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yogirl-willow · 1 day ago

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The Crimson Pact | Part 1

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader ; SoulBond!AU Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again. Parts: Characterizations | Part 2

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, soulbonding without full consent, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, non-graphic threats of harm from a third party (Gwi Ma).

Author's notes: Hey guys! My first fic on Tumblr. I've been deep in a hole for Saja boys x Reader fics and have been inspired by all the ones currently out. Thought I'd give it a go and make my own. This is also just me purely projecting my fantasies (lol). But will post more on this story and will make more parts!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

A Sudden Encounter

You’re just… tired.

You work long shifts at a cramped little gallery café in Hongdae. Your boss forgets to pay you on time. Rent’s due. Your roommate’s a ghost (figuratively). Your family doesn’t call.

It’s not tragic. Just quietly heavy. Most days are filled with the same mundane routine. The stress of adulting weighs in on you most nights making you feel more fatigued than you should.

Your art is the only thing that feels like yours—until it doesn’t. Lately, even your sketches look like someone else’s memories. The past few weeks of downtime have been spent sketching images you vaguely recognize from dreams you forgot you even had.

You walk through life like it’s background noise.

Then, one afternoon, on the way to grab milk and instant ramen…you hear music on the street. Lugging your grocery trolley (because god knows you don’t have the strength to carry a week’s worth of grocery bags on your arms), you spot that a crowd has gathered in the plaza. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement. People are pushing each other to get a view of whatever it was that was making the crowd gather. Curiosity gets the best of you and next thing you know you’re walking towards the center of the square. Grocery trolley rolling behind you. Someone steps on it, warranting a quick “Sorry” and they scurry to the front. You turn your head forward to see whatever it was they desperately wanted to see. You stop.

Up on a raised platform, five boys are dancing in synchronized perfection—colorful outfits, bubblegum pop energy. An infectious song - Soda Pop echoes through the air like sugar and thunder.

You don’t recognize them.

Were they a new group? You don’t recognize their logo, music, or those gorgeous faces singing with melodious voices. But your chest tightens like something ancient is waking up. Their group name: The Saja Boys

Your eyes lock with the leader dancing up front and center. He has a dazzling smile, jet-black hair, and eyes that pin you in place like you’ve just been claimed. The boys were raised on a platform now- a giant soda can that almost made your eyebrows raise if not for the tight feeling in your chest. The song finishes and the boys end in sleek striking poses that have the crowd yelling like mad.

The leader at the center looks up, brushing his shoulder when his eyes lock on you again.

“That’s it for now.”

His talking voice was smooth, like butter. Caressing your ears and your chest tightens further at the unexplainable familiarity. Yearning. You didn’t understand why he sounded familiar to you.

“See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show. Saja Boys love you!”

His gaze doesn’t leave you.

And slowly, the others stop smiling. They’re staring too.

Before you can blink, they vanish into pink smoke.

You stand frozen in the crowd.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t explain it.

And then you rush home, lugging your trolley. Confused, breathless, and unexplainably intrigued.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

They apparate back to their apartment. Jinu immediately sinks to the floor, hands in his hair, distraught.

“It’s her.”

Romance is already pacing the living room, hands fidgeting with his shirt collar. “I thought I was hallucinating.”

Abby growls, his large frame dropping to the sofa. “I felt her heartbeat sync with mine during the bridge.”

Mystery is standing still, fists clenched and whispering to himself, “She’s scared… she doesn’t remember… but she felt it…”

Baby sits in silence. His fist is clenched so hard, blood drips from his palm. His eyes remain wide, shocked, and haunted at the memory of you standing there in modern clothing, staring at him.

“What do we do?” Abby demands. His eyes locked on his open palms on his lap, still in shock. He couldn’t believe it. This could all be a dream. Was it an illusion of Gwi Ma? An attempt to control him again? Haunt him with the memory of you?

“We wait,” Jinu says, biting the nail on his thumb. “We plan.”

Romance smirks. “We charm.”

Mystery growls. “We go to her.”

Baby finally speaks:

“We take her back.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curl up on your couch with a microwaved dinner, phone propped up on a cushion. You don’t normally watch idol shows. But…

You press play.

They’re charming. Playful. Competitive. Too beautiful. Too perfect. You watch them struggle with the hot sauce challenge, lips curling upwards at some of the boys’ faces.

Your chest aches.

You don’t know them. But you can’t look away.

When they joke, you laugh. When they flirt with the camera, your stomach flips. When Baby stares dead into the lens, you freeze.

You watch as Baby wins the spicy challenge, somehow a part of you knew he would. You couldn’t explain why. You watch as Huntrix makes a surprise appearance. You weren’t a crazed fanatic or anything, but you did enjoy their music. When they bowed at each other, a part of your chest ached. You don’t know why, but something didn’t sit well with you seeing the boys interact with the girl group. Why? You had no claim over them. You felt like you were going crazy.

You don’t sleep that night.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Later that night, after filming wraps…

The Saja Boys find themselves ambushed by Huntrix—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira—demon-hunting girls who are too fast, too smart, and too close to the truth.

The boys run, Jinu being caught into a fight with Rumi which leads to him finding out her secret. A Hunter who’s part demon. He gives it some thought as he walks out of the bath house. Then, his thoughts shift to you.

Did you watch the show tonight? What were you doing right now? Did you remember him at all?

Then suddenly he’s pulled into Gwi Ma’s chamber.

Smoke. Fire. Screams locked in stone. The demons are cheering for the boys, now in their demon forms. Gwi Ma sings the chorus of Soda Pop.

“It’s catchy”

He brings up Rumi- the hunter who bears his mark. He tells Jinu he has no control over her. Jinu remains curious, telling him that he can find out her shame and use it against her to bring the Hunters down.

Then, Gwi Ma’s flames rise. The tension in the air thickens.

“However, I sense that you’ve lost your focus,” the Demon king hisses. The other boys are suddenly brought up to his throne.

His flames grow —and conjures a mirage image of you, asleep in bed, cheek pressed to your pillow. The boys tense at the image of you. Their anger rises. They don’t like that you’re being presented to them like this- in front of all demons to see. Of course- everyone else in the Demon realm had an inkling- an idea of what you were to the five. It was unspoken, a rumor that spread throughout the years that they had tied their ancient souls to a human hundreds of years ago. But no details of that pact had been known. And now, the boys were livid as every demon knew your face.

Abby grit his teeth, immediately standing and stepping forward. He didn’t want any other demons seeing you, gazing at what was his. “Don’t-!”

Jinu grabbed his shoulder back, willing his friend to calm down, even though he was struggling to contain his own anger.

“That girl... she’s a problem. A distraction.”

The boys bristle, their jaws clenched as they see the demon king’s image of you. You- who was so precious to them. Jinu steps forward, eyes hard. “She is ours. You made it so. The pact cannot be undone.”

Gwi Ma’s image of you faded and the boys all visibly relaxed, though still tense. Gwi Ma spoke once again, voice teasing. “You remember, don’t you, Jinu? How you came crawling to me, weeping like a child the moment she died in your arms.

You begged me to bring her back. But I gave you something better.

A deal.

Bind four others to her soul. Trap their power. Anchor her across lifetimes—and I’d let her return.

And you did it.

You found them. Broken little things. Monsters like you. You forced the bond. You made her the center of your madness.

You cursed her to be wanted. Needed. Torn apart by obsession.

All for what? To share her? To watch her slip through your fingers again and again?”

The boys visibly grew more tense with every word he uttered. Romance grit his teeth, and Baby’s nails dug so deep into his palms they began to bleed. They were monsters who desperately clung to the only light they had. Demons who tainted the purest thing they had ever laid eyes on. The guilt. The shame. All weigh heavy on their hearts, but not as heavy as their deep desire for you.

Gwi Ma continued. “No matter how close she gets… she’ll never truly be yours.

But if you succeed—if you finish what I told you to—maybe I’ll give her to you.

All of you.

For good.”

Their heads snapped up at that. Disbelief and false hope gleaming in their yellow demon eyes.

Gwi Ma’s flames shift to a smile as he saw their non-subtle desperation. “Then here’s my offer.”

“Succeed. Harvest the souls before the Honmoon seals, bring down the hunters. Do your job. And I’ll let her live.” “Fail… and I rip her from the cycle. She’ll never be reborn again.”

The boys snap their heads up. Shock, desperation, and fury ablaze on their faces. He wouldn’t dare. The boys don’t speak. But silent thoughts race through their heads. They wouldn’t have to wait centuries for you? All the endless years of loneliness and suffering… if they succeeded, they’d be gone. And you would be theirs. Fully. No more dying, no more waiting. Theirs, for all eternity.

The offer was weighing heavy in their minds. But it wasn’t even a question. How far would they go to have you? The answer was that there were no limits. No lines they wouldn’t cross. No world they wouldn’t burn to keep you.

They just kneel, a silent agreement.

They’ve waited centuries. They can wait a little longer.

But this time, they won’t just protect you.

They’ll possess you.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys had apparated back to their apartment. The five of them sat in the dark.

No music. No lights. Just the faint glow of Seoul’s skyline bleeding through the penthouse windows.

None of them have spoken since returning from Gwi Ma’s chamber. They had all collectively agreed to his offer. If it meant having your relationship with them out of Gwi Ma’s hands, you being finally safe, untouched, your soul free to be with them for eternity. They would do anything.

Until Abby breaks the silence.

“She looked cold in that vision.”

He’s leaning forward, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are white. What he would give to keep you warm all night. You’d never be cold again.

“She should’ve been with us.”

Romance sighs, pacing by the glass doors. “She probably doesn’t even remember us. We’re strangers to her.”

“Then make her remember,” Baby says flatly from the couch. “Tie her down if we have to.”

Mystery lets out a quiet sigh from the corner, curled up with one of your old scarves he stole last lifetime.

“She was crying last night. I felt it.” “She misses us,” he says. “Even if she doesn’t know why. She sees us in dreams”

The boys listen to Mystery’s words, hanging onto everything and anything he said you could feel. Because of who he was in one of your past lives, Mystery had always been able to sync into your feelings and thoughts. Not word for word, just general senses. He had always had that connection with you.

Jinu finally speaks.

“We need a plan.”

He stands, back straight, voice low and sharp.

“No chaos. No claiming. Not yet. We woo her. Win her. Make her feel safe.”

Abby growls, frustrated. “I don’t want to pretend. I want to take her.”

“So do I,” Jinu says. “But not if it means she runs.”

They all quiet.

Then, one by one, they nod.

You will be theirs in time.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You don’t know why you’re out this late.

You tell yourself you just wanted a snack. That the lights on the street calm you. That the buzz in your chest has nothing to do with a certain boyband whose eyes haunt your sleep.

Then—

“Y/N?”

You turn.

Jinu.

Perfect face. Soft eyes. Loose black hoodie over designer jeans. Hair slightly messy like he just stepped out of a dream you forgot.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “Just… recognized you.”

You blink.

Why does his voice feel like velvet around your bones? And why did he know your name?!

You were cautious, nervous. Heart beating rapidly in your chest. As if Jinu could sense it, his expression softened.

“How- how do you know my name?”

He smiles, and it’s sad. His eyes holding a deep fondness and longing. “Because it’s the only name that ever mattered to me.”

Your head spun. The boys watched as your eyes began to glow crimson. There was a FLASH in your memory A vision: Jinu in a silk hanbok, reaching for you beneath a blood moon.

Suddenly, he’s not alone. Romance is beside you—offering you a book from your wishlist. You take it with shaky hands. “Because I’ve been whispering it for hundreds of years.”

Another FLASH— you see a vision of Romance kissing your fingers while you cry.

Abby’s on your other side, handing you your lost scarf. It had gone missing a couple days ago. How- “Because I’ve never stopped saying it… even when you weren’t alive to hear it.” FLASH - you see a vision of Abby’s hands covered in blood as he shields you from a blade.

Mystery’s behind you, warm fingers brushing your coat sleeve. “Because I’ve known it longer than you have.” FLASH — you see Mystery curled around your legs like a fox.

What the hell is going on. You blink, trying to get a hold of yourself. You look up to see Baby… watching. From across the street. Silent. Still. Dangerous. A final FLASH — and there’s a vision of Baby dragging bodies away from your feet in a firelit palace.

Your heart thuds.

Your knees wobble.

And your breaths come out quick, and short in panic. You’re confused, disoriented. It was all too much. What were these visions? Memories? Of them? The boys watch your eyes flicker from crimson to their original color. Romance reached out to hold your unsteady frame.

They all feel it. The bond. The flare. The unraveling.

Mystery lets out a soft growl and nuzzles your shoulder.

“She’s remembering,” he murmurs, shaking. “She’s starting to remember.”

Romance brings his head close, voice low. “We missed you. So much it drove us mad.”

Abby’s breathing hard. “You smell like home. I forgot what that felt like.”

Baby hasn’t moved—but his eyes are black. Pure black. He’s seconds from grabbing you.

Jinu steps forward, hand raised between you all.

“Stop,” he warns. “She’s scared.”

You’re trembling. Every inch of you is on fire.

You want to cry. You want to run. You want to fall into their arms and never leave.

“Who… who are you?” you whisper. “What do you want with me?”

Abby takes one step forward.

“We’re yours.”

Jinu holds him back. “No. Abby wait-

“You were ours,” Romance says softly. “You will be again.”

You stumble back.

“No—no, this isn’t—this can’t be—!” Your head is swimming with confusion. Fear. You look into each of their eyes finally, and what you see chills you to the bone.

Not human eyes. These eyes glowed amber and topaz. They held so much hunger, longing, and desperation.

It was all too much. You back away.

You run.

Your footsteps echo into the alley, breath caught between sobs and confusion.

The boys don’t chase you.

They watch.

Longing. Rage. Need.

Mystery whines.

Baby’s fists clench.

“We scared her,” Jinu says bitterly. He at least expected you to remember. Be more open to the memories flooding back. It was a hopeless optimism, he realized. “We were supposed to make her feel safe!” He growled in frustration. He knew it was also his fault. He rushed in too quick. They all did. Lost a bit of their control.

“So what now?” Abby growls.

Romance’s head is still turned to the direction you ran. He smiles, twisted.

“Now?” he says.

“We seduce her.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You don’t remember getting home.

You slammed the door. Threw off your coat. You locked it. Bolted it. And now you’re curled on the floor beside your bed, shaking.

Your heartbeat won’t slow down.

You’re not crying because you're sad.

You’re crying because you’re losing your mind.Every time you close your eyes… you see them.

Jinu in royal silk, kneeling in the blood of a courtyard.

Romance weeping beside a poisoned lake.

Abby screaming your name over battlefield smoke.

Mystery growling at priests trying to drag you away.

Baby, holding your corpse in a burning room, smile cracked wide and broken.

“These aren’t mine,” you whisper. “These aren’t my memories.”

But they feel like yours.

And deep inside your chest, something ancient is waking.

You’re curled under the blankets now. Mind haunted and sleep follows.

Unbeknown to you, five figures had followed you home and now stare at your sleeping form from your balcony. Convincing themselves they just wanted to make sure you got home safe.

But deep down they knew their reasons were more selfish in nature.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── Author's note: Let me know if you guys enjoyed this? I plan to expand more into the backstories as their relationship develops. I've got characterizations up just for a teaser that I might post tonight. :) With love, Willa x.

#saja boys x reader #saja boys #kpop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #jinu x reader #abby x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #baby x reader #yandere #yandere saja boys #kpdh #jinu kpdh #kpdh x you

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jacksabbotts · 2 days ago

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✧ cold storage — ❪ part two ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . after jack’s furious outburst in the morgue, you can’t sit with the silence—or the guilt. even with no space left and no backup available, you wheels a stretcher up to the er yourself, determined to prove you are doing your job. what follows is a quiet, desperate attempt to avoid confrontation while making things right even if it means handling four dead bodies alone. . ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! \ age gap ( reader is late 20s, jack is late 40s ) \ medical setting ( hospital/morgue ) \ mentions of corpses / dead bodies / autopsy prep \ death discussed clinically \ anxiety / overthinking / spiraling thoughts \ harsh tone from a superior ( prior scene reference ) \ self-isolation / emotional suppression \ physical overexertion / self-neglect \ internalized guilt \ negative self-talk \ touch aversion ( mild )

main masterlist | series masterlist | join the taglist | inbox | dividers by @cafekitsune

you pressed the button for the third floor.

the elevator doors closed too slowly.

your hands were clammy around the collapsible gurney handle, your palms sticking to the rubber grip as the platform shuddered into motion. you hated these elevators—how loud they were, how long they took, how the lights overhead always buzzed like they were about to die.

you hated this entire decision.

but you were doing it anyway.

because it had been an hour since he stormed out and the silence was unbearable.

you’d refreshed your email inbox eight times. no response from admin. no pickup update from the funeral home. no call from your boss the medical examiner, who was likely asleep and blissfully unaware of the fact that the basement morgue was packed full and you were about to try and make room for four more.

this was stupid.

there was no room.

but the idea of him—jack abbot—still believing you weren’t doing your job? that you were down here eating lentil soup while patients bled out upstairs?

it gnawed at you. it rotted you.

so you brought the gurney. the elevator dinged at every floor like it was mocking you. you exhaled slowly. in through the nose. out through the mouth.

okay. just apologize. simple. direct. professional.

you tried again, whispering under your breath :

'dr. abbot, i just wanted to say i’m sorry again for the delay—'

no. too stiff. too scripted.

'i know it’s not ideal, but i’m doing my best to keep things moving—'

too defensive.

'i didn’t mean to make things harder for you, i just—'

too pathetic.

the elevator stopped at the second floor. no one got in. you swallowed hard. tried again.

'it’s just me downstairs. i’ve been trying to manage everything as best i can. i should’ve escalated the situation sooner. i’m really, truly sorry—'

and then maybe he’d say—

no.

no, don’t imagine what he’ll say.

you weren’t good at that.

jack didn’t follow scripts. he didn’t talk like anyone else. he didn’t even look at you like anyone else did—and you weren’t sure if that was good or bad yet. all you knew was that when his voice had filled that cold little morgue, something inside you had snapped in half.

no matter which version you picked, they all made your stomach twist. none of them sounded right. none of them felt like enough.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you shouldn’t be making space for four new bodies. but the funeral home had come through early—just two pickups, but enough to buy you drawer room and a single empty table.

you could’ve waited for security to bring them down.

but part of you didn’t want to look like you were hiding.

the elevator dinged.

the doors opened into fluorescent light and barely-controlled chaos. someone shouted a room number. monitors beeped down the hall. a paramedic wheeled in a gurney while two residents followed, talking too fast.

you slipped into the corner like a shadow, trying to make yourself as small as possible as you scanned the room for him.

jack wasn’t there.

your shoulders dropped an inch. not in relief. not quite. you’d been bracing for impact. now you didn’t know what to do with the leftover adrenaline.

you angled your stretcher toward bay two—the furthest from the main desk, where the most recent doa had been placed. you could be fast. quiet. invisible.

'hey!'

you flinched.

dana. you didn't know her, but you know of.

of course, things could never go the way you planned them.

she strode over from the central desk, still in her navy compression top and trauma boots, a clipboard tucked under one arm. 'your the new morgue tech, right? you’re here for the stiffs?' she asked, jerking her head toward the curtain. 'jack's gonna lose his mind. he’s been bitching for hours.'

you couldn't help the rumbling in your stomach as dana referred to dr. abbot as jack. were they really that close? they seemed close in age and had the same no fuck around attitude. but you supposed it wasn't any of you business and nodded.

you nodded quickly, eyes darting toward the er entrance. 'great, i'll just get him so he can sign the transfer papers,' she turned to walk away and you stopped her with what could only be defined as a mouse peep.

'um. could you just give him the papers after i leave? i'll sign them and everything.'

dana blinked. 'why?'

you hesitated for a moment, probably trying to come up with a believable lie. 'he’s busy. he doesn’t need to worry about . . . something that’s just my job.'

she raised an eyebrow. 'you sure? he’s been chewing everyone out about this. if i tell him you’ve got space—'

'please,' you said again, more firmly. 'it’s okay, really. he needs to worry about the live ones, i've got the dead ones.' you immediately wince at your phrasing but don't say anything else.

dana looked at you for a beat too long. her expression softened slightly. 'alright, morgue girl. holler if you need any help.'

you nodded.

she patted your shoulder once—light, but enough to make you tense—and turned away without another word.

you exhaled slowly.

your hands were trembling again, just a little. the unexpected social interaction was a little more draining than you had anticipated. you adjusted your grip on the stretcher and moved toward the curtain, telling yourself you’d be gone in five minutes.

tops. no conversations. no confrontations. and absolutely no Jack, if you could help it. just a job. you were good at your job.

you took them down one at a time.

no one offered to help—not because they were cruel, but because you didn’t ask. the er was busy, and you didn’t want to pull anyone away from the living. besides, you were used to it. the elevator was slow, and the stretchers stuck sometimes when you turned them, but you managed. you always managed.

by the time you returned with the fourth body, your shoulders ached and your hands were stiff around the rails. you were sweating under your scrubs, even in the chill of the morgue—but the work gave your mind something to focus on. something that wasn’t jack abbot or the echo of his voice in your head.

the funeral home had picked up two earlier—unclaimed cases from last week. that gave you just enough room to do what needed doing, if you were smart about it.

and you were always smart about it.

you turned the thermostat down as far as it would go. the whole morgue shivered in response—cold creeping into the corners like frostbite, numbing the walls, the vents, your fingers. you didn’t mind. you preferred it that way. like a walk-in freezer, steady and sterile.

you slid the first two onto the autopsy tables. not ideal, but manageable. you pulled the vinyl covers over them and laid their charts on the tray beside each one. you’d process them later, when things were quiet again.

the third went between the file cabinets.

you’d cleared that space before—back when the coolers were under repair. it wasn’t perfect, but it was dark and low and close to the vents. the cold pooled there. it would hold.

the last body took the most time.

there was nowhere left.

you looked around the room, scanning every corner, every shadow, until your gaze landed on the empty gurney beside your desk.

it wasn’t even a decision. just motion. you rolled it forward, locked the brakes, and transferred the body as gently as you could. you covered them. labeled the tag. added a note to the chart.

then sat down.

right there. at your desk. beside the dead.

it didn’t bother you.

not really.

you’d always been good at compartmentalizing. at pretending you were part of the quiet. part of the stillness. being surrounded by the dead was no different than being surrounded by filing cabinets or lab equipment. they didn’t need you to make conversation. they didn’t expect you to smile.

the body beside your desk wasn’t a person anymore.

just paperwork.

just weight.

you rubbed your fingers, cracked from the cold, and jotted down notes in your log. your breath fogged the air.

you didn’t know what time it was.

you didn’t think about jack.

not directly.

but your hands trembled when you reached for the next file.

just a little.

🔖 . @princesssunderworld @mayabbot @imherefordeanandbones @arigoldsblog @oldmanbunnylover @i-mushi @autumnleaves1991-blog @lovelexi717 @peggyofoz @qtmoonies @nfwmb-gvf @britt217 @babybatreads @cheekym8s @bitteroceanlove @spooky-librarian-ghost @dr-yapper @yutasgem @keseqna @gardeniarose13 @witchbitchlovesdilfs @sotragedynut @robbyrosierobinavitch @anglophileforlife @flyinglama @reignbooks8506 @kmc198899-blog @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @chuiisi @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv @shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon @lumpypoll @coldmuffinbanditshoe @blueliketheseaa @justfaefaeee @sweetdayme4427 @404creep ( if you user is white, that means i could not tag you. i copy and pasted usernames straight from the forms so if you would like to send another form with the updated username you are welcome to do so 🫶😁 the link is above )

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x morgue tech!reader #morgue tech!reader #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #the pitt #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you

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gojoest · 2 days ago

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the strongest softest heart — gojo satoru

part of papatoru days

gojo satoru is untouchable — or so everyone thinks. but when the birth of his daughter flips his world upside down, even the strongest sorcerer finds himself unraveling in the best way possible

f!reader, girl dad!satoru, petnames (baby, sweetness), mention of childbirth (non-graphic), hospital setting, satoru faints during labor, he’s the softest dad ever, suguru + shoko + nanami + fist-year trio cameo

Nobody would believe you if you told them that your husband, Gojo Satoru, can actually panic.

Most people who’ve met him would describe him in a strangely consistent way: loud, cocky, and infuriatingly confident. A man who walks into a room and somehow fills it with his ego before he even opens his mouth. He’s the strongest — and yes, he knows it. Which, on its own, is enough to drive people mad. He grins when others are irritated, teases them when they’re serious, and brushes off concern like it’s nothing more than a boring lecture.

To most, he’s arrogant. Unshakeable and untouchable — not just in strength, but in heart. Gojo Satoru doesn’t play by the rules, and more often than not, he doesn’t respect them either. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bend, doesn’t let anything break past that blinding, boyish smile.

