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lvrclerc · 20 hours ago

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EVERY SUMMER'S END

summary: loving a writer is a dangerous game, and carlos sainz is reminded of it when the dedication of your new book throws him back to every summer you ever shared, and the bitter end of them all. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « although i may not be yours, i could never be another's. »

F1 MASTERLIST | CS55 MASTERLIST

pairing: carlos sainz x romance writer!reader wordcount: 7.2K content: summer romance, breakup, takes place from 2016 to 2021, implied smut, loosely inspired by beach read by emily henry, bittersweet, ambiguous relationship status, inacurrate timeline/events, open ending, not proofread. note: requested here! i wasn't kidding when i said i love writing summer romances. carlos sainz you are the epitome of a book mmc. i finished this out of spite and i hate it, which is why it took so long to get out, but thanks @sunsetcupid for sticking with me for the highs and lows of the writing process and reading through it. ‹𝟹

♫ us. - gracie abrams ft taylor swift

THE INTERVIEWER ASKS about what Carlos enjoys doing outside of motorsports, and the answer is rehearsed.

Carlos Sainz is a man of many hobbies. Racing, of course, dominates his life—he had been born in a legacy of burnt asphalt, it only made sense for him to bleed checkered. He’s a man who enjoys sports: padel with friends on week-ends when their hectic calendars allowed it, he could appreciate a boxing match here and there as a spectator, liked surfing when the weather was right and the waves were kind, and, later in life, he would take up golf. Outside of all movements, Carlos found comfort in good music, the kind with low, rumbling rhythm and gravelly guitar chords he would hum under his breath as a kid. He liked old movies too, the ones with seductive charm and grainy black-and-white frames that felt like diving into a memory.

Yet, amidst all the various things he enjoyed, Carlos Sainz had never been much of a reader.

It’s not that he didn’t like reading—he could get around it—but he just never had the time. As a child, karting consumed him too much to think about anything else. There were a few stray books, Percy Jackson maybe, when all of his classmates were raving about them. But he never learned to let himself get lost in pages. He never had the stillness for it—not with the life he grew up in. The erratic rhythm of racing didn’t leave space for leisurely afternoons, thin paper slipping between fingers, and other worlds unfolding in quiet.

Except once a year.

There was a place, tucked away like a whispered secret in the south of Spain, where time didn’t tick the same. There, the sun kissed his skin with soft acknowledgment. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and light florals. And there, he read.

But he doesn’t like to think about it. So when the interviewer asks about books, Carlos only shrugs and says he’s not much of a reader.

Then he moves on.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2016.

La Herradura is a small town, as per Carlos’ standards, tucked along Spain’s Costa Tropical. His orange-tiled home set in Madrid, with its silent halls, had started to feel like a weight pressed against his lungs since February of last year. A place too close to memories, but too far from the heart, or something like that—metaphors weren’t really his strong suit. Returning for his second Formula One summer break would’ve swallowed him whole, which is why he chose this town, where nobody would think to look.

Five thousand people at most, strolling in the narrow streets folded between whitewashed buildings, with a beach that always seemed to hum in the distance. Here, he thought, he might be able to breathe again.

And yet, it’s only his second day, and someone spilt coffee all over his shirt.

You hadn’t meant to. You were just reaching for a packet of sugar near the café counter, as your waiter had forgotten to bring any. In no way had you expected the man beside you to whip around, so when he did, it became a mess of startled movement, clumsy apologies, and dark espresso blooming across his white cotton shirt like the birth of a bruise over his heart. You both spoke at once, tripping over sentences. Your voice tangled in the air until, mid-flurry, his hand caught your wrist gently.

“You’re alright, I promise,” the stranger had laughed. It rumbled through his chest and for a second, even the waves lapping outside the beachside café seemed to roar in jealousy.

He was beautiful in the way people rarely are, terribly so, all in sharp edges and sunburnt youth, sculpted by speed itself, with cheekbones etched by the wind, and jaw clenched from habit. Then, as anyone might have thought he could come off as severe, there were his eyes: soft in their curves, chestnut brown, flickering with curiosity and warmth. It was the kind of moment that would’ve made you roll your eyes if you were ever to write it—too convenient. Still, your heart lifted when he smiled, washing over you like carbonation fizzing to the top of a soda bottle you would have turned upside down.

“I’m still really sorry,” you apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention and—”

“Neither was I,” he cuts you off, and the exasperated smile that escaped you made his smile grow. Carlos found it charming.

“Let me at least buy you another one,” you offered. “It’ll make me feel less like a disaster.”

By principle, he should’ve declined. He had more than enough money to buy his own coffee, and his parents hadn’t raised him to let a pretty woman cover the bill. But there was something in the teasing in your voice he couldn’t place, a color twinkling in your eyes he craved to name, a story he didn’t want to end yet. So he said yes.

He ends up back at your table, settling into a wildly uncomfortable straw chair on the terrace, and you talk, voices clashing pleasantly over the aroma of salt and espresso. Carlos comes to the realization you don’t seem to know of him—or his last name, or his face—outside of the little world you built out of spilled coffee when you ask, casually, what he does for a living. He panics. Says he works as a chauffeur, because he likes the way your hand rests naturally on his forearm, unbothered, and he’s not ready to see the awkward change his upbringing might lead to.

To steer the conversation away from the sudden heat blooming under his collar, he nods toward your open laptop and the notebook darkened by messy scrawling next to it. “And… you write?” he asks.

Your cheeks go warm, and Carlos—absurdly—wants to bottle the shade and carry it around with him. “I attempt to,” you mumble, hastily flipping the notebook closed. “Haven’t written anything good in a hot minute.”

A year, two months, and thirty-two days, if we’re being precise. Your debut novel had made quiet waves, gotten a litany of praise. Critics called it raw, authentic, the kind of story that lingers between ribs. One reviewer went as far as to say it felt like the words spilled right from your lips onto theirs. There was irony in it, because you didn’t feel like anything spilled anymore. You had been staring at your blank document and blinking cursor, crafting slowly wilting outlines for months now. All ideas withered the second you touched them.

People called you a romance writer now. But how were you supposed to write about love when your last relationship left you with scars so soft they rotted sweet, like overripe fruit? What good was a writer who couldn’t write?

“Writer’s block?” the beautiful stranger asks, bringing you back from your own mind.

You nod. “Exactly. My agent’s on my ass about getting something new on paper, and I just… can’t. I thought coming here might help. Change of scenery, all that.”

He leans in, half-grin across his lips, almost conspiratorial. His hair brushes your cheek right where the shadow kisses your cheek. There is some poetry to that, and it’s so precise and cinematic that you want to laugh, that you want to lean further in and grasp its intricacies. “What do you write?” he inquires, and his voice is similar to dusk: low and warm. “Maybe I could help.”

That makes you smile, and a chuckle tumbles out of you. “Romance,” you say. “Technically, it’s women’s fiction, but they always shelve it under romance.”

“So you make a living out of people… falling in love?” His eyebrows lift as he says it. You nod, though the motion is braced. You know what people think of the genre, especially men: the subtle scoff and the condescension disguised as charm. You’re already preparing to pull the plug on the conversation, right with the slow building fantasy of it all, before it goes sour. But instead, he says, “I thought it would be easy, writing about love.”

The laugh that bursts out of you is entirely involuntary. You throw your head back from it, startled by the naivety of it, and the sheer audacity that he might really mean it.

“Love is far from being easy, tesoro.”

Sunlight catches your hair as you say it, and Carlos is possessed by the sound of the waves crashing onto shore as he asks, boldly and oddly earnest, if you can visit the town together. “As inspiration for your book, and another payback for the coffee,” he justifies.

Truth be told, he disagreed with you. For Carlos, there was nothing as easy as love: he fell in love with karting before he could spell the word ambition, let the scent of gas and gravel tarnish and scorch his lungs black, until the motion of getting into his seat became automatic. He loved the cockpit, the spare parts, the silence behind the helmet. He loved his country, with its sun-warmed streets, the music folded into each inflection of the language. Tradition etched into gestures that he carries with him when he drives. He had loved multiple women until his heart gave out under the effort.

Carlos loved with a ferocity you could only hold in the wild, boundless beginnings of adulthood, when the world still seemed so wide and endless, beckoning you to seek for its borders, and fell with just as much force.

Love wasn’t something complicated, or a puzzle to figure out. Cars were, so were strategies. But love? Love came as naturally as breathing, so easy to give yourself in.

And when you say yes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips, just this side of daring, Carlos thinks he might be falling for you just as easily.

You walk through the streets slowly, without a plan or destination, just the rhythm of two people perfectly content to orbit one another. La Herradura doesn’t offer much unless you’ve planned ahead: no grand museum or crowded monuments, instead overflowing in small alleys, bougainvillea spilling down balconies, salt-sticky air curling around your wrists like ribbons.

Neither of you minds. Carlos is more than happy stopping by overpriced ice cream stalls, pointing out absurd flavor just to see you wrinkle your nose. He tells you the worst one-liners he’s ever heard, mostly from his mother’s soap operas she used to watch while folding laundry, and bask in the teenage feeling burgeoning in his chest at the mere idea of them making you laugh.

He pays for dinner without a second thought. It’s the tourist spot next to the café where you first met, and the food is nothing special, but your snarky comment as the waiter brings the wine makes him feel like he’s won something. The sun’s set by the time you finish, but the last of its glow still lingers on the skin of the sea, similar to yours, and Carlos is surprised by how easily the parallel draws in his mind. A bonfire crackles by the beach, a testimony of late June and the traditions he loves, flames and music and voices all blending into a single glowing memory.

Like all good romantics, you’re drawn to it like a moth. Carlos slips your shoes off your feet before you can protest and holds them in one hand, his other brushing lightly against your back to guide you toward the shore. You sink into the sand, slow and aimless.

“Tell me about your first book,” he says. And you tell him how the story came to you all at once, like it had been simmering into a carafe and poured out in the cold glass of a single summer, with no real plans or outline. You say you didn’t think anyone would care for it. Carlos disagrees, this time openly, saying he would’ve read it even if no one else had.

You laugh, because you believe him, and that is such a ridiculous notion to hold for someone you just met.

You stroll along the shore for what could be like hours or mere minutes—time often loses its shape when the moment is right. Somewhere between the fifth song from the beach guitar and the taste of the wine still on your tongue, Carlos brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The look you give him, like the sky is collapsing on itself, you’re sure you could have written about it this time around.

And maybe the sky really is collapsing. Maybe this night doesn’t exist in the real world at all, maybe it’s just a dream stitched together by the help of seafoam. Because when he says, “Come back with me,” as if he’s asking for a secret and not demanding, you don’t even think about it.

You go. Hand in hand, shoes forgotten, sand clinging to your ankles. The streets are in deep slumber, and his rental smells like sea and freshly washed cotton, and the moment the door closes behind you, it’s as if the world exhales and fades out of reality.

Carlos kisses you like he’s known you across lifetimes, like he’s loved you before and lost you, and this is his only chance to get it right. He touches you like he’s never going to see you again, because deep down he’s not sure he will. His hands are rough, his mouth devout. The pads of his fingers leave heat wherever they pass—marks not visible but undeniably there. You welcome them with parted lips, quiet sighs, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t let you breathe for too long. Every exhale is an invitation he answers with his lips, his hips, his hands. It’s all consuming and fierce, because Carlos doesn’t know how to be anything else but hungry. Burning at the edges but still asking for more, dangerously close to spinning out but never losing control. He gives you everything because he doesn’t know how to love halfway. Because that’s Carlos: he only knows how to take, and take, and take, but only in exchange of all of himself.

You lie tangled in the sheets afterwards, skin kissed warm and hearts pounding in synchrony. A breeze floats through the open window, carrying with it the fresh air of a summer night. In the mellow silence, he studies you.

The flush of your cheeks could be called rose, but that’s too cliché. It’s something deeper, warmer—carnelian, maybe? He wasn’t the best with words. Or was it the color of joy? Or the exact hue of summer slipping beneath the ocean, the kind that never really leaves the sky? He commits it all to memory as sleep takes you both, you pressed to his chest no matter the heat.

And when he wakes up, you’re gone. In your place is a note, scribbled in your messy handwriting. “I have a plane to catch, didn’t want to wake you so early in the morning. Thank you for everything.” And beneath that, almost like an afterthought, a softer, neater line: “You’re nothing like I expected.”

He traces the paper with his hand for too long, heart thrumming somewhere in his throat. Yet, Carlos still gets up. He showers, and dresses, and for the first time in years, he walks into a bookstore.

The woman at the register smiles when she sees the title he picked. “It’s a good one,” she says, and Carlos nods with pride as if the compliment was directed to him.

He reads it in pieces over the rest of the summer break, trying not to read it too fast in order to ration memories. To let your ghost linger a little while longer.

And somewhere in the sky, a few hours before your layover, you finally open your laptop. For the first time in forever, your fingers don’t stall on the keyboard. The words come gently, naturally, and you type them out with the same carefulness.

They’re not about him, not yet, but Carlos lingers in every line, like the unmistakable smell of sun once it has set.

—

“You don’t read?” his new girlfriend asks, somewhere over the Mediterranean.

The plane ride home to Monaco is a long one when you’re flying from Abu Dhabi, and Carlos had barely said a word since the takeoff. It’s December, and even at cruising altitude, Carlos can feel the temperature shift. He hates the cold—it bites instead of kisses. Give him heat, always. Give him sticky skin, the faint hum of the fan overhead and someone's breath mixing with his in the dark.

His mind travels to his personal Eden, where summer seemed to loop for years on end. The sound of cicadas, the coast so washed it looked half-dreamt. It’s only when his girlfriend calls his name again that he blinks, startled back to the present.

Right, reading. She’s referring to the interview.

“I never have the time,” Carlos answers mechanically, punctuated with a tense chuckle.

She hums, unconvinced, and starts rummaging through her bag. “I could lend you one of mine, just to try. This one’s a beach read,” she says, oblivious to how his chest seems to tighten at her words. “My favorite author. I’ve read everything she’s written. Her stories are always kind of… sad, but really beautiful.”

Carlos wants to protest, say that he’s too tired and beach reads aren’t his thing. If he were to read, he’d want something heavier: a brick of historical nonfiction, or a complex murder mystery. He opens his mouth with an excuse at the ready, but the words die in his throat the second he sees the cover.

It’s a painted memory of soft edges and impressionist strokes, displaying a warm-toned terrace café with straw chairs, dappled in afternoon light. Carlos knows this place, not because of the building or how the awning folds over itself, but because of you.

You’re sitting at one of the tables. Well, it’s not exactly you, more someone like you. A woman rendered in delicate brushstrokes, a sundress flowing to her knees, holding a book just high enough to shadow her face. Still, her likeness is uncanny. And where the café’s name should be, in looping white script, is the title: Every Summer’s End. Beneath it, your name.

Carlos forgets how to breathe.

“You said you vacationed there, right?” his girlfriend inquires, unaware of the rupture. She flips the book around to show him the back. “La Herradura? That’s where it’s set. So funny, it made me think about you when I bought it.”

He takes the book when she offers it, thumb grazing the glossy spine. It’s heavy, like truth, and he forces a slow nod of acknowledgement.

Funny.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2017.

Carlos doesn’t believe in fate. He never has, not in the grand scheme of things. He’s not enough of a romantic, in the historical sense, too much of his father’s son, to do so. What he believed in was repetition, in giving until there’s nothing left and your body breaks before your mind. Fate had never helped him score points, efforts did. And licking open wounds caused by those efforts like an injured dog in hope of miracle recovery is what led him to La Herradura for a second time.

He couldn’t admit out loud that it wasn’t the town he came back for. It was the feeling.

The café hasn’t changed much. The layout is different from last year, the chairs rearranged and the menus reprinted in a more minimalist aesthetic. The cushions are a new shade of sun-bleached coral, he notices, but the air still carries the same warm hum of sea salt and citrus.

Carlos doesn’t look when he turns after ordering. A sharp movement, and his cup tips forward in a graceless arc, splashing a deep brown bloom across your pale beach cover-up. “Joder— shit, I’m so sorry—” he stammers and grabs a napkin with the frantic energy of someone half-present in his own body.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, tesoro.”

It’s not immediate. It crawls leisurely over his skin, laps at the snowglobe of his memories. Your mouth curves into a smirk he’s sure he’s shaken a few times in his mind. You laugh, his nickname on your tongue, and it clicks all at once. You were the feeling he missed.

You, on the contrary, don’t believe in coincidences. You believe in the invisible threads that tie together with quiet purpose. That everything, no matter how painful or messy, is part of some intricate, meaningful design in a bigger story. You’d be lying if you even thought that some hidden fragments of you hadn’t been hoping, all along, to see him again, wondering if the right set of conditions would pull him back where you left off.

No screams leave your lips, or curses at the temperature of the drink. You were never one for dramatics. You beam at him, damp fabric clinging to your swimsuit. “I think you owe me a clean shirt, this time around,” you say, and Carlos huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

He insists on buying you another coffee, and puts the sugar in it before you can think about telling him to. This time, you sit on the opposite side of the terrace, shaded by a new umbrella but caught in the same orbit.

The rest of the day folds over itself like a well-read book, the ones with the crack in the spine and the wavy pages from hair dripping of pool water. You walk again: down the coast, over the pebbled sidewalk, past shuttered shops and sleepy balconies. When you pass by the same tourist restaurant where you had dinner last year, you both decide to dine somewhere else.

Later, when the sun sinks and the bonfire sparks to life again, a feeling of continuation sneaks upon you both. You walk barefoot in the sand, again, letting your fingers thread through his, again. Unlike last time, Carlos asks about your new book with a carefulness similar to the one of a child. You admit that it’s finished, that people loved it, but you don’t tell him he inspired you. Not yet.

When you get back to his place, again, Carlos kisses you the exact same way, the brush of his mouth against yours too familiar for something that happened just once because he still remembers every second of it. He touches you like he’s still memorizing you, like you’re something he’s still trying to make sense of.

You fall asleep with your limbs tangled in linen and this time, when he wakes up, you don’t disappear. You’re still here when he wakes up, curled into his side with sunlight slipping through your hair. There were no planes to catch this time, you had made sure of it. However, Carlos is a man of habit, a creature of rhythm and ritual. So he gets up. Dresses.

The bookstore is only a short walk from his place. It’s barely open when he arrives, and yet, he finds it immediately: on the middle shelf, front-facing, your name bold and bright against the soft watercolors of the cover.

By the time he returns, the apartment smells of quiet mornings and coffee. You’re sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, legs folded up, his white cotton shirt swallowing your body. The seagulls heard through the windows are alive and singing but your hair is still mussed with sleep and bleary-eyed. Still, Carlos had the sensation to have walked upon something sacred.

Until you froze as your gaze dropped. “Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, “You— You bought it?”

Carlos turns the book around, displaying the familiar name stamped across the bottom with boyish pride. “First thing in the morning,” he grins.

You groan, tucking your face in your hands, even as your cheeks grow blotchy and warm with color. He’d spent half the night thinking of words to name it: he liked carnelian, but coral was as gorgeous. Cardinal stuck. Cardinal, bright, bleeding. It reveled on his tongue like you did.

It looked like the morning sun was in love with you.

Carlos smiles again, slower this time, fondness finger painting his features like a Monet’s. “I really liked your first book. I thought I’d check out the new one after yesterday.”

“You read my debut?” you gaped.

He hums. “Last summer, after you left.”

You just stare at him with wide eyes in wonder, adoration sprinkled like stars in the sky of your pupils. Your heart is louder than your thoughts, skipping similar to a stone over water. You feel seen. In that quiet, piercing way only readers could ever make you feel. And of all people, for it to be him.

Your voice falters as you admit, finally out loud, “Okay, well. In this one, I mean—just a little—some parts might’ve been…” You gesture vaguely, tugging at the hem of the shirt you borrowed. “Inspired by what happened last year.”

Carlos’ smile softens into a molten thing. If your emotions transpired through your eyes, his overcame you in the soft curve of his mouth, seemingly waiting for each one of your words to trigger something in him. He crosses the space to you in the beating of a heart and, as if it was an everyday thing, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m honored to be your muse, preciosa.”

You laugh, and it bubbles out of your chest bright and alive. Carlos could compare it to the shaking of a cold soda bottle on a hot day, but he’d be afraid of sounding somewhat ridiculous. You wrap your arms around him without thinking, face tucked in his shoulder. He still smells like the beach, like intimacy.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’ll probably end up inspiring another one this summer.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing under your skin. “Then I’ll help you through the process again,” Carlos assures, his voice laced with poetry. “I’ll give you a thousand stories worth writing about.”

And it’s such a you and him thing to say that you feel your chest bloom open.

Outside, the world is just beginning to stir. The sunlight is thickening, birds singing as if to beckon the beginnings of July closer and closer. Inside, in this little kitchen scented with espresso and sunscreen, you know in your bones that won’t be the last time you wake up here.

This isn’t fate. This isn’t coincidence. It’s what’s left of the sand after it trickled down the hourglass, somehow, the two of you begin again.

—

The book was shelved under Romance.

Carlos hesitated in front of the section. His gaze trailed over the display of cartoon covers and pastel spines until his eyes settled on it.

Turquoise and dark sienna, a palette so at odds with its neighbors that it looked like it was meant to misfit. The title curled across the spine in delicate letters tangling into one another with the intimacy of intertwined lovers. Carlos felt like he intruded on something that he had no right to look at. Maybe that was the case.

He handed back the copy his girlfriend had so kindly lended him. Her copy, with loopy, highlighter-bright annotations and neatly color-coded tabs with tiny hearts next to her favorite quotes. It didn’t feel like you at all. Not when you were all in cracked spines and sand-stuck pages, yellowed out by the sun. Your notes, when your mind raced slow enough to make them, were scrawled hastily in the corners of receipts and napkins tucked before the backcover, legible only in candlelight, sometimes not even to yourself.

