#sorry for all the paper lines these are from some notes

[romanofftherealest]

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔅𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔰 𝔏𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔡

Chapter 2: Wrong Move | 5.2k

Summary: Once you were given a chance by the Ice Queen, you must not fuck it up because once you made a wrong move, you'll get killed—figuratively and literally.

Pairing: Mob boss Natasha Romanoff x Mob boss Female Reader

Tags | Warnings: +18 bickering, sexual tension, smut, switch reader & Natasha, fingering & strap-on (r), death threat, frustrated murder lol

Author's Note: 👋

⧗

"Ice Queen."

"Black Widow."

Insufferable–it had been insufferable between you two since your meeting with Dr. Bruce. Since he'd made his little comment.

"Please don't fuck in my office."

Natasha had taken the comment in stride, though she was unable to shake off the feeling of embarrassment entirely. But she couldn't afford to be flustered—she had an image to uphold.

You, on the other hand, maintained composed throughout the rest of that meeting, keeping your expression impassive and unreadable. Your gaze never averted from the path ahead, and you avoided even a single glance in her direction—the walk out of the office and the wait for your respective escorts.

The Black Widow hadn't seen you since then until today.

"You have always been ruining my time."

"I had an emergency."

You huff, "Again?"

"I'm sorry." Now, that was shocking coming from her, you didn't realize someone in your line of work is actually capable of apologizing. "How's business?" she now inquired, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. She sat across from you, hoping that her attempt at nonchalance was convincing.

"Steady." You answer shortly.

Natasha resisted the urge to tug at her tie as she leaned forward to sign some of the papers you presented her.

"How's Red Room?" you now asked, in return of respect.

This was all feeling a little too familiar—de javu. The redhead gulped, glancing up. It proved to be a mistake, she realized as you tucked your hair behind your ear that exposed a hint of your cleavage, the soft fabric of your dress gently pressed against the edge of the desk. Your movements were deliberate as you signed the document. You two had a business to sign together after Bruce had set you up, but if you actually weren't in that room together that time, and he did not make that comment of his, there is no business to sign right now. And you wouldn't take the blame being in the room with her, she was the one stealing your time of appointment.

Natasha finally gave her tie just a little tug. "Quiet."

As she took the paper from you, you couldn't help but notice her usual rolled-up sleeves, revealing the ink-adorned sleeves on her arms. But something was different today—the tie. Normally, her top was slightly unbuttoned, highlighting the intricate designs that crept up towards her shoulder. Today, however, the top few buttons remained firmly done up, leaving you wondering how extensive her tattoos were, and how much of it was simply golden skin.

Despite your attempt to be subtle, your eyes remained fixed on her. Natasha could feel your gaze, a heavy weight on her skin. But she made no comment about it, instead choosing to remain silent. Perhaps she was trying to be a gentlewoman, although knowing that being a gentlewoman hadn't worked out so well for her the last time around.

Natasha has the kind of sculpted physique that came from countless hours of training, complemented by the intricate ink that adorned her flesh. And her face? It is capable of morphing from a radiant smile to a deadly glare in a mere second.

While you possessed your own distinct image, a counterpoint to her rough edges. With your carefully crafted lace, the shimmering satin clothing that hugged your form, and the cold, stoic demeanor you projected, you cut a striking figure of elegance.

Then there was the ever-present knife strapped to your thigh.

Natasha's gaze followed your every move as you adjusted your shawl, her eyes tracing its soft trail as it covered your delicate skin. She found herself missing the bare sight of your skin, the way the white fabric clung to your form. She tugged her tie again.

"What are you wearing that for?"

"What?" you rolled her eyes. You weren't one for unnecessary words, let alone small talk. But you just wanted to know, so you had asked. "I have never seen you wear a tie in all the years you've been in town."

"I've worn ties before."

"Not unless it's to conduct business." You scoffed at her quick retort.

"This is business."

"I am not a mark." You narrowed your eyes at her like a cat watching its prey. "There is no need for formality."

She huffed through her nose, and you looked just as affronted as she felt. She gripped the knot, "I'll take it off then, Ice."

"I didn't say you had to take it off."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

"All I did was ask." You huffed and stood from your chair, uncrossing your legs and resettling your shawl again.

Natasha finished her last signature in a rush, tugging her tie looser and looser. What was with her? "There."

"Pleasure doing business," you offered the typical and polite placation at the end of any business dealing in your line of work.

You walked over to her, your lace around your shoulders, caressing its way down your arms and then just brushing your hips on its way down. It was like an embrace around you, teasing and beckoning all at once. Your dress had a slit to allow the room to cross your legs when sitting. It revealed a slim, pale calf and killer stiletto heel.

Natasha managed to drag her eyes back up the leg and to her offered hand somehow. She grasped it in her, always making sure to be soft with it. She knew that you wouldn't like knowing she was trying to be careful with you, but…she couldn't help it. Your hand was so small—so light—whenever she got to hold it in you.

Not that she looked forward to it or anything.

"Pleasure."

You averted your gaze as Natasha raised your hand, her lips gently planting a kiss to your fourth knuckle. You knew she was intentionally skipping over your rings, choosing to kiss your bare skin. You made sure at your best efforts to conceal the shiver that occasionally ran down your spine whenever she did this, not wanting her to know how it affects you.

"Pleasure indeed."

Fuck. You were aware of your own allure and sexiness, it's something that was impossible to ignore. You know that you are driving her crazy—you just had to.

Natasha tugged at her suit jacket and her tie, attempting to distract herself from the effect of the woman in front of her. The same woman who can kill her with just a slip of a knife, she had to remind herself.

"Well," Natasha managed to snap herself out of her trance-like state, clearing her throat. She was unable to resist the urge to continue tugging at her tie, untying it completely and letting it hang loose around her neck. She looked at you, her gaze lingering for a moment before she spoke again. "Until next time, I guess."

"Leave the tie at home."

"Okay," she snorted in response, still keeping the tie barely on and popped open the stiflingly tight collar. She turned to you with a confused frustrated glare, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "What's your problem?"

"My problem?" you growled right back at her.

She let out a smirk, that familiar smirk that always seemed to get under your skin, like when she called you, Printsessa. "Flustered?"

"Why would I be?" Cold as ice.

"It was your fault, you know, Banner's little comment."

"My fault?!" Oh, there it was–the Ice Queen's temper. All the frostiness is gone and is now replaced with a fuel raging fire. "You were the one trying to kiss me!"

"Okay, fine," she shrugged, and you froze back up again. That easy? She would concede that easily? You didn't expect that from the Black Widow at all. For all her reputation, the one and only bounty hunter conceded herself to the Ice Queen. You were expecting her to argue that it was you trying to kiss her, but she didn't really care who was trying to kiss whom. It was you who'd gotten pretty close all on your own as you'd stormed over to her, she just moved a little closer that time—not even an inch. "So?"

"So?" your jaw tightens as you shake your head, trying to keep your composure in front of her. You were caught off guard by her sudden surrender, let alone for it to be about that.

You couldn't stop replaying that incident in your mind, over and over again—each time so that you'd be able to defend your innocence to the end, adamant that you didn't initiate the kiss. You didn't lean in, you didn't reach out to pull her closer, you didn't allow her intoxicating scent to cloud your judgment and all your reservations and up until you get home.

And you definitely didn't think about fucking her in someone else's office, you didn't. Not at all.

Natasha let out a soft moan when you firmly gripped what was left of her tie and pulled her in closer. She had been yearning for this moment, her mind consumed by the thought of her lips meeting yours. She even started keeping tulips on her desk at her office, their sweet scent reminding her of you. No one dared to ask her about the change, and she would have been too embarrassed to confess that they were there simply to bring back memories of the Ice Queen's fragrance.

You couldn't help but gasp as Natasha moved swiftly, her tongue lightly tracing your lip in a silent request for more. In that moment, your defenses crumbled and you granted it, perhaps a bit too early, eagerly and willingly. But there was no room for overthinking or analysis now, because it was already happening. She was a damn good kisser, and you found yourself lost in the intensity of the moment.

You tossed her tie aside, your fingers deftly unbuttoning her shirt as if you were on a mission. Natasha refused to be outdone—didn't want to be found lacking. Her hands moved with grace and gentleness as she eased the delicate lace fabric away from your skin. She wound it around her hand, only to release it, replacing its tender touch on your skin.

As her hands glided over your frame, tracing a path from your shoulders to your arms and finally coming to rest on your waist, you found yourself involuntarily gasping her name.

"N-Natasha…" without any visible effort, she effortlessly hoisted you into the air. Your arms instinctively wrapped around her neck, seeking support. Despite the considerable size of your hands, they couldn't find a firm grip on her muscular shoulders. She has incredible strength, like a wall of muscle against which you feel both secured and at her mercy.

A moan of pleasure escaped Natasha's lips as your tongue tangled with hers. She spun you around with effortless strength and lowered you onto the edge of your desk, her focus now on your exposed neck.

Your breathing grew heavy as Natasha continued her ministries, successfully banishing any coherent thoughts from your mind. Her mouth relentlessly explored the sensitive skin of your neck, while her hands began to delicately loosen the straps of your dress, letting the fabric slide down your shoulders. At the same time, her fingertips traced a teasing path down your spine, gradually heading south.

Natasha's voice was a low, possessive growl as she pressed her lips to the flat plane of your stomach, her hands hurriedly tugging and rearranging the shimmering fabric of your dress, exposing your thigh holster in the process. Her touch was firm but gentle as her fingertips skimmed over your inner thigh, tracing an intimate path that sent shivers down your spine—and you cannot hide that shiver this time. She lifts her gaze to meet you, her eyes filled with admiration and something deeper.

"Do you have any idea...how beautiful you are?"

Despite the rush of sensations coursing through you, you resisted the urge to let out a gasp as Natasha released your holster, letting it fall to the floor. Unexpectedly, her fingertips were incredibly soft and tender when she gently massaged the area where the holster's clip had left marks on your skin, soothing the redness. The contrast between her touch and the ruthless image of the Black Widow intrigued you. It awakened an unexpected fondness within you, something you couldn't help but find charming about her that is entirely against your will.

"No."

"No?" Natasha chuckled softly, not condescendingly. Her head dipping lower to press a gentle kiss against the sensitive skin of your knee. She knelt down at your feet, her gaze locked on yours, her eyebrow arched in an amused manner. "Shall I show you then? My Queen?"

Your face flushed with a combination of desire and irritation, and you avoided her gaze, pressing your heel against her shoulder in a subtle attempt to maintain some control. You refused to give in to her attempts to fluster you, but God she did, and you think she already knows that.

"Ah, ah," Natasha issued a reprimanding retort, catching your heel between her fingers before you could even touch it. She delicately and teasingly unfastened the strap, using her teeth to extract it from its securing position. Glancing back up at you, "let me work, your Highness."

Pleasure coursed through you as Natasha's tongue followed an intimate path up your ankle, lavishing kisses on the back of your calf. She left a lingering lick on your knee before continuing and you felt yourself becoming increasingly disoriented, the papers beneath your fingers crumpling due to your trembling grip.

She gripped your hips firmly, helping to ease you as she pressed soft kisses to the mark where your holster had been placed. Her fingers trailed up along the seam of your dress slit, running them along the sheer edge between your legs, her touch light yet deliberate.

As you bit your lip again, trying desperately to hold back a whimper, Natasha's fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your panties. She rubbed slow circles over your clit through the thin material, feeling how wet you were already. You tried pushing her by the shoulders again when she soothed her fingers up and down where you needed the most, but at the same time you were more ready to wrap your legs around her and lock her in place until you were good and finished.

"More."

What the Queen wants, the Queen gets.

She was the commoner, worshipping at the altar of your body, her Queen. Each moan and whimper from your lips was like a royal decree, commanding her to continue serving your pleasure.

Without hesitation, Natasha pushed your panties to the side and her tongue quickly delved between your folds, pressing flat and firm against your clit just as she had promised. Your hips lifted off the desk involuntarily as she held you steady with one strong arm wrapped around your thighs, keeping them spread wide open for her mouth's access.

"Fuck!" your screams turned into incoherent pleas as she pushed you right to the edge of pleasure. Natasha doubled her efforts, adding two fingers to the mix while her tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. She curled those fingers just right, hitting that magical spot inside you over and over.

She closely observed your responses, attuned to every subtle movement and reaction your body betrayed. Her grip on your thighs was firm but tender, so that it would keep them from crushing her head completely. Not that she really minds you wanting and needing to crush her head because that is some way to die and she would thank you, the Queen, after it with what remains in her dying breath.

"Natasha…" your whimpers and pleas grow louder and more desperate. She loved the sound of her name on your lips, loved how your voice cracked and broke as she pushed you higher and higher. "Please, oh-yes!"

And finally, you reached the high of your throne. And Natasha held your trembling legs with a gentleness and possessiveness, feeling like the most fortunate commoner in the kingdom. The Queen had given her the chance to taste her sweet nectar, and Natasha was drinking it up greedily, savoring each drop as you shook and moaned on the desk.

Natasha moved slowly, savoring the taste of your pleasure still on her lips as she carefully put your legs down. "You good?"

Oh, you were so much more than good, that word is a freaking understatement. But she could never ever know that, ever! You nodded, not trusting your high self to speak just yet. It was bad enough that you were going to have that glow after not having a release like that in God knows how long and Natasha could ever know that one either.

Natasha, from what you've heard, is ruthless in business and deadly in combat. But she is a good lover, that was for sure…and you didn't hear that one…

You experienced it first hand.

Natasha carried you effortlessly to the plush couch in your office, ignoring your half-hearted resistance to being held close. She sat down first, then pulled you onto her lap so your head rested naturally against her chest. Her fingers carded through your hair absently as she let you catch your breath.

Her breath hitched slightly as she felt your fingers deftly working at her shirt buttons. She had to admit, your sleight of hand was as impressive as it was seductive as she even realized you'd started until her shirt was half-unbuttoned and slipping from her trousers.

"Ready for more?"

"I don't leave debts unpaid."

"I don't—!" Natasha gasped as you suddenly sank your teeth into her earlobe, biting down with a playful intensity that made her arch against you. The immediate soothing lick and gentle kisses down her neck had her melting into your touch, realizing you were mirroring her earlier actions. Fuck.

"Sh," you breathed against her skin, letting her sweet time get nice and riled up. If she has turned you into an absolute mess, then you are going to melt her into a puddle of desire. Completely wrecked in your hands.

"Y-you." Natasha's voice came out as a guttural moan, her hips rising instinctively to meet your touch. She was utterly at your mercy now, every fiber of her being focused on the exquisite sensations you were creating.

The Black Widow, the deadly assassin, was now reduced to a whimpering mess beneath you.

"Let me," you whispered against her skin, your lips brushing against her collarbone as you traced the intricate patterns of her tattoos. Your hands unbuckled her binder revealing more colors of tattoos on her breasts, you pinched and swirled your tongue on her nipples before you moved down and down and down…until you felt an unexpected bulge.

"The Black Widow indeed," you purred into her ear, your voice low and sultry, as you watched the flush of red spread from the base of her neck up to her cheeks. It was a heady sight, knowing you had reduced the formidable Black Widow to this state of arousal. Her eyes fluttered closed as you unbuttoned and slipped your hands inside her pants, finding the strap-on she had been wearing. "Do you want this?"

"Yes," she choked. Her hands immediately returned to your hips, gripping them tightly as she guided you closer. The heat between your legs was unbearable now, the tip of strap-on pressing insistently against your core.

You leaned in, kissing along her jawline until your lips found hers again. Your eyes locked onto hers as you played teasingly with the tip of her strap-on, rubbing it with your entrance just enough to make her shudder.

"Do you want me?" you asked with your hooded lustful eyes.

"Yes." Her whisper came out breathless, needy—a sound far removed from the ruthless mob boss she usually played. Her hands moved with purpose, pulling you close as she arched up to meet you. The strap-on pressed firmly against you now, and she could barely control herself.

"Y/N."

Natasha gasped your name, the sound escaped her lips in a beautiful, almost reverent tone. But you yearned to hear her stripped of words, reduced to nothing but breathless moans. You wanted to see her utterly undone, rendered incapable of forming a single syllable, let alone your name. So you began to move in her lap, your hands roaming over her back and your lips finding their way over her cheeks and down to her neck, Natasha's body responded beneath you. You could feel the firm muscles of her pecs tensing and flexing with each of your movements, the contact between you growing increasingly delicious.

"Fuck, you," she panted, enjoying herself entirely as you moved on bounced of her.

"Tell me how much you wanted me."

"So bad," Natasha panted in response, her lips eager to find the little spot between your jaw and neck again. "Fuck, so bad. Y/N, please…so bad."

You gasped, your nails digging into her shoulders. "Tell me you want me now."

"More than anything," she growled, her hands snaked over your back for the purpose of supporting you but then, she finally—finally! found the hidden zip of the dress and she immediately pulled it down. "I want you, I need you."

Your eyes flew open as Natasha swiftly dragged the zipper of your dress down, tearing the fabric literally and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. You pulled away from her lips, a low growl escaping your own as you watched the remnants of your dress being discarded without a hint of remorse.

"You—!"

Natasha withdrew, you gasped, caught between the conflicting emotions. She swiftly lifted you off her lap, effortlessly flipping your position so you now lay across her on the expansive sofa. "I'll buy you a new one."

"That's not the point!" you barked at her. You weren't angry about your dress being torn apart and discarded. You were frustrated about the way she'd stopped fucking you just to manhandle you, flipping you over just to change position. And you were deeply irritated with the way she had sat up and away from you just to stare. "What?!"

Natasha ignored you, running a hand through her hair as she took a few breaths, both of you in your naked glory under your office light. She ignored you, taking a moment to run a hand through her tousled hair as she caught her breath. The soft glow of the office light casts shadows across your naked bodies.

Fuck, she is beautiful. You watched as her chest rose and fell with each breath, the light accented the shadows and angles of her muscles, and all of the human curves in between.

"Do you always stop in the middle of fucking just to catch your breath."

She looked down at you like a wife who was nagging her about something. So she kissed you like she was trying to prove a point—that she could still dominate you even when you were being mouthy. Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling and pushing it around as she liked, just like how you pulled her by the tie.

"No, but I do want to savor every minute of making love to you."

God, this woman thought she was so cute–she thought she was so charming. So you kept kissing her, so she wouldn't see the look on your face as you felt each flutter of the butterflies.

She tore her lips away from yours, enjoying the pout that formed on your mouth as you tried to follow hers. She left one last kiss on your lips before trailing kisses over your cheeks to your ear.

"Are you ready for me, koroleva?" (Queen)

You pinched her thick arms, wondering if it actually hurt her but whatever, you had been ready before she interrupted the two of you just to use some sappy line on you and change positions.

"Right away," she chuckled, her breath on your neck as she pushed the strap-on into you again, "your Majesty."

"Natasha!" you let out a deep, guttural moan as she started moving again, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist. Your hands gripped her shoulders tightly before dragging down to the thick muscles over her sides, fingers digging in as she thrusted against you.

She buried her face in your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin as she continued to move against you. She nuzzled closer until she could kiss you again, "Shit, baby, you gotta come soon."

Oh, you were much closer than she thought you were. Your whimper was almost silent, but she heard it. She just made love to you now like how she called it, but she knows that sound. Her thumb found your clit without warning, pressing hard circles that matched her thrusts. She captured your bottom lip between her teeth.

"Natasha, I-I'm so close…" you were completely lost in sensation, your back arched, legs trembling around her waist. Your hands clawed at her back, leaving red marks. You were making those high-pitched whines that always drove her wild. She knew you were right there, so she did something she knew would push you over. She knew you were a hair trigger right now—no filter, no control.

And just like that, you shattered. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed, legs shaking violently as you came undone in her arms. She felt your inner walls clamping down on her fingers, pulsing with your release.

You clenched your eyes shut, allowing a few moments for clarity to slowly return. Eventually, your office ceiling came into clear focus, and you became acutely aware of the weight of Natasha's body pressing against yours, your limbs wrapped around her body like intimate vines. A part of you wanted to just walk away.

Cold as ice.

You couldn't even if you really wanted to, your mind was still hazy, and your body was utterly spent. Your knees trembled, their stability compromised, and you knew you wouldn't be able to move for a few precious minutes.

Natasha's head gently turned, her mouth finding its way to the sensitive skin of your neck. With soft, tender kisses, she made her way up until her lips found yours once more.

"Hey."

"Hey." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as your body slowly came down from its high. Natasha didn't give you much time to recover though—her kisses were insistent and hungry, like she couldn't get enough of you. Your hands found their way back into her hair without hesitation.

"So?" her voice was soft but with a hint of playful tease. She kept one arm wrapped securely around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder. Her other hand slowly started smoothing down your mess of hair, deliberately avoiding your bruised lip.

You peeled your eyes open, doing your best to glare at her for interrupting your tranquility. You raised a brow at her bright grin, practically giggling with glee. "So what?"

She was even more undeterred by your prickliness, though. She traced your cheekbone with her thumb, gently smoothing away a smudge of make-up. "Do you know, now? How beautiful are you?"

She thought she was so fucking charming–damn this woman, and that heart of her. You allowed her one more kiss, soft and slower. You were beginning to think she liked kissing you or something.

"After one round?"

"One and a half," Natasha corrected you urgently, her pout deepened into something almost childlike—adorable even though she'd just wrecked every inch of your body. "And I thought they were pretty good."

Oh, they were amazing. Maybe the most amazing you'd ever had in your life. But she could never ever know that, ever.

All of a sudden, you bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hide your expression when your gaze went down on the discarded strap-on on the couch. Does she wear that all the time? Were you the first one she used that on? Because if you fucking weren't you better get yourself tested, that's for fucking sure. So now you had to ask to make sure if you had to get an appointment, and definitely not because you wanted to know if she had been with someone else.

"Do you wear that all the time?"

She chuckled softly, her smirk growing wider and now you're beginning to hate that look and what she's about to say.

"Yeah, so whenever I see a woman I'd like to fuck—"

"Get out." You won't let her finish or else you will finish her.

Her face fell completely flat, the cocky smirk disappearing as she registered your actual anger when you tore away yourself from her. "Hey, hey—" she stood as well, missing the warmth of your body together, "Wait, koroleva, I was joking."

Oh and you weren't.

"Get. Out."

She looked like a scolded child—all that confidence and swagger gone. As soon as you started walking towards her again, she scrambled to gather her jeans, binder, and top. She fumbled with the buttons of her jeans, while you stood there naked as you walked her towards your office door. She was terrified—not of the naked woman in front of her, but of your sudden coldness and the fact, that you can kill her with your bare hands.

"Detka, please wait, wait—hey, hey…" but you didn't listen, she was clearly trying to calm you down, but you are so calm in case she missed that because you haven't thrown her the knife you had been toying in your hand. You continue to walk her out while she stumbles backward, staring at you and the sharp thing you're playing. "Koroleva, I was joking!" she pleaded once again.

"Call me stupid nicknames and this knife will go straight to you, Black Widow."

Oh, Natasha didn't like that at all. Back with the titles again? After everything that had happened just a couple of minutes ago? Clearly, Natasha is now aware of the wrong actions she did and in the next few seconds, she's about to make one again…

"But, detka—"

You threw the knife straight at her and if Natasha wasn't able to grip the doorknob and get out fast, that knife would've gone straight to her left eye. She didn't even realize she is now outside breathing hard, the buttons of her top not in the proper places—while your guards, with their big guns, looked at her soul like they're ready to kill her as well. Luckily, Kate and Yelena was fast to get to Natasha to mediate the situation, kind of.

She turned to the door and knocked desperately while fixing her top buttons, "Y/N, please!" All the shame, all the title was long forgotten now as she beg for you.

"The hell happened?" Yelena, her sister asked while Kate eyes the guards carefully, not provokingly.

And you surprisingly opened the door.

All eyes were on you, but your guards immediately turned their backs as if they already knew what to do, as if they had already seen you like this before.

"Oh fuck." Kate drops her mouth at the sight of you, still naked.

"Goryachiy ad." (Hot hell) Yelena mutters before she turns around. When she sees that Kate was still gawking, she immediately hissed at her practically drooling for you. "Belova!" the tall girl groaned at the sight of you for the last time before she painfully turns around.

While Natasha really fought herself to grab your whole body so she could hide you from all the eyes that are solely on you. Or maybe tear the eyes away from the skull of those people who had already seen you like this. She just couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you this way, maybe some did—already did, but they would never make you feel what she made you feel just moments ago. She wants to hide you from the world and keep you in a place where she and only her can see.

"Y/N..." she fought her very best not to call you russian petnames, "I-I was..." she trailed off when her eyes went to your hands, holding the harness of her strap-on. She also fought her very damn hard best for her gaze not to go further down—she almost did, but the sound of you retrieving the knife from the doorway made her flinch and return her gaze on you.

Your eyes were killer and sharp, and so is your knife. You didn't tear your angry orbs away from her while you cut her strap-on harness with your knife in front of her, you threw the remaining ruined pieces on her feet before shutting the door close.

Nothing Burns Like The Cold: Masterlist

[vainvenus]

proofread possession | op81 | pt. 1

Pairings: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It's been a few weeks since the best day of Oscar's life and now it's the weekend of the Australian GP aka the weekend that replaces the best day of his life.

Includings: Journalist/photographer!oscar, mclaren driver!reader, oscar fanboys to the max in this, he's kinda of normal in this too, light stalking, reader is an absolute sweetheart we love you!!, this is short and surprisingly tame!

An: Triple header? Nah triple post!!! Sorry to my Oscar lovers I've been neglecting this fic 🫶🏿

@vanteel

It had been weeks since the best day of Oscar’s life.

Weeks since you had noticed him like really, truly noticed him.

Weeks since you’d walked onto that carpet at the F-175 event in that stunning black dress of yours and made eye contact with him of all people.

Weeks since you stopped, looked him right in the eye, and smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing to his brain.

And then you’d talked to him. Laughed at how eager he was on the red carpet. Got personal as if the two of you had known each other for years. Said you hoped you’d see him again at the next Grand Prix.

Oscar had been living on that memory like oxygen. Replaying your words in his head. Writing a half-baked piece about your mental toughness that never saw the light of day because every paragraph turned into a love letter disguised as sports journalism.

Now it was race week.

Media day loomed close and this time, Oscar had the flight back home booked, his camera gear cleaned, the badge request submitted through his publication.

But he didn’t have a paddock pass, the network he was with was supposed to get him one but now it was too late.

He was still going, yes but as a regular accredited photographer, buried under fifty other journos with lenses pointed at you. He’d get a glimpse. A quote if he was lucky. Maybe a photo from twenty feet away.

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t. Not after you said you’d hoped to see him again. Not after the way you looked at him like he was worth noticing.

Oscar didn’t want just a glimpse anymore.

★

The brunette nearly missed the package.

It was sitting at his door when he got back from a morning shoot, slim and nondescript, the kind of thing he almost left untouched. No return address. Just his name, written in blocky, clean handwriting.

He crouched down and picked it up before entering his house. He felt the weight, oddly light, but something rigid inside.

His fingers fumbled the edge.