So naturally, if you told people that Satoru fainted during labor, they’d look at you like you were trying to convince a grown adult that Santa was real.

But it’s true.

Only those who were there at the hospital could confirm it — because, of course, the moment your water broke, Satoru called everyone. Suguru, Shoko, Nanami, his students…He didn’t even try to play it cool and, unfortunately for him, they were all present when the nurses had to roll him out on a stretcher.

In his defense, it wasn’t immediate. He was doing fine at first, holding your hand, breathing in sync with you, whispering encouragement through gritted teeth as if he could will your pain away. Then the doctor said: “The head is crowning” — and for some reason (of course) Satoru peeked.

One second, he was squeezing your hand and calling you a superhero. The next, he was flat on the floor.

And since Satoru is not a small man, getting him out of the way took six people and a whole lot of muttering.

But he bounced back quickly. Stubborn as ever, he came back into the room just in time to hold your hand again as you pushed, his face pale and lips trembling from all the emotions swirling in his chest. You’re pretty sure you left bruises on his knuckles — and maybe even dug your nails in a little too hard — but all he said was: “Don’t worry, baby. Take all your pain out on me. It’s my fault you’re going through this anyway, sweetness.”

He tried to joke, but his voice cracked with every word. Satoru didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from the sheer weight of it all. So he did both.

And the people who were there — the ones who thought they knew Gojo Satoru inside and out — they all saw it. Because no one had ever seen him cry. Well. Except for once, and now — two times.

The first was on your wedding day. When you walked down the aisle in white — radiant and glowing — something in him cracked. The bravado, the smirks, the untouchable facade all crumbled the moment he realized this was real. You were going to be his. For real. For life. And when the tears came, they weren’t loud or messy. They were quiet, but raw. The kind of tears that stunned everyone into silence. Some still say it didn’t happen, but you know the truth. You were the one holding his shaking hands at the altar. You saw the way he looked at you — like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.

And… the second time was now.

When they placed your daughter in his arms for the first time — tiny and screaming her lungs out — something inside him broke again. But this time, it wasn’t panic. It was wonder. Awe. A love so huge and overwhelming it knocked the wind out of him, and he laughed through the tears while the baby was crying against his chest as if she recognized his heartbeat.

He had never felt so fragile, yet so powerful at the same time. And in that moment, Satoru knew — this is what he was born to protect. You and her. This is why he can’t lose and this is why he has to come back home. Every time. No matter what.

Outside the delivery room, the hallway was uncharacteristically quiet. Nanami stood with his arms crossed, his jaw tight but his expression soft. Shoko was nursing a coffee with red-rimmed eyes. Suguru stood quietly with his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the delivery room door. Yuuji kept blowing his nose into a tissue. Nobara had unironically threatened to kill anyone who laughed at Satoru. Megumi stood stone-faced near the door, though his eyes kept flicking back to the crib ID card the nurse had set aside, as if trying to memorize the baby’s name, weight, and height.

And then, the door cracked open.

Satoru stepped out into the hallway, his newborn daughter cradled gently against his chest while the doctors finished cleaning you up and preparing to move you to recovery. He couldn’t wait — he had to show them. His miracle. His pride. His entire heart bundled up in a tiny blanket. His hair was messier than usual, eyes suspiciously red, and his hands still trembling just slightly. He looked like a man who had just witnessed the universe being rewritten — and was holding proof of it in his arms.

There was silence.

Then—

“Someone take a picture”, Shoko whispered. “I need proof that Gojo Satoru actually has tear ducts.”

Suguru blinked, awestruck. “She’s even tinier than I imagined.”

“She’s perfect”, Yuuji sniffled. “And sensei is going to spoil her so bad— hic—sniff”

Nobara tilted her head, staring at the baby with a complicated expression before cracking a smile. “She better grow up with my fashion sense! I’m not letting Gojo dress her like a walking blindfold.”

“If he buys her sunglasses, I’m leaving”, Megumi added dryly.

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “Another girl who can make Gojo Satoru lose his head. Impressive.”

Satoru just beamed. Eyes full of tears and pride and love, as he looked at the tiny girl in his arms. “Yeah”, he said softly. “She’s going to ruin me.”

And everyone knew it was true.

#ઈઉ — ai writes #[ ♡ ] — satoru #papatoru days #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #gojo satoru fluff #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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miajooz · 2 days ago

Text

Lectures in Lust ⋆˙⟡

overview ⋆˙⟡ you’re a new professor at a nursing school you had been wanting to lecture at for years. the college’s reputation was phenomenal—and so was yours. the only issue was the school chancellor and president of the college, who clearly had an eye for you.

warnings ⋆˙⟡ all AFAB, threesome, voyeurism, exhibitionilism if you squint, vibrator usage (caitlyn and reader receiving), oral (vi receiving), strap usage (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving) swearing, praise, degrading, slight humiliation, power dynamics. the beginning is kind of unserious..MINORS AND MEN DNI!!

⋆˙⟡ 7.5k words

You didn’t know where this whole shit show started. Neither of you did.

Neither? Vi and yourself, of course.

You wanted to teach at a college for as long as you could remember, something about helping students grow into functional beings in society was appealing to you. More so, since you had chosen to specialize in teaching students in medical school. To think these people would go on to save lives? What a valuable thing to provide.

To say you took your job seriously was an understatement. After all, you worked so hard to get here. Flirting attempts from students? Turned down. Attempts made by your coworkers? Most of them turned down.

Right, most. Because there was Vi.

Vi was the chancellor at the college you worked at, just below the president. She had the kind of personality that made you hate her and become obsessed with her at the same time. She was cocky when she could be, sleeves always rolled up as if she owed people something. But maybe it was the other way around.

In her eyes, she owed you things. Maybe owing is the the correct word, maybe she wanted to give you things. Maybe you picked that up when you caught her staring at your ass in the break room, or how her eyes seemed to wander during meetings or presentations you attended. No matter where you were in that building, you could feel her eyes.

Did you owe her something?

Maybe you should’ve thought twice when you never turned her down, never gave her that stern face the same way you did with your colleagues. You should’ve thought about it when you let her put her hand on your waist, when her breath ghosted over your neck like a promise, when she lead you into her office and took you right there on her desk.

But something about the riskiness was what made it so addicting. Your job was on the line, but how could you possibly resist her?

You couldn’t. You couldn’t because she was simply irresistible. And it wasn’t just one time you failed to turn her down, it wasn’t one time you let her fuck you in that office like it was her real job. Not even the second.

That’s when they started—the hookups.

It was strange, they never got taken outside of the work place. It was always in her office, she’d find reasons to call you in. She’d tell the president that she needed to scold you for something, that she needed to help you adjust your lectures in a productive way. It was a stupid excuse, but you were oblivious to her stupidity somehow.

But all of it was stupid, who in their right mind would lie to the president? No, not Caitlyn Kiramman. Especially not when she was suspicious.

It was after hours, you did your lectures—two to be exact. The papers you needed to grade were collecting dust in your file cabinet—they were not your first priority. They’d have to wait, because you weren’t in your lecture room.

Like routine, you were in Vi’s office.

She was riskier today, maybe that was the issue. Too giddy and her smile too sly to not have any meaning behind it. She was sitting on her chair, strap attached to her body and thighs spread. She was kissing your neck, not leaving any hickeys but kissing it hard enough to make you worry.

You were on top of her, silicone stuffed deep inside you. Your shirt was unbuttoned far enough so Vi could see your bra, panties slipped to the side carelessly to make room for the toy giving you an unfair amount of bliss. Your moans were uncontrollable, short gasps leaving you with every bounce of your hips. She was kissing your insides, making your whole status look like a joke as you rode her like you needed it.

And you did, you did need it. And maybe it was the power dynamic that got you off. The chancellor fucking you like this? Your higher up? Shameful.

Vi smiled against your neck, shushing you but thrusting her hips up particularly hard to make you squeal. It worked in her favor, she let her tongue glide across your skin sensually before kissing up your jawline. She looked at you, ring covered fingers digging into the plush of your ass and moving you how she wanted you to.

“Shh, quiet down baby.” she murmured, letting one hand wander away from your ass. she brought it up to your lips middle and ring finger prodding at your lips. “Open up for me, sweet girl.” she said lowly, looking at you expectantly.

You moaned in response, a desperate sound that bounced off the walls and hit you right in the gut—where the shame and embarrassment settled itself. But you still obeyed, lips parting just enough so she could slide her fingers into your mouth. You sucked the digits, lifting your hips up and slamming back down onto her dick. You gasped and let out a weak cry against her fingers, the muffled sound made her laugh.

“That’s it, quiet down for me. Want the president to know what a slut you are?” she asked condescendingly. When you didn’t respond, she slapped your ass with the hand that was still there, eliciting a weak whine out of you. “Don’t be a brat. Be a good girl and answer me, mhm?”

She took her fingers out of your mouth, loving the way your tongue tried to cling to them. You let out a strangled moan, trying to form a coherent thought. “N-no ma’am, I don’t want..her to know.” you managed between gasps, cunt spasming wildly around he silicone stretching you out. It was the good stretch, the kind that was wet and clung.

“You don’t want her to know what, sweetheart?” she questioned, slapping your ass again but harder. “If you wanna be vague so bad maybe I shouldn’t be helping you out. But, fuck. I can’t resist you.” another thrust up had you huffing and whining even more, you couldn’t control the sounds flowing out of your mouth like an endless stream.

“I don’t—fuck! I don’t..want the president to know what a s-slut I am!” you cried out, feeling her hands wander towards your hips to bounce you on her dick again. You were a mess, trying to muffle sounds into her shoulder but to no avail. But it was already too late.

“You don’t want me to know? I think I have a good idea of that already.”

Fuck.

A voice in the doorway, a voice anybody in that building could recognize. Caitlyn Kiramman: the president. The woman who wore professionalism in both her demeanor and her style. Her whole essence was laced with it, something that made your chest tighten when you were near it.

Your stomach practically dropped to your ass, you even heard Vi’s breath hitch but she was far more relaxed than you were. You turned your head, eyes wide and lips parted. No attempts to move were made, you felt like a deer in headlights. She just stared at you, watching, judging, observing—it all made your skin crawl so uncomfortably.

“Ma’am, holy shit I—“ you started

“—You should head home. We can talk about this another time.” she said calmly, too calm. She fixed her glasses, eyes darting towards the woman who was under you. “Vi, come in my office when you get this handled.”

That was it, she left just like that. You both sat there panting, silicone still inside you. Your pussy clamped around it, greedily begging for more but not receiving anything. You were horrified, absolutely mortified. How the hell were you supposed to keep your job now? The job you were so serious about. You might as well have signed you soul away and laid down in a casket.

Even Vi’s bed didn’t sound as great as a casket. The bed you never got to be in.

Vi let out a short laugh, patting your hips softly. “We’re in deep shit, baby. You still wanna finish?” she asked casually, kissing your jawline as if nothing happened. your heart was racing from both the gesture and what just happened.

You hesitated. So much shit happened..but she was already inside you, right? What was there to lose! “..Yeah.”

Yeah. Definitely a slut.

For two days it was silent, absolute crickets. Vi didn’t call you into her office, you still had your job, and Caitlyn hadn’t said a word to you about the situation. She sent you an email, though. It was so you could present the powerpoint you made a week ago to her to convince her to let you teach an upcoming lecture a certain way. More hands on experience would be valuable, you just had to get the permission.

To say you were terrified was an understatement. You were under the impression that this was just the calm before the storm, the build up to everything you worked for to come crashing down right in front of you.

Yet you were somehow so far off.

You got an email while you were grading late, assuming it was a student, you opened it. No, it was Caitlyn. Your heart dropped like the day you got caught on top of Vi, breath hitching and stuttering before you even read the contents of the message. She asked you to come to her office to discuss some things and so you could present your project. Seriously, you both knew what it was! Couldn’t she just specify and say ‘we need to discuss how the only thing that’s going to be fucked as of recently will be your career, you harlot.’

Nonetheless, you pushed yourself away from your desk and stood, legs shaking and breath caught. You grabbed your laptop, stuffed it in a bag, and slung it over your shoulder. This was the going to be moment you lost everything you worked for—just because you decided to fool around with the unfairly hot chancellor.

The walk to her office could only be described as torturous. You felt as though the walls were closing in and the floors had eyes. The windows were shameful reflections that reminded you who you were. A professor, and maybe a slut. Maybe? Who gave you this confidence?

You knocked once, opening the door and clearing your throat. You turned around fully to shut the door behind you, that way you could avoid eye contact for a second less.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Odd..that wasn’t Caitlyn’s voice. It was Vi’s—what the hell was she doing in here with you? Perhaps getting chewed out like you were about to be? You looked up and saw her standing, though she was standing behind Caitlyn’s chair.

Caitlyn looked you up and down and hummed, manufactured hand raising to adjust her glasses. The glasses that sat on her face like a seal, a seal and repellant to bullshit and shame.

Maybe not..since you were standing before her.

“Miss Kiramman,” you began “I have the presentation. But first, I want to say I am so, so—“

“—So, I see you’ve been sleeping with the chancellor?” she questioned, though it was just a fact. She tended to interrupt a lot, it was evident how she didn’t want to hear you spew bullshit excuses.

You cleared your throat, placing your arms behind your back as if to look professional. As if you hadn’t already fucked yourself over. And if Vi didn’t have the most cocky expression—she probably got herself out of this mess. Maybe they were sleeping together too?

Did you fuck the president’s girl? Shit!

“Yes, ma’am. But I swear, it was only a one time thing.” you tried to explain, hands trembling behind you.

Caitlyn raised her eyebrow, hands folding on the desk professionally. “Six times, darling.” she said flatly, eyes halfway narrowed.

“What?” you questioned, earning a scoff from Vi in the back. Oh, this cunt.

“Six times I’ve heard you or seen you with Vi.” she said, watching the way your face went pale with a blank expression. “If you’re going to lie to me, at least be believable.”

How did you manage to fuck yourself over even more? At that point you accepted your fate and kept your head low.

“Yes, yes..that’s true. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what else to say.” you mumbled, hands fidgeting nervously behind your back.

“So sheepish now, huh? You weren’t that way in my office.” Vi said, fingers tapping the top of Caitlyn’s leather chair. Caitlyn’s face didn’t even twitch, her face stoic and professional like always. But there was something deeper. Something deeper in her eyes, deeper in the way she composed herself.

But something was different in the room as well. Where was the anger in her tone? All of it was very straight forward, which made you wonder. Though you didn’t have time to wonder. You never did.

“You’re a smart girl. It makes me wonder why you’d do something so stupid.” Caitlyn said, still no real bite to her tone.

Vi patted her on the shoulder, eying you like she usually did. “Come on, doc. Get to the point. You had that presentation for us, yeah?”

You nodded feverishly, scrambling to take your laptop out of the bag you had it in. You carried it over to some side table, logging in and sending Caitlyn some information. It was a visual aid for your presentation, since you wanted to show graphs and whatnot. She pulled it up, projecting it on the screen behind you and to the left—to which you shuffled over to.

With a ridiculous amount of nerves settled in your stomach, you cleared your throat and began speaking. “Well, for the next topic I’m teaching..I wanted to incorporate some more hands on experience.”

You started off shaky, but eventually you leveled yourself. You pointed at the images, showing graphs and statistics you thought would matter. But while you were looking away, Vi moved. By the time you looked forward, she moved behind you. You only noticed when you felt her breath ghost over the skin on your neck, the hairs standing up and a surprised gasp leaving you. There was a hand sliding up and down your hip, slow and measured.

When you paused, Caitlyn looked at you expectantly. She looked stern, but you could see how the edges of her lips were curved into something like a smile.

She was amused. What the hell was this?

“Keep going. I don’t have all day.” she stated, clicking to the next slide from her computer. “You wanted to speak, so speak.”

You let out some weak noise, looking at Vi with a raised eyebrow but not saying anything. It was humiliating how you weren’t trying to be professional. No, because you were leaning into her touch. Your hips were bucking up and back into her hands, breath shaky the same way it was when you’d follow her into her office—all of it.

Vi kept her eyes trained on you, her face so close that her glasses bumped against your cheek. Yet, you continued talking, continued leaning against her.

Well, you continued to talk until it almost became impossible. Vi’s hands were all over you, and her hand placements were getting even riskier. One hand was on your ass, the other still on your hip. The sheer neediness you felt made you moan in response, interrupting you mid sentence. You looked between Caitlyn and Vi nervously, were you really expected to keep talking?

“Come on, doc. Teach it to us, be convincing.” Vi whispered in your ear, “The president is watching, sweetheart. I suggest you keep talking.”

You tried, you really did. But when she surprised you with a kiss on the neck you couldn’t take it anymore. It was scenic the way you were panting at that point, eyes desperate. “Ma’am, I can’t present like this—please.” you pleaded, unsure what you were pleading for. Probably something like sweet relief, not a break.

Caitlyn raised her eyebrow at you, taking off her glasses for a moment and cleaning the lenses with a cloth. “Do you want Vi to fuck you?” she asked bluntly, the question making you shiver.

“What?”

“I don’t like to repeat myself, you heard what I said.”

You paused, looking at her with wide eyes and slightly parted lips. Of course you wanted that, you were so desperate you had been hooking up with Vi—you wanted her. Especially now when her hands were all over you. “Yes, ma’am.” you replied softly, afraid of the answer truthfully.

Caitlyn hummed, trying to bite back the smirk on her face. She put her glasses back on and leaned back in her chair a bit. “Right, darling. Finish your presentation then.” she told you, to which you immediately obliged

You were talking, again. You should’ve walked out of that office because of how absurd this situation was. But you didn’t, you couldn’t. Not when the warm hands on your body were tempting you, not when you were leaning against them, adjusting your posture so she could touch you more. Especially not when her right hand found its way downward, pressing on your aching clit through your clothes.

That was what broke you, that small amount of pressure. “Oh, fuck. Please..” you sighed out, a soft moan falling from your lips. Vi laughed behind you, looking at Caitlyn expectantly. It was clear she was desperate too, she wanted to fuck you just as badly as you wanted to be fucked.

A nod was all she needed, and Caitlyn provided. She motioned you to keep going, and you tried. Vi’s hands moved away from your clit and up towards the waistband of your pants. She slid her hand down, past your panties to find your pussy again. To say you were wet was an understatement, she played with you for so long to make you all soaked for her. And it worked.

Vi’s fingers ran up and down your cunt, getting covered in a humiliating amount of slick. Her middle and ring finger moved up to your clit, drawing slow circles around it as a way to make you choke on your words. “S-so therefore—god!”

You were a mess. Panting, bucking your hips against her fingers for more friction, shaky words covered by needy sighs—all of it. And worst of all? You couldn’t help yourself. You couldn’t stop yourself from pathetically rutting your hips to feel more. How were you supposed to keep your job now? And yet somehow that was the last thing on your mind. The first thing was Vi—her fingers. The fingers that were prodding at your entrance.

You stopped talking completely, that had successfully shut you up. It was impossible to present anymore, you looked at Caitlyn with a needy expression and let out some sort of sound. A sound you didn’t know you could even make. “Please, ma’am. I can’t.”

Caitlyn hummed and turned off the projector, the visual aid for your presentation gone. “Well, you’re not gonna be smarter after getting fucked, are you? Though judging by your decisions—you’re already lacking there.” she said, trying to hold back a smile as she watched Vi play with your pussy under your clothes.

God, what a bitch. Somehow her attitude turned you on even more.

You lowered your head, eyes squeezing shut. She must’ve given Vi a signal, because you felt a difference. Her fingers paused for a moment, before she slowly started sliding them into your wet, aching hole. You felt something between relief and euphoria. A weak moan left you, your head falling back against her shoulder. It was as if you completely lost touch of your surroundings.

Vi groaned at the feeling of your pussy clenching around her fingers favorably, it was too much. Whenever she’d draw her fingers out, she could feel the way you clung onto her, begging for more without even trying. “Fuck..missed this pussy so damn much.” she moaned into your neck, kissing it softly. There was a desperation in her voice, after getting caught—it was clear she struggled without this.

And so did you.

“Come on baby, tell me how much you missed this.” she whispered, loud enough for Caitlyn to hear. She watched the two of you, unable to hold back her smile anymore. The sight was incredibly hot, Vi’s hands stuffed down your pants and your head tilted back—it made her squeeze her thighs together under the desk.

“Answer her question, darling.” she demanded, though her voice was softer than usual.

You just moaned in response, they were ganging up on you—which was surprisingly hot.

“I-I missed it..fuck!” you cried, feeling the way Vi’s fingers sped up. They were fucking into you at a brutal pace, your jaw fell open and your hips stuttered—unable to even grind against the friction anymore. Your own slick was getting all over the inside of your panties, the previous arousal was all over Vi’s knuckles along with whatever she collected from fingering you.

You noticed you were being pushed along somewhere, though you weren’t focused enough to know exactly where. You felt your pants being slid down, to which you happily accepted. Before you knew it, you were being slightly bent over. When you looked across from you, your face was slightly above Caitlyn’s. She was sitting there, glasses resting on the table and her pupils dilated.

“Wanna make a deal, sweetheart? I promise it’ll do you good.” she questioned, eyes narrowed at you slightly. This whole situation was too much to handle, you were pleasantly overwhelmed but also nervous. Where was this going?

You nodded feverishly to her question, not really considering any risks. Vi was still ruining your pussy, curling her fingers in a way that made it sound like you were sobbing.

“If you let us both fuck you, you can keep your job.” she offered, “Right now.“

Was she being serious?

This shocked you to an unreal degree. Well, you would’ve been more surprised, but a certain someone’s fingers drilling into you had your thoughts slightly muffled. This wasn’t just about your job, the president was a very sexy woman. You wanted both of them. Greedy? So be it.

“Yes—yes! Please, please..—“ you managed between moans, your panting continuous and heavy. You couldn’t get another word out, Caitlyn stood up, leaned over the desk closer to you, and kissed you. The feeling of Vi’s fingers inside you and your lips on Caitlyn’s was heavenly, you never thought this much pleasure was possible.

You moaned into the kiss, holding yourself up as best as you could. Vi’s fingers pumped in and out of you, wet sounds were made everytime she fucked them back into you. It was all too good, you could feel your thighs trembling and your aching hole begging for more. You dripped all over her hands, drool also dripping down your chin as you desperately made out with Caitlyn.

The kiss was almost as messy as the way Vi was ruining you from behind. It was all tongue twirling, heavy breathing, teeth clicking—such a sloppy kiss for such a respected woman.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Am I not enough for you? You need Caitlyn as well? So greedy.” Vi husked in your ear, glasses bumping your face again. She curled her fingers faster, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out into Caitlyn’s mouth. You were so weak for them, it was insane how they seemed to strip away every professional thought in your head and replace them with filthy ones.

This continued, your pussy greedily sucking in Vi’s fingers and your tongue being sucked by Caitlyn. You were overwhelmed, but so, so satisfied. Your whole body was tingling, every action was leaving you hungry and craving. What else could you crave in this situation? Maybe release.

And it was building. You could feel your body start to shake more, your lower abdomen tightening and your breathing becoming heavier. Caitlyn seemed to take notice, because she broke the kiss. She wanted to hear you moan, right in her ear.

“Gonna cum, darling? Go on, cum for us.” she urged, her lips brushing against your ear. She looked at Vi, taking in her focused expression and gave her an amused smile in response.

Those words were what did it for you, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh—oh..fuck!” you moaned into her ear, your sentence almost being cut off by a cry. Your back arched, hips moving back to fuck yourself onto Vi’s fingers harder. You drenched the digits continuously thrusting in and out of you, sweet whimpers escaping your lips into Caitlyn’s ear.

“That’s it baby, use my fingers. Good girl.” Vi praised, her voice sounding much sweeter. She always got weak when she saw you cum, all her attitude seemed to just vanish.

Caitlyn stroked your hair softly, making sure your lips were still by her ear so she could hear every little sound you made as you came down from your high. You were panting heavily, trying to ground yourself from an orgasm your body hadn’t prepared for. The mind fog was there—though you knew it wasn’t over.

Vi slowly pulled her fingers out of you, moaning at the squelching sound and the way wetness clung onto her fingers. She brought them up to her face, sucking your cum off her middle finger. Caitlyn watched and hummed in approval, watching.

“You always taste so good, it’d be rude to hog you from the president.” Vi said, holding her finger middle and ring fingers in front of Caitlyn’s lips. She pushed them in, feeling her swirl her tongue around the digits and taste you. You didn’t even realize what was happening—which was good, could’ve came on the spot.

Eventually, Vi pulled her fingers out of Caitlyn’s mouth and patted your ass once. “Vi, can you get my red bag from under the desk?” Caitlyn asked, eyes still locked on you.