When they landed in Monaco, Carlos didn’t go home. He went to the airport bookstore, the scent of sterile bleach and teary goodbyes clinging to the air. He needed a clean slate: something that didn’t belong to her, but not something that belonged to you either. Just something that let him read the book like it was a book, and not a wound he’s been carrying around like a splinter.

As he takes the novel in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers shake around the paperback. A book could never be a person, Carlos reminds himself. Still, disappointment swelled in his chest like rising tide when the cover didn’t give under his touch the way your skin used to. It held firm, cold.

He glanced around instinctively. The bookstore was mostly empty, and he waited for the clerk to turn her back on him before tucking one, two, three, four under his arm. He was absurdly careful. As if they could bruise, he mocks himself.

With the carefulness of a lover, Carlos placed them at the very front of the shelf titled Women’s Fiction.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2018-19

You found each other again, summers after summers, until it became another beloved tradition, a ritual engraved in the gravelly skin of La Herradura, like initials in driftwood, softened by sun and salt but never erased.

Every late June, you’d return to your meeting place: the beachfront café that had once been the backdrop to spilled coffee and first laughter. Same time, same order— there was comfort in that, in repetition, the predictability of you and him.

As the sun dipped low below the sea, you’d slip back into his hunchback rental, skin warm with the fingerprints of daylight and your limbs heavy with knowing exactly where the night was going. You wore his shirt like silk and let him read you like scripture under the low hum of the fan.

Mornings belonged to books and windows cracked open. Carlos always woke before you, force of habit, and he’d pad down to the tiny bookstore with sand still crusted to his ankles and pick up the novel you’d published the summer before. Always one summer behind, and always eager to catch up in the only place he actually could.

He had learned to notice the parallels, to draw the metaphors by himself, no matter how clumsy. A sunset that had once dripped like marmalade over your bare shoulders found itself in Chapter Twelve. The stray kitten that had curled up in his lap one morning during breakfast became a symbol of grief in your prose. He watched your stories unfold and realized he was there: tucked between allegories and half-truths, tucked in the margins.

The days melted into each other with the same syrupy pace as the tide. For someone whose life was clipped in interviews and lap times, Carlos learned what it was like to breathe again, to fill his lungs until they stretched open without ache. His fingers, used to clenching around the wheel or curling into fists from tension, learned to soften. To touch with intention, not urgency.

He slept through the night, and he let silence settle without needing to break it.

In your shared Eden, nothing touched you. Not the headlines, not the passing of time. Even the reality that loomed past the end of those three weeks seemed to be kept at bay. There was only the breeze, the sea, and the soft, looping miracle of finding each other again.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2020.

Someone had to bite the apple first, and this time the sinner had brown hair.

This time, Carlos landed in La Herradura with red flashing in his mind, tensing the deepest parts of his bone, flashing behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The familiar rumble of the engine still echoed inside of him as he crossed the beachfront café, the one where it always begins. This time, his body didn’t relax.

The switch hadn’t been sudden, not really. The idea of Ferrari had haunted him long before the contract had been signed. The discussions, the promises, and the restructuring of his future in motorsports; it had consumed him in the months separating one summer from the next, had bent his life in directions he’d sworn to never take for granted.

When he found you again, sitting below the striped awning with your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, your drink sweating under the Andalusian sun, he smiled. Yet, it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

You noticed it. Of course, you did.

Carlos remembers what you said, in a faraway place in which cradled the beginnings of the two of you. You said that love is far from being easy, and back then he’d disagreed without a second thought. There was nothing as easy as love. He was twenty-two then: all heart and bleeding devotion, untouched by the weight of what it meant to choose. But today he was twenty-six: it felt older, he had traded cotton shirts for linen button-ups, and learned to appreciate the taste of stronger alcohol.

And no matter how soft the sand, the hourglass kept running.

This time, Carlos planned things. Planned. The word itself was foreign to your time together. He made reservations at upscale local restaurants with white linens and dizzyingly long wine lists. He drove winding cliffs to bring you to coastal vineyards, places with photo ops and curated beauty. He booked you both scuba diving lessons with a man who introduced himself as Diego and called you lovebirds. He filled the time until it overflowed, as if silence was a sin he couldn’t afford anymore.

This wasn’t how La Herradura worked. You never planned here. You lived here.

Now, he drove too fast, kissed you like the end was always lurking around the corner. The only time he’d breathe and settle down was at night, when he held your body flush against him. His hands tugged you impossibly closer, like he was made of marble and trying to carve you out of him.

Still, you didn’t ask. The problem didn’t reside here, in your sacred, familiar garden. It lived in whatever came before and after, so you didn’t think you had a right to. You didn’t belong there.

Next year, things would have to change. Carlos would have to change. His body, his name, his entire presence all had to be shaped into one thing, focused and sharp. The Carlos you had couldn’t split himself between two places, love and legacy.

Hard-working. Focused. Determined. That’s what Carlos is, down to his core. He’d never been a romantic.

And yet, you curled into him that night, limbs loose from wine and heat, hair spilling over his bare chest like ribbons. The fan circled overhead. Outside, the waves licked the sand in soft intervals, time dissolving once again in white noise. Carlos stared at the ceiling, his hand draped low on your spine, fingers memorizing.

He keeps telling himself that it was always meant to be temporary. Time stopping for anyone or anything was a silly notion enfolded in the delusions of early adulthood. You were a substance he had to get out of his system, and those summer breaks spent in this secluded paradise had him indulging more than he felt the need to.

You were always meant to be temporary, he tries to convince himself as he holds your sleeping figure close to his chest.

For the very first time, and in a desperate attempt to grasp the last seconds you could ever share, he whispers in your ear for the very first time, “I love you, preciosa.”

He would hold on to his name on the back of the vermilion suit, on his ivory number somewhere on the bar of his cerise car. It wasn’t the cardinal flush of your cheeks, but it was as close as he was going to get in a long time— if not forever.

Carlos would hold onto that too. Until he could draw another parallel, find another adjective.

Love is far from being easy, he finally agrees.

—

Nostalgia is a traitorous substance, an opiate of the heart: indulge in it too much and you become addicted. Carlos had learned, early one, to stray away from it. There was no room for looking back when you lived life ten seconds at a time. However, melancholy— melancholy he never quite managed to unlearn. And nostalgia, no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay, always found a way back in.

Both brewed now, unbearably sweet, in the pages of Every Summer’s End.

Carlos sat crooked on his bed, spine aching and sheet twisted at his hips. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the quiet shift of his breath whenever a sentence carved too deeply.

When his girlfriend told him it was set in La Herradura, Carlos’ heart had dropped straight to the floor. He was scared of what he’d find between the lines. Terrified of you, not in flesh and skin but in ink and metaphors. More precisely, Carlos was afraid of finding out if you had grown to hate the memory of him, if you had walked the same streets, swam under the same starry sky, but the landscape curled into you like spoiled wine, if you had spat on his name while he held yours tenderly behind his teeth. It was a selfish fear, but real nonetheless.

Then he started reading. That’s when he realized the truth: the book wasn’t about him, like it had been so many times before.

This time, the novel was about you.

The lines blend together until they form black-and-white frames in Carlos’ mind. Adriana—your heroine—had lost the love of her life. The how was ambiguous— sometimes, you hint at the cruel but tender hands of death. Sometimes, you allude to another woman, on another coast, somewhere colder. Carlos read and reread each implication like scripture, combed through context like scripture.

But the novel was never about the man. No matter what you may imply, it all comes down to the same thing: the mourning of what was. Grief, in its purest shade, and the rebuilding that came.

He recognized every place Adriana visited, and Carlos felt it like bruising under his skin to the point of nausea. The worst wasn’t even the familiarity, but knowing you had been there too: walked those same steps without him, cried without him, healed without him. And survived.

Because that’s what the story was really about: surviving through the healing process. Life isn’t restricted to loss. It might shape and change what you are, but it doesn’t erase you. It doesn’t vanish, but simply loosens its grips. The places you once loved don’t reject you; they remember you and help you puzzle yourself back together. In the library near your rental, in the San Juan bonfire on the beach. You are still there, somewhere, no matter what happened.

Eventually, you learn to love again.

Adriana meets someone at a beachfront café. A stranger, simple and warm. He doesn’t spill his coffee on her. He tells her he’s a local, works in a bar not far from here. He’s different from her past lover, and that’s good, because he reminds her that love isn’t always followed by silence.

The tear that hung on Carlos’ eyelashes finally fell down. Gravity had decided to be merciful, just this once.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2021.

Carlos wouldn’t know what happened at that time or place. He wasn’t there.

However, you would. But you didn’t like to recall it, so you wrote about it instead.

Then, you moved on.

—

By the time Carlos had turned the last page, the sun had started its gentle ascent, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom. The warmth of the light filled the emptiness that came after savoring a book, heavy with everything that had been lived on the page.

The sleepless night had passed in an ever present ache. He deciphered your every allegory, holding your tone close to his chest. He had read you in every line with your rhythm, the sentences that curved like the lines of your body. Your prose was yielding, bruised. It felt like another night beside you, your hands toying with his hair, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. When the final word passed under his gaze, it felt like he was leaving you all over again.

But now he was done reading, and you were almost gone.

Almost. Because there it was, not in capitalized letters or bolded words, but on the final page, similar to the unearthing of a secret.

Although I may not be yours this time around, I could never be another’s.

He could recall a conversation you once had on the balcony of his rental. “I hate dedications at the beginning of books,” you’d muttered with a sigh. Carlos was sunbathing next to you, opening an eye to look at your figure hunched over your keyboard. “It doesn’t make sense to me. The person you dedicate it to doesn’t know what you’re giving them yet.” He’d hummed with a laugh, and you had continued. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I would much prefer it to be at the end, so that they understand the meaning of all of it.”

“Would you ever dedicate it to me?” Carlos had asked teasingly.

You’d arched a brow at him, rolling your eyes to the sky with nothing but tenderness. “If I did, I wouldn’t say your name, tesoro. Much too obvious.”

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, only amused when he looked for the dedications in your books and found them right before the backcover.

Except that now, the last of your presence hung on the last page and the two lines that made it, and Carlos knew in the deepest, most egoistic parts of himself, that it was meant for him to understand. That was probably the cruelest part: the story had ended, so had the numerous summers, and he wasn’t sure either of you were still the people who loved and burned under the Andalusian sun. Time passed, it was something Carlos had made peace with.

Yet, the dedication said maybe.

The most rational part of him told him to let it go. He should protect what little healing you and him may have found, to not dig up something that already fed the soil. But the thing about Carlos Sainz is that he had never been at letting go of the things that made him feel alive. Because you had a part of him in you, just like every car he had ever stepped foot in possessed a part of his soul, just like every race track could beat to the rhythm of his heart. Because Carlos Sainz doesn’t know how to give halfway.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s done, but a ticket to La Herradura for the end of the next month of June is blinking at him on his phone screen.

He had no plans, no speeches, and didn't mean to prepare any. The only desire inhabiting him was the one to be there, in that place, basking in the possibility of it.

Maybe Carlos won’t see you, maybe he will. If he does, you’d talk. He’d offer you your usual coffee, if you still took it that way, and he’d tell the entire truth. He’d see where it leads, if he’d take back that part of him you held or he’d let it stay with you.

Some summers, just like love stories, never end.

They just get rewritten, again and again and again.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

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jareaufiles · 22 hours ago

Text

DRAWN TO YOU - e.prentiss x female reader

PREMISE: You, a younger artist, surprise your older girlfriend Emily Prentiss with a secret portrait you’ve spent weeks creating, capturing her as you truly see her — tender, strong, and completely loved. The vulnerability in that moment leads to a deep, intimate confession of feelings between you both. The emotional high turns physical, with Emily taking you to bed.

WARNINGS: established relationship, possessive dominance, cockwarming, face-fucking/deepthroating, intense size kink, pussy worship, filthy dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (reader receiving), rough, messy sex, heavy breeding kink (explicit talk of filling, cumming inside, and owning reader’s pussy), intense orgasm descriptions, soft possessiveness/obsessive language (“mine,” “so tight for me,” “gonna breed you”), mild degradation (filthy teasing and verbal ownership), breast play (squeezing, biting, bouncing), cumplay (inside reader, on cock, implied cum dripping), explicit aftercare including bath-running, cleaning each other, dressing, and emotional tenderness post-scene, confessions of love, soft sleepy cuddling, and hints of deepening emotional intimacy.

WORD COUNT: 5.6K

A/N: requested ; hope this is what you had in mind ?! emily deserves to be cherished, istg

NAVIGATION

The morning light poured lazily through the half-open curtains, casting a warm, amber glow across the bedroom and catching in the threads of dust that hung suspended in the still air. It was one of those rare mornings where the world outside felt like it had forgotten about the two of you.

No buzzing phones, no early briefings, no calls to action. Just the quiet hush of an empty house and the steady, soothing rise and fall of Emily’s chest beneath your cheek.

You lay curled against her, head pillowed on her bare shoulder, the familiar scent of her skin wrapping around you like a blanket. It was a mixture of clean cotton, remnants of last night’s perfume, and something inherently Emily: warm, grounding, intoxicating in a way no bottled fragrance could ever hope to mimic. The steady beat of her heart thudded beneath your ear, and you closed your eyes for a moment, soaking in the simple, overwhelming rightness of it.

God, you loved her. Not in the careless, flippant way you’d loved people before, not in fleeting crushes or easy, uncomplicated flings.

No.

Loving Emily was a visceral, bone-deep thing. It lived in the spaces between heartbeats, in the brush of her fingers down your back, in the gruff tenderness she tried so hard to disguise with teasing and sarcasm. She wasn’t always easy to love; sharp-edged, guarded, fiercely independent, but she was yours. And you were hers. It was the only thing in your life you were ever truly, utterly certain of.

You lifted your head, watching the way the sunlight caught in the strands of her dark hair, the occasional streak of soft silver gleaming like threads of silk. Her face was softened in sleep, those usually intense, calculating eyes closed, lips parted just slightly.

You reached out, fingertips brushing lightly along the line of her jaw, and your chest ached with how much you adored her. Every hard-earned smile, every protective glance, every moment she let her guard down just for you.

And this morning, you’d finally get to show her.

For weeks now, you’d been working in secret. Stealing late-night hours in your studio, slipping away while she was at work or still asleep, pouring every inch of your love for her onto the canvas. You’d tried to capture her the way you saw her ... Not just as the commanding, intimidating Unit Chief with her tailored suits and her don’t-fuck-with-me stare, but as the woman who held you close in the dark, who made coffee for you half-dressed in the morning, who looked at you sometimes like you were the only thing anchoring her to this goddamn world.

You’d painted the curve of her mouth, the thoughtful crease of her brow, the warmth in those dark, unreadable eyes when she let you see it. Every stroke of the brush had been an act of devotion, a thousand unsaid confessions you didn’t always know how to articulate out loud. And now it was finished — waiting just downstairs in your studio, propped against the wall, wrapped in brown paper because you’d been too nervous to frame it before she saw it.

Your stomach fluttered, a mixture of nerves and excitement. You’d never felt this vulnerable before. Not with any of your work, and certainly not with anyone else. But this was Emily. If anyone deserved to be seen the way you saw them, it was her.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then another to the curve of her throat. She stirred with a soft, gravelly hum, her arm tightening around you instinctively.

“Mornin’, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, and you smiled against her skin.

“Morning,” you whispered. “I… I have something for you.”

Emily cracked one eye open, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah? And here I thought you were the present.”

You snorted, shoving lightly at her shoulder. “I’m serious.”

That got her attention. Both eyes opened now, still heavy-lidded but alert. She searched your face, reading you the way only she could, her teasing slipping into something softer. “What’s going on?”

Your heart thudded so hard you were sure she could feel it. You took a breath. “Just… come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

Emily stretched, her hand sliding down your back to palm your ass in a way that made you roll your eyes despite yourself. “Only if I get to fuck you after.”

“Deal,” you grinned, and she laughed, the sound low and easy.

You tugged the sheet around yourself and led her down to the studio, your fingers laced tightly with hers. The room still smelled like turpentine and oils, the canvas waiting against the far wall, the brown paper hiding it from view. You hesitated a moment, nerves making your stomach flutter.

Emily stepped closer, her hand cradling the back of your neck. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Whatever this is, I already love it.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “I’ve been working on it for weeks. I… I wanted to give you something that showed how I see you. How much I—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Just… look.”

You peeled the paper away, letting it fall to the floor. The portrait stared back at the both of you. It was of Emily caught in a moment of stillness, her eyes so impossibly soft, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips. The colours were warm, the light catching in her hair, the shadows wrapping around her like an embrace. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Real.

Emily didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the painting, jaw tight. Then she let out a breath, almost a laugh, and pulled you hard against her, burying her face in your hair.

“Jesus, baby,” she murmured, voice rough. “Nobody’s ever… fuck.” She cupped your face in both hands, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes were shining, the intensity of her emotions barely contained. “I love you so goddamn much.”

Your breath caught, and you kissed her. Hard, desperate, every unspoken thing passing between your mouths. When you pulled back, you were both grinning like idiots.

“I just… wanted you to know,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Emily murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “But this… fuck, sweetheart. This means more than you’ll ever understand.”

And in that sun-drenched studio, with the scent of oil paint hanging in the air and her arms around you, you felt it. That rare, precious, unshakeable kind of love. The kind people spend their whole lives chasing.

And it was yours.

Emily didn’t let you go for a long time.

Her hands were firm, palms broad and a little rough against your skin as she held your face, eyes locked onto yours like she couldn’t bear to look away. The kind of stare that made your stomach swoop, like the floor had just dropped out from beneath you, even though you knew damn well you were safe in her arms.

She’d always had that effect on you — even after all this time, still making your heart race like a teenage crush.

She thumbed softly at your cheek, her touch so tender it made your throat go tight.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” Emily said, voice quiet, a little hoarse. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You smiled, tears threatening at the edges of your eyes, and you leaned into her touch, kissing the heel of her hand. “I think I do,” you whispered. “I feel it every time you look at me.”

Emily let out a soft, shaky breath, her mouth tugging into that half-smile you’d fallen headfirst for — crooked, a little self-conscious in moments like this when she wasn’t hiding behind her usual bravado. She glanced back at the painting, and her fingers curled a little tighter against your waist.

“I’ve had people try to capture me before,” she murmured. “Photographers. Sketch artists. Press at the Bureau. Nobody’s ever… fuck, baby, you made me look like someone you could love.”

Your heart twisted at that. How could she not see it? How could she not know that every inch of her, every sharp line and scar and shadow, was beautiful to you? That you’d never loved anything or anyone so completely in your life?

You reached up, cupping her jaw, making her meet your gaze again. “I do love you. Every version of you. The one you show the world, the one you hide from them, the one you only let out when it’s just us. I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”

That made her laugh, soft and almost wet around the edges. She ducked her head, resting her forehead against yours, and for a moment you just stood there in the quiet of the studio — the morning light turning the room gold around you, dust motes hanging in the air, the scent of oil paint and old wood thick between you. It was a small, perfect moment you wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

Emily’s hands slid down your sides, settling at your hips. Her thumbs rubbed slow, lazy circles against the thin cotton of the sheet you still had wrapped around yourself.

“I don’t deserve you,” she said after a long pause, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.

You frowned, pulling back just enough to catch her expression. There was no teasing there now, no flirtatious smirk. Just Emily — a little raw, a little uncertain, that guarded part of her cracking open in a way it only ever did when it was just the two of you.

“You deserve every goddamn thing I give you,” you told her, firm. “And you always will.”

A beat passed, and then she kissed you.

Not like earlier. Not teasing or playful. Not like a good morning or a promise for later. This kiss was deep, slow, a little desperate. The kind of kiss that said a thousand things neither of you were entirely brave enough to speak out loud. You let yourself sink into it, fingers curling into her hair, the familiar scrape of her jaw against your skin sending shivers down your spine.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Jesus,” she muttered, brushing her thumb over your swollen lower lip. “You ruin me.”

You smiled, dizzy and a little breathless, heart hammering behind your ribs. “Good.”

Emily grinned, then hooked an arm around your waist and lifted you easily, making you squeal in surprise. The sheet slipped from your shoulders as she carried you out of the studio, her mouth pressed hotly to your neck.

“I’m taking you back to bed,” she murmured against your skin, her voice rough and low. “You gave me a fucking portrait, baby. I’m gonna give you the kind of thank you that makes you forget your own name.”

Your stomach flipped, arousal coiling low in your belly at her tone, but even as desire lit up your nerves, you knew, knew without a doubt, that it wasn’t just about sex. That with Emily, it never was. Every kiss, every touch, every teasing threat was another way she told you she loved you. Another way she let herself be known.

And you would give her everything. Always.

Because she was yours. And you were hers.

Emily carried you upstairs like you weighed nothing, one strong arm under your thighs, the other cradling your back. Her mouth never stopped working against your skin.

Soft, wet kisses scattered along your jaw and neck, her teeth occasionally scraping just enough to make you shiver. Your body was already aching for her, your cunt slick and throbbing between your thighs, the air cool against the mess she was about to claim.

By the time she laid you out across the bed, you were trembling, your skin flushed, nipples tight and aching, your pussy already sticky and glistening with arousal.

You lay there naked for her, legs slightly parted, the slick between your folds catching the light. The sensitive, flushed lips of your pussy were so wet it felt obscene, your clit peeking out, swollen and desperate for attention.

Emily’s gaze dragged over you, hungry and possessive. The way her eyes settled between your legs made you burn. She reached down, palming the hard length of her cock through her briefs — the thick outline impossible to miss. You knew how it felt, how it filled you, stretched you so deep you could feel it for hours after. She was big, thick enough to make your throat tighten and your pussy ache in anticipation.

“Goddamn, look at you,” Emily rasped, tugging her briefs down. Her cock sprang free — long, veined, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered there. She stroked a hand along it lazily, watching you watch her.