Inside: a sleek, velvet-lined envelope with the McLaren logo embossed in orange. And tucked just underneath it—

Two passes.

One was a paddock pass with his name printed in bold, and the other was a McLaren garage guest credential.

Not media access. Not a press group badge.

A personal pass.

A you’ve been invited by the team pass.

A you’ve been invited by her pass.

Oscar’s mouth dropped open.

And then he saw the note.

"Didn’t think you’d want to watch from the sidelines! I'll see you Thursday, bring your camera. – Y/N"

He let out a noise somewhere between a choked laugh and a whimper. He dropped into a crouch on the floor, holding the note in one hand and the passes in the other like they might vanish.

Oscar whispered, “No. No way.”

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, like if he blinked too hard the passes might vanish, like the entire thing was some elaborate hallucination born out of too much admiration and not enough sleep.

But the credentials were real. The lanyard had weight. His name was printed in official McLaren font. And that handwriting? He’d stared at it long enough on hats, jackets, papers, and photo backings to know—it was yours.

That did it.

Oscar screamed.

A full, unfiltered, disbelieving scream that bounced off the walls of his house.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!!”

He paced, hands in his hair, shaking the note like it was some kind of sacred artifact.

“She remembered me! Actually remembered me!”

He dropped onto the couch, then immediately jumped off it again. “Im gonna be in the McLaren garage as her guest. What the actual fuck! This is mental!”

He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, breathing like he’d just finished a race. “Bring my camera? I will. I will bring twelve.”

Another scream burst out of him, one pure joy.

“I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die and I’m gonna haunt that garage forever. She’s gonna think I’m gonna be chill and normal about this and I am absolutely not. Oh my god.”

He clutched the note to his chest like it was oxygen.

He was already planning on having it framed above his bed.

★

Oscar barely slept on the flight over.

Between refreshing his email, triple-checking the guest pass, and trying not to combust thinking about you, the three-hour flight felt like thirty minutes.

Conveniently or maybe fatefully his publication had booked him at the same hotel as most of the drivers, teams, and press. He hadn’t seen you in the lobby, but he swore he caught a glimpse of your race boots peeking out of a gym bag yesterday when he passed the elevators.

He didn’t linger.

He wasn’t a creep.

Now it was Thursday morning. Media Day.

And Oscar was inside the paddock again, only this time not as just another photographer. This time, his McLaren guest badge caught the sunlight like a VIP pass to a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

Every step closer to the McLaren garage made his stomach twist tighter. He couldn't help but let the nerves get to him, be had been personally invited by someone he idolized for decades. He was nervously biting on his lip as he looked around like a lost child.

And then he saw you.

And all thoughts stopped.

You were walking through the paddock like you owned it, chatting beside someone in McLaren gear holding a clipboard. Your outfit was simple yet so you.

You wore a vintage papaya graphic tee, which he found cheeky and your jeans were that perfect mid-wash, straight-leg kind that fell just right over your burnt orange Gazelles.

Hair done. Nails done. Sunglasses sitting on your nose and your jewelry shining against your skin each time the Australian sun decided to shine on you.

Oscar already started to move his hands around his camera in attempts to get a candid shot of you speaking with whoever that was.

And then—

You spotted him.

He barely lifted his camera to his chest before you stopped dead in your tracks.

Your entire face lit up.

“OSCAR?!”

You were already jogging over, a grin stretched wide across your face like you were the one starstruck.

“Oh my god! You’re here!” You gasped, wide-eyed and glowing. “I didn’t think the passes would get to you in time!”

Oscar opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Because this felt unreal.

Because you remembered.

Because you cared.

“I...yeah...I got them.” He said breathlessly, laughing a little. “Tuesday afternoon. I practically screamed.”

You reached for his hand like it was instinct, tugging him a little closer into the shade of the McLaren hospitality unit. “I seriously was about to text someone like ‘if Oscar Piastri doesn’t show up today I’m throwing a fit.’ I’ve been checking every time someone came in—”

“You were…looking for me?” He asked, still stunned.

You looked at him like he was being ridiculous. “Obviously. I invited you.”

And God, you were close.

Oscar could smell your perfume—soft and clean. He could see the tiny smudge of eyeliner beneath your sunglasses. The flash of a smile that said I’m glad you’re here. The way you kept holding onto his sleeve like if you let go, he’d vanish.

“C’mon,” you said. “You’re not staying out here all day, are you? You’re coming with me.”

He blinked. “With you? Like...now?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do have a camera, don’t you?”

He nodded, stunned.

“Then yeah." You grinned. “Come on, you're not my special guest for no reason. I’ve got press rounds to do and so many mini challenges with Lan and I need someone to make me look good.”

Oscar followed, limbs weak and heart doing laps in his chest.

Your special guest.

He was your special guest.

He didn’t know what he expected from Media Day but it wasn’t this.

He did not expect you to react as if he were an old friend you hadn't seen in years.

He did not expect you to tug him into your space, dragging him through the paddock with his head spinning and your laugh dancing in his ears.

And still, somehow, it felt exactly right.

[messysketchyobeyme]

Something hit the back of Satan's head. He snapped his head back and saw a paper airplane flutter to the floor. He was ready to scold Asmodeus for passing notes in class, again, until he saw your face a couple of rows away. Although the way your eyebrows scrunched together in concentration suggested that you were diligently taking notes, the fact that you kept sending glances his way every few seconds tore your ruse to shreds.

You were still relatively new to the Devildom, having only just freed Belphegor from the attic a few weeks prior. Despite having a pact together, you were such an enigma to him. Why pass notes in class when the two of you lived in the same house? What would be so urgent that you couldn't bear to wait an hour to speak in between classes?

Satan picked up the airplane from the dusty floor and unfolded it on his desk. One word was hastily scribbled in the corner.

Hi.

He rolled his eyes. Were you a child? Satan wrote a note of his own. Why are you writing notes in class?

Satan folded the notebook paper into a crisp square and turned to face the demon behind him. He raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head toward you. You were grinning at him in the most conspicuous way possible, but Satan chose to ignore that. The demon followed his line of sight before scoffing and taking his note.

Satan turned back around, not bothering to see if the paper had made it back to you. He didn't need to, considering how, after a few minutes, your note—now folded back into an airplane—fluttered toward him. He grabbed it mid-air. He was glad that the professor was too busy writing on the chalkboard to notice anything going on.

After unfurling the page, he noticed that you had basically written a paragraph this time.

Because it's fun! We do it all the time in the human world. Ask Levi. He would know. Besides, I am SO bored. I would rather listen to another one of Lucifer's lectures than hear a word about how the Devildom used to be a forest or whatever.

P.S. Sorry about hitting your head earlier. That was an accident.

Satan flicked the corner of the page. While he was glad you had apologized, you didn't need to. Satan wasn't upset at you. You probably saw him scowling when he first turned around, but that wasn't directed at you.

I know it was an accident. You don't have to apologize, but you do have to pay attention. We have an exam next week.

He refolded the piece of paper and handed it over his shoulder without turning around. The demon grumbled under her breath, but she took his note, anyway.

In less than a minute, the paper was back on his desk.

Can't. Someone's distracting me.

Despite himself, heat crawled up Satan's neck and sprawled across his cheeks. He squeezed his pen in his fist. What was wrong with him? Satan wasn't the type of person to blush so easily, especially not at a few words messily written in the margins of a page ripped straight from your notebook.

It was nothing. This was nothing! Satan didn't even know whether you were talking about him. You could have been referring to some demon who was smacking their gum or something.

He tried repeating these words to himself, but that did nothing to stop the way his heart had ever so slightly sped up in his chest.

Satan spun around in his seat to face you. You were resting your cheek against the palm of your hand, not even bothering to hide your blatant staring. You were unabashedly waiting for his response. Satan understood your little game, now.

I have a private study room booked after class. Come find me.

He folded the note and handed it back to you.

[juiceboix]

havent had time to make art in a long while but i still like these metro drawings from a few months ago soooo

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The soft melody from his expensive royal-looking piano had drawn you in. Xavier was elsewhere in the living room, probably asleep. You couldn’t resist pressing a few keys, trying to recreate the tune he’d played yesterday. As you leaned over to reach a higher note, your sleeve caught on several keys, and with a sickening crack, they snapped loose.

Your hands flew to your mouth. Three keys hung at awkward angles, completely broken from their moorings. The room suddenly felt too small, your heart pounding as tears welled in your eyes.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him in the doorway. His eyes widened slightly at your tears.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I was just—I didn’t mean to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence as your voice cracked.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He walk towards you, then knelt beside you, hands gentle as he took the broken piano keys from your trembling fingers.

“The piano...” you managed. “I broke it... I’ll pay for repairs, I promise...” you stammered, wiping at your eyes.

Xavier glanced at the damaged instrument, then back to you. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he sat beside you.

“It was an accident,” he said simply, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his warm palm cupping your face. His touch lingered there, gentle and reassuring.

“But it’s your piano,” you insisted.

“The keys were already weak,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s already old, and I’ve been meaning to replace it.”

When you still looked uncertain, he added, “I don’t want you to be upset. Things break, and it’s okay.”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact yet somehow gentle—made you feel like the broken piano truly was insignificant to him. In Xavier’s quiet, straightforward way, he’d made it clear that your distress concerned him far more than any damaged items.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The hospital had called Zayne in for emergency surgeries three nights in a row. When you woke up early on his rare day off and found him already at his desk in the home office, surrounded by patient reports, you decided breakfast was in order.

You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing a tray with coffee and toast, just as Zayne reached for a folder. Your foot caught on the edge of his rug, and before you could regain balance, hot coffee splashed across his desk—directly onto the stack of patient reports he’d brought home. Dark liquid seeped into what looked like hours of meticulous work.

“I’m so sorry!” Your voice pitched higher with panic, ignoring the stinging pain on your palms. “Zayne, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Your hands shook as you tried to salvage the papers, only smearing them further.

Zayne stood immediately, his chair rolling back. The stern lines of his face were there, but not directed at you.

“Stop,” he said firmly, holding your hands away, and taking the tray from your shaking hands and setting it aside before you dropped it too. “Leave the papers.”

Tears welled up despite your efforts. “Your reports, all your work... I just—I just ruined your day off... I’m really sorry…”

Zayne set the papers aside and surprised you by taking your warm hands in his, turning them over to examine your skin.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, his voice soft.

You shook your head.

“Good.” He guided you to sit in his chair. “These are just copies. I can print them again.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of affection that contrasted with his authoritative tone. “I keep digital backups of everything, so don’t worry. And don’t feel bad about an accident you couldn’t control.”

He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, then reached for his phone.

“The reports can wait. Let’s order some breakfast, and I’ll get us something to heal your palms.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Rafayel’s studio windows, casting a golden glow across his workspace. You’d come to surprise him with lunch since he often forgot to eat when absorbed in his art.

As you walked between tables covered with half-finished projects, your bag caught on something. You turned to see a delicate sculpture teetering on its pedestal—a twisted form of glass and clay that Rafayel had spent weeks perfecting. Your heart stopped as it fell, shattering against the floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.

“Oh…! No, no, no,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. Your fingers trembled as you tried to gather the larger pieces, tears blurring your vision.

“What happened? I heard—” Rafayel’s voice cut off as he entered the studio. You looked up, seeing his expression shift as he took in the scene.

“Rafayel, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke as you continued frantically collecting shards. “I can find someone who can repair it, or—”

“Hey, hey, stop!” He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside you. “Leave it. You’ll cut yourself.”

When you continued reaching for a particularly sharp piece, he gently captured your hands.

“Your art…” you said, tears now falling freely. “I broke it...”

“It’s just clay and glass,” he said, pulling you away from the broken pieces and into his arms. “I can make another whenever I want.”

“But this one was special—”

“Not as special as you are to me.” Rafayel’s arms tightened around you as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re going to hurt yourself on these pieces,” he whispered. He rocked you gently until your breathing steadied, then pulled back to wipe your tears with his thumb.

“Besides,” he added casually, “now I have an excuse to try that new technique I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wanting to replace that one with something new anyway. Do you wanna see, cutie?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The wind through your hair, the purr of the engine between your legs—there was nothing like late-night rides on Sylus’s custom motorcycle. He’d let you borrow it occasionally, knowing how much you loved the freedom it gave you.

The evening ride had been your idea. “Just around the perimeter,” you’d suggested, and Sylus had agreed because honestly—what wouldn’t he do for you?

You didn’t see the oil slick until the bike suddenly skidded, then tumbled, throwing you clear but scraping across the pavement with a horrible screech of metal on asphalt. Pain shot through your arm as you landed hard.

He swore he’d never been so scared before. He just ditched his motorcycle and was at your side in an instant, his typically composed face taut with an emotion you rarely saw—fear.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kneeling beside you, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you. “Where does it hurt?”

“The motorcycle—” you managed, tears forming as you looked at the mangled vehicle. Half the custom bodywork was destroyed, the handlebars twisted beyond recognition. “I’m so sorry—I’ll pay—I’ll—”

“Forget the motorcycle,” he snapped, voice sharp but hands gentle as they examined your scraped arm. He was mad at himself for letting the situation even happen.

You’d never seen him this shaken—Sylus, who always had a plan, who always remained calm and controlled.

“I shouldn’t have—” he cut himself off with a sigh before carefully helping you sit up. His fingers brushed your face, wiping away tears and examining you for injuries with tenderness. “I’m just glad the feisty kitten is all okay.” Sylus’s expression shifted to relief, though concern still lined his eyes.

“I’m sorry it got wrecked…” you whispered again.

“I have others,” he said dismissively. “Stop thinking about it.”

When he helped you to your feet, he kept his arm firmly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The destroyed motorcycle lay forgotten on the road behind you as he carried you away to his own.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The storage room in Caleb’s work room was cluttered with mementos from his piloting days. You were searching for an old photo album when your elbow knocked against something on a high shelf.

You turned just in time to see the model spacecraft—the intricate replica of Caleb’s first fighter that you’d given him last year—tumble and crash onto the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere, the delicate wings and engines breaking apart on impact.

Panic seized your chest as you dropped to your knees. Caleb had spent two days putting it together; you remembered how his face lit up with boyish excitement when you’d presented it to him. Now it lay in ruins.

Frantically, you gathered pieces, trying to fit them back together, but your shaking hands only made things worse. You were so focused on your desperate repair attempt that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Hey, what are you doing in—” Caleb’s voice cut off abruptly.

You looked up to see him staring at the broken model, he looked surprised but his gaze softened when your eyes met, and tears welled in yours as you held broken pieces in your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could say more, he was on the floor beside you, pulling you on his lap, into a tight embrace. His arms were firm around you.

“Hey, hey, hey… it’s okay. It’s just a model,” he murmured against your hair, his voice steady and reassuring.

“But you worked so hard on it...”

He pulled back slightly, brushing tears from your face with a gentle thumb. His smile alone radiates comfort as he looks at you.

“Then we’ll build a new one together,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I bet we can make this one even better.” He looked down at the pieces scattered around you both. “Maybe add some modifications here and there, what do you think?”

His warm laughter finally broke through your guilt, and he held you close as if the broken model was the furthest thing from his mind.

Based on this request.

[mallory524]

going out

bob x reader

pictures from pinterest

summary- You and Bob finally spend some time together one morning, but you find yourself rushing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.

word count- 1,691

tags- THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, pining, just a little language, hand holding, stranger being rude to bob :(

notes- the thunderbolts live in the watchtower (previously the avengers towers) because that’s what the post credit scene made it seem like and if I’m wrong I don’t care because I love the idea of them all being roomies :)

Although things hadn’t gone as expected, they are plenty of perks that come with being the New Avengers. The group hangs out together in the Watchtower all the time, none of you have to hide in the shadows anymore, and all the other accompanying “hero” perks. Helping the city by reversing the Void damage thrust the Thunderbolts into the spotlight, which typically just meant being waved to on the streets, and a lot of being told “your money’s no good here” with a big smile when you go out to eat.

Although the group fights a lot, there’s an unspoken understanding that you’re a real team now. More and more often the bickering is playful rather than actually malicious. At risk of sounding sentimental, real bonds are being made. Of course none of you would ever admit that out loud. Except maybe Alexei.

Bob’s enjoying his new life, too. Probably. You assume. He’s still a quiet guy, and sometimes he opts to stay in and read when you all go out for lunch or something. He’s still working through a lot, but everyone else is too, so you know to give him space. It’s clear to all of you that he’s slowly getting a bit more comfortable here with every passing day.

One cold morning, while everyone is sleeping in, you hear rustling and muttering in the other room. You throw on a robe and silently walk into the other room to investigate. Bob’s on the ground picking a bunch of papers up, and he whips his head around when he hears your footsteps.

“Sorry, I accidentally knocked all of Bucky’s things over. I’ve got it”, he says as you sit down next to him and help anyway. For a split second your fingers brush, but he pulls away, almost instinctively. You’d noticed that physical touch in general didn’t seem to bother him that much, but little soft moments like that make him nervous.

He’s gotten a bit of a handle on accidentally showing people memories they didn’t want to see, but maybe he’s nervous that he’d do it again without meaning to.

“Hey, have you had anything to eat yet?”, you say quietly, trying not to wake anyone else up. He shakes his head.

“Do you want to get something? There’s a coffee place I go to a lot. They have little pastries and stuff, too, if any of that sounds appetizing...”

He thinks about it for a second, and then smiles and nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside the coffee shop, it’s cozy and warm. You take off your large sweater, and your phone falls out of the pocket and onto the floor, and both you and Bob reach down for it at the same time. Your hands brush again and he nervously pulls away again. You lean in a little closer and speak quietly. “Bob if you’re worried about-”

“No no, I’m not- it’s not that. That’s under control. I’m just… it’s nothing”. He’s clearly having trouble expressing himself, and he doesn’t seem to want to, so you shake your head and smile politely.

“Hey man, don’t worry about it.” You get a smile in return, which is always nice to see. Bob has a nice smile. It’s so sweet and warm… you can’t deny it any longer. Bob is really cute.

He felt the same way about you, but he’s way too scared to tell you something like that. He’s already jittery enough every time your hands touch…

He really likes being around you. He’s just too shy to ask you to spend time with him, so he’s thrilled that you asked him.

You start to order your usual drink, and Bob gets in the line next to you. The girl taking your order remembers you from the last time you were there, so you talk to her for a little. She’s really sweet! The guy taking Bob’s order is not.

You go to the station with the straws and napkins, and you quietly watch Bob try to order. You realize you didn’t really ask him if he was ready to order, and now he’s at the front of this line trying to figure out what he wants. Bob’s starting to stammer a little and this barista guy is cutting him no slack.

“I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m going to get, I’m thinking…”

“Sounds like something you should’ve figured out before you got to the front of the line”, he says, scoffing a little.

“Yeah you’re right, it was just really fast and-” Bob looks down and shuffles his feet a bit.

“You know there’s people behind you.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m just… um…” Bob trails off, and you can tell that the idea of holding up the line and making all these people wait for him is only making this worse. He’s nervously laughing to try to keep it light, but you can also see him fiddling with the ends of his sleeves while squinting to read the small writing on the menu. You feel your heart break a little just watching him.

“Dude if you seriously can’t figure it out maybe you could get out of line”

Just as Bob is about to step away, you decide you’re not going to watch this anymore and you step up next to him.

“Hey do you know who the hell you’re talking to?”, you say in a hushed, almost professional tone with your arms crossed. “You’re talking to someone who helped save everyone here like a month ago.”

The guy’s eyes widen with realization. “I am so sorry, I forgot, you’re those guys. I was out of town but I saw you on the news-”

“Yeah that’s us. But that doesn’t even matter, you shouldn’t be treating any of your customers like this. Do you do this to everyone? Does your manager know that? Sorry not everyone can read that crazy small print on your menu-”

You continue for a little while, and Bob takes a tiny step backwards so he can be out of your way. This is a side to you that Bob hadn’t really seen. Sure, you bicker with Walker and Ava all the time, and he’s seen how well you can fight of course, (you even had to briefly fight him that one time), but in your everyday lives, you’re always so kind and patient with him. You’re nice to people who come up to you on the street and ask for a picture, and you’re nice to strangers who are rude to you, and you’re nice to the Thunderbolts most of the time, so it’s weird for Bob to see you actually go off on someone like that… and it’s all to defend him?? Strangely, it’s one of the sweetest things someone’s done for him in a while.

“- and you’re lucky I’m speaking quietly. I could be a whole lot louder and I could make a big scene but for your sake I’ll-” but you stop talking when you hear Bob clear his throat.

“I think I know what I want to order now”

“Go ahead”, you say with a little smile as you step out of the way. Bob tells his order to the terrified young man who keeps looking at you like he’s expecting you to lunge at him.

Another barista, who doesn’t realize what just happened, recognizes the two of you and walks up to let you know that it’s all on the house. It’s hard for you and Bob to keep from giggling just a little bit.

After you get your drinks and the muffin Bob ordered, you step back outside and start walking down the street together, enjoying your food and drinks.

“Thanks. You really didn’t have to do all that. I wasn’t ready, I should’ve been ready before I got up there.”

“No, no don’t worry about that. That’s my fault, I didn’t give you any time to read the menu and figure out what you wanted. Besides, that guy was just rude. That’ll teach him to mess with the New Avengers, am I right?” and Bob chuckles quietly.

“Yeah, I don’t really know if I deserve any credit for helping save everyone when I kinda caused all of that in the first place…”

“Hey, you know that’s not your fault”, you say in a softer tone. “You didn’t do any of that on purpose”

“Yeah I know.”

A car then loudly backfires, startling both of you. Bob stops walking and grabs your hand. When he sees that it’s fine and nothing’s wrong, he’s a little embarrassed.

“Sorry I didn’t…” Bob smiles at you awkwardly and trails off. He’s about to let go when you shake your head and gently squeeze his hand. “I’m always a bit jumpy, too, don’t worry about it.”

The two of you continue walking, and you notice that he’s not letting go of your hand, now that he knows you’re fine with it. Maybe he would’ve done that a while ago if he knew you wouldn’t mind…

You walk in very comfortable silence all the way back to the tower, refusing to let go of one another’s hands. Bob feels like he can’t. Like if he let go it might never happen again. He does decide to break the silence, though.

“Y/n, I had a good time” he says as he takes another big sip of his iced coffee. “Thanks for asking me to go out with you. Well, not like go out with you but you know like, coffee and this walk and stuff”.

“Well thank you for joining me. We should do this more”, you say, smiling warmly at him. Just then, you reach the tower. Walker’s heading out, and Bucky’s right behind him. The two of you immediately let go of each other’s hands, but Walker looks at you both a little funny. “Hey guys…”

“Hey”, you say in unison, acting natural as you walk into the elevator and start to laugh a little once the doors close.

“No Bucky I swear they were holding hands. It was so weird”

“I think you’re seeing things, John”

[vunblr]

Plump & Ripe

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Some fluff. Slight Angst. A Pinch of Body Insecurity. Size kink. Use of pet names.

Summary: On a routine visit to the fruit shop, Bucky ends up with more than his usual goodies.

Word Count: 7.4k.

note: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "Plums". It was supposed to be a cute and fluffy fic, but it turned into pure filth instead. I'm sorry -not-

She looked up from the counter, and a welcoming smile instantly spread across her lips when she saw who had made the doorbell chime.

“You’re late. You’re lucky I set this bag aside when the distributor came this morning because they’re all sold out now.” She lifted a small paper bag from the shelf behind her, placing it on the counter between them. The deep violet of the plums peeked through the crinkled opening, and their smooth skins caught the golden light that filtered through the shop’s front windows.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, a little tense as his fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket. “Sorry. Something came up and... couldn’t make it earlier.” He mumbled.

That ‘something’ had been him forcing himself out of bed after three days of avoiding the world. Everything felt heavier these days, his body, his thoughts, even some goddamn things that weren’t so before. But he was here now, and that was better than nothing.

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “No worries. I know you’d never miss plum day on purpose.” She tried to tease warmly.

Right. One of the rare occasions he’d missed plum day was when he went on that stupid mission, the so-called ‘walk in the park’ that turned into a bloodbath of agents and ended with him being taken again by the same people who’d tormented him for nearly 80 years. Only this time, they didn’t just want their precious pet back, they wanted it better.

In five days of captivity, they not only just strapped him to a modernized version of that damned chair. Oh no, they’d injected him with a cocktail of drugs that messed up his body in ways he was still discovering, even a year later. Like his fucked-up metabolism.

His eyes flicked to the bag, and his mouth twitched just slightly. “You know me too well on that aspect,” he muttered, reaching out to grab the bag.

She watched him carefully. “Do you need anything else?”

He hesitated, shifting his gaze to the baskets of apples lined up near the wall. “Yeah… green apples.”

She nodded, moving around the counter to grab a paper bag. As she started picking the crisp, bright green apples, she spoke over her shoulder. “I got a new kind in this week. They’re a mix of green and red, still sour but with a sweet twist. Figured you might like them, so I’m throwing one in for you to try.” She dropped a smaller, two-toned apple into the bag, the colors blending in a swirl of muted red and pale green. “No charge.”

His lips quirked, just for a moment, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him in weeks. “Thanks.” He said gruffly.

She twisted the top of the bag, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter beside the plums. But she didn’t step back, and her fingers lingered on the edge as if debating something. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, worrying the skin.

Always perceptive, Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

Her head jerked up, eyes widening. “Huh?”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to say something or not.” He crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “Tell me.”

She huffed a laugh, embarrassed. “It’s... not very appropriate.”

One eyebrow shot up. “I’ve heard worse.”

She bit her lip again before glancing toward the back room. “I was just wondering if you could help me with a couple of crates. The distributor was in a hurry, and he just tossed the merchandise back there. It’s kind of a mess... hard to move around.” She gave a half-shrug, sheepish. I’d do it myself, but they’re actually pretty heavy.”

He followed her gaze, and his expression softened. “That all?”

“Well... yeah,” she admitted, heat creeping up her neck. “You already helped with the shelves last week... and the cooler the week before. I just... I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage or something.”

His features softened even more, as he huffed, twitching his lips in a half-smile. “I wouldn’t help if I didn’t want to. Show the way.”

She gestured to the door behind the counter -the only door, really- and he shot her a look. She shrugged, grinning. “I know, I know. Real hard to find.”

He followed her through the doorway, ducking his head slightly as they entered the cramped back room. His steps faltered as his eyes took in the scene. Stacks of boxes and wooden crates were scattered haphazardly across the floor, some leaning precariously against each other. It was like the distributor had been in a damn race to get out of there.

His mouth pulled into a deep scowl. How the hell did that asshole expect her to move this on her own? Where were the manners nowadays? He grumbled under his breath, weaving between the clutter as he started rearranging the crates into a more orderly stack. He made sure to place the heavier boxes at the bottom, the lighter ones on top, within easy reach for her.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching as the chaos turned into something more manageable. “God, I’ll kidnap you and put you on my bedside table.”

His head snapped up, brows drawing together. “Uh?”

She blinked, a faint heat creeping up her neck. “Oh, it’s just... a saying we have. You know, to cherish something.” She waved a hand, brushing off her embarrassment. “Forget it. Thank you, really for always helping.”

