled off your bandana. you tugged off his mask - the hard shell since you were on a mission - and ran your nails through his short haircut. simon started kissing your neck, wet and sloppy like he couldn’t get enough. the unrestrained want he displayed sometimes scared you. the respective pulsing in both your chest and cunt scared you more.

“so are you sleeping on the floor or am i?” he flipped you over, your back flush with the mattress as simon loomed over you. there was still eyeblack around his eyes, caught on his blonde eyelashes as well, and you couldn’t help the hand that reached up to brush some of it away. “y’r funny, sweetheart.” you grinned at that - a real toothy smile. he bent down to kiss you, scarred lips caressing your own. simon bit your lip and you moaned, sliding your legs out from under him to wrap them around his torso. when you tugged him in he went willingly, grinding into your clothed cunt. his tac vest was still on, scraping against your shirt, hardening your nipples.

“keepin’ you in this bed all night.” cold fingers dipped past the waist of your pants. you were already wet, his fingers sliding easily up and down your slit as they warmed up. that’s when you realized he still had his glove on, his movements harsher than normal. wide eyes met his own, and simon stopped so you could make a decision.

it didn’t take much as you dug your heels into his back harder, meeting him in a sloppy kiss as his gloved thumb played with your clit. “fuckin’ made for me.” he whispered, and you chalked it up to dirty talk because obviously, you weren’t together. he just knew exactly what to do, giving your clit the right amount of pressure as his other fingers teased your hole, the stretch burning more than usual. it only took a few flicks and you were off, your orgasm settling through your bones like a warm cup of tea. “jesus, si.” he grinned, his scarred lips pulling up to show a beautiful smile. “know ya like th’ back of my hand, huh?” you shook your head, capturing the idiot in another kiss.

after the mission, after debrief and a hot shower, you made your way back to your base office. thankfully, paperwork had only slightly piled up. one envelope stood out though - a thick card-stock with glossy, swooping letters. an invite to london’s military gala, addressed to a Lieutenant & Lieutenant. simon’s name was next to yours, connected by a singular symbol. you turned to him in disbelief. simon had been going through his own backlog, but his head snapped up under the focus of your glare.

“simon, are we…dating?”

this was fun!!! check out the fic i linked it was so good and i couldn’t put it down.

#simon ghost riley #tornadothoughts #cod 141 #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost call of duty #fluff #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x oc #fwb simon #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x f!reader

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codei5academy · 1 year ago

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#mean stack course #mean stack development company #mean stack web development #mean stack app development #training #software #education #course #internship

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lay-z · 25 days ago

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Things you shouldn’t say around Task Force 141, unless you know how to deal with the consequences.

It’s a rare lazy day at the 141 HQ on base in Hereford.

Lazy for you, at the very least, due to an upcoming long holiday weekend and the blessing of being one if not the most efficient secretary around.

Days like this mean it’s time for some groundwork, cleaning up messes from the past weeks, and doing all the filing you’ve been procrastinating for longer than you’d like to admit.

But they also mean that either your boss or one of his men will approach you to ask for your lunch order at some point—more than happy to indulge in some much-needed downtime between training and paperwork.

While Captain Price sits behind his desk with you standing next to him, signing some documents for you, the other three men all lounge around the room like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves if no orders are given.

Kyle and Johnny manspreading on the leather couch in the corner, Simon is standing by the open window with his mask rucked up and a ciggy dangling between his gloved fingers.

“What about shawarma? Haven’t had tha’ in a while,” Kyle suggests, scrolling on his phone as he continues to look for restaurants and chip shops nearby.

Johnny groans next to him. “Aye, ’s good, but gives me the farts–” A loud smack. “Ow!” Your eyes flit up with furrowed brows, holding out another document to the captain.

“Bruh.” Kyle kisses his teeth snidely, shaking his head as he drops his hand again while Johnny rubs the rapidly flushing nape of his neck. “There’s a lady present, Soap.”

Simon snorts, flicking ash out of the window before taking another drag.

“Muppets,” Price mutters under his breath as he takes the next document from your hold.

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.”

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves.

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?”

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead.