Your mouth watered at the sight. You reached for her without thinking, wrapping your hand around the base, feeling the weight of it, the heat of her skin. She let out a low groan, her hips twitching against your grip.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” she muttered, leaning down to kiss you.

And fuck, she kissed you like she meant it. Deep and messy, teeth catching on your bottom lip, tongues tangling, a filthy, desperate kiss that left your head spinning.

Her hand slid up your body, calloused palm skimming over your breast, fingers pinching at your nipple until you whimpered into her mouth. She loved your tits, loved the way they filled her hands, loved the way your nipples peaked at the rough drag of her fingertips.

“God, these perfect fucking tits,” she groaned, leaning down to suck one into her mouth. Her tongue flicked over the sensitive bud before her teeth scraped against it, and your back arched off the bed.

“Emily,” you gasped, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Uh-uh,” she smirked, pulling back. “Keep those legs open for me, baby.”

Your cunt clenched at the order. She moved her hand between your thighs, parting your folds with practiced ease, two fingers gathering the slick coating your pussy.

She spread it up to your clit, circling slow, watching your face the whole time. The sensation was electric, the firm pressure against your swollen bud making you buck against her hand.

“So fucking wet for me,” she murmured. “This pretty little pussy’s drooling, baby.”

She slid two thick fingers inside you without warning, your cunt stretching around them, the wet, obscene sound filling the room. Your walls clenched down around her fingers, your arousal dripping down to coat your thighs. Emily worked them in deep, curling just right to brush against that spot that made you whimper.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” she growled. “Always so fucking good for me.”

Your hand found her cock again, stroking it slow and firm, your thumb swiping over the slick head. She hissed through her teeth, her hips jerking forward.

“Fuck, baby. You wanna taste it?”

You grinned up at her, biting your lip. “Yeah, Em. Let me suck your cock.”

Her eyes darkened, a smirk tugging at her mouth. She pulled her fingers from your cunt, making you moan at the sudden emptiness, and stroked them over your lips.

“Open,” she ordered.

You did, licking her fingers clean, tasting yourself on her skin. Emily groaned, her cock twitching in your hand.

“Get on your knees, baby.”

You slid off the bed, sinking to your knees on the floor as she stood at the edge, her cock heavy and flushed in front of your face. You leaned in, pressing soft kisses along the shaft, licking a long stripe from base to tip. She let out a low, wrecked sound, one hand threading into your hair.

“That’s it. Look at you,” she muttered, her voice rough, her gaze locked on yours. “Such a good girl for me.”

You wrapped your lips around the thick head, the taste of her making your pussy throb. You took her deeper, your mouth stretching around the girth, your throat working to take more. Emily groaned, her hand tightening in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, just like that. Gonna fuck this pretty little throat.”

You moaned around her, the vibration making her curse, and she started to rock her hips, fucking her cock into your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. Your throat stretched around the thick length, your eyes watering as you took her deeper, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

The burn, the fullness, the way she filled your mouth — it was everything. You gripped her hips, nails digging in, letting her use you, your pussy dripping onto the floor as she fucked your mouth. The obscene sounds of wet sucking and her low groans filled the room.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” Emily panted, sweat beading at her temple. “You take it so fucking good. Bet your pussy’s fucking gushing for me right now.”

It was. Slick was dripping down your thighs, your clit throbbing, your cunt clenching on nothing as you let her fuck your throat. And you loved it. Loved the possessiveness in her voice, the rough grip in your hair, the way her cock stretched your throat so deep you swore you could feel it in your chest.

You looked up at her, tears streaking your cheeks, and she groaned.

“Fucking perfect.”

Emily pulled her cock from your throat with a wet, obscene sound, a thick string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to her flushed, aching length. You gasped in a ragged breath, chest heaving, tears streaking your face, your pussy throbbing so hard it hurt. She looked down at you, dark eyes blown wide with lust, her hand still tangled in your hair.

“Could’ve fucking came down your throat,” Emily growled, her voice hoarse, her cock twitching in her grip, thick and veined and so heavy it made your mouth water all over again. “But I want this cock in your pussy, baby. I need to feel you when I fill you up.”

Your cunt clenched at the words, a hot gush of slick spilling out of you onto your thighs. You scrambled up onto the bed, spread your legs wide for her without hesitation, your soaked pussy glistening in the light.

The lips were puffy and flushed, your clit swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. You could feel how messy you were, how open and ready, and the look on Emily’s face when she climbed onto the bed between your thighs made you whimper.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she rasped, stroking her cock slowly, the thick head leaking precum. “Look at this perfect little pussy, baby. Begging for me.”

She leaned down to kiss you, sloppy and desperate, teeth catching on your lips. Her hand cupped your tit, squeezing roughly, her calloused thumb flicking over your stiff nipple. Your back arched into her touch, a moan tearing from your throat.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, Emily,” you gasped against her mouth, your fingers clawing at her back. “So fucking perfect… can’t believe you’re mine. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Emily groaned, pressing her cockhead against your entrance, and the stretch as she started to push in made your breath catch. She was big — impossibly thick, every inch dragging against your walls, your pussy stretching so wide you swore you could feel every vein, every throb of her cock as she filled you.

“Fuck, baby,” she panted. “Tightest, sweetest cunt I’ve ever had. Always takes me so good.”

Your tits bounced with every inch she fed into you, your nipples flushed and sensitive from earlier. Emily’s own breasts moved with her, heavier and firm, the soft weight of them brushing your chest as she fucked into you. Her nipples were stiff, pebbled, the curves of her tits catching in the light as she rolled her hips deep.

When she was finally seated all the way inside you, the stretch making your stomach bulge slightly, you whimpered, overwhelmed, your hands flying to her back.

“Em… oh my god, fuck… you feel so good,” you moaned, tears stinging your eyes again. “You’re so big, it’s so fucking good.”

She started to move, slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that made your pussy clutch at her, your clit grinding against the base of her cock. The wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing her up filled the room, your tits bouncing wildly with every thrust.

Emily’s grip tightened on your hips, and she fucked you harder, faster, the slap of her hips against yours sharp, her cock punching deep enough to brush your cervix. You sobbed out her name, your whole body trembling, your pussy clenching so tight around her she cursed.

“Fucking take it, baby,” she growled, sweat dampening her hairline, the muscles in her arms and shoulders flexing as she pinned you down and worked her cock deep inside you. Her tits bounced with every thrust, the full weight of them moving with the force of her body. “This perfect little pussy’s mine.”

You came with a sharp cry, your pussy spasming around her, slick gushing out to coat her cock, your body jerking beneath her. Emily groaned, not slowing for a second, fucking you through it.

“That’s it, baby,” she rasped, leaning down to bite your neck. “Give it to me. Fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

Your orgasm left you dazed and dizzy, but Emily didn’t stop. She reached between you, her thumb finding your clit, circling it fast and rough. The stimulation made you sob, your legs kicking weakly.

“Em, I—oh fuck—”

“You can give me another,” she panted, watching your face. “I know you can, baby. Come on.”

The pressure built fast, unbearable, your whole body slick with sweat. Her cock was so deep, the thick head battering your sweet spot, your clit a raw bundle of nerves under her touch.

“I’m gonna cum again,” you sobbed, clawing at her arms. “Fucking—so good, Emily, you make me feel so good. Love you so much.”

Emily groaned, her hips stuttering, and you shattered around her for the second time, your cunt clenching so violently around her cock it made her curse. A gush of slick soaked the sheets beneath you, your body going boneless.

“Holy fuck, baby, holy shit,” Emily gasped, her pace rough now, desperate.

She grabbed your legs, throwing them over her shoulders, folding you in half, her cock driving impossibly deep. Her tits bounced with the brutal rhythm of her thrusts, sweat rolling down the valley between them, her hair sticking to her temple.

“I’m gonna fill you up, baby,” she growled. “Gonna fucking breed you. Stretch this pretty pussy out, make sure you’re dripping with me.”

“Yes,” you sobbed, barely coherent. “Fuck, yes. Please, Em. I need it, I need you to cum in me.”

Emily’s hips slammed against yours one last time, burying herself deep, and then she was cumming, cock pulsing hard inside you as thick, hot ropes of cum filled your cunt. Her face twisted in pleasure, her body shuddering, and she pressed her mouth to your ear.

“Te amo, mi vida,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Te amo, te amo… tan buena… mi amorcito… solo mía.”

You whimpered at the words, your cunt fluttering around her as you felt the thick warmth flooding your pussy, her cock twitching with each pulse.

She stayed buried inside you, her forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless and wrecked, the room thick with sweat, sex, and the sharp, raw scent of your orgasms.

And in that moment, with your pussy stretched, stuffed, and dripping around her, your bodies tangled and trembling, you’d never felt more loved, more desired, and more hers.

The sheets beneath you were damp, twisted, streaked with slick and streaks of Emily’s cum slowly seeping from your still-sensitive cunt. Your skin was tacky with sweat, the ache between your legs a steady, delicious throb that made you clench down weakly around the emptiness she’d left inside you.

Emily lay half on top of you, her face pressed to your neck, her breathing still uneven, her skin hot and flushed. Her cock was softening against your thigh, streaked with your release and the mess she’d filled you with, and you felt the familiar tenderness creep into your chest — that overwhelming, aching love that always came in the aftermath of nights like this.

You pressed a soft kiss to her temple, threading your fingers through the sweat-damp strands of her hair. She sighed, the sound rough and content, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling her down.

“I got you, Em,” you murmured quietly, your voice low and tender. “Just stay here, baby.”

Emily made a soft noise of protest as you slipped out from beneath her, your legs shaky, your thighs sticky with slick and cum, but you didn’t let it stop you.

You grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the en suite bathroom and returned to her, kneeling on the bed beside her languid, sated body. You wiped her down first, starting with her chest, where sweat clung between the soft curves of her breasts, her nipples still flushed from where your mouth had worked over them.

She groaned softly when the warm cloth skimmed over her cock, tender now but still so beautiful, her release drying thick against her skin. You cleaned her carefully, gently, reverently. The way she let you — loose-limbed and quiet, her dark eyes heavy with emotion when they met yours — made your heart squeeze.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered.

She didn’t argue.

Once she was clean, you turned to yourself, running the cloth over your thighs, between your legs, flinching a little at the oversensitive drag over your puffy, swollen cunt. You could still feel her inside you, the heat of her cum leaking out with every shift of your hips. It made you ache, made you clench around nothing.

Afterward, you stripped the ruined sheets from the bed, the scent of sex lifting with them, leaving the room smelling faintly of lavender detergent and fresh air again. You moved quietly, efficiently, glancing over at Emily every so often where she lay, watching you with that soft, fond look in her eyes. The kind she only ever let you see.

You set clean sheets on the bed, fluffing the pillows, smoothing everything down. Then you padded back into the bathroom and started the bath — hot, just shy of scalding, with a generous pour of that lavender bath oil she liked even though she’d never admit it. The scent filled the room, steam curling up from the surface of the water.

You came back for her, tugging gently at her hand. “Come on, Em. Bath’s ready.”

She grumbled under her breath but let you lead her, and you helped her undress the rest of the way, the last of the sweat-damp hair tie from her wrist, her watch, the chain she always wore around her neck.

You kissed the inside of her wrist, her knuckles, the line of her jaw as you guided her into the water. She sank down with a groan, her eyes fluttering shut, the tension bleeding from her muscles.

“Christ, baby,” she muttered. “You’re spoiling me.”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss her lips. “You deserve it.”

You slipped in behind her, your legs bracketing hers, pulling her back against your chest. The hot water soothed the ache in your muscles, the scent of lavender settling in your lungs. Emily relaxed fully then, her head falling back to your shoulder, her hand finding yours beneath the water.

You stayed like that for a while, the world soft and quiet around you. Your fingers stroked over the curve of her stomach, up to her breasts, skimming the slope of her throat. She hummed at the touch, pressing lazy, damp kisses to your wrist.

When the water cooled, you helped her out, wrapping her in a thick, warm towel, drying her hair with another. She let you fuss, let you move her around, her usual stubborn independence quieted in the hazy afterglow.

You grabbed clean clothes. One of her old, soft cotton T-shirts for yourself, a pair of boxers and a worn, loose tank for her, and helped her dress. She smiled at you then, something soft and almost shy in her eyes.

“I fucking love you, you know that?” Emily murmured, her voice rough and warm.

“I know,” you said, kissing her slow, savouring the taste of her.

And in that quiet, tender, lavender-scented room, you felt it. Not just the aftermath of sex, but the kind of love people spend lifetimes chasing. The kind that settled deep in your bones. The kind that lingered.

You both climbed back into the freshly made bed, the clean, cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. The air in the room still smelled faintly of lavender from the bath, mingling with the softer notes of the detergent and the lingering, pleasant musk of sex beneath it all.

Emily let out a contented groan as she settled onto her back, one arm automatically lifting to make space for you, and you wasted no time curling into her side, your head resting over the steady, comforting beat of her heart.

The warmth of her skin beneath your cheek was soothing, grounding. You let your hand drift over her stomach, fingertips tracing lazy, aimless shapes across the smooth plane of muscle and soft skin.

Little loops and spirals, following the curve of her ribs, the faint ridges of her scars, the tender dip of her navel. She was beautiful like this — bare and real and completely yours.

“I love you,” you murmured, the words quiet but steady in the hush of the dim room. Your fingertips drew a heart on her stomach before your hand stilled. “All of you. Not just the good, easy parts, either. The messy shit, the sharp edges. Every last inch of you, Em.”

Emily’s hand came up, threading through your hair, her fingers combing slow, rhythmic strokes against your scalp. She didn’t say anything at first — just breathed, steady and deep, the weight of her touch speaking louder than words.

When she did speak, her voice was soft and rough around the edges, like gravel softened by water. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” she said, and you could hear how genuine it was in the way her words caught slightly on the tail end of the sentence.

You lifted your head just enough to look at her, your fingers still resting against the warm skin of her stomach. The lines of her face were softer now, her dark eyes gleaming faintly in the low light.

You could still see traces of everything you’d done to each other written there — the faint flush on her cheeks, the sleepy weight in her gaze, the satisfied curve of her mouth.

“You deserve everything, Emily,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to her jaw, then one to the corner of her mouth. “And you’ll have it. As long as you’ll let me give it to you.”

She gave a soft, almost broken laugh, turning her head to kiss you fully, slow and lingering. It was nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from earlier. This one tasted like warmth, like home, like every promise you’d ever made to each other wrapped up in one quiet touch.

“I still can’t believe you painted that,” she murmured against your lips when you finally pulled apart, her hand brushing a strand of damp hair back from your face. “Nobody’s ever… no one’s ever seen me like that before. The way you do.”

Your throat tightened, and you smiled, brushing your thumb along the curve of her mouth. “That’s because no one’s ever taken the time to look.”

Emily let out a breath like she was trying to ease something tight out of her chest. “I swear, baby, that painting… it’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me. Not just because of how it looks. But because you see me — all the shit I try to hide, all the stuff I don’t say out loud — and you still look at me like that.”

“I always will,” you promised.

She pulled you in closer, tucking you against her chest, your cheek resting once more over her heartbeat. Her arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of her embrace, the clean sheets soft against your skin, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that had finally been put back in their rightful place.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of your breathing and the occasional soft sigh as one of you shifted slightly. You kept tracing absent-minded shapes against her stomach, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall beneath your hand, and Emily kept her fingers in your hair, the repetitive motion enough to lull you toward sleep.

“I love you,” she whispered after a while, the words rough and worn, like something she’d been carrying around in her mouth for hours, days, maybe years. “More than I know how to say.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “I already know.”

Emily hummed, a soft, contented sound. The bed dipped slightly as she pressed a final kiss to the top of your head.

And then the world faded.

Your limbs heavy and warm, the rhythm of her heartbeat steady in your ear, the press of her skin against yours, the scent of lavender and clean cotton all around you. Sleep pulled you under like a tide, and you let it take you, safe in the knowledge that come morning, Emily would still be here, holding you just as tightly.

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rawrfrferrari · 15 hours ago

Text

Bad Romance | MV 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x girlfriend!oc

Type: SMAU, PR Relationship.

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

f1wagsofficial

Liked by maxverstappendaily, maxlanaupdates and others

f1wagsofficial Spotted: Alana arriving solo two days in a row for FP & Quali while boyfriend Max Verstappen took the back entrance into the paddock.

Cameras caught only a few interactions, but let’s see what Sunday brings.

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gridgirlie she literally looked stunning yesterday I would also want to make a solo entrance

wifeverstappen lmao that fake couple arc lasted like 3 weeks

f1wagstea i don’t blame her. fake or not, she’s gotta protect her peace lol

redbullbabe33 maybe she’s letting max focus?? she doesn’t have to be glued to him lol

username1 idk they both seem chill… not everyone’s gonna cling for clout

lecfosi16 wasn’t she supposed to be at the garage? hmm

→ f1wagsofficial I think she was in the garage for quali, rest of the time she was I the club with his mother.

username2 first the kiss leak, now this… they were never meant to be.

maxlanaupdates maybe it’s to avoid giving the press too much too soon?

tifosiangel not y’all assuming they’re breaking up cause she showed up in her own car 😭

alana.miller

📍Monaco Grand Prix

maxlanaupdates

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maxlanaupdates Max and Alana shows up at paddock together. Also Alana was also spotted going to the garage with his mother.

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redbullbabe33 She fits in like she’s been there all the time.

maxlanaschild Her walking ahead to give the journalists space to interview max.

wifeverstappen Max isn’t smiling like that… he looks tired not happy.

username1 Max really upgraded tbh 👀

trulylandhoe I feel like Lando’s definitely teasing Max about this rn 😂

maxyfanforever She got the mom approval y’all. IT’S REAL.

username2 Can she chill for one race? Just one?

teamalanam The way she waved at the cameras all sweetly 🥹

tracktales Too fast, too PR-coded for me.

TO LANDO'S PARTY

Max was behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering lightly, the other resting on the gearshift. He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, just the soft hum of the engine and occasional chatter from the outside world slipping through the barely cracked window.

Alana glanced sideways at him. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the road, but not in the angry way she’d feared.

"You good?" she asked gently.

He nodded, but then shook his head. "Not really. P4 feels like a loss when you’ve been fighting for the top since round one."

"You drove hard," she offered. "It wasn’t your fault, strategy was all over the place."

Max sighed. "It’s not even about the position anymore. I just... I don’t feel like I’m enjoying it right now."

Alana stayed quiet for a beat, then said, "You’re allowed to be tired of something, even if you’re good at it."

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Problem is, I’m expected to be good at it. No room for tired."

The car rolled to a slow stop at a red light. Max leaned back, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

"But hey," he said suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Lando won today! That made it better. I saw how happy he was when he got out of the car."

Alana smiled. "He deserves it."

"Yeah. I told him after the cooldown lap. ‘Bout time someone shut us all up." He chuckled.

She said, adjusting her hair in the rearview. "Finally, You've stopped sulking."

He shot her a sideways look. “I’m not sulking. You’re annoying."

"But I'm right."

The light turned green. He shifted gears and they eased forward, city lights starting to flicker more vibrantly now that dusk was sliding in.

"Thanks for not letting Anna push me much today," Max said quietly, eyes on the road. "I know you probably had content to post but-"

Alana tilted her head. "You think I care about posting when you’re this grumpy?"

"I’m not grumpy."

"You’re very moody." She poked his dimple. He didn’t argue that one. Just smiled faintly as they turned toward the coastline, Lando’s party venue coming into view in the distance, lights already blaring.

alana.miller

tagged : maxverstappen1, landonorris

landonorris

tagged : maxverstappen1, alana.miller

caption: MAMA YE PAPA

maxverstappen1

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maxverstappen1 I’ve been replaced from the favourite to the second favourite.

tagged: alana.miller, victoriaverstappen

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alana.miller You’ll always be my favorite, grump.

victoriaverstappen The babies adore her, what can I say? 😌

→ alana.miller I adore you all 💗

wagsexpose101 Who brings a full look to a family dinner if not for the cameras?

maxxalana.fp This is the content we needed. Thank you Max 🙏🏼

landonorris You’re lucky to even be second now tbh.

alana.miller In my defence, I give better cuddles and lots of snacks. 🐣

→ maxverstappen1 Where are mine?

→ alana.miller Get done with the sim fast

→ maxverstappen1 You dont know how fast I can be 😏

username1 They’re such a soft couple, my heart can’t take it.

wifeyverstappen Look how uncomfortable the kids are 😣

f1wagsdaily Jos leaving max at the gas station again because he's p2 in his family's favourite hierarchy now...

username2 Can we get a moment without the “look how perfect she is” rollout?

alanamiller4ever Her with Max's niece 🥺

username3 Them flirting in the comments was not on my bingo card for 2025

alana.miller

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and others

alana.miller Monaco Memories 📸🩶

tagged: maxverstappen1, victoriaverstappen

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maxverstappen1 You can't gang up with my cats against me.

→ alana.miller You're in my team first 😘

victoriaverstappen Monaco’s finest 🤩

wifeyverstappen Tell me you're a gold digger bitch with telling me you're a gold digger bitch.

kikagomes Cutie, we should hang out sometimes?

→ alana.miller Absolutely !!

username1 Mother is mothering the cats, kids ad Max.

username2 No one’s life is this perfect.

alanamiller.fp That dock photo made me sob. She’s such a softie 🥺

landonorris J and S chose their queen and we all bow

username3 All this for a girl Max met less than three months ago…

lilymhe adorableeee💕

alanaxmaxie Her and Max feel like endgame.

maxrbfanclub Max blink twice if you’re being PR-managed.

alanamillerdaily Max can you fight?

SPANISH GRAND PRIX, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The backdrop was loud, engines cooling, crews moving gear, fans still chanting names in the distance.

Max, helmet off and fireproofs unzipped to his waist, stood in front of the Red Bull hospitality wall. Reporters swamping around him to get content after the disappointing race.

