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viennakarma · 3 months ago

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The Lucky One

Part 1 (of 2) | Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Summary: Formula One had been your dream and your goal ever since you were a kid, and you did all you had to in order to achieve it. Between ups and downs, Sebastian becomes a steady presence despite being your complicated frenemy relationship. Until everything comes crashing down. Formula One gives, but Formula One takes.

Word count: 6.5k

Tags: female!reader, driver reader, reader is mirrorball coded, coming of age, cursing, romance, both are assholes, smut, +18, complicated feelings, rivals to lovers, crash, major injury, medical innacuracies, bittersweet ending, not beta read

Relationship: Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Note: This is fully inspired by the song, and throughout my writing process I realized it also fits mirrorball. This one may require some tissues (especially in part 2). Everything is fictional and I mean no disrespect to Sebastian or his family (they don't exist in this story). Let me know in the comments if you wanna be tagged for part 2. Not proofread. Comments and feedback are welcomed.

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You knew from an early age that charisma could conquer the world, it was a relatively easy taught lesson back in your early karting days. Mum sat you down one day in karting, showing two other kids around. One sitting alone, quietly twinkling with his go-kart, you knew him, Jamie-something, one of the best kids in karting, and you always had fun battles with him, but he was a bit of an odd one out. The other kid mum pointed at was Nick, loud, funny and popular… not that good at karting but a really smart talker. And it showed as he was surrounded by adults and other kids, every bit of attention on him.

You were around 11 when your mum pointed out the difference between the two kids.

“What is different about them, darling?” Mum asked you.

“Jamie is alone… And Nick is surrounded by people.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, Mama…” You said, scratching your brain to try and reply.

“Jamie is not very good with people, right? He’s a bit of an introvert…” Your mum said, quite somberly, “And Nick, he’s charismatic, see how he manages to grab everyone's attention?” As you nodded, your mum kept talking, “There are greater chances of Nick making far in motorsports, rather than Jamie.”

“But it’s not fair! Jamie is much better…”

“I know, darling… But you’ll see that motorsports is not fair at all. And unfortunately, if you really want to go far in this career, you’ll have to do everything they want and more. Being a good driver won’t be enough.”

“Why not, mama?” You asked, pouting.

“Because everybody loves pretty and everybody loves cool.”

Over the next few years of your teens, you learned to adapt, not only in karting, then single seaters, then Formula categories, not only as a driver, but as a person. You were fun, charming, and after a few years, it came to you easily. Laugh at his joke, that’s a sponsor. Smile at the journalists and they’ll write you as the future of motorsport. Be funny, but not too funny to the point they won’t take you seriously. Smile, but not too much so they don’t think you’re flirting. Be smart about your sport, but not too smart so they won’t feel emasculated. Take good care of your career and your every step, but don’t let them know so they won’t call you manipulative. Never be angry, never lash out, never be curt.

Nobody ever thought about you as a carefully crafted person, because even that was planned out. No one called you fake. They always thought you were that person: funny, smart and pretty like a 60’s queen.

You made it to Formula 1 at the age 23, a little late but you had accounted for that, being a woman and all. You were a damn good driver, but really it was your charm that put you there. You knew that your presence was good PR for the Federation. Look how inclusive we are!

After substituting a driver twice in the 2014 season, you were signed in 2015 for Toro Rosso, rookie you and rookie Max Verstappen, who was much younger than you. You and him got along well, but you couldn’t help but think how he got the chance to join Formula 1 much younger than you, having had almost the same career path in earlier categories. The only difference? You were a woman.

But you didn’t let that outshine your happiness of making it to Formula 1.

Soon you got in everyone’s good graces, charming your way through motorsports like you had been doing your whole career. Your first ever race as an official driver on the grid, there was this sense of relief, of making it to the ultimate dream. All that you had endured was worth it in that glorious moment.

You managed a little friendship with most drivers, getting to chat with them despite your rivalry on the track. You end up getting two podiums that season, brilliantly going down in history.

Well into your first official season, somehow the nickname “Principessa” caught on after an Italian newspaper wrote a praiseful cover article about how you managed to be classy and talented in your rookie year at Toro Rosso.

Life was a dream come true all the way to 2016, when you realized, Sebastian Vettel didn’t like you much. You thought it was just a distance thing, since you two weren’t used to talking that much. Until you overheard him talking about you with Nico, one of the drivers he was always talking to.

“I’m just not really interested…” Sebastian sounded reluctant.