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders.

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal.

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.”

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators.

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable.

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish—

Giving you a fat baby, each, and four men utterly obsessed with you along with them.

#call of duty #tf 141 x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #tf 141 x you #simon riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader #cod x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader #cod

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tripta-123 · 1 year ago

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Select Mean Stack Development in CodeSquadz

Join a comprehensive MEAN stack development training program at CodeSquadz to master all its skills and become a proficient full-stack developer.

#mean stack development #mean stack web development #MEAN stack development training

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kateschi · 4 months ago

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a language only you speak

synopsis: wife privileges with bakugou katsuki are very much real.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

the agency is bustling with its usual chaos—sidekicks rushing from desk to desk, phones ringing nonstop, and the occasional explosion from the training hall shaking the walls.

in the center of it all, katsuki katsuki sits at his desk, arms crossed, scowling at the stack of paperwork he’s been putting off all morning.

his brows twitch in irritation, but before he can push the papers off his desk and call it quits, the door swings open with a force that makes a few nearby interns jump.

“katsuki!”

your voice slices through the noise, effortlessly commanding attention.

sidekicks freeze mid-step. pro heroes pause in their conversations. even kirishima, who’s used to your entrances by now, watches with barely contained amusement.

the only person who doesn’t seem at all surprised is katsuki himself.

he exhales through his nose, tipping his chair back just enough to get a good look at you as you stomp toward his desk. his scowl softens—just a little.

“the hell are you doing here?”

“you forgot your lunch,” you say, placing a neatly packed bento box in front of him with a pointed glare. “again.”

there’s a beat of silence.

katsuki clicks his tongue, eyes flicking from you to the box. his fingers tap against the desk like he’s debating whether to take it, but the hesitation is brief.

with a grumble, he snatches it up, pulling it toward him like it’s a classified mission briefing.

you cross your arms and watch him open it, waiting for his reaction. it’s all his favorites—seasoned rice, grilled fish, a few side dishes you made just the way he likes.

he doesn’t say thank you, but you know him well enough to recognize the way his eyes linger on the food, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

he’s pleased.

you reach over, brushing your fingers against his collar, smoothing out the slightly rumpled fabric.

the agency watches in stunned silence, waiting for the inevitable explosion, but it never comes. katsuki lets you fuss over him without so much as a grunt of complaint.

that’s when kirishima, ever the instigator, speaks up.

“hey, dynamight,” he calls from across the room, arms crossed with a grin. “how come you let her do that, but if I even breathe near you, you tell me to ‘fuck off’?”

kaminari jumps in immediately, pointing an accusatory finger. “yeah! I tried to fix your mask that one time, and you nearly murdered me.”

katsuki pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking up. the office is dead silent, waiting for his response. his expression is unreadable for a moment before he speaks, voice low and deliberate.

“is your name y/n?”

kirishima and kaminari exchange glances. “uh…no?” kirishima ventures.

“are you my wife?”

kaminari snorts. “pretty sure we’d know if we were.”

“then shut the fuck up.”

the office settles into a stunned silence after katsuki’s blunt response, eyes darting between him and you like they’re watching a rare phenomenon unfold.

kirishima leans back slightly, arms crossed, brows raised in something close to admiration. “huh.”

kaminari tilts his head. “so that’s just...how it is?”

katsuki doesn’t answer immediately.

he focuses on his food, chewing deliberately, as if debating whether this conversation is even worth his time. you know he hears them, though.

you can always tell when he’s listening, no matter how much he pretends not to.

kirishima rubs his chin thoughtfully. “that’s so manly, bakubro.”

katsuki scoffs, finally looking up, crimson eyes sharp.

kirishima waves him off, unfazed.

“nah, I mean it. I always thought you just had rules about personal space, but it’s not that. it’s just—you let her do whatever because she’s her.”

a pause.

katsuki clicks his tongue, shoving another bite of rice into his mouth, but his silence says more than words ever could.

you smile, resting a hand on his forearm. “he’s a little soft, but only for me.”

he glares at you. “I’ll kill you.”