Vi laughed and stepped back, walking towards the front of the desk and grabbing the bag out from under it. “Whatcha got in here, cupcake? Toys?”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, tapping under your chin so you looked at her. She was drawn to your eyes, they looked tired but hungry at the same time. Or maybe it was her hunger reflecting off your irises. “You’re holding the bag, just look.” she stated, eyes darting from your eyes to your lips. She planted a small peck on the corner of your mouth, smiling at the way your lips puckered and chased hers. “Such a pretty girl. Even prettier when you have that messy look on your face.”

Vi reached into the bag and pulled out two things: a little vibrator and a strap. She laughed and raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of you. “Not gonna use your fingers, president?” she questioned, setting both the items on the desk. “What was that earlier? How you wanted to feel her pulse on your fingers?”

What the hell? That was news to you.

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, looking over at Vi finally. “I have very expensive nails on, Vi. You would know that since you lost a bet and paid for them.” she said, her attention darting back to you. “Wouldn’t wanna hurt that pussy either. No worries, darling, we’re going to take great care of you.”

You simply nodded, eyes trained on Caitlyn’s beautiful ones. You didn’t know what you did to deserve this, but it must’ve been something good. Vi picked you up, setting you down on the desk and keeping her arms around your waist from behind. She kissed your cheek tenderly, a gesture you didn’t know you needed. You turned your head and looked at her, giving her a small peck on the lips.

Vi looked at you like some sort of valuable treasure, she always had such obvious eyes. You could look into them and immediately know every thought she thought she was hiding. Even when she said it was just hookups—her eyes said something different. She smiled at you, caressing your waist softly. “Are you getting soft on me, baby?” she questioned.

You shrugged, feeling Caitlyn’s hands gently caressing your thighs. “Maybe, don’t act like you’re any better.” you replied, not breaking eye contact.

“I can admit that, I’m not stubborn in that case.” she said, hands moving up to unbutton your shirt. She was too busy looking at you, so she struggled a bit with one of the buttons. You both giggled, and you watched her eyes stray away from yours and towards the button.

Once the button was undone, she slid your shirt off your shoulders and tossed it to the side. Caitlyn clicked her tongue, fingertips digging into the plush of your thighs. “Vi, please. That’s an expensive shirt.” she said, looking at it on the floor and narrowing her eyes.

Vi shrugged, grabbing your jaw and turning your head towards Caitlyn. “You’re so materialistic, cupcake.” she teased, kissing your jaw right under her hand.

You just sat there awkwardly, did they always fight like this? Interesting relationship for a president and chancellor. Though this whole situation was interesting.

Caitlyn stood between your legs, not quite pushing up against you. She kept some distance just so she could look at you. Her eyes traveled south, pupils dilating at the sight of your pussy. She hadn’t ever gotten a good look at it, so she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

“Oh, how pretty. Is this what Vi has been hogging?” she asked while she dragged her fingertips up and down your cunt, nails threatening but also arousing. You clenched around nothing, the air in your lungs stuck. You knew she wouldn’t put her fingers in, so you were left bucking your hips up as a way to beg for more.

Vi slipped her hands under your bra, rolling her thumb over your nipples and watching Caitlyn mess with you.

Caitlyn pulled away for a moment, moving to unbutton her shirt as well. You tried to close your eyes to bask in the pleasure you felt from having your nipples played with, but Vi snapped you out of that.

“Ah, ah. Watch her, sweetheart.” she murmured in your ear, removing her left hand from your boob and grabbing your jaw to hold it steady. You watched Caitlyn undress, the delicate way she slipped her long skirt downed, how she slid her expensive panties down her thighs with such care it felt threatening, all of it.

You shamelessly looked her up and down, because damn.

Vi whistled lowly, letting go of your jaw and kissing your neck once. She brought her hands back behind you and unclasped your bra with a speed you didn’t know was possible. She tossed it to the side with your shirt carelessly, palms finding your tits again.

Caitlyn laughed at the whistle, stepping forward again and reaching past you to grab the strap waiting for her. It was a dark blue, looked pretty similar to Vi’s. In fact, it was the exact same. What a coincidence!

“That looks a lot like Vi’s.” you said obliviously, a sweet gasp leaving you when your nipples were pinched softly again.

Both Caitlyn and Vi looked at each other and laughed. Caitlyn held the strap in one hand, patting your thigh softly. “Because it’s the same one, darling.” she said, eyes locked on your perky nipples.

“How can you remember how it looks like so well when it’s inside you all the time? You’ve got good memory, doc.” Vi said, finally leaving your nipples alone since they were starting to get a little sore.

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow at Vi, “You’re so cocky for someone who was bent over my desk the day I caught you two.”

Vi hummed and kissed your neck again, smiling against your skin. “This isn’t about me right now.” she defended herself, most likely to save her ego.

You were actually in shock. It was a bit surprising that they had been hooking up too. What a total mess this dynamic was. What kind of college had a professor, the president, and the chancellor all sleeping together?

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Caitlyn reached past you again to grab the vibrator. You gulped, not expecting her to use both on you. Before you could process, she clicked it on and put it on a low setting.

“Ready?” she asked, holding the toy dangerously close to your clit. You were breathing heavily in anticipation, so needy despite the fact you already came. All you could manage was a nod, which was enough for her.

Caitlyn pressed the vibrator down onto your clit softly, smiling at your reaction. You immediately arched up, a choked out moan falling from your lips in response. She moved it up and down your needy pussy, wetness sloshing and your hole pulsing and clenching.

When the toy prodded at your entrance, you let out a pathetic cry. You threw your head back onto Vi’s shoulder and gasped, every nerve there tingling and making you shake. “F-fuck! Caitlyn!”

Caitlyn moaned at your reaction, moving the vibrator back up to your clit. “I’m a higher up, darling. Address me with respect.” She then pressed herself up against the toy, that way it was between the both of you. Both your clits feeling the pleasurable hum and pressing it against each other. You both moaned at the same time, her eyes fluttered shut and yours remained trained on her.

Vi couldn’t help but slide her hand down her pants at the sight, eventually completely discarding them. The room filled with sweet moans and gasps, the silent buzz of the toy muffler by your bodies.

Caitlyn eventually pulled it away from you, handing it to Vi while she started to secure the strap onto her body. You watched with a hazy expression, whining and bucking your hips up pathetically at the loss of friction.

Once she got the strap secured to her body, she looked at Vi. “You should sit on her face, darling.” she suggested, holding the dildo part of the toy in her hand carefully.

Vi blinked, pupils almost as dilated as yours. She just groaned and nodded, kissing your neck one more time and huffing.

The sheer idea of this had your head spinning. You’d be in the middle of something you weren’t sure you were ready for. But you wanted it, all of it. Maybe you really were as greedy as they said you were.

The position changed a bit, you were scooted further so you could lay down on the desk, legs spread. Caitlyn was between your legs, dragging the silicone up and down your pulsing pussy to collect all the wetness she could. Vi was hovering over your face, waiting for a signal.

You patted her thigh softly, “Come on, sit.” you urged, grabbing both her thighs and yanking her down. You couldn’t see much of anything anymore, but you didn’t need to. You lapped at her cunt softly, licking up all her juices and trying to push your tongue inside her. Vi immediately gasped, head lowering and weak curses leaving her. “Oh, fuck..just like that, baby.”

Upon seeing this, Caitlyn couldn’t control herself anymore. She had one hand holding the blue, slick covered silicone and one on your hip. She lined the tip up with your entrance, starting to slowly push in. The way you opened up for her was beautiful, it made her moan in a tone she didn’t know she was capable of. You greedily sucked her in, weak cries muffled by Vi’s cunt pressed against your face. It was absolutely filthy.

“That’s it, good girl. Sucking me in so good, darling.” she said between desperate pants. Now that she wasn’t holding the dildo part, she reached for the vibrator again. She turned it on, pressing it against your clit again.

You whined and bucked your hips up, tongue flicking faster as you messily ate out the woman above you. Caitlyn pulled it away, holding it against herself. Before she started thrusting, she pushed the small toy inside her, throwing her head back at the sudden feeling. The part of the strap pressing against her pussy kept it in place, though she was falling apart.

Then, she started fucking into you—dragging the silicone in and out of your sopping hole with a torturous pace. Vi watched the whole thing, moving to pinch and grab at her own tits. You moaned into her pussy, nose bumping against her clit as you thrusted your tongue inside her.

Caitlyn was starting to get desperate and sped her movements up. She was absolutely drilling into you now, unable to contain herself. The desk started to shake, the squelching sound of your pussy echoing between your bodies. The hum or the vibrator inside her was constant, she was an absolute mess. Moaning, grabbing onto you tightly, all of it.

You were a mess, fucking your tongue into Vi at the same pace Caitlyn was using on you. Your movements stuttered, jaw trying to to go slack from how roughly she was fucking you. But you took it, all of it. You could feel every little manufactured vein of her dick pushing against your walls, every movement making the tip kiss your cervix in a way that almost made you limp. It was all too good, the familiar feeling of that silicone making you see starts behind your eyelids.

When Caitlyn thrusted, it jolted your body forward which directly affected Vi. She was absolutely weak, it was funny how her confidence seemed to vanish when she started to feel good. She was pathetically whimpering above you, pleading and cursing. “Please, please—god..you’re so fuckin’ good at this..”

Caitlyn smiled, legs shaking at the intense pleasure inside her. She angled her hips up a bit more, hitting a spot inside you that made you whine loudly into Vi’s cunt. You almost thought you couldn’t take it, she was fucking you like an animal and you couldn’t get enough. You couldn’t get enough of the collective moans, the way you clung to her cock every time she tried to pull out, the way Vi tasted on your tongue—you were officially in heaven.

“Mhm? Does she have a good tongue, sweetheart?” she asked Vi, panting and huffing.

Vi couldn’t even manage a response. She feverishly nodded and hung her head low. Eventually her glasses were dangling off her face, another harsh thrust and jolt of your body had them falling onto your stomach. But nobody paid attention to them, nobody even looked at them. In fact, you hadn’t even noticed.

You were moaning uncontrollably into Vi’s pussy, flicking your tongue in and out and licking up everything you could. When you pushed your tongue in, you could feel a difference in how she was clenching around the muscle. She had to be close, you dug your fingertips into her thighs to keep her from squirming too much.

Caitlyn seemed to catch on too, though she was mainly focused on you. She watched the way your pussy greedily sucked her in, the way your juices dripped out of your hole and downward. She loved it, she especially loved the ring forming around the base of her dick. She looked at Vi, removing a hand from you and cupping her cheek instead. “Are you close?” to which she earned a nod.

“Cum for us, darling. Right on her tongue.” she urged, eyes locking with Vi’s. They were both panting heavily, eyes half lidded and full of desire. That’s all it took for Vi to finished, your tongue flicking again and Caitlyn’s words. She let out a long string of curses, grinding against your face softly so she could ride it out. The amount of pleasure and relief she felt was unimaginable, she felt like her whole body had reset.

You continued flicking your tongue, not wanting to waste anything as she came in your mouth. You weakly let go of her thighs, hands shaking and trembling. Eventually she lifted herself off your face, sitting next to your body. Your chin was covered in slick, she laughed and wiped it with her thumb. “God, you’re so beautiful. Keep fucking her, Cait.”

Caitlyn continued fucking you roughly, finally getting to see your fucked out expression. “Such a good girl for making Vi finish. So proud of you.”

You moaned at the overwhelming praise, eyes bobbling in place. All eyes were on you now, you weakly reached for Vi’s hand to which she immediately grabbed and squeezed. Now that there wasn’t anything to muffle your moans, it was a bit more embarrassing. Every thrust had you gasping or whimpering, though Caitlyn was also being quite loud. She was clenching around the vibrator inside her, absolutely sopping. Her slick was getting the strap of leather under her pussy soaked.

Vi reached her other hand over and pressed on your abdomen, feeling the bump of Caitlyn’s dick inside you. She smiled, urging you to look at it. “Look how deep she is baby, you feel that?”

“Y-yes! yes, god!” you cried, you could feel her hitting that perfect spot every time, and you knew you wouldn’t last for long. When Vi pressed down, it was so overwhelming. But the feeling was so good, and her words got you off even more. You felt that familiar tightening in your stomach, though it felt stronger. “M-ma’am. I’m..I’m close—!” you gasped out, squeezing Vi’s hand.

“Mhm? Gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” she husked out, not far behind you. The toy inside her was absolutely maddening, her hips were starting to stutter. “Come on, just like Vi did.”

Vi ran her other hand through your hair tenderly, eyes trained on the way your tits bounced. All she could do was groan and watch, wanting to see you finish so badly. “Soak her cock, baby. ‘Wanna see it.”

And you did, your orgasm hit you like a fucking tidal wave. You cried out, back arching impossibly high and your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Please, please!” you whined out as you came, thighs trembling and your whole body feeling lighter and tingly.

Caitlyn kept going to help you ride it out, though seeing you finish made her follow. She let out a string of sweet moan, hips stuttering and her head tilting back. Vi’s eyes darted between the two of you like a lost puppy, though she was extremely satisfied.

You all stayed there for a moment to catch your breath, eyes squeezed shut and the smell of sex in the air. To say that was the most earth shattering orgasm of your life wasn’t descriptive enough. You felt like a whole other being.

“Holy shit.” you panted out, looking at Caitlyn who was coming down from her high as well. You looked to your stomach and saw Vi’s glasses sitting there, you blinked in confusion and raised an eyebrow. “How did these get here.”

Vi laughed and patted your cheek, taking her glasses back and putting them back on. As if she looked professional in your eyes after all that pathetic whimpering. “They fell off while you were eating me out, didn’t notice?”

You shook your head, which made both of them laugh. Caitlyn reached down and pulled the toy out of her overstimulated hole. It was absolutely soaked, strings clung to it as she pulled it out and set it elsewhere. “You didn’t notice them falling on you? I must’ve been doing a good job.” she bragged, pulling out of you and humming at the way you gasped.

You felt a bit embarrassed, but you were too hazy to put any concern into that. Vi helped you sit up, letting you lean back against her chest. “I know Caitlyn has wipes in here..but we can go to my apartment and get actually cleaned up.” she offered, looking between the two of you.

Caitlyn nodded, reaching for her glasses and putting them on. She looked at you and smiled. “Your charges are dropped. I was going to let you keep your job anyways.” she confessed, watching the way your eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, darling. But is it true you moaned my name one time while riding Vi?”

You stared at her in disbelief, then looked back at Vi and slapped her arm. “Why the hell would you tell her that?!”

Vi winced and rubbed her arm, laughing at your sudden change of attitude. “I have to report things to the president!” she argued defensively.

“You’re so unbelievable!” this was the most embarrassing moment of your life. You feared for your job just to be told you didn’t need to? You would’ve done this anyways but still!

Caitlyn laughed and rubbed your thigh tenderly. “Oh, stop that. Might have to fuck you again.”

“Is that a threat or a promise.”

“Put your clothes on you slut”

A/N: i’m so sorry this took so long, i hope yall enjoy!! first time writing threesome things sooo..i trieddd!

tags!! <333 @valeisaslut @eriiwaiii2 @hyperbabes @usuck @haithone @yunaversalluv @smaugayra @andieprincessofpower @mayfldss @elliesfavtoy @sewithinsouls @pariiissssssss @aliselune @myla-wyla @nattakasuperlesbian @xiletay @sawaagyapong @ellies-real-wife @lostdecisions @liddyflyer @talyaisvalslutsoldier @dustandpearls @vicluvsu @urmomssideh0e @ilovetaylorrr @shynymphh

#caitvi x reader #caitvi x you #caitvi #vi arcane #vi smut arcane #vi x reader #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn smut #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn kiramann smut #wlw #lesbian #wlw love #arcane imagine #arcane #arcane smut #vi smut

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the-shedevil-writes · 3 days ago

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Dog-Fight (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You thought it was just a party. But you soon find out that it was a 'Dogfight'—a cruel contest where the men compete to bring the “ugliest” date they can find. And you were part of the joke. Humiliated and blindsided, you walk out, finding yourself at The Hard Deck. But there you find Bob Floyd. Quiet, kind, and nothing like the man who brought you there. WORD COUNT: 3.6k WARNINGS: Inspired by the movie Dogfight (1991). Emotional hurt/comfort. Reader owns a book store. Fluff! Asking out! Angst with a happy ending. Sorry Marines. NOTES: If ya'll like it, I'll write a part 2- cause I think Bob could confront the marine hehe MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It was all her fault. She shouldn’t have believed a single word coming from that Marine’s mouth. She should’ve figured. When a tall, handsome brunette came into her bookstore, she should’ve sensed the trouble. But instead, she was swept up in the idea that maybe her storybook ending was finally beginning.

He had talked so smoothly. “Well, a fine lady like you oughta be at a party on a fine Saturday night like this. Not kept up in this stuffy old store.”

She had tried to put up a fight. Say that the store needed to be properly closed… But next thing she knew, she was running upstairs to throw on one of her dresses. She didn’t have many. So she settled for a springtime floral dress and some light makeup.

Well, now she walked down the sidewalk with that light makeup stained down her face. Her floral dress felt like a kid's uniform. The ‘party’ had turned out to be something the Marines call a ‘dogfight’. The man with the ugliest date was to be crowned the victor and win from a collected pool of money. But she didn’t stick around to find out if her date had won or not. Because when she overheard some of the other girls discovering the events' nature in the bathroom, she felt sick to her stomach.

With a prompt slap to her date, she stormed out of the party and was now walking aimlessly down a beach. She just needed to get away from it all. The ocean waves shushed her thoughts that rattled her head like a shaken box of bees. Was she really that hideous? Did her date win? How could she be naive?

Even though the night tides had a calming effect, she couldn’t help but get the compact mirror from her purse and check her makeup. Her mascara had run all down her cheeks, and her blush suddenly felt like too much. She combed through her hair with her fingers. It had gotten messy from all the dancing, because honestly, she was having a fun time before being awoken from her blissful ignorance.

Looking up, she noticed warm lights in the near distance. Acoustic guitar played from inside what looked like a beach bar. The sight of it felt like seeing an oasis in the middle of the desert. She wasn’t a heavy drinker in the slightest. But god damn it, after the night she had?

She stumbled through the sand in her heels toward the bar. Looking inside the open doors, it was cozy. There weren’t many patrons since it was getting a little late, and this seemed like the type of place older folks would attend. But even with that, she decided to duck into the bathroom first.

Once she got into the bathroom, she ran to the sink and splashed water on her face. She rubbed her makeup off, a difficult task without makeup wipes or remover. So her fingers instead rubbed her skin raw with nothing but water. She’d rather have a sad red face than look like a rodeo clown.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt this feeling of patheticness bubble up in her gut. Tears brimmed her already swollen eyes. She hiccuped and wiped them away as best as she could. But as she wiped away old tears, new ones formed. She couldn’t bear to look at herself anymore.

She ran out of the restroom, hiding her face by looking down at the tile floor. But as she came out into the small hallway, she accidentally bumped into someone with a surprised ‘OH!’

“I-I’m sorry-” She stammered out, not even looking at who she bumped into.

“It’s okay.” A gentle male voice said with just the subtlest hint of a midwestern accent.

But before she could look at who owned that pretty voice, she booked it down the hallway and towards the bar. It felt like the whole world was staring holes into her. Even though rationally, nobody was, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Like the walls were suffocating her.

The bartop felt like a checkpoint, and luckily, nobody else was sitting in any of the stools. She practically collapsed into a seat. Catching her breath, she looked up to find an older woman behind the bar. With dark hair and pitying eyes, the bartender made her way over to her.

“Hey, pretty girl. Rough night?” The bartender said affectionately, like a mother would. The nickname felt incredibly ironic.

She nodded and hiccuped. “Y-yeah.”

The bartender took in her disheveled appearance. She came in closer and put her hand on the bar. “Do I need to call for help?” Her eyes widened. “No. No. I’m okay. Just… I’m never letting a Marine take me out ever again.”

The bartender laughed with bitter relief.

“Well, they don’t typically come here, lucky for you. Just some Navy pilots since we’re right by Top Gun.” The bartender explained, pouring a rum and Coke, then a glass of water. She slid it over to her. “On the house. Name’s Penny. Holler at me if you need anything else.”

She looked up and nodded in appreciation. “Thank you.” She took a big sip.

Penny walked away to organize some of the crates under the bar. Leaving her to drink and sulk in peace. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with an exhale. Luckily, the conversation with Penny seemed to distract her just slightly. But her heart still felt heavy. She took another hefty swig. Hopefully, if she made it through this drink fast enough, it would all slam into her fast and lift her spirits.

But then suddenly, from behind her,

“Are you okay?” That same gentle voice from the hallway.

She swiveled in the stool and turned to connect a face to the voice. A handsome face at that. With wide cobalt blue eyes behind a pair of wire-framed glasses, he looked at her with a sense of genuine concern.

But then she looked down and saw his khaki uniform. Military. Unsure of what. But military. And she had experienced enough humiliation for the night. Fool her once…

“I’m fine.” She turned back around and sipped her drink.

“I saw you in the hallway, and you were crying. So I just wanted to check up on you.”

“Sorry, you’re barking up the wrong tree, bud.” Woah Jesus, maybe she shouldn’t have chugged that drink so fast.

Penny looked up from the other side of the bar, and her gaze drifted past her shoulders. Towards the man.

“I-I’m not trying to imply anything-” He stammered, looking between both women, and now she felt a bit of guilt.

She looked back at him and took in his looks. He was cute, and he held himself surely, but a nervous look covered his face. He didn’t look like the Marine from earlier. He had been sharp and with the face of a movie star. This guy looked like he was from planet Earth, with gentle features. He had the type of face you couldn’t possibly stay mad at.

“I’m sorry-” She choked out, “I’ve just had a rough night.”

“Well, you can talk to me about it if you’d like.” He said, and after a moment he added, “I’m Bob.”

She glared at him skeptically before returning to her drink and seeing Penny not so subtly watching the interaction. The bartender nodded with a comforting smile. Okay, he had Penny’s approval.

“Y/n.” She said, pulling out the seat next to her.

So-called Bob nodded and sat down in the seat. “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad night.”

She stirred the straw in her water, still hesitant. “Yeah, just… God. I don’t even know where to start.” Closing her eyes, she sighed, unsure of what to admit.

“Well, what made you start crying?” His voice was so soft compared to the 80s rock music playing on the jukebox and the distant laughter and conversation of the bar.

Just rip off the band-aid. She needed to admit what happened to somebody before she exploded.

She laughed bitterly, “I was part of a dogfight!”

Tears brewed again in her eyes. But Bob just looked at her with confused furrowed brows. She shook her head at him.

“Come on, you have to know what that is. I’m sure you and your little buddies do it all the time.” She added angrily, “I didn’t know what it was before tonight, but I guess it’s a stupid common ritual.”

There was tense silence as he nodded, trying to follow along, but it was clear he was incredibly confused.

“Dogfight like… like in a jet?” He asked innocently

“What? No? Why would I be in a jet?”

His brows raised, “Because you… do that in a jet?”

She turned to him now. Maybe he actually didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. But before she could say anything, he added,

“Could you explain to me what you mean?” He asked politely.

God, why’d he have to be so sweet? It kept taking her off guard.

“I got asked out to a party by this Marine tonight, and it turned out to be a competition for… who could bring the ugliest date.” It’d be less embarrassing if someone put a ‘kick me’ sign on her back.

Bob’s face revealed this shocked expression. His eyes grew all wide and his mouth dropped slightly. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what all your buddies are doing tonight, sailor.” She hissed, grabbing her drink and taking a bigger swig. Usually, she’d finish drinks relatively slow, but tonight she had finished a glass in record speed.

“I’m not a Marine. Well, I mean- we’re both Navy. But I’m a Naval Aviator.” He clarified, “I don’t think any of our guys have done something like that… Though it’s not like I get invited to many parties.”

That made her want to smile, but she refused to let one out. He didn’t seem like the type of guy who would take part in that sort of thing. But it was hard to trust anything coming out of a man’s mouth at the moment.

“And I don’t know why he’d bring you.” Bob added, “I-I don’t mean to sound like I’m coming on to ya, but you’re pretty.”

She scoffed. “You don’t gotta lie. Apparently, I’m a dog.”

“No, no-” He shook his head with a little crooked smile, “I mean it. I can’t lie to save my life, and I think you’re pretty.”

Thank god her face was already red from crying to prevent him from seeing the blush that overcame her. But unfortunately, it didn’t stop him from seeing the tears in her eyes overflowing. She shook her head back at him.

“All the girls there were prettier than me.” She explained, “If that’s the case, then how could I be?” Her voice cracked.

Bob tilted his head with a soft smile, and he leaned forward.

“Because I can guarantee you that none of the girls there were ‘ugly’.” He said, “The only ugly people there were the fellas that I bet have a face only a mother could love.”

That made her laugh through her tears. It was true. The guys there really had the nerve to judge while looking how some of them did.

“You’re even prettier when you smile,” Bob suddenly said.

Somehow, someway, it didn’t feel like he was trying to get her in bed with him. There was a sense of genuineness behind his tone.

“And I like your dress.” He added.