“She’s really nice once you get to chat with her,” Nico said, as you hid behind a pile of tyres, “Vivian adores her, she even sent her a basket of goodies because of the pregnancy.”

“I understand. But me and her don’t click,” Sebastian mumbled, sounding annoyed.

“And why not?”

“She’s fake. A perfect PR doll, and I don’t like it.”

There was a long silence from Nico, probably shocked at the sudden harshness of Sebastian’s towards someone he had barely opened up to meet. You stood there frozen for a couple of seconds, not understanding his aversion to you.

Snapping out of it, you silently walked away without them noticing you were ever there. You couldn’t believe how, or why Sebastian could see right through you, how he could say that stuff when he had barely talked to you. But worst of all, you couldn’t understand his aversion to you, being against you.

“Having a quiet day?” Nico asked later that day, at the drivers parade as you stood a bit quieter than usual, still in your head about Sebastian’s words.

“Oh, no! Just a bit hungry!” You lied with a believable smile, “How’s Vivian?” You decided to change the subject.

Later that year, you had a great, almost competitive car, which had taken you to P3 in the championship standings, with a real, consistent chance of fighting for the championship.

Unfortunately for you, after the fourth to last race of the season, one race you had finished first place, you and part of your team were called in to talk with the representatives of the FIA because of an irregular part of your car. It was a minimal part of the livery that connected with the air vents, they said it was irregular, and despite the team showing proof that you had gained no advantage out of that, you were still punished with disqualification from that race.

It wasn’t just the problem of being DSQ, but not making points in that race meant you were out of the fight for the championship.

It felt like a punch in the face. Unjustifiable and an arbitrary decision.

After that disqualification, that came out right after the race had ended, Sebastian was the one to inherit that win, and a small part of him wanted to check on you, just because those kinds of disqualifications were a blow to the confidence of a driver.

Sebastian walked into your driver’s room and the first thing he noticed were the objects thrown around on the floor, a flipped table and chair. Chess pieces and boards on the floor, along with water bottles and towels, he looked around and you were sitting in a corner, on the floor, tears streaming down your face as you tried to wipe them with trembling hands, but the tears kept coming down.

It sent Sebastian into some sort of shock, he knew you for around three years now, and he had never seen you cry, or be angry, or even annoyed. You were always happy and bubbly… And now… It was like you were someone else, so painfully real, multifaceted for the first time.

“Hey… you-” He wasn’t even sure of what to say.

“They took my chances from me…” You said, voice trembling and a fresh stream of tears, “they did it on purpose. They did it to keep me where I am, to keep me on a leash, to not let me become a World Champion.”

“I’m so sorry…” He knelt down by your side, unsure of what to do or say.

“I did everything right. Played by their rules. I smiled, and I danced like a circus monkey, and I clapped even when I shouldn’t… I took it silently even when they threw spears at my chest. I swallowed my pride countless times to be here. I did everything right…” You knew you were rambling, to someone who probably didn’t even like you, but you couldn’t stop, the burning rage that brought tears to your eyes was stronger than anything you ever felt.

Sebastian didn’t know what to say, too shocked by the view of the real you that he could barely wrap his head around it. There was anger in your eyes, sadness, but somewhat a sprinkle of despair too. So he did the only thing his mind could think of, he hugged you. A little awkwardly, but a hug nonetheless. He felt your tears dampening his shirt, your hands fisting the material as if you were drowning and he was the only lifebuoy left. The sobs rocked your shaky frame and he held you for a long time, until someone from the team came to check on you. Then Sebastian hesitantly let go of you, despite your fingers still gripping his shirt, he pulled back, astonished.

As he left, stunned, he couldn’t even remember the reason he had gone there in the first place.

You only saw Sebastian again, the following race weekend, during media day. You were sitting on a box, drinking some water, your legs dangling in the air. You looked like you always did, bubbly, content, hair in place, light makeup…

Despite everything, and the memories being a little blurry, you didn’t forget what Sebastian had done for you. But even though the support was nice at the time, you couldn’t help but feel an immense amount of shame and embarrassment for what he had witnessed. Your mask had slipped, and you didn’t know how to proceed in this new, unknown territory.

In the end, you opted for deflection.

“Hey,” Sebastian approached you, looking slightly worried, “how…” he cleared his throat, “how have you been?” There was a silent question there, a silent approach to everything that had transpired the other day.