“you won’t.”

his jaw ticks. you’ve won this argument before it even begins.

kaminari shakes his head like he’s watching something unfathomable. “man…you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t ‘got’ anything,” katsuki grumbles, shoving his chopsticks into the rice with unnecessary force. “i just don’t see why you extras are actin’ so damn surprised.”

“you literally detest people touching you,” sero points out.

“yeah, people,” katsuki snaps. “she’s not ‘people.’ she’s my wife.”

and that’s the thing.

to them, it’s unusual. to them, it’s something to gawk at, something to be shocked by. but to katsuki, it’s just natural. it’s not about ‘privileges’ or exceptions—it’s just the way things are.

he’s never even thought to explain it, because there’s nothing to explain.

he doesn’t let anyone mess with his uniform, but you can straighten his collar.

he doesn’t let anyone borrow his things, but you can use his shampoo.

he doesn’t let anyone get too close, but you can curl up beside him and steal his warmth like you belong there.

because you do.

katsuki quirks an eyebrow, setting his chopsticks down. “you done interrogating me now?”

the others exchange glances, like they’re debating whether they’ve gotten enough material to fuel their endless teasing for the next month.

kirishima seems to understand there’s a line he shouldn’t cross—not because katsuki would explode (though, let’s be real, that’s still a possibility), but because this is something real.

kaminari, on the other hand, is kaminari.

“so, like…” he leans on the nearest desk, a slow grin spreading across his face. “if y/n asked you to wear, I dunno, a stupid matching sweater or something, you’d do it?”

katsuki barely spares him a glance. “no.”

kaminari looks at you. “he’s lying, right?”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “hmm. well, he did wear that ridiculous apron I bought him last week.”

the entire office perks up.

katsuki’s expression darkens. “you said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I said I wouldn’t tell anyone why you wore it.”

and the office rises in roars.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugo x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha x y/n #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugou x fem!reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x you #bakugo katsuki x reader #katsuki x female reader #katsuki x you #katsuki x y/n #katsuki x reader

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verstappenverse · 7 days ago

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All This Time

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was your first everything, first friend, first heartbreak. Now years later he’s world champion, and you’re standing in front of him like no time has passed at all. (Requested)

3.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t expect him to remember.

Not after all this time. Not after the years had passed like train cars speeding in the dark, loud, fast, and gone before you could even wave.

You’d stayed in motorsport, of course. Racing had been in your blood too once. You never fully pursued it like Max did, but you’d carved out a place for yourself behind the scenes, making a name for yourself in strategy, development, coaching, anything that kept you close to the world you loved. Anything but Formula 1. You avoided that part like a wound you never let scab, too afraid it might tear open the second you saw his name on a garage wall.

But today when you finally step into the Red Bull garage and your eyes meet his, those same ocean-blue eyes that once squinted against the sun as he begged you to race him down some dusty backroad the world doesn’t just pause. It stops entirely.

Max Verstappen freezes like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper. Because really, what else can you say after almost ten years, multiple countries, and the ache of being forgotten?

He blinks once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You came.”

You nod, nervous under the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. I mean, your mum invited me, and… it felt like time.”

Time. That strange, cruel thing that unraveled the knot you’d once tied so tightly between you, a knot built from scraped knees, shared dreams, and the kind of trust that only comes from growing up side by side.

Time turned summer sleepovers into unanswered texts. Turned secret handshakes into blank stares across a room you no longer shared. It turned “always” into “used to.” You had been inseparable. Velcro. Chaos in a two-person unit. Trouble, always in pairs and never quite as brave alone.

You’d kept up with his career of course. You knew his stats, his wins, the way the crowd chanted his name now. But the Max you remembered the one with grass stains on his knees and ice cream on his chin felt like someone else entirely.

You grew up in karting garages together, your laughter bouncing off concrete walls louder than the engines. You were twin shadows slipping between toolboxes and tyre stacks, dodging mechanics and stealing zip ties like they were gold. Oil-smudged fingers. Greasy fries in one hand, tyre pressure gauges in the other. Max taught you how to kick-start an engine before you’d even mastered telling the time. You taught him how to tie a tie, how to tape a blister, how to calm down after a bad lap.