She shook her head again, but this time with a small smile. “At least all the other girls wore dresses that didn’t look like they were for Easter mass. I look like a toddler.”

“No, you don’t. I-I like the flower design.”

It was clear he didn’t really know how to explain why he liked the dress, and that just made her blush and laugh again.

“How’d you end up here?” He asked curiously.

She exhaled with a shrug. “I heard some of the girls in the bathroom as they realized what was going on. I… I slapped my date in the face and stormed out. Walked all the way from Third Street to the beach, just a hot mess.”

He pushed her water over to her at that. “That’s a far walk. I’m glad you slapped him.”

The drink buzzed in her head. She sipped her water at the reminder. “I’d be stupid not to.” She sighed.

At that, a few other people dressed in the identical khaki uniform approached him. A man with a moustache patted his back.

“Hey, man. We’re all heading home.” The man said, though it was clear that he and his other friends were looking over at who had stolen Bob’s attention. “Hi.”

“Hi,” She said, awkwardly looking down, not wanting her face to be seen.

“Guys, this is Y/n.” Bob said surely, “Y/n, this is Rooster. Then these guys are Hangman and Phoenix. They’re my co-workers.”

It was surprising that Bob was so sure in introducing her. He almost seemed proud to be talking to her, and that made her ears burn hot. The three other aviators said their hellos.

“We’ll see you Monday, man. Get home safe.” Rooster, the mustached one, said, squeezing his shoulder. He sent Bob a wink before leaving.

Watching them leave, Bob suddenly realized something. “Do you have a way home?”

Shit. Her eyes widened at the same realization.

“I-I can drive you. But if you don’t feel comfortable, that’s understandable.” He offered.

She looked at him, then to Penny, unsure. She knocked on the bartop to get her attention. “Does he come here often?”

“Every Friday with those other guys.” Penny nodded.

“Can I trust him?”

Penny laughed with an easy grin. “He’s the most trustworthy one. He doesn’t drink. He ain’t stupid. And he keeps to himself for the most part.”

Bob smiled a little at the praise until she added,

“That’s a threat, Floyd. Don’t break your rep.”

His smile dropped, and he nodded. “I’d never.”

His nervous voice just made her trust him more.

“I’ll take you up on that offer, if that’s okay.” She said softly

Walking out to the parking lot, he led her to a baby blue truck. It was rustic and old-fashioned, and it felt reflective of who he was. She was a little confused on why he walked to the passenger side until he opened the door for her.

“Letting me drive?” She joked.

“Absolutely not,” Bob replied wittily.

She giggled and got into his passenger seat. When he shut the door for her, her nerves ran rampant again. Please, god, don’t be a murderer. Please, god, don’t be a murderer. Please god-

He opened the door and got into the driver's side. “Where are you located?”

That had to be a good sign, right? That he was asking?

“The bookstore on Elmer. I live right above it.” She explained

“Got it.” He said before backing out of the parking space.

As he began to drive, there was a small silence. It felt slightly awkward now as they were virtually strangers in this quiet nighttime drive together. Fortunately, her store wasn’t too far, so if it was a suffocatingly awkward drive, it would be quick.

“You own that store?” Bob asked curiously, breaking the silence.

She nodded. “Yeah. It was my parents, but I took it over so they could retire.”

A little smile took his face as he was lit by the backsplash of the headlights and the traffic lights. He was a pretty man.

“That’s nice.” He said softly. His voice was so naturally soft. She wondered what he’d sound like if he were angry. He didn’t seem like the type to do that often. “Is that what you wanted to do? Take over the store?”

She nodded again. “It’s great. I get to spend my whole day organizing books, and I get access to the new releases early. People are pretty nice, too. It’s not like food service.” She looked over at him. “Is being a… what’s it called? Naval aviator, what you wanted to do?”

Bob continued to drive as he pursed his lips and nodded. “Yup. Pretty much wanted to fly ever since I was a kid. So I spent my whole life studying, determined to do it somehow, someway.”

He started pulling up to her street, but she wanted to learn more. She wanted to hear more about his job and what exactly he did. Because god knows she knew absolutely nothing about the Navy.

Her store was hard to miss, considering it was painted a bright purple. The color of the apartment from Friends. A big sign saying KINGS BOOKSHOP was posted on the front.

“This it?” He asked.

“Yup. Good guess.”

He laughed and pulled aside to the curb. She sat there for what felt like a moment too long. There was almost no sound except for the soft blow of the air conditioner and the chirping of crickets from outside.

They both turned to look at each other, and when their eyes met, they looked away quickly with shared nervous chuckles. She undid her seatbelt, forcing herself to get up.

“Thank you. Uh- for everything. Listening to me and taking me home.” She said

“No problem. I-I hope your night gets better.” He nodded, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

She opened the door and stepped out. “Bye, Bob.”

“Night, Y/n.”

She shut the door and walked up to the store doors. Part of her was gnawing to get that man’s number. To ask him to see him again. And when she looked back, she saw his forehead to the wheel… Maybe he’s contemplating the same thing.

Against her own judgement, she opened the door and went inside.

It was the next day, and she was doing her best to forget about the sweet Navy man who had cheered her up the night before. But she found herself lost in thought. Accidentally misplacing books in the wrong sections. Leading people to the wrong aisles. Forgetting what she was doing in the middle of a task. It was like she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The horrific start to the night before was practically ancient history. She would’ve been miserable, playing the night over and over, if it weren’t for the electric memories with Bob.

She was on the rolling ladder, placing some romance books on the top shelf, when the bell chimed. A customer. She stood on her tiptoes to reach the shelf.

“Welcome in!” She called out.

Finally getting the book in its place, she climbed down the ladder and looked over to see the man who had been occupying her head the whole day. Bob stood studying the display tables through his glasses. She practically almost gasped at the sight of him wandering in his khaki uniform. Suppressing it, she couldn’t resist the grin that overtook her face.

“Hi.” She bubbled out.

He looked up and saw her. “Hi.”

They stood at what felt like a standoff, his fingers frozen on the cover of one of the books. She walked over and looked at which display table he had been looking over. Unable to restrain herself from giggling, she looked between him and the group of books.

“Didn’t peg you to be a monster romance guy.” She teased.

He looked at her, confused, then looked down at the table to find some strange-looking covers. Lots of shipwrecked women and werewolves. His eyes widened as he broke out of his daze.

“Oh, uh- don’t know if that’s my thing.”

“The history books are in the back corner.” She read him… like a book.

He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks.” A blush overcame him as she went back to taking books off a cart. She hoped he didn’t notice how her hands had a slight shake to them. Trying to play it cool was proving to be more difficult than she anticipated.

“I actually just-” Bob started, leading to her head picking up.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask you to lunch. Or-or dinner. Whenever you’re available.” He stammered in his typical bashful tone.

She couldn’t hide the redness in her cheeks and the way her lips curved into a smile. There was no way to play it cool here.

“Like a date?” She asked, holding onto a stack of books.

He nodded eagerly, as if he didn’t clarify, it would never happen. “Yes. Yes, a date. I was killing myself last night for not asking you, but I didn’t want to come onto you during a time where you just needed a friendly face.”

“I-I’d love to.” She choked out, “The shop closes at six if you wanna go out for dinner? Maybe get a few drinks at that bar last night?”

His face lit up at her response. A small, shocked exhale came out of him.

“Yeah, that works.” He nodded. The rapidly approaching silence between them was filled with electricity. He suddenly grabbed a random book. “I wanna buy this too.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“No, no, I want to! I want to read-” He insisted, then looked at the cover, “Wrecked By Cthulu…” His voice trailed off.

She laughed so hard she could barely breathe. “How about I show you some books you might actually like, then we can go from there?”

He was too sweet. If that wasn’t apparent already by his behavior the night before.

“Yes, please.” He nodded.

She beckoned him to follow her, and she felt butterflies in her stomach. It felt entirely strange to be thankful for the horrific night before. If it weren’t for a man making her feel so ugly, she wouldn’t be feeling as pretty as she did with Bob’s eyes following her every move.

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #top gun #lewis pullman #lewis pullman fic #bob floyd #robert floyd fic #robert floyd #bob floyd fic #bob floyd x female reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd #dagger squad #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun x reader #bob floyd fanfic #bob floyd fanfiction

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pucksandpower · 7 hours ago

Text

All the Hard Things

Oscar Piastri x obsessive compulsive!Reader

Summary: sometimes OCD has a way of taking over your mind beyond all logic, but that’s okay because the love you and Oscar share goes far beyond all logic too

Warnings: depictions of obsessive compulsive disorder and inadvertent self-harm due to it

It happens like this: your cap is crooked, your tassel’s stuck in your hair, and your mum’s crying harder than you expected. You don’t even feel that proud. Just tired. Wrung out and blinking against the flash of someone else’s camera.

“Y/N!” A voice calls from behind a crowd of hugging classmates.

You turn, already smiling. Oscar is leaning against a brick column, arms folded, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He’s trying not to grin too wide, but he’s doing a shit job of it.

“There she is,” he says, and then, a beat later, “How’s my graduate?”

“I feel exactly the same,” you say, walking into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His hands slide up your back, and he presses a kiss into your temple.

“You smell like other people’s success,” he mutters into your hair. “It’s disgusting.”

You laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

Behind you, your dad’s saying something about parking validation, your brother’s holding a balloon that says “YOU DID IT!” and your mum’s trying to pull out her phone without dropping her purse.

Oscar pulls back. “You’re done.”

You nod. “I’m done.”

“Like … officially?”

“I walked across the stage. They pronounced my last name wrong. I think that’s the official benchmark.”

He tilts his head. “Y/L/N is not that hard.”

“They added a G in the middle.”

“That’s impressive.” He slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I got you something.”

You blink. “I told you not to-”

“It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s a … proposal.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. He catches it instantly.

“Not like that!” He says, laughing. “Jesus. No, I mean like, an offer. A plan. Sort of.” He reaches behind the bench near the column and pulls out a slim black binder.

You frown. “You made me a presentation?”

“I made you an itinerary.”

You stare at the front cover: in big, bold letters across a map background, it reads WORLD TOUR WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON.

Your stomach flips.

He says quickly, “You said once, like ages ago, that when you finished uni, you wanted to travel. No job yet. No responsibilities. Just a year off. And I thought … well, I’ve got all these races. All these cities. And it’s not really traveling if I’m just doing it without you. So … why not come with me?”

You flip open the binder. Inside, there are tabs. “First Half of the Season,” “Packing Lists,” “Important Travel Dates,” “Rainy Day Snacks”. And, in the back, a hand-drawn doodle of the two of you in front of a cartoon world map.

It’s stupid and sweet and meticulous and everything you love about him.

You swallow around a knot in your throat. “You made this.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I also laminated the cover. For durability.”

“I-” You’re blinking too fast now. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Oscar’s voice softens. “Say yes.”

Your heart thuds.

“Yes,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Yes, obviously yes.”

He lifts you, spins you in a way that has your brother making gagging noises behind you. But you don’t care. Your hands are in his hair, his arms around your waist, and the sun is catching his grin just right.

You’re in love. That terrifying, stable kind of love that doesn’t burn — it holds.

But when you step into the airport two days later, something shifts.

You know the moment it happens: the automatic doors slide open, the air conditioning hits your arms, and the white floor tiles stretch in front of you like a trap.

Oscar walks ahead, wheeling your shared suitcase. He turns to smile at you. “Gate 18. Let’s go.”

You nod, follow, but not before pausing. You have to.

Boarding pass in your hand. Tap it twice. Your fingers tremble. Tap. Tap.

You whisper his name under your breath. Quiet. Careful. “Oscar.” If you don’t say it, if you don’t get it exactly right-

“Y/N?”

You look up. He’s waiting near security, one eyebrow raised.

You step forward, but there’s a pattern now. Left tile, skip the crack, right tile. You count. Three steps forward. One step back.

You are not spiraling. You are fine. You’ve been fine for years.

Only … you weren’t in love then.

Back then, if you skipped the whisper, if you touched the door handle wrong, it was just … a mistake. A thought. A ghost.

But now there’s something to lose. Now, if you don’t do it just right, he might-

You touch the strap of your backpack twice. Tap. Tap. Breathe in. Hold for four seconds.

You’ve done this before. Since you were eleven. Since your brain decided it could protect people through ritual. Since the term magical thinking first entered your therapist’s vocabulary.

It’s been quieter these past few years. A murmur instead of a scream. Because routine was everything. Your days were built like puzzles — tightly shaped. No pieces missing. Study at 10, class at noon, walk back the same route. Sleep at 1:07 a.m. on the dot.

But now? Now the flight might be delayed. The hotel might smell wrong. Oscar might crash on a track in Italy because you didn’t count to eight before getting on the plane.

“Y/N,” he says again. “You good?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out.”

He takes your hand, squeezes it. “I mean, you’re allowed to be emotional. You graduated. You’re about to travel the world with your super-hot boyfriend. Big week.”

“Hmm. Debatable.”

“What, that it’s a big week?”

“That you’re super hot.”

“Rude.”

You exhale through your nose. Your pulse is still off.

Security is slow. You hate taking your shoes off. You hate the bins. You hate how close everyone stands. Your hands ache with the need to count something.

Oscar is pulling your backpack off your shoulders, placing it gently on the belt. “Don’t stress. We’ve got time.”

You nod. You don’t meet his eyes.

He’s so patient. Too patient.

He’s seen the worst of it. The meltdown in second year when you washed your hands until they bled. The days you didn’t leave your flat. The scripts you clung to like lifelines: tap twice, count backwards, check again, again, again.

He’s never flinched. But that was then. That was with structure. Now it’s airports and motorhomes and the whole world on wheels.

You touch your wrist once. Then again. Then again.

Oscar bumps his shoulder into yours. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna grab something anyway?”

“Sure.”

It’s a stupid dance, the pretending. The masking. It exhausts you before the flight even boards.

But then he says, “I put extra highlighters in the binder. You know. In case you want to color-code where we’ve been.”

You look at him.

He’s not teasing. He’s serious. Earnest.

You swallow. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are searching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You hesitate. Just one second too long.

He drops his voice. “Hey.”

You can’t speak. You can’t explain that if you say the wrong thing you might curse him.

He steps closer. “Y/N. You can tell me.”

You whisper, “It’s starting again.”

He doesn’t say what is? He knows. He just nods. Quiet.

“Okay,” he says. “So we take it slow.”

You nod, your throat thick.

“If the rituals come back, we deal with them. We make space. We adjust.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you say, and your voice cracks. “This was supposed to be-”

“You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But if I mess it up-”

“You won’t.”

You look away. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

You cover your face with your hands. You want to hide in his chest. Climb into his suitcase. Dissolve into the binder he made you.

Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Tap my arm if you need to,” he says, mouth near your ear. “Count the tiles if you have to. Say my name twenty times. I don’t care. Just … do it with me. Don’t do it alone.”

You nod against him.

You feel him kiss your temple. “It’s us,” he says. “Just like always.”

And somehow, it makes it a little quieter in your head. Just enough to walk toward the gate.

***

The first thing you notice about Melbourne is the sky. It’s the wrong kind of blue. Too open. Too big. It glares down at you like it’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you do.

The second thing you notice is the noise — brash, bright, city noise. Not like back home, where even the chaos has a rhythm. Here, everything is fast and clashing and late.

You’re sweating in a hoodie because you weren’t expecting the heat, and you can’t remember if you packed your toothbrush, and Oscar’s already halfway to the garage.

“I’ll be back by five!” He calls over his shoulder, lugging a small bag that probably has six identical team polos and nothing else. “Don’t wait for me to eat!”

You nod, smile, wave, try to match his energy. But the hotel door clicks closed behind him and you just stand there. Still. In the middle of a perfectly lovely hotel suite with perfectly white sheets and a view of the track just three buildings over. You don’t move for a while.

When you finally do, it’s to unzip your suitcase for the fifth time and root through it like you didn’t already check it back at the airport.

You’re looking for the toothbrush. You know it’s not about the toothbrush. It’s about the fact that you don’t know. About the fact that maybe you packed it, maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s in the front pocket, or the side one, or maybe it fell out when security made you re-check your liquids and now it’s sitting on some conveyor belt collecting strangers’ breath and dust.

You touch your wrist three times. Check the bathroom drawer. Again. Again. Again.

By noon, you’ve unpacked and repacked the toiletries bag twice and lined all your socks up by color. You’ve opened the minibar, then closed it again without taking anything out. You’ve opened Instagram, then shut it. Twitter, then closed it.

Everything itches.

Oscar texts at 12:47.

Garage is chaos but I love you

Also tell me you remembered the sunscreen this time

You don’t answer. You pull the sunscreen out of the side pocket and line it up next to the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. Then you sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cool tile, and count the seconds between your breaths.

One. Two. Three.

You try not to picture the FP1 crash in Bahrain two years ago. The one where Oscar hit the wall and climbed out shaking his wrist.

You try not to imagine it happening again. Try not to think that if you forget to lock the door before 9 p.m., that if you don’t re-pack your bag in the right order, if you don’t wash your hands after touching anything metal-

You try not to think that he’ll die. But you do. You do.

The thought is sticky. Loud. It wraps around your ribs and tightens.

That night, he comes back wired and sweaty, a towel around his neck, still halfway through a story about someone’s brake sensor malfunctioning.

“And I swear to God, the look on his face — like, full terror — but then it just reset itself! Like boop, nothing happened. Which is either very reassuring or the worst thing ever — are you okay?”

You freeze in the middle of the room.

Your hand is on the lock. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

Seven. Always seven.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod. “No, you didn’t. It’s not — it’s nothing.”

His eyes flick to the door. Then to your hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and kisses the top of your head. “Food?”

You try to smile. “Sure.”

You order room service because the idea of navigating a restaurant tonight is too much. You both eat cross-legged on the bed, watching reruns of some terrible home renovation show. He makes fun of the lighting choices and does impressions of the narrator.

You laugh at the right moments. You kiss him when he nudges your knee.

But after he falls asleep, the thoughts come back.

You get up. Check the lock again. Seven times. Seven always felt safe. Always felt symmetrical.

You wash your hands before getting back into bed. Then again. Then again. Until the soap makes your skin sting.

You press your palms to the towel. It’s soft. New. Not the one from earlier.

Your chest tightens. You turn on the bathroom light.

There’s a post-it on the mirror.

I love you more than the lock clicking 7 times.

Your legs give out a little. You sit on the edge of the tub and press your face to your knees.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

***

The next day is FP1.

Oscar’s in the car and you’re in the paddock with noise-cancelling headphones and a credential that still feels fake around your neck.

You wave at someone on the team. Try to remember their name.

Try to remember how to breathe.

The first time he comes out of the garage, your heart stops. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Actually.

Everything in your body goes cold, then hot. Your fingers twitch. Your legs feel heavy. You touch the metal railing in front of you.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone else’s girlfriend is laughing nearby. Someone else’s sister is filming a TikTok.

You can’t move. Your skin feels like it’s crawling off your bones.

He flies past, and you don’t see the turn.

You don’t know if he made it. You check your phone. No texts. No alerts. You picture the worst anyway. A wall. A fire. A miscalculation.

You go to the bathroom and scrub your hands raw. You do it because the soap is thin and the water is too cold and you don’t trust any of it. You do it because maybe it will help. Maybe it will protect him.

When you come out, he’s already changed. Hair damp. Laughing with a mechanic.

You smile when he catches your eye. Walk toward him.

He kisses your cheek and asks, “Hungry?”

You lie. “Yeah.”

He holds your hand all the way back to the hotel.

That night, he doesn’t say anything when you check the door again. Or when you rearrange the toiletries by size. Or when you flick the light switch twice before turning it off.

But when you step into the bathroom to shower, the towel has been switched again. Softer. Thicker. No tag to scratch your wrists. And there’s another note.

I love you more than the thoughts that tell you I’ll crash.

You stand under the hot water for too long. Your shoulders shake, and the water hides the tears.

You don’t tell him.

When you come out, he’s already asleep, one arm stretched toward your side of the bed like he was waiting for you in his dreams. You climb in beside him and press your nose to his shoulder.

He stirs, just a little. Murmurs, “You okay?”

You whisper, “Yeah.”

He turns toward you, eyes barely open, and kisses the center of your forehead.

You’re not okay. But maybe you don’t have to be. Not alone.

***

The sun in Bahrain hits different.

It’s not just the heat — it’s the glare, the dry air, the way the sky never seems to turn fully blue. The way the desert hums under everything, invisible and endless.

Oscar tells you it’s one of his favorite places to race. You nod, pretend to agree, then ask if he remembered to pack his cooling vest. He didn’t. You repacked it for him two nights ago. It's already folded neatly between his gloves and his race boots in the side pouch of his duffel.

But you don't tell him that. You don’t say much at all anymore.

Now you sit on the floor of the hotel suite, cross-legged, a pile of his things laid out beside you: team gear, toiletries, gum, charger, sunglasses, protein bars, custom earplugs.

You fold everything the same way. Three creases, not two. Socks rolled, not folded. Charger coiled clockwise, not counter. And the gum has to go on top. Always the gum.

You’ve unpacked and re-packed this bag twice already. You’re halfway through a third round when the door opens behind you.

You don’t look up.

Not until he says, gently, “Didn’t we already pack that?”

You pause. The toothpaste is in your hand, and your chest starts to tighten. You forgot if you’d put it back in yet.

You can’t answer until you do. So you place the toothpaste in its slot, adjust the zipper mesh around it, and zip it shut — smoothly, not too fast, not too slow.

Only then do you look up. Oscar’s standing by the door. He hasn’t moved.

He’s wearing the black McLaren polo you like — the one that clings to his arms in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. His hat’s turned backwards. He looks like he should be holding a skateboard, not stepping into a hotel room thick with compulsions.

He drops his keys on the table. Steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. Too quickly.

His eyes search yours, quiet. Not accusing. Just watching.

You say, “I’m just double-checking this stuff. Making sure everything’s where it should be.”

“You mean my stuff.”

You nod again. “Right. Yours.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he touches your knee, softly. You hate that it makes you tear up.

You blink fast, pretending to scratch your face. “I’m just making sure.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I know.”

A silence falls between you. It’s not heavy. Not entirely.

He kisses your forehead. Not dramatically. Just once, warm and real.

Then he says, “Do you want help?”

Your laugh is brittle. “You’d pack the gum upside down.”

“That’s fair.”

You zip the bag closed again. Touch the zipper head three times. Oscar notices but doesn’t comment. He sits with you for a few minutes like that — shoulder to shoulder on the hotel floor, watching you breathe.

You don’t tell him about the prayer.

The one you whisper in your head every time he gets into the car. The one with no origin, no clear logic — just syllables. A rhythm. A bargain.

It’s not from any religion. It’s not even a complete sentence. Just words. A shape. One you’ve repeated over and over so many times it doesn’t sound like anything anymore.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You say it twelve times. Every time. If you lose count, you start over.

Even during FP1. Even when the crowd cheers and music blares and your phone buzzes in your back pocket. Even when someone talks to you mid-mantra and you forget if you were on the seventh or eighth round, and suddenly you can’t breathe until you start from the top again.

You don’t tell anyone that, either.

It started three years ago. But maybe it really started back at school.

***

You were fifteen when you told him.

It was late. You were supposed to be in your dorm.

You were in the library, sitting under the long window seat in the back corner, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The kind of night that felt infinite. The kind where your chest buzzed with thoughts you couldn’t get out of your head.

He found you by accident. Probably looking for somewhere quiet to FaceTime his mum.

He said, “Did you fall asleep here or are you just hiding from your roommate again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He crouched down, noticed your red hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

You shook your head. “Washed them.”

His brow furrowed. “With bleach?”

“Soap,” you said. “Just soap. Too much, maybe.”

He sat beside you without asking. Without flinching. Just crossed his legs and leaned his back against the bookshelf.

“I check the windows,” you said. “At night. Three times each. Left to right. Then the desk drawers. Then the closet.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited.

“If I don’t,” you said, “I feel like something terrible will happen. Like my brother will die in his sleep. Or my mum will get hit by a car.”

He was silent for a beat. “Is that why you were late to maths yesterday?”

You turned, startled.

He shrugged. “You checked the doors, didn’t you?”

“Three times.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You blinked.

“You think I don’t notice stuff,” he said. “But I do. Especially about you.”

You didn’t say anything. The library was too quiet.

Then he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“What?”

“To keep your family safe. What’s the plan? You check the drawers, I’ll do the closet.”

And then he smiled. Crooked. Boyish.

You hated how much you wanted to cry.

But you laughed instead. “You would make a terrible closet checker.”

“I’m excellent. Thorough. Award-winning.”

“You’d leave the hangers crooked.”

He paused. “That feels like a personal attack.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll straighten the hangers.”

***

Back in Bahrain, he leaves you alone with the travel bag.

You don’t repack it a fourth time. But you think about it. You feel guilty for lying to him. Even now. Even when you know it’s not really a lie — it’s protection. It’s control.