“Max, obviously not the result you’d hoped for today, P10 after a tough weekend. Do you think your very public relationship with a model might be affecting your focus?”

Everything froze for just a second too long. Max’s jaw clenched. He looked directly at the reporter. Then took a step closer.

“Let me be very clear, my personal life has nothing to do with what happens on track. My girlfriend anything but a distraction. She's very supportive and keeps me grounded in ways most people wouldn’t understand.” His cold tone intimidated the reporter who gulped down and quivered back a little.

The paddock quieted a little around him. “If I finish P10, that’s on me and the car, not on the person who’s stood beside me through every frustrating weekend and still shows up with the same energy and belief.”

He took another breath, running a hand through his hair, still damp under the sun. “I’ll take responsibility for every race result. But don’t ever reduce a woman’s presence in a man’s life to a distraction just because it fits your headline.”

And with that, he gave a short nod to the Red Bull comms manager and walked off with his jaw tight.

RED BULL HOSPITALITY, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The door to the Red Bull hospitality swung open a little too sharply, catching the attention of everyone inside.

Max strode in, lips pressed into a hard line. A few heads turned, but no one said anything.

Alana stood near the coffee bar, laughing softly with Geri, Christian Horner's wife, one hand holding a bottle of water, the other brushing her hair behind her ear. Her smile made him feel like everything outside that moment could wait.

Max exhaled slowly. Without a word, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Alana jolted slightly in surprise, then relaxed instantly into his arms.

“Hi,” she whispered with a soft laugh, reaching up to place her hand over his.

Geri’s brows lifted slightly, but she smiled knowingly. “Hello Max. I’ll give you two a minute,” she murmured before excusing herself.

Alana leaned her head slightly toward his shoulder, smiling gently. “You okay?” she asked, keeping her voice low, not wanting to push him. She assumed it was the frustrating P10.

Max didn’t say anything. Instead, he just buried his face into the crook of her neck for a beat, breathing in. Alana’s brows furrowed a little, her instincts kicking in.

Still, she didn’t ask again. She just slipped her hand behind his back and began rubbing slow, soothing circles against the tense line of muscle just above his spine.

Max’s grip on her eased just slightly. “Come on, Let's get back to the hotel.” she murmured after a moment, lacing their fingers as they stepped out of the hospitality, the early evening sun casting long shadows down the paddock.

As they made their way to the parking lot, Alana didn’t rush asking questions. She knew how heavy he was feeling and didn't need someone to poke him right now.

alana.miller

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alana.miller 🍒🇪🇸✨

tagged: maxverstappen1, kikagomez, lilymhe, lilyzneimer, carmenmundt, flavybarla

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maxverstappen1 Still stamina‑checked by churros ❤️

→ alana.miller 😳

→ lando.norris 🤮 eww get a room

→ maxverstappen1 we already did. Bye ✌🏻

lilyzneime when are we doing another girls’ day?

→ alana.miller As soon as our fanboys stop being clingy. Sure...

→ lilymhe frrrr

wagscentral We loved a cultured girl 😌

flavybarla this Monday deserves a mini vlog 😌

→ alana.miller best monday

alanahatereww no one asked for 8 photos

→ alanapretty no one asked for your opinion lol

kellypiquetlove Max downgraded y’all just scared to say it

kikagomez barcelona dumped and slayed.

→ alana.miller 💕

username1 Her and Max are my Roman Empire

maxlanaforever i just know max has that 3rd pic as his lock screen

lilymhe PhD in ig dumps.

→ alana.miller graduated with valedictory.

zendaya suddenly i need to book a barcelona flight

→ alana.miller @/tomholland2013 Listen to ur wife.

→ tomholland2013 Sure Ma'am.

f1truthbombs influencer energy is so off-putting in F1

maxlanaupdates They stayed Monday and Tuesday to explore the city instead of going to Montreal or back to Monaco 🥹

username2 They're so cheeky and flirty. I can't 😭

maxielovebot trying hard to be interesting lol

alanamillerfpmodel The vroom vroom boy treating our girl right 🫶🏽

MAX'S HOTEL ROOM, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

Anna tapped her pen against a Red Bull-branded notepad, scanning the week’s headlines on her tablet while Lexi sat poised, legs crossed, notes already highlighted in pastel pink.

Max was slouched in a chair near the window, in his Red Bull polo. Alana sat on the edge of the bed.

“Alright,” Anna began, sliding her tablet across the table. “The race day fallout is manageable, but the clip of the interview is gaining traction.”

Max didn’t flinch. “Good. He deserved to be shut down.”

Lexi gave a small nod of approval. “Your response plays well in your favor. We’ve already flagged and slowed a few of the harsher edits circulating. But you two need to recalibrate what’s public and what’s not.”

“I didn’t plan to say anything,” Max muttered. “But I’m not going to let her being bullied or frowned down like this” He waved a hand vaguely.

Alana looked at him quietly. Lexi cleared her throat. “It’s good that you’re comfortable. But now we have to be intentional. Especially with the next race and the movie premiere.”

Anna adjusted her glasses. “Speaking of... Max, are we still holding on your travel plans for Montreal?”

“No,” he said. “I want her there.”

That landed heavy in the room. Alana blinked once. “You want me at the Canadian GP?”

He looked at her directly now. “Yes. After the way Barcelona ended… I want you there.”

Lexi glanced at her client, gauging her reaction. Alana didn’t smile, but she gave the smallest nod.

“Fine by me,” Lexi said, scribbling it into her planner. “That actually works better for the timeline. You both land in Canada wednesday morning, stay through the weekend. On Monday you fly to New York for the premiere with Christian, Geri and Yuki”

Alana tilted her head, brushing her hair behind her ear slowly. “If I show up for Canada and the premiere… you’re coming to my Dior collection launch.”

There was a beat of silence. Max met her eyes. “Done.”

Anna blinked. “You’ll be in Paris?”

“I’ll be in Paris,” he confirmed, glancing sideways at Lexi. “Send me the details.”

Lexi didn’t hide her surprise, just jotted it down on her planner.

“So,” Anna summarised, exhaling. “Montreal GP with joint press coverage. NYC F1 premiere, coordinated entrance, brief interaction on-camera. Then Dior’s Paris launch.”

“And after that,” Lexi said, “You two owe each other absolutely nothing… for at least 72 hours.”

Alana let out a quiet laugh. “Oh Thank God!”

Max rolled his eyes as she smirked playfully. He stood up rolling his shoulders back. “I'll see you in Montreal.”

MAX AND ALANA'S ROOM, MONTREAL - JUNE 2025

The adjoining door creaked open at exactly 10:43 a.m., like it always did whenever she entered without knocking.

Max was sitting on the armrest of the couch in his room, still half-dressed in team shirt with a towel wrapped around his waist. hair towel-dried and sticking up slightly in the back. His lanyard lay discarded on the table next to his phone.

Alana stepped in like she lived there. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for brunch with the girls,” she said, adjusting her twisted pendent in the mirror while he went back inside to wear his skinny jeans, Alana wishes to burn someday.

Max gave a slow nod, glancing at the mirror as he ran his hand through his hair halfheartedly. “Hmm. Lando offered to have dinner together.”

"Sure." Alana smiled faintly. “Don’t let them get under your skin.” She looked at him in the eye and straightened the collar of his shirt.

He looked over. “They won’t.”

“They will,” she corrected. “It’s media day. That's what they do.”

He huffed something that resembled a laugh. She picked up the Red Bull cap he’d tossed onto the coffee table and walked over to him, adjusting the peak slightly before pressing it into his hands.

“And if anyone brings up Monaco or Barcelona,” she added, tilting her head as she met his eyes, “Just say something vague, and walk away. Don't rage on them.”

He gave a slow blink. “You sound like my PR manager.”

“I should be,” she muttered under her breath, patting is arm. Max didn’t move.

She glanced at the time on his wall clock, then stepped up and leaned in. Her mouth brushing softly against his cheek, like it was a habit.

“Don’t cause trouble before brunch is over,” she said, grabbing the tote bag from the back of the chair.

Max came back to his senses and shyly muttered “I won’t.”

“You always say that.” And with that, she slipped back into her room, the door closing quietly behind her.

Max sat back on the couch and stared at the cap in his hand, the ghost of her kiss still warm on his cheek.

MONTREAL, CANADA - JUNE 2025

The brunch spot was tucked into a cobbled corner of Montreal. The five women had claimed a table near the window, half inside, half open to the breeze.

Alana sat between Flavy and Kika, long legs crossed, sipping her citrus drink. Their laughter flowed easily, until the tone shifted.

It started when two girls, maybe mid-twenties, who sat at the table behind them with red bull merch on, one of them holding her phone angled just enough to not look like she was recording.

Alana noticed them. It came like a sixth sense to notice cameras, after the becoming a public figure.

She didn’t say anything, but Flavy leaned over and muttered, “Ignore it.”

Then came the whispers. Loud enough to be intentional, soft enough to feign innocence. “She’s literally everywhere now. Like, why is she even in Canada?”

“I mean, Max is totally being managed. You can see it in his interviews, he looks drained.”

“She’s just another PR stunt. A stylish one, but still fake.” The table fell quiet for a moment.

Alana didn’t flinch. She calmly reached for the small silver butter knife and spread jam onto her toast.

Flavy glanced at her. “You good?”

“Peachy,” Alana said with a soft smile.

A few minutes passed. More laughter, more food, more ignoring the noise.

Until the girls stood up and approached their table, all too friendly now.

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt, but—” the taller one smiled too wide, “we’re huge Max fans, and we brought this little gift for him.”

She held out a small box, red ribbon wrapped around it. The other one chimed in, “Would you mind giving it to him? You know, since you’re… with him?”

“And maybe a quick selfie? You look sooo pretty!”

Kika blinked. Lily stared. Carmen looked like she might throw her coffee.

Alana smiled, sweetly and slowly rose, brushing crumbs off her cream skirt, and accepted the gift with delicate fingers.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I’d be happy to pass this along.”

The girls beamed. “But just a quick note—” Alana tilted her head, stepping just slightly closer, “next time you want to dissect a woman’s relevance, maybe don’t do it at the table directly behind her while wearing merch from the man she just kissed goodbye this morning.”

The girls’ faces paled instantly. Alana didn't stop smiling. She stepped back and handed her phone to Lily with a knowing look. “Shall we?”

The selfie was snapped, awkward but civil. The girls mumbled thanks and quickly retreated, muttering apologies that didn’t reach past their teeth.

alanamiller

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alanamiller Rooting only for the best 🤞🏼

tagged: maxverstappen1, redbullracing

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maxverstappen1 ❤️💙

→ alana.miller 😘

kikagomes queen of showing up and showing OUT

→ alana.miller Why hide such a masterpiece when you can flaunt 💁🏻‍♀️

alanamilfan rooting for her like she roots for him.

maxverstappen1 Stealing my kit so I have more casuals. Wow.

→ alana.miller Love You too 🫶🏽

f1sippingtea Her and Carman cheering for their boys together 🥺

redbullracing No one could slay the RB t-shirt better then you ☺️❤️

→ alana.miller It's totally my colour right !? 🥺

maxsrealwife you’re not the main character. he is.

→ alana.miller Always ❤️

→ username1 kdhckdsuvcouwa

→ maxlanaschild Gurl-

carmenmundt Goerge isn't taking you getting all the attention well 😂

→ alana.miller Sassy little bitch

→ georgerussell 🙄

username2 imagine treating fans like garbage and then posting this like nothing happened

flavybarla This is giving First Lady of Red Bull 🫡

madformax33 you were SO sweet to the little girl in the paddock 😭😭😭

victoriaverstappen Bests💙

→ alana.miller 💙

verstappenlion still convinced this is a PR thing...

alanamiller

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alanamiller off track & in the moment 🍁

tagged: maxverstappen1

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maxverstappen1 Why do I agree to roam around everywhere. I HATE IT.

→ landonorris You love my company. Admit it ☺️

→ alana.miller Delulando. We allowed you to hang around so we could get pictures 😂

→ landonorris 🖕🏻

→ maxverstappen1 LANDO NORRIS!

lilymhe she said “casually thriving”

landonorris No PC? You're such a hater 😒

→ alana.miller Cry me a river 😂

verstappensgirl she’s trying SO hard to stay relevant

username1 i miss when wags stayed in the background 😴

maxlanacontent He made it to the first pic of the dump 🥺

danielricciardo jimmy and sassy wants to know your location 😾🔫

→ alana.miller Nooo. Love my babies unconditional!!

→ mamamax She's a keeper verstappen!!!

alanafansforever Yes Max. Keep her protected like that. Good boy.

maxlovergirl87 this is literally staged lol

username2 Girl got Max to touch grass after he started Maxplaining the race to her 😭 ♥︎ by author

→ maxlanaupdates 😂 Alana Liked

→ username2 She's so unhinged. I love her !

simp4alana Red Bull Sales 📈

lanmaxdo Alana bullying Lando was not on my 2025 bingo...

maxverstappen1

🎵 Welcome to New York. Taylor Swift

alana.miller

📍New York City, NY

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

Alana Miller Gets Ready for the F1 Movie Premiere | Vogue USA

Alana sat on a velvet stool by the window, sipping cold-brew out of a takeout cup. Her skin glowed from the spa she and max went to in the morning. Max was fresh out of shower in a white robe choosing from the three suits brought in for him.

“I’ll be camera ready in… probably 45 minutes,” she smiled, looking into the lens before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Or two hours if Max has anything to say about it.”

The shot shifted, her vanity scattered with Dior products, pins, palettes, and sticky notes scribbled with touch-up reminders. Her hairstylist, Allen, was sectioning her hair while her makeup artist prepped her skin with moisturiser. On the couch nearby, her stylist was steaming a black gown.

“I’ve been a fan of F1 since I was a kid,” Alana said as the camera slowly pushed in, capturing her reflection in the mirror, back straight, brows being brushed. “My mom was the one who introduced it to me when I was young, and since she worked in automative engineering, she used to tell me all the technical stuff.”

The crew asked which team was her favourite. She laughed lightly, eyes flicking to the stylist’s rack of shoes. “I had a Ferrari poster in my room. Now switched to Red Bull because… well.” She pointed back at her boyfriend.

The crew chuckled off-camera. Max, sitting on the bed behind her in the black suit muttered dryly while wearing his shoes.

"You've been to so many red carpet events and movie premieres. What excites you about this one?"

Alana didn’t even look back, just smirked, “Well, My boyfriend was an extra in tonight’s film. I don't know if they kept his scenes because of his acting skills but if he is, Blink and you’ll miss him.”

A subtle camera zoom on Max. He flicked a Red Bull cap at her and mouthed “rude” with a grin.

“This one’s different,” Alana continued, voice softer. “This one’s… home turf. I know these drivers. I know the stress behind the screens. I’ve seen the grit in the garages. So It'll be great to see the representation.”

They took a break so she could go and get changed in her dress. As she came out. Max came up to her to get his shirt fixed. He mumbled "You look really beautiful and really hot." She punched him before fixing his collar.

"How have you two worked with your busy schedule and still find time for each other?"

Her voice continued as she went back to pick her jewellery. “Max and I keep very different schedules but we try to keep some shared routine like get lunch together if we’re in the same city, talk about our day before sleep even if it’s just on the phone. I didn't have much on my plate since the fashion week season ended a while ago so I went to a few races. He'll try to come to a few shows or events when he can.”

Alana moved to sit on the edge of a chair, holding her heels as her team bustled around her.

“Okay,” she said, gesturing toward the room. “This is Allen, she was in my team since I joined my first agency. Malik’s my makeup artist, Sheiba isn't here today but usually it's the two of them. Daisy is my stylist with Dior.” She gave a tiny wave to her stylist steaming the dress.

“And” she glanced to the side, where Max was quietly chatting with his manager by the minibar. “That’s Max. My boyfriend. And over there is Raymond, his manager.”

The camera zoomed to Max raising his hand imitating her as he approached her. “Bye, Vogue.” Alana laughed as she put on her shoes.

vogueusa

alanamiller

Liked by maxverstappen1, dior and others

alanamiller Lights on and away we glam 🖤

tagged: maxverstappen1

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maxverstappen1 If it was upto me we wouldn't even be attending the event 😉

→ alana.miller I'm right next to you. you didn't have to be so public🫠

→ landonorris For the love of god there are children on this app. YOU PERVERT!!

→ maxverstappen1 🤷🏼‍♂️

babickovaeli very into this femme fatale era 🖤

→ alana.miller 🫶🏽

alanastylecloset I would personally like to thank her makeup artist and the gown designer for this global gift.

yukitsunoda0511 Max wearing things other than redbull kit is weird.

→ alana.miller I can be quite persuasive 😁

→ maxverstappen1 Yeah you threatened to burned my kit if I didn't comply 🙇🏻‍♂️

kikagomes Gorgeous 🖤

f1tracktrash funny how she’s suddenly SO into F1 now that she’s dating the champ 🤡

landonorris Show Stealers!!!

lestappen4ever They’re making her the main character when it’s literally a movie premiere not about her 😭

victoriaverstappen danger couple 🔥

maxlanaupdates THE KISS 😭🥺🥵

maxverstappenwifey Girl cover up this is a movie premiere not a whore house show!!

damsonidris Damn girl, I could never serve so hard 😭

→ alana.miller You were literally the main character. STOPPP

lilymhe @/maxverstappen Can you fight 😁🥊

→ maxverstappen1 You bet 😡

→ alana.miller OK OK OK... No need to start a war here...

→ maxverstappen1 I'd start ww3 for you.

→ alana.miller Max. Don't.

→ maxverstappen1 I. Would.

alonamiller the most personality she’s shown is her back 🙃

maxmaxsupermax She gave max a major glow up 😭

alanaxangles The fact that she made the caption about F1. My creative goddess

paddockdevilwags One kiss doesn’t make this a love story, let’s chill.

kellymaxperfect You have a boyfriend but still wears such clothes to attest attention. Kelly would've never dressed like this🙄

modelsdailytea Dior does her so right!!!!!

maxverstappen1 If my girl being so hot bother you. You can get off her page 😒

→ alana.miller What happened to you 😭. Max you need to stop. pleaseeee

→ maxverstappen1 Never 👎

lanabananasupremacy max better thank the universe every night. every. single. night.

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The hotel room was quiet except for the sound of traffic from the street below. Max and Alana was sitting back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone with a clenched jaw, eyes scanning comment after comment on Alana's page either calling them out as a PR or blatantly hating on her for no reason.

Alana watched him from the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing as he typed back on her comment section. She tried to end his comments with a funny reply but he didn't stop. Without warning, she reached over and snatched the phone out of his hands.

“Hey—” Max reached out to take it back, but she dodged him effortlessly, tossing it somewhere behind her.

“Nope,” she said, swinging one leg over and straddling him before he could shift. “Now you’re stuck.”

Max looked up at her, breath hitching just slightly, like he hadn’t expected her to sit that close. She tucked her legs around his so he couldn’t move.

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’ve been grumpy since I posted on Instagram. Why are you being so… passive aggressive?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “This is supposed to be a fun night.”

His jaw tightened again, but the frustration had a different tint to it now. “People don’t get to say that kind of shit about you, Alana. Especially when they know nothing about you.”

Alana scoffed, her voice rising. “Okay, but maybe I don’t need you to go full knight in shining armour every time someone online has a bad opinion—!”

“You think it doesn’t get to me?” he interrupted, quieter than her but sharper. “You think I’m just supposed to let people talk about you like that?”

“It wouldn't look good on our end, Max,” she snapped, her voice trembling as she leaned in, “I need you to trust that I can handle it—”

A strand of hair fell out of the clip at the back of her head. She was mid-rant when he reached up and gently pushed it behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek.

She stopped mid-sentence, her breath hitched. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice suddenly small.

He didn’t answer. Instead, Max pulled her to his chest, arm wrapped firm around her waist as his lips met hers, full of passion.

When he pulled back, his hands came to cradle her face, and he kissed her forehead soft and slow.

It broke something in her. “What the hell was that?”, she snapped. Alana pushed off his lap, her voice breaking just slightly as she stood, stumbling back like the air had shifted too suddenly.

“Alana—” Max stood, his voice low.

“You can’t do that, Max!” she shouted, not caring if the entire floor heard her.

“I wasn’t thinking—” he started, stepping toward her.

“No, you weren’t!” she cut in, swatting his hand away when he tried to reach for hers.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and stormed toward the door. Max didn’t stop her. He just stood there, chest rising and falling a little too fast, fists clenched at his sides.

She left. And for a long minute, the room stayed very, very quiet.

HOTEL'S BAR, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The bar was mostly empty. Dim lighting pooled in soft gold over scattered high tables and the long marble counter. Low jazz played through old speakers.

The only other people were a cluster of businessmen laughing too loudly in a booth and a woman sitting on a barstool, hunched slightly over a glass of red.

Alana slid onto another, deliberately leaving a seat between them. She needed space and so did the lady, by looking at her sad demeanour.

Max’s name lit up her phone again. Call after call. Text after text. She stared at the screen, lips tightening, then flipped it on silent and tossed it into her purse.

Running both hands through her hair, she exhaled and flagged down the bartender. “One spicy martini. Heavy on the jalapeños.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Just nodded and turned.

Her pulse was still racing. Her chest felt too tight. She didn’t know if she was angry at Max or angry at herself for caring so much.

She heard the ice shake in the shaker. The click of glasses being set on the counter.

“Man?” a voice said beside her.

Alana glanced over, surprised the other woman had spoken. The stranger didn’t look at her, just kept her eyes on her wine glass, twirling the stem between her fingers. Her accent was faintly Indian.

Alana gave a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

The woman turned then and Alana’s eyes widened slightly. She recognized her. “Wait... You’re Gia Kapoor, right? One of the producers of the F1 Movie?”