You used to sneak snacks off each other’s trays and pretend neither of you noticed. You fell asleep shoulder to shoulder in the back of his dad’s van, watching old F1 races on a cracked iPad and whispering commentary until one of you snored. You had a notebook, battered and dog-eared, where you’d both sketch ridiculous helmet designs, all glitter paint and fire decals. He always said he’d wear yours if he ever made it. You still have that page, folded and faded.

After every race, whether he won or crashed out, he’d find you. Every time. He’d pull off his gloves and jog toward the barriers just to hear your opinion. When you raced his face would light up when you crossed the line whether first or last didn’t matter. You were his best friend. That was enough.

But then life did what life does. You moved. He kept racing. You said you’d write. He said he’d call. And you did at first, but life moves fast and somewhere along the way you stopped.

Now here you are standing in the Red Bull garage as if no time passed, as if the world hasn’t changed, as if you’re still those two sunburnt kids who thought karting trophies and fizzy drinks were all that mattered.

Max looks at you like you might disappear if he blinks again.

His gaze flicks over your face with an urgency he’s trying to hide, like he’s checking to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. Like he’s afraid to find too much of one or the other.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again,” he says finally, voice low and rough-edged, like it’s scraped up from somewhere buried.

You swallow the lump that rises instantly in your throat. “Didn’t know if you’d even remember.”

His mouth tilts not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one, soft and haunted around the edges. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And just like that, something inside you, something carefully packed away for years, twists, sharp and sudden. An old ache, familiar and stupidly alive. He used to say things like that all the time, back when the only people in your world were each other.

Max shifts like he wants to say something else. Instead his eyes catch on your features again, and he frowns faintly.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off. His lips part like he might keep going, but nothing comes.

You don’t press him. You’re not sure you could handle it if you did.

So you offer a crooked smile. “Older?”

He snorts, a low, almost fond sound that slips past his defences. “Still short.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his arm. “Still rude.”

Then he laughs. Really laughs. It hits you in the ribs like a punch, that sound because it’s the same. Deeper now, with age and wear, but still the same boyish rasp that used to echo through paddocks and across bunk beds and over midnight walks when the world felt too big and all you had was each other.

For a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring, locked into the space between who he was and who he is, until his voice drops lower, softer.

“I missed you.”

Three words, barely breathed.

They land like a stone in your chest.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something that might no longer be yours.

“I missed you too,” you whisper finally, and the truth in it feels like something dangerous.

Because now you’re not just remembering him.

You’re feeling him.

The next morning, the paddock is alive with chaos, engineers buzzing, cameras swiveling, drivers darting past like comets. But all you can think about is the message from Max that was left at your hotel for you.

Come by the garage in the morning, before FP?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you enter the paddock. You’ve barely slept, head full of things you almost said and things he nearly did. It’s like a door opened yesterday, and now you can’t stop looking inside.

He’s waiting by the back of the garage, half in uniform, half in thought.

His face softens when he sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way his fire suit clings to his frame. “I figured if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

He smirks. “Yeah probably. I know where you’re staying.”

You laugh, but there’s a tightness in your chest.

You watch as he fiddles with the velcro of his gloves, not quite meeting your eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Maybe it’s stupid.”

He leads you to his driver room, past engineers, down the corridor with controlled chaos humming all around you, and when the door clicks shut, it’s just you and him.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

A photo.

Faded. Bent at the corners. But unmistakable.

You and him. Teenagers, around fifteen. Covered in dirt and grease and beaming like idiots. You’ve got a bottle of water in one hand and Max is mid-squint, arm slung over your shoulders.

“I’ve had it since that last race before you left,” he says, voice low. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then it started to fall apart, so I moved it here.”

Your fingers graze the edge of the picture.

“We look ridiculous.”

“You look happy,” he corrects quietly.

You don’t ask how often he’s looked at it. You don’t have to.

Because you remember that day too.

The air had smelled like petrol and hot asphalt, and your heart was still pounding from the race. You were grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline. Because for the first time ever you beat Max.

He pulled off his helmet slowly, curls a sweaty mess, and sulked like someone stole his dog.