He chuckled. “Pretty sure your poor bedside table can’t handle me anyway.” His tone was dry, self-deprecating, like he was almost daring her to argue.

But her brain had short-circuited somewhere around ‘bedside,’ and before she could think better of it, the words just tumbled out: “But my bed sure can.”

He froze, fingers clenching around the edge of a crate. For a second, he didn’t even breathe. “What?”

She cursed inwardly. Did she… did she actually say that aloud? Oh my god. She could feel her soul leaving her body, and her eyes darted down as her brain scrambled for something -anything- that could sound similar. She fumbled, words tripping over themselves. “I- I said... I wondered if... if you can open a can.”

Bucky blinked, his expression shifting from shock to confusion. “A can?”

She nodded furiously, feeling her face burn. “Yeah. A big one. I have... with peaches. And I don’t have an opener, so I thought maybe...” Her eyes flicked to his metal hand, then back to his face.

They stared at each other, the silence was thick and heavy. “You want me to open... a can of peaches.”

Her chin lifted defiantly, even as her face burned. “Yes. A big one.”

He looked at her, then tilted his head, and his lips twitched slightly. “That so?”

“Yup. I figured you’re more than capable and I... really wanted to try them.” Her voice was firmer now, though her face was still in flames.

Bucky watched her for another moment, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to figure her out. Finally, he huffed, low and almost amused. “Alright then. Bring it over.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to turn away from his piercing gaze. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, and her hands trembled as she rummaged through a cluttered shelf. Eventually, she found the can half-buried behind a jar of jam, with its bright label slightly faded. Two forks were grabbed from a drawer without much thought, and her fingers clenched around them as she tried to calm herself. When she turned back, Bucky was stacking the last of the boxes, his back to her.

Her eyes lingered on his body for a beat too long, and her mind flashed back to her stupid, impulsive words. But my bed sure can. She almost groaned out loud, the embarrassment creeping over her anew. She was never going to live this down.

Clearing her throat, she approached him, holding out the can. “Here. I... uh... figured we could share. Since you’re helping me out and all.”

He turned, and his gaze dropped to the can before lifting to meet hers. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held a glint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Peaches, huh?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. They should be good. Sweet. Soft, too... uh, juicy” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and her face burned all over again. God, why did she have to say it like that?

Bucky just stared at her for a second, flicking his eyes to her lips before his mouth twitched. “Alright.” His voice was a little rougher, a little lower. He took the can from her, popping a metal finger through the lid and curling it, crumpling the metal until it popped off.

He handed it back, licking his finger for a brief moment and she could swear she could have a stroke. “There you go. Good thing at least I’m good as a can opener.”

She furrowed her brow, and the playful glint in her eyes faded. “Don’t do that.”

His shoulders went rigid. What did he do to upset her? “Do what?”

“That,” she said, “Sell yourself short. That... self-deprecation thing you always pull.”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes drifted away from hers. “Just saying the truth.” Almost unconsciously, his gaze dropped to his midsection, to the slight curve that hadn’t been there before. To the proof that his body was failing him, that even with all the enhancements, he was broken.

“Bucky,” she said, with a softer tone but no less resolute. “You’re a damn Avenger. Half the days you come in here, you’re bruised and battered because you fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. You protect them. That’s incredible.” Her hand gestured to the neatly stacked crates behind him. “You’re kind... and good. Don’t diminish yourself.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual calm but hard expression. He wanted to deflect, to brush it off with a sarcastic remark. It was easier to joke than to acknowledge the weight of her words. But the way she looked at him, made the words stick in his throat. His fingers tightened around the can, and the metal creaked under his grip. “Yeah, well... sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. “Our own perceptions sometimes lie. Doesn’t make it less true.”

He stared at her, and his defenses faltered. The familiar cynicism was there, clawing at him, but her words were louder. His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always this stubborn?”

She crossed her arms, lifting her chin defiantly. “Only when someone I care about is being stupid.”

The air grew still. She seemed to realize what she’d said a second too late, eyes widening before she looked away. “I mean... you know... as a customer. And a... friend.”

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly as if he was trying to get a better read on her. “A friend to put on your nightstand.”

Her eyes snapped to his, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Sure.”

He leaned against the stacked crates, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw worked, like he was chewing over his next words. For a heartbeat, he thought about letting it slide, about keeping his mouth shut and pretending he hadn’t heard. But the thought of not knowing twisted his gut in a way that made him reckless. “Did you mean it?”

Her heart skipped, the peach suddenly feeling too heavy on her tongue. She forced herself to chew slowly, buying time. “What?”

“The... bed.” His gaze pierced in that way that made her feel stripped bare. “Did you mean it?”

Oh. So he had heard her.

Her mind raced, instincts screaming at her to laugh it off, to deflect with a joke or change the subject. But he just stood there, watching her, waiting. It was infuriating how still he could be, how his silence demanded more than words ever could. His eyes didn’t waver, his face was impassive, but there was something tight in his stance, something almost vulnerable in the way his fingers tapped once against his arm before he caught himself, stilling the movement.

She paused mid-chew, the peach now a lump in her throat. The hell with all. “What if I did?”

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did: his shoulders straightened, and his arms uncrossed just slightly. He took a step closer, and the room suddenly felt a lot smaller. “Then I’d say... you’d better be sure.”

She swallowed, heat blooming up her neck. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile as he closed the space between them. “I figured.”

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, like he was giving her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t move as his fingers brushed her cheek, rough callouses skimming her skin. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and she couldn’t help but lean into it, never breaking the eye contact.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, and his gaze softened as his fingers curled on the back of her neck. Her pulse quickened, and she could feel her heartbeats echoing in her ears, but she didn’t dare look away. Not when his eyes were so impossibly blue, locked on hers with a focus that stole her breath.

She parted her lips, in a silent invitation, while her hand found its way to his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his face so close she could feel his breath on her lips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes darkened, “Tell me to stop if this is not what you want.” he murmured, but his hand didn’t move.

She shook her head, tightening her fingers on his jacket. “Not a chance.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his lips crashed into hers, firm and demanding, as he fisted her hair and pulled her closer.

She responded instinctively, pressing her body into his as her hands slid up his chest, wrapping around his neck. He groaned against her mouth, circling his vibranium arm on her waist.

The world around her faded, the cluttered storeroom, the lingering scent of the peaches, everything disappeared until there was only him. His warmth, his strength, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger that made her knees weak.

She sighed, threading her fingers through his hair, and he responded by deepening the kiss. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, she ran a hand along his slightly rounded cheek, tracing its curve with her thumb with a tenderness that made something clench on his chest.

“You are so damn handsome.”

His gaze widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features before something else settled in. Cocky 40s Sergeant Barnes wouldn’t have agreed. In fact, he wouldn’t have dreamed of seeing himself like this, heavier, slower, tired.

He swallowed, as the weight of her words pressed against years of ingrained self-doubt. She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile. “I can see the gears turning inside your head, you know?” Her fingers lingered against his skin, warm and sure. “And, in a courageous and embarrassing -but it seems necessary-confession, I must say that I like this version of you. A lot.”

His body tensed beneath her touch. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t one of them. People -some- admired him for what he could do. No one ever said they liked him like this.

He searched her face, looking for doubt, for anything that suggested she was just saying it to make him feel better. His throat felt tight. “You don’t have to say that.”

Her brows furrowed, and her fingers pressed just slightly into his skin. “I told you earlier that I mean what I say. You’re a soft wall of muscle.” She bit her lip, as her eyes drifted over his shoulders, his chest, lingering just long enough to make his pulse quicken. “And I like big men, so...”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly at a loss. That... wasn’t what he expected. Not at all.

She felt the heat on her face but didn’t look away, just kept caressing his cheek. “In my eyes, you’re better than when I first knew you.”

His heart skipped, the words settling heavy and warm somewhere behind his ribs. “Better?” His voice was low, rough, like he was forcing the word out. “How?”

Her thumb traced his cheekbone, and she felt all the heat in her body rush to her face again. She looked away, sensing her bravado faltering. “God, you’re going to make me say it. This is so embarrassing.” She took a breath, meeting his gaze again. “Sexier, Bucky. You look better to me because I find your bigger body more than appealing. Manlier. Is that enough clarification for y-”

She didn’t get to finish. His mouth crashed again against hers, more heated and demanding than before, as his fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against his body.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his lips moving hungrily over hers, and she barely had time to gasp before his tongue slid past her lips, tasting, claiming. Her back hit the wall as his body crowded hers, and she didn’t care, didn’t want space, didn’t want air, didn’t want anything that wasn’t him.

His heart pounded in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. Her words echoed in his mind, looping over and over again. Sexier. Manlier. More than appealing.

A rush of masculine pride coursed his body, fierce and hot, like lightning in his veins. She wanted him like this, wanted him bigger, broader. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that, how deeply her praise soothed the bruised ego he hadn’t even admitted having.

She felt his growing erection pressing against her hip, and she gripped his shoulders, feeling him beneath. There was nothing soft about him, not in the way he kissed her, fierce and unrelenting, not in the way his body surrounded hers, hard and unyielding.

He tore his mouth from hers, with ragged breathing, eyes dark and wild as they bore into hers. “You like this?” His voice was rough, deeper than before, and his words dripped with hunger. “You like me like this?”

She swallowed, her pulse fluttering wildly. “Yes. God, yes.”

His lips curved into a grin, that old cocky sergeant slipping through the cracks of his armor. “Good,” he growled, as his mouth descended on hers again, sliding down his hand to grip her thigh with bruising force as he hitched her leg up around his waist, pressing himself against her. His mouth was at her ear, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sent shivers down her spine. “Because I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think about fucking you raw under this slutty green apron every damn time you hand me my plums.”

Her brain stuttered, eyes widening as she processed his words.

His hips rolled, grinding his hardon against her tummy, and she felt every inch of his cock, hard and wanting, and god, she couldn’t help it, she whined. A desperate, needy sound that escaped her throat before she could bite it back.

His eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide as his lips curled again into that smirk. “Always with a little extra product, always checking on me.” His teeth scraped her jaw, flicking out his tongue to taste her skin. “Thought you were just sweet, just nice. Turns out you were trying to fatten me up for yourself, huh?” His words were teasing, but his tone was rough and possessive.

He rocked his hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that had her gasping, her fingers digging into his shoulders as heat coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

“Bucky-” Her voice was a breathless plea, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to find words, tried to get a grip on herself, but his mouth was on her neck, sucking a hot, wet mark just above her collarbone, and she was gone, utterly, completely gone.

“You like that, huh?” His teeth grazed her skin again, his metal fingers tightening on her thigh, holding her in place as he ground against her. “Like knowing you drive me crazy? That every time I leave, all I can think about is coming back here, bending you over that counter, and fuck you right there, maybe squishing a fucking orange just to watch the juice dripping down your ass?”

Another whine slipped out, her body arching into his as her hips rolled instinctively to meet his. His words wrapped around her, filthy and raw, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel.

His lips trailed up to her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “So tell me, sweetheart... how long have you been thinking about me ruining you right here in your little shop?”

“If... if we’re about to speak on hard numbers...” She tried to tease, but the words came out ragged, crumbling under the hard suck he planted just behind her ear. Her body shuddered, another whimper escaping before she could stop it. “I’d say... the first time you came here. You’d just moved in and didn’t... didn’t even have pans to cook. Remember?”

His mouth paused on her skin, lips curved against her neck. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Came looking for fruit and you ended up selling me that tray of already cut vegetables to make soup. Lent me that steel jar to boil ’em in.” His tongue flicked over the mark he’d made, soothing the sting before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “I thought you were too damn trusting. What if I didn’t come back?”

She let out a breathless laugh, curling her fingers on his biceps. “I saw your hand. You forgot the gloves that day... and I figured... the Winter Soldier wouldn’t steal a steel jar.” Her lips twitched, and a spark of mischief lit her eyes. “If you did, well, the loss was on me. But if you didn’t...” She trailed off.

His eyes darkened, and his grip tightened on her thigh as he pressed her harder against the wall. “If I didn’t?”

She swallowed, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs. “Then... I would have set some points with a handsome man.”

“Sneaky,” he muttered, brushing her lips, a teasing, fleeting touch. “You were setting a trap for me from the start.”

Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to earn her another low, hungry sound from him. “Can you blame me?” she whispered, her lips barely an inch from his. “You were brooding and grumpy... and so damn gorgeous.”

His eyes flashed with something wild and primal sparking in them. “And now?” His voice was low and dangerous, his metal fingers flexing on her thigh, holding her in place. “Now that you’ve got me? This bigger, grumpier version?”

She didn’t hesitate, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “Now?” She leaned in, grazing his bottom lip with her teeth before she pulled back. “I’d say It was a pretty good investment.”

His lips were into hers again, swallowing her gasp as his body pressed into hers, heavy and hard and perfect. He kissed her hard, his mouth rough and hungry while rocking his hips against hers, and she moaned, digging her nails into his scalp as she arched into him. He tore his mouth away, with ragged breathing, his eyes pinning her in place as they locked with hers. “Last chance, sugarplum” His voice felt vulnerable beneath the heat. “You want this?”

She held his gaze and pressed herself against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest enticingly. "I want you to ruin me, papa bear"

He froze. Every muscle in his body went taut. His eyes widened, and his pupils blew wide as her words penetrated his fogged brain. “...What did you just call me?”

Her heart plummeted. Oh god. Why? Why did she have to let that slip out now, of all times? She could feel her face heating up, a wave of mortification crashing over her. “Um... uh...” She looked away, curling her fingers nervously into his shoulders. “Too soon?”

For a heartbeat, he was silent, his jaw tight and his chest heaving as he processed it. But then a low, guttural sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a growl. His head dropped to her shoulder, pressing his forehead into her as his body shuddered against hers. “Fuck,”

She let out a shaky breath, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could feel it. “S-sorry. I don’t... I don’t even know where that came from, I-”

He lifted his head, eyes dark, pupils blown. “Don’t.” His voice was rough, firm. “Don’t take it back.”

Her mouth went dry, and her body arched instinctively into him as his grip on her tightened. “You- uh... liked it?”

His lips curled into a feral grin, grazing her earlobe with his teeth before he growled, “You have no idea.” His nose brushed her cheek, his lips a breath away from hers. “Say it again.”

Her heart skipped a beat, face flaming. “I-” She hesitated, but the way his body trembled, the raw need in his eyes, the way he was holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish... it shattered any scruple she had. She leaned in, brushing his lips with hers as she whispered, “Ruin me, Papa Bear.”

He swore under his breath, crashing his mouth into hers again with bruising force. His hands gripped her tighter, possessive, desperate, and she moaned, opening up to him, letting him in. His tongue swept over hers, hungry and demanding, and she melted, her body molding to his as he consumed her.

He broke away just long enough to start tugging at her apron. “Take it off, or I’ll-”

The faint chime of the bell at the front door echoed through the storage room, hitting them like a bucket of cold water. Her eyes widened, and he stilled, with his fingers curled around the knot of her apron. The door to the storage room was wide open, and the front door? Neither of them had bothered to close it since none of this was supposed to happen.

His jaw clenched, and he lifted a finger, pointing at her with a look that could melt steel. “Don’t move.”

She barely had time to blink before he was striding out of the storage room, with his hair slightly mussed and crumpled clothing. He rounded the corner to find an elderly woman standing uncertainly by the counter, clutching her purse tightly in her hands.

His expression softened -just a bit- as he forced a strained smile. “It’s closed.”

The woman’s brows knitted together. “Oh, but I just wanted to-”

“Lemme accompany you out, yes?” He cut in, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “An emergency came up, and she’s... not here. I just stopped by to lock up.” His words were rushed, his body practically blocking the doorway.

“Oh, I see...” The woman glanced around, clearly confused but too polite to question him. “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, already guiding her toward the door, hovering his hand protectively behind her back as she shuffled out. The door shut with more force than necessary, as the chime echoed sharply in the now-empty store. He twisted the lock, and stood there for a moment, with a rigid back, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.

In a flash, he was back in the storage room, locking his eyes on her with a hunger that made her knees weak. He didn’t say a word as he closed the distance between them, and his fingers went immediately to the buttons of her blouse, his mouth trailing kisses over every newly exposed inch of skin.

He almost groaned when he saw her bra clasp at the front. “You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, before popping the clasp with an impatient flick of his fingers. The fabric fell away, and his mouth and hands were on her before he could think: Palms warm against her bare skin, squeezing just hard enough to make her arch into him, a breathy moan escaping her lips. He latched his mouth to the delicate skin just above her collarbone, swirling his tongue, teeth scraping, tasting the salt of her skin.

She was driving him insane. Every little sound, every shiver, every way her fingers gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

Her hands were just as eager, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. She hesitated for a heartbeat when her fingers grazed his belly, flicking her eyes up to his. But there was no discomfort there, only hunger. Her pupils were blown, her lips parted, her breathing ragged. Her fingers splayed over his stomach, and the warmth of her touch sank into his skin even through the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed her harder, deeper, pressing her back against the wall as his body settled heavily against hers, his bigger form pinning her in place. She gasped, hitching her leg around his waist again, pulling him closer, grinding, her hips against his, and he nearly lost it.

His lips trailed lower, over the swell of her breast, and his stubble grazed her sensitive skin as his tongue flicked over an already pert nipple. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there as her body arched beneath him, desperate, needing more. He was only too happy to oblige, closing his mouth around her, suckling greedily as his hand moved to the other, kneading, teasing.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was a broken whisper, as her nails dug into his shoulders and scalp, and her body writhed against his.

He dragged his mouth back up to hers, capturing her lips in another bruising kiss, slipping his hand beneath her skirt, teasing the edge of her panties. “Want papa bear to touch you, sugarplum?” he growled, rough and low, “Want me to prep you open nice and deep and then ruin this little pussy?”

His words made her shiver, and her whole body tensed at the need in his voice. She could barely breathe, could barely think, as her mind spun while his fingers danced along the delicate lace of her panties, teasing, taunting.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice trembling, her hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Yes, please.”

A low, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest, “That’s my good girl.” His fingers hooked under the fabric, dragging her panties down slowly, deliberately,  grazing his knuckles on the sensitive skin of her thighs. He wanted to savor this, to watch her come apart for him.

He lifted her easily, her back hitting the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. The feeling of her pussy against his stomach made him swear under his breath, his head dropping to her shoulder again as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control.

His metal fingers pressed her hips into the wall, to accompany his body, pinning her in place as his flesh hand slipped between her thighs. She was already soaked, and he groaned, feeling his cock throbbing painfully against his jeans. “So fucking wet for me... all that from just a little talk?”

Her head tipped back, hitting the wall, lips parting in a breathless gasp as his fingers found her clit, circling lazily, teasing only to dip them lower, slipping them inside her, stretching her, pressing his thumb down on her clit.

He watched her face as he started to move his hand, pumping slowly, deliberately, curling just enough to make her shudder. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as her hips rocked against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Such a greedy pussy, taking everything I give you.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “You’re mine now.”

Her body clenched around his fingers, a whimper escaping her lips, and her nails dug into his shoulders as she held on, tightening her muscles as he pushed her closer to the edge.

“Gonna come for me, sugarplum?” His fingers started to move faster, harder, while his thumb circled her clit mercilessly. “Gonna fall apart on my fingers before I even get to ruin you properly?”

Her whole body tensed and her head snapped forward, pressing her forehead into his as she shattered with a force that stole her breath.

“That’s it... that’s my girl,” he whispered, slowing his fingers, easing her down from the high, brushing his lips against hers in a surprisingly tender kiss.

He adjusted his grip on her body, grinding his clothed erection against her, letting her feel how hard he was, how ready. “And now, I gonna give you what you wanted,” he growled.

He slid his fingers out of her and fumbled with the zipper of his pants "look at the mess you did here, all this cream on my zipper." she just moaned and grind herself against the back of his hand, thrilled by being pinned to the wall by his weight alone and his vibranium hand on her asscheek.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was breathy, broken, and her body trembled as his metal hand squeezed her ass, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

He hummed, while his fingers continued to play with the wetness she’d left on his pants, dragging her up his length, letting her feel every ridge, every pulse under his denim. “You’re so needy for me, sugarplum,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “So wet, so… ready.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, her mind was blank with need as he finally spread his thick thighs squatting a little, and sat her on them, tugging down his zipper, and freeing his heavy, leaking cock. He wrapped his hand around himself, and his eyes never left hers as he stroked once, spreading her slickness all over his length. “You see this?” he growled. “This is what you do to me.”

She bit her lip, her eyes locked down, watching him slowly pump himself, zeroed on the pornographic sight of his cock glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Seeing his heated gaze he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You made this mess... now you’re gonna take responsibility for it”. It was all the warning he did before hooking the back of her knees on his forearms, and pressing his hands on the wall, surging forward, burying the fat head of his cock in her entrance, pushing himself inside her in one slow, stretching thrust.

Her mouth fell open, and a choked moan escaped her lips as he filled her, inch by agonizing inch. Her back arched against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase on his arms, nails digging in as her body stretched to accommodate him.

He was relentless, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every shudder as he sank into her, slow and merciless. “You feel that?” His voice was a rough whisper, his breath hot against her ear.

She could only nod, as he pressed his hips in even deeper, against hers, burying his cock to the hilt. “Bucky... oh God...” Her legs trembled, thighs spread wide over his forearms, helpless to do anything but take everything he gave her.

He groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder, grazing her skin with his teeth as he fought to keep himself in check, to keep from losing himself in the incredible heat of her body. “Fuck... you feel so damn good... driving me crazy, sugarplum.” His words were rough, and breathless, his control slipping with every second he stayed buried inside her.

Her walls quivered around him, tightening instinctively, pulling him in, holding him close. “Bucky... move... please...” she pleaded, trying to roll her hips to create some friction, to ease the maddening stretch.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. His fingers almost dug into the bricks, and he began to move in slow, heavy thrusts that made her whole body rock against the wall. Each time he withdrew, she felt the loss, felt the emptiness, and each time he filled her again, her world shattered a little more as she felt his cock stretching her, filling her, owning her. “Oh God...”

He could feel himself losing control, as his thrusts grew harder and faster, pinning her like a ragdoll against the wall, relishing the needy moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

A hand flew to his head tugging his locks as he wrecked her.  “Fuck Papa Bear… you feel so good, so heavy, so… fucking… big, you turn me on so much.” 

Her praise wrapped around him, squeezing him just as tight as her body did, and his head spun with primal satisfaction. He groaned, as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside her flooding her with precum, and growing even harder inside her. “Yeah? You like this thick Bear covering you, pinning you, breeding you full?”

Her head thudded back against the wall, as she tried to tighten her legs against his forearms, to arch her body to join his thrusts, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Yes, yes, god, yes... love feeling you like this, love how big you are...”

“Fuck, sugar” his bruised ego drank her words like a man dying of thirst. Each confession went straight to his cock. He could feel her body yielding to him, taking everything he gave, and it made him lose his rhythm, made him rut into her like an animal, making her back slide up and down the wall with every hard thrust.

He lifted his arms to spread her wide to take him deeper. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, and he couldn’t get enough of it. “You’re mine now, sugar plum. Fuck, ‘m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never look at another man again... gonna make sure you remember this every time you close your eyes.”

She whimpered as he buried his face in her neck, nipping her sensitive skin. “Bucky... Papa... please... don’t stop...” she pleaded, curling her fingers into his hair.

His mouth curved into a half smile against her throat. “Not planning to, sugarplum.” He rolled his hips, grinding deep, making her back arch and her legs quiver. “Not until you’re dripping with me... not until you’re so full of my cum you can’t stand.”

Her body convulsed, one hand remained fisting his hair and the other dragged her nails on his broad back, “Fuck! Yes, I want it so bad...”

He lost whatever thread of control he had left. His thrusts grew brutal, punishing as his cock stretched her, pounding into her with a force that bordered on savage. He watched her face contort with pleasure, as the base of his cock ground deliciously against her swollen clit. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her eyes rolled back as he drove into her, harder, faster. “You’re gonna take it all... every drop... you understand?”

She could only nod, her words were lost to the raw, consuming pleasure.

He was so close, muscles tensed to the point of aching, his breath ragged as his cock throbbed, his balls tightened, ready to spill. But he held on, watching her, waiting, needing to see her fall apart first.

“Come on, doll... give it to me... come all over my cock... let me feel it...” he growled, as his wide shoulders caged her in. “Bet you’ve never been this full before. Never had someone this big ruin you like this.”

Her nails raked down his back, desperate, her eyes rolling back as she tried to meet his rhythm but was utterly at his mercy. “F-Fuck, Bucky... so... so big...”

“That’s right,” he rasped, a savage grin flashing across his face. “Too big for this pretty little pussy, huh?” he lifted her higher and marked every word with a harder thrust.

Her entire body seized up before she felt herself shatter, arching against his body and squeezing him, milking him so tight he finally let himself go.

“That’s it... make a mess... make a fucking mess for me, doll... fuck!” his cock jerked, pulsing, as his release came hot and violent, spilling thick ropes of cum inside her. He kept grinding his hips, pressing himself as deep as he could, stirring his load inside her until it was too much to contain. The excess bubbled out around his shaft obscenely, warm and sticky, dripping down her thighs and landing on the floor.

He nipped at her collarbone, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he gently withdrew them from the wall. He eased her thighs down just enough to let her hook them around his waist, and his eyes flicked to an old chair in the corner of the room. Without a word, he began to move with steady steps despite the lingering tremors in his muscles. As he walked them over, each stride pressed him deeper inside her, drawing soft whimpers from her swollen lips.

Reaching the chair, he sank down heavily, the wood creaking beneath their weight. She straddled him, still nesting him deep inside her pussy, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, tangling her fingers on his hair. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her pressed close, unwilling to break their connection just yet.

His head fell back against the chair, closing his eyes for a moment as he let himself breathe. “You feel... too damn good. Could stay like this all day...”

Her fingers started to brush his hair gently. “Then don’t move... Just stay. You made sure that no other clients visited today." She slightly pinched his stubbled full cheek. "And... is not fair you didn’t remove any of your clothes besides your jacket in all this ordeal."

He huffed out a low laugh, that rumbled against her chest. “Yeah? That bother you, sugarplum?” His hands slid up her back, splaying wide as he pressed her tighter against him. “You wanna see all of me?”

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “I think it’s only fair,” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I wanna see what I’ve been getting my hands on... what I’ve been wanting.” Her eyes dropped pointedly to his still-clothed body, darting her tongue out to wet her lips.

His eyes flicked away for a beat, and his shoulders tensed a little. There was a moment, a fleeting second where his hands stilled on her body, where his fingers dug just a little too hard into her waist. Old doubts echoed in his mind, flashing to his reflection in the mirror, the soft curve of his belly, the heft in his chest that wasn’t just only muscle.

But then she moved, running her hands up his chest, her eyes wide, pupils blown as she whispered. “I want to see you, Bucky.”

His heart thudded hard, but he felt himself relax, the tension ebbing away as he let out a slow, shaky breath. “Alright, sugarplum,” he murmured. “You asked for it.”

In one swift motion, he gripped the hem of his shirt, muscles flexing as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He forced himself to sit there, exposed, waiting for the flicker of judgment, for her gaze to catch on his soft middle, or the faint stretch marks on his hips.