It’s survival.

That night, Oscar’s busy with press. You curl up on the couch with a throw blanket and his credential on the table beside you. It has his face on it. His smile.

You say the prayer once under your breath. Just once.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You feel a little better. Until the guilt creeps back in. Until the soap on your skin starts to sting again.

Later, when he comes back, you’re brushing your teeth.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You taste like spearmint and fear,” you say through the foam.

He snorts. “Only because I saw the tyre wear report.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw. You close your eyes.

“Did you eat?” He asks.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Popcorn,” you mumble. “And two Oreos.”

He makes a face in the mirror. “Dinner of champions.”

You lean into him. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just wanted everything quiet.”

“That’s okay, too.”

You’re quiet a long time.

Then you say, “Do you ever feel like … if you do things wrong, someone you love might get hurt?”

He meets your gaze in the mirror. “Like … jinx it?”

You nod.

“All the time,” he says softly. “Every time I get in the car.”

You swallow.

“I used to have this ritual,” he says, moving your hair back from your shoulder. “When I first started karting. I’d knock my helmet twice before putting it on. Thought if I didn’t, I’d spin out. I was eight. Super serious stuff.”

You smile, faintly.

“I still do it,” he admits. “Out of habit.”

“But if you forget-”

“I don’t die,” he says. “I just feel a bit weird.”

You stare at the sink.

“I know it’s different,” he adds. “But I’m just saying … rituals don’t make you broken. They make you human.”

You don’t answer.

But when you fall asleep that night, you whisper the words in your head again.

Keep him safe, keep him whole …

You lose count at ten. You start over.

Oscar stirs beside you and pulls you closer without waking.

You start over. And over. And over again.

Until sleep finally wins.

And for the first time in days, you don’t dream of fire.

***

You wake up late the next Saturday.

The hotel curtains don’t block the light the way they should, and your eyes snap open to the wrong kind of brightness, too early to be actual morning, too late to start over.

You sit up too fast. Reach for the watch on the nightstand.

It’s 9:07.

Panic squeezes your ribs. You were supposed to tap the face of the watch five times before 9:00. Five times. Right index finger only. In rhythm.

The rules are stupid. You know that. That’s the worst part — you know.

But it’s like knowing you’re not supposed to need oxygen. Doesn’t make breathing optional.

You tap it anyway. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Then again.

Oscar stirs beside you, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” he says groggily. “Alarm didn’t go off?”

“No,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just … overslept.”

“You never oversleep.”

You manage a hollow smile. “First time for everything.”

***

Jeddah’s paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race chaos — carts clattering across asphalt, reporters huddled around coffee, engineers shouting over radio chatter.

Oscar kisses your temple before FP3. “Back soon. Don’t worry.”

You nod. Smile again. Fake it. You’re getting good at that.

As he disappears into the garage, you whisper it.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

Twelve times.

You lose count on the seventh. Someone brushes past you with a headset, jostling your shoulder. You whisper faster. Eyes closed.

Start again.

Once, twice, three times — you say the whole sequence over and over until your throat’s dry and your heart pounds.

You should have tapped the watch. You shouldn’t have overslept. You shouldn’t have broken the rhythm.

You glance up at the screen just in time to see the rear of Oscar’s car slide into the wall.

Not hard. Not catastrophic.

But jarring.

The commentators are already talking: “Oh, and that’s a little moment for Piastri — looks like a minor rear contact with the barriers coming out of Turn 13. Shouldn’t be anything major.”

He’s already out of the car. Helmet off. Shrugging. Fine.

He’s fine.

But your legs stop working. You sit on the concrete behind the pit wall and start to cry. Big, full-body sobs. Like your chest is folding in on itself.

You don’t care who sees. You cover your face and shake and shake and shake.

Someone says your name, distant and worried. A team liaison maybe. A reporter who’s seen too much. An assistant trying to help.

You can’t answer.

He’s okay. But it’s not okay.

Because it’s your fault.

You’re still crying when Oscar finds you, fifteen minutes later, hair wet with sweat, gloves still in his hands.

He crouches fast. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You grab his arm.

“I forgot the numbers,” you choke out. “I didn’t — this morning — I didn’t do it right. The watch. I was late. I didn’t tap it right. I broke the pattern. I knew something would happen-”

“Stop. Stop. No — hey. Hey.” He cups your face with both hands. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let go. Just presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m here. I walked away. You see me? Still annoying. Still sweaty. Still very much alive.”

“I didn’t protect you-”

“Love.” His voice cracks. “That’s not your job.”

You break. Really break.

You bury your face in his chest and cry like you’re thirteen again and trapped inside your own mind, like you’re five and lining up your stuffed animals in perfect color order so your mum won’t crash on the drive home, like you’re you — messy and cracked and terrified.

And he holds you. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re real.

The car isn’t totaled. The garage can fix it. He’s fine. You are not.

***

Back at the hotel, the lights are dim. He’s quiet. So are you.

He doesn’t say anything when you pick up your water glass, then put it down, then pick it up again just to hear the sound.

You sit on the bed with your legs folded under you. He’s beside you, back against the headboard, iPad in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Careful.

“Do you want me to read?”

You blink. “Read?”

“Out loud. Something gentle. You don’t have to talk.”

Your throat is raw. But you nod.

He opens a book. You don’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

He reads something about quiet rivers. A woman feeding birds by a window. A person learning to sleep again.

His voice is low, even. Not like a performance. Like a promise.

You stare at the blanket. Listen.

You don't speak for a long time.

Then you say, “I feel insane.”

He doesn’t look up from the page. “You’re not.”

“I knew something would happen.”

“You didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He finally turns to you. “And if I’d stubbed my toe getting out of the car? Would that have been your fault too?”

You wince.

“Is every breath I take your responsibility now?”

“No. I just … I just needed something to matter. I needed something to control.”

He closes the book.

Silence swells between you.

Then he says, “You’re not a burden.”

You flinch. “I didn’t say I was.”

“I know. But I see it in your face when you fold my shirts six times. When you don’t eat until the toothpaste is facing the right way. When you cry over a crash that wasn’t your fault.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I hate that you have to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”

You swallow hard.

He leans closer. “You’re not a burden,” he repeats. “You’re a person. My person.”

You look down. The tears come again, slower this time. Like they’ve made peace with gravity.

“You’re not going to fix me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not trying to.”

“You can’t love it out of me.”

“I wouldn’t try that either.”

You finally look at him.

He smiles, small. Crooked. Devastating.

“I’m just here,” he says. “Reading badly-written novels and trying not to leave my gum upside-down in the bag.”

You laugh, just once. Sharp and surprised.

Then you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I want to get better,” you say.

“I know.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t respond. Not right away.

You just breathe.

It’s not better. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, it’s not getting worse.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing starts.

***

You start therapy on a Monday.

It’s raining in Tokyo — some poetic, cinematic drizzle that clings to the windows and makes the skyline blur into watercolor.

Oscar has back-to-back media obligations, which means he won’t be in the room.

You’re glad. You’re scared.

You’re both.

Your laptop is perched on the edge of the hotel desk, camera propped just above the little glass dish of paperclips you keep moving but can’t seem to throw away. Behind you, the bed is unmade. Oscar’s hoodie is draped over the chair. It still smells like him — clean and sun-warmed, like laundry detergent and the inside of a helmet bag.

You touch the sleeve once, for courage.

Then you click “Join Meeting.”

The screen flickers.

And there she is.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice hasn’t changed.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks older — maybe because she’s in a sweater and not a blazer, maybe because you are. But her eyes are the same: kind, clear, and sharp enough to see you even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Time difference okay for you?” She asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s weird being this many hours ahead.”

She smiles gently. “And how’s traveling?”

You hesitate.

“Hard,” you admit.

Then you take a breath. “I thought it would feel free. Like finally being with him full-time would make all the bad stuff … smaller.”

“And does it?”

“No.”

Her voice stays soft. “Does it make it louder?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes it makes it everything.”

She nods. She doesn’t write anything down. She’s never needed to.

You stare at your hands.

“I have this thing,” you say, “where I think if I don’t do the right ritual, someone I love will die.”

She nods again. “That’s a pretty common fear.”

“But it doesn’t feel common. It feels — magic.”

“Magical thinking,” she offers gently.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s not like fairies and spells. It’s rules. Like … invisible math. And if I get the equation wrong …”

You trail off. Your throat burns.

“If I get it wrong,” you whisper, “he might not come back.”

***

In the next room, Oscar sits with headphones on, pretending to scroll.

He’s not eavesdropping. Not exactly.

But sometimes the walls in these hotels are thin, and her voice is just soft enough that he can’t make out the words — but yours carries.

Especially when it cracks.

He hears your pacing steps. The way the chair squeaks. The moment you stop and go still.

He doesn't move.

He just waits.

***

You tell her about the watch.

About the crash.

About the way your stomach hasn’t fully unclenched since Bahrain.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like — okay. Oscar’s talented. Smart. He’s got a great team. All that. I know that.”

“Right.”

“But I also know he could die in the car.”

She nods slowly. “Both things can be true.”

“I don’t want to believe that I can control it. That a prayer or a tap or a word whispered at the right second could protect him.”

“But?”

“But I do. I believe it with everything in me.”

“And how long have you felt that?”

You pause. “Since I was a kid.”

“Do you remember when it started?”

“After the fire,” you say without thinking.

You blink, surprised you even said it out loud.

She doesn't flinch.

You go on, slowly. “We were on holiday in Cornwall. Someone left a candle burning in the hallway. No one got hurt. But after that, I started checking everything. Light switches. Stoves. Then it wasn’t just candles. It was — anything. If I left the bathroom light on, maybe Mum would crash her car. If I didn’t count the steps right, maybe my brother would fall off his bike.”

She nods. “And over time?”

“I stopped trusting anything random. Everything had to have meaning. Rules. Cause and effect.”

“And now?”

You rub your face.

“I know the crash wasn’t my fault,” you say. “But knowing doesn’t help. I still feel like I almost killed him.”

Her voice is steady. “That’s the trick of OCD. It doesn’t need logic. It just needs fear.”

You laugh, quiet and exhausted. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

***

Oscar waits until the door creaks open.

You step into the room with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he doesn't push. Doesn't ask.

He just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered tea.”

You smile back. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He nods to the tray on the table. “Chamomile. With honey. And one of those weird sugar cubes shaped like fish.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for you.”

You pick up the mug. Warm. Comforting. Just the right weight in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He leans against the windowsill, watching the city blur behind glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he adds, “How are you feeling?”

That part makes your throat catch.

Not what did you say or what did she tell you to do or when will you be fixed.

Just: how are you feeling.

You sit on the edge of the bed. “Better, I think. Lighter.”

He smiles, small. “Good.”

You take a sip of tea.

He wanders to the TV. “Want to put something on? Something stupid?”

You glance up. “How stupid?”

“Rom-com level stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meg Ryan stupid?”

He gasps. “Ma’am, I will defend Meg Ryan with my life.”

“You’ve seen You’ve Got Mail like five times.”

“I was emotionally held hostage!”

You laugh into your mug.

He queues it up anyway.

You lie back on the bed, head resting just below the crook of his shoulder. He drapes an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand finds his.

And for the first time in days, it doesn’t tremble.

The movie starts. Meg Ryan opens her laptop and narrates an email like it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. Tom Hanks appears with a golden retriever. The early 2000s flood the screen in pixelated nostalgia.

Oscar grins at the dumbest parts.

You watch him more than the movie.

Halfway through, he turns to you. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

He kisses your temple and doesn’t say anything else.

And in the warmth of the blanket, in the quiet of the city that doesn’t know your name, in the tea mug cooling on the table — you realize you don’t feel like a walking emergency.

Not right now.

Right now, you just feel held.

***

Monaco smells like salt and champagne and pressure.

You’ve been here three days, and it’s already too much. Everything glints. Everything shines. Even the people — white linen, Cartier sunglasses, voices pitched to carry. You haven’t seen a single stain or out-of-place thread. It’s like the whole city got polished for camera.

Oscar laughs at the absurdity of it, but even he is sharper here. Quieter. Hungrier.

You don’t mind that. It’s part of the deal.

You love that about him — that locked-in look in his eyes when he’s half-listening, half-chasing the apex in his head.

But today, it’s harder to watch.

He qualifies P2.

You watch from the hospitality deck, hands wrapped tight around a sweating bottle of water, trying to look normal. Trying to stay still.

There’s celebration, but subdued — the kind that says good job, now finish it tomorrow.

Oscar waves once toward the team’s box. Gives you a small grin. You smile back. You hope it looks real.

“You alright?” One of the junior engineers asks, nudging you with a gentle elbow. He’s no older than twenty. Looks like he still does math homework on Sunday nights.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m good.”

You’re not.

But it’s Monaco.

And you’ve got it under control.

***

Sunday starts slow. Oscar leaves early for prep. You kiss his cheek three times — once at the door, once at the elevator, once at the paddock entrance.

Just in case.

The numbers are tight today. No room for error.

You eat half a croissant, then stop. The knife next to your plate isn’t aligned.

You move it. Then move it back. Then again.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Then you put the knife down and walk away.

It’s not about the knife. It’s never about the knife.

***

You think you’ll be okay until Lap 47.

He’s still holding P2. Holding it well. It’s a processional race, like always, but still — one tiny mistake in Monaco and it's done. He brushes the wall near Tabac once and your throat clamps shut. But he saves it. He always saves it.

Until the chicane.

The car twitches. A flicker — half a second of skid, of oversteer, of what if-

He catches it.

But your brain doesn’t.

You start counting before you even know you’re doing it.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six.

By the time he crosses the line — P2, perfect, unhurt — your nails have left crescent moons in your palm.

You try to clap. You try to smile.

You can’t feel your hands.

You can’t feel your face.

***

You don’t remember leaving the viewing area.

Somehow you’re in the hospitality tent — empty now, except for the cleanup crew and a tray of untouched macarons that looks radioactive in the light.

You sit. Then stand. Then sit again.

Your chest feels like it’s locked in a vice.

Forty-eight, ninety-six, one hundred forty-four.

The pattern slips.

You start over.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six-

“Hey.”

A voice. Close. Familiar.

Kim.

Oscar’s performance coach.

He’s crouching a little, not touching you. His voice stays calm, neutral.

“You with me?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits on the ground next to you. “Alright. We don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” you rasp. “I-I can’t-”

“You don’t have to get it right,” he says. “You just have to stay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I didn’t — I started too late — if I’d just counted faster-”

“Hey.”

He looks you in the eye.

“I’ve worked with athletes for twelve years. I’ve seen crashes. Injuries. Worse.”

He keeps his voice even. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone learning how to walk again.

“You didn’t cause that twitch at the chicane. Oscar just got a little loose. It happens.”

Your breath is coming too fast. Your ears ring.

“I can’t stop counting,” you say. “It feels like if I stop — he’ll — he’ll-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mon.”

He stands slowly. Offers you a hand.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

***

He brings you behind the McLaren motorhome, around the side where the generators hum and no one bothers to look.

Oscar is already there.

Still in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just kneels down on the pavement beside you and sits.

Right there. In the dirt. In Monaco.

You lower yourself next to him, legs crossed, breathing shallow.

He sets his helmet down. Rubs your back in slow circles.

Not trying to fix. Just being here.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty.

You lose track.

But eventually your breath evens.

Your hands stop shaking.

You lean against him. He adjusts to fit you in like muscle memory.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss into your temple.

“I left the media pen,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.”

He turns to look at you, eyes clear, steady.

“You’re not broken,” he says softly. “You’re just trying too hard to keep me safe.”

You bite your lip.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ask.

“It is.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But not at the cost of you.”

You let out a long breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I just … I want it to be perfect.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “It is. It’s messy and weird and real and ours. That’s perfect enough.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Kim found me,” you say.

“He told me. He said you were trying to multiply by twelve.”

You laugh, wetly. “It felt important.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

You sit in silence for a moment longer.

“Are people mad?” You ask. “That you left?”

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you mad?”

He turns to you fully. “I’ve known you for eight years. I watched you line up your pencils at boarding school until your hands hurt. I listened to you explain how you couldn’t eat dinner until you’d washed your hands exactly four times. I fell in love with that girl.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because she never gave up. Even when her brain told her the world would burn if she blinked wrong.”

He pauses. Takes your hand.

“And because she saw me. Not the driver. Just me.”

You stare at your joined fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses your knuckles. “Okay.”

***

Later, in the hotel room, he brings you sushi in a to-go box and lets you rearrange the soy sauce packets until it feels right.

You eat sitting cross-legged on the floor.

No counting.

Not tonight.

Not here.

***

Rain slicks the track like oil.

The kind of cold, wet weekend where nothing dries, not even your bones. Where you feel damp under your hoodie, in your socks, in your lungs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat somewhere soft and warm, and not come out until August.

But you’re in the paddock.

And Silverstone doesn’t care how cold your fingers are.

The air smells like diesel and coffee and nerves. Fans press up against barriers in plastic ponchos, teeth chattering, makeup smudging, still screaming for photos.

Oscar waves as he walks past. You trail a few paces behind him, hood up, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

He’s already soaked. Hair curling at the edges. The drops slick down his race suit like they belong there.

You pretend you're fine.

You smile when Lando jokes about the weather.

You sip the tea someone offers in hospitality.

You kiss Oscar goodbye before FP1 and tell him to drive safe.

But your fingertips ache from being scrubbed raw under the bathroom faucet, and your left wrist still has a faint red mark from the band of your watch — tightened, loosened, tightened again until the numbers added up to eight.

***

You wash your hands again after FP1.

Twice after FP2.

Four times before dinner.

You pack and repack your overnight bag even though you're not going anywhere. Move your toothbrush from one pocket to another. Align the zippers. Count them.

Oscar notices.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first.

But you feel it — the way his eyes stay on you a second longer, the way he sets down the takeaway containers a little more gently, the way he exhales when he thinks you won’t hear.

You sit on the edge of the bed that night, brushing your hair with a plastic comb you almost threw away this morning. The bristles aren't even, but the sound is soft and repetitive and helps you think.

Oscar’s on the other side of the room, scrolling through weather updates.

“I don’t think quali’s even gonna happen tomorrow,” he mutters. “They’re saying 80% chance of thunderstorms.”

You hum a reply.

Keep brushing.

He sets down his phone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You force a smile. “Just tired.”

But your voice is off. You know it. He knows it.

He gets up slowly, walks over, and crouches in front of you.

You pause the brush.

“I can tell when you’re not okay,” he says softly.

You look away. “I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You hate how kind his face is.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he says. “I want all of it. Even the hard.”

The comb slips from your hand. It clatters on the floor.

You don't reach for it.

“What if all I am is the hard?” You whisper.

He swallows. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.

“You don’t know how exhausting it is to be terrified all the time,” you say. “To feel like if you look the wrong way, or touch the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought, someone dies.”

“I know it’s not easy-”

“No, you don’t.” You stand. “You get in that car and everyone’s scared for you. But you’re ready. You choose it. I don’t choose this. I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t say you did-”

“I feel insane half the time,” you snap. “And the other half I’m pretending I’m fine so I don’t drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me-”

“Yes, I am!”

The words echo. Not loud, but final.

You stand there, hands shaking, breath shallow, eyes burning.

Oscar doesn’t yell back. He just looks at you.

“I never said you had to protect me,” he says quietly. “I never asked you to.”

The silence between you stretches.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what it feels like,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “Helping me means watching me fall apart.”

“No,” he says. “Helping you means holding your hand while you put yourself back together.”

You don’t say anything. You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

***

You don’t cry, not really.

But you stand under the hot water until it runs cold, and when you crawl into bed later, you don’t say a word.

Oscar's already under the covers. Facing the other way.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows.

Eight. Sixteen. Twenty-four.

The numbers don’t fix anything. They don’t stop the ache in your chest. They don’t bring him closer.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

***

At some point in the early hours, you feel the mattress shift.

He’s turned toward you now. Closer.

You feel his hand brush yours under the duvet.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough.

“I just need you to be with me.”

You don’t say anything. But you curl toward him, just a little. And he wraps his arm around you, just enough.

***

The next morning, the rain’s still coming down sideways.

Oscar has meetings.

You have a session on Zoom with your therapist.

You sit on the floor of the hotel closet — because it’s quiet, and dark, and small enough to feel safe — and talk about shame.

Not about fear. You’ve done fear. This one’s newer. This one's sharper.

“I hate that I still struggle with this,” you admit. “I hate that I can’t just … fix it.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “What would being fixed look like?”

You blink. “I don’t know. Quiet?”

“Do you think Oscar wants you quiet?”

“I think he wants me better.”

“Has he said that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

***

That night, you leave a note on his pillow.

It’s on the back of a receipt from a sushi place in London.

You write:

I don’t know how to be better yet.

But I want to be.

And I want to do that with you.

If you’ll still have me.

When you come out of the bathroom, Oscar’s holding the note.

He doesn’t say anything. Just opens the covers and waits.

You slide in beside him. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

***

ERP sounds gentle.

Exposure and Response Prevention.

Like a soft wind brushing against a windowpane.

But it’s not gentle. It’s brutal.

It’s standing in the middle of a war zone and refusing to put your armor on.

It’s choosing not to do the thing that makes your chest stop clenching … on purpose.

It’s sitting still while your mind screams.

And today, your therapist wants you to watch Oscar leave the garage without doing anything.

No numbers. No taps. No whispered names, no aligned bracelets, no rearranged backpack straps.

“Let the thought come,” your therapist says calmly, over Zoom, earbuds tucked in. “Let it exist. Don’t push it away. Don’t answer it. Just … sit with it.”

You nod.

Because logically, you understand. The rituals don't actually keep Oscar safe. They just give the illusion of control.

But logic and compulsion do not live in the same house. They barely exist on the same continent.

So you sit there, perched on a low stool beside the monitors in the McLaren garage, heart clawing at your ribs, and you don’t tap your fingers against your knee. You don’t whisper his name seven times under your breath.

You just watch.

Oscar gives you a thumbs up before putting on his helmet.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing.

Or maybe he does. Maybe the way your hands are clenched and your breathing is off is enough for him to guess.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just gives you that quiet little nod — I see you.

Then he’s gone.

The car whines out of the garage and into the pit lane.

Your vision blurs.

You keep breathing.

You count each second until the radio crackles with his voice: “Car feels good.”

And then … nothing happens.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

You don’t unclench right away. You sit there through all of FP2, sweat prickling down your spine, nails digging into your palms. But you don’t give in.

***

That night, you go out for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. A little tapas place near the hotel, wood-paneled walls and pitchers of sangria, tables squished too close together.

Oscar lets you pick the table.

You choose the one by the window.

You don’t swap the silverware. You don’t ask him to move the glass an inch to the left. You don’t tap your wine glass before drinking. Your hand trembles a little when you lift it, but you do it.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just nudges the plate of croquetas closer to you and smiles.

You eat one.

You don’t count your bites. You chew. You swallow.

You’re still alive. He’s still alive.

***

On the balcony later, you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your hoodie tighter.

Oscar sits beside you, ankles crossed, drink in hand.

The sky is a watercolor blur — deep blue bleeding into velvet black. You watch a plane pass overhead.

“I didn’t do it,” you say quietly.

He turns his head toward you.

“The thing,” you clarify. “I didn’t tap. I didn’t whisper. I didn’t check the floor tiles in the garage before he left.”

Oscar’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”

“You did?”

He nods. “You were shaking so hard I thought you might bite through your tongue.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins. “Not that I blame you. Watching me drive is terrifying even without OCD.”

You swat his arm. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“Lando says that’s debatable.”

“You are.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “you’re braver than me.”

You snort. “You drive a car at 300 km/h.”

“And you sat still while your brain told you I might die.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You’re brave,” he says. “Not because you keep the thoughts out. Because you let them in, and still stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“I know.”

He shifts, slides a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“But I saw you tonight,” he murmurs. “You didn’t tap. You didn’t check. You didn’t sit facing the door, which I know you usually want.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

He nudges your leg with his knee.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting. You look away.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance back.

He’s watching you with that same look he gave you during that second-to-last boarding school dance — the one where you wore that ugly purple dress with the uneven hem and he said, quietly, like it was a secret I like this version of you best.

Not the polished one. Not the presentable one. Just you.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

“You.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Undeniable.

“I want you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you’re angry with me for not understanding something I’ll never fully live.”

You blink fast.

“I don’t want to be hard to love.”

“You’re not hard to love,” he says. “You’re hard on yourself. That’s different.”

***

You lie in bed later that night, curled under the blanket he tucked around you.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hasn’t for a while. But it comes. Eventually.

Without a single ritual.

Without a single tap.

And when you dream, it isn’t of the car crashing.

It’s of rain on the window, Oscar’s hand in yours, and your own voice whispering, not out of fear, but faith.

You are safe. He is safe. You are safe.

***

The sky over Spa is angry.