You plopped beside him in the pit lane, holding out the fries you’d bought from the food truck near the gate. “Truce?”

He gave you the side-eye. “You cut me off on turn six.”

You shrugged. “You left the inside line open. Rookie mistake.”

“I hate you.”

You popped a fry into your mouth. “No you don’t.”

He didn’t say congrats, but the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking that said enough.

You offered him the last fry without looking at him. “For your bruised ego.”

He took it, but didn’t eat it right away. “You’re gonna win a lot of races,” he said quietly.

“So will you.”

“But I’ll always remember this one.”

You turned to him, confused. “Why this one?”

His gaze met yours, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation, like a thought stumbled too close to the surface.

He leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or sudden. It was slow, careful, uncertain.

Your breath hitched. The grease-stained paper bag slipped from your fingers onto the ground. You felt the sun on your skin and the heat of his body so close, his mouth a breath away from yours.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Your noses nearly brushed. His eyes flicked to your lips. You could count his freckles.

But then, footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

You both jolted back like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

His father walked past, barely glancing at either of you.

You looked down. Max rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

And just like that, it was over.

Not a kiss.

Just an almost.

An almost that would live quietly in the silence between you, never spoken about, never quite forgotten.

You didn’t expect to be invited to the RedBull motorhome for lunch. And you definitely didn’t expect Max to sit across from you the entire time, answering questions from media with one eye always flicking back to you.

After the interviews, he corners you in a quiet hallway.

"Come for a drive with me."

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Yeah. I need to clear my head. I think… I think we need to talk.”

You hesitate for only a moment before you follow him out into the sun.

The car is fast, obviously, and expensive, a blur of black and blue. But inside it everything slows.

“I tried calling once… recently, I mean” he says, not looking at you.

You swallow. “I changed my number.”

He nods. “I figured. I just, you were gone. One day you were there, and the next…”

“I didn’t want to leave Max, I was a teenager I didn’t get a say.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but I really didn’t want you to. I wished I could’ve done something.”

“You were just a kid too. It was no ones fault.” You take a deep breath and then add. “I waited for you that last night, you know. I kept thinking… maybe you’d come find me.”

You’d gotten the news on a late afternoon: your family was relocating. New country. New start. It felt like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

You’d ran to him heart pounding with the knowledge that your whole life was about to split in two.

“I need to tell you something,” you’d said, voice shaking.

He looked up instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Then forced the words out.

“I’m leaving.”

Max blinked. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“My dad got a job offer. We’re moving.”

He stared at you. Completely still. “When?”

You bit your lip. “Soon.”

His soda can crumpled slightly in his grip.

You hated the silence that followed. You wanted him to fight it. You wanted him to shout, to say no. Instead, he looked down.

“For how long?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

He nodded once. Too slowly. Too carefully. Like the movement itself hurt.

You waited. You waited for him to reach for you, to say anything, that he’d miss you, that he was angry, that you meant something. But he just stood there, like his body had shut down and left only a shell behind.

So you swallowed your tears, your pride, and your heartache and whispered, “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You wanted to throw your arms around his neck and say you’d fight this, that you didn’t want to leave, but your throat burned and your eyes were wet and you couldn’t force the words out.

Then you turned and walked away.

“I should’ve said something,” Max says quietly. “Anything. I was a coward.”

You look at him.

You don’t say me too.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that lives in the space between memory and regret.

He drives to a lookout over the sea. It reminds you of a place you used to sit together as kids, eating fries from a greasy paper cone and talking about what you’d do if you ever made it.

“You made it,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“So did you,” he replies.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not in the same way.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans against the hood of the car and looks at you like he’s trying to memorise you.

“I thought about you,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“I kept waiting for you to come back. For years, I’d look for your face in the stands. I kept thinking maybe today.”

Your throat tightens. You remember all the times you wanted to reach out, to send a letter, an email, anything. But something always stopped you.

Fear. Pride. Guilt.

“I didn’t know if you’d care.”

He turns fully to you then, and his eyes, older, sharper, but still that same ocean blue burn into yours.