But her eyes were wide with interest as she took him in. Her hands roamed over him, tracing her fingers on his skin, lingering on the scars, the old wounds. She palmed his chest, brushing her thumbs over his hardened nipples, and his muscles jumped under her touch.

“Better?” his voice rough, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched her explore him.

She bit her lip, as she kept worshipping him. “Better... but I’m not done yet.” She added as she trailed softly the scarred flesh where his prosthesis joined his body with her tongue.

His cock twitched with interest inside her, still hard, still nestled so deep. His hands gripped hard on her waist and his eyes narrowed. “You’re playing with fire, sugarplum.”

She smirked, rolling her hips slowly and deliberately. “Then burn me up, Papa Bear.”

Taglist: @civilbucky @blythesarchives

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

[vanteguccir]

OKAY BUT IMAGINE the very time you ever mention kids around either Matt or Chris. like the relationship is getting serious yknow, and you just casually mention ‘our kids are gonna be so cute’ or ‘do you think they’ll have your eyes or mine?’ like they would absolutely LOSE IT. they would get all gushy and instantly be like ‘we can make one right now’ or ‘we can practice for the future’

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOUR KIDS ARE GONNA BE CUTE * MATT STURNIOLO * BLURB

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N mentions her thoughts about their future children to Matt for the first time, and he absolutely lose it.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　Mentions of becoming parents.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The air smelled like warm vanilla from Y/N's candle burning on the coffee table, and the only sounds were the faint hum of a playlist Matt had thrown on shuffle and the occasional rustling of a blanket being adjusted.

Y/N and Matt were on the floor of the living room, a mess of art supplies spread out between them.

It had started as a joke when Matt pointed at his last drawing glued to the fridge, making some comment about never being able to color inside the lines as a kid, and Y/N had promptly pulled out one of those oversized coloring books meant for children, the ones with thick, black-outlined cartoons and pages that smelled like paper from an elementary school classroom.

So now, here they were, stomach-down on the living room floor, legs bent at the knees and swinging absentmindedly while Y/N concentrated on shading in a cartoonish giraffe. Matt was beside her, hunched over a page with his tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he attempted to color a macaw in different shades of blue.

"This is always so relaxing." Matt muttered, switching to a green crayon to shade the macaw wing. "Think' m'brain just shut off in the best way."

Y/N hummed in agreement, watching the way his fingers moved, slightly calloused from years of gripping drumsticks and gaming controllers, now delicately holding a crayon as if it were something precious.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Y/N sighed contently and let her head drop against her arm, admiring the half-colored giraffe in front of her.

"Our kids are gonna be so cute coloring together. Imagine them coming to us with a new drawing every day."

It was such a casual, passing comment, said with the same energy as commenting on the weather. But the moment the words left her lips, the entire room seemed to freeze.

Actually, no. Matt froze.

Like, completely.

His fingers went slack. The tiny crayon rolled off and disappeared somewhere into the carpet, but he didn’t even register it.

Our kids.

His heart did a backflip. Then another. Then it practically shot into orbit.

Y/N, still focused on her giraffe, didn’t notice the way that his posture went rigid, or how he turned his head to look at her as fast as humanly possible, blue eyes wide and blinking like she had just uttered the most beautiful words in the English language.

Our kids.

She said our kids.

Matt inhaled sharply, trying to calm the way his chest was suddenly tight with love.

"What?" His voice came out slightly choked.

Y/N glanced up at him, eyebrows raising slightly at his reaction.

"What?" She echoed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Did I- was that weird?"

Matt shook his head rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to form a sentence, but his brain had just blue-screened.

"No! No, no, no, it’s not weird, it’s just-" He exhaled sharply, then, out of nowhere, let out an actual whine, burying his face in his hands.

Y/N blinked.

"Matt?"

"I’m gonna lose my mind." He groaned dramatically, peeking at her through his fingers.

His milky skin was now flushed in a deep shade of pink, and his big eyes were so ridiculously, stupidly soft that it made Y/N’s heart stutter.

"You can’t just say that out of nowhere, baby. I was not prepared. I was having a normal, peaceful time, and then you just drop that on me?"

Y/N’s lips twitched in amusement.

"Drop what? That our kids are gonna be cute?"

Matt let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a strangled gasp, as if he physically could not handle the sheer concept of it. He shot up onto his knees, ignoring the slight pain coming from his ankle with the moviments and placing both hands on Y/N’s cheeks with sudden urgency.

"Say it again."

Y/N giggled, tilting her head.

"What, that our kids-"

"Angel, I swear to God, you’re gonna put me in an early grave." He looked like he was having a full existential crisis, running a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck as if trying to steady himself. "Can we make one right now? I'm fully prepared to be a dad, just realized it-"

Y/N burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"Matthew!"

"I’m being so serious." He insisted, grabbing Y/N’s hands and squeezing them like a man possessed. "You don’t understand, baby. I love kids. I’ve always loved kids. And then you’re here, coloring next to me, saying words like ‘our kids,’ and now I can't stop thinking of a mini mix of me and you coloring in our living room."

Y/N swore she felt her heart physically swell, tilting her head and observing his gentle expression.

"... Do you think they’ll have your eyes or mine? Because, personally, I think they’d look adorable with your eyes."

"Matt." She whispered, a little overwhelmed by how utterly, devastatingly in love with him she was in that moment.

His face softened even more, which Y/N hadn’t even thought was possible.

"I’m serious." He murmured, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You see a future with me like that? Do you really?"

Y/N nodded without hesitation.

"Of course, I do. The prettiest and most perfect future."

His expression melted into something so tender that it made Y/N’s chest ache. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath tickling her upper lip.

"Good." He whispered. "Because I think about that all the time. And now I’m never gonna stop thinking about it."

Y/N smiled, nudging her nose against his.

"So, we’re in agreement?"

Matt grinned, eyes twinkling.

"Our kids are gonna be very cute."

© vanteguccir

[inknopewetrust]

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 & 𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐬

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader [wc: 4.2k]

summary: aaron knows how much you love his hands.

warnings: this is filthy and I’m not sorry. Fingering (f), pure fucking smut, aaron definitely talks you through it and is here to please.

He’d put you in a trance one too many times before.

Just… watching the way he moved about. His hands distracted you from the corner of your eyes. Carefully turning and falling upon the pages of his file that laid in his lap above the sheets.

God. You couldn’t focus.

The words on the page before you were nothing but a blur as the veins took focus and the fantasy before unraveled in your mind.

It didn’t take much when a man like Aaron was so casually attractive. Glasses sitting on his nose, hair dried and loose on his head, a white tee worn relaxed around his chest.

And God… those hands. His fingers, the thumbs. What you would do in that moment under the cool lighting of the bedroom, in the heat of the comforter, and the plush of the pillow to have him trace the edges of your face with them. Paint a path along the lines brought by time and catch on the smooth curl of your lips, drawing a wave before wetting one, or two, so gently with the moisture of your mouth.

“Hey,” his voice broke your trance. “You alright?”

No. No, you weren’t fucking alright. Never in the time since you laid eyes on Aaron Hotchner have you been “alright.” He consumed you. He burned the bones of your body and sent the most inappropriate thoughts straight to your brain at a moments notice.

No. You weren’t fine. You were utterly entranced by him and for some celestial reason, you were lucky enough that Aaron felt the same about you. He just… contained it differently.

“Yeah,” you nodded and turned back to your book. “Fine.”

He hummed but continued on with his file. Marking notes in margins or looking down at a photograph for too long, Aaron always brought work home no matter the occasion. His job forced it but he made time. To sit up in bed and enjoy your company even in the silence, it was better than him not being there at all.

Yet your traveling thoughts had already convinced you it wasn’t enough that evening. You needed more. You needed him. And it was so hard to concentrate on the words you’d already forgotten about.

Who were these people? You thought. I’m four hundred pages in and I couldn’t tell anyone who the hell these characters were.

Because you weren’t alright. You were boiling. Adjusting your back against the headboard, your shifting unearthed the comforter and nudged his files enough for him to notice.

“You sure?”

“Mhm,” you responded.

But Aaron wasn’t stupid. You’d been sitting on that page, page four-hundred-and-sixty-two, for fifteen minutes.

The average person spent a range of one to two minutes per page in a typical novel. If he weighed the subject matter as fiction, he knew you could read equivalent to one but if it were for academics or your career, it would lean toward two. This was the former, a work of fiction. Pure fantasy that he knew you enjoyed on the regular even if something was amiss as he accepted your response and let you sit with it instead.

And maybe it was a bit cruel of him to not beckon to the unspoken call, but he could feel your eyes on him.

He needed to hear you say it.

Oh, fuck, you did really want to say it. His hands. Hands. They were there, on his body, like most people had, and they just gripped your heart so suddenly and never shook it away.

Your fingers flitted around the edges of the book as a shallow, barely there exhale escaped your body. You knew he heard it. He didn’t say anything.

So, he flipped to another page and this time. It went upwards instead of to the side and his right hand held the paper up, giving you a better view of the callousness they’d grown into over the years. Worn and tough; they could be what you needed at any time.

A protector, a comfort, a help, or a guide.

You wished badly to feel them upon your skin. Feel him cupping every piece of you or filling you completely as his breath fanned your face and his small, barely there smile encouraged you to relish in his touch.

“What’s the chapter about?” His voice mumbled from beside you.

You broke the stupor again. Eyes flicking down to the pages abruptly to search for an answer. Everything made sense but no sense at all. Who was who, what was what, you had no recollection of the last five hundred words. It caused you to slip the bookmark in and close the cover.

“I think I’m just too tired, I’m not sure.”

He grunted a non-reply. Smug. He knew. He had to of known. How could he not feel the need radiating from you? He couldn’t see the nervous gulp you swallowed.

“I’m going to go to bed. You don’t need to stop.” Moving to place your book on the bedside table, you waved a hand in his general direction and he caught it with his own.

Your head turned swiftly, eying your hand in his as he let his larger one overtake it. Aaron pulled the back of yours to his lips and placed a warm, soft kiss on it. Once, then twice. He didn’t pull it back but side-eyed you while you watched him.

“You know you can ask me anything, right?” His breath was hot on your hand. His lips grazed your smooth skin, feeling the pull of his mouth upwards.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I know.”

He kissed it again. “And if there was a problem, you’d tell me… yeah?”

“Of course I would.” You furrowed your brows at his suggestion. “Wha—“

“Then tell me what you want from me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A small, gasp of boldness on his behalf that sent the synapses firing every which way. His free hand removed his glasses from his face and set the case file soaring to the floor in a grand “plop” against the wood. Two lights on, his hand in yours, Aaron looked into your eyes and asked again.

“What do you want from me, sweetheart?”

The wiring short circuited. A part of you was baffled at the attentiveness of it. His words were always carefully chosen and spoken in a manner so firm and decisive and you could barely form words. But you glanced down at his hand in yours and he caught you.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

“I’m… distracted. I’m just…”

“Use your words.” He squeezed your hand as if to encourage you but it only made your ridiculous spiraling worse.

“Y-you distract me, that’s all it is. You’re very distracting. All of you.”

“Well you’ve got my attention so I’m glad to have yours,” he teased. His lips found your hand again before he held them to his chest. If you were of power, you could hear his heart beating for you so loudly.

“I don’t know if you realize how much of my attention you have, Aaron.”

His head rested against the backboard and he smiled.

“Why the hands?” He asked and your eyes wanted to break away from his stare.

“Are you profiling me in bed, Mr. Hotchner?” You deflected instead. “I thought you said you’d never do that to me.”

“There isn’t an ounce of profiling when you make it so obvious. You sat on that page for longer than it takes you to drink a cup of coffee and I caught you, twice, but you didn’t even notice.”

Your face was on fire and for what? He loved you, you loved him, and you were far from a puritan when it came to what he’d seen and done to you in that very bed.

Maybe it was the shameless way he felt emboldened then. Perhaps it was the rapidness of your want setting in that made your heart skip more than one beat.

“Then… yes,” you settled, “your hands distract me.”

Aaron nodded. One hand still intertwined with yours, he ran the other over your outstretched arm and back. Back and forth, back and forth to soothe the embarrassment he couldn’t fathom you truly felt about it.

“Do you want me to do something with my hands?”

“Aaron,” you sighed and looked away sheepishly.

“What?” He laughed faintly. “It’s just a question baby, don’t be embarrassed.”

“Oh God,” you nearly wailed instead and wiggled your hand away from him, back to you, switched off the light and in an instant, laid down onto your side away from him.

“Goodnight. I love you,” you finished.

He let out a breathless scoff and shuffled down into a lying position too. The light on his bedside table, however, remained on. As if protruding like spotlights, you could sense his eyes on your back. He said your name smoothly.

“Come on,” he nudged. “You can’t ignore me now.”

“I think I can.”

“What happened to goodnight?”

“It’s starting now,” you reset. “Goodnight.”

“I’m not tired and I don’t think you are either. Come on, turn around.”

You huffed, but not in anger. More in an, “I’m so pathetic in my emotions that it feels so awkward to vocalize what I want” way. It was a product of womanhood—the layered shame of saying or acting upon what you want. How it’s lewd or improper to be vocal in bed, or to be vocal about how you want your partner to please you.

Aaron had never made you feel ashamed for wanting things.

He set his boundaries, you set yours, and together you found a balance that kept you both happy and satisfied but there were still times that the old feeling of inept muteness riddled you.

You turned over onto your back anyway.

He was already on his side and waiting for you. The hair on his head gradually fell in the direction of the mattress as he quickly scanned over your face beneath the shadow of what he could see.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop profiling me?”

“I will once you start telling me what’s going on.”

Your eyes bounced around every bit of him that was exposed. His face, his neck, his shoulders, his arms, the hand you could see, his torso. Then you glanced around him and shook your head against the pillow.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s nothing!”

“Distraction is one thing but you’re on another planet.”

Turning again to look away from him, you stared at the ceiling as you settled into the bed on your back. He shuffled closer and you closed your eyes tightly as the feel of him hovering in your space overtook your senses.

“Sweetheart,” Aaron’s voice carried a length of warmth within words.

“It’s embarrassing,” you moaned dramatically. Your fingers covering your eyes and Aaron fought a smile at your distress. He pried them off your face, cupping your cheek gently with one of his hands.

The way he looked at you… how could you ever be embarrassed to say what you want? He knows how you love him, and he you. There is nothing you could say that would make him turn away or cast you aside. This was it. It’s the world he crafted and drew space for you within it beside him at the center.

You kissed his palm softly.

“I am here to bend at your will,” he sounded so poetic. Who knew Aaron had it in him? “And if you need me for something that you want, take it. Take it from me and let me provide.”

“Fine,” you huffed and forced the nerves to the back burner. “You know what I want?”

“What do you want?” He asked once more.

“I want you to touch me.” Aaron moved closer, head hovering above yours. “Make me feel something, Aaron, and I don’t want to think about anything else but you.”

He leaned in, nose bumping yours. “Yes ma’am.”

Aaron’s lips met yours slowly. A barely there touch of his lips to yours as he felt the waters around him. His hand cupped your face, while the other rested with a tight grip at the bottom of where your breast met your ribs. He gripped the fabric of your shirt as he titled your head to better angle you to him.

His mouth met yours again but this time madly. Determined to make you feel something more than just a peppering of love through his passing, but a permanent sting of his presence. You breathed through him; aching to his touch and melding to his body in urgency at his kiss. You returned it as ardently. Lips molding together like a puzzle.

You placed your hand atop his on your cheek. Tracing the raised veins and light pattering of hair that rested at the base along his wrist. He was so firm and adroit.

And you took delight in it. Shuddering to the point of your chest emitting a splutter, Aaron took your hand and guided it up the bed above your head. You opened up for him. His tongue slipping into your mouth with ease at your malleable lure. Both hands grabbed at you tightly, feeling bits of you from palm to chest.

The coarse hand on your chest wandered with knowledge beknownst to only him. A granted privilege of the passage of time and the trust you’ve given him. To explore and caress in curated touches that leveled you to the ground—Aaron being the one to raise you to the peak again.

He tracked his hand along your torso to feel you breathe. You’re here. You’re wanting him. It took in the fabric of your clothes and bunched them into his fist as the sensation of its removal marvel at the skin of your stomach. It fell into the underside, hidden by the clothes and traveled back up to your breasts that pebbled with anticipation.

Over your breast, his thumb glided over your nipple tenderly as his lips separated from yours. Your hot breaths colliding while a pleased look washed over his face. Aaron did it again, palming rougher at the flesh and took note of the way your shoulder rolled as you careened into him, legs knocking into his and hand straining against the one that held you to the mattress.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” He rumbled.

He let go of your hand. Designing a new path to the back of his head. You ran your hands along his arms, over his biceps and cradled his head into your hands. Your fingers carded through his short hair, fanning away the strays that laid loose on his forehead. He was so close, so warm in his caging of your body that all you could think of was him.

Him. Aaron. And nothing but him.

Your teeth caught on your lip as you smiled up at him softly. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Kiss me, Aaron.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. He leaned down once more and knew that his lips were sending you to euphoria. The fluttering of your chest seemed to burst. Your hands weaved into his short hair to feel every bit of him as he devoured you. A bolt of electricity shot through you; Aphrodite’s fountain exploding in rejoicing elation.

His lips were soft. Hungry, but careful with every tilt and turn of his head as the pressure of him above and holding you was pushing you into the mattress. Aaron’s tongue long breeched your lips and the teeth that protected against his most valued actions. And when he retreats, he’s rewarded with a pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, letting him linger in your space for a moment longer before separating again.

Aaron loved the feel of your body beneath his fingertips. The plush of your hips and sides and legs. Everything intoxicated him with an irresistible urge to have you any way, every way, until the end of time. His hand worked along your stomach, traveling low to the crux of where your leg perched under the covers.

“Are you gonna keep fondling me like a teenager or do something about it?” You broke the air with a content, yet pushing, sigh.

“You told me to touch you, then to kiss you.” Aaron’s nose traced the line of your jaw as you extended you neck with the recline of your head. “I need more than just a visual offering.”

He laid a whisper of a kiss on the column of your neck.

“You’ve gotta tell me.”

But you couldn’t find the right words because every time you thought them, they sounded… so…

“What if I just showed you myself?”

His eyes met yours curiously. “Yourself?”

You nodded, taking the hand on your stomach and bringing his fingertips to your lips. “I can lead you there. You just have to trust me that it’s what I want.”

As you spoke, the tips of his fingers caught on your bottom lip and pulled down lightly before it sprung back with a new sheen of saliva daubing it.

“Whatever you want.” And he meant it.

You guided his middle finger into your mouth without breaking eye contact. His pupils blown wide, you swirled your tongue around his digit before releasing it back out slowly. Then, you took his ring finger and did the same. Wetting two of his long, thick fingers to prime what was already going to be a welcome encounter.

You slipped his ring finger out of your mouth and directed his hand below the sheets. A man with lesser control would have forced them away, ripping them off the bed to watch his ministrations. Aaron didn’t. He watched your face. The pure, determined stare you kept with him as he breached your sleep shorts and the glaringly lack of panties that his fingertips brushed. You led him straight to you. Barely a gasp left your mouth at his feather touch gliding along the already slicked skin and feeling the most vulnerable parts. But he knew them as well as he knew himself. The gentle caress of skin, the glide of those two fingers casting the shape of your folds sent synapses firing greater than before.

You sucked in a shallowed inhale.

Aaron teased you. Rubbing those two damp fingers along the edges of your cunt at the slight twitch of your body. He saw the shaking breaths, the incline of your hips into his hand. With a growing pressure of four fingers, he dragged them slowly, in a elliptic motion once, twice, and a third for good measure. They gathered the growing wetness—realizing quickly there was no need for the lube in the bedside drawer—and used it to glide his thick fingers around a now-aching clit.

One of your hands folded tightly over the sheets and grasped it hard in your palm while the other latched onto his outstretched arm beside you. It was half holding him up, straining the muscles of his shoulders as he worked two fronts.

“Fuck,” your voice wavered at a wave of pleasure taking over.

“You want me to talk you through it?” He murmured.

“Yes please.”

His fingers slid down and back up. He watched you carefully, waging what he wanted to say and what he knew you wanted to hear. The two fingers that you had taken into your mouth worked low to open you up—a feathered touch at your entrance as his thumb stayed above, putting a consistent pressure on your clit.

“Jesus,” his voice was barely a whisper. It was a hymn only you could hear and meant only for you. “You’re so wet.”

You hummed two different octaves as he pushed his two fingers into your slick pussy. First knuckle deep, Aaron was tight even now. He pulled back and circled where he had just been to spread the wetness along your lips. He guided them in again, deeper than before.

“I know you think about this,” Aaron said. His thumb picked up in pace as his two fingers curled into the most plush spot.

Your back arched toward him. Legs threatening to close in, Aaron clicked his tongue and shook his head. Eyes baring every selfless emotion across his soul while he nearly cooed.

“No, no, no,” he repeated. “Gotta leave those open for me.”

“I know,” you groaned, nails digging into his forearm. You withered at his determined pace. Shoulders tensing and releasing when they hit just right.

“You think about my hands all the time,” Aaron continued on. “Staring at them when I grab my coffee, when I read in bed… you imagine them at work and in the way I hold my gun. You think about when they’d gather your hair as you suck my cock.”

“Well,” you could barely form a coherent sentence as the hormones went straight to your brain, “maybe stop making them look so fucking hot.”

“I’m just existing, baby… that’s all your mind’s doing.”

“Not when—oh,” you careened. He flattened his fingers and drove them deeper. Your toes curled at the feeling of his cock straining in his boxers against your leg.

“Shh,” he encouraged. “Let’s focus on you, hm? You’re doing so well.”

He continued to pulse his fingers in and out, in and out, and all you could think about is how lost you were in him. Utterly captivated by a man who kept himself so controlled and formal until the door was closed and the tie loosened.

“I think about you too,” he said. “How pretty your eyes are, and when you smile at me so tired but don’t care because you just want to sit with me. I think about how lucky I am.”

And your heart swelled just as much as the blood pumping and spiraling elsewhere.

“That you’re too good for me but let me do these things to you. You’re so beautiful like this.”

The hand that was clutching onto his forearm moved quickly to the edge of his tee on his bicep and tugged him down. Aaron could feel how close you were getting.

He could see it in your eyes. The clouded over enamored vision that peered back at his appreciative ones.

“I think about how you feel tight around my fingers,” he spoke on your lips. “God, you’re so tight.”

You whined. Aaron picked up his speed.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He rested his forehead against yours as you wrapped a loose arm around his shoulder. Aaron’s body pressed into yours sideways and his erection’s bulge begged for you to take more than just his fingers. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

“Aaron.” Desperate, you squeezed his shoulder.

“You’re holding out on me,” he profiled. “I can feel how badly you want to come, baby. I want to feel it too.”

You nodded and he left a single kiss at the edge of your mouth as he drove his fingers to the end of their own road. A blinding, body-stilling peak hit you like a ton of bricks. Cascading from the place where he remained, a firework exploded into a million colors and sent your the muscles in your body into overdrive. An instant overstimulation; Aaron rode the wave of your orgasm with you.

Face etched in a brilliant awe of what your body could give him without feeling the need of his own release to know it had been a job well done. His fingers brought you down. Slowly stroking out until you were empty of him and all that was left was his thumb on your clit.

Your finish on his fingers found home in the cotton of your pajama bottoms as Aaron’s hand re-emerged and pulled everything back into place.

You closed your eyes at him putting you back together. In minutes, he’d go get a washcloth from the bathroom and grab a new pair of bottoms for you to be comfortable in. Aaron would let you sit with yourself and take from him what comfort you needed to slow the rate of your heart. He’d ignore your incessant asking about going down on him in return because in truth, he may have felt it beneficial but he didn’t need it.

He wanted to please you. He wanted to give you something that you could imagine when he wasn’t there to provide.

So, he’d lay back down and shuffle under the covers before leaning over to turn off the light. His excitement would settle and then he’d turn over to hold you closely with an image of you content and happy replaying in his mind for safe keeping.

This was a version of you he loved. He loved them all, but when you could be honest with him and tell him what you wanted, even passively, Aaron knew that you trusted him—and my, was it all worth it.

a/n: i'm also needy b/c i'm a fanfic writer so... penny for your thoughts? or your likes? or your reblogs?

Ps. There’s a misspelled “too” somewhere and I can’t find it so forgive me.

[notlongtolove]

like a lover

he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t even look at you again. he just shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. by the time you follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answer to whatever’s boiling inside him. fine. If he wants to ice you out, two can play that game.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: hurt comfort

content: student!reader gets drunk after a brutal final and spencer is beyond mad. very brief mention of abduction. lowkey spencer is in the right bc #safety but he made reader cry n for that he is found #guilty!!!

word count: 3.1k

note: based off this ask! random fact the last line of this fic was the inspiration for empty my soul but idk why i just couldnt fit it in there, anyways i hope you guys like it! (pls tell me if u do i was struggling with a resolution for this)

a line: Spencer thinks, for a split second, that he’d rather die than ever have to see you cry like that again.

I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. - carol ann duffy

You probably should’ve stopped five drinks ago—maybe four if you were feeling merciful. That last Vodka cran? A spectacularly bad idea. But whatever. You earned this. You’re young, you’re fun, you look good, and for the first time in weeks, you have no deadlines clawing at you. The final had been a nightmare. You knew your fate was sealed the second you flipped to question three. What the hell is textual and symbolic environmentalisation? But it’s over now. That’s all that matters.

The wind bites at your bare legs as you stand by the curb, aimlessly kicking a pebble. You hug your arms close, fighting off the chill. Maybe you should’ve brought a jacket. Spencer had suggested it, but you’d waved him off. He’s usually right.

You frown, glancing up at the street sign. He said he’d be here. Right? Your phone’s dying battery blinks at you in its final moments, mocking you before shutting off completely. Definitely should’ve taken his offer of a portable charger, too. You sigh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

A man stumbles by, reeking of booze. You don’t need to look to know.

"Hey," he calls out, voice slurred and gravelly.

You keep your eyes down, pretending not to hear.

“Hey,” he says again, louder this time.

Where the hell is Spencer?

"D’you know when the bus starts running again?"

You hesitate, half-relieved that he’s asking something semi-coherent. "I—I’m sorry, I’m not sure."

He nods to himself, swaying on his feet. 

"I told you to wait by the bodega on 3rd," a familiar voice mutters. Spencer’s hand closes around your arm, already steering you away.

"Oh, hey," you say softly, relief washing over you. "Is this not—" You glance at the street sign overhead—4 Maple Drive. Shit. "I—sorry, I thought—"

"It’s fine," he says, but the sharp edge in his voice tells you it’s not.

The car ride is suffocatingly silent. When he pulls open the passenger door for you, there’s no trace of his usual warmth. No soft smile, no gentle tease about your perpetually dead phone. Just a click of the door and the quiet thud of it shutting behind you.

You hate this. Hate the tension humming between you, the way his jaw is set tight as he drives. He was so different this afternoon, greeting you after your final with those cupcakes he knows you love from the bakery on the other side of town, his lips brushing yours in endless, giddy kisses. This Spencer is nothing like that. 