Gia smiled faintly, her expression tired but not unfriendly. “Guilty. And you're Alana Miller. I attended a few fashion week where you modelled. And tonight, girlfriend of the fastest driver.”

Alana scoffed, taking a sip of her martini. “Apparently.”

Gia raised a brow. “Apparently?”

There was a pause. Then Gia shifted slightly on her stool, angling toward her. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she said. “But... if it makes you feel better, I came down here because I’m confused about a guy, too.”

Alana blinked. “Seriously?”

Gia nodded. “Our parents got us arranged. We’ve been ‘engaged’ for a while. We didn’t even meet until a month ago.” She laughed lightly. “And it turns out… Ive had a crush on him since a long time. He’s funny and very mature.”

Alana listened quietly, sipping her martini.

“But,” Gia continued, fingers tapping her glass, “he told me after our engagement that he doesn’t think he can give me what I want. That he’s too tied up in his career. Too unsure of what love even looks like in this world.”

Alana’s expression softened. “Asshole. But what can I say I'm stuck in the same spiral.”

Gia looked at her. “But aren’t you and Max together?”

Alana hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “Well yes, but it’s… complicated. We started off as PR.”

“But?” Gia asked.

“But tonight, upstairs, he kissed me like it wasn’t fake. And then he acted like it meant something. And I’m not sure if it did.” Alana’s voice cracked slightly at the end. She laughed bitterly. “And I hated how much I wanted it to mean something.”

Gia was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, slow and knowing “Alana, I was at the premiere. I saw you two together. I’ve seen people in love.” She looked straight at her. “What you and Max have? That wasn’t for show.”

Alana opened her mouth, but Gia held up a hand. “I’m quite a romantic. How can I complain, I grew up around the film industry and it comes like inherited trait. I could tell, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Alana stared down at her drink. “Talk to him,” Gia said gently. “ If there’s a real shot at something… you shouldn’t run from it just because it started out written in fine print.”

Alana didn’t answer. She just sat there, eyes blurry and still, then gave a slow nod.

They continued talking for a while before she put the bill of her three martinis on Max's tab. He deserves this after what he did.

Gia stood, dropping a few bills on the bar with a casual flick of her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you up. You’re on twelve, right?”

Alana blinked. “Yeah. How’d you—?”

Gia grinned. “My fiancé is on the same floor, so I saw max when I went to his room before.”

Alana slid off the stool, smoothing down the folded hem of her pyjama shirt.

As they reached the elevator, Gia pulled out her phone. “Give me your number.”

Alana arched a brow. Gia smirked. “Support group for women entangled with emotionally repressed, work-obsessed men. We should be friends.”

" Of course" Alana laughed again and gave it. The elevator opened, and they stepped in. Once on twelve, Gia stepped out with her. “Which one’s yours?”

“1216,” Alana said, pointing to the right. "We have to share the room tonight."

Gia made a face. “You poor thing."

They walked together in silence until they reached her door. Gia stopped. “You good?”

Alana nodded. “Actually, can I come over to yours, if its alright either way you”

Gia shrugged, then pulled her into a brief hug "— the kind that didn’t feel forced, just warm and real. "Come on. I have some takeouts leftovers. We can watch a movie too."

taglist: @livelaughleclerc, @ale-522, @zulema222, @angelluv16, @kazansky-slxt, @formulaal, @esw1012, @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane, @freyathehuntress

[message/comment/ask to be added]

#f1 smau #max verstappen #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen au #max verstappen imagine #carlos sainz #max verstappen fanfic #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen angst #max verstappen x girlfriend #max verstappen smut #max verstappen smau #lando norris #redbullracing #max verstappen x model #red bull f1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x female oc

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heavyhitterheaux · 22 hours ago

Text

Current Husband (Slight NSFW)

See Me Through You Blurb

Synopsis: Of course you had to do the TikTok prank where you call Joe your 'current husband' and he finds nothing funny about it

Pairing: Husband!Joe Burrow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: two gorgeous anons

Series Masterlist

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

As soon as Joe had agreed to take you on a shopping spree with no spending limit since he had been having events back to back with not being able to spend as much time as he wanted with you, you ran (as fast as your pregnant belly would allow) into your walk-in closet in order to get dressed after you had taken your shower.

Opting for a yellow sundress and white sandals, you walked back into your bedroom to see your husband still sitting on the bed and you immediately raised your eyebrow at him.

“Uh babe? Are you going to get ready? Why are you still sitting here? Oh, and can you put my sandals on for me? I can't see my feet.” You said as you held them up, only for Joe to stifle a laugh.

“Baby, those are mismatched.”

“I told you that the shelves with my shoes are too high! I can't see!”

“And yes I'll put them on for you. Let me just go get two shoes that actually match. And yes I'm going to get ready. Now did you want the white Steve Madden ones or Dior?” He asked as he stood up and walked over towards you while looking at the two different pairs that you were holding.

“Steve Madden. My feet are entirely too swollen for Dior. Only way I'm getting those off is if you cut them.” You honestly stated as you sat down on the bed while Joe went on the hunt for your shoes.

When he came back and slipped them on your feet, he helped you stand up and placed a kiss on your forehead.

“You want to go downstairs and wait for me? I'll be down there in about ten minutes.”

“Oh since it's going to take me the entire ten minutes to get down the steps?” You asked and he gave you a laugh in response as you crossed your arms.

“Well that's how long it took yesterday, baby. I just want to give you enough time.”

Sighing, you finally nodded your head before he leaned down to kiss you.

“Fine, I'll be in the car.”

When you had finally gotten outside, you slid into the passenger seat of Joe's Porsche before you pulled out your phone and started to scroll on TikTok.

After a few minutes, you had accidentally clicked on one of the videos that you had posted with you and Joe. It was when the two of you had done the we listen and we don't judge challenge when you caught a comment underneath it.

Do the current husband challenge!

Typing it into the search bar, you watched a few before smiling to yourself as the idea of what to do popped into your head.

You noticed that Joe was coming out of the house out of the corner of your eye and you quickly set up your phone to record the interaction on the dashboard.

As soon as he slid into the driver's seat it was go time.

“Guess what, guys? So I am currently pregnant with twins which we all know and my current husband surprised me and told me that he's taking me on one last shopping spree today before they get here with no spending limit. I'm excited and can't wait to show you what I get.”

Joe opened and closed his mouth several times and looked over at you as you tried your best not to laugh.

When the two of you had come to a red light, he finally addressed what you had just said.

“Did I hear that right?” He asked as you finally made eye contact with him.

“Hear what, pookie? What are you talking about?” You asked as you reapplied your lips gloss in the mirror.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“Hmm? I'm confused.”

“Your CURRENT husband? That's what you said.”

“But you are my current husband. I'm not understanding.” You replied as you shrugged your shoulders.

You could tell that he was getting pissed off by the minute.

“Did you plan on having another one after me? Because let's get one thing straight right now. It's not happening.”

“I… babe…”

“Your last name is BURROW. And I put that ring on your finger and I was the one who got you pregnant. Current husband, my ass.”

“But….”

“Just for that, I should let you only buy one thing. Shopping spree out the window.”

“BABE!”

“No. I am THEE husband. No one is coming after me. Till death do us part. Do I need to pull out the marriage certificate?”

“You are making such a big deal out of this.” You told him as you rolled your eyes and knew that you had him right where you wanted him.

Joe was quiet as he made a u-turn leaving you confused.

“The store is that way, baby. Why did you turn around?”

He didn't bother answering you, as the two of you made your way back to your house with him getting out of the car and slamming the door.

“Babies, your daddy is so dramatic.” You said as you looked down at your belly and laughed before the passenger side door swung open.

“I… babe! Why are you so mad?”

“Get out the car.”

“You promised me to go shopping!”

“But it's obvious to me that you need a lesson since I'm just the ‘current husband’.”

“Wait, what?”

—

No words came out as Joe was pounding into you from behind as your head was resting on top of your arms not being able to hold yourself up any longer.

Only thing that could be heard were your soft whimpers and skin slapping against skin.

After he had told you to get out of the car, he promptly carried you up the stairs and you had been underneath him ever since.

“Baby…” You managed to blurt out, but all he did was grip your hips even tighter if that was possible.

Joe gently flipped you onto your back and pulled you by the ankles to the edge of the bed before sliding back into you.

“Shit! Oh shiiiit. Right there, stay right there.”

Joe of course had heard your request but abruptly stopped as he peered down at you.

“Who do you belong to? Who put that ring on your finger?” He asked you as he slowly started to move.

“You.”

“Say it again. Who do you belong to?”

“You!”

“Because it seems to me like you forgot.”

“Baby, let me cum!”

“Hmm, I don't know if you deserve to after what you pulled earlier.” Joe told you as he stopped his movements altogether and reached down to kiss you.

“But…”

“No one is ever going to take my place, you understand?”

“Yes!”

“Good girl.”

Joe finally started to move once more before leaning forward and taking one of your swollen nipples into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it making you gasp before switching to the other one.

At the same time, you felt two of his fingers giving their undivided attention to your clit and he continued to pound into you.

Wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, he whispered in your ear.

“You gonna cum for me, baby? I guess I can allow it.”

Nodding your head was enough for him and not even ten seconds later, both of you were riding out your high.

Joe recovered quicker than you did and began placing kisses all over your face and neck before finally landing on your mouth and you eagerly kissed him back.

He then rolled to the side of you and you cuddled up closer to him as he began to run his fingers along your back.

“Baby?” You quietly said as your eyes were closed, but Joe was looking at you.

“Hmm?”

“It was a TikTok prank.”

“What?”

“Me calling you my current husband was a TikTok prank. I had no idea that it would lead to me getting my guts rearranged at 10 am on a Tuesday. But I'm not complaining.”

“You cannot be serious….”

“Can we still go shopping? You promised me. I think that I just need a nap first and then I'll be good.” You said as you finally looked at him and reached up to kiss him.

“Whatever the princess wants, she gets.”

“And for the record, I love you way too much and you are never getting rid of me.” You confessed as you placed a kiss on his nose.

“These pranks are always getting you in trouble and I love you more.”

“Hmm, you love me enough for another round?” You asked as you batted your eyelashes.

Joe laid down on his back and motioned for you to climb on top of him with you hovering right above his mouth.

“And you better stay still.”

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fanfic #see me through you

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ashthesalamipiece · 3 days ago

Note

This might be a bit specific but I’d like to request a fic where reader and Bakugou have twin boys who are already teenagers in like high school age (they can have more if you want, but these two are the oldest ones) where one of them does nicely academically, behaves properly, never disobeys his parents and the other —who’s the younger twin— is the complete opposite, basically a teenage Bakugou who likes to revolt and worry his mom and dad.

Anyway, it would go something like this; it’s like in the middle of a school night, maybe 2 to 3pm and reader feels like something is wrong and goes to check on her children finding out that the younger twin sneaked out. She wakes Bakugou up and they wait for him while he tries to calm her worries down. When he gets home they bicker until it turns into a full argument, both guys are screaming at each other and the son lets something out about how he thinks reader is not a good mother, that he hates her and that she favors his brother more (something like that) she has to hold her husband down for him not to jump on their kid and he runs to his room, she calms the man down and goes to talk to her boy and they talk, even with him being reluctant at first he apologizes and things turn out fine, but he was kind of an asshole still so she can’t help but cry when it’s just her and Bakugou.

I’m so sorry if this is too much I just needed to get it out of my mind, it will be totally fine if you prefer to ignore this love your writing💕

Thank you so much♡

enjoy♡

"We’re Still Learning"

Bakugou x Reader | Family Drama | Angst & Comfort | Long One-Shot

It was 2:46 AM when you woke up, heart pounding for no clear reason.

You sat up in bed, eyes scanning the dark room. Katsuki slept beside you, one arm stretched across your side protectively, his face soft in sleep — a rare sight. But something gnawed at your chest. An itch in your ribs. A mother’s instinct.

You slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and padded down the hallway. First stop: the twins’ room.

The older one, Haru, was sound asleep, arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open. But the other bed — Kaito’s — was empty.

Blankets pulled back. Window slightly cracked.

Your stomach dropped.

You rushed back into the room and shook Katsuki awake. “Katsuki—wake up.”

He jolted up immediately, eyes sharp even in half-sleep. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Kaito’s gone.”

It only took two words.

He was out of bed in seconds, tugging on a hoodie, checking the hallway, the back door, the garage. You called his phone. No answer.

“God, what if something happened to him—what if he’s out with those older kids again—”

“Oi, stop,” Bakugou growled gently, grabbing your shoulders. “Breathe, baby. We’ll wait. He’ll come back. You know he always does.”

But your mind spiraled. Kaito had been distant lately. Angry. Cold. He snapped more. He was only fifteen, but it felt like he carried the weight of the world on his back and refused to let anyone help.

You sat on the couch, fingers twisted in your shirt. Katsuki sat beside you, holding your hand, his grip steady but firm.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” you whispered.

“Tch. Don’t start blamin’ yourself for his shit. We’re doin’ our best.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the clock.

3:38 AM.

The front door creaked open.

Kaito stepped inside, hoodie up, earbuds in, expression hard.

You shot to your feet. “Kaito—!”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, brushing past you.

Bakugou’s voice cracked through the room like thunder. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Out.”

“Don’t get smart with me, brat. Do you know what time it is?! Your mom's been losin’ it over here!”

“Yeah, well, what else is new?” Kaito said, loud. “It’s not like she actually listens when I’m here anyway.”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You only care about Haru. You always have,” he snapped, voice rising. “He gets better grades, he talks more, he’s easier, right? So why would you ever wanna deal with me?”

“What?! Kaito—”

“I hate coming home to this! I hate how you look at me like I’m always the problem!”

Bakugou surged forward, voice like a war drum. “You don’t talk to her like that—”

“Or what?!” Kaito shouted back, stepping toward him. “You’ll hit me?! Do it! Just get it over with!”

“Katsuki—!” You grabbed your husband around the waist, stopping him before he lunged. His muscles were coiled, trembling with restraint, jaw clenched so tight you could hear it creak.

“Let me go,” he growled.

“No,” you whispered. “Don’t be that kind of father.”

Kaito’s eyes widened—not in fear, but in challenge. But when he realized you weren’t letting go, that Katsuki wasn’t going to blow, he scoffed and turned on his heel.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “I should’ve stayed gone.”

He slammed the door behind him.

---

Ten minutes passed before Katsuki finally moved. He sat down hard on the couch, hands on his knees, breathing heavy. You knelt in front of him, touching his face.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No. I’m sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I almost lost it. He said that shit about you and I just—”

You kissed his knuckles. “I know. You were protecting me. But he’s hurting. I need to go talk to him.”

“I don’t know how you’re so calm.”

“I’m not,” you said, standing. “But I’m his mom. If I fall apart, he’ll never learn how to put himself back together.”

---

You knocked softly before entering Kaito’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, staring at the floor.

“Can I come in?”

Shrug.

You walked in anyway.

Silence.

“I don’t love Haru more,” you said quietly. “I love you both. Differently. Equally. But I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”

He scoffed. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” you said, kneeling in front of him. “You said you hate me.”

He flinched. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He stayed quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he muttered eventually. “I just… I always feel like I’m messing up. And you’re always disappointed. Even when you’re not saying anything, it’s just… there. In your face.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Kaito, I’m not disappointed in you. I’m scared. Because I see you pulling away and I don’t know how to reach you.”

His eyes welled up. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.”

He wiped his face angrily with his sleeve. “I don’t know how to not be angry all the time.”

Your heart shattered. “You’re allowed to feel angry. But you’re not allowed to use that anger to hurt the people who love you.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I feel so lost.”

You wrapped your arms around him, and for a moment, he let himself be held.

“I’ve got you,” you said. “We’ve got you. Even when you’re lost.”

---

Later, when the house was quiet again, you crawled back into bed beside Katsuki. He was awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“How is he?” he asked.

You let out a breath. “Better. Still angry. Still hurt. But… he apologized.”

He turned toward you, pulling you into his chest. “You’re too good at this,” he mumbled.

You didn’t answer.

Because the moment his arms wrapped around you, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled. You buried your face in his shirt and cried quietly—out of relief, exhaustion, and heartbreak.

Katsuki stroked your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“We’re not perfect,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

He held you tighter. “None of us do. But we’re not quittin’. Ever.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the night settling over you both, you realized something: being a parent didn’t mean having all the answers. It just meant loving your kids enough to keep showing up.

Even when it’s 3 AM.

Even when it hurts.

Even when they say they hate you.

You’d still be there.

Always.

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keirareidss · 1 day ago

Text

worship you - s.r

♡ summary: your boyfriend shows you how much he loves you when you're feeling insecure pairing: post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, p in v wc: 1.2k based on this request

The mall wasn't too busy for a Saturday. You and Spencer were out shopping, not with anything specific in mind. You strolled hand in hand down the linoleum tiles, glancing through the windows of shops you pass by to see if they're worth going into.

"Let's check this one out." Spencer nudges you towards a shop. You follow as he tugs you through the door. Quiet pop music played through the speakers as you trudged through the aisles of clothes.

"Spence, look." You pulled a shirt off the rack, holding it up to his chest. It was a tan tee shirt, pictures of rats all over the front with text above them saying 'rats from around the world'. He looks down, reading it upside down before chuckling.

"The funny thing is, I would actually wear this." You slip it back on the rack, continuing along the aisles.

You both keep picking out clothes for each other, silly things neither of you would wear. Spencer finds a baseball cap with 'solvem probler' written on the top. You find a shirt with 'world's sluttiest husband' printed on it, which he briefly considers buying. He holds up a shirt with a picture of a seal on it that says 'seal of approval'.

After laughing until both of your stomachs hurt, Spencer finds something else on the rack.

"What about this?" He holds up a sleek black dress to your body. Your smile drops slightly and you feel a pit in your stomach. You knew you wouldn't like the way you would look in that dress.

You chuckled a little, trying to laugh it off in hopes that he'll put it back on the rack and move on.

"Wait, I think you'd actually look good in this."

"Spencer I do not have the figure for that." You scoffed.

"What are you talking about?" His eyebrows furrow and his expression turns serious.

"Come on, look at that thing. That dress was not made for me." He stares at you for a moment, trying to figure out if you're still joking around or not.

"I don't understand. What's wrong with your body that it wouldn't look good in this?" You couldn't believe you were having this conversation right now.

"It's just..." You sighed, an embarrassed blush rising on your cheeks. "I don't know, it's like my hips and my stomach kinda..." You mumbled, looking down. Spencer glanced around until his eyes found the sign that read 'changing room'.

"Come on." He tugged you through the aisles, moving towards the room you were dreading. He pulled you inside, yanking the curtain shut behind you. "Put it on." He holds out the dress towards you.

"Spence-"

"Just- humor me." You sighed, stripping your clothes off, your face getting redder. He looks away politely and you pull the dress on, the fabric nearly skin tight.

"Okay, you can look." Spencer turns his head, his eyes roving up and down your body. He steps closer, his hands finding your hips. He turns you around to face the mirror, your back against his chest. "You look gorgeous." He murmurs in your ear, lifting a hand to brush your hair back so he can kiss your neck.

"Spencer..." You looked down, away from the mirror but Spencer's hand quickly finds your chin tilting your head back up.

"Look at how pretty you are." His hands roam your body, sliding along your hips before his arms wind around your stomach, pulling you into him. "Beautiful." He hums, nipping at your neck. "How can you not like the way you look?"

"I don't know, I just... I feel... I can't explain it." He hummed in thought.

"I think you look perfect." He said, making eye contact with you in the mirror. "You know that, right?" You sighed.

"Yeah." He caught the hint of skepticism in your voice. You didn't believe him.

"Let me show you." He nudged you forward, closer to the mirror. "Put your hands on the wall." You obliged, leaning forward to place your hands flat on the wall. His hands found your hips again, pulling you back into his crotch, your back arching as you felt his hard on poking into you.

"Spence." You let out a breathy little moan.

"Shh. Don't want anyone to hear, do you?" His hands traveled down the back of your thighs, finding the hem of the dress which he slides up over the curve of your ass. He pulls down your underwear and you let out a shaky breath in anticipation as you heard his belt being unbuckled.

Watching him in the mirror, you saw him pulling down his pants and underwear, lining himself up with you. He brings his hand around your head, holding it in front of your lips.

"Spit." He orders. You complied, spitting into his hand which he brings down between your legs, spreading your saliva around your sex. You let out a soft whine and he shushes you again, his hand leaving your core, replacing it with the head of his cock. He suddenly thrusts inside you, clasping his hand around your mouth before you can cry out.

"Don't you see how attractive you are? You're so fucking pretty." He buries his face in your neck as his thrusts quicken. You moaned, your eyes falling shut in pleasure. "Open your eyes." He murmurs his gaze meeting yours again in the mirror.

His other hand slid up your torso, cupping your breast underneath the sleek dress. He pinched your nipple through the thin fabric of the lace, your hard peaks straining through your bra.

A muffled moan sounded from your lips behind Spencer's hand. You hoped the other changing rooms were empty and that the rest of the store couldn't hear what you were doing, but secretly, perversely, you wanted someone to hear. You wanted someone to know that your boyfriend was defiling you in a mall dressing room. Spencer kissed along your back, the parts of your skin that were exposed from the dip in the dress.

"I'm close." You breathed and his hips sped up their movements. He moved his hand from your mouth, sliding it between your thighs to rub circles on your clit, bringing you closer to the edge.

"So gorgeous." He hummed, kissing up to your neck where he sucked a mark right above your collarbone, making you gasp when his teeth met your skin.

"Spence- I'm gonna cum, spencer-"

"Shh, I've got you." He quickened the pace of his fingers, thrusting deeper into you and soon, you were releasing on his cock. He grunted as you clenched around him, his body draping down over your back as he finished inside you.

Your hands braced against the wall, your chest heaving as you came down from your high. Spencer straightened, pulling you up with him so you were leaning against his front.