“Of course I’d care. You were everything to me. You still are.”

The air between you shifts.

“Max,” you whisper, and this time your voice trembles. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it means anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But you’re still the only person I’ve ever felt like this about.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He exhales, eyes flicking to your lips before dragging back up. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I needed you to know.”

For the first time in a decade, you let yourself touch him, your fingers brushing against his, slow and tentative.

“I still feel it too,” you whisper.

His hand closes around yours like he’s afraid to let go again.

That night, you sit on the edge of your hotel bed and stare at your phone.

A message from Max.

Come up. Roof bar. Just us.

Your heart is in your throat as you ride the lift.

When the doors open, he’s already there two drinks in hand, back turned to the city view. He turns as you approach, something soft and aching in his smile.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He hands you a drink. “For old times?”

You take a sip. “Something like that.”

You stare at him. At the man he’s become. Stronger. Sharper. Quieter, somehow. But the boy you knew the one who always gave you the last bite of his sandwich, who held your hand during thunderstorms, who whispered secrets to you in the dark he’s still there.

“Do you think we can go back?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the city noise.

He steps close. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you feel the pull in your chest like gravity.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says. “I want to start again.”

His next words crack something open.

“You know how often I used to write texts I never sent. Every race, every flight. I’d delete them before takeoff like an idiot.” His voice breaks, just slightly. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you again?”

You nod, because you do. Because every stupid highlight reel of his wins made your heart ache. Because you once screamed into your pillow after seeing him kiss someone else in the paddock and you thought you’d missed your chance for good.

He reaches out. Not touching you yet, just hovering. “I’m never losing you again.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t.” His fingers find yours. Threaded. Familiar. “Please. I’ve won everything I ever wanted. Except this.”

Your forehead presses to his chest before you can stop yourself, and he holds you like he remembers exactly how to. Like he’s angry at the space between you. Like if he squeezes tight enough, you’ll forget the wasted years and remember everything else.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mutters into your hair.

You don’t answer with words. You don’t even think you just act on instinct.

You kiss him.

Desperate but somehow gentle. A question.

He answers with a hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, anchoring you like he used to when the world spun too fast.

And just like that, you’re fifteen again. And twenty-two. And every version of yourself that ever loved him.

Later, when he walks you back to your room, he doesn’t try to come in.

He just stands there in the hallway, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

His eyes soften. “Stay. In Monaco. Just for a while.”

You bite your lip. “Max…”

“Not just for me,” he says quickly. “For you. For us. Let’s see where this goes.”

You look at him, this man who waited years, who still looks at you like you hung the stars and you know the answer, you’ve always known.

“Okay.”

And when he leans in, forehead resting against yours, everything feels still.

You were always meant to find your way back to him.

It was always Max.

Always you.

Even after all this time

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infinitygy07 · 9 months ago

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heavenlybodies333 · 21 days ago

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Caught. On. Camera. -S.R part II here

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You should’ve called in sick.

Broken your leg.

Faked your own death.

Anything would’ve been preferable to what you were walking into now. You should’ve known the BAU’s security team didn’t fuck around.

You should’ve known.

Because when you walked into the bullpen that morning, coffee in hand and still slightly flushed from the very good, very illegal orgasm Spencer had given you against a locked conference room wall at 9:07 the night before, the last thing you expected was for evidence of it to be printed and waiting for you.

Fuck. No. No, no, no.

Your stomach dropped like an elevator in freefall. You stepped fully into the bullpen—and then you saw it.

Your desk.

Spencer’s desk.

Each with a stack of paper.

Not files. Not case notes.

Photos.

Black and white grainy photos.

Security footage.

Of you.

Of Spencer.

Photos of you and Spencer doing things that should never be in 1080p resolution.

Of Spencer pressed up behind you in a darkened hallway, one hand under your skirt, the other tangled in your hair as your head tilted back in a way that could only be described as criminally pornographic.

There was another photo—his mouth on your neck, your hand down his pants, the two of you shamelessly caught mid-moan in what looked like Hotch’s own damn federal building.