"They played ‘Dancing Queen’ tonight," you venture, voice tentative. He knows it’s your favourite. Knows it always pulls you to the dance floor, no matter how tired or tipsy you are. "It was so funny—some guy bought us a round of shots—"

"And you drank it?"

The question lands heavy. His first words to you since he’d started driving. 

"Well... yeah?"

"What else did you drink?"

"Not a lot," you say quickly, tripping over your words. "Just vodka, tequila, a bit of wine—"

"You mixed?" 

The way he says it makes you bristle. There’s a hint of disbelief, maybe even disappointment. 

"Spence," you say softly. "I’m not that drunk, I promise."

Nothing.

His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. The silence in the air is almost tangible, a crackling, oppressive thing. When he pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, he doesn’t move to open your door. He always does that. But not tonight. 

You’re pretty sure he’s mad at you, though you’re not entirely sure why. It’s not like you go out that often, and you can’t even remember the last time you let yourself get this drunk. Tonight was an exception, a celebration. He understands, doesn’t he?

You follow him inside, trailing behind like a shadow. He doesn’t head to the kitchen like he does after you get back from a night out—no tea, no toast, no quiet ritual of making sure you’re okay. Instead, he walks straight into the study, his back to you. Yeah, he’s definitely mad. 

"You’re mad at me," you say, standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t answer. His hands grip the back of his chair, his head bowed like he’s trying to gather himself. You’re not one to push, usually giving him the space he needs when he gets all broody like this, but the alcohol that’s running through your system is making it hard to practice patience. 

"Why are you mad at me?"

Still nothing. 

When he finally moves, it’s only to brush past you, heading for the bedroom without so much as a glance. "We’ll talk about this tomorrow," he says, his tone flat, clipped. "I can’t talk to you when you’re like this."

This. The word hits like a slap, sharp and dismissive. It irks you. 

"If you didn’t want to come, then you shouldn’t have come," you mutter under your breath, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I could’ve gotten a ride—"

"You were slurring on the phone." He stops in the hallway, turning just enough for you to see the tight set of his jaw. 

"Yeah, no shit, Spencer. People slur when they drink," you fire back a little too harshly, the alcohol fueling your irritation as you cross your arms defensively.

"Don’t," he warns, his voice low, dangerous in a way that makes your chest tighten.

​​You glare at him, heat rising in your cheeks. "Don’t what? Don’t point out how ridiculous you’re being right now?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at you again. He just shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. By the time you follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answer to whatever’s boiling inside him. Fine. If he wants to ice you out, two can play that game.

You head to the bathroom without a word, your movements jerky as you swipe at the remnants of your makeup. You grab your moisturizer, fingers fumbling with the cap. A sharp tug and it goes flying out of your hands, clattering to the floor. 

"Fuck," you mutter, bracing yourself for a bout of instability as you bend down to retrieve it.

Before you can grab it, Spencer moves. He scoops it up, straightening with an ease that feels almost mocking. When you meet his eyes, they’re unfamiliar. It’s not the Spencer you know. Not the Spencer who covers your eyes during scary movies or kisses your forehead when you’re half-asleep. No, this Spencer feels distant, cold. 

"And I’m supposed to believe you’re not that drunk," he says flatly. Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat as heat flushes your face. He offers a hand as you steady yourself, trying to rise to your feet, but you brush him off, snatching the bottle from his grip with a bitterness you don’t try to mask. 

"What the hell is your problem?" you snap.

"My problem?" he repeats, incredulous. "I’m not the one blackout drunk on a Wednesday night."

"I’m not—"

"Would you—would you just stop!" he barks, the words sharp enough to make you flinch. "You’re slurring your words. You got the streets wrong. You couldn’t even get the damn moisturizer open," he snaps, gesturing toward you harshly with a mixture of frustration and exasperation.

Your knuckles whiten as you cling to the edge of the sink, unsure if you’re holding on for balance or just to keep from breaking. You spin back toward the mirror willing yourself not to cry. The frustration, the confusion, the ache in your chest—everything wells up at once.

"God, you’re being so—"

"So what?" he interrupts, his voice rising as he steps closer. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to say it. "So concerned? So worried? So—"

"So fucking mean!"

The silence that follows deafening. For a moment, he freezes, the hard edges of his expression softening into something else—shock, regret, guilt—but it’s fleeting.

"So what if I’m drunk?" Your voice cracks as the words tumble out, your frustration too overwhelming to contain. "And yeah, maybe—" You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat as you glare at him, "Maybe I’m slurring a little but forgive me for wanting a drink after the final I’ve been stressing over all fucking month."

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "It’s not about you having a drink. It’s about you not knowing your limits—"

"Oh, for fucks sake," you interrupt, throwing your hands up. The movement makes you sway slightly, and you hate how it only seems to prove his point. "Newsflash, Spencer, I’m a university student. Sometimes we get drunk. You don’t get to make me feel like shit just because you don’t drink.”

You push past him, your shoulder grazing his as you move to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and you grip the edge, willing the room to stop spinning.

"You were being reckless," he bites back, the word hanging heavy in the air. "You don’t see what I see. You’re out alone, you don’t—"

"I wasn’t alone," you say, your voice rising to meet his. "I had friends—"

"Yeah, friends who left you alone on a curb at 3am," he shoots back, cutting you off. The words land with precision, a calculated jab, but you refuse to flinch.

"Because you said you were on the way!" you fire back.

His voice is cold now, practically seething. "And what do you think would’ve happened if I hadn’t reached you just as that guy was coming on to you?"

"He was asking for the bus!" you shoot back, the words ringing out louder than you intended. You hate everything about this fight. You hate how unfamiliar he feels, hate the part of you that wonders if you’re the one who brought this out of him. "Nothing would’ve—"

Spencer’s expression darkens, his gaze narrowing. "Nothing?" He scoffs. "Tell that to Nina Radha. To Caroline Wrenley. To Mindy Denver. They were all ‘just waiting for a ride home’ last week. And now? All abducted. All dead." 

The room goes silent. Your chest tightens, and the fight drains out of you as his meaning sinks in. 

"You’re being cruel," your words are barely audible, trembling on the edge of your lips. The tears come faster now, streaking your face, but you don’t bother wiping them away. "Why—" you whisper, weak and watery, "Why are you being like this?" 

When Spencer finally turns to look at you, the sight of your tears stops him cold. They streak your face in uneven paths, and he feels something inside him splinter. Spencer never likes seeing you cry—he hates it, actually. It’s not just discomfort or unease; it’s a literal, physical ache. But knowing he’s the reason for your tears tonight? That’s pain in its most visceral form. It’s failure in its purest state.

"I—" he starts, his voice faltering. It cracks mid-sentence, and he stops, swallowing hard. His breath shudders as he exhales, trying to find the words, but all that comes out is a quiet, broken, "I was scared." 

Your tears have momentarily slowed, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. The anger in his voice has faded, replaced by something softer, something raw—fear, tangled with guilt, with regret. He takes a tentative step closer, then hesitates, unsure of what to do. 

"I thought that… something could’ve happened to you, and I—I didn’t know how to handle it." 

After a moment, he lowers himself to your level, crouching in front of you. He lifts his hand, reaching out to wipe away the tears that stain your face. But the instant his fingers near you, you flinch, turning your head to avoid his touch. The movement is small, but Spencer’s heart shatters at the rejection all the same. He hates that he’s made you cry, hates that you won’t let him near you, hates that you won’t even look at him.

"I’m sorry," he says, the words low and weighted with sincerity. He knows it’s not enough, but it’s all he has left to give. 

Your tears fall, dripping onto your hands that rest limply in your lap. You shake your head, your shoulders tense, refusing to meet his eyes. The rejection stings, sharper than he expected, but he doesn’t blame you. He knows he deserves this. The room is still except for the sound of your quiet sniffles. 

Spencer tries again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "I just—" His breath catches as he exhales, his hand running through his hair in agitation, the movement more to calm himself than anything else. "When I saw you standing there alone—alone and with that man, I got scared. And I lashed out. I shouldn’t have. You didn’t— you didn’t deserve that."

The silence that follows is thick, but finally, you break it. Your voice is quiet, bitter. 

"I’m not them."

You’re still not meeting his eyes, still keeping that distance, but at least it’s something. 

"Those girls… I’m not them, Spencer."

"I know, I know. I was—", his voice is low, the regret weighing heavily on every syllable.

​​"That case was tough on you, I know it was," you interrupt, "And what happened to those girls, it was horrible. But I'm not them, Spence. I'm not…" Spencer watches helplessly as you furiously wipe away a tear from your cheek. 

"I'm not dead. I'm here."

“I was projecting, I—” His voice catches, “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he admits quietly. You nod, grimly. Another single, heavy tear slips down your cheek and Spencer feels his heart break all over again. 

"I know you’re scared. How do you think I feel every time you go out into the field?" You take a deep breath, and say bitterly, "I get it." 

Each word is a struggle, but you say it with conviction. He can see how much you’re holding in, the effort it takes for you to keep your voice from cracking. 

You pause, swallowing hard as you steady yourself, "But you—You don’t get to talk to me like that." When your eyes meet his, they flash with both anger and sadness. "You don’t get to take that out on me." 

"I know, I—That was—I was being horrible, I was an ass," Spencer admits, his voice small. "You didn’t deserve that, honey. God, I’m just—I’m so, so, sorry." 

You look at him for a long moment, searching for any sign that he’s being sincere. All you see is regret, raw and heavy. And something else, something softer. Love. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away. Just getting to touch you is a brief, bittersweet, blinding relief. Spencer lets his fingers graze your cheek as he wipes away your tears gently, his thumb brushing over the wet path they’ve left behind. 

A soft, almost bitter laugh escapes you. "An ass is putting it lightly." 

Spencer’s chest tightens, a small breath of relief escaping him, though it’s quickly replaced with guilt. "M’so sorry sweetheart," he breathes out, comforted by the familiar bite in your tone. It lightens the air between you, just a little.

He shifts to sit next to you on the bed. "I didn’t—I really didn’t mean to," he says quietly. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh, the fight slowly draining out of you. Spencer gently takes your hands, cradling them in his. 

"I—I never want to hurt you, never want to make you cry. Ever." Spencer's voice cracks slightly as he talks, fingers tracing your palm. "You know that, right?"

You nod, your voice small but steady. "I know."

Shifting, you tuck your legs beneath you, turning to face him fully. Your hands lift to cup his face gently, your thumbs brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw. The touch is tender, almost protective, as you guide his face to meet yours. His eyes can’t hold your gaze for long, shame clearly written across them.

"I was just—I was—" He stumbles over his words.

"Scared," you finish softly, filling the silence for him. 

"I—I’m sorry," Spencer’s voice falters, "I’m really sorry honey, I should’ve never—That was—"

Your hands guide his face back toward yours, coaxing him to meet your eyes. This time, he doesn’t resist, his breath shaky as he clings to the comfort you offer. "S’okay, baby. M’not mad anymore," you murmur.

"Sad?" he asks, his voice barely audible, like he’s afraid of what you’ll say.

"No," you smile faintly, shaking your head, "Not sad, baby," you whisper, leaning closer. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheek in silent reassurance. His shoulders relax just a little. "I just—" you sigh as you let out one last, quiet sniffle, "I really hate fighting." 

Carefully, he coaxes you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. "Me too, honey," he says, his voice thick with emotion as he shifts closer. You don’t resist, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin.

"S’not nice," you murmur against him, your words muffled.

"I know, I know," Spencer whispers, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your back. You let out a shaky sigh, sinking further into his embrace. “Was awful, wasn’t it?” he says, quietly.

"Mhm," you mumble quietly, your voice soft but pointed as you lean into his touch. "Made me cry," you say, looking at him through wet lashes to prove your point. Spencer thinks, for a split second, that he’d rather die than ever have to see you cry like that again. After a beat of quiet, he tilts his head just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. 

"I love you, you know that?" 

You hum softly, nuzzling your face into his neck with a contented sigh, "Love you too."

"Love you so much, sweet girl," he says again, quieter this time, like it’s a truth meant only for you.

"Sap," you tease, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze, the faintest hint of a smile on your lips.

Spencer grins, soft and boyish. "Always for you," he mumbles fondly, and before you can respond, he leans forward, pressing a playful kiss to the tip of your nose.

You stick your tongue out at him in mock protest, but he’s already chasing the moment. A kiss lands on your cheek. Then another on the other side. Each one dripping with easy affection. 

"Spence—" you laugh, the sound bubbling up. It spreads a warmth through Spencer’s chest. 

"My sweet girl," he says quietly, almost to himself. 

His smile only grows as he drinks in the sound of your giggles, tears long gone. He presses a fluttering series of kisses across your form until you’re laughing into his lips, each kiss softer than the last. 

One on your cheek, two on your shoulder, a thousand on your lips.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: false god by taylor swift moon river by frank ocean

[freaktoru]

ONLY GOOD GIRLS GET GOOD GRADES!

✰ pairing: professor!sylus x fem!reader ✰ summary: desperate to raise your failing grade, you meet professor sylus in his office where he gives you feedback that looks a little different from what you expected. wc; 4.9k (im so sorry) ✰ warnings: use of pet names, dirty talk, fingering, oral m!receiving, unprotected sex, degradation, praise, slight dom/sub dynamics, power play, pussy slapping (once), minor cum play, some thigh riding, size kink bcz sylus is huge, tummy bulge, choking, kinda pet play, sylus might be abit ooc (sorry i tired), 18+ MDNI ✰ note: first time writing for sylus, i hope i did him justice. guys those slutty fucking glasses get me everytime. likes and reblogs always appreciated <3

You exhale a shaky breath, looking down at your paper through blurry eyes. Thick, wet tears prick at the corners, threatening to fall onto the big, mocking red ink that displays your grade. A fucking fail. 

Having been a straight A student throughout university—and really, for as long as you could remember—you couldn’t wrap your head around how things had spiraled to this point. Any grade below an A had always been unthinkable for you. But now, for the first time in your life, you were actually failing a class.

You thought that you might actually be losing it— that all the non-stop studying you’ve been doing must be finally getting to you. All those all-nighters and sleep deprived study days, all the long readings and writing until you can’t feel your hand— you might have finally achieved what they call ‘burnout’. 

No, that just couldn’t be right. Every other prof handed you A’s without a fight, but professor Sylus? The bastard had you fighting a war you were never meant to win—just to leave you with failing grades and nothing to show for it.

Though despite his harsh grading style, he was a good professor—there was no doubt about that. Always so clear and concise with his assignment instructions, answering every single question he was asked during lecture, and always providing his students with the most thorough and meticulous feedback. Yes, he sure was a good and generous professor—to everyone but you.

If it weren’t for your disappointing grades, one might say you were actually his best student. Sitting in the very first row of his class, listening so attentively to every word he spoke with that deep, soothing voice of his, and always wearing a cute lil’ skirt, paired with thigh high socks. Perfect student? Your grades might suggest otherwise but at least you managed to look the part.  

Professor Sylus however, didn’t see you that way. Sure, you always had interesting points to add to his lecture and great questions to ask him, but god, he couldn’t lie to himself— your too good, eager to learn attitude fucking pissed him off. Always raising your hand with that stupid excitement every time he asked a question, never forgetting to thank him after class like the good student you were, and looking like a little fucking whore — jesus, it drove him nuts.

And that’s exactly why he failed you— you were just too good. His gaze lingered on you anytime he returned a grade to you, watching your brows furrow and your face twist with confusion through his piercing red eyes. He didn’t mean to look—but fuck, he always did. Your frustration simply amused him. 

This little game of his might be wrong— some might even call it unethical, but he couldn’t help it. Some fucked up part of him wanted to see just how far a perfect student like you would go for a passing grade—what kind of unspeakable lines you’d cross to get what you wanted.  

You clutched the paper in your hand, crumpling it up, as the hours of painstaking writing—to meet his absurd instructions and demands— became absolutely meaningless. Looking up, you found him leaning with his arms crossed on the wooden lectern, looking at you through watchful eyes— lips pulled into an amused, lazy smirk. Fucking bastard. 

The class was finally over and people were slowly pouring out of the room, everyone leaving with graded papers in hand. Throwing your own, now, crumpled paper in your bag, you stood up, walking up to the front of the class. Sylus looked like he’d been waiting ages for this moment. 

“Sir, do you mind if I speak to you about my grade?” you ask, trying to keep your erratic emotions under control. You were fuming. Without a doubt, you deserved an A for that paper. But what really got to you was how effortlessly confident he looked, fully knowing he was failing you. 

“What, not happy with your grade?” he drawled slowly, his tall frame towering over you, studying you intently through his thin, frameless glasses. 

“To be honest sir, not at all. I was just wondering if you could give me some feedback” you replied, eyes fixed on your hands, nervously twiddling your thumbs, too afraid to meet his burning gaze. 

“I'll be at the university charity event until later this evening, you can come by my office afterwards. Room 305” he said flatly, his eyes wandering over your body, scanning over your ridiculously slutty outfit. Looking up at him, you nodded, giving him a quick “thank you” before leaving the room. His self-assured demeanor had a way of making your confidence flawlessly melt away. It disgusted you.

The rest of your day was spent in nervous anticipation, drifting in and out of focus during every class. You spent too much time in your head, thinking and crafting the perfect things to say to your professor—desperately hoping that he would be reasonable enough to raise your grade.

Hours later, with the sun sinking low in the sky and your head weighed down by the stress of your day, you finally found yourself planted in front of the dark brown wood door that was labelled as room 305. Nervous sweat beaded at your forehead as you stood there, arms glued at your sides, fingernails digging into your palms. This was fucking nerve wracking. You lifted a trembling knuckle to the door, lightly knocking before hearing a faint “Come in.”

Walking into the office, you saw your professor sitting behind his desk, wearing just a half buttoned dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves— holding that same, mocking red pen between his fingers. 

“Sit” was all he said without looking up from his page, pointing to the red leather armchair that stood in front of his desk. Red eyes, red leather chair and ridiculous red ink. Sitting down, you pressed your thighs together, placing your hands nervously in your lap. Your stomach felt like it was running laps—fluttering and twisting from the anxiety.

His office was pristine and expensive, just like him—decorated throughout with rich red, gold, and black accents. Not a speck of dust could be found in sight—the only semblance of a mess being visible on his dark, wooden desk. Books and stacks of papers to grade were scattered across it, with a pack of those awful red pens on top—almost like they were placed there just to mock you.

“You wanted to see me?” he questioned, scribbling comments on the paper he was currently grading—clearly too occupied to meet your eyes. You shifted nervously in your seat, reaching down to retrieve your crumpled paper from your bag. 

“Y-Yes, I was wondering what I could have done differently on my essay” you replied, noting how silly and small his pen looked in contrast to his big, slender hands. Sighing, he put it down, his red eyes finally shifting to meet your own. A warm rush made its way up your cheeks, turning them a light shade of pink. With a long finger, he adjusted his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, then folded his arms across his broad chest.

Finally, your professor spoke up. “Fix your spelling” was all he said, leaning back in his chair, not sparing your paper a second glance. Your eyes widened. That was it? All he had to say was to fix your spelling?

“But sir, I don’t think I had any spelling mistakes, I read my paper over at least ten times before handing it in,” you countered. You weren’t one to argue about your grades—it wasn’t in your nature, but fuck, was this starting to piss you off. 

“Fix your punctuation then” he said lazily, clearly putting little to no effort into the feedback he was giving you. What could he say to such a perfect student like yourself? There was nothing he could have asked you to improve. 

“I also looked over that before submitting my paper” you protested, growing angry with his lazy attitude. This is not how you expected this to go. 

“Then fix whatever else needs to be fixed” he stated plainly, still leaned back in his chair, watching the growing anger spread across your face with a calm, measured gaze.

“I don't understand” you huffed hopelessly. He was impossible. But fine, if he wanted to play this stupid game, you would play.

He hummed lightly, a playful smile pulling at his lips. Sylus was enjoying this—maybe a little too much. Standing up, he walked from behind his desk to the right side of the room, towards the big wall of bookshelves. Your eyes carefully followed him, watching his slender fingers trail slowly over the books.

“I’m sorry sir, I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. I’m frustrated because no matter what I do, my work never seems to please you” you admitted quietly, lowering your eyes back down to your fidgeting hands—a nervous habit of yours—that no matter what you did, you couldn’t seem to break. 

Sylus chuckled a deep laugh. “Please me? Your work is always a pleasure to read.” he replies smoothly, his surprising compliment sending an unusual warm sliver of hope mixed with pleasure down your spine.

Sylus was testing you—playing with you. He’d become too invested in this little game of his and now he finally had you pinned down right where he wanted you—at his mercy.

“Then what can I do to get a better grade in your class?” you ask, muttering the question quietly. For the second time just today, tears were threatening to escape your eyes. 

Gaze still locked on your nervous hands, you didn’t actually notice him walk across the room. Flinching slightly, you felt him place his hands on either side of the leather armchair behind you, bringing his lips close to your ear—his warm breath sending goosebumps racing over your trembling skin. Frozen in place, you anxiously awaited his next move.

“Don’t you get it? Only good girls get good grades.” you felt his soft whisper hit the shell of your ear. This was so wrong, he was too close to you—closer than a professor should ever get to his student. But if this was so wrong, why were your thighs pressed against each other, desperately trying to suppress your warm arousal from settling in your panties? 

Speechless, you were unsure of what to say. His tone hovered just on the edge of seduction, and you felt his gaze on you—sharp and deliberate, as if he were studying you. Sylus was lingering on the brink of sweet and forbidden temptation, waiting to see if you’d step in with him. 

He moved his head to the other side of yours, his warm, steady breath now tickling your other ear. 

“Awww, has the kitten lost her claws?” he said, his taunt a mere whisper, ghosting over your skin. That you had. Your anger had begun to dissipate, slowly being overridden by an unfamiliar feeling of arousal. Every shift in his movements, every word he spoke, blurred the line between right and wrong a little more.

“S-Sir” was all you managed to utter. He was hovering over you, gently running his finger tips up and down the length of the arm chair. Your own hands were clutching onto the hem of your skirt, fidgeting nervously with the fabric. 

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” he asked mockingly, raising an amused eyebrow at your stunned, silent state. 

You were heavily debating the ethical implications of your current situation. On one hand, you were a fair student—one who’d never go as far as fuck her professor for a better grade. On the other hand, it couldn’t be a coincidence that you only dressed the way you did for professor Sylus’s class, only answered his questions with that stupid excitement, and only ever went as far as you currently found yourself—just for him. Fuck, this was already bordering on morally wrong, but you couldn’t deny the fluttering feeling you felt low in your core— the slick coating your panties. There was truly no denying the fact that you craved your disgustingly attractive professor's attention and praise. 

Dropping your head down lower, you managed to mutter out the most pathetic question you’d probably ever asked, “Am I not good enough sir?” 

Letting out a quiet laugh, he walked in front of where you were sitting, easily pushing your pressed thighs apart with just his leg. Warm fingers met with your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. Sylus was nearly twice your size and absurdly tall, forcing you to crane your neck just to meet his gaze.

“You’re arguably my best student”

“Sir, I—”

“But what kind of good student dresses like a little whore? What kind of good student comes begging her professor for better grades? Hm?” he cuts you off, lightly tugging on your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. You try to stop your restless trembling, try to stop the arousal from running through your body—but it's no use, those red, hungry eyes can see right through you—can see how worked up he has you. 

“Open up, kitten” he taps your chin and your mouth falls open, lips parting for him without question. Sylus has finally crossed that deliciously dangerous line—and you crossed it right with him. 

He pushes his thumb into your mouth, smiling as you eagerly wrap your wet lips around it, playfully swirling it with your tongue. He chuckles at the drastic switch up in your attitude—going from angry to obedient within minutes. 

Placing his other hand on the chair beside your head, he removes his finger from your mouth with a little ‘pop’. Sylus puts a knee on the chair between your legs, and brushes his fingertips down your skin, letting them travel to your thigh. His eyes are locked on yours, not wanting to miss a single flicker of emotion that crosses them.

You gasp at the feeling of his fingers meeting your inner thigh, gently squeezing and playing with its soft skin.

“Tell me something sweetie. Do you dress like this for every professor?” his voice a low, sultry whisper. Another wave of arousal courses through you, now passing through your soaked panties and settling in the armchair. Oops. 

“N-No sir” you reply breathlessly, too busy relishing in his warm, electric touch. Sylus moves his hand further under your ridiculously short skirt, long fingers meeting with your lacy, drenched panties. 

“Oh? She’s wet.” he purrs his surprise in your ear, and you think you might cum right then and there. His voice is so hot it’s fucking dangerous. You’d already crossed a line you swore you never would—but you hadn’t expected to get addicted so soon.

Your panties are pushed aside and two long fingers find their way into your dripping pussy. “Fuck” you moan at the intrusion, hand grabbing onto his strong arm that rests on the chair beside your head. 

“Such filthy words, kitten” he clicks his tongue mockingly, gently using two fingers to push every smart, coherent thought out of your brain.

“Sorry s-sir” you mutter the apology, ready to do anything to please him—anything to get that A. 

You whimper at a third finger being added into your tight cunt, your whole body already feeling overstimulated from all the attention. Sylus lets out a degrading laugh, enjoying watching you squirm from his fingers. So worked up already, how were you going to take his cock? 

“Too much already?” he lowers his lips to yours, mumbling the mocking taunt against them. You whine, pathetically rutting your hips up against his hand. You’re desperate for it—desperate for his touch. You had spent so many classes dreaming about this moment, fantasizing about what it would be like—now that you finally had it, you didn’t want to let go.

Sylus is thoroughly enjoying this—watching your chest heavily rise and fall with every shallow breath, struggling to keep your eyes open and fighting against the pleasure—it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

The pleasure pulses through your body as you feel your climax quickly approaching. Throwing your head back on the chair, you let out pleasurable mewls and moans as Sylus’s fingers speed up their pace inside you. You finally meet your blissful end when his thumb lands softly on your clit, rubbing and playing with it. The fucker knew all too well what he was doing— dangling your orgasm on the edge like that. 

“Mmh—ah, fuck” you breathe out the moan, feeling the string of pleasure in your core finally snap. You arch your back off the chair, pulsing as you release your warm cum all over his fingers.

“That’s a good kitty” he pulls his fingers out, and you yelp when he lands a harsh slap on your swollen pussy. Amusement flickers in his eyes—did you really think he’d hand it all over to you without a fight? Stupid kitten.

Lifting his wet fingers to your neck, you feel him wiping them against the stretch of it, spreading your cum all over your bare skin. 

Your head tilts easily to the side with two of his fingers, allowing him better access to the exposed, glistening skin of your neck. He begins licking your cum off of it, dragging his tongue up and down—quickly pushing you right back into a state of arousal. It’s just too much. His mouth reaches the base of your neck, grazing his teeth over it before unexpectedly biting down, making you cry out.  

“Sir ah—”

A hand quickly clasps over your mouth, shutting you up. Sylus releases your pulsing skin from his sharp teeth, lightly nuzzling his face in your neck before moving his lips back to your ear.