“Hi? Yeah, I’m alright, thanks!” You said with a bright smile, but now Sebastian could see it never reached your eyes. You hopped off the box you were sitting on, starting to walk away.

“Um- about the other day…?” Sebastian tried to breach the subject, unsure of how you would react.

“Oh, that? It was silly, just forget about it!” You kept smiling, your voice was cheerful, but your eyes betrayed that. You kept walking away, eating fruits and Sebastian ran up to you again, confused about you brushing under the rug something that was a pretty big deal.

“No, uh- how-” He wanted to think of something to say, but your smile dimmed a little bit as you looked at him.

“Let’s forget about that. And please don’t pity me.” You said with that same frozen smile and Sebastian frowned. He wasn’t pitying you, he was genuinely worried about that.

You walked away before he could say anything else. He was shocked at you dismissing so easily a full blown breakdown you had the week before. He had spent days thinking about you, not because he enjoyed any of it, he didn’t, but because he saw you for the first time. The real you. The ugly and painful parts, but it was so, so genuine, he knew that was the real you, with an honest reaction to something that hurt and upset you. He saw something he had never seen in you before, and he couldn’t get that version of you out of his head.

It was obvious you didn’t want to talk about that, or even address it. And Sebastian wasn’t going to press for answers, because in the end, he didn’t even like you particularly. He didn’t. And in the media pen, when a reporter asked you about the penalty that took you out of the championship competition, you smiled politely.

“Oh, I believe the FIA did the right thing, if I was accidentally irregular, that’s what should have been done. No complaints on my part or on behalf of my team,” You said into the mic, seeing in their faces that no one expected that response. Sebastian kept staring at you, in disbelief.

“Well, I for one,” Sebastian said after a few shocked seconds, “think that her disqualification was bullshit.”

The room burst out laughing, even you. A fake laugh, but since no one could tell, it was still a laugh. Saving your tears for some other time, alone and quiet, away from prying eyes.

Despite everything, you and Sebastian didn’t become closer, but in some way he just decided to open up to you a little bit more, as opposed to what he had been doing these past few years. He still wasn’t a friend or a close acquaintance, but he was less closed off and less short towards you. There was a silent acknowledgement of each other in public settings, a quiet nod or polite smile here and there.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that he was about to leave the hotel to go to a dinner during the week of the Malaysian GP, when he got into the elevator and as he got to the first floor, you stumbled into the small space, reeking of alcohol and makeup a little smeared. He called your name, in such shock he forgot to hop out and the elevator started going up again.

“What,” You said, holding yourself steady against the elevator wall. Sebastian was shocked, that was another facet of you, raw and belling with the persona you usually sold the world.

“Are you okay?” He asked, the elevator stopping on your floor.

“I’m fine,” you said, stumbling out of the elevator in your high heels, Sebastian couldn’t help but also step out, grabbing your arm to steady you, “I said I’m fine!” You said, drunkenly stomping your foot.

“No, you’re not. Come on, give me your key.” Sebastian said, with a voice that left no space for arguing.

You tried to be stubborn, but he just grabbed your purse and started fumbling with it until he grabbed your key-card. Holding your arm, he guided you to your hotel suite. Once inside, he placed you sitting on an armchair, and as he knelt in front of you to remove your shoes, you plopped back against the backrest.

“No, no,” he said, tossing your heels away and pulling your arms so you’d sit up straight, “No sleeping yet, come on. I didn’t pick you for a drinker.”

“And I didn’t pick you for a nosy asshole” You snapped back.

“Well, well, well, isn’t motorsports’ favorite doll hiding a foul mouth?” He said, holding you up, guiding you to the bathroom.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Well, isn’t that what you are? We both know the truth, Principessa.” There was some bitterness to the way he said the nickname. You were not particularly fond of the nickname either, but the way he said it, with disgust, it rubbed you the wrong way.

“Why are you here?” You asked slowly.

“Why are you hammered on a Tuesday night?” He held you up, putting you on your feet and calmly leading you to the bathroom.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Sebastian pressed his lips together at your deflection, deep down he knew. More than anyone he knew you were just pretending to be okay with being taken out of the fight for the championship. He knew you were hurting. He also wanted to tell you that wasn’t the way to go about it, but at the end of the day, you two weren’t really close.

“Get in the shower. Cold.” He said, walking out of the bathroom and closing the door behind himself.