You barely had time to register the color draining from your face before Spencer walked in right behind you. You saw the exact moment his brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

He froze mid-step. Then his gaze snapped to you—panicked, pale, already calculating a dozen potential exits and failing to land on a single one.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The only thing louder than your panic was the sound of your father’s voice behind you.

“My office. Now.” Hotch’s tone left zero room for debate.

You turned—slow, like a horror movie—and there he was.

Standing on the mezzanine, leaning against the railing, was your father, SSA Aaron Hotchner. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Gaze locked directly on you like he was watching a slow-motion train crash. He turned and walked toward his office without looking back.

Which meant you had approximately ten seconds to say goodbye to your job, your sex life, and potentially Spencer Reid’s entire existence.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, grabbing the papers and crumpling them in one furious, humiliated fist. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you dared a look at Spencer—who had just walked in behind you and froze mid-step like someone had hit him with a tranq dart.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “That’s… bad.”

“No shit, Reid.”

Morgan didn’t help. “So that’s what ‘after hours paperwork’ means. Got it.”

“Derek,” JJ said quickly, nudging him with an elbow, but the damage was done.

Emily appeared from the break room, coffee in hand, sipping like it was tea. “I told you guys to watch the cameras. But nooo, why listen to the profiler who’s been caught on video twice?”

“Three times,” JJ corrected, grinning.

Emily pointed her cup at her. “That last one didn’t count, we were undercover.”

“You were making out in the conference room.”

“Under. Cover.”

Spencer looked like he was actively negotiating with the universe to collapse into the floor and swallow him whole. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, eyes darting between you, the photos, and the hallway that led to Hotch’s office like he could somehow reverse time through sheer panic.

The walk to Hotch’s office felt like a funeral procession. When you reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t gesture for you to sit. He just shut the door with a click that sounded eerily like the end of your lives.

“I’ll speak first,” he said, voice clipped. “Before either of you attempt to justify whatever the hell this is.”

Spencer opened his mouth anyway.

“Don’t.”

He shut it.

Hotch stepped around his desk, looking between the two of you like he was trying to not imagine the exact images now burned into his retinas.

“I trusted you,” he said, looking at Spencer.

Spencer physically flinched. “I know.”

“I asked you to keep her safe.”

“You did.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

You stepped forward. “Dad—”

He held up a hand.

“I don’t want excuses. I don’t want apologies. I want answers. How long?”

You hesitated.

Spencer caved.

“Eight months.”

You turned and stared at him. “Spencer.”

“What? He’s gonna kill me either way, might as well be honest.”

Hotch looked like he was doing long division in his head. “Eight months… that’s before the Miami case.”

You nodded.

“You lied to me. Both of you.”

“That’s not fair,” you said. “It wasn’t just lying, it was… omission. Careful omission.”

Spencer shot you a look like now is not the time for semantics.

“You were in my house, Reid. With her.”

Spencer swallowed. “I slept on the couch.”

“Bullshit.” Hotch stopped pacing. Faced you both.

“There’s a security breach because you couldn’t keep your hands off each other in the elevator? And now the entire team knows.”

“They don’t know—” you started.

“Oh, they know.” He gestured to the photos. “The FBI knows. Internal Affairs is going to love this. And I am trying—very hard—not to send you off to college halfway around the world.”

Silence.

Then, he turned his glare directly onto Spencer. “You. Are thirteen years older than her. You’re her coworker. Her superior. And you thought it was a good idea to sleep with my daughter?”

There was a very long, very painful pause.

“You are adults. Technically. You make your own decisions. Stupid ones, apparently.”

“Sir—” Spencer started.

“I’m not finished.” His eyes narrowed. “If either of you ever—and I mean ever—do anything like that on federal property again, I will have both your asses in front of Strauss so fast she’ll develop a stroke mid-sentence.”

“Yes, sir,” you both said.

“And Reid?”

Spencer flinched.

Hotch took a step forward. “I swear to god, if I ever see your hands on my daughter again outside the context of saving her from a serial killer—”

“Understood, sir.”

He took a deep breath. “I am going to say this once. Whatever this is—” he gestured sharply at the photos “—it ends. Today.”

Silence.