“Shhh kitten, wouldn’t want anyone hearing your feedback would you?” he whispers, finishing off with a little nibble on your earlobe. 

That’s right. If someone heard you, you would likely be expelled and Professor Sylus would be fired—never to see a classroom again. But somehow the thrill of getting caught made it all the more exciting for you.

“N-No sir” you answer, keeping your voice quiet and small. 

Without another word, Sylus grabs your waist, scooping you up into his arms. Your breath hitches from the sudden motion as he switches your positions on his chair, sitting himself down in your place, and placing you in his lap. He’s so fucking big, your legs can’t quite straddle both of his—so you adjust, sliding onto one thick thigh instead.

Sylus groans at your shift, feeling his hard erection poking through his tight pants. You look down, devilishly smiling at it, suddenly sensing a flicker of control return to you. Looks like you’re not the only one who’s all worked up.

“Professor, is this the kind of feedback you give all your students?” you ask teasingly, purposely dragging out every word in the sentence.

His eyes darken, and you can almost feel his gaze burning right through you. “Just you” he replies rather possessively, tightening his grip on your waist. You make a mental note of this minor crack in his composure. Interesting.

Bringing your face closer to his, your lips hover over his—realizing you hadn’t even kissed him yet. Sylus had made you cum before even kissing you.

A big hand travels to the nape of your neck, pulling you down closer to him. Your lips crash onto his—the two of you quickly entering a fight for control. Naturally, Sylus wins, kissing you ravenously and passionately, claiming every inch of your mouth as his. 

“You know sweetie, my job is in your hands” he pulls away momentarily, muttering the almost pleading words against your lips. Another fracture in that carefully built composure—he was finally grasping the gravity of the situation.

You press your forehead to his, closing in the space between you. “And my degree is in yours” you whisper before pressing your desperate lips back on his—mind too clouded with lust to discuss what stupid things the pair of you had done.

Desperate for his touch again, you start rubbing yourself on his thigh, urgently grinding—hips begging for more. Letting your hand travel to his bulge, you feel Sylus tense briefly, before melting into your touch, allowing you to paw at him like a kitten as much as you pleased. 

Sylus never expected himself to go down this road—his favorite student grinding desperately on his lap, palming his cock and begging for his attention—it was ridiculous. By no means does Sylus consider himself a saint, but this certainly was a new step in his constant battle with morality. Now he had truly fucked up. 

Long fingers tug at the hem of your shirt, letting him pull it over your head, leaving you in just your cute pink lacy bra. He easily unclasps it with one hand, exposing your bare chest to him. He groans at the sight of your hardening nipples, his eyes displaying quite possibly the hungriest expression you’d ever seen. 

Fingers meet with your nipples, and he pinches, letting a painful whimper escape your lips. His hands begin squishing them softly, soothing the tingling pain. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. With his composure slowly crumbling, and you getting hotter and more worked up by the minute—he just couldn’t do it. 

“Fuck” he grunts, waiting no longer to pick you up and lay you down on the desk. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching Sylus quickly push off all the papers and pens around you, creating as much room as he needs to do whatever he desires with you. 

You swore you felt the air around you change—suddenly becoming overbearingly hot and thick with lust. Sylus had a raw, animalistic energy about him—an insatiable hunger that he desperately needed to fix. 

He bunches your skirt up around your waist, pushing your panties aside with just his thumb. “Fuck, kitten you’re already fucking wet again” he growls, fisting his thick length through his pants. You moan, letting yourself surrender to the pleasure of his fingers yet again—surprised when it doesn't feel the same. Clearly, your desperate need has grown. Your pussy is soaked and swollen, begging for a much bigger form of attention. 

As if reading your mind, he unbuttons his pants, letting his thick, hard, cock pop out before you. You audibly gasp at the sight, admiring his full length—practically drooling at the thought of all that being inside of you. He’s fucking huge.

“I-Is that going to fit?” you stutter stupidly, eyes glued on the sight of his cock. 

“You’ll be a good girl and take it all won’t you?” he replies in a low, husky voice, looking at you through half-lidded, lust filled eyes. Your wide-eyed expression amuses him more than it should—and he can’t help but admire it.

“I-I’ll try my best” you reply, nervous, yet so desperately eager to please.

He grabs your thighs, pulling you closer to where he stands at the edge of the desk. Sylus lowers his mouth to your panties, biting down on them and slowly pulling them off using just his teeth. You shudder a little, feeling another flush of need ripple through your body. 

He studies you intently, admiring every curve and inch of your exposed skin. Your cheeks flush, trying to close your legs out of embarrassment. 

He doesn’t let you though, instead, he lifts your legs, placing one on each of his shoulders—essentially rendering you helpless under his touch. His cock head prods at your entrance— thick and leaking with precum. 

“Ready, kitten?” he adds in a thick voice, leaning down closer to you, almost folding you in half. You nod quickly— practically reeling with impatience. 

A long whine escapes your lips as he pushes just the tip in, pulse hammering as you struggle to handle the stretch. You bite down hard on your lip, feeling a metallic taste fill your mouth. There was no way it was going all in. No fucking way. But it would. Sylus would make it fit. 

“So tight kitten, I’ve only put the tip in and you’re struggling already?” he asks in between ragged breaths, slowly pushing his cock further in. 

“Sylus—sir p-please wait” you rasp out, overwhelmed by the stretch. He’s not even halfway in and tears are already beading at the corners of your rolled back eyes—and you couldn’t help feeling like you were being split in half. 

“I didn’t know we were on a first name basis now, kitten. I have to say, I enjoy hearing my name on your lips” he drawls, wrapping a hand around your neck, squeezing it lightly. 

“I-I’m sorry” comes out as a pathetic, breathy stutter as you ball your fists, desperately clutching on to the air around you. You’ve never felt so stretched out before, so blissfully full. 

He slowly pushes the rest of his thick cock in, coating it in your slick. Your back arches off the desk and you moan, finally letting those tears escape your blurry eyes. You can’t form a single coherent sentence or thought anymore—he’s pushed that ability out of you entirely with his cock. 

“Crying already?” he mocks, wiping a tear with his thumb. He’s so mean, mocking and teasing your every expression, fully aware of what he’s doing to you. Being at your professors mercy like this—it’s actually humiliating, but also so fucking arousing.

“Please d-don’t move” you inhale sharply, trying your best to adjust to both his length and his width. He removes his other hand from the desk, pushing down on your stomach, admiring the bulge visible through your skin. He has you filled so nicely, the curve of him pushing up beneath your skin, marking you from both inside and out.

Your pathetic please falls on deaf ears, and he starts slowly moving his hips in and out of you, hitting your sweet spot with the head of his cock over and over again. You choke out a sob between moans, barely keeping your eyes open. 

“Eyes on me, kitten” his voice pulls you out of your trance. Your eyelids feel so heavy but you obey, noticing how every thrust makes his glasses slide a little further down the bridge of nose. The sight was erotic. 

His pace was absolutely agonizing. The sheer stretch of him, paired with everything else, left you impossibly overstimulated— moaning and whimpering around his cock. The room was filled with lewd sounds, echoing and bouncing off the walls, every moan and groan reminding you of the forbidden moment the two of you found yourselves in.

“Nngh—Sylus, fuck” you whine, unable to take all the pleasure. It was too much all at once. 

“What is it sweetie? You’re doing so well” he purrs, lifting his hand from your throat to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. How sweet. 

You look so blissfully fucked out. Your forehead is glistening with sweat, eyes drooping low and voice slowly losing itself to the pleasure coursing through you. Of all the things Sylus had seen, this? This was truly unforgettable.

His pace was bordering on frantic—the feeling of his tip hitting your cervix was literally tearing you apart. “P-Please, I’m gonna come” you cry out in between harsh sobs—feeling like you were being held captive by the pleasure—unable to rip away.

“Go on” is all he says before your body releases, convulsing from pleasure, your sweet orgasm finally crashing over you. Toes curl in your shoes, and your hand grabs onto his, gripping him so tight your knuckles begin to turn white. Sylus only chuckles at your quivering body, and continues fucking into you until he reaches his own high.

“N-no more, please, no more” you whine, desperately trying to push him away when he doesn’t stop mercilessly pounding into you. 

“You can take it, kitten” he replies with a grunt, slowing down his pace as he approaches his climax.

“Shit—” you barely hear him mutter under his breath, as his cock begins to throb inside of you, releasing thick strands of his own cum inside you warm walls. His breathing is shallow, glasses barely holding onto his nose, as he drops his head down, keeping himself buried deep inside you. 

You both stay there a while longer, catching your breath and letting the last pulses of pleasure escape your shuddering bodies. Sylus finally pulls out of you, and you prop yourself up on trembling elbows. 

“Aren’t you going to clean up your mess?” he asks—your eyes visibly widening as you instantly understand what he means. 

Sylus takes a step back from the desk, sitting back down in that damn red armchair. You barely manage to slide off the desk, almost stepping on that mocking pack of red pens— which have now made their home on the ground after Sylus had pushed them off the desk. Fuck those red pens. Fuck the colour red. 

He leans back lazily, a playful smirk pulled on his lips. You drop to your knees in front of him, wrapping two hands around his half-hard cock. Your tongue meets the tip and you begin to kitten lick every drop of cum, cleaning every inch of it like the good girl you were. 

When you finish, Sylus zips himself back up, and tilts your head up with two fingers. 

“Good kitty” he purrs, gently rubbing his thumb along your jaw. 

“Sir?” you ask after a brief moment of silence, looking up into those burning red eyes.

“Hm?”

“A-About my grade” you trail off nervously. Kneeling before him like this, the weight of your own desperation burned bright on your cheeks—it was fucking humiliating.

He’d been waiting for you to ask him the burning question—seeing how far you went before you begged for a better grade.

“Didn’t I tell you? Only good girls get good grades” he echoes his earlier words, voice so sweet it was practically dripping with honey. 

“I don’t understand?” 

“Good girls don’t fuck their professors for A’s”

© @blessedmisery 2025

[rxmye]

" 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 "

𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐂 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 — you're his entire world, his only thought, the very illness that has corrupted his mind and body . . .

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / mentions of sleep medication / pathetic yandere / suggestive content / a character slightly aimed towards people with a savior complex

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: edited, Lucas first fanfic is out !! . . click here to read it !! <3

He was someone with fleeting attraction—yet a hopeless romantic, who'd spend most of his class time doodling away in his notebook instead of taking actual notes, writing these scenarios that played out in his mind—tired hazy doodles of small characters, blurry lines of writing, scribbled out text, as he struggled to stay awake—

He had never had a proper sleeping schedule, and if he did he'd never stick to it, a night owl who often faced the consequences of his own actions, sleep medication was something he was all too familiar with, the feeling of being restless without sleep, his nerves always on edge, dark circles under his eyes made him feel insecure, and alarmingly out of character.

He felt something touch his back, he froze, nerves all over the place, a pit growing in his stomach as he turned almost instinctively to face whoever touched him, pushing their hand off harshly . . . "Hey Yoichi . . what's up with you man, why so aggressive?!" Lucas asked . . and then he froze, letting out a nervous and rather embarrassed chuckle, "Ah—um . . sorry Lucas . . just feeling a little tired that's all", he replied softly, voice barely coming out.

To be quite honest, when he first saw you, Yoichi thought nothing of it, he sat at the very back and you for some reason, sat in front of him, not that he minds, you're presence covered him from the teachers eyesight, which allowed him to do whatever he wanted, he was even able to drift off to sleep during that period.

However, it wasn't until he found himself, drawing tiny versions of you in his notebook, little doodles, pink ink staining the paper as he hearted your initials together—his name then your last name . . your name then his last name . . . names of future children—that he realized he was crushing on you . . . big time.

His emotions was fleeting, it had always been, he didn't think much of it . . it was just a simple crush, everyone has one of those, and they go away with time.

Yoichi was a punctual student—and a well organized one—he'd rarely forget his books, much less the notebook with his embarrassing doodles of him and you, it would ruin his image to be quite honest . . yet for some reason he had forgotten it in class today, it could've been his ever-growing restlessness due to a lack of sleep, or maybe the caffeine that's been fucking with his head since early in the morning—he sighed—knocking himself out of his own thoughts, as he twisted the doorknob, hopefully the teacher left the class unlocked.

The door was open, to his utter relieve . . . wait . . . "y/n?", he spoke, taken aback—you were soundly asleep on your desk—you looked so at . . peace . . . calm? . . . Nothing could describe the emotions he felt as he approached you, slowly reaching over to his desk and grabbing his notebook, quickly stuffing it in his backpack—he should go . . , that would be the best course of action . . .

Yet he couldn't . . . he knelt down on the floor, leaning his head on the desk, starring at your face, looking into every curve and line, in his eyes every imperfection just made you even more perfect, the pattern of your breath was soothing to his otherwise restless mind, a soothing scent radiated off of you, and for the first time in months, he felt sleepy . . . like he could sleep without a care . . . everything felt so right. . .—nothing felt displaced or disoriented.

That was the day that started it all, it seems, Yoichi had started forming something that was akin to obsession, he couldn't sleep at all without you—a piece of you—something that reminded him of that calming scent that he felt that day, you calmed his overdriven nerves, you halted his troubles for more than a fleeting moment.

Yoichi knew what he was doing was odd, especially when he found himself picking up the wrapper you threw out, and taking inhaling it, his eyes growing half lidded—he felt like a drug addict—drunk off of you . .

Fleeting touches would tick off his ever delusional mind, a small compliment could set him on overdrive and in the back of his head he knew he was growing addicted, a pit in his stomach grew as he felt slightly disgusted with himself, with the obscene and rather degrading things he'd do, just to get something touched by you.

Lucas stared at his friend, who seemed no better than dead, "Are ya' okay?" he asked, looking him up and down, "You look like a train-wreck", he stated half out of concern and half out of clear disdain and possibly curiosity, "Is it normal?", Yoichi spoke up, taking a gulp of air as he continued, "to want someone so badly that it's hard to explain—like—a part of me feels obsessed, like I feel like carving my own heart out and showing them just to prove my love wont be enough—they could claw out my fingernails—and from where I'm standing, I'd still look at them with only love . . . but at the same time I feel disgusted with the feelings I feel—", Yoichi kept blabbering on, until his friend shushed him, taking a sip of his drink as he jokingly replied, "I mean . . if you love them that much, then their clearly the one . . ."

Yoichi blanked out, as Lucas chuckled, he has no idea how much of his teasing words Yoichi would take to heart that day nor of it's lasting consequences . . .

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language.

Notes — Sorry it's a little late, this one took a lot out of me!

2024 (Canada — Austria)

The windows were open. Late spring sun poured through them, catching in the curls of steam rising from mugs and saucepans and the folds of linen napkins no one quite knew how to fold properly. There were shoes by the door in mismatched sizes and accents bouncing down the hallway — American, British, Dutch, Australian. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.

Amelia stood barefoot in the kitchen, pressing her hand lightly to her lower back, more out of habit than pain. She had a glass of sparkling water in one hand, the other resting protectively over the curve of her hip. People moved around her. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t the centre of attention — not exactly — but there was an orbit to it all, and she knew she was at its core.

The first to arrive were Zak and Tracey. Her dad had tears in his eyes before he’d even crossed the threshold. “He actually did it,” he said, in disbelief, running a hand along the bannister of the stairs like it might disappear. “You imagined it and he made it real.”

“I had idea,” Amelia said, quietly. “It was a complete surprise.”

“Sweetheart, you let someone love you like this.” He stressed, and then he hugged her like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. 

Tracey had brought a lemon cake and a box of herbal tea labeled third trimester blend. She gave Amelia a soft hug, the kind she didn’t have to brace herself for. Never from her mom. 

Then came Cisca and Adam, each carrying a desert and homemade jam in glass jars. 

Max and Pietra came in like a whirlwind of perfume and sunglasses and unfiltered affection. Pietra immediately disappeared into the kitchen to investigate the spice cabinet. Max made himself useful by lighting candles and being genuinely startled when Amelia offered him a hug. 

Oscar and Max (Verstappen) arrived together. Oscar nearly cried when he saw the nursery, but would deny it for the rest of his life. 

Max said nothing when he hugged her, just held her for a long moment and murmured, “This all suits you,” into her hair. “It is you, zusje.”

They ate dinner outside, under fairy lights Lando had strung up earlier that day with his sisters’ help. The table was full — food, laughter, crumbs, second helpings, stories from the paddock, from childhood, from nowhere in particular. Amelia sat with one foot up on a chair, tracing idle circles on her belly, watching it all. Filtering the noise. Finding the patterns in the chaos. Letting it settle.

At some point, Zak handed her a folded piece of paper — a printout of an old email she’d sent him when she was 16. The subject line read: Please don’t laugh, but I have some ideas for next season’s floor design. 

He’d printed it out years ago, tucked it into his desk. She hadn’t known.

“You were brilliant then,” he said. “You’re going to be brilliant now.” 

Lando caught her eye across the table. There was nothing showy in his smile, nothing loud in the way he reached across and brushed a crumb from her plate. But the steadiness of him — the fact of him — anchored her.

Later, when the sky turned navy and the stars began their slow scatter, Amelia stood in the doorway of her new home and just... looked.

Everyone was here. And if something in her brain still itched at the edges — still tried to catalogue, analyse, brace — she let it.

She was allowed to hold joy and anxiety in the same palm.

She was allowed to be the centre without needing to perform for it.

This was hers.

And she was home.

—

The kitchen smelled like toasted pine nuts, the air just slightly too warm from the oven being on all afternoon. A playlist hummed from the speaker tucked behind the kettle — mostly soft indie, one or two Fleetwood Mac tracks, something Lando had thrown together for their first full day alone in the new house.

Amelia stood at the counter, barefoot again, chopping basil with surgical precision. She was wearing a Quadrant t-shirt— oversized, worn thin at the elbows — and a pair of bike shorts stretched snug over her bump. Her hair was scraped up, clipped haphazardly. She looked like peace in motion.

Lando wandered in from the hallway, his socks mismatched, holding a laundry basket under one arm.

“There are so many tiny socks in there,” he said, like it was a crime against nature. “Like, how many pairs of socks will one baby need?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Enough to account for holes, spit-up, and mysterious disappearance. Standard equation.”

He dropped the basket on the dining bench and leaned over her shoulder, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Dinner smells like it might change my life.”

“That’s because you haven’t had proper pesto since last summer.”

“No offence to store-bought,” he murmured against her skin, “but I trust your pesto with my entire soul.”

She elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Back off, Norris. I’m wielding a blade.”

He laughed and stepped back, wandering over to fiddle with the cutlery drawer. A few moments passed in quiet sync — her plating the pasta, him setting out plates and hunting down the fancy olive oil she liked. They didn’t need to talk. The space between them was soft, settled.

When they finally sat down — legs tucked, chairs pulled close — Lando kept glancing across the table like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“This place doesn’t feel like real life yet,” he admitted after a beat, twirling his fork through pasta and not lifting his eyes. “Feels like we’re on holiday. Like I’m gonna wake up in a hotel bed.”

Amelia paused mid-bite. “Do you want it to feel more real?”

“No, I mean—” He exhaled. “I just can’t believe we get this. A quiet night. Good food. No planes or media or engine data or... pit lane nerves.”

She reached out, slow and sure, and tapped his wrist. “We made this real.”

Lando looked at her. Just looked. Like he’d never stop being awed by the fact of her.

“I’m gonna build you a fire pit next,” he said eventually, nudging her ankle under the table. “So you can roast marshmallows and give terrifying lectures about drag coefficients under the stars.”

After dinner, they curled up on the couch, plates abandoned in the sink. Her feet in his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles along the arch of one. The house whistled softly in the evening wind, the kind of noise Amelia didn’t mind — predictable, harmless.

She tilted her head against the cushion. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

Lando didn’t ask who. Just nodded, quiet and certain. “I think she’ll love it. She’ll take her first steps in that hallway. Learn what thunderstorms sound like from that window. Grow up knowing that this house — this family — was built for her.”

Amelia blinked once, slowly.

“You’re a bit of a poet when you want to be.”

“Think I’m a cliche.” He whispered. “I’m a bit in love with my wife, so it’s easy.”

She didn’t reply — just curled her toes a little tighter into his thigh, and let the rhythm of the house settle around them like it had always been meant to.

—

The fire had burned down to a soft flicker, casting low amber light across the living room. The windows were open just enough to let the night air in — warm and still scented faintly with rosemary from the garden Lando insisted on planting for her. The world was quiet. It had been a long time since they’d had quiet like this.

Amelia stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the curve of her belly, the other tugging at the hem of Lando’s hoodie — hers now, really, judging by how often she stole it. She wasn’t trying to be coy, but there was something in her eyes tonight, something thoughtful and electric. Lando could read her like telemetry; he knew that look.

He approached slowly, cautious in the way he always was around her these days — respectful of her space, of her body, of the changes she was still learning to live in.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low.

“I’m fine.” Her mouth twitched. “Just... trying to decide if I want you to touch me or if I want a bowl of cereal.”

Lando laughed, relieved by her bluntness — always blunt, always honest — and closed the distance. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Is there a world in which you could have both?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Possibly.”

His hands found her waist, careful, familiar. He leaned down, mouth brushing her jaw. “Tell me what you need.”

She didn’t answer right away — just turned into him, pressed her face to his neck, and breathed him in. There were always moments like this: Amelia finding stillness through closeness, tuning her sensory overwhelm down through warmth, weight, pressure.

“I want to feel good in my skin again,” she murmured. “I want to feel like I still belong in it.”

“You do.” He kissed her cheek, then her collarbone. “You’re beautiful, Amelia. You always are.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then can you show me. Please?”

They moved together carefully — deliberately — like a familiar dance they'd had to relearn around her growing body, her new thresholds, the shifting ways her mind and skin processed the world. Every kiss was a question. Every breath an answer.

He worshipped her slowly, reverently. Made her feel anchored, wanted, known. And she let herself sink into it — not because she needed to, but because she could. With him.

And later, tangled together beneath the quilt, sweat-damp and flushed and full of quiet, she let her fingers drift over the slope of his spine.

“You always know what I need before I do,” she said.

He turned his head toward her, lips ghosting a smile against her shoulder. “I’m just reading the data.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

She didn’t say anything else — just pulled his hand over her belly and held it there, steady and warm, letting that be answer enough.

—

The nursery smelled faintly of new wood and lavender — not from anything artificial, but from the actual drawers and the little sachets Tracey had tucked into corners like some secret maternal ritual.

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-packed duffel bag beside her, and a checklist on her iPad open in front of her. Her fingers hovered in the air before she tapped something with purpose. “Two nursing bras,” she muttered. “Non-wired. Black. Seamless.”

Tracey stood by the open wardrobe, holding up one in each hand. “You want the ones with the clip or the ones with the crossover front?”

Amelia squinted. “Clip. They look less fiddly.”

Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the two of them like he’d stumbled into a language he didn’t fully speak but didn’t dare interrupt. He smiled, but quietly — this felt like their rhythm, like something beyond him. Still, he was trying. Learning. Being present.

Amelia glanced up. “Stop hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he said.

“You are.”

Tracey grinned. “She’s not wrong, sweetheart.”

Lando made a mock-wounded face, but crossed the room anyway and knelt beside Amelia. “Fine. What can I help with?”

She passed him her iPad without even looking. “Snacks. My stuff’s colour-coded in blue. Yours is orange. You’re allowed two unlisted items.”

He blinked. “Unlisted?”

“Anything not on the list that won’t get you killed when I’m in labour.”

Tracey snorted. “That’s generous, honey.”

Lando started reading, muttering under his breath, and went to raid the kitchen. Amelia returned to methodically rolling baby vests into neat, space-efficient bundles, the movements almost soothing.

“I keep thinking I’m forgetting something,” she said quietly, eyes focused but voice trailing slightly.

“You’re not,” Tracey said gently, coming to kneel beside her, folding a muslin square into a perfect triangle. “And if you are, well, we’ll survive. You’ll survive.”

“I know. But—”

Tracey reached out and rested a hand over Amelia’s. “It’s okay to not feel completely prepared for this. I don’t think anyone ever is.”

Amelia blinked a few times and nodded, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. “I just… prefer when I can say that I’ve prepared for every scenario.”

“You’ve always been like that,” Tracey said with a fond smile. “You were five when you made a backup birthday plan in case it rained.”

“It did rain,” Amelia mumbled.

“And your plan worked.” Her mum kissed the side of her head. “This will too.”

A moment passed. Amelia exhaled through her nose.

“Are you scared?” She asked, very softly.

Tracey didn’t lie. “A little. But only because you’re my little girl, and very soon you’ll understand that.” She leaned down and kissed her temple. “But you’re strong. You’ve got your Lando. You’ve got us.”

Amelia closed her eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”

From the hallway, Lando called, “What flavour crisps are birth-appropriate?”

Amelia looked up and frowned, “Anything that doesn’t stink!”

Tracey chuckled and stood. “I’ll supervise.”

When she was alone for a minute, Amelia looked down at the baby socks in her lap. One pair had tiny embroidered stars on the soles. She pressed them to her cheek for a moment. Then folded them and placed them in the bag.

—

The bedroom was mostly dark, except for the low amber glow of the reading light on Amelia’s side and the faint spill of Lando’s phone screen casting long shadows across his chest.

They were curled into the kind of easy, practiced quiet that only came from years of orbiting each other. Her head rested on a stack of pillows, book angled just so above the curve of her belly. He was on his back, phone in hand, occasionally scrolling, occasionally glancing sideways to watch her face shift with whatever she was reading.

“Is this one good?” He asked eventually, thumb pausing mid-scroll.

Amelia didn’t look up. “It’s fine. The female lead has no spine and the pacing is off. But the visuals are nice. Well-written”

“High praise,” he said dryly.

She turned a page with a slight rustle. “I like the writing. Even when the plot is stupid, the sentences are nice. That counts.” A pause stretched. He let it breathe. Then she spoke again, softer this time, eyes still on the page. “How are we going to split it?”

Lando turned his head. “Split what?”

“The houses.”

“Oh.” He put his phone down on his chest, screen dimming. “I thought you meant something deeper, like splitting parenting responsibilities or—”

“We’ve already talked about all that,” she said. “But I was lying here thinking — Monaco still feels like home to me. But I love this new house too. I just… don’t want to feel like I have to pick one. Or like I’m abandoning one part of our life for another.”

He blinked at her, and then propped himself up slightly on one elbow. “You don’t have to pick. That’s why we have both.”

“But where do we raise her?” Amelia asked. “Where does she go to school? Where’s her bedroom actually going to be? Is it weird if I feel like Monaco is still mine?”

Lando’s voice was quiet, warm. “Not weird.”

She glanced at him with a raised brow.

“We’ve spent years living in Monaco, baby. It’s your home, your friends, your pavement routes.”

She was silent. In a thoughtful kind of way.

He reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers together.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Maybe having two bedrooms will be her normal. Maybe she’ll be able to plant roots all over the world while she travels with her brainiac mummy and super-fast daddy.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched.

“We’ll just do what feels right,” he added. “Even if it changes.”

After a beat, she tilted her book closed and set it on the nightstand. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable but open. “I love that you always say ‘we’,” she said.