"You always look so pretty after an orgasm." You sighed, chuckling a little as your eyes fell closed, Spencer tugging the garment back down. "And I am definitely buying you that dress."

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni

#criminal minds #♡ keira's fics #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff

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vaginalvr · 3 days ago

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Hi love!!

I was wondering if you were able to a breeding!kink Spencer. Like say reader had their first baby 2yrs ago and Spencer wants another and reader wants another cause they both miss the part at the beginning when they’re a newborn and watching them go from crawling to walking and stuff like that. Basically, reader goes in to check on their little girl and she’s asleep then Spencer comes home from work and sees you watching her. He then fucks reader up against the hallway wall and then after he finishes inside her, their little one starts crying and Spencer tells reader to go put her legs up and he’ll take care of the little one.

Sorry I know that was a lot but I saw that you like specific things with requests so wanted to throw some ideas in there lol. Thank you!!

content warning: Breeding kink, wall sex, creampie, established relationship, parenthood, praise, soft dom!Spencer, emotional intimacy, slight overstimulation.

a/n: this almosttttttt makes me want kids!!!

word count ~ 1.3k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You barely had time to close the bedroom door behind you before Spencer caught your wrist.

"Where are you going?" he asked, voice low and edged with something darker than usual.

You blinked up at him. “Just putting the laundry in the hamper.”

Spencer’s gaze flicked down your body, the thin cotton of your sleep shirt clinging to your curves. He stepped into your space, his grip tightening on your wrist, and the soft exhale from his nose told you everything.

“You can't walk around like that,” he murmured. “Not when you look like… this.”

You smirked, but your breath caught as he backed you up against the hallway wall. He pressed a hand beside your head, his other already sliding beneath your shirt. His fingers dragged over your stomach, tracing the faint stretch marks left by the child you’d had two years ago—his daughter.

Spencer’s touch slowed there.

“You looked so beautiful when you were pregnant,” he whispered, voice husky now, heat rising with every word. “So full. So mine.”

You didn’t have to look at him to know his pupils were blown wide. That familiar, obsessive desire—the one that came out in rare flashes—was glowing behind his eyes.

“Spencer,” you warned, already breathless.

He pressed his lips to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “You still want another.”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe.”

“You said maybe last time,” he muttered against your skin. “And then you let me come inside you for a week straight.”

Your knees wobbled. “We were ovulating.”

He huffed a laugh, dark and knowing. “Exactly.”

He kissed you hard then, hand sliding up to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between long fingers through the thin fabric. His other hand yanked your panties down with practiced ease.

He wasn’t being gentle, not tonight.

“You think I didn’t see the way you looked when our daughter was holding that baby at JJ’s party?” he growled. “You were glowing.”

“Spencer—” you gasped, but it turned into a whimper when he ground his hips into yours. You could already feel the thick bulge straining in his sweatpants.

He shoved your leg up, holding it around his hip as he reached down to free himself. No teasing. No prep. Just raw, desperate hunger.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thump as he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out, hand slapping against the wall for balance. Spencer grunted, forehead falling against yours, his breath ragged.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he whispered. “So fucking perfect.”

You whimpered into his mouth as he set a punishing pace, thrusting deep, his body pinning yours against the wall like you weighed nothing. The sheer force of it—the tension, the heat, the sound of skin on skin—made your head spin.

His grip on your thigh was bruising. His free hand slipped between your bodies, rubbing tight circles over your clit, like he couldn’t stand to have you anywhere but completely undone beneath him.

“You want it again, don’t you?” he rasped. “Want me to fill you up, fuck another baby into you.”

You clenched around him, and he groaned deep in his chest.

“I’ll do it,” he growled. “I’ll make you mine all over again.”

“Spencer—fuck—don’t stop,” you begged.

“You’re gonna take it,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Every drop.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing through your chest, legs shaking, a moan caught in your throat as he kept going, pounding into you harder, faster.

Then Spencer’s breath hitched, and he slammed into you with a strangled moan, burying himself deep as his hips jerked and stilled. You felt the hot flood of him inside you, and it sent a second tremor through your body.

He stayed there, panting, his hand still on your thigh, still buried inside you.

Neither of you spoke for a moment, the hallway filled only with your uneven breaths and the faint creak of the floorboards under your shifting weight.

Spencer kissed you softly now, nothing like the way he’d fucked you. His hand slid down to your belly, palm flat.

“I hope it takes,” he whispered.

You smiled, dazed. “You’re insane.”

“I just know what I want,” he murmured. “And it’s you. Full of me. Again.”

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x you #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid x you

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orellazalonia · 23 hours ago

Note

i love your blog and writing style so much! reading x reader fics is my only type of comfort (besides my cat) so you're making my days better and more bearable i'm really thankful for that! 😭🌷

soo i wanted to ask you to write a fic for me 🥺 i literally have NO ONE like no friends (i have 3 or 2 but not 'friends' friends you know?) and my family is messed up i feel like i have no one in my corner and i would love love love if you write something like reader is lonely and bucky goes in her life and etc etc i would be SO thankful if you choose to write this and if you don't, don't worry you're already making my days better while writing your fics 🤍🩶

Hello, dear! I’m glad you have enjoyed my work and that they’ve been of comfort to you! I appreciate the kind words. It was nice completing your request since I could relate to some of it and always enjoy writing some hurt/comfort. However, I do hope you find some good friends or people you can turn to someday! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Stayed Through it All

Summary: You’d spent most of your life convinced you were too quiet, too much, not enough for anyone to stay. But then Bucky Barnes started showing up in your life slowly and gradually became the first person who made you feel like you didn’t have to be anyone or anything else to be enough.

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t mean to let it get this bad.

You didn’t even notice when the loneliness stopped feeling like something temporary and started becoming something permanent.

It was probably after your friend stopped texting back to hang out with their new friend. Maybe it was after your father stopped returning your calls, blaming you for being “too much” when all you’d done was cry quietly on the phone one night. Maybe it was the way your mother’s voice always sharpened when you dared to mention being tired. “You think you have it hard?”

Eventually, you stopped sharing at all. Even in the smallest ways. You nodded along to your coworkers' stories, laughed at the right times, learned to say “I’m good, you?” like a reflex.

But one day turned into a week, then a month of missed calls and unanswered messages. Not that there were many to begin with. Your friends, if you could still call them that, had slowly drifted, slipping into group chats you were no longer in. Family remained… complicated. Cold shoulders wrapped in guilt-trips and sharp words. You’d grown tired of pretending you didn’t notice when they began talking around you instead of to you, or when they only reached out to check boxes you didn’t fit in rather than check on you.

Work had been your only escape, but even that now felt fragile. Hours were cut, supervisors were vague or micro-managing, and you faced an endless stream of people who smiled right through you. It was like being invisible while still somehow feeling too much.

Too sensitive. Too strange. Too needy. You hated how easily you cried these days. How easily you cracked.

It got harder to go home after work with each passing day. The silence in your apartment was different now. It wasn’t peaceful anymore, it reminded you of every thought and thing wrong about yourself. How you must have done something wrong for people to not want you around. How you couldn’t host dinners or parties because there was no one to invite. How even living in this apartment was seen as another disappointment rather than an achievement by your family.

Maybe that’s why you started walking at night, even though you claimed it helped you sleep. Sometimes it did. Sometimes you wandered until your legs ached, until your phone’s battery blinked red. It wasn’t safe, but you didn’t care. You weren’t reckless, you just didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere long enough to be missed.

That night, you weren’t planning to go far. You’d just needed air. You hadn't even bothered with proper shoes, just slipped on your jacket and walked. The streetlamps buzzed overhead as a breeze tugged your hair across your face.

You focused on the ground as you rounded the corner of a quiet street, when you almost ran straight into him.

“Oh–sorry,” You said, stepping back instinctively, your hand pressed to your chest. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The man raised his hands slightly in a gesture of peace. His eyes were sharper than the streetlamp above you, but not unkind. “You okay?”

You blinked. He was wearing a hoodie and gloves, but you’d seen enough photos on newsfeeds and headlines to know exactly who he was. “You’re… Bucky Barnes.”

He looked surprised for a split second, like he hadn’t expected to be recognized. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. Not because it was funny, but because your nerves were starting to catch up. “Didn’t expect to bump into an Avenger tonight.”

“Didn’t expect to get bumped into,” He replied, something vaguely teasing in his tone. “But it’s alright.”

There was a pause. You shifted awkwardly, hugging your arms around yourself. “Sorry if I messed up some kind of mission or something.”

His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Not exactly a mission, just walking the neighborhood. Making sure things are quiet.”

You nodded. “They usually are.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet way that made you feel like he was seeing too much. “You’re out here a lot.”

You hesitated. “That supposed to be a warning?”

His expression softened immediately. “No–no, I didn’t mean it like that. Just… noticed. That’s all.”

You gave a small shrug, trying not to look embarrassed. “It’s quieter out here than it is at home.”

Something in his eyes changed, recognition. “Yeah,” He said quietly. “I get that.”

You looked at him then. His hood couldn’t hold the weight behind his eyes nor could he hide the way exhaustion lived in his posture. You didn’t know all the details, but the world had made sure you knew enough.

“I’m fine,” You added, mostly out of habit.

“Are you?” He asked gently.

You swallowed, glancing away. “I don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence before he took a slow step back, giving you space. “Do you want company? Just to walk. I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

You hesitated. Your gut said no. You didn’t let people in, couldn’t. Not anymore. But your heart, the part that had been bruised and stretched thin and aching for something steady whispered yes.

“…Sure,” You said. “Walking with someone sounds… nice.”

He nodded, falling into step beside you. “And what should I call you?”

You glanced at him and smiled softly, giving him your name. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt like someone might care enough to remember it.

You never said it out loud, but you started looking for him.

Not in an obvious way. Not with expectation. But your heart would lift, just a little, whenever you turned the corner and saw him there. Hands in his pockets, hood pulled low, and watching the world like it might turn on him at any second until he saw you. Then he softened.

He never greeted you loudly. Just a simple, “Hey,” or a nod, like you’d both agreed long ago that this was normal.

And somehow, it became exactly that. Normal.

It wasn’t every night of course, but it was often enough that absence felt strange. A small ache in your chest when he wasn’t on the corner. You told yourself it was fine, that he had a life, a job, a past filled with shadows. You weren’t owed anything.

But you missed him anyway.

There were other nights where you spoke in fragments.

“What do you do when you can’t stop thinking?” You’d asked once, voice barely audible.

“Walk,” He’d said. “Or hit things.”

You’d laughed, and he’d smiled, just a little.

Other nights, it was quiet. Just walking. Just being near someone who didn’t expect anything from you. Someone who didn’t need you to perform happiness or push down your grief.

Bucky never asked about your family. He never pried. But you could tell he knew something wasn’t right. He noticed the tension in your shoulders. The way your voice got flat when you mentioned home. The way you avoided talking about weekends or holidays altogether.

But he didn’t force you to explain. He just stayed.

And on one Tuesday night, you realized something.

You’d left work exhausted, your brain buzzing from a manager’s sharp words and the hollow ache of pretending to be okay all day. You weren’t thinking about much when you turned the corner that night and there he was.

Same spot. Same faint, crooked smile when he saw you.

And it hit you: he was waiting.

Not just showing up. Not just passing by. He was waiting for you.

You swallowed thickly, not trusting yourself to say much.

“Hey,” You managed.

“Hey,” He said, falling into step beside you.

Like always. Like routine. Like something steady that just kept growing.

Because the next night, he was there again. This time, with two paper cups.

“Tea,” He said simply, holding one out to you. “Figured I’d guess this time.”

You took it, your hands feeling the warmth from the cup.

“…You always this nice?” You asked softly, only half teasing.

He glanced at you. “No.”

You smiled faintly. “So why with me?”

He looked away, the way he always did when he was thinking too much. “Because you remind me of me,” He said finally. “Back when I thought no one saw me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…I see you,” You whispered.

He looked at you then, something softening in his expression. “I know.”

And that was the night you stopped pretending it didn’t mean anything. The night you realized you weren’t just walking anymore. You were building something. And Bucky Barnes was becoming part of it.

One afternoon, you didn’t expect to see him in the daytime.

Your connection lived in the quiet hours. After sunset, under flickering streetlamps, where shadows were long and words were soft. That was your world. The only time you felt allowed to exist without needing to explain yourself.

But then came Saturday and there he was.

You spotted him from across the street. His hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looked more like a guy running errands than a former assassin on patrol.

He saw you at the same time, gave a little lift of his chin and crossed the street with purpose. You froze halfway to the bus stop, unsure why your stomach flipped the way it did.

“Hey,” He said, a little breathless, like he’d hurried.

“Hi,” You replied, confused but smiling anyway. “Didn’t think I’d see you in daylight. Thought you were strictly nocturnal.”

Bucky actually chuckled, quiet and rare. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t sure if this would be weird.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna grab lunch. There’s this spot a few blocks away. It’s tiny, but kind of quiet. I figured I’d ask if you wanted to come.”

You blinked. It took you a full second too long to register what he meant.

“Oh,” You said. “Like… lunch. Together?”

“Yeah,” He said, then quickly added, “Just food. I mean, not like–unless you–hell, I’m bad at this.”

You bit back a laugh. “You’re fine. I just… didn’t expect that.”

“I figured,” He said, eyes scanning your face. “If you say no, it’s okay. We can just stick with nightly walks.”

That made your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

Because part of you wanted to say no. Not because you didn’t want to go. But because some part of you was convinced you’d ruin it. That he’d realize you weren’t enough.

That someone like him who was kind, observant, and careful, wasn’t meant to stick around people like you. People who carried too much in their chest and didn’t know how to set it down.

But then you looked at him. Bucky Barnes who had every reason to close himself off and still offered you tea when you were shaking, and quiet when you needed space.

And he was asking to spend time with you. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Just… asking.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

The place was small and tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty, just calm. You sat across from each other at a little table by the window. And for the first time, you talked in full sentences. About music. Food. The ridiculous number of people who apparently still thought Bucky liked plums because of some file Steve mentioned once.

You laughed more than you had in weeks. He smiled more than you’d ever seen.

You caught him watching you a few times, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. And every time, your heart did that quiet, painful twist that came with realizing someone actually wanted you around.

You didn’t talk about family. Or trauma. Or loneliness. But you didn’t need to. Not yet.

Because for now, you let yourself sit across from a man who kept showing up. And for once, you didn’t feel like a burden for accepting it.

When it ended, you both had exchanged numbers and you smiled the whole way home. Not a big, giddy grin. Not the kind that buzzed with new love or rose-colored excitement. Just a small, warm curl at the corner of your mouth that wouldn’t go away.

Because the lunch had been… easy. Natural.

You didn’t remember the last time you’d felt like that with someone. Just sitting across from them and not having to work so hard to be interesting, or likable, or fun. You hadn’t needed to fill the silence, because Bucky never made silence feel like failure.

And he’d even paid, grumbled a little about modern pricing, but still held the door open when you walked out.

You should’ve felt safe. Happy. But of course, that voice came back. The one that always did when something good happened.

He was just being polite. He probably felt bad for you. You talked too much. Or not enough. Or said something weird. He’s probably second-guessing it now.

You told yourself to stop, that none of it was true. But you’d lived most of your life watching people lose interest in you like clockwork. So instead of walking with that same lightness you felt at the table, you found yourself shrinking again.

Head down. Hands in your jacket pockets. Smile fading, bit by bit

And to your surprise, texted later that evening.

Just a simple:

Made it home okay?

You stared at it for a full minute.

Then typed:

Yeah, thanks. And… thanks again for lunch. I really appreciated it.

You added a second message, hesitating.

You didn’t have to do all that.

You almost deleted it. But your finger slipped, and it sent.

A minute later, he responded:

Didn’t do it because I had to.

Another pause and he sent another message.

I wanted to.

You stared at those three words for a long time.

The next night, you almost didn’t go on your walk. You weren’t sure if he’d be there. If it would be weird now. If the quiet thing you’d built would somehow be different just because you’d shared a meal like two normal people.

But you went anyway. And when you rounded that corner, heart in your throat, he was there. Same spot. Same faint smile when he saw you.

“You came,” He said.

You swallowed. “So did you.”

“Of course I did.”

And just like that, without needing to explain the ache in your chest or the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind, he started walking beside you again. As if the doubt within you never stood a chance.

However, good things never last.

You hadn’t meant to cry.

You’d gotten good at holding things in. Good at keeping your voice even, your expression neutral, your heart locked up behind carefully stacked defenses. You knew how to keep walking. How to keep breathing through the ache.

But some days, some days it didn’t matter how strong you tried to be. And that night, everything hurt.

It wasn’t even about something new. Nothing fresh or sharp. It was the old stuff, the words that never really healed. The ones that resurfaced in this mornings phone call with your father, when he’d said it without hesitation. “You’re just too hard to love, you know that?”

It had gutted you then and it still did.

Because even if you didn’t show it, you’d started to believe it.

The way friends drifted away. The way family only called when they needed something or to criticize. The way people got tired of your quiet, your sadness, your needs. Even when you tried to shrink yourself, to not ask for anything… it was never enough.

You were always too much, and somehow not enough all at once.

So when you walked that night, when you saw Bucky waiting in his usual spot, you almost turned back.

But he saw you. And the moment he did, something in his expression shifted.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked right up to him, stopped short, and stood there with your arms crossed tight over your chest, like if you let them drop, everything would spill out.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “You alright?”

You shook your head once, too quickly as your voice cracked when you whispered, “Why do you keep showing up?”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him then, eyes confused. “Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep… being nice to me?”

He took a step closer, cautious. “Because I like being around you.”

“You shouldn’t.” The words burst out before you could stop them. “I’m not…– people don’t stay. They get tired of me. They always do.”

“Who said that to you?” He asked quietly, his voice low, steady.

You laughed bitterly. “Does it matter… Friends. Family. Pretty much everyone I ever let get too close.”

You looked away, blinking hard.

“They all said the same thing… that I’m just too hard to love.”

It was out now. Ugly, raw, and terrifying. You waited for him to flinch. To pull away. To prove them right. But he didn’t.

He stepped closer, slow and sure. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he reached out, one hand hovering at your shoulder until you gave the tiniest nod.

Then his palm pressed gently against your arm.

“They were wrong,” He said.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” He said firmly. “Because I know me. And I don’t waste time on people I don’t care about.”

Your throat tightened.

He wasn’t trying to fix it. He wasn’t telling you to be positive or that it would pass. He wasn’t saying it didn’t matter.

He was just there. With you.

“You’re not hard to love,” He spoke softer now. “You were just surrounded by people who didn’t know how.”

And that broke something loose.

The first tear slid down your cheek. Then another. You tried to speak, to apologize, but your voice disappeared behind a sob that ripped straight out of your chest.

You folded into yourself, ashamed, but Bucky caught you. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms. Not tight. Not smothering. Just enough.

Enough to say I’m here. Enough to say You’re not too much for me. Enough to say I’m not going anywhere.

And in his arms, safe for once, you let yourself cry.

Really cry.

For the first time in a long, long time.

When the tears had finally stopped, you felt worn out like a storm fading to drizzle. You’d stood in the dark with Bucky for longer than you realized, his arms wrapped gently around you. He never rushed you. Never asked you to talk more or explain.

And when you finally stepped back, breath unsteady but lighter somehow, he didn’t say a word about the crying. Just looked at you like you were whole.

“…I’m okay now,” You’d whispered, not sure if you believed it yet.

His head tilted slightly. “You want to walk?”

You nodded.

And you walked until you were both sitting on a cracked bench outside a 24-hour café near a closed bookstore. He’d offered to buy you something, no pressure, just a question, and you said yes without thinking.

It felt… nice. Like last time. Letting someone do something for you without guilt clinging to it.

You had a small paper cup between your hands of warm chai, still steaming. He had black coffee, of course. Of course he drank it black.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t awkward. It was gentle. Companionable. Like your sadness didn’t scare him. He wasn’t expecting you to bounce back or smile to make him feel better.

He was just there.

You took a small sip, then glanced over at him. He was watching the empty street like he was half on patrol, half at peace.

“Thanks for the tea,” You murmured.

He looked at you then, eyes soft. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You looked down at your drink. “I didn’t mean to cry like that.”

“I know,” He said. “It’s okay.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “But why didn’t you walk away?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back on the bench, hands wrapped around his cup like it grounded him.

“Because I know what it’s like,” He said finally. “To think you’re too broken or too much. To think you’ve ruined the moment just by being yourself.”

You glanced at him, surprised at the honesty.

He kept his gaze forward. “I’ve been there. I still go there. But… I also know how much it means when someone stays anyway.”

Your heart ached in a different way now. Not from pain. From being understood.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

“Anytime.”

You sat in silence again, drinking your tea slowly, letting the warmth from the cup seep into your fingers.

The city was so quiet this late. No shouting. Barely any cars. Just wind and dim streetlights.

Eventually, you looked over and gave him a small smile. “You think next time we could get donuts or something instead?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, his version of a grin. “You saying I’m not a good coffee date?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile widened. “You’re passable.”

He let out a soft huff of amusement. “Alright, donuts next time. But only if they have the jelly-filled ones.”

You nudged his arm lightly. “You got a deal.”

And just like that, something fragile began to stitch itself back together inside you.

It may not have been fixed or finished. But it was held together by his love and care.

And for now, that was more than enough.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky x you #hurt/comfort #bucky hurt/comfort #angst fic #angst #request fulfilled #thank you for the request!

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bewitched-hours · 1 day ago

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So umm I had an idea of reader being like a deity in the past before being forsaken. They knew Telamon and were really good friends and they both meet back in the cabin but not as gods (right because Telamon is now Shedletsky and reader is in their human form or idk how to explain that).

I don't really have a scenario in my head so write whatever you think of :D

And thank you for erlier!