Charcoal clouds roll over the hills like they're in a rush to be somewhere else. The forest holds its breath. The grandstands hum with tension. And in the paddock, everything feels slower. Heavier.

You always forget how much this place looms — how the trees crowd the circuit, like spectators themselves. Spa has history in its bones. And ghosts in its corners.

Oscar says, “Weird energy, yeah?”

You nod, fingers tightening around your coffee cup.

“Want to skip the garage today?” He offers, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say. “I’m okay.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise or a hope.

***

It’s FP2 when it happens.

Not Oscar.

Someone else.

A pink car. A snap. A spin. The wall.

The crash is hard enough that everyone on the pit wall stands. Hard enough that your stomach drops and you forget how to breathe for a second.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood up until Oscar’s hand brushes your elbow.

He’s out of the car already. Session red-flagged.

“They’re saying he’s okay,” he says, voice low. “Shaken up. But talking.”

You nod. Swallow. Your pulse still drums in your ears.

“I know that was scary,” Oscar adds, gently. “You want to step outside?”

You look down at your hands. They’re steady.

Your thoughts are loud — God, they’re so loud — but they’re not screaming. Not like before.

You don’t need to count. You don’t need to tap your thigh seven times. You don’t need to start the prayer, or walk out on only even tiles, or hold your breath and close your eyes until the silence passes.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I’m okay.”

Oscar just nods, eyes warm. He doesn’t call it progress. You don’t want him to. But he squeezes your hand once — tight and sure — and doesn’t let go.

***

That night, the paddock is quieter than usual.

No one likes to see a crash, even if it ends with thumbs up and waving arms. Everyone’s reminded. How fragile this is. How fast it can go wrong.

You and Oscar eat dinner in the motorhome. Leftover pasta, half-warm, eaten cross-legged on the little couch with Netflix playing softly in the background.

You rest your chin on your knees, fork dangling from your hand.

He nudges your ankle. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

You glance at him. He’s got sauce on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your sleeve before answering. “I think … I stopped counting.”

He tilts his head. “Like today?”

“Like … this week. I don’t know when. But I didn’t realize it until now. There wasn’t a number in my head when he crashed. There wasn’t a ritual I forgot. I just felt scared. And then I didn’t.”

Oscar watches you, patient and careful.

“I’m not saying it’s gone,” you add quickly. “The thoughts are still there. But I didn’t obey them. That’s a win, right?”

He smiles. “That’s a huge win.”

You laugh, a little surprised. “I kind of want to cry.”

“That’s allowed.”

“But I also want cake.”

“That’s especially allowed.”

You set the plate down on the floor. He stretches his legs until his toes bump yours.

“So,” he says, tone casual, “what else have you been thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I think I want to go back to school.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Not right away. Next year, maybe. My therapist says the structure could help. And I miss it. I miss the library. The lectures. The … I don’t know. The me I used to be, when I wasn’t just surviving.”

“What would you study?”

You pause. “Psych. Maybe. Or public health. Or something with writing. I want to help people who think the way I do. Maybe not as a therapist. But … something adjacent.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he smiles. “That sounds like you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You’re good at seeing people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.”

“Must be all the years I spent hiding.”

“I don’t think you were hiding,” he says. “I think you were surviving. And now, maybe, you get to do more than that.”

You feel tears prick again. You press your palm against your cheek.

Oscar leans closer. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m here.”

You whisper, “Even if I go back to school?”

“Even if you move to the other side of the world.”

“Even if I’m not on the circuit every weekend?”

“I’ll FaceTime you from parc fermé.”

You smile. “I might get boring.”

“You’ve never been boring a day in your life.”

***

Later, you sit on the hotel balcony.

It’s cooler than usual. The wind rustles the edge of the curtain behind you. Oscar’s inside, brushing his teeth, humming something off-key.

You hold your tea in both hands and breathe.

No counting. No compulsions. Just a breath. A moment. A you.

You’re still not fixed. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be whole. Maybe being human is messy and uneven and a little cracked.

And maybe love is what happens in the spaces between.

The sliding doors open. Oscar steps out, barefoot and sleepy.

“You,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

He grins. “You’re my favorite part of all of this.”

You laugh. “Even when I rearrange your backpack contents for the third time?”

“Especially then.”

He pulls a chair closer and plops down beside you, hair damp from the shower, skin warm from the room. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, again.

You don’t respond right away. But you reach for his hand. And this time, yours isn’t shaking.

***

The air smells like engine heat and sunscreen. The paddock hums with end-of-season energy — tired mechanics, championship points being tallied in real time, drivers swapping hats and handshakes. This is where everything ends and begins again.

You lace your fingers through Oscar’s as you step out of the car.

It’s nothing dramatic. No stage directions. No swells of music. You just walk next to him, flats hitting the concrete like you belong there. Because you do.

You don’t walk beside him because the compulsion told you to. You walk beside him because you love him. And because he loves you.

“First one to hospitality gets control of the Spotify queue tonight,” Oscar says, trying to jostle ahead.

You deadpan, “Do you really want to lose that badly?”

He shoots you a look. “I’m sorry, who introduced you to German techno at 3 a.m. in Singapore?”

You arch a brow. “I believe I blacked that out for my own wellbeing.”

Oscar grins. “Sure you did. But if I win, it’s five hours of vibraphone jazz.”

You pretend to gag. “You’re a menace.”

He kisses your temple. “A menace with good taste.”

And then he lets go of your hand just long enough to jog ahead. You roll your eyes and walk slower, the early morning sun warm on your back.

You’re not racing anymore. You don’t have to.

***

The garage is a tangle of nerves.

Oscar straps in for the final qualifying of the season with calm precision. You sit just outside the chaos, headset looped around your neck, not because you have to be close, but because you want to. You sip water and trace your finger along the seam of your jeans.

Your therapist calls it a “grounding gesture.”

It’s a better alternative than the numbers.

He goes out. He flies.

You breathe. You do not count.

***

P3.

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

He comes back beaming, helmet off, suit unzipped to his waist. His smile splits his face in half, flushed and real and bright.

You run straight to him. He catches you easily, arms slung low around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, before he can.

He laughs. “I’m proud of you too.”

You don’t have champagne. You don’t have fireworks. You just have a hotel suite where the lights are low, and the room service is still warm, and his socks are mismatched, and you’re both slightly delirious with exhaustion.

But it’s perfect.

***

“Do you remember,” you say, voice soft, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, “when you made that binder?”

Oscar feigns offense. “You mean my meticulously curated romantic gesture?”

“Yes,” you murmur, smiling. “That one.”

“You mean the one with the tabs labeled ‘Y/N’s Favorite Snacks by Country’ and ‘How to Spot When She Needs a Break But Won’t Say It’?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That one.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Still carry it in my backpack.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“That’s so-” You break off, covering your face with a pillow. “God, I love you.”

His voice is steady. “Good. Because I love you too.”

You drop the pillow slowly. “I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t come this year.”

“You’d still be you,” he says. “Maybe not the same version. But still you.”

You press your cheek to his shoulder. “You know it’s not over, right?”

“I know.”

“I’ll still have days when it’s hard to touch doorknobs. Or leave the house. Or when I’ll cry because I saw a number I don’t like and convinced myself it means something bad.”

“I know.”

“I’ll still panic. And count. And spin. Even if I try not to.”

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

“But I’m trying,” you say, voice cracking.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to try to be lovable. You already are.”

You blink fast.

“You’re not my problem,” he adds. “You’re my person.”

The tears fall, warm and quiet.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

***

Later, when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to make you laugh, you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

A message from your therapist buzzes through.

How did the weekend feel?

You start typing.

Loud. But not terrifying. Beautiful, actually. Still had the thoughts. Didn’t follow all of them. Still me. Still learning. But better. I think.

You hesitate. Then send.

Oscar flops onto the bed beside you, fresh from the shower, towel draped over his head like a cartoon ghost.

“Boo,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You're ridiculous.”

He peeks out from under the towel. “I’m adorable and you know it.”

“You’re something.”

You lean over to kiss him, soft and slow. He kisses back like there’s no hurry. Because there isn’t.

***

The next morning, your suitcase is packed. The flight home is in five hours. The sky outside is pink and pale gold. You stand at the window, watching the light change.

Oscar’s still in bed, one leg thrown dramatically across the blankets, face smushed into a pillow.

You reach for your bag. Your ring — just costume jewelry, something you found in a Azerbaijani flea market and now wear on instinct — is on the table.

You slip it on. And you tap it twice.

Habit.

Your brain registers it, but not as danger. Not as control.

You pause. You exhale.

Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes.

“Even if I don’t do anything.”

And for the first time, you believe it. The fear doesn’t vanish. It just … takes a back seat.

You walk back to the bed. Slide under the covers.

Oscar stirs, barely awake.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for you. “You okay?”

You press your nose into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say.

And this time, it’s not just a hope. It’s the truth.

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inlovewithquestionablecharacters · 3 days ago

Text

Carmen Berzatto X F!Reader: Baby Fever

Warnings: smut, breeding kink, penetration (p in v), fingering, dirty talk, cursing, family trauma (very generic), soft Carmy, baby fever, talks of pregnancy, kissing, no use of y/n, fluff, takes place in season 4 but no major spoilers.

Word count: 2.5 K

Carmen didn’t think about being a dad. He never had before. His father hadn’t been present, and his mother was... well, the way that she was. His parents hadn’t exactly done a stellar job at parenting, so becoming one himself had never been part of the plan.

Actually, Carmen hadn’t really thought about much beyond the restaurant. Beyond being the best, pushing himself harder, being better than he already was. But lately, things had started to shift. He was trying. Trying to be present. Trying to be less… Carmen. And suddenly, his life didn’t just revolve around the kitchen, or cooking, or the constant gnawing anxiety that never really went away.

You had been the first step into that.

You and Carmen had gone through a rough patch but somehow, you figured it out. You weren’t labeled “girlfriend” because Carmy was terrible with labels, terrible with words in general, but you were something. Something real. Someone special.

So no, Carmen had never thought about becoming a dad. But then Sugar brought Sophie in, and everything changed. Everyone had been enthralled by the baby with her big eyes, little fists, soft gurgling noises. It was weird seeing that kind of peace in a place like this.

He hadn’t really looked at her. Not until he walked into the office to talk to Sugar and saw you there, holding Sophie. Your eyes were closed. Arms wrapped around the baby like you’d done it a thousand times. Your body bounced gently, swaying side to side. You were humming something under your breath. You were trying to get her to sleep, but she was still wide awake.

You didn’t notice him. Didn’t see him standing in the doorway, frozen.

Didn’t see the way his chest tightened or the way his thoughts scrambled trying to make sense of the feeling creeping up his spine. And then Sophie looked at him. Just looked. Big eyes, tiny grin. No reason for it. Just... a baby being a baby.

But something inside Carmen shifted.

He left before you could see him. Before you could ask what that look on his face meant. Because he didn’t know. Not really.

But during the whole service that night, while orders were flying and Richie was yelling and Sydney was trying not to lose it, his mind kept flashing back. To you. Holding that baby. Looking like you were meant to.

After service, he didn’t go straight home. Just stood outside the back door, apron still on, watching the city breathe around him. He lit a cigarette and didn’t even smoke it. He’d almost placed it to his mouth because the gum wasn’t managing to rid him of the desire, but then he’d remembered how happy you’d been when he told you he quit. He threw it on the ground and stomped it out.

Then he just stood, thinking. Replaying that moment in the office over and over.

It was late. You were probably sleeping peacefully in bed. He should go home. Should sleep so that he would be rested for tomorrow. He needed to bring his A-game.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He needed to see you. Needed to at least hold you in his arms. Needed to know if that feeling would still be there when you opened the door.

As soon as you opened the door, he felt bad. It was clear from your eyes that you’d been asleep. It was clear from your face that the knocks—yes, it had taken multiple ones—had startled you. Your body was tense as you peeked out the door, but then you saw his face, and you relaxed a bit.

“Carmy?” you whispered.

Your voice was all groggy, the way it often was when you woke up in the mornings. You’d been asleep for a while. Fuck, he should have called. Should have waited till tomorrow. Carmen and his fucking impatience.

You opened the door fully, revealing the beautiful sight of you dressed in one of his shirts. His heart seemed to do a somersault inside his chest. It was just another thing added to the pile of stuff he was already feeling. You grabbed his hand, softly tugging him inside.

“Everything okay?” you asked as you shut the door.

Carmen nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—sorry. I should’ve called.”

You simply smiled at him. You didn’t need to say it, Carmy knew what the smile meant. It was a silent way of telling him, “It’s alright.” You moved close to him, wrapping your arms around his body. Carmen returned the gesture instantly. He didn’t even need to think about it. The second your body came in contact with his, he was melting into you, body molding against yours like two pieces of a puzzle.

You let out a soft sigh as he placed a kiss on your hair.

“You come for a sleepover?”

Carmen smiled.

“Would that be okay?”

You lifted your head off his chest so you could look at him, eyes slightly closed, a sleepy smile on your face.

“Of course, Carm.”

Carmen slept that night, but he did not rest. His mind was an endless collection of dreams with the predominant theme of babies. Some of them had you in them, your belly big with an unborn child. Some were just sounds of babies—giggles, babbles, crying. And some were just flashes. Flashes of possibilities.

Carmen’s body woke up at six, muscles rigid as he bolted upright. He was ready to go to work, ready to head into the restaurant and face the rush of movement. But then he looked at your clock and realized—it was Sunday. There was no service.

In any other circumstance, the realization would have made his stomach churn. Today, however, a wave of relief seemed to wash over him.

You shifted beside him, eyes blinking slowly as you woke. Carmen was still sitting up in bed, staring at the wall, trying to allow his body to relax before lying back down again. He hadn’t realized you were awake until you placed a soft hand on his back. His head snapped around to look at you.

You were still lying down, face pressed into the pillow, eyes on him.

“Nightmare?”

You’d become used to his bad dreams—you’d been over at his place more than once when it had happened.

“No, actually.”

Carmen lay back down, turning onto his side to face you. You reached up, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, letting out a small yawn. Carmen took your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You smiled, eyes still slightly closed.

He placed another kiss on your palm. Then your wrist. Then your arm.

He kept going, slow and steady, kissing along your skin until he reached your shoulder. Then, he moved to your neck.

Your breath hitched at the feeling, a soft whine slipping out.

There it was. Just what Carmen wanted. He knew all your sweet spots, knew how to get you riled up. And when you tilted your head to give him more access, Carmen knew you wanted this just as much as he did.

So he kept going.

Somewhere between kisses and soft whines, you’d both ended up completely naked. Now, you found yourself in a delicious position. Your body pressed against Carmen’s, both of you covered only by the sheets, his hand working you open.

Your mouth fell open as you moaned. Carmen’s fingers didn’t stop, moving in languid, practiced strokes as he worked to push you toward your high. You were getting close. Then he added a third finger, and his thumb moved to circle your clit, and you were gone.

You came with a shout of his name, your body lifting off the bed as the orgasm crashed through you.

Carmen watched you fall apart with something close to awe, his breath catching in his throat as you clenched around his fingers, body arching into the pleasure. He kept moving gently through your high, drawing it out, helping you ride the waves until your body finally sagged back against the mattress.

You blinked up at him, still catching your breath, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. Your hand reached for him under the sheets, fingers wrapping around his dick. He groaned at the contact, hips twitching forward into your grip.

“Shit,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours.

You opened your legs wider, silently telling Carmen you were ready for him. He hissed as the head of his dick nudged against your folds, your wetness coating him.

“You’re so ready for me,” he said, more to himself than to you, like it knocked the wind out of him.

You hummed, voice low and breathy. “Always ready for you, Carmy. Need you so bad.”

“Yeah, baby? Want me inside?”

You nodded, eyes closed, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Open your eyes, baby. Want you to look at me.”

You did as he asked, forcing your eyes to stay on his as he slid inside. Your brows furrowed the moment he bottomed out, the stretch overwhelming in the best way. Carmen wasn’t faring much better. A soft growl escaped him as your walls wrapped tightly around him. He shifted gently, allowing himself to settle fully inside you.

You gasped, nails digging into his back, your body trembling from how full you felt.

“Fuck, baby,” he panted. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

You moaned in response, your legs wrapping around his hips, a silent plea for him to move.

So he did.

He started slow. Deep strokes that had you gasping into his mouth. Every thrust felt deliberate, like he was trying to tell you something with each one. How much he needed you. How much he loved you. Even if he still couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

You clung to him, moaning softly with every thrust, and Carmen buried his face in your neck, losing himself in the feeling of you. Then his mind flashed back to you holding Sophie, and something snapped. His grip on you shifted, not rough but not as soft as usual, more charged, more possessive.

“You feel—fuck—you feel like you were made for me,” he muttered, lips brushing your neck. “Like your body just knows me.”

You moaned in response, back arching to bring him even deeper. His thrusts picked up, just a little sharper now, more deliberate. He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your cheek, then locked eyes with you as he whispered:

“You ever think about it?” he asked, breath ragged. “Me getting you pregnant?”

You let out a soft gasp because he’d just hit the right spot and also because his question surprised you. Not in a bad way, just an unexpected one. You clenched around him. Carmen groaned at your reaction, his forehead falling to yours, his pace faltering for just a second.

“Yeah, you do. I can feel it,” he breathed. “You like the idea of me filling you up, don’t you? Fucking my baby into you.”

You whimpered, affected by his words and how fucking good his voice sounded. And how he looked? Oh, it was fucking glorious. The sight itself almost made you come. He placed a hand on the headboard not to ground himself but to fuck you harder. Deeper.

“Want it so bad,” he whispered. “Want to see you round and full. Want everyone to know you’re mine.”

You couldn’t form words anymore just nodded, eyes fluttering shut, a strangled moan escaping you as your second orgasm began to build fast and hard in your belly. Carmen felt it. Felt the way you clenched around him tighter, the way your hips began to rock up into his on their own.

“Gonna come again, baby? Fuck, come on. Do it. Let me feel you.”

And when you did when you cried out his name and came around him again, trembling and raw it was enough to drag him over the edge with you.

“Gonna come inside you,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “Gonna fill you up so good. Get you pregnant, fuck, take all of it, baby.”

With a final deep thrust, Carmen came with a broken moan, burying himself inside you, hips grinding down as he emptied himself. He held you tight, shaking slightly with the force of it, his breath shuddering against your shoulder.

Neither of you moved for a while. A million questions raced through your head. When you finally managed to slow your heart and catch your breath you leaned up on one hand, making Carmen look at you.

“Something happened.”

It wasn’t a question.

Carmen blew out a breath through his nose. Ran a hand through his hair.

“I saw you. Earlier. With Sophie.”

You blinked, surprised.

“In the office?”

He nodded.

“I didn’t even know you were there.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t mean to watch or anything. I just… I couldn’t move.”

Another pause. You let it hang.

“She looked at me,” he went on, voice barely above a whisper. “The baby. And you—you were just standing there, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I—I felt something. I don’t know what the fuck it was, but it was real. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Oh. It made sense now. The late-night arrival. The shifting in bed the whole night long. The immediate desire as soon as you woke up.

“What did it feel like?” you asked eventually.

He looked at you. Really looked at you.

“Like I wanted it. That—whatever that was. Like maybe I could—” He stopped himself, shook his head.

“Fuck. I don’t know.”

You couldn’t help but smile, your heart warming at the realization of Carmy having baby fever. And of him thinking about having that. With you. You placed a hand on his cheek, and he closed his eyes. He shifted his head so that his lips were on your palm. He placed a soft kiss there before opening his eyes again.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” you said.

You lay back down, settling your head on his chest, your hands making small circles on his skin.

“Is it something you’d want?”

You let out a soft sigh.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Carmen stayed quiet for a moment.

“With me?” he whispered.

You placed a kiss on his chest before moving to look him in the eyes.

“Of course, Carmy. If you want it too.”

You felt his body relax beneath you.

“I think I do. I just—”

“Hey,” you cut him off. “You don’t have to have it all figured out,” you said. “But if you felt something… that’s not nothing.”

He nodded, biting his lip nervously.

“We’ll just take it a day at a time, Carm. That’s all we have to do.”

“A day at a time.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. I think I can do that.”

You both settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that does not feel empty but full—full of unspoken thoughts, hopes, and fears shared between two people learning to lean on each other.

#smut #smut fanfiction #smut tag #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy smut #carmen smut #jeremy allen white x reader #jeremy allen white smut #the bear fic #the bear x reader #the bear fandom #the bear #the bear season 4 #the bear smut #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto smut

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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 days ago

Text

PINK MATTER

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiance!reader (she's literally just a girly!fashion!reader atp & no longer the fake fiancee lol) summary: hotch comes home and finds you passed out with a vibrator and takes matters into his own hands when you tell him you didn't finish.....gags are used, based on this & this request. warnings: smut 18+ MDNI, use of sex toys, panties used as a gag, mentions of masturbation aka r making hotch tell her what he jerks off to and he somehow manages to make it romantic, aftercare, established relationship, praise kink. word count: 2.7k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

All of Aaron’s limbs felt like they’d been replaced with concrete. Or maybe with the entire weight of the jet itself, as if the thing had disintegrated the second they stepped off it and reformed inside of him. Normally, he’d head straight home after a case, especially one that dumped him back in D.C. at such an ungodly hour.

But tonight? Your place was closer. And the only thing keeping him semi-conscious through the last of the paperwork was the image of your bed, your warm bed, with you in it, and the promise of sleeping in.

And maybe… maybe he was getting slightly used to your swanky apartment building. The one that offered cooled water, had a coffee machine in the lobby, and always smelled faintly like something expensive he couldn’t name.

The doorman gave Aaron a polite nod, they were on nodding terms now, which felt serious, but Aaron skipped the chitchat. It was the middle of the night, and unless the guy could teleport him directly into your bed, there wasn’t much to discuss.

But, as with all good things, there were downsides. The main one being your new neighbour. A woman in her late sixties who seemed lovely at first, right up until she decided to file a noise complaint after the two of you got particularly…vocal one night.

The complaint, of course, went absolutely nowhere. You’d lived there longer than she had, sent thank-you cards to building staff, never forgot any birthdays, you were the model tenant, dare he say. But still, the damage was done and now you both were on the receiving end of vicious glares that not even Aaron could match.

So, he did his best to slip inside your apartment as quietly as humanly possible, hoping not to set off either of your two living alarm systems, Gus or the neighbour with a grudge and a questionable grasp of tenant law.

The second he stepped inside, he could almost feel his stress stripping away layer by layer just by being in a place that was yours. Not to mention the way he felt something in his tummy at the thought of actually seeing you. He never thought butterflies were possible for a man his age, and yet there he was, kicking off his shoes with the urgency of a love-sick teenager.

Though once he heard the sound of paws against hardwood floor, he knew he was going to have to wait just a little longer, because he’d have to pay the inconvenience tax to your most prized possession first. (Yes, you would scold him if you heard him calling Gus anything other than your son.)

The furball plopped himself by Aaron’s go bag, knowing that when Aaron walked through the door past midnight, there was a treat–or two– in it for him. Aaron crouched down, his knees cracking in protest, and scratched Gus behind the ears. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered. “Is your mom asleep?”

He already knew the answer.

You’d sent him a flood of pictures of your night out with a few girlfriends from work, posing with fruity cocktails in various states of full. He figured you’d be passed out by now in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of false lashes on the bedside table. He stood with a grunt to grab the treat bag from the side and handed over the expected payment which Gus took to the sofa, officially losing all interest in the spare human.

Once his suit jacket was hung, he made his way to your bedroom, spotting the glow of your lamp through the cracked door. He nudged it open silently, fully expecting to find you tucked beneath the duvet fast asleep. But instead? You were sprawled on top of the covers, bare-legged and wearing his faded FBI shirt. One hand was flung overhead with your phone hanging in it and the other–

Oh.

Aaron paused in the doorway, eyebrows lifting as the scene registered. Well. That explained the last ‘when r u home?? 🥲’ text you sent.

He exhaled through his nose, lips twitching in a silent laugh he didn't fully form. You were unbelievable, utterly impatient and completely endearing. He made his way over to your side, lowering himself to gently slip the phone and vibrator out of your hands, setting both down next to your earrings on the bedside table, shaking his head in amusement.

You made an inaudible noise, your brows scrunching like your body had picked up on his presence before your brain caught on. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching you keenly. Smiling at the way your hair was still half done from your night out, but the baby hairs had slipped free, framing your face in almost an angelic halo kind of way.

He knew better than to disturb you while you were sleeping, never wanting to wake you if he didn’t have to. But his hand reached for your thigh, to the strip of skin exposed where his shirt had ridden up on your hip. It felt almost magnetic, the urge to touch, drawn in by the spill of stretch marks across your skin, like little moonlight streaks he just had to feel.

“Mmmn…” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You're home.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Yeah. I’m home.”

Your hand reached for him blindly, curling around his wrist as you opened your eyes. “Good,” you breathed. “Missed you.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing towards the vibrator he’d just retired from your grip.