He kissed the back of her hand. “We’re a team. Always.”

She nudged closer, resting her forehead against his. “I want her to always know that she can come back home. Any time, any age, no matter what.”

“She won’t go running to any specific house. It won’t be here or Monaco.” He murmured. “She’ll go running to wherever her mummy is. And that’ll be the place she calls home.” 

She kissed him. 

— 

The shower had fogged up most of the mirrors by now. Steam curled around the tiles like low-hanging cloud, the water beating a steady, rhythmic tap against Amelia’s skin. She stood still for a long time beneath it, arms curled around her bump. Her hands rested low, fingertips tracing invisible shapes without realising it.

Her belly had changed shape again — harder up top now, more lifted. Lando had said it was a growth spurt. She wasn’t sure. It just felt… denser. Like her body was becoming its own kind of mechanical structure, adjusting its load-bearing capacity by the day.

“You’re getting heavy,” she murmured, not critically. Just a fact.

The baby shifted — not a kick, just a slow roll, like turning to listen.

Amelia gave a quiet snort of amusement and shifted too, stepping under the water again. She tilted her head up, then sideways, letting it cascade over her ears, dulling the world into a warm hush.

“You know,” she said, conversational, “there’s a theory that racing cars create downforce the way bird wings create lift. Just inverted. Bernoulli’s principle. I bet you’ll like Bernoulli when you’re older.”

She gently ran her fingers over her bump again, then raised a hand and lazily wiped a small circle of condensation from the glass shower door.

Beyond it, a shape caught her eye — the edge of the towel rail, with a soft, pastel towel draped over it. One of the ones her mother had folded into the hospital bag earlier that week. It had a little pattern of cartoon hearts embroidered near the corner.

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched.

“Right,” she said. “Lesson two.”

She placed one hand flat over her belly and shifted to sit on the little bench built into the far wall of the shower — a compromise between comfort and function she’d had added to their Monaco apartment a few months into pregnancy, when standing for too long had started to give her dizzy spells. Lando had taken the design and had it installed into every bedroom in the England house. 

Her voice was steady, like she was reading from a manual.

“So. Your lungs are under your ribs, but my ribs are kind of squished right now, because of you. My bladder is, too. That’s the thing making me pee a thousand times a day. I’m not mad about it,” she added quickly. “I understand that you need the growing room. It’s just… a bit inconvenient for your mother, is all.”

Another movement beneath her palm — not a kick, but a firm stretch. She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “That’s your legs, isn’t it? Yeah. Strong femurs, like your dad.”

A pause. She traced a gentle line down the centre of her bump with two fingers, as if sketching an invisible diagram.

“And you’re sitting head-down, which is good. It means your occiput — that’s the back of your skull — is facing the right way for birth. But if you want to wriggle around a bit more, that’s fine too. Just don’t do anything drastic, okay?”

She reached for the bottle of body wash, then hesitated, watching the water spiral around the drain.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “I think about what it’ll be like when you can hear me properly. Not just vibrations, not just tone. But words. Sentences. I wonder if you’ll like the way I explain things. If it’ll make sense to you, or just sound like static.”

Her voice cracked slightly there, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

She rubbed her thumb gently across the highest curve of her belly.

“I hope I don’t overwhelm you. But I probably will. People overwhelm me all the time. I just… try not to run away from it anymore.”

The baby kicked again, sharp and deliberate.

“I know, I know,” she said under her breath. “I sound like I’m spiralling.”

She exhaled slowly, then pressed her forehead against the tile behind her.

“I get a bit scared, sometimes. That you’ll think I’m strange. That I won’t be soft enough. Or silly enough. Or motherly in the way people expect. But I’ll know everything about you. I promise. Every bone, every birthmark, every favourite food. I’ll learn you like I learned cars. And I’ll never stop wanting to know more.”

She didn’t cry, not quite. But she stayed there for a while longer, curled slightly forward, listening to her heartbeat echo faintly beneath the rush of water. She pressed a slow kiss to her fingers, then to the stomach, eyes closed.

Outside the shower, the world stayed quiet. But she knew Lando was out there. Probably pretending to be asleep. Probably listening.

She smiled faintly. And let herself just be for a moment — wet hair clinging to her cheeks, knees drawn up, hands resting where her daughter lived.

—

The house felt too big, at first.

It was beautiful, of course — everything Lando had hoped it would be, and everything Amelia had dreamed aloud about in bits and pieces over the last two years. Clean lines. Warm wood. Natural light in every room. The scent of fresh paint still hung faintly in the air, mixing with lavender from the natural diffuser Lando had plugged in before she walked through the door.

But it wasn’t home yet. Not immediately.

The first morning, they made toast in silence. Not unhappily — just quietly. The coffee machine clicked and hummed while sunlight crept across the kitchen floor, and Amelia stood barefoot in one of Lando’s old t-shirts, rubbing her belly like it helped her think. Lando, shirtless, squinted at the touch screen oven like it had offended him.

The nursery was the only room that felt fully finished.

They unpacked slowly. 

His helmets were lined up carefully along the hallway wall, one of them already smudged with her fingerprints. 

The midwife came by mid-week for a check-in, and Amelia sat on the edge of their bed, answering questions about sleep, diet, swelling. Lando hovered, nervously watching the blood pressure monitor like it was a qualifying leaderboard.

“You don’t have to stand over me like I’m going to flatline,” Amelia told him.

“Don’t bloody say that.” He said. And kept standing there. 

She didn’t tell him that it made her feel safe.

Evenings blurred together — sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the porch. They sat side by side with plates of toasties or takeaway pizza, watching the sun sink behind the fields near the back fence. 

Their families came and went day by day. 

Oscar didn’t say much when visited. He just showed up with strawberry milk and watched her doze off on the sofa with the straw in her mouth.

Lando had started packing for Canada by the following Wednesday. Amelia helped fold his socks, even though he was terrible at finding matching pairs.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said that night, curled around her in the dark.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He kissed the back of her neck and didn’t argue.

By the seventh day, the house had started to shift — not just in layout, but in feel. The air carried the scent of their shampoo. Her cup lived by the sink. His shoes were by the door. There were fingerprints on the fridge and a faint dent in the couch cushion where she curled up after lunch every day.

—

The morning was blue-grey and overcast, the kind of moody English weather that settled into your skin and made you crave hot tea and your dressing gown. The car was waiting out front, idling gently. Lando’s suitcase sat by the door, zipped, tagged, half-heartedly stuffed with hoodies and McLaren polos. His travel backpack leaned against it like it didn’t want to go either.

Amelia stood in the doorway in socks and one of his old sweaters that had stretched across her belly — not because it fit, but because it smelled like him.

He double-checked his phone, then his passport, then his phone again.

“You’ve checked five times,” she said, voice dry but warm.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve remembered anything,” he mumbled, slipping the phone into his back pocket.

They stood there for a moment — just standing. Not talking. Not moving. Letting the moment sit.

He stepped closer and rested his forehead against hers. Their daughter kicked once, firmly, and he smiled.

“She’s telling me not to leave,” he said quietly.

“She’s dramatic,” Amelia replied. But her voice wobbled slightly. “She gets it from you.”

Lando kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate. His hands cupped her cheeks, slid down her arms, settled on her belly like a prayer. He didn’t say ‘don’t go into labour without me’ — he didn’t need to. The plea was written all over his face.

“You’ll call me if anything happens?” He asked, not pulling away.

“I’ll call you if I so much as sneeze weird,” she promised.

“Good.” He looked at her again, memorising the curve of her sleepy eyes and the flyaways in her hair and the flush in her cheeks that pregnancy had made permanent. “You’re… god, I love you. I love you.”

She nodded. Swallowed thickly. “I know. I love you too. Don’t forget.”

He laughed. “As if I could ever”

“I’ll be watching. Look after Oscar for me.”

He kissed her again. Just once more.

Then he was out of the door. Into the car. A wave through the window.

Amelia stood in the entryway long after the car turned out of their driveway, hand pressed gently to her stomach.

“Alright,” she whispered. “It’s just us for a little while, baby-girl.”

And the house was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

—

It had taken Amelia a full twelve hours after he’d left to stop expecting his footsteps in the hallway. She’d paused once at the sound of the boiler kicking in, heartbeat ticking faster before she remembered: no, that wasn’t the front door. That wasn’t him coming back with a Tesco bag of the weird array of sweets she wanted and a sheepish smile because he missed her already.

Now, barefoot in the kitchen with the late afternoon sun glowing against the pale countertops, Amelia placed her palms on her belly and exhaled.

The kettle clicked off behind her. 

“I think we’re doing alright.” She murmured. 

She’d made a small list of things to do. Routine helped. The first day, she'd organised the linen cupboard, stocked the baby’s changing station, wiped down the fridge shelves because she’d read a study about bacteria colonies and couldn’t stop thinking about it. The second day she unpacked the last of their books. Found all the annotated ones Lando had scribbled in when he was still trying to read what she read — underlining things like emotional subtext?? in red pen.

Today, she’d taken a long bath, trimmed back the rose bushes, and wandered from room to room with her fingers brushing the walls like they were pages in a story she hadn’t finished reading yet.

In the baby’s room, she opened the blackout curtains and let in the warm afternoon light. The chair by the window, a plush glider in soft earth tones, had already become her favourite place to sit.

She eased into it with a quiet grunt and settled one hand low on her belly.

“I wish you could’ve met him sooner,” she told the baby, voice just above a whisper. “I mean, obviously you’ve met him. He talks to you more than anyone. But I mean the before him. When I didn’t know people could be like that. That kind. That sure. He says he fell in love with how I think. With how I see the world.”

She paused. A small laugh.

“I told him he’s biased.”

Outside, birds wheeled across the sky like brushstrokes. She let her head fall back, gaze on the ceiling. Lando had insisted on putting glow-in-the-dark stars up there, claiming the baby would love them. She’d laughed at first — told him their daughter wouldn’t even be able to see them.

Now, looking at up them, she was suddenly nine again. Her dad was hovering, her mom quietly worried. They’d just moved to England from Florida. She’d broken a three-day period of noa-verbalness in order to ask: “Can we put the stars up, daddy?”

Lando had remembered.

He’d wanted their daughter to have the same comforts she’d relied on for so many years. 

“I hope you get his laugh,” she said after a while. “And his sense of direction. And how he always makes space for people.” She reached down and adjusted the blanket over her legs. “I don’t know what kind of mummy I’ll be yet. I know what I want to be. I want to be your safe place. I want you to always feel comfortable to be yourself around me; no matter what that looks like.”

The baby kicked gently under her ribs.

“Yeah, I know. I’m being sentimental.” She smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to that. It doesn’t happen often. That’s more your daddy’s territory.”

Later, she made dinner — toast and spaghetti and Lando’s ridiculously sugary cereal for dessert. She ate curled sideways on the sofa, wrapped in one of his jumpers, reruns of old races playing softly on the TV. His voice came through now and then in the commentary. Every time it did, her chest ached — not painfully. Just… ached. 

And when she climbed into their bed that night, she shifted a pillow behind her back, whispered goodnight to her baby girl, and traced the shape of the window frame with her eyes.

—

The baby felt heavier every morning. Not dramatically, not enough to worry, but enough to make Amelia roll slower out of bed, one palm at her back, the other at her bump, muttering soft, affectionate curses under her breath.

Her mom arrived midweek.

Tracey didn’t knock, just let herself in with the key Lando had given to her weeks ago. Amelia had been halfway through folding onesies in the laundry room when she heard the click of the front door and the familiar rustle of an overfilled handbag.

“Mom?”

“Who else would be coming into your house with tea biscuits and fresh flowers?”

They hugged in the hallway. Amelia, unsure at first, then tighter, grateful. Her mom smelled like the same delicately scented perfume she always wore, and that scent unlocked a part of Amelia that had been quietly braced all week.

“You okay, my darling?” Tracey asked softly, after a long hug.

“I think so.”

“You’re safe. He made sure of that.”

“I know.”

Tracey settled into the guest room without fanfare — just a neatly packed suitcase, a crossword book, and a container of pre-cut fruit. She moved through the house like someone careful not to leave fingerprints, never imposing, always within arm’s reach.

That night, they watched FP1 together on the living room couch.

Amelia had one leg tucked up, a bowl of cereal on her bump. Tracey kept asking polite but confused questions about DRS zones and tire graining. Amelia answered them all, engineer-sharp, still watching like she was sitting at the pit wall, but quiet.

At one point, she whispered, “That left-rear temperature is creeping up too quickly.”

Tracey blinked. “...For the orange one?”

Amelia smiled faintly. “Yes. Oscar’s car.”

—

FaceTime with Oscar came later, after FP2.

He was stretched across his hotel bed, hair messy, still in team gear. “You seeing these sector times?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. You're getting too aggressive with the throttle mid-chicane.”

Oscar groaned. “You’re not even here and you’re still doing this.”

“You asked.”

He paused. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Tired. Heavy. But good.”

Oscar’s eyes softened. “You look alright.”

“I’m in my pyjamas and haven’t brushed my hair since this morning.”

“I said alright. Not good.” 

They grinned at each other through the screen. It felt weird, and warm, to miss him. Her best friend. Her driver. 

—

Lando called a lot. 

Between sessions. Before them. After them

Amelia was in the bath, water warm and eucalyptus-scented. When she answered, her hair was pinned up and her bump floated like a tiny island beneath the bubbles.

“You looked good in the car today,” she murmured.

“Didn’t feel good. Too much understeer in sector two.”

“Maybe try lifting off earlier before the left apex?”

“I miss you.”

Her throat closed a little. “I miss you too.”

Silence stretched.

Then Lando laughed, soft and boyish. “Your mum texted me a picture of you and her in matching slippers. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“She got them at Boots,” Amelia said.

“They’re cute.”

“Itchy.” Amelia said. She scrunched up her nose. 

Another pause.

“What are you doing after the race?” She asked.

“Coming home.”

“That soon?” She frowned. 

“I’ve been waiting to come home since I got off the plane,” he said simply.

—

Tracey made lunch. Amelia couldn’t stop pacing. The house’s open plan meant she could still see the TV while she marched from room to room, one hand on her belly, breath catching at every near-miss and overtake.

She watched Lando’s start with bated breath. Listened to Oscar’s radio. Judged strategy calls and muttered pit stop criticisms like a general in her castle.

Tracey passed her a cup of peppermint tea. “Sit down, love.”

“I can’t,” Amelia whispered. “I don’t know how to watch without being part of it.”

When it ended, Lando on the second step of the podium after a nail-biting fight at the front with Max, Oscar in seventh, she finally exhaled. 

Her phone buzzed ten minutes later. 

Lando: How did I do?

She typed back, Amazing. Come home to me.

—

That night, before bed, she walked the halls alone.

She touched the hallway wall where Lando had measured the doorframe — swearing that someday their daughter’s height would be marked beside it. She lingered in the nursery, rearranging the stuffed animals for no good reason. She lay down in bed and turned off the lamp, then whispered, “You’re going to love it here, sweet little pea.” She gave a quiet little giggle. “I already do.”

And in the hush of night, the baby gave the softest kick beneath her palm. Not a flutter — a push. Solid. Present.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “I know. I miss him too.”

—

It was just past midnight when the front door clicked open.

Amelia, curled up sideways on the sofa in one of Lando’s old hoodies, blinked herself awake. The living room was dark, save for the soft golden glow from the kitchen under-lights and the flicker of the paused race replay on the TV screen. Her tea had gone cold on the side table. The baby had hiccupped for almost twenty minutes straight and then fallen quiet — just as Amelia had dozed off, waiting.

Keys dropped into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Then soft footsteps. Two pairs.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, just as Lando appeared in the doorway, duffle in hand, eyes tired but warm. Behind him, Oscar trailed in with a hoodie pulled low over his head and the kind of look you wore after a race weekend that hadn’t loved you back.

“You’re awake,” Lando said, voice low. He looked like he wanted to melt into the floor with relief.

“Hi,” she murmured, standing slowly, her hand on the small of her back. “Hi.”

He came over, wrapped his arms around her, and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathed her in, one hand on her belly, the other cradling the back of her neck. She nuzzled into his chest.

Then he pulled back slightly and turned to Oscar. “You crashing here, mate?”

Oscar nodded silently. His shoulders were tight, jaw set, a bruise visible just beneath the collar of his hoodie — nothing serious, but there. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Amelia stepped toward him and opened one arm in invitation. “Come here, ducky.”

Oscar hesitated only a beat before folding himself into her hug. He didn’t say anything either, but his fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. She let him rest his chin briefly on her shoulder.

“You were excellent,” she whispered. “There was a lot of change to get used to this weekend. Don’t let it ruin your drive.”

He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “Didn’t feel excellent.”

“You still brought the car home. And points, too. Some weekends, that’s the win.”

Lando nodded from behind her. “She’s not wrong.”

Oscar looked between them, weary but grateful. “I’ll just take the guest room.”

“You know where everything is,” Amelia said. “My mom’s in the one with the closed door, yeah? So use the one near the back of the house, the one closer to our bedroom. And my mom filled the fridge with snacks in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Oscar cracked a small smile at that and shuffled off with a mumbled goodnight.

When he was gone, Lando turned back to her, dropping his bag by the couch. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Didn’t think he should be alone.”

Amelia shook her head, already tugging him by the fingers toward the bedroom. “I’m glad you brought him.”

They undressed slowly, quietly, moving like people who’d done this dance a hundred times. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed to rub lotion into her stretched belly while Lando ducked into the bathroom. When he came back, he crawled into bed beside her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.”

The baby shifted gently between them, a little wave under Amelia’s skin. Lando reached down and rested his palm over her belly.

“She knows you’re home,” Amelia said sleepily.

“Hi, baby.” He whispered. “Missed you too.” 

—

The kitchen was bathed in slow, buttery light, the morning sun catching on the pale wood and glass, casting long shadows through the big oak tree. 

Amelia stood barefoot at the counter, toast in one hand, the other absent-mindedly resting against her belly as the kettle rumbled behind her. The baby had started the morning with enthusiastic kicks — mostly under her ribs — and Amelia had taken it as a sign to get out of bed, let Lando sleep, and start the day.

Oscar shuffled in a few minutes later, hair a mess, eyes puffy, socks mismatched. 

“You look terrible,” Amelia said, sliding a mug toward him.

“I know,” Oscar muttered, taking the tea gratefully. “You’re up early.”

“Little sweet-pea was playing trampoline with my bladder at 6am,” she said, nodding down. “And I figured you’d be up soon too. Couldn’t sleep?”

Oscar took a sip, leaned against the counter. “Keep thinking about the restart. Should’ve backed out.”

Amelia sighed. “If you had, you’d be regretting that instead. You made a judgement call. It was bold. Just didn’t pay off this time.”

“I missed you in my ear,” he said. “Can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if you were.” 

“Osc.” She said. “That’s not fair. Don’t say that. You know how badly I want to be there.” 

He winced. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just— hard.” 

She gave him a wry look. “I know. It’s hard for me, too.” 

Oscar smiled faintly. “I’ll get used to Tom. And I’ll start to trust him. But it’s hard when it’s not you, you know? It’s always been you.”

“I’ll be on comms next week. In Spain.” She told him gently. “I’ll have more of a say, okay? But you need to get to know them, talk to them, help them learn how you like to drive.” 

“I’ll try.” He grumbled. Then he looked around the bright, soft kitchen. The fruit bowl full of bright colours, the flowers by the window, the stack of tiny baby clothes folded near the sink — like Amelia had gotten halfway through organising them before getting distracted. Everything smelled like lavender. “I get why you both love it here,” he said.

Amelia’s expression softened. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Then Oscar asked, carefully, “You scared?”

She looked at him for a long time before answering. “I wasn’t. Not really. But now it’s getting closer, and I’m alone more often. I think about things I didn’t let myself think about before.” She glanced down at her belly. “But I’m not scared of having her. I think I just don’t want to mess it up.”

Oscar leaned against the counter beside her. “Pretty sure you won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t,” he said again, with surprising certainty. “Do you love her?” 

“Yeah.” She whispered.

He nudged her. “That’s it, then.” 

A soft shuffle behind them, then Lando’s voice, still raspy with sleep. “Are you two bonding without me?”

Amelia and Oscar turned to see him, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a disaster, one eye still half-closed. 

“I made him tea,” Amelia said.

Lando pointed at her belly. “Did she let you sleep?”

“She let me have a few hours, which was generous,” Amelia said, standing up straighter with a small groan. “Here—sit. I’ll make you toast.”

Lando came over and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then leaned down to whisper something to the baby.

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

—

On the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix, Amelia had the live feeds up on three monitors — driver data, timing sheets, and the race engineer channel — and her headset was synced to Oscar’s garage. Technically, she wasn’t on the box, but Tom had agreed it would be useful to have her in his ear for insights and soft corrections when needed. The engineers had joked that she was now their “AI Overlord in the Sky.” She hadn’t laughed.

On Friday, she was calm. Focused. Her notes were still sharp. She sent two voice memos to Tom after FP1 — one about Oscar’s brake migration being slightly off, the other about his low-speed understeer looking a little like a differential mapping issue. Both were addressed by FP2.

She’d tried to stay calm through quali. She sat cross-legged on the rug, notebook open in front of her out of habit, TV volume low, tea cooling untouched beside her. Every sector time hit her like a mild electrical pulse. Every camera pan to Lando’s face made her chest tighten.

And then — P1.

Pole position.

Her hands flew to her mouth. A sharp inhale. Her eyes didn’t tear up, not quite, but she blinked hard enough to clear the static of disbelief.

Her phone buzzed in her lap before she could even reach for it.

Lando calling.

She answered on the first ring. “You—” she started, then stopped, because her voice broke halfway through the word.

“Hey, baby,” he said, out of breath, voice shaky with adrenaline and awe. The sound of cheers and static hummed faintly in the background.

“You’re on pole,” she said. Flatly, because anything more emotional would tip her over.

“I—yeah.” His voice cracked on a laugh. “Can you believe it?”

She couldn’t. Not really. But she said, “Of course I can. I told you that you’d be able to do it.”

“You also told me to take Turn 7 a gear lower, and that’s when I started purple-ing the sector.”

“I’m always right,” she said softly.

Lando went quiet for a second. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” she interrupted, already shifting to lie on her side, one hand sliding over her bump. “I wanted to hear yours too.”

“I wish you were here.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But you’re doing everything exactly right. And she kicked,” Amelia added suddenly. “Right when you crossed the line. Like she knew.”

Lando made a quiet, choked noise. “Tell her I love her.”

“She already knows.”

He breathed out. “Tomorrow—”

“You can win.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I love you, Amelia.”

“I love you, Lando. Now go do your cool-down and get weighed before they fine you.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Yes, boss.”

—

Sunday morning was more emotionally complex. The race brought a new kind of restlessness. She stood more than she sat. Paced the hallway during the formation lap. Her hands twitched over her bump every time someone locked up into Turn 1.

The lights went out and Amelia tracked every throttle input and radio check-in with a kind of quiet intensity. She wasn’t barking orders. She wasn’t pacing a pit wall. But her brain still ticked in race rhythm.

She flinched when Lando lost a place on the opening lap, then cheered softly when he clawed it back with one of his signature perfectly-timed exits out of Turn 5. Oscar’s pace stabilised by Lap 15, and she could tell from the data that he’d found his flow. She sent Tom a discreet note about giving him a bit more encouragement.

“Tell him the tire warm-up on the second stint looks good. His brake temps are in a sweet spot — he can push.”

Her mom wandered into the room at one point, holding a mug of tea. “It’s like watching a hacker during a cyber-attack,” Tracey said, amused, watching Amelia’s fingers fly over the trackpad. “But with more swearing.”

“Only mild swearing,” Amelia muttered.

By the end of the race, Lando had secured another podium; P2 just behind Max, and Oscar brought it home in P5 after a clean, clever second stint. 

Amelia’s adrenaline was still fizzing as she took off the headset and leaned back in her chair.

“Mom!” She shouted down the corridor. “Can you make me a cheese sandwich?” 

—

Amelia sat curled up on the couch, one hand resting gently on her bump, the other clutching a mug. The quiet hum of the house felt louder than usual — a hollow space where Lando’s laughter and footsteps usually filled the air.

She’d just hung up the phone after saying goodbye for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

“No break between Spain and Austria,” Lando had lamented, voice apologetic but determined. “It’s back-to-back weekends. Hotel rooms, planes, track walks — barely time to breathe.”

Amelia nodded into the receiver, but inside she was already bracing herself for the stretch ahead.

The reality settled like a quiet ache: he wouldn’t be here. Not in the space they’d carved out together, not to brush her hair back when she was restless, not to trace little circles over her skin to calm the baby when kicks turned into restless jabs.

Her fingers twitched lightly over the swell of her belly.

She imagined the baby, warm and sheltered, moving in rhythm with the house — a heartbeat alone but steady.

Her breath hitched a little.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so hard. The days apart. The silence that wasn’t really silence because her mind was a thousand miles away, tracking every call, every message, every moment he wasn’t home.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself lean into the quiet.

Maybe tomorrow she’d video call Oscar and talk about strategy, or take her mom out somewhere nice for dinner. 

Maybe tonight, the baby and she would dance in the dim light, two hearts keeping each other company until Lando came back.

She smiled softly. Long nights ahead, yes. 

But also a promise — of a family waiting, waiting, waiting.

—

The Austrian Grand Prix weekend had spiralled into chaos. 

Perez pushed Oscar into the gravel on the second corner after Oscar and Charles made contact in the first.  

Amelia’s headset was on, Oscar’s comms open on one channel, the race feed on the TV. She watched the flickering screen with cool, blunt irritation, the quiet hum of the house in the background a soft contrast to the noise of engines and tyre squeals.

Lando was out there, her husband, racing wheel-to-wheel against Max Verstappen; her brother in all ways but blood. 

And now, they were both throwing everything they had at each other, in a fight that was reckless and reckless felt like a gross understatement.

She pressed a button on her headset, voice low but firm. “Tom. Get Will on Lando’s radio. Tell him to stop trying to take the outside line. He’s fighting Max on Max’s terms and losing control.”

Static. Nothing but broken hiss.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as she stared at the dead air in her headset. “Tom, come on.”

Minutes dragged on with nothing but interference.

The race was unraveling fast—a high-stakes, high-speed chess match turned chaotic brawl on asphalt. Amelia’s gaze flicked between the TV screen and her headset, sharp and unblinking. She could see it all clearly—the tight, unforgiving corners, the relentless wheel-to-wheel clashes, Max pushing hard to force Lando wide, and Lando refusing to yield. The cars were inching closer with every lap, dangerously close to disaster.

Her voice stayed steady, cutting through the static like a blade. “Will, Tom, come on. Somebody—just pull him back! This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

She wasn’t shouting, not really. There was no hysteria. Just a cold, hard edge to her frustration—the kind that comes from knowing both men far too well, knowing exactly what was on the line, knowing the risks they were gambling with their careers and their lives.

And then it happened.

A tiny nudge. Barely visible on the screen.

But enough.

Enough to tear punctures in both cars’ tyres and send them spiralling down the timesheets.

Her heart hammered.