Dear anon, thank you for this delicious meal- If you want, I'll make more of this but then I want to know if you want it platonic or romantic-

Reader's getting She/They, we need more goddesses-

You still remembered...

A past that made your feathers shiver.

Back when you were a goddess... Much too similar to Telamon...

But he eventually disappeared, leaving you to cover for him until you were finally taken in your mortal form.

In a way, you were even grateful to get away from it all. To start anew and make yourself less important.

You even made a couple of friends in this hellish realm! Some better, some worse.

But among your closest was Shedletsky. You saw him as just some silly guy who could bring up the mood with a simple joke and you two seemed to click pretty quickly through your similarities in humour.

You also both had wings. Neat!

It even got to the point where you'd help other take care of your wings further down, where it was hard to see by oneself.

You couldn't count on both hands how many times you've helped Shed out and vice versa. Hell, you memorized which spots make him jump the most if you ever just wanted to mess with him.

But you eventually decided to open up about your past...

"Shed... I gotta confess something but promise you won't be mad..." You began quietly, looking at the ground in front of you as he was working on your wings.

He was still all smiles, not showing a shred of concern as he nodded. "Of course! You can tell me anything!" He said cheerfully, as though you could do no wrong in his eyes.

So, you swallowed your anxiety and with a deep breath, the words simply slipped out. "I used to be a god... A cruel one..." You could feel him stop for a short while but he continued on, thanking him under your breath for not leaving right then and there.

"I regret who I was back then... I thought I was above everyone else and could do whatever. Didn't help that I managed to befriend Telamon back then..." Another pause, this time longer, but he hesitantly continued letting you talk. "Only when he disappeared did I gradually start to understand how wrong I was... I wasn't above anyone and I didn't have the spine to own up to what I did."

Silence. For seconds, minutes, and then...

"I know what you mean... Old friend."

Silence. For seconds, minutes...

"Tel?" Your voice sounded louder in the silence, staring ahead as tears pushed themselves out of your eyes.

More silence. Seconds, minutes...

"Guess we never really grow apart, do we?" He chuckled, causing a smile to form on your lips as you nodded along. "Yeah... We just keep following the same route in life..."

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken roblox #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #telamon #shedletsky #shedletsky x reader #deity reader

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multi-fandom-imagine · 20 hours ago

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Hello! I got a request for you. Sense you've got few k-pop demon hunters fanfics, can you do a smut fanfic about Mira x FemReader? It's okay if you can't do it :) (I also read one of your FD fanfics and they're really good!)

A/n: MIRA YESSSSS , also thank you! You're so sweet.

Reader is Mira’s soft, golden-retriever girlfriend — warm, loyal, and adoring. Mira is cool, intense, and protective — but secretly just as needy for her girlfriend as demons are for chaos.

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the neon sign bleeding in from the balcony. Mira stood near the window, still in her outfit from what was supposed to be a show, you could see just enough to reveal the sheen of sweat at her throat. You watched her silently from the bed, wrapped in a towel after your shower, hair still damp and clinging to your cheeks.

She hadn’t said much since the mission,the chaos of the 'show'. Just a quiet nod to the rest of the team and a tug on your wrist as she led you up here, alone.

You padded over to her without a word, resting your chin on her shoulder from behind. “Hey,” you murmured, arms slipping gently around her waist. “I’m proud of you.”

Mira let out a breath through her nose, but didn’t answer. You could feel the tension in her muscles — taut, like a bowstring about to snap.

Your lips brushed against her neck. “Let me help you come down…”

That did it.

In one sudden, fluid motion, Mira turned, backing you toward the bed, hands at your waist like she needed to feel that you were still here — warm, soft, real. Her mouth found yours with urgency, all teeth and tongue at first, before it melted into something deeper. Hungrier.

You gasped softly when she pushed you down onto the mattress, straddling your hips, her thighs pressing tight against yours. You looked up at her with wide, devoted eyes — golden retriever gaze shining — and Mira’s control nearly snapped.

“You’re too good to me,” she rasped, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head up for another kiss. “I want you to show me.”

She groaned low in her throat.

Her mouth trailed down your jaw, over your collarbone, while her fingers slowly undid the knot of your towel, letting it fall open to reveal the smooth warmth of your skin. You shivered beneath her, more from anticipation than the cool air.

Mira’s hand slid between your thighs, fingertips stroking you gently, deliberately — and you were already soaked.

“Fuck…” she whispered, voice rough against your neck. “You’re always so ready for me.”

Your breath hitched. “Only for you, Mira…”

That was all it took. She slid two fingers into you, slow but deep, her thumb circling your clit with practiced precision. You moaned, hips bucking slightly, but Mira pressed her body over yours, keeping you grounded — her weight, her strength, her scent — all of it surrounding you like armor.

“You’re so sweet when you’re like this,” she murmured, curling her fingers just right, drawing another whimper from you. “My soft girl. My good girl.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak — just nodded desperately, thighs trembling around her hand.

Mira kissed you again, slower this time. As if tasting your soul.

She never rushed it. Not with you. Not when you looked at her like she hung the moon and forgave every demon that clung to her shadow.

Your hands tangled in her hair as the pressure built — heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Mira—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” she murmured, fingers speeding up just enough, her voice the only anchor you needed. “Come for me, baby.”

You shattered with a cry, back arching beneath her, your release pulsing around her fingers. Mira held you through every second of it, her lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

When your breathing slowed, she pulled her hand away and gently licked her fingers clean, eyes never leaving yours.

You flushed. “You’re such a menace.”

She smirked. “And you love it.”

You did. With your whole stupid, loyal heart.

And as she pulled you into her arms and whispered that she needed you — only you — you knew you’d follow her through heaven, hell, or another demon hunt. Wherever she needed you to be

#drabbles #drabble #smut #f/f #fxf smut #yuri #mira x reader #Mira x you #Mira x y/n #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x y/n

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enimsiyobeht · 19 hours ago

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Thinking about boypussy Lino and pussy drunk reader who always wants to eat his pretty princess out... just getting on his knees when they're having a movie night and devouring that pretty pussy, or laying between Minho's legs, throwing those legs over reader's shoulders and eating him out so vigorously...

and equally obsessed Minho..who wants reader inside him.. will cock warm reader when he's working, is basically free use because there's not one moment he doesn't want reader inside him

😩😩😩

admit it! (you're obsessed). minho x male reader.

1468 boypussy, unprotected (all scenes), oral sex (m. receiving), cockwarming (all scenes), dirty talk, overstimulation, oral fixation, pussy worship, power play, comfort sex elements, implied size kink, sensory kink, somnophilia-adjacent/sleepy sex (extra scene). mdni !!

a/n : i lob this request, and i bet my hubby... @spear-of-moonlight (hope for the best recovery of your wrist 😿😿💖) would love it 2!! 👉👈 i thought of some extra scenes to elaborate with the whole ask, enjoyyy.

The movie plays, mostly ignored.

Minho’s in your lap, pink cotton shorts pushed up high on his thighs, a faded tank top slipping off one shoulder. He’s pretending to focus on the screen—he always does, biting the inside of his cheek like he isn’t soaking the seat of your pants, legs twitching whenever your fingers shift an inch closer to where he wants them.

You’re not even halfway through the opening act when you drop to your knees.

“Again?” Minho teases, though his voice is already breathless. “Didn’t you get enough this morning?”

You don’t answer.

You just hook his legs over your shoulders, peel those pretty shorts down, and stare. His pussy’s puffy and slick, lips parted like it’s been waiting—like it knows you’re down there again.

“Fuck, look at you,” you murmur, palms pressing into his thighs to spread him open. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

Minho giggles, head tipping back, hair spilling over the couch cushions. “You’re the one crawling back between my legs, baby.”

You don’t deny it. You never do.

Because nothing compares to the way he tastes—warm and sticky, pussy twitching the moment your tongue touches it. You groan into him, suckled in like you’ve been starving, like you need him to breathe. And Minho? He’s already moaning, back arched, one hand in your hair and the other clutching the cushions like you’re fucking him with your mouth.

Your tongue drags slow over his slit, and Minho gasps—hips bucking despite himself. His thighs are already trembling, spreading wider over your shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe you’ve made it that way. He doesn’t even try to hide how wet he is, how swollen his pussy’s gotten from you just looking at him.

“You’re drooling,” he breathes, voice laced with smug arousal, “so disgusting.”

You groan into him, tongue dipping into his fluttering hole as your fingers press into the meat of his thighs, spreading him wider, pulling him open. “I can’t help it,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “You’re too fucking pretty. I want to live down here.”

“Then stay,” Minho says softly, and you look up—

—his eyes are half-lidded and shining, lips bitten raw, cheeks flushed. He’s got that same expression you dream about: smug yet ruined, like he’s got you wrapped around his little finger and wants to break you with it.

You bury yourself deeper, tongue fucking into him with purpose now, nose pressed to the slick mess between his folds as your fingers reach up to stroke his thighs, his hips, the little strip of skin above his clit that makes him gasp out loud.

“I’ll cum if you don’t stop,” he warns, breath catching, “and then I’ll get greedy.”

You smile into his cunt. “Good.”

You don’t let up. You eat him out like you’ve forgotten anything else exists—tongue curling and licking and sucking, lips sloppily devouring every drip of slick he gives you. You feel his pussy clamp around your tongue, feel the tension roll through his whole body as he tugs at your hair and writhes in your grip.

He cries out when he cums, the sound sharp and sweet, his back arching clear off the couch. You hold him down, licking him through it until his thighs twitch and he’s squealing from overstimulation, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

You pull back with a wet kiss to his inner thigh. “Princess tastes so fucking good.”

Minho lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one that made me like this.”

“You’ve always been like this.”

He’s still trembling when he shifts onto his side, shorts hanging from one ankle, legs sticky and shining with your spit. His eyes follow you as you sit back on the couch—your cock straining against your sweats now, fully hard, precum staining the waistband.

“You’re gonna take care of that, right?” Minho murmurs, crawling toward you. “Can’t let your princess do all the work.”

You expect him to drop to his knees and suck you off, like he’s done a dozen times before. But instead, he straddles your lap, kissing you open-mouthed and messy, grinding against your cock until your hands settle on his hips.

“Need you,” he breathes, voice breaking. “I want you inside. Now.”

“Min,” you whisper, “we just—”

“I don’t care,” he whines, gripping your shoulders as he lifts himself and lines you up. “I want you. I want to feel you again. I want to keep you in me forever.”

You don’t even try to argue.

He sinks down onto your cock with a breathy moan, pussy still wet and open from your tongue, welcoming you back like he was made for it. You groan, head dropping back against the couch as he fully sheathes himself, his thighs quivering around your waist.

“Fuck, you’re so warm—so tight still,” you pant, holding his hips as he starts to move.

But he shakes his head, hands pressing to your chest. “No. Don’t fuck me. Not yet.”

You blink. “Then—what?”

“Just sit. Let me warm you.”

You can barely hold in your whimper.

Minho curls against your chest, arms wrapping around your shoulders, cock pressed to your stomach as he sighs through his nose. His pussy clenches around you in slow, steady waves, like he’s savoring the stretch, letting you rest inside him without moving—but still making sure you feel every inch of him.

“I’m gonna ride you later,” he murmurs, “when you’re at your desk, pretending to work. I’m just gonna climb in your lap and sit on your cock like this… and not say a word until you beg me to move.”

You groan into his shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I want to,” he whispers, licking a stripe up your neck. “I want to ruin you for anything that isn’t me. I want to make you sick with it.”

You believe him.

Your cock twitches inside him, and he smiles, biting down on your shoulder as you finally start to grind up into him. Slow. Gentle. Lazy. The kind of rhythm that says we’ve got all day and I’m never pulling out.

“I love when you’re inside me,” he murmurs, clutching your shirt. “Even when I’m not cumming. Even when you’re just… holding me open.”

You press your face into his hair, wrap your arms around his waist, and keep your hips rolling.

“I could stay like this forever.”

extra scenes (2) below

Under the Table

You’re trying to finish emails on your laptop, legs crossed under the table, coffee long since gone cold beside you. Minho’s been quiet for a while, curled up on the floor in an oversized tee, pretending to scroll on his phone.

But then he shifts.

He slides under the table without a word, crawls into the space between your legs and rests his cheek on your thigh, nuzzling you through your sweats. You keep typing for a few more seconds, pretending to ignore him, until his fingers curl into your waistband and tug.

“Baby…” he says, voice muffled. “Can I have it?”

You don’t say yes. You don’t have to.

He pulls your cock out, eyes fluttering as it presses against his cheek, heavy and flushed. He lifts your shirt and slides your cock into him—not his mouth. His pussy.

Wet. Warm. Welcoming.

Minho straddles your thigh, folds spread open as he sinks down slowly, whining as he takes every inch. You groan, hands hovering over your keyboard, as he settles fully onto your lap, cock snug inside him.

“I won’t move,” he whispers, breathless. “Promise. Just need you in me.”

He stays like that the whole time you work—his heat pulsing around you, walls clenching when you get too focused. He doesn’t ride. Doesn’t beg. Just warms you, as promised. Until your hands leave the keyboard, and your fingers curl under his shirt, and you lose the will to pretend.

Middle of the Night

It’s 3:12 AM when you feel it.

Minho stirs beside you in bed, half-asleep and boneless, his bare thigh hooking over yours. He presses his body close—chest to your side, cheek on your shoulder—and lifts the covers without saying anything.

You feel him reach between your legs, guiding your half-hard cock to his entrance, slick and already aching for you.

“Can’t sleep,” he whispers. “Need you.”

You’re groggy, barely awake, but your body knows exactly what to do. You shift your hips and let him sink down onto you, slow and warm and perfect. He hums softly, nuzzling into your neck as he settles fully.

“Just stay like this,” he mumbles. “I’ll fall asleep like this. Just keep me full.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, hold him close, and let him fall asleep cockwarming you—pussy twitching in little spasms every time you breathe.

thanks for 570 followers btw :)

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wvyik · 2 days ago

Text

you talk, i’ll listen ⋆⭒˚.⋆

sam winchester x gn! reader

ꕤ summary: you crawl into sam’s lap on a quiet night and ask him to tell you lore, just to hear his voice. he doesn’t ask questions. he just holds you and talks, and for once, everything feels still.

♯ warnings: emotional comfort, canon spn lore, lap cuddling, soft! sam, gentle reader, pre-established relationship, long hair petting, no spice just pure cozy silence, my long ass paragraphs aka me trying so say big words, s5e5 mentioned?? no way.

♯ notes: first of all, thank you so much for the request @noria-fish!! i loved writing it. second of all… i need to confess that i thought junior meant freshman and had that in my bio for like four months. so if you ever thought i was smart… no you didn’t. be safe out there y’all. stay in school. learn what junior means. love u. <3

The room is dim, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the slats in the blinds. You can hear the faint hum of the vending machine outside, the rustle of paper every time Sam turns a page, and the occasional creak of the old motel bedframe as he shifts his weight.

It’s quiet in a way that should be comforting, but instead just makes you feel weirdly aware of how tired you are. Not just physically. Not just from the hunt. There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t sit in your muscles, it settles in your chest. Quiet, constant. Like white noise in your head you can’t turn off.

You glance over at Sam, who’s sitting cross-legged on the far end of the bed, one of his lore books open in his lap. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear, and his hair’s still damp from the shower he took after you both got back. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed up to his elbows, and his focus is deep enough that he doesn’t notice you watching him. You don’t want to interrupt him, not really, but something in you itches for closeness. Something small. Just… contact.

So you move quietly. Wordlessly. You cross the few feet between your bed and his, and when you pause in front of him, he looks up; not surprised, not questioning, just waiting. His eyes meet yours, and he must see something in them, because he doesn’t ask. He just opens his legs a little, gives you space, and lets you climb into his lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You curl into him slowly, legs folding up, arms slipping around his ribs as you nestle into the worn cotton of his hoodie. His book shifts slightly on his thigh, but he doesn’t move it. One of his arms wraps around your back, the other staying loose at his side. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. There’s no awkwardness. No moment of adjusting or fidgeting. Just quiet acceptance.

Your fingers find his hair. It’s still warm, still a little damp, and softer than it has any right to be. You start combing through it with your nails barely touching his scalp, slow and steady, and you feel the way his shoulders relax almost instantly. You don’t really know what makes you say it— maybe it’s the silence, or the comfort of being tucked into him like this, but your voice is soft when you ask, “Will you talk to me?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Talk?”

You nod against his chest. “Just… something. Lore. Doesn’t matter what.”

He doesn’t ask why. He just shifts a little under you, the book now resting half-forgotten beside him, and starts talking like he’s picking up a conversation you were already in the middle of.

“There was a case we took once, back in Canton, Ohio,” he says after a moment, voice low and even. “Couple kids got killed at a wax museum, and at first we thought it was a haunted object, something attached to the exhibit. But it turned out to be a pagan god. Leshi. Slavic. Old forest deity. She’d taken the form of Paris Hilton—no, seriously, because people were obsessing over her. The more idol worship, the stronger she got. Wasn’t about nature at all anymore, just fame. Power. She was feeding on the obsession.”

You shift a little, listening closer. Sam’s hand moves absently over your side, steady.

“She used to thrive on being worshipped in the old world,” he continues, “but people don’t pray to forest gods anymore. They worship celebrities. So she adapted. Possessed statues. Took the form of whoever people were fixated on. I had to chop her head off with an axe to kill her. Nothing else worked.”

He keeps going.

“She wasn’t really evil. Just… hungry. Desperate. She wasn’t getting what she used to— worship, offerings, belief, so she adapted. Found a way to survive, even if it meant hurting people. It’s not just her. There’s more stuff like that than people think. Creatures that just want to be left alone until something pushes them too far. Kitsune. Pishtaco. Shōjō. Some of them only turn violent when they’re starving, or cornered, or grieving. There’s a pattern to it. Always has been.”

You don’t interrupt him. There’s something about his voice when he gets like this, slow, thoughtful, like his mind is running ten steps ahead but he’s choosing his words carefully so you can keep up. His hand slips beneath your hoodie slightly, just enough to touch warm skin, not suggestive, not anything other than grounding. He exhales, and you feel it move through his chest into yours.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He pauses. “For what?”

“For talking. For letting me be here.”

His hand presses a little more firmly to your back. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

But you do. You don’t say it, but you do. Because it’s not just comfort you’re asking for when you sit like this. It’s something heavier. Something you can’t explain. And Sam.. Sam never asks for you to explain it. He just holds you like your silence makes sense.

You stay like that for a while, tucked into his chest, legs folded across his lap, head resting where his hoodie dips at the collar. His voice is still going, somewhere between a low hum and a quiet rhythm, talking about ancient creatures and broken hunter lore, old hunts that no one talks about anymore.

You stop listening to the actual words at some point; not because you don’t care, but because his voice gets so soft, so even, it blends into the same warm haze as the air in the room. It’s like static, like safety. The kind that makes your shoulders drop without realizing, like your body knows it’s allowed to rest now.

You keep running your fingers through his hair because it feels good. And because he lets you. You can feel the way his head leans into your touch now and then, subtle but there, like he doesn’t want to admit how much he likes it. You catch the way his voice slows when your nails graze just right against his scalp. He doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even look at you. He just lets you keep going, and you know he’s melting a little from it. The thought makes your chest ache, quiet and soft.

You don’t really get how someone like Sam can exist. Like, this is a man who has seen things; real, awful things, things that should’ve made him hard, cold, distant. And maybe with some people, he is. Maybe he needs to be. But with you, he’s just this. He’s soft-spoken, patient, so gentle you could cry if you let yourself think about it too long. The way he looks at you sometimes when you’re not talking. The way he checks his tone when you’re already tired. The way he never demands anything from you, but somehow always gives everything anyway.

You glance up, cheek still resting against his chest, and study his face from this close. His hair’s curling a little at the ends, dampness giving it weight, and there’s a crease between his brows that never seems to go away, even when he’s calm. His lips are parted just slightly as he reads, and his eyes move slow across the page. His lashes are stupidly long, almost soft-looking in the low light.

Your hand trails down to the nape of his neck, warm and solid beneath your fingers, and he lets out a breath like he forgot he was holding it.

He hasn’t said anything in a few minutes. The book’s still open, but he’s stopped reading it. His other hand has gone still on your back, his thumb just resting now. It’s so quiet you can hear the blood moving behind your own ears. You don’t know what time it is, and it doesn’t matter. The room could vanish, and it wouldn’t matter.

You whisper, “You always let me do this.”

His voice comes back just as quiet. “Do what?”

“This. Sit with you. Be… small, I guess.”

He shifts a little, not to pull away, just to see you. His hand cups the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair like he’s scared you’ll pull away if he says the wrong thing. “You’re not small.”

“I feel small. When I’m with you.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward. Just full.

Then, still looking at you, he says, “I think you make me feel human.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Your throat goes tight in that slow, creeping way that happens when someone is too kind to you out of nowhere. You blink a few times and lean in, pressing your forehead to his collarbone, right where his heart is. He’s warm. You can feel it even through the cotton. You think about what he just said, and it echoes in your chest like a bell.

You don’t tell him you love him. You don’t need to. You think he knows.

Instead, you keep running your fingers through his hair, slower now, more like a lull than a habit, and you whisper something so quiet you don’t even know if he hears it.

“You always feel like home.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his arms pull you closer, and his lips press to the crown of your head, and his hand curls into your hoodie like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t want to let go of. And maybe that’s all the answer you need.