“Don’t judge me. You said midnight.”

Aaron let out a quiet laugh. “You fell asleep mid-attempt.”

“I was tired,” you defended, yawning mid-sentence. “Long day.”

“Sure. Looked exhausting.”

You tugged him closer by his tie. “Didn’t even finish…”

“Would you like to?”

“You’re not tired?” you asked, seeming much more awake now.

“I’m exhausted,” he said simply. “And I still want to take care of you.”

You hummed, legs rubbing together, chasing friction you weren’t even trying to be subtle about. Aaron stopped you gently, his hands gliding down to your calves as he guided your legs apart. He lifted one over his thigh, nudging the other to the side, opening you up.

He watched the way your hips shifted, pressing into the mattress, that visceral response you always had when you were worked up and needed undoing. He saw how your eyes tracked every movement he made, already wide and glassy, how your lips parted, how your ribs expanded with every breath.

He reached for the vibrator, switching it on, the room filling with a quieted buzz. He let the toy trail slowly along the inside of your thigh as he made his way up, catching the whimper that staggered in your throat, seconds away from reaching his ears.

“Remember what we spoke about?” Aaron asked, dragging the vibrator over your clothed cunt.

You tensed immediately, a moan slipping out. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet. Promise. Wouldn’t want Greta to—ah—”

Another sound tore from your throat as he pressed the toy higher, right over your clit, the thin cotton of your underwear doing very little to buffer the sensation.

“That’s not quiet.”

“Don’t think I can,” you managed just as your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “N-not with you watching.”

He was beginning to feel his slacks tighten almost painfully at the sight.

Then the toy was gone.

Your head snapped up immediately. “Aaron?”

His hands were already at your hips, fingers sliding under your underwear. “Up.”

You lifted your hips as he tugged them down and you exhaled with relief, assuming he just wanted better access. But then his other hand was under your chin, fingers curled, holding the bunched up panties in the other.

“Open,” he instructed, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. You did exactly that, opening your mouth and granting him access to stuff the fabric inside.

“Much better now, don’t you think?”

All you could do was nod and watch the way he reached for the toy again. He lowered it between your legs, his other hand grabbing your knee. He paused just for a second, watching the way your back arched, pleading for some sort of contact.

The moment he pressed it to you, your response was immediate, mouth falling open against the panties, the cotton soaking up what was more breath than voice and he could tell that this was exactly what you’d been waiting for.

“You always get like this,” he whispered, adjusting the angle, “when I’m gone too long.”

You let out another muffled sound, hips twitching beneath his hand.

“Too worked up to wait. Try to do it yourself…but you never get all the way there, do you?”

You shook your head, thighs closing in on his hand. He didn’t scold you, just let out the smallest laugh, the kind that made your skin prickle in the best way as his hand moved to nudge your thighs open again.

He began moving the toy in circles and you felt the speed pick up.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your hip. “Breathe.”

He saw the way your stomach tightened, the shirt rumpling with the telltale sign of exactly how close you were. Your jaw flexed around the fabric in your mouth, blocking another sound before it could risk a second complaint.

You never took long with a toy, he figured that out early on and never minded. He wasn’t the type to take it personally. If anything, he liked it. Liked knowing what worked, liked that it was his hand making it work.

“Getting there?”

You nodded, eyes shut tight, hands fisting the sheets.

“Thought so.” He pressed it a little harder, adjusting the angle a little higher. “Go ahead, honey.”

The moment he gave you permission, your hips bucked up, the toy stuttering slightly against your skin with the movement as you squirmed, clenching around nothing. Aaron kept it pressed against your clit, despite the way you couldn't keep still, until your hands found his wrist, gently pushing it away.

He switched it off, abandoning it on the bed so his hands could return to you, one on your thigh, the other reaching up to remove the makeshift panty gag from your mouth. You watched him pull the fabric out slowly, a slick string of drool catching on your lip. Aaron wiped it away with his thumb, like it was nothing at all.

“That better?”

“Much better, thank you,” you let out a laugh, still a little breathless. “This is exactly why you can’t leave. Like, ever.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up to Strauss the next time we have a case,” he said, lifting your thigh to kiss your knee before gently lowering it from his lap. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Mmmkay,” you yawned, letting your eyes close for a second. But when they opened you caught sight of the situation happening in his pants. Your lips curled slowly. “You sure you don’t want help with that?”

Aaron laughed, undoing his tie. “You need rest.”

“I could do it lying down,” you offered sweetly. “It’s very efficient.”

“I’m going to shower,” he repeated but you swore you could make out the flush in his cheeks.

“Ah, is that code?”

He paused, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “Code?”

You nodded, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Code for getting off in the shower alone.”

“It’s code for needing to rinse off hours of jet sweat, and—”

“So…yes,” you cut him off with a lazy grin.

He shook his head, already heading for the bathroom.

You stretched out on the bed, far too smug for someone who’d just had her panties in her mouth and needed permission to come. “Can I watch?”

Aaron paused. Like, actually paused.

Your voice dropped, softer now, more curious. “Have you ever… touched yourself…while thinking about me?”

He turned to face you and you raised your brows. “I have,” you admitted with a shrug of your shoulders. “Did it tonight, but clearly thinking of you wasn’t enough.”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, a pleased smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah? What do you think about?”

He exhaled slowly and you could practically see the debate happening in his head. You just gave him your best lazy, post orgasm smile, like this was just casual pillow talk.

“You really want to know?”

“I would do unspeakable things to know.”

He came back to the bed, settling beside you again. “Sometimes I think about your thighs. How they feel when you wrap them around my waist when you want me deeper, like you’re trying to keep me there forever. Or the way they twitch… not when you come, but just after.”

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“I think about your voice,” he went on, eyes fixed on your face. “Not the moaning, not what most people would imagine. I think about the way your voice trembles before you say my name, like your body’s surprised by how much it needs it.”

He paused, his eyes drifting to your hands.

“I think about the way your fingers shake when you undo your jeans for me,” he added. “You try to hide it. You always look me dead in the eye like you're so calm… but your hands always give you away.”

You felt suddenly exposed, and yet cherished. He had been watching, really watching, like every part of you was something worth remembering.

“But there’s one thing you do and you probably don’t even realise.”

“What is it?”

“You laugh.”

“I–what?”

“After you finish, you let out this laugh. Like you’re embarrassed by how much you felt, or like it surprised you, or like it snuck up on you and now you’re overwhelmed and happy and trying not to show it.”

“I do not laugh,” you tried to argue.

He let out a breath of air, a laugh of his own. “Trust me, sweetheart, you do. Because it's exactly what I think about to finish.”

You furrowed your brows, completely taken back by his casualness. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he replied, still smiling. “You wouldn’t notice it. But I do.”

“And that’s really what you think about? Out of everything?”

He nodded, hands reaching for your ankles, pulling them back on his lap again.

“Why?”

“Because it means I gave you something.” His thumbs stroked lazily over your skin as he answered. “Something that made you feel so much it had to come out somehow.”

You didn’t know what to say, your chest felt too full and your throat too tight. So you flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, grabbing the nearest pillow and pressing it over your face, mostly to muffle the ridiculous, overwhelmed noise clawing its way out of your throat. Equal parts sob, squeal, and scream.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered into the pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You asked.”

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him, your face hot and burning. “Yes. Because I thought the answer would be something like my ass in denim shorts. Or when I wear that pink push-up bra.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “Those rank very high.”

“How high?”

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs “Top five.”

“Five?” you gasped. “My ass in denim shorts is five?”

“Baby,” he murmured, hands sliding higher, “you have so many top-five moments, I had to get creative with categories.”

Before you could ask what those were, his hands reached and squeezed your bare ass, a laugh tumbling out of you without warning.

His eyes flicked up to yours instantly. “There it is.”

You froze. “No.”

He grinned. “Don’t deny it.”

“That wasn’t the laugh.”

“It was close enough,” he argued, hands wrapping around your lower back as he pulled you into his lap. You landed there with a gasp, knees straddling his thighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the real one out of you again soon.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hands snaking around his neck. “Think the shower needs to hear it, don't you?”

“Oh, absolutely the shower needs to hear it,” he agreed, standing with you in his arms. “So does the wall. And the mirror. And probably the floor.”

“Oof, sounds like it's going to be a long night then.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @Star-crossed-Sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @hopelessromantic727 @piatosniathenie @averyhotchner @softtdaisy @b1tchyr1ichy @wvffles @thehotchners @tinythebunni @violettablackwood @yasministration

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#alina’s 1k bar🍸#mine🌟#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner smut

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meadowfics · 3 days ago

Text

held my own weight

park gyeong-seok x f!reader

synopsis: the worst moment in your life brings you a gift

warnings: stepmother!reader. adoptivemother!reader. adoptivefather!gyeong-seok

SPOILERS FOR SQUID GAME SEASON THREE BELOW -> DON'T CLICK 'KEEP READING' IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS!

gi-hun pushed himself backwards, falling to his death a hundred feet below.

your eyes are wide, not believing the sacrifice that this man made for the baby.

the baby didn't have a mother, and needed one. everyone knew since junhee died, that you were the babygirl's only hope at having a good life if you survived.

you stumble out of the elevator which took you away from the sky squid games, clutching the tiny, squirming baby in your arms.

the infant's soft whimpers pierce the heavy silence that wraps around you like a cloud. the weight of her small body feels like the only thing keeping you pulled to the earth.

your heart is a fractured thing, splintered by the losses that pile up behind you.

junhee, the babies' father player 333, and gyeong-seok, your gyeong-seok, whose name still burns on your tongue.

you thought you’d lost him in the rebellion, that chaotic blur of screams and blood a few days ago. the heart inside of your chest aches for his comfort.

the memory of his face, his warm hands, his quiet strength, haunts you as you step into the blinding light of the outside world.

the baby, daughter of 222 and 333, clings to you, her tiny fingers curling into your shirt.

you’re all she has now, and the weight of that responsibility presses down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

the prize money is yours...or rather, yours and hers.

they call it a “split,” but you know better.

every cent of her share will go to her future: diapers, formula, clothes, a savings account for when she’s older.

you’ll make sure she’s cared for, even if it means using your own share of the 45.6 billion won.

you can’t think about the money now, though, not when your heart is still raw, torn open by the thought of na-yeon, gyeong-seok’s little girl, waiting for you in the hospital.

she’s sick, her fragile body fighting a battle no child should have to face.

you’ve been her stepmother for only a short time, but the love you have for her is undeniable.

how will you tell her about her father?

how will you explain that you survived when he didn’t?

the hospital is a blur of white walls and antiseptic smells when you arrive.

your arms ache from holding the baby, but you don’t dare let her go.

she’s asleep now, her tiny chest rising and falling against your own. you navigate the sterile corridors, your worn shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

na-yeon’s room is at the end of the hall, and you brace yourself as you push open the door, expecting to see her small form alone in the bed, her eyes searching for a father who’ll never come back.

fortunately, he’s there.

gyeong-seok is there, sitting beside na-yeon’s bed, his broad shoulders hunched as he holds her tiny hand.

the man's dark hair falls over his eyes, and he looks tired, so tired, but alive.

your breath catches, a sob clawing its way up your throat.

you thought he was gone.

you thought the rebellion had taken him, that the games had stolen him like they stole so many others. here he is, real, his gaze lifting to meet yours. his eyes widen, and for a moment, the world stops.

the baby stirs in your arms, and you clutch her tighter, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“y/n,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

he stands, crossing the room in two strides, and then his arms are around you, pulling you close. you sink into him, your face pressed against his chest, the familiar scent of him...paint and cedar and something uniquely gyeong-seok...flooding your senses.

you thought you’d never feel this again, never know the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart.

he’s alive.

he’s here.

na-yeon watches from the bed, her eyes bright despite the paleness of her skin, her newly transplanted bone marrow giving her a fragile kind of hope.

“i thought you were dead,” you choke out, your voice muffled against his shirt, “the guards said you were eliminated and i thought—”

“i know,” he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of your head, “i thought the same about you.”

gyeong-seok's voice is thick with emotion. when he pulls back, his eyes are wet. they land on the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts...grief, understanding, and something softer, something resolute.

he doesn’t need to ask. he knows.

“222?” he says quietly, and you nod, your throat too tight to speak.

“also 333's daughter,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper.

you felt the need to honor him too somehow, even though he nearly killed you and the baby during the last round of the last game.

gyeong-seok's jaw tightens, and he reaches out, brushing a gentle finger across the baby’s cheek.

“she’s ours now,” you say.

the words are a vow, “I promised junhee.”

gyeong-seok’s eyes meet yours, and there’s no hesitation in them.

“we’ll raise her,” he says, his voice steady despite the tears that threaten to spill.

“together. you, me, na-yeon, and her.” he glances at his daughter, who’s watching you both with tired, yet curious eyes from her hospital bed.

the days that follow are a blur of adjustment.

you move into a small apartment, paid for with the prize money. it’s modest, but it’s yours, a sanctuary for your patchwork family.

na-yeon’s health improves slowly, her hair starting to grow back in soft, dark wisps.

she’s enchanted by her new little sister, whom you name ji-yeon, a name that feels like a promise of joy.

na-yeon spends hours sitting beside ji-yeon’s crib, singing soft lullabies or telling her stories about a world she’s only beginning to understand.

you watch them, your heart swelling and aching all at once. na-yeon’s laughter is a fragile, precious thing, and you’d do anything to keep it alive.

gyeong-seok is your rock, as he always has been.

he paints again, his fingers stained with color as he creates portraits and landscapes, pouring his grief and hope into every stroke. you find comfort in the routine of your new life: feeding ji-yeon, helping na-yeon with her schoolwork, curling up beside gyeong-seok at night, his arm draped over you as if to shield you from the memories of the games.

the pain still lingers andyou see it in the way gyeong-seok’s hands tremble sometimes, in the way na-yeon asks about the “bad place” you went to, in the way ji-yeon’s cries sometimes sound like a reminder of the parents she’ll never know.

one afternoon, you’re at the park with ji-yeon strapped to your chest in a carrier.

the babies' tiny head rests against you, her soft breaths a steady rhythm.

gyeong-seok is nearby, sketching a portrait for a woman who approached him earlier.

she’s around five years older than you, with kind eyes and a quiet demeanor, and she mentioned working with gyeong-seok at the park before.

the woman's name is no-eul, and there’s something familiar about her, something that tugs at the edges of your memory.

however, you can't place it.

she watches gyeong-seok work, her gaze occasionally drifting to na-yeon, who’s playing nearby, her laughter ringing out like a bell.

“she’s beautiful,” no-eul says, nodding toward na-yeon, “she looks so much healthier now.”

you smile, your heart swelling with pride.

“she’s a fighter,” you say, adjusting ji-yeon in her carrier, “like her father.”

you glance at gyeong-seok, who’s focused on his sketch, his brow furrowed in concentration.

no-eul’s eyes soften, and you sense a story there, a connection to your family that she hasn’t shared.

you take a chance, your voice gentle.

“would you like to grab some tea with me sometime? it’d be nice to talk. maybe… make a friend.”

no-eul’s expression flickers, a mix of surprise and something like gratitude. she shakes her head, but there’s a warmth in her refusal.

“no, thank you,” she says softly, “but I appreciate the offer.”

the woman's gaze drifts to ji-yeon, and for a moment, you see a flicker of longing in her eyes, as if she’s remembering something or someone lost to her.

when no-eul leaves, without letting gyeong-seok finish her sketch, you look at gyeong-seok, his eyes soft as they meet yours.

you know he feels it too.

the happiness of the fragile, beautiful hope of a life rebuilt.

ji-yeon’s tiny hand brushes against your finger, and na-yeon’s laughter fills the air as she eats her candy.

for the first time in a long time, you feel whole again.

masterlist

#park gyeong seok #park gyeong seok x reader #squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game s2 #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game x y/n #squid game s3 #squid game season three #squid game fanfiction #player 246 #player 246 x reader #guard 011 #kang no eul #kang no eul x reader #seong gi hun

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rafesyangel · 3 days ago

Note

Reader (JJs younger sister) going to Rafe asking for money for period products bc yk moneys tight.

You stood outside Tannyhill chewing the inside of your cheek, anxiety bubbling in your chest as your arms crossed tight over your midsection. The cramps were killing you—deep, dull, twisting like a knife—and the last of your painkillers had been gone since yesterday. What was worse?

You had one pad left. One.

JJ was out all day, and you'd already scoured every corner of the house hoping to find a couple of spare dollars, maybe loose change—anything. But things had been tight lately. And desperate times called for... well, desperate measures.

So now you were standing outside Rafe Cameron’s house, practically shivering despite the sun. You knocked.

The door swung open with force like he’d been ready to fight someone.

His eyes narrowed the second he saw you. “You lost?”

“No.”

He looked behind you like JJ might come jumping out of a bush with a baseball bat. “You here alone?”

“Yes.”

His arms folded across

“The hell?” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “You lost or something?”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let your nerves show. “I just… needed a favor.”

He raised a brow at you

You hesitated. Then blurted, “Can I borrow, like, ten bucks?”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “For what?”

Your face burned. “For... period stuff.”

There was a beat of silence.

He blinked. “Period stuff?”

You nodded quickly. “Like pads and ibuprofen. Nothing crazy. I just—ran out and don’t wanna ask JJ right now.”

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, looking you up and down like you’d just asked him to preform open heart surgery

“You know your brother would actually commit murder if he knew you were here asking me for—” he paused, motioning vaguely at your stomach, “—uterus supplies.”

You almost laughed despite the cramps. “So dramatic.”

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, scratching his jaw. “He barely lets me breathe in your direction.”

“Can I just have ten bucks or not?” You were starting to feel anxious now worried about his reaction

Rafe groaned, stepping back inside. “Wait here.”

You expected him to come back and hand you some crumpled bills and tell you to scram. But instead, five minutes later, he opened the door againthis time with keys in hand, phone in his other, and a sweatshirt pulled over his head.

“Let’s go.”

You blinked. “Go where?”

“To the damn store,” he said, like it was obvious. “I’m not letting you walk around with cramps and no meds like that”

The trip to the store was… silent , to say the least.

Rafe banned you from existing the car while he went the feminine hygiene aisle

“No offense, but the fact that you're bleeding ,wanna go all the way there seems painful too me ” he grumbled, shooing you some candy in his pocket “Distract yourself or something. I got this.”

You tried to protest but he was already diving into the aisle like he was going to war. He stood there, hands on his hips, staring down the shelves like he was picking out a car instead of pads. You caught glimpses of him squinting at boxes, turning tampons upside down

At one point he grabbed an older woman and asked in a serious whisper, “Hey, quick question. If someone’s like... young but not a kid, what size tampon is that?”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

When you caught back up with him, his basket was stuffed. Pads, tampons, panty liners, painkillers, a heat patch, a heating pad, three different brands of chocolate, sour gummies, a full bag of mini cookies, and—somehow—a stuffed bunny plush.

You stared at the bunny. “...Seriously?” You thought

Rafe came back to the car 30 mins later hands full of plastic bags, He looked defensive.“I don’t know,what you use”

You tried not to smile at him trying but failed miserably “You bought, like, five different kinds of pads.”

“Didn’t know which ones you probably wanted ,” he shrugged, tossing another bag in the backseat“Better safe than sorry, right?”

You blinked at him. “This is... way more than ten bucks.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I didn’t mean for you to buy me a period starter kit, Rafe.”

He rolled his eyes. “Relax and just sit still “

You caught the tiniest bit of pride in his expression. Like he was proud he hadn’t gotten you the wrong kind. Like he cared

You hugged the stuffed bunny tight against your stomach and leaned back in the seat with a groan.

“Cramps?” he asked.

“Always.”

Then without warning he reached over and gave your lower belly a soft little pat.

You tensed slightly“Owieee!”

“What??” he looked startled. “I thought that’s what people do when you have a tummy ache.”

“Wh-whoo said this” you squirmed while burying the stuffed bunny harder in your stomach

“No one! I just figured—” He trailed off, “forget it”

You started laughing, still wincing. “You patted me like I was a sick puppy.”

“Because you look like one,” he shot back, but his voice was gentler now

You smiled, quietly, holding the bunny in your lap as you looked at him. “Thanks, Rafe. Seriously.”

He shrugged, turning away, “Whatever. Don’t make it a habit.”

You leaned back and rested your head against the window, bunny tucked under your arm, cramps dull but a little more bearable now.

Rafe Cameron was chaotic, unpredictable, and a little emotionally stunted.

#rafe cameron x original female character #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x smut #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe obx #rafe smut #rafe x reader #rafe x you

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hhhwnr · 3 days ago

Text

ꨄThe Wish List — S.R

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

genre: domestic fluff, comfort word count: 725 warnings: none!

summary: The plan was simple: dream out loud. Neither of you noticed when dreaming turned into planning.

author’s note: I clearly have something for written confessions. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions / feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨✵୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It starts purely by accident. You and Spencer were waiting for food at a roadside diner after a long drive — post-case — the kind that leaves you emptied out just by what you saw, regardless of it’s outcome. You were toying with a napkin on the table, pen in your hand. Spencer noticed — of course he did — spinning a pen or folding a napkin provided tactile stimulation, which helps to regulate the nervous system, reduce anxiety, give your brain something to focus on, and—

Things we should do one day:

You scribbled on the napkin and doodled a little star at the corner.

Spencer blinks, shaking off his clinical thoughts, leaning over. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Try every pie on the menu. Go see the Northern Lights. Pet a cow. Get lost on purpose.”

“Add ‘attend a meteor shower in the middle of nowhere.’ ” Spencer smiles, going along with your idea.

The next day, Spencer woke to find a notebook on his nightstand—small, soft-covered, with little stars and whales drifting across a navy sky. The cover was painted by you, no doubt about this. He could picture you hunched over the table with small lamp on surrounded by paint, long after he’d fallen asleep. Tucked inside was a note in your handwriting, a little crooked, from a rush, probably, but still so, so yours.

In case the napkin gets lost. I want to keep dreaming with you.

He ran his fingers over the cover, thumb brushing the edge like it might vanish if he didn’t hold it gently enough. On the first page, you’d written the title again, this time in blue ink and underlined twice:

Things We Should Do One Day:

And below, the first handful of wishes—pie tastings and cows and meteor showers—copied from memory. He smiled, softer than he had in days. Then he reached for a pen of his own — a green one — and added:

Read each other’s favorite childhood books out loud.

Have a pet that lives longer than our work hours.

Learn to make each other’s favorite comfort food.

Neither of you noticed how the journal shifted from ideas to intentions. From dreams to plans. “Should” started to be replaced by “will”, and “someday” started to be “soon.”

You hadn’t meant to write anything in particular when you opened the journal. Maybe you were just flipping through already existing notes, maybe to check off something you have already done. Through the pages you saw the usual — learn to make cinnamon rolls without a recipe, take a train somewhere without planning ahead—and paused when your eyes landed on something entirely new.

Marry you.

Your heart stuttered. That was it. Two small words written neatly, carefully. Circled twice — once in dark green, once in something lighter. Different pens. Different days. Which meant he’d thought about it more than once. Yet he hadn’t needed to say it out loud yet—just written down, tucked safe between dreams you’d already made come true and ones you hadn’t reached for yet.

So you picked up your pen — blue, of course — and wrote:

Yes.

You stared at the page for too long, without noticing how the key turned in the lock and the drop of messager bag on the floor.

“I’m home,” you heard Spencer calling from the doorway.

“Missed you,” you whisper, already crossing the room and hugging him tightly. His chin rested on top of your head, and his eyes flickered to the journal on the coffee table.

Spencer didn’t say anything at first, just walked over to pick it up, his fingers brushing over your reply. He looked up slowly, the journal still open in his hands. You gave him a small, soft smile, the kind that said, You already knew, didn’t you? The kind that said, I’ve known for a while, too.

“I didn’t want to rush anything,” he said, almost shyly. “I just… wanted it somewhere.”

You brought a hand to his cheek, feeling his stubble under your fingertips. “It is somewhere,” you whispered, tapping his chest with your free hand. “Right here.”

Setting the journal aside, Spencer kissed your hair — not a dramatic, but warm and gentle kiss. As gentle as your love, as gentle as the future plans your shared journal held.

Thank you for reading ! ♥︎

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #soft spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #reader insert #spencer reid fanfiction #x reader #domestic fluff #fluff #comfort

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vampiresbloodx · 2 days ago

Text

kiss me like its the last time.

pairings: Wanda maximoff x brothers best friend!Reader, pietro maximoff x reader (platonic)

word count: 2.1k

warnings: smut, fluff and angst. public sex (gets messy), best friends sister, au, tension, slow burn, bit of mean wanda.

You could still smell the perfume from her with how close she was, almost touching you.

It’s been years since you’ve last seen your best friend, Pietro, he went overseas with his sister to study abroad, and to live over there in the end. They originally went there for summer, but Pietro's sister fell in love with Italy, then came to Paris, and the rest.