Lando was limping into the pits. She saw him climb out of the car, face tight with frustration and pain. Max got a tire change and he was back out there, angry and fast. 

Then Oscar stormed across the finish line—second place.

Amelia sat frozen for a moment, breath catching, body tense. The adrenaline surged through her veins, a strange mixture of panic and helplessness.

She reached for her phone with shaky hands and touched Lando’s contact. Once. No answer.

Twice. Still no answer.

A third time. Nothing.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling fast.

He was probably pacing somewhere. His phone was probably in a hoodie pocket somewhere he couldn’t hear it. 

Oscar’s podium flashed on the screen, but Amelia couldn’t focus.

Then, a sudden warmth crept down her legs.

She blinked slowly, voice flat and dry. “God. I’ve peed myself.”

Her hand moved down instinctively, pressing against her belly.

Confusion flickered across her face as she realised.

“Oh… oh. That’s not—That’s not pee.” She mumbled. 

A sharp tightening gripped her abdomen.

Her eyes went wide. 

Then she grabbed her phone again; called the only person she knew would never not answer her call. Podium celebration ongoing or not. 

“Amelia!” Her dad cheered as he answered, and she could hear the Australian national anthem playing in the background. 

“I’m in labour.” She told him flatly. “And Lando’s not answering his phone. So, if you could find my husband and let him know, I’d really appreciate it.” 

Then she hung up. Stood. Walked into the guest room and smiled at her mom, hands twisting and pulling and stimming. “Hi.” 

Her mom stared at her, wet pants and all, with wide eyes. “Honey—“ 

“I didn't pee." She told her, a bit indigent. "I think my waters broke.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

standing in the steps of mine

how spencer deals with the fact that his daughter might be getting bullied at school

fluff word count: 1421 warnings & tags & stuff: dad!spence, references to spencer's bullying, references to spencer's dad leaving, its verryy comforting, they celebrate father's day on a friday WHOOPS my bad, umm just spencer being the best dad ever author's note: WOAH its been a long time!! sorry about that i went a little crazy about this app. i missed posting on here very very much and am still working on my self esteem when it comes to posting. so. this is terrifying. anywayyy i hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts if you have any! i love you and have a stellar day!!

“I did it wrong, I can’t give it to you.” 

This is, unfortunately, the first full sentence Anne has said since coming home from school, if you don’t count her little mhms and mm-mms tainted with a premature edge of sass Spencer claims to be all you.

Now, sitting on her newly acquired big-girl bed, Anne’s shoulders are worryingly slumped, voice meek. Her arms are hugging her backpack tightly, making sure no one except her can open it to see its contents, which– as you know from her contrastingly excited rambles during the car ride to school– include a Father’s Day craft made during her snack time just for Spencer.

“What do you mean, wrong, honey? Can we see?” Spencer asks her, crouching down to her eye level, thumb stroking her knee. After just a few seconds of trying to combat his imploring gaze, apparently just as effective on kids, she relents, unzipping her sparkly bag and taking out the slightly wrinkled paper. 

Her body language can only be read as small as she hands it to him, shy.

Right in the middle is a large, carefully drawn, and only slightly lopsided, plum purple heart. Inside, four names are written in black marker. Daddy, (the biggest, it is his day after all) Mommy, Slinky, (paired with a drawing of your cat) and Mrs. Agnes. (Stuffed unicorn.) 

Spencer utterly melts when he sees it, and looks her in the eye. “Anne, honeybear, this is perfect. Thank you so much. Can you tell me what about this you think is wrong?” You crouch too as he says that, rubbing her back.

She purses her trembling lips. “Ben said it was s’posed to be red since love is red, and that purple is dumb.” Spencer tilts his head.

“Well, lots of people do think love is red, but I bet it can be other colors too. In many countries east of here, orange can show love. Or, when you see blue, your brain tends to think of things associated with safety and trust. Trust is a kind of love, right?” Spencer explains. Anne nods hesitantly. “It doesn’t have to be red. He shouldn’t have called it dumb.”

“What do you feel when you see purple?” you ask, showing her the heart again.

“Um. Calm. And family. Since Daddy’s favorite color is purple,” she sniffles. “And the scarf you always make fun of him for wearing before you kiss g’bye in the mornings, an’ Mrs. A-agnes.” A fat tear drops down her face, and she shrugs. “I didn’t know. It should’ve been red. I just messed it all up.”

Spencer reassesses, thumb reaching out to wipe away the tear. It’s typical of Anne to have some self-esteem issues, sure, but they’d never not gone away with some reassurance. This is different. 

That’s when it hits him.

This isn’t just the body language of a sad kid. It’s the body language of a kid being teased. Her tucked in shoulders, short replies, breathing patterns, it’s so clear to him. Spencer’s mind reels, taken aback at just how long it took him to recognise this. In his own child. Her bow lips are pressed into the same exact guilty line his were at her age too. The same line he bore when his father had something to say, and when he was shoved against the goalpost in highschool, and when he was ostracised by his peers in college. 

He stills the stroking against her knee. “Anne, do you know Ben’s last name?” His voice is thin, wavery. 

“Umm, G.” 

He exhales a breath. “What about his full last name? Do you know that?” he presses. When she gives him a confused look, you interject.

“That’s okay, honey. Hey, do you wanna go hang this up on the fridge? I think Slinky needs some food too, do you wanna be in charge of that tonight? One and a half scoops, okay?”

She nods, momentarily distracted from thoughts of Ben G. and instead tottles off to do her favorite chore, despite her sadness.

Spencer looks at you the second she’s out. “I think she’s getting bullied.”

“We don’t know that for sure, Spencer,” you reason softly. “She hasn’t told us enough.” He ignores you, shaky hands digging in his pockets for his phone.

“I am not taking that risk. Garcia can find this…” he sputters. “Twerp.”

“Spencer, you are not seriously getting the FBI involved. I don’t care if it’s our child’s godmother.” 

“It’s Anne.” He spins and looks at you, eyes intense. “I’m not fucking this up. I’m not.” 

“I know it’s Anne. God, Spence, I know. Just let me call her teacher first. I don’t want an angry parent coming for us because we accused their son of bullying and got the federal authorities involved before they even knew what was going on. Okay?”

The panic behind his eyes softens a little. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he rasps out. You extend your arms for a little hug, which he sinks into. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner.”

“It’s okay. She’s really good at covering it up. We’ll just… see if we can make her feel better for now and get more information out of her later?” He nods into your neck, knowing the two of you can, at the very least, do that. 

He presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “Stop one-upping me on Father’s day. How’re you so calm?” 

You exhale a soft laugh. “I really don’t know. How do you wanna make her feel better, though?”

…

He comes out to the kitchen to see her staring at her drawing, obviously still hesitant to hang it up. She stands next to Slinky as he eats, making sure he has company, of course, but her eyes don’t lift from her paper.

“Hey honey? I don’t think I properly thanked you for this. May I?” Spencer asks her quietly. She hands the paper over reluctantly, and he hangs it up, then swoops her into his arms so they’re eye to eye. “I can’t believe you remembered Daddy’s favorite color.” he tells her, voice full of sincerity. “You know how full that makes my heart?”

She shrugs, tucking her head into his neck.

“This tells me just how much you love me and our whole family. This is the best Father’s day gift I’ve ever received. You’re considerate. Do you know what that means?” she peeks out at Spencer, and sees his light eyes looking down at her. 

She, very gently, shakes her head no, lips twitching out of that thin line and into a giddy smile. She’s a blur the second he sets her down, zooming all the way to the tall bookshelf next to the fireplace. 

…

Resting on the bottom, easily accessible, are two halves of the Compact Oxford English Dictionary, each practically half the size of her. She pauses, remembering the word Spencer told her, and selects the first one. A through O. She lifts it with a little huff of effort and runs right back, nestling herself on the couch right next to you, where you’re strategically waiting with a blanket and cuddles. She peeks up at you subtly for confirmation she grabbed the right dictionary, and you give her a little nod. 

“What letter are we looking for, little bear?” you ask, hand moving to her hair to stroke. Spencer comes and sits on the other side of her, having gone to wash his face.

“C.” She says definitively, flipping through the thin pages. She skims quickly and methodically, a procedure no doubt inherited from her father. 

You’re all quiet, air filled with the soft sounds of paper flipping. It’s peaceful, despite the stress you know Spencer is still feeling. You reach for his hand, pointer gently tracing to his pulse point. Much slower than it was a few minutes ago. 

Support, reassurance, distraction. It’s really simple. It took him, what, a minute to figure it out? How to make her feel the slightest bit better?

A fucking minute.

He blinks the thought from his brain, ignores the jabbing in his heart, and focuses instead on looking at his two girls and how the light from the lamp catches the color of your hair. Anne soon falls asleep against you two late that night after finally finding considerate, and you bring her to her big-girl bed, the little scrunch between her eyebrows that she shares with Spencer nowhere to be seen. 

[riddlesrizzler]

The Great Gatsby

summary: He looked at you the way all women want to be looked at by a man. characters: mattheo riddle. shy! reader. mentions of slytherin boys. warnings: none! just matty going feral. word count: 2.8k

The first time Mattheo Riddle really noticed you-truly noticed you-was when you collided with him outside the library. One second, he was rounding the corner, lost in thought, and the next, someone crashed into his chest, sending papers and books flying across the stone corridor.

You dropped to your knees instantly, murmuring a flurry of apologies as you scrambled to gather your things. He knelt too, fingers brushing against the corner of a worn paperback just before yours did. His eyes flicked over the title-Jane Eyre-the cover cracked and creased from being read more than once. A Muggle book. Not the first he’d seen around lately. And not the last he’d see in your hands.

But what caught his attention more than the title was the way you wrote.

Some of your pages had slipped loose in the fall-notes scribbled in blue ink, dense with thoughts and margins full of underlines and comments. He picked one up out of instinct, pausing as his eyes caught on the handwriting: soft, looping letters that curled at the ends, like you had too much emotion to keep inside the lines. It was delicate but purposeful. You wrote like someone who felt everything. He didn’t realize he was staring until your hand reached out and tugged the paper gently from his fingers.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, cheeks flushed. “That’s mine.”

Your voice was quieter than he expected. Soft, but not meek-like you were always thinking about something bigger than the room you were in. He nodded, but didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you as you stuffed your notes back into a leather-bound folder, arms full of books with titles he recognized only vaguely-Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Bell Jar.

Muggle literature. You read it like it meant something. Like it was sacred. No one really talked about Muggle writers at Hogwarts, not unless they were trying to be funny. But you didn’t strike him as the type who cared about what people thought. The way you clutched your books close to your chest, like armor, made that clear.

Then you were gone. Just like that.

You darted away so quickly he didn’t even catch your name, but the image stuck. The too-big sweater. The stack of paperbacks. The way you walked like you were always halfway between this world and another.

-

That night at dinner, he couldn’t get you out of his head. So, when he slid into his usual seat, he turned to Theo and Enzo.

“Do either of you know a Ravenclaw girl? About this tall-” he gestured with his hand, “-always carrying books, kind of quiet?”

Enzo scoffed. “That could be any Ravenclaw, mate.”

Mattheo frowned, thinking. “She, uh… she writes in this particular way. Loops at the end of her words. And she was wearing a cream sweater.”

Theo snapped his fingers. “Oh, you mean her—”

Mattheo’s stomach did something weird. “Her?”

“Yeah, Y/N,” Theo said, nodding toward the Ravenclaw table. “She’s in our classes. Always has a book with her-usually some Muggle thing.”

Mattheo followed Theo’s gaze, and there you were, sitting at the edge of your house’s table, nose tucked deep into a book.

Then, over the next few days, he found himself noticing you everywhere.

In class, he watched how you wrote with a precise hand, the loops at the end of your letters delicate, intentional. He had never paid attention to how people wrote before, but there was something mesmerizing about the way you did.

In the courtyard, he noticed the way you walked-always with books pressed to your chest, a little too lost in thought, always on the verge of bumping into someone.

And in the library-Gods, the library-you were in your element. Tucked away in a quiet corner, curled up in your usual oversized sweater, eyes glued to the pages of yet another Muggle book.

It was your quietness that fascinated him the most. It wasn’t timid-it was purposeful, like a storm contained just beneath the surface. And Mattheo, against all odds, found himself wanting to get caught in it.

-

Mattheo leaned against the edge of the Slytherin table, arms folded, jaw tense. His eyes weren’t on his food, or his housemates, or the usual chaos of the Great Hall. They were on you.

You sat near the end of the Ravenclaw table, half-lit by the enchanted ceiling’s pale morning sky. You were curled slightly toward a thick, well-worn book, completely absorbed, as though the world around you barely existed. Your fork rested untouched beside your plate, forgotten in favor of whatever world you’d escaped into. The soft knit of your uniform sweater hung delicately off one shoulder, and strands of hair fell across your cheek, unnoticed as you turned another page.

You hadn’t even noticed him watching you. You never did.

But Mattheo noticed everything.

The way your thumb smoothed down the page before you turned it. The way you tugged at your sleeve when you were thinking. The small furrow between your brows when the world inside your book grew tense. And he remembered the way your papers had spilled across the corridor floor just days ago-crisp parchment, your ink dark and deliberate, curling loops at the ends of your letters like lace. Muggle literature, from the titles he'd glimpsed. Shakespeare. Woolf. Something about that had lodged itself deep in his mind.

You fascinated him-and that wasn’t something Mattheo Riddle was used to.

“I’m going to talk to her,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute.

The words left him before he’d really meant to speak.

Across from him, Enzo let out a startled choke on his pumpkin juice. Theo, who had been lazily spinning his wand between his fingers, paused mid-twirl to raise an eyebrow.

“Mate,” Theo said slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Why?”

Mattheo kept his arms folded, but there was something different in his eyes-something sharp and uncertain. “Because I want to.”

Enzo snorted. “You want to? Since when do you want to talk to anyone that’s not one of us?”

“She keeps avoiding me,” Mattheo muttered, gaze fixed. “And I don’t get why.”

Theo leaned back, skeptical. “Maybe because you always look like you’re one spell away from setting the room on fire?”

Mattheo’s jaw twitched. “I do not.”

“You made a second-year cry just by looking at him,” Enzo reminded, deadpan.

“That was different.”

Theo gave him a look. “So, what’s your move? Glaring at her until she falls for your brooding charm?”

Mattheo didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets with practiced ease.

“Watch and learn.”

He crossed the Great Hall with purpose, boots echoing off the stone floor. His eyes never left you.

He thought-hoped-that once he was closer, once you saw that he wasn’t all sneers and shadows, maybe you’d stop running. Maybe you’d talk to him.

But the moment he approached, you stilled. It was subtle, but he caught it-the slight rise of your shoulders, the way your hand froze over the page mid-turn.

Then, as if his presence physically repelled you, you snapped your book shut, shoved it into your bag, and left the hall without so much as a glance.

Mattheo stood there, stunned.

His outstretched hand-intended for a casual greeting-hung awkwardly in the air for a beat before he lowered it, his brows pulling together.

“What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath.

From behind, laughter erupted.

Enzo clapped once, mock applause echoing off the walls. “Absolutely majestic effort, Riddle. Smooth as ever.”

Mattheo gritted his teeth. “Piss off.”

—

The next day, he saw his second opportunity.

You were already seated in Charms when he walked in, bag slung over one shoulder, curls messy from the wind. He slid into the desk beside you without hesitation, stretching his arm along the back of the shared bench, leaning slightly in your direction.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking toward you.

You didn’t look up.

But you did go still-again. He could see your fingers tighten around your quill, your shoulders inch higher.

Progress, he thought.

But then, without a word, you stood. Calm. Silent. Collected. You gathered your things, walked three desks down, and resumed your notes like nothing had happened.

Mattheo sat there, blinking at the now-empty space beside him. Dumbfounded.

Theo, seated just behind, leaned forward with a knowing smirk. “Didn’t I literally warn you?”

Mattheo didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, elbows on the desk, jaw clenched as he stared at the back of your head.

—

By the time Transfiguration rolled around, he was growing restless.

When Professor McGonagall paired the two of you together, Mattheo felt something spark in his chest-hope, maybe. Finally, you had to talk to him.

Except, you didn’t.

You barely acknowledged him.

Your spellwork was flawless-each movement practiced and elegant, your flicks precise, your incantations barely whispered. You flipped through your textbook with silent focus, scribbling notes in your neat, looping handwriting.

He watched the way your hand moved, remembered the pages from the corridor floor-the delicate tails at the ends of your letters, the almost lyrical way your words formed.

But still, you never looked at him.

Never spoke.

Mattheo sat there, utterly ignored, watching you move like a storm in a bottle-controlled, contained, distant.

When the class ended, you were out the door before he could stand.

Gone. Again.

He slumped back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.

“She really doesn’t want to talk to me,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Theo, not missing a beat, leaned over from his desk with a smirk. “Looks that way, mate.”

But Mattheo didn’t flinch.

If anything, he looked more determined.

Because now it wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just intrigue. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

You could keep slipping through his fingers.

He’d just learn how to hold on tighter.

-

The library was quiet.

Not the usual, restless hush filled with the soft rustle of parchment or the scratch of quills. No whispered gossip or passing footsteps. This silence was heavier-reverent, almost sacred. The kind of silence that wrapped itself around you like velvet and made even the breath in your lungs feel like an interruption. The kind of silence that didn’t just muffle sound-it devoured it.

And then, there was you.

Curled into the corner of the farthest alcove, half-hidden behind a column of bookshelves. You were nestled into the window seat, the pale winter light spilling across your features, bathing you in a soft, otherworldly glow. Your knees were drawn to your chest, one hand cradling an open book, the other absently tugging at the fraying sleeve of your sweater. You looked like you belonged in another century. Fragile. Untouchable. Entirely unaware of the pair of eyes watching you from the shadows of the aisle.

He looked at you the way all women want to be looked at by a man.

And maybe you didn’t see it-but if you had, it would’ve stopped you in your tracks. Because there was nothing cold or calculating in his gaze. Only awe. Only wonder. As if you were something he’d been searching for without even knowing it.

Mattheo stood perfectly still, the air around him charged with something he couldn’t name. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him here-why his feet had followed your path through the castle, why his eyes had tracked your every movement since that first collision in the corridor.

You had crashed into him like a gust of wind-fast, flustered, unintentional. He could still remember the exact moment: the stack of books tumbling from your arms, the startled widening of your eyes as you met his gaze, your breath catching like you'd touched something hot. He had crouched to help, ready for a soft thank you, maybe even a nervous apology.

But you’d gathered your things in one sweeping motion and disappeared before he could so much as speak. No words. No second glance. Just the scent of parchment and something faintly floral left in your wake.

Since then, it had become a pattern.

You’d appear like clockwork-quiet, consistent, always on the edge of the room. In class, you wrote with a deliberate grace, the ends of your letters curling like ivy. In the courtyard, your fingers were always wrapped around a book, the sleeves of your sweater pulled down past your knuckles. And here, in the library, you sank into the same chair for hours, slipping between chapters like falling through time.

You had always been there.

He just hadn’t seen you.

And now that he had, he couldn’t seem to look away.

He took a careful step forward.

And that’s when your gaze lifted.

Your eyes met his-and something in you stilled. A single heartbeat passed. Then, like a thread snapping, your body went taut. Without a word, you snapped your book shut, gathered your things in practiced efficiency, and vanished between the shelves before he could take another breath.

Mattheo was left in your absence, his pulse racing for no reason he could name.

He dragged a hand through his curls, jaw clenched in frustration-until he saw it.

A book.

Left behind on the table in your rush to escape.

He moved toward it slowly, fingers brushing the cracked spine like it was something sacred. The title was embossed in gold, barely visible beneath the wear of countless readings.

The Great Gatsby. A Muggle book.

His brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, noting the underlined sentences, the faint pencil scribbles in the margins-your handwriting. Gentle loops, soft corrections, small stars drawn next to lines that must have meant something to you. It wasn’t just a book. It was yours.

Mattheo stared down at the worn pages, his mind already spinning with a plan.

If Gatsby had thrown lavish parties just to be seen by Daisy… Then maybe Mattheo Riddle could read Muggle literature to be seen by you.

-

That night, he read.

It started as a way to return your book. But before he realized it, he wasn’t reading for you anymore-he was reading for himself.

The story dug into him. Gatsby wasn’t just hopelessly in love-he was haunted.

Possessed by a past that no longer existed, convinced that if he could just make enough noise, just shine brightly enough, he could pull the future into place. Mattheo understood that. The desperation. The hunger for control over something that would never truly belong to you.

By the time the sky outside began to soften with dawn, Mattheo had devoured every word.

And not just read it-annotated it.

Scribbled thoughts in the margins. Circled sentences. Drew lines between themes like he was cracking a code. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until Enzo’s groggy voice broke the stillness of the dormitory.

“Mate,” Enzo grumbled, squinting through the early light. “What the hell are you doing?”

Mattheo didn’t look up. He just smiled to himself.

-

The next day, he found you again.

You were in the courtyard, your figure half-bathed in sunlight, sitting on a stone bench pressed against a wall covered in ivy. A fresh book in your hands, eyes trained on the pages like you were afraid of what the real world might offer in comparison.

This time, when he approached, your eyes flickered up-and lingered.

You didn’t run.

And that hesitation, that split-second pause, felt like a victory.

He sat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, one leg casually hooked over the other, his arm slung along the back of the bench-not quite touching you, but close enough that you felt the heat of his presence.

“So Gatsby was an idiot,” he said, tone light but calculated.

You blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

He smirked. “Throwing parties for a girl who didn’t even show up? That’s tragic. Pathetic, even.”

You stared at him, brow furrowed, trying to make sense of his presence, of his words, of him.

Mattheo leaned back, eyes fixed on you. “I get it, though. He wanted to be noticed. Thought if he made enough noise, she’d come back to him.” A pause.

“But that’s the thing about fantasies. They only work if you stay asleep.”

You were silent for a beat, the wind brushing strands of hair across your cheek.

“She did love him,” you said softly, gaze drifting back to the page. “Not the way he wanted. But she did.”

Mattheo tilted his head, watching the way your eyes darkened. “Still chose Tom in the end.”

Your hands tightened on your book, jaw set. “You read The Great Gatsby?”

He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Got about twenty pages in and decided to annotate it. Thought maybe it’d help.”

Your lips parted slightly-surprise flickering across your features like light on water.

And then, for the first time, you smiled.

It was barely there, just a soft quirk at the corner of your mouth, but Mattheo felt it like a thunderclap. Like the first warm breeze after a long winter.

And you didn’t run.

Not this time.

[jiminsafairy]

secret encounters- jungkook (bathroom s*x +18)

pairings :waiter!jungkook x reader

summary: in the middle of an awfull date, when the hot waiter gives you a note: 'meet me in the bathroom'. And you don't hesitate to follow him.

warnings: public, unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT GUYSS!!), oral - female and male

wc: 1k

a/n: SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG, but this is based on this ask!! thank you lots for the request, I'd love to hear what you think about it!

You wanted to leave from the moment you arrived at the restaurant. Your date, a finance bro your parents set you up with, hasn’t stopped talking about himself since the appetizers hit the table.

Stocks, crypto, podcasts… you stopped listening five minutes into the date.

You look up. The hot waiter walks past your table. Your eyes meet for half a second before he looks away.

The man you share a table with keeps wrambling. You sip your drink. Glance over again, the waiter refilling waters a few tables over and you make eye contact with him again. When he comes back to your table to refill your cup, his fingers brush yours. You look at him.

“Anything else?” he asks, looking straight at you, not paying any attention to your date.

“I’m good,” you say, almost whispering.

He nods and turns away, but not before sliding a folded piece of paper onto the edge of your plate.

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

You give your date some lame excuse, and get up.

You step into the women’s bathroom, with your pounding like crazy in your chest, and the note clutched tight in your hand. The last stall door is cracked open adn you know he’s waiting.

You push it open and he grabs you instantly, pulling you in with one hand on your waist, the other locking the door. A few instatnt laster, his mouth is on yours. He presses you against the wall, his body tight to yours and hips grinding with zero subtlety.

You break the kiss, "I don’t even know your name."

He smirks, "I'm Jungkook. Now you do."

"Y/N." you whisper back.

"Now we are not strangers anymore." And then you’re kissing again, like you’re the only people in this world.

He drops to his knees shoving up your dress and dragging your panties along your legs. Jungkook spreads your legs and dives in like a man starved, tongue licking through your folds.

Your body shakes as he sucks on your clit and his tongue working filthy circles until your knees almost give up. You cum quick and hard between cries of pleasure.

"My turn." You say.

Dropping to your knees, you unbuckle his belt, and take his underwear down his legs. His cock springs free, leaking due to all the teasing from before.

You give a few slow licks up his length, teasing, then take him into your mouth inch by inch, your tongue swirling around the head.

"Shit…" he breathes, and his hand slides into your hair.

As you work him deeper, his other hand reaches for the top of your dress and you don’t stop him. With one quick movement, he pulls the neckline down, exposing your tits completely.

"God," he groans, staring. "They feel better than they look. I swear I could't stop thinking about them the whole night."

He cups them while you suck him, pressing his thumbs over your nipples, squeezing them in his hands.

"You look so fucking hot like this," he mutters, while you keep sucking, cock still in your mouth. "Pretty tits bouncing while you choke on my cock."

You moan around him, and he tightens his grip in your hair, thrusting deeper. When he pulls you off with a wet pop, you’re gasping for air, lips swollen.

"Turn around. Now."

You do, placing your hands against the stall door. He hikes your dress up again and pulls your panties the rest of the way off, now laying on the floor.

His hands slide up your body, grabbing again at your tits from behind, softly pinching your nipples while his cock grinds against your ass.

"Fuck, these are perfect," he mutters, hands still caressing your tits, "So soft… so big."

He strokes himself once, and lines up.

But before he can thrust in ,the bathroom door creaks open. You hear the sound of heels on the floor, and freeze... but he doesn’t.

While he covers your mouth with one hand and the other is still squeezing your tit, he slides into you with one swift movement. You whimper into his palm, but he doesn’t stop.

"Shh," he whispers in your ear. "You have to stay quiet."

He keeps fucking you with slow but strong thrusts. You try not to let out a cry of pleasure from all that you’re feeling. His hands never change: one at your mouth, the other pinching your nipple.

That’s when the woman in the bathroom flushes and you hear her washing her hands. She 's gone. When you hear the door close, Jungkook grabs your hips, slamming into you harder, tits crashing against the stall door.

"You did so fucking good," he pants. "Took it so quietly… but you wanted to scream, didn’t you?"

You whine, nodding, barely able to speak.

"Let me hear it now."

You cry out as he fucks you deeper and faster. His hand slips between your thighs and finds your clit, rubbing tight circles.

You hit your orgasm with a moan and your legs shaking. He keeps fucking you hard, untill his orgasms hits him, spilling inside you as he preases his forehead to your back. Both of you stay silent.

He pulls out and tucks himself in. While fixing your dress, you meet his eyes in the mirror above the sink. No words needed to understand what happened between you two.

"This never happens. Again." you say to him.

He nods, but when you push open the bathroom door, every part of you already knows: this wasn’t the last time.