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thepinkpanther83 · 2 days ago

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I had this idea for Eddie because his hair looks so fun to play with- you’re just chilling, watching tv on his couch and his head is in your lap. Without thinking, you start petting his hair, twisting the curls in your fingers and scritching at his scalp. Eddie would be torn between the soothing brain tingles and how good the contact feels and turns into a puddle of goo, with or without spice. If not your speed, no worries! I just love how you write Eddie and reader and this idea had me swinging and kicking my feet. 😅

-🌻🦡

Cover image by: Hellfire_Mvnson

Curl Me Up, Stroke Me Slow

One-Shot Request: “Curl Me Up, Stroke Me Slow”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Thank you to my sweet Anony 🌻🦡 for this irresistibly tactile prompt, your idea had me swinging and kicking my feet, too. 😘 I had way too much fun bringing this one to life. Hope it gives you all the warm fuzzies and the brain-melting heat you were craving! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

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🎸 Summary: It starts innocently, just you, Eddie, and a lazy afternoon on the couch. But when your fingers find their way into his thick curls, what was sweet and soothing turns sinfully indulgent fast. Turns out, Eddie Munson isn’t all that great at staying still.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Curl Me Up, Stroke Me Slow”

The couch creaked as Eddie flopped down onto it like a man dramatically dying of exhaustion. He stretched his legs out with a groan, one sock slipping halfway off his heel, the remote barely making it onto the coffee table before his hand gave up and let gravity win.

You were right behind him, dropping into your usual spot with a half-full bag of chips and a can of soda sweating condensation onto your palm. It had been a long day, errands, band practice, Hellfire drama, Dustin again, obviously, and the two of you were spent. And not in the good way.

Outside, the sun was starting to set. Inside, the TV was humming with the low growl of some B-grade horror flick that neither of you were really paying attention to. The light from the screen flickered over the room in irregular flashes, cool blue, blood red, flickers of shadow across the wall. But it wasn’t scary. It was quiet. Safe.

Eddie sighed, loud and unapologetic, then shifted so his head landed, plop, right in your lap.

“Comfiest pillow in Hawkins,” he mumbled, eyes closing with immediate dramatic flourish. “Might need to keep you here forever.”

You snorted. “That’s bold, considering I’m charging rent now.”

One of his eyes cracked open. “Is it by the hour?”

“Per groan.”

He groaned again, louder this time, just to be an ass.

“Cool. I’m already in debt.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand drifted automatically to his curls, just brushing over them as you got comfortable. You didn’t even think about it, just the natural pull of your fingers to him, like magnets drawn to soft static.

Eddie didn’t react right away. But then he exhaled… and it lingered. Like he’d been holding it in all day, and now that he was here, now that it was just the two of you on this beaten-up couch with popcorn salt in the cushions and holes in his socks, he could finally breathe.

The movie droned on, all grainy violence and terrible dialogue.

You weren’t watching. Not really.

Your fingers started moving again.

Slow. Absentminded.

Tracing a lazy path through his curls, just above the nape of his neck.

He made a noise, so soft you almost missed it.

Not quite a purr. Not quite a sigh.

Just a sleepy, involuntary sound of something in him unwinding.

You didn’t stop.

Why would you?

His hair was a dream. Thick and tangled curls and soft in places you didn’t expect. There were tighter curls at the base of his neck, little frizzed coils that wrapped around your fingertips. And when you started gently scratching at his scalp, just idly, lovingly, like you were reading braille, or petting a cat, he let out another one of those sleepy sounds.

“Hmm,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. “That should be illegal.”

You smirked. “The scalp scritching?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’d report me?”

“No. I’d let it ruin my life.”

You giggled under your breath, but kept going, twisting a lock around your finger, then untangling it just to feel the slip. His hair glowed a little in the TV light, strands catching that deep brown-cherry warmth that was usually hidden in daylight. You could’ve sworn you felt him sink heavier into your lap.

Eddie Munson, going boneless. Loaf Mode: Activated.

That alone was a victory.

But you didn’t notice the little tension sneaking into the line of his jaw. Or the way his breathing had started to slow, not from sleep, but from something deeper… warmer… stirring just under the surface.

And he didn’t tell you.

Because right now? This was heaven.

And Eddie Munson would happily let it ruin him.

You didn’t even notice when your fingers started getting more deliberate.

One minute, you were absentmindedly stroking his hair, watching some half-forgotten horror villain stumble through a foggy graveyard. The next, your fingertips had started combing deeper, scratching gently at Eddie’s scalp, brushing behind his ears, twisting his curls around your knuckles like you were testing something. Tension? Texture? His restraint?

Whatever it was, he was failing. Spectacularly.

At first, it was subtle. A twitch of his jaw. The way his eyes fluttered a little longer with every stroke. Then came the sighs, barely-there, but felt. Felt in the way his shoulder tensed on top of your thigh, in the way he pressed his head a little harder into your lap, like he couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t sink deep enough into the cushions… or you.

And then…

He made a sound.

Low. Raspy. Almost a groan, but it ended with a stretch, as if he could blame the noise on something innocent. Something platonic.

You looked down at him.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just kept his lids half-lowered, lips parted, a lazy smirk ghosting across his mouth like he wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

But you felt it.

The shift.

His body wasn’t loose anymore. It was too still. Like he was bracing for something. Like he was hyper-aware of every place your hand touched… and didn’t.

You traced the curve of his scalp behind his ear and he shuddered.

This is fine.

Totally normal. Just friends. Friends watching movies. Friends who sit close. Friends who play with each other’s hair and scratch their nails just right and… fuck. What is my dick doing. What is my dick doing. Calm down, man. Be cool. BE COOL-

“Y’know…” Eddie’s voice came out low, thick, and full of grit. “Keep that up, and I might start purring.”

You raised a brow, but your fingers didn’t stop. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” His eyes finally met yours. They were darker. “Unironically.”

You grinned, letting your fingernails lightly trace his temple. “Should I be flattered?”

Eddie didn’t answer at first. He just watched you. Lips parted. Pulse visible in his neck. His chest was rising and falling a little faster now, but so was yours.

His eyes flicked down.

Dangerous territory.

You twirled one of his curls tighter, tugging at the root, and it pulled the tiniest gasp out of him… barely audible, but there.

Your legs shifted beneath him. You didn’t think about it.

The TV droned on in the background, mostly forgotten to Eddie. The space between you and him shrunk and thickened at the same time. The air felt heavier. The couch felt smaller.

Eddie swallowed hard. Shifted his hips slightly.

His arm brushed your thigh, and for a second, your hand stilled.

That second was electric.

And then it passed, and your fingers resumed their rhythm.

Slower now.

Teasing.

Torturous.

Eddie Munson was not going to survive this.

You weren’t trying to tease him.

Not really.

But the second you brushed your nails just beneath the edge of his jaw, scratching softly behind his ear and dragging down the side of his neck, you felt it.

That subtle jerk of his thigh.

The way his whole body stiffened just a little. How his chest hitched on the inhale.

Your hand stilled, ever so slightly.

Wait a minute…

You glanced down, just a flick of your eyes, and that’s when you saw it: the faint but unmistakable shape of his cock tenting the front of his gray sweatpants.

Oh.

You froze.

Eddie didn’t.

He cleared his throat, the sound hoarse, barely biting back a curse as he shifted again, an attempt to adjust himself without it being obvious. A fail, honestly. He was pink in the ears now. His face looked calm, but that calm was cracked. His fingers twitched on his stomach like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

Then his eyes flicked up and locked with yours.

Wrecked was the only word for it.

Dark, heavy-lidded, and full of an aching kind of heat that made your stomach flip. Your fingers were still curled just shy of his collarbone, the ghost of that caress still hanging in the air between you.

“…Did I do something?” you asked, voice quiet but firm. Genuinely curious. A little amused.

Eddie huffed a breath through his nose. “Not unless you’re deliberately trying to make me lose my fucking mind.”

You blinked.

He smiled, crooked, shy, and so turned on you could feel it radiating from him.

You tilted your head. “I was just playing with your hair.”

He laughed, but it came out breathy, like he couldn’t quite catch it. “Yeah. And I was just watching the movie.”

You looked at the TV.

There was a man being eaten alive by possessed vines. Neither of you had truly looked at the screen in twenty minutes.

“…So,” you said slowly, your fingers brushing his curls again, lighter this time. “You’re hard because I touched your scalp?”

His face crumpled like that physically pained him.

“Jesus Christ, woman, don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry… should I’ve said ‘aroused due to cranial stimulation’?”

“I will leave this couch.”

“No you won’t.”

You dragged your nails gently behind his ear again, and stroked down his neck just to prove it.

Eddie moaned.

Soft and mortified.

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut.

Your smile turned sharp, hungry. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He opened one eye.

You were grinning.

And you were still touching him.

And he was about to absolutely explode.

The movie played on like none of this was happening, some poor final girl screaming on screen while the living room turned into a pressure cooker of heat and hunger.

You hadn’t moved your hand from his curls.

And Eddie…

Eddie looked wrecked.

He stayed frozen in your lap for a second too long, breath shallow, pupils blown, mouth parted like he couldn’t remember how to speak. You could see him weighing his next move, jaw flexing like he was fighting himself.

Then, he shifted.

Turned onto his stomach in your lap with a groan so low and drawn out it felt filthy just to hear. His cheek pressed against your abdomen, lips brushing the fabric of your shirt, and his hands, those big, ringed hands, slid down the outsides of your thighs, then crept slowly, slowly between them.

“Eddie,” you whispered, heart thundering.

He looked up.

And fuck.

That look.

There was nothing sheepish in it now. Just hunger. Raw, reverent, starving.

“You can’t stroke me like that,” he murmured, voice rough and ruined, “and expect me not to do something about it, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

His fingers ghosted over the seam of your leggings, teasing the dip between your thighs.

You squirmed.

He smirked.

Then he pushed your legs apart, slow but deliberate, his hands curling under your knees as he sat up on his own, kneeling now between your thighs, still staring up at you like you were made of fucking magic.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, pressing a single, reverent kiss to your belly. “If you want me to. I will.”

Your hand threaded into his hair again… this time not for soothing.

For leverage.

You tugged.

His groan vibrated into your stomach.

“Don’t you dare,” you said.

The grin that spread across his face was filthy.

“Fuckin’ love when you boss me around.”

He moved like a man on a mission, mouth trailing kisses down your abdomen, fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings. He looked up one last time for confirmation, and you nodded.

That was all it took.

He dragged your leggings down slow, savoring it, kissing each new inch of exposed skin like it was holy. When he reached your panties, he growled.

“Pink?” he asked, cocking a brow.

“They were clean,” you muttered, flushed.

“They’re adorable. Gonna ruin ‘em.”

And then he did.

It started soft.

Lips brushing, barely touching, like you were testing the waters, seeing if this would break the spell or deepen it.

It deepened.

One soft kiss became two. Then three. Then a greedy, gasping fourth that had you both tipping sideways on the couch. Eddie’s hand cupped the back of your head, guiding your mouth against his like he’d needed this, craved it in the dark corners of his mind long before you ever put your fingers in his hair.

When you climbed into his lap, straddling him, his hands went everywhere. Palming your ass, dragging up your spine, clutching your hips like he could mold you to him if he held tight enough.

And God, the way you moved.

That first slow grind of your hips against his crotch made him whimper.

Yes, whimper.

Low and broken and real, like the friction was almost too much, his cock trapped against his thigh in his sweats, painfully hard now, aching for more.

“Jesus,” he hissed, bucking up just a little. “Fuck, baby, you’re… God. You’re soaked.”

Your shirt was bunched up under your arms now, his rough palms exploring every inch of your torso, your stomach, under your bra, feeling and memorizing like he’d never get the chance again.

“So fuckin’ sexy when you touch me like that,” he groaned, rolling his hips under yours again. “Can’t think straight.”

You smirked against his jaw, tongue darting out to taste the sweat beading along his throat. “Then shut up and let me do it again.”

And you did.

You rocked down, slow and delicious, grinding your clothed pussy against the thick line of his cock in his pants. He swore, head tipping back, eyes fluttering.

“Fuuuck… yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop-”

You didn’t.

Your mouths met again, messy and open, teeth clacking and tongues tangling as you chased the pressure. His ringed hand slid down the back of your panties, grabbing a handful of your ass, fingers dipping dangerously close to where you were dripping.

“I wanna taste you,” he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked. “Wanna fuckin’ drown in it.”

“You will,” you whispered, grinding harder. “Later.”

Eddie groaned like he’d just been denied heaven itself.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“And you’ll die happy.”

You were still in just your panties and a shirt, straddling Eddie’s lap like he was your throne, like he belonged underneath you. His hands were everywhere, gripping your ass, dragging you down to grind against the thick heat straining his sweatpants.

The way you moved? Languid, deliberate, sinful. A slow, teasing grind that had the head of his cock brushing right against your soaked panties through the soft cotton of his pants.

It drove him insane.

His breath hitched every time your hips rolled just right, dragging slick heat over his aching cock.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, fingers flexing hard into the curve of your ass. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You hummed against his lips, not bothering to hide the way your hips bucked a little harder in response. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he growled, voice low and ruined. “That from me? Just from my hair through your fingers?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just smiled and did it again, grinding slow and firm, right where he needed it most.

Eddie choked on a curse.

“Shit… don’t do that. I’ll fucking cum like this. I swear to God- can’t get enough of you.”

You grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it up, before quickly removing your bra, and Eddie barely got out a strangled sound before your tits were in his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, already leaning in, mouth hot and open as it latched to your nipple. He sucked hard, tongue laving over the sensitive bud until it peaked, then moved to the other like he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t decide which one to worship harder.

His palms squeezed your tits roughly, thumbs flicking the tips while he bit, just enough to make you gasp.

Your fingers tugged at the waistband of your panties, but Eddie stopped you, growling against your skin.

“Let me,” he said, voice dark and dripping with hunger.

He slid them down with both hands, and when he got them off, saw how wet they were, saw how soaked you were underneath, he laughed.

Low.

Filthy.

Wrecked.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, eyes wide with disbelief and lust. “You’re dripping for me. That’s so fucking hot I might actually pass out.”

You bit your lip and sank down just enough to slide your slick folds along the line of his cock again.

“Then maybe I better sit on your face after this,” you teased.

Eddie whined, whined, and grabbed your hips like his life depended on it.

“Deal,” he breathed. “But if you ride me first, I swear to God, I might cum.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “That’s the idea.”

Eddie’s hands were greedy. One gripped your hip, keeping you pressed against him, the other slid between your thighs like he had every right to be there, and honestly? After the way you were grinding on him, he did.

His fingers found your clit with practiced ease, the pad of his middle finger rubbing slow, maddening circles that made your whole body tighten.

“Yeah,” he whispered, watching your face like it was the only thing he’d ever believe in. “There it is. That’s what I wanted. Let me make you feel so good, baby.”

You gasped when he slid two fingers inside, the stretch perfect, the pace unhurried, just slow pumps, curling just right, stroking a spot that had your mouth falling open and your thighs starting to shake.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, already rocking your hips in rhythm, riding his fingers like you needed it to breathe. “Eddie…”

He leaned in, lips brushing your collarbone as he spoke, voice thick with heat.

“Bet you’d let me taste you right now,” he murmured, filthy and reverent. “Throw your legs over my shoulders, let me tongue-fuck you until you forget your name.”

Your breath caught. You clenched around his fingers, and he felt it, grinned like a man possessed.

“Ohhh, you like that idea,” he chuckled, voice smug and adoring. “Say the word, baby, and I’ll have you crying on my tongue in five minutes flat.”

You bit your lip, nervous but so fucking tempted.

He pulled his fingers free slowly, trailing them through your slick folds one more time just to watch your eyes flutter, then sucked them into his mouth with a groan that made your toes curl.

“Jesus Christ, you taste unreal.”

Your thighs tightened instinctively, and he clocked it immediately, pupils blown wide.

“C’mon,” he whispered, guiding you gently down onto the couch with him until he was flat on his back. “Sit on my face. Let me have you.”

You hovered above him, breath shaking, heart hammering.

“Eddie-”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Your eyes met his, raw, tender, hungry.

You nodded.

“Then ride my fucking face, sweetheart.”

You climbed over him, straddled his chest, then inched up slowly, trembling and bashful… until your thighs framed his face, and he got his first full look at your soaked, swollen pussy.

“Holy fuck,” he moaned, hands gripping your thighs like he was about to pray to them.

The second your folds brushed his mouth, you lost your breath.

Eddie went feral.

His tongue licked a thick, wet stripe right up your slit, then circled your clit with dizzying precision. He sucked it between his lips, moaned into you like he was devouring the world’s sweetest sin.

Your hands shot to the back of the couch, hips stuttering as you began to grind against his face, the nerves and shyness melting away with every flick of his tongue.

He loved it.

Groaned like he was high on your taste. His tongue fucked into you, messy and hot, while his nose nudged your clit just enough to keep you right on the edge.

You were panting. Babbling. Shaking.

Eddie’s voice rasped from below you between licks, “That’s it, baby. Use me. Fuckin’ take what you need. God, I could die like this.”

And if the way you were riding his mouth was anything to go by?

You might just let him.

You didn’t even realize how tangled up you’d gotten until you were both breathless, your thighs shaking from the come-down, Eddie’s curls sticking to his forehead, his lips slick and red from absolutely worshipping you.

But you weren’t done.

Not even close.

“C’mere,” he rasped, voice wrecked as he pulled himself up, back resting against the arm of the couch. His chest heaved, the rise and fall of it downright hypnotic. His sweats were still clinging to his thighs, stretched over the hard, throbbing outline of his cock. “Wanna feel you around me.”

Your hands slipped beneath the waistband and tugged them down, revealing him fully, thick, flushed dark at the tip, leaking steadily with how long he’d been aching for you. His breath hitched when you touched him, fingers wrapping around the base.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, head thudding back, hips twitching. “You’re gonna ruin me for anyone else.” he murmured as he slipped off his shirt.

You didn’t answer. You just climbed over him, straddling his lap once more. The head of his cock caught at your entrance, and you both stilled, holding your breath like the next second would snap the world in two.

Then you sank down.

Slow. Deep. All the way.

Eddie let out a choked moan, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. His eyes rolled back, mouth open in stunned, desperate pleasure.

“Oh my God, sweetheart,” he gasped. “You’re so… shit- tight, fuckin’ squeezing me like you were made for it.”

Your head fell forward as you rocked your hips, adjusting to the stretch, the pressure of him filling you up so perfectly you swore it was science fiction. The couch groaned beneath you as you started to move, grinding, then lifting just enough to drop back down with a wet clap of skin on skin.

It was primal.

Unfiltered.

The kind of ride that wasn’t just sex… it was need.

Eddie was losing his mind beneath you, hips bucking up to meet each bounce, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, or a curse.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted. “Take what you need. Take every inch. Fuck… look at you.”

You met his eyes as you rode him, hair falling around your face, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He looked up at you like you’d hung the fucking moon.

And even though his jaw was clenched and his breath was ragged, you knew, he was holding on by a thread. Every nerve in his body was coiled tight, but he wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Not until you did.

Your head dropped to his shoulder, forehead slick against his neck, and your nails dug into the meat of his upper back. “Eddie,” you whimpered, over and over again like a chant, like he was holy and you were on your knees in front of a shrine. “Eddie, Eddie, fuck, don’t stop-”

You kissed him hard, sloppy and deep, and you moaned into his mouth when you tasted yourself on his lips. His tongue tangled with yours, hands everywhere, your ass, your waist, gripping your back like he was trying to leave fingerprints behind.

The heat was unbearable. The sweat. The friction. The gasping, wet sounds filling the trailer with every bounce.

And the couch squeaked like it was trying to keep up.

He groaned, hips stuttering for a second as you clenched around him. “Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please, baby, tell me again, tell me how good it feels, tell me how much you need me-”

“You feel so fucking good, Eddie… don’t stop, don’t stop… please, I need you-” You were practically sobbing now, every muscle shaking as the heat coiled tight behind your ribs.

You met his eyes as you rode him, hair falling around your face, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He looked up at you like you’d hung the fucking moon.

“I won’t,�� he gasped, voice breaking. “I won’t, baby, you’ve got me… fuck… I’m yours.”

Those last words shattered you.

“I’m gonna-” you whimpered, voice trembling, thighs shaking as you ground down harder.

Eddie’s voice dropped low, rough and reverent. “Cum for me. Do it while I’m still inside you. Wanna feel you fall apart, sweetheart. Wanna fuckin’ feel it.”

You cried out, clutching his shoulders as the orgasm ripped through you, white-hot, mind-melting and overwhelming. Your hips ground down hard, helpless, riding the high as your entire body convulsed around him.

That’s when Eddie broke.

He came with a strangled sound, groaning your name, moaning into your neck as he spilled inside you, hips jerking and breath coming in broken gasps, cock twitching inside you. His grip on your hips went vice-tight, keeping you flush to him as he rode out every last pulse, his hips jerking helplessly with every pulse of heat he spilled into you.

It was messy.

It was perfect.

You collapsed against him, chest to chest, both of you breathing like you’d run a marathon, sweat and sex sticking you together in the best way.

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your lips, gentle now. Soft. Still trembling with aftershocks.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You really shouldn’t have touched my hair like that.”

He was still buried deep inside you, hands gripping your hips like they were the only thing tethering him to the planet.

Your chest heaved, breasts brushing his forehead as he slumped forward, completely spent. His curls clung to his flushed face, damp with sweat, and his lips moved softly against your sternum as he groaned your name like it was the only word he remembered.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just panting. Heartbeats thudding in time. Skin sticky and slick where it pressed together. The couch beneath you was wrecked, smeared with sweat and sex and too much affection to clean up any time soon.

Finally, you exhaled a shaky laugh, fingers sliding into his curls again.

“Jesus,” you murmured, boneless and dumb with pleasure. “We’re a mess.”

Eddie didn’t lift his head. Just let out a choked little laugh into your cleavage. “I think you just rewired my fucking brain.”

You giggled, nudging your nose into his hair as he continued to stroke lazy circles over your bare thigh with a reverent kind of slowness.

“All this just from petting your hair?” you teased, smirking.

He finally looked up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and wrecked, and gave you that crooked grin that usually meant trouble.

“Yeah…” he said, voice rough. “You should pet my dick next.”

You snorted, smacked the back of his head gently, but you didn’t disagree.

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