Spencer looked like he’d been punched.

You just blinked.

“Ends?” you echoed, numb.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “I can’t have this kind of recklessness on my team. You’re compromising each other in the field, and if it goes public—”

Spencer tried to speak. “Hotch, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” your father cut in sharply. “There is going to be an internal review. A written reprimand. And if either of you ever pull something like this again—”

You couldn’t help yourself. “We’re not children—”

“You’re my child,” Hotch snapped, turning to you. “And he’s my agent. Which makes this entire situation a professional and personal disaster. And if you think I’m going to just let it slide because you’re my daughter, you’re dead wrong.”

You dropped your gaze, tears welling in your eyes. “You know what the worst part is?” he said, angrily. “It’s not that you violated federal property regulations. It’s not even that you breached the most basic professional ethics.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s that you thought I wouldn’t find out.”

Ouch.

You shrank under his stare. Spencer looked like he might vomit.

“Sir,” Spencer started. “I never meant for—”

Hotch held up a hand. “Dr. Reid. If you want any chance of keeping your job, I suggest you don’t finish that sentence.”

Spencer looked like he wanted to fold into the floor. “Sir, I care about her. I didn’t—I don’t—take this lightly. I know how it looks.”

“You don’t,” Hotch said flatly. “You don’t know anything about what it looks like. To a father. To a boss.”

The room fell quiet.

Then Hotch exhaled, long and slow. He looked tired. Disappointed. Which, honestly, was so much worse than shouting.

“I’m going to step away before I say something I regret,” he said. “But let me make this clear.”

He looked between the two of you—scathing, cold, unreadable. “This ends now. Or you both walk.”

You didn't realize you were holding your breath until he walked out of his own office, leaving the door open behind him like a gaping wound. You could still hear your heart pounding, see the grainy black-and-white ghosts of your bad decisions fluttering like confetti across your memory.

Spencer swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to say eight months,” he whispered.

You turned to him slowly. “Really, Spence? That’s the problem here?”

“I panicked.”

“No kidding.” Your voice cracked under the weight of it all. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Spencer sat on the edge of Hotch’s desk, his hands knotted between his knees. “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

You snorted. “You’ve never dated his daughter before.”

He winced. “Technically, I still am.”

You looked at him sharply. “Are you?”

Spencer’s breath caught.

Because that was the part no one had said yet. That was the part hanging over you like a guillotine. This ends now. Or you both walk.

The ultimatum wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t negotiable.

You or the job.

Each other or everything else.

And Spencer Reid didn’t just love the BAU. It was in his bones. It was his purpose, his structure, his sanity.

“Are you?” you asked again, softer this time.

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he crossed the room, dropped to a crouch in front of you, and took your shaking hands in his. “I want to say that it doesn’t matter. That I’d pick you every time.”

You stared at him, already hearing the but coming.

“But I can’t lose this job,” he whispered, pained. “It’s not just work. It’s lives. It’s you, too. And if I stay, I can’t be with you.”

You felt something fracture inside your chest.

“So that’s it?”

He looked up at you, haunted. “If I thought I could walk away and still protect you… if I thought you’d be safe—”

Your laugh was hollow. “I’m not a victim, Spence.”

“I know. I know that. But you’re his daughter. And I was supposed to—God, I was supposed to be better than this.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to end it.”

“Neither do I.”

He closed his eyes. “Tell me not to go. Tell me to walk away from all of it, and I will.”

You opened your mouth—and then stopped.

Because you could see it in his eyes.

You couldn’t do that to him.

Not when he was already tearing himself apart just to stand in front of you.

“No,” you whispered. “I won’t be the reason you leave.”

“Then this is the part where I say goodbye.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Spencer reached for your hand one last time. Pressed a kiss to your knuckles like he was memorizing the weight of it. “I meant it,” he said quietly. “Every second. Even the ones on camera.”

A bitter smile cracked through your tears. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he stood.

And walked out of Hotch’s office.

And you sat there alone, trying to decide which was worse:

That your father had been right.

Or that you'd loved Spencer Reid enough to let him go.

a/n: age ain’t nothing but a NUMBERRR

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