You had dreams of travelling the world, seeing all the amazing different places, meeting all kinds of people. But you still found yourself stuck to your home. The same house you grew up in, where you lived with your nana, who was basically your caregiver as you didn’t have both parents in your life as a kid.

Pietro himself was also a kid without parents, same with his sister. Which is one of the reasons the two of you became close and good friends. You never really got close with his sister, even though people would suspect you would have been friends, though they can kind of see there was nothing there. You were nothing more than her brother's best friend. She was fine with that, from that you knew.

Her name was Wanda, she always intimidated you, she was scary when she wanted to be. She kept to herself, she barely left her room, but was always out when you were at their house.

You wondered if she hated you, but the two of you never really had any known issues, even Pietro didn’t mention anything of importance, you learned that people can just hate anyone without there ever being an issue in the first place. For some reason, it bothered you. You spent so long trying to impress his sister it made you feel stupid. How you wanted her attention so badly, it was pathetic. Some people would have called it a ‘crush’ but you’d make sure those words were never spoken of.

Pietro wasn’t dumb, he saw how you were with Wanda. It was obvious, painfully so. He did like how you attempted to befriend the person he cares about the most in the world (aside from you of course) nothing worked. Wanda wasn’t easily won over. She had her… ways.

Pietro may have seen Wanda go out with two, maybe, three people ever in his life. He knew she had plenty of friends, but she didn’t really have anyone to call a bestfriend (that was his title) and he knows very well how much it bothers Wanda whenever he calls you his best friend, so, he stays away from saying that around her.

Even though she knows.

During the time the three of you went to the same school, people had obviously thought you had a thing for her brother. But everyone that knew you two saw it wasn’t that. You had a different type you liked, she wouldn't be surprised if Pietro gained a crush on you at some point, she can see it, you’re pretty.

She couldn’t deny that.

It was as if something had awakened inside her that same night everything happened. The night she and her brother were leaving to catch their flight out of here, she almost wanted to take you with her.

They had a party, with all their friends for their last goodbyes, even though they knew they’d return back at some point, just don’t know when. The world was theirs, just as the night was yours and hers.

God you looked beautiful, she wondered why she always stayed away from you, then she realized why, the way you made her heartbeat faster than anyone else has ever before, how she stutters her words if she doesn’t focus on what she’s saying right then in the moment when you’re looking at her like that. It drives her insane.

That's when she knew, she always did, she had felt something for you.

She just hated it took that long for her to see it.

But that's how it was with her, it was always there, right in front of her, just enough for her to reach, she just never took a leap of faith.

You did, unlike her. She curses herself for not taking the first chance.

You outdid yourself that night, of course you did. You wanted her to see, her eyes on you the entire time, no one else. You wore her favourite color without knowing, scarlet red. It had her mouth watering at the sight, it was like you came out of a painting. Just simply gorgeous.

Wanda couldn’t see it before, but she did now.

Pietro’s friends even wanted a piece of you, she hated that. How they looked at you, flirted with you, treated you, you, however, didn’t seem as upset as she was about it. You liked it. It was clear in the way your eyes lit up.

You never gave them what they wanted though, leaving the boys dry.

After a few shots, and a couple more beers, Wanda found herself walking towards you through the crowded room that was her lounge. Music blasting, she had her gaze set on you like you were her chosen prey.

You happened to look up at the right moment, there she was. The one you’ve wanted for so long, looking at you in a way you only saw in your dreams.

“Wanda?” you questioned, not sure if she could even hear you, instead, you felt her grab your wrist and pull you away from the others, you let her take you.

“Where are we going? It's cold” you shivered, as the two of you were now outside, away from people and the party. You noticed she took you to the river that was by hers and pietros apartment building. You could still hear the music from here.

Somehow everything seemed more quiet when it was just you and her.

She sat down on the grass, despite the fact there was a bench right by you she still chose the ground. You shrugged, joining her. The grass was a bit damp and you cringed. You watched as she pulled out of a packet of cigars and a lighter, you frowned.

“Why did you bring me here just to do that?” you muttered, wrapping yourself in your arms. She huffed, taking off her hoodie and putting it on you without saying a thing, your heart was going crazy and you felt like you could faint at any point.

“Can you light it for me?” she asks, her english was always a bit rough, its gotten way better over the years but her accent always had an effect on you. Her voice alone was your weakness.

“You can’t do it yourself?” you joked, taking her lighter, your fingers brushed against hers and you inhaled, “whatever” you say.

She pushes her hair out of her face as she tilts her head, doing way too much to make herself more sexy than she already is. You licked your lips, trying to not let your hands shake too much, not wanting to ruin whatever this is. She put the cigar in her mouth and leaned in, you helped lit it, almost wishing you were the cigar right now. Which is something you never thought you’d ever wanna be yet here we are.

She wasn't surprised you were a bit standoffish, she hasn't done anything like this before. It was all new, for her too, in a way.

after taking a hit, Wanda took the cigar out of her mouth, blew the smoke away, she knew you were staring the whole time and she couldn't help but grin.

“Do you want to smoke?” she asks, teasing you.

you shake your head, “I’m good thanks. I don't mind watching.”

she raised an eyebrow at that, chuckling.

“You don't mind watching, hm?” she smiles, “oh i know.”

You looked dumbfounded, it was cute.

Your cheeks warmed, you shifted where you sat on the ground, still not sure of what to make of this. “Is there a reason you pulled me away like that? everyones gonna wonder where we are.”

God, why are you talking so much? Wanda thinks, groaning.

“Maybe I wanted you all to myself, is that so wrong?” Wanda says so nonchalantly as if it were the most normal thing for you to hear, you couldn't hide the surprise on your face.

“I’m not doing this” you muttered, she felt you were pulling away, she saw you stand up and was about to walk away, she stopped you.

Her cold hand grabs a hold of your dress, forcing you to stop.

your eyes met hers and you frowned in annoyance, “Wanda, let go.” you hissed.

“If you don't sit back down I'll rip this dress off.”

You went silent, immediately going back to your spot on the ground next to her. She smiled, pleased. You huffed, not looking at her this time and that made her even more happy, wondering how much you were thinking about what she meant when she said that.

A few minutes go by, what feels like eternity, the next day, Wanda will wake up and she will be in Italy, she will be loving every minute, living her dreams.

Though there was one thing she wished she could have done before it was too late.

She placed her hand on your knee, rubbing it. She didn’t notice the way your body tensed at first, then you became more relaxed. Getting used to her, she’s mad it took her so long to do this.

“I’ve realized something” she started, “I always wondered why I was annoyed with you all the time, how easily you pissed me off. How I wanted so badly to not like you, then I kind of found out why, and I think you already know, maybe, I dunno” she paused, shaking her head, she ran a hand through her hair as she put out the cigar.

“Wanda-”

“No, no. Let me speak. I have to say this.”

You nodded, letting her continue, you didn’t know where the fuck this was going you wanted to say your part, this was the first time you’ve seen her like this.

“I know if i don’t do this now, i’m gonna regret it later. So” she muttered, did she look nervous? You frowned, confused, concerned, everything was hitting you all at once. “Can I kiss you?” she asks.

She smiled at the surprised look on your face, you didn’t know what to say, you’ve never thought for a second she’d ever feel the same let alone anything for you.

Wanda leaned in, her hand caressing your cheek as you moved in, giving her permission without having to say a word, your body said it alone. Then, her lips met yours, you felt like you were in a dream. Tasting her on your lips as you kissed her harder. You pushed yourself into her, practically sitting on her lap as she let you straddle her thighs, you wrapped your arms around her as you kissed her, with so much fire. You never wanted to wake up from whatever this was.

You felt her hands travel down your body, feeling you, god you needed her so bad. It was just you and her, you weren’t sure when you were ever gonna see her again, savouring every moment of this.

Then her hand, once was cold, found its way going up your dress as you didn’t even stop her, your lips never leaving hers as she had her way with you. Her fingers brushed against your underwear that was already soaked, she couldn't help but grin as she easily slipped her fingers through, earning a moan from you as you gasped, settling down into her as she fucks you.

Your hands gripped her back as you moaned, leaning your forehead against hers as she sped up her pace, having you choke back a whine, Your face fell in her neck as she touched you so good, better than you could ever imagined.

She felt you clench around her, with how deep inside she was in you, she used her thumb to massage your clit, you were still a whimpering mess, it was cute. Your orgasm hit you hard, you came quickly all over her fingers, she sighed, licking her lips as she pulled out, making eye contact with you as you watched her place the fingers in her mouth.

You grabbed her hand, placing them inside your mouth this time as she moaned at the sight.

“I want you to stay,” you say.

Her heart ached.

“You know I can’t.”

#wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff angst #my writings

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seitmai · 6 hours ago

Text

Many thoughts

And the world as he knew it ceased to exist. You stood there with the sweetest smile he had ever seen and he thought his heart would beat right through his chest with how hard it pounded. The feeling only intensified when he looked into your eyes and forgot how to breathe, his stomach filled with so many butterflies that he thought he’d leave the ground. Then he felt like he was falling in slow motion before he came back to himself. It was like the world got a little brighter just because you were standing in front of him. Is this love at first sight?

Oh it sure is 🙂‍↕️🥰

“Oh, good! Is he listening? Hey, what’s your name and what are your intentions with my friend?” Bucky cleared his throat, unable to say what his intentions were deep down. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m looking for a roommate. She’ll be perfectly safe here whether she accepts or not,” he said, praying that Alpine liked you enough so you’d move in.

What a way to start this 😂

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed to him. “It’s okay,” he mouthed back. He wasn’t at all offended. You never could tell with strangers and it was nice that you had someone looking out for you.

So true!

“She better be safe!” He tried not to laugh at your friend’s tone. It reminded him of Steve, caring and protective. “Is he hot? He sounds hot.” “You’re on speaker,” you reminded her and Bucky tried to keep a neutral expression because, well, he wanted you to think he was hot. “And, yeah, he’s hot. He’s a real stud muffin. Or stud horse? I don’t know, he’s a stud,” you rambled, your eyes wide like you forgot he could hear you, too.

Whoops, but at least the truth is already out in the open 🤭

“About the stud comments, I… Well. Yeah. I mean… Look at you.” You gestured to him and finally looked his way again, making him smile all over again. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just… say things and I feel like I just made this weird.” “Hey, it’s fine. I appreciate the compliment,” he said easily when he was doing flips on the inside. “You didn’t make it weird,” he added. Not when he was the one staring at you like a creep.

He is giving it his all to hold it together 🤭

“So, not a terrible first impression?” you asked and he hated how worried you looked .“If anything, it’s a great impression,” he promised you, stepping aside again. He’d be thinking about that compliment and you long after you left.

🥰🥰🥰

Alpine gave your hand a sniff and bumped it with her head before she surprised you both and put her paws on your chest. “I… I think she wants you to pick her up,” Bucky said in awe. She isn’t chasing you off. She likes you. This is good. This is really good. You picked her up without hesitation. “Oh, my goodness. I’m already in love,” you said when she purred and nuzzled close. Was it weird to be jealous of a cat? “You want to do the tour of your home with me?”

Instant bonding with Alpine is the only sign Bucky needs

“I think it looks pretty badass.” There was no judgement in your eyes, only openness when you added, “And I’ll argue with anyone who says otherwise.”

Period 👏🏻

“I’ll have my own bathroom, too?” you asked, brushing past him so you could take a quick look inside. It took all of his strength not to push you against the wall and kiss you, which would’ve probably earned him a slap and a call to your friend. “How has no one snatched this place up yet?” “Al hasn’t been a big fan of anyone, except for you,” he said honestly, looking you over once more.

The only criteria that matters

He was going to fall head over heels if he wasn’t careful. Who was he kidding? It was too late.

Oh he is long gone 🤭

“Could you excuse me for just a second?” you asked, slipping back into the bedroom. He poked his head in and watched as you did a little jig. It was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a huge dork.” “You’re far from that,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. You were perfect in his eyes.

So cute 😍🥰

Orientation

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky meets his potential new roommate and is immediately smitten.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Love at first sight, bits of humor, fluff, tension, sweetness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Finally sharing Stud meeting Smartie for the first time. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 (and thank you for your help and cheering me on), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky let out a deep breath when he heard the knock at the door and looked at his watch before he went to answer it. Another potential roommate, right on time. He hadn’t initially wanted to rent out the extra room since he could’ve made it work with rent going up, but the budget would’ve been very tight and it was better not to risk it since he loved the place. It would’ve also been nice if Steve or Sam could’ve moved in, but they had their own spaces and the idea of sharing his space with a stranger wasn’t necessarily bad. He just hoped whoever ended up renting the space got along with Alpine.

“One sec!” he called out and bent down to pet his cat, the white fur soft against his calloused hand. “Try to be nice this time, okay?” he teased, reminding himself to keep his expectations low when she meowed. Alpine was a wonderful cat, but also particular with the company she kept and she chased off the last person who visited. He trusted her instincts and if she didn’t like someone then that was that.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispered, steeling himself before he opened the door.

And the world as he knew it ceased to exist.

You stood there with the sweetest smile he had ever seen and he thought his heart would beat right through his chest with how hard it pounded. The feeling only intensified when he looked into your eyes and forgot how to breathe, his stomach filled with so many butterflies that he thought he’d leave the ground. Then he felt like he was falling in slow motion before he came back to himself. It was like the world got a little brighter just because you were standing in front of him.

Is this love at first sight?

“Hi! Bucky, right?” you asked, and he knew then and there he could spend the rest of his life hearing you say his name.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, his voice husky. “And you must be…” He paused before he said your name, letting it settle on his tongue.

No, he couldn’t flirt with or hit on his potential roommate.

Or can I?

He heard the hitch in your breath before you nodded. “Yeah, that’s me,” you repeated, your voice soft and sugary sweet.

He wasn’t trying to stare like a creep, but he really didn’t expect to see someone so beautiful. So perfect. When you expressed interest in the room since it was close to the nearby university, he refused to look up your social media accounts. He wanted the first impression based on instinct and a face-to-face meeting and not by what was posted online. He hoped he made a good impression, too, especially since he had freshened up after work, wearing one of his many henleys and jeans.

“Would you like to come in?” he asked, stepping back to give you some room. He took up a lot of space with his size and didn’t want to crowd you.

You winced and didn’t move, making him pause, too. “Before I do that…” He raised an eyebrow when you held your phone up and dialed a number. “My friend wants to hear you say that I’m going to be perfectly safe here.”

Both eyebrows shot up. “She wants to hear me say…” He trailed off when he heard a voice on the other end.

“Hey! You at the apartment?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” you replied, biting your lip and drawing his eyes to your mouth.

Focus. Don’t think about kissing your potential roommate.

“Oh, good! Is he listening? Hey, what’s your name and what are your intentions with my friend?”

Bucky cleared his throat, unable to say what his intentions were deep down. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m looking for a roommate. She’ll be perfectly safe here whether she accepts or not,” he said, praying that Alpine liked you enough so you’d move in.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed to him.

“It’s okay,” he mouthed back. He wasn’t at all offended. You never could tell with strangers and it was nice that you had someone looking out for you.

“She better be safe!” He tried not to laugh at your friend’s tone. It reminded him of Steve, caring and protective. “Is he hot? He sounds hot.”

“You’re on speaker,” you reminded her and Bucky tried to keep a neutral expression because, well, he wanted you to think he was hot. “And, yeah, he’s hot. He’s a real stud muffin. Or stud horse? I don’t know, he’s a stud,” you rambled, your eyes wide like you forgot he could hear you, too.

Silence filled the space between you and he took the opportunity to put his hand on the doorframe so you could see just how large he was. “I’m a stud?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. The compliment nearly had him preening like a peacock, and there was tension. No one could tell him otherwise.

Your mouth fell open and a sound came out, but nothing else.

“Ooh, he must be really hot if you’re just making noises,” your friend muttered as you stared past Bucky’s frame into the apartment, avoiding eye contact. That only made you look more endearing. “Call me when you leave so I know you’re still safe.”

“I will. Bye,” you said quickly, hanging up before your friend could say anything else. “Um…”

He tilted his head, not pushing for you to talk. He was more than content to look at you. Did you have any idea how enticing you were?

“Hey, it’s fine. I appreciate the compliment,” he said easily when he was doing flips on the inside. “You didn’t make it weird,” he added. Not when he was the one staring at you like a creep.

“So, not a terrible first impression?” you asked and he hated how worried you looked.

“If anything, it’s a great impression,” he promised you, stepping aside again. He’d be thinking about that compliment and you long after you left.

“My friend wanted to come here with me so I wasn’t by myself, but I refused. The call was the next best thing,” you explained, finally stepping inside. God, you smelled sweet, too. “I appreciate you being cool with that.”

“No problem.” And he didn’t miss how quickly you changed the subject. Whatever you felt moments ago, if you felt something at all, you clearly didn’t want to dwell on it, and he didn’t want to make it uncomfortable by dragging it on. “Why do I have the feeling you’d do the same for her?”

“Oh, I would,” you said, gasping when you spotted Alpine. “Oh, my god. She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, that’s Alpine,” Bucky said, holding his breath when you crouched down and held out a hand. You weren’t allergic to cats, he wouldn’t even entertain a potential roommate who was, so that was good. But what would she think of you?

“Hey, Alpine. I’m hopefully going to be your new roommate,” you said, waiting for her to approach. It made Bucky happy that you weren’t forcing her to go to you if she didn’t want to. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Alpine gave your hand a sniff and bumped it with her head before she surprised you both and put her paws on your chest. “I… I think she wants you to pick her up,” Bucky said in awe.

She isn’t chasing you off. She likes you. This is good. This is really good.

You picked her up without hesitation. “Oh, my goodness. I’m already in love,” you said when she purred and nuzzled close. Was it weird to be jealous of a cat? “You want to do the tour of your home with me?”

Alpine nuzzled deeper into your hold.

“She really likes you,” Bucky said, leading you to the living room and watching you as you looked around. “It’s not much.” It wasn’t the most lavish place, but it was nice, warm, and he had made it a home.

“I like her, too,” you said, smiling as you took everything in. “Are you kidding? This place is great!”

“Yeah?” he smiled, running his metal hand through his hair. He hadn’t noticed he used that hand until your eyes followed the movement. “Oh, yeah. This…” He put his arm out to show you and felt the need to somewhat explain it. “It’s a state of the art prosthetic, in case you were wondering.”

Losing his arm wasn’t a story he was ready to tell, not today anyway. For now, he just wanted you to see the place. And the prosthetic was something he wouldn’t have normally been able to afford, but he had been lucky and was able to be part of a test group of new prosthetics.

“I think it looks pretty badass.” There was no judgement in your eyes, only openness when you added, “And I’ll argue with anyone who says otherwise.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Some people asked invasive questions or tried to touch it, but you put him at ease and there was something wonderful in the air between you because of it. “That means a lot,” he whispered, nodding to the space. “So, you like it so far?”

“I love it,” you answered, your eyes now on the bookshelf. “My kind of space right there.”

“Yeah? You like to read?” he asked. He had a decent collection of books.

“Oh, yeah. Probably how I ended up getting a scholarship since I usually had my face buried in them,” you teased.

“That’s right. Academic scholarship,” he said. You had mentioned in your email that you were on a scholarship and that’s why you were going to the university, but you didn’t want to live on campus. “Must be really smart.”

Smart and beautiful.

“Oh, no. No. I wouldn’t say that,” you said dismissively. That wouldn’t do.

“If you got an academic scholarship, you have to be somewhat smart. So just admit that you’re a little smartie and take the compliment,” he said, chuckling when you shook your head. “I’ll bet Alpine thinks you’re a smartie, too.”

Smartie? What the hell am I saying?

You smiled when Alpine meowed in agreement. “Okay, I’m a little smart in some areas,” you said, biting your lip again. Were you doing that on purpose? “Is that braggy? I don’t want it to sound braggy.”

“Not braggy,” he said. Adorable as hell, but not braggy.

“Thanks,” you whispered almost shyly.

Yep, you were adorable. “Kitchen?”

“Oh, yeah. The tour,” you said, following and gasping again. “This is perfect! And is that an old radio?”

He would’ve liked something bigger eventually, but the size was good and the appliances were in great condition. “Yeah, I listen to music here sometimes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Hey, it’s your space,” you said. It wouldn’t just be his space if you moved in. It would be yours, too. “And I like music.”

“You like pizza and movies, too?”

You stared at him like he suddenly had another head on his shoulder. “Of course, I like pizza and movies! I thought that was a prerequisite to even look at the place.”

He leaned against the counter and folded his arms with a grin. “Except I didn’t ask you about pizza and movies.”

“Touche,” you said, doing a small spin with Alpine still in your arms. Why did he suddenly want to dance with you in the kitchen? “So, you have a great living room, great kitchen. I’m going to guess the bedroom is amazing.”

He swallowed again, trying not to imagine you in his bed. “Yeah, this way.”

Bucky lifted his chin to indicate the direction of the extra bedroom. You immediately went toward it with Alpine still burrowed in your arms, leaving him a few steps behind. He took the opportunity to check you out, his eyes lingering on your ass. You were going to test his resolve if you decided to move in.

You went into the open doorway since the door across from it was closed, your jaw dropping when you looked back at him. “Wow, this is huge!”

Not the only huge thing in this place.

He barely managed to keep that thought to himself. “So, you like it?” he asked. He thought about turning it into an office or workout area or something, but there was no need.

“Yes! I can have my bed here, and put my desk there,” you said, pointing toward the corner. “I could even put a bed in for Alpine if she wanted to sleep in here,” you offered.

“That’s nice of you,” he said. It was very thoughtful.

“Well, it’s her space, too,” you said, nuzzling her before you set her down.

He nodded toward the closed door nearby. “Bathroom is right across the hall, and you won’t have to worry about sharing since my room has an en-suite attached,” he explained. He wasn’t sure how comfortable you would’ve been if you were forced to shower in his bathroom.

“Al hasn’t been a big fan of anyone, except for you,” he said honestly, looking you over once more.

“I’m honored that she likes me,” you said before you turned to face him, a wide smile lighting up your face. “How soon can I move in?”

He smiled back. “You want to move in?” he asked, those butterflies in his stomach again when you glanced at your feet.

“Only if you want me, too. Oh, yeah, and…” You dug into your purse and pulled out a small notebook, quickly flipping through the pages. “This is the rent price, right? And the estimated amount for the bills? Because I can give you a first and last month if I need to sign an updated lease.”

He looked over the page. Your notes were meticulous. “That’s the right price,” he confirmed, snapping his fingers. “I forgot if I mentioned it in the posting, but I didn’t even show you the washer and dryer. You don’t have to worry about going to a laundromat since I have them here.”

You put the notebook away and pinched yourself. “Nope. Not dreaming,” you said, your smile faltering a little. “But do you really want me living here? I’m boring.”

“I’ve known you for a very short time and I can tell you that you’re not boring,” he said. His life felt more exciting since you showed up today. “And I’m a mechanic, so I’m not exactly living the most exciting life.”

Bucky was proud to be a mechanic, but it was far from glamorous.

“Being a mechanic sounds pretty awesome.” You crossed your arms. “I do puzzles for fun.”

“Sounds like a great Saturday night,” he said without a hint of sarcasm, making you smile again.

“And to be clear, I won’t be bringing guys back here at 3am,” you promised, scrunching your nose. “I don’t know why I felt the need to say that.”

You mentioned in your initial contact that you weren’t seeing anyone, but he felt extra relieved that you didn’t want to bring guys here. “I won’t be bringing guys here at 3am either.”

The giggle you let out warmed his heart. “So, we’re doing this? You really want me to move in?” you asked hopefully. “Because I really will be a great roommate. I’ll clean, cook, and-”

“I want you to move in,” he assured you. He didn’t want anyone else there. “What do you think, Al?”

The feline brushed against your leg with a happy meow, giving you her approval all over again.

You bounced in place and he thought for a second you’d throw your arms around in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Thank you,” he said. You were doing him a huge favor by moving in. “And just to be clear, you’re comfortable living here with me being a guy?”

Bucky had never been more attracted to anyone as quickly as he was to you, but he wasn’t going to disrespect or make you uncomfortable in what would be your new home.

“You promised I’d be perfectly safe here,” you reminded him. He did say that. “And…” The soft smile on your face was an image he wanted engraved in his mind. “I have a good feeling about you.”

He was going to fall head over heels if he wasn’t careful. Who was he kidding? It was too late. “I have a good feeling about you, too,” he said, gazing into your eyes with a soft smile of his own. “And I can’t wait for you to move in.”

God, Steve is going to come over and demand to meet my new roommate. He better not flirt or lay on his golden boy charm.

“You’re far from that,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. You were perfect in his eyes.

“I just…” You turned a blinding smile his way. “I feel like I hit the jackpot!”

I’m the one who hit the jackpot.

And we know how the story goes for these two (so far). 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

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