He could hear the sound of the water running, so he went to the phone and ordered soup and tea from room service. He sat down on the armchair, somewhat worried about you. He had gone through that before, but he was also four times world champion, compared to you who was just in your second year, losing the opportunity to fight for the championship for a mistake that wasn’t yours and that was completely out of your hands.

You left the bathroom dressed in a fluffy robe, face clean off of remnants of makeup. But your eyes were puffy and red, and he wondered if you were crying in the shower. He didn’t ask.

“Since you look a little more sober, I’m going. Room service will bring you something to eat and something non-alcoholic to drink.”

You sat on the couch opposite to him, feeling a little better and a bit more sober. You watched as he got up, his blue eyes never leaving yours. You had many questions. But the most important one was why he was there. Why was he taking care of you? You knew he didn’t like you, he knew you knew it too. Before you could ask any of it, he walked towards the door.

“Thank you,” You mumbled. He only nodded, not bothering to look back at you. It was a quiet murmur, but some part of you hoped he knew that thank you wasn’t about just this instance, but also the time he consoled you when no one else did.

The rest of the season, you managed to get ahold of yourself since you knew, keeping wallowing in self pity would get you nowhere. So you focused on finishing the season better. Sebastian and you also didn’t grow particularly close in the following months, despite sometimes meeting his eyes across the room. There was always this underlying tension between you, like two people that knew a secret but swore to not talk about it.

During the Prize Giving Ceremony, you were mingling with some drivers, members of the team and from the FIA. You were known for being the life of the party, usually a social butterfly, always making connections and meeting new people.

But then, you made a small pause to grab a drink and some air, sitting down on a bench, when Sebastian made his way to you, a somewhat bright smile directed to you as he crossed the room. It was the first time he had ever directed that kind of smile to you. He looked like he had drunk a little bit.

“You look tipsy,” You pointed out as soon as he stopped before you. He grinned.

“High quality champagne,” Sebastian replied, sitting on the bench beside you, raising his flute for a toast. You replied by clicking your flute against his.

You two sat in silence for a couple of minutes, watching the party in full swing.

“You’re back to your old self,” Sebastian pointed out, suddenly. But it didn’t sound like a compliment nor a critique. So you didn’t reply, unsure of what he meant.

“Well, we all do what we gotta do,” You shrugged gently, with a small smile as you turned to face him and his bright blue eyes were already on your face.

“But, you know, it’s good to remember you’re very lucky to be here,” he said.

His words made you stop, your smile fading and that almost accomplice glinting in your eyes completely disappeared. And Sebastian frowned confused, seeing the way you put up your walls again, back to the frozen, fake smile you usually gave the media.

Lucky. You hated that word. You hated how everyone used to say you got lucky to be there. You got lucky to get into Formula 1. You got lucky to be a successful driver. Rarely did anyone mention the efforts you had to put into becoming that. The early mornings training, the absurd amount of time and distance away from your family. All the metaphorical slaps you had to endure with a straight face. Then you realized, Sebastian saw you just the way everyone else saw you. You were lucky, your spot was a gift not the consequence of your efforts.

And Sebastian noticed the shift in your expression in that very moment. He hadn’t meant to offend, and he wasn’t even sure why his words had ticked you off, but he could see. He was probably the only one in that whole room who could tell the real you from your persona, mostly due to the fact that he had seen the real you a couple of times.

“Princess, I-” He started again, but you cut him off.

“Don’t.”

He watched as you stood up, gave him a polite smile and a nod, before sauntering away.

The following year, your car was improved, and even better than the year before, you were up there in the stands, and after a third of the season, you and the team knew you were a contender for the championship. You did everything in your power to be the world champion that year. Your main competitor was Lewis Hamilton. Somehow, despite the fierce battles on track, you two managed to maintain a certain level of respect outside it. Probably because you two were different kinds of minority in that sport, or because he had learned a lesson with how everything had come down with Rosberg. Funnily enough, you two had managed a somewhat friendship that very year.

You and Sebastian, on the other hand, grew more distant than ever, and you barely spoke that year. You two kept this cold, polite façade in front of the media and other drivers.

Battle after battle, the media pressure only grew on your shoulders, you weren’t just a pretty face for the sponsors to plaster your face around, you showed a real driver existed behind that persona. And it pissed some people off, just because now you were a woman playing a big man’s sport. They nitpicked every mistake you made if you had made some, or they diminished your every win if you didn’t make a mistake. Because you were lucky. You were lucky that one time Vettel DNFed. You were lucky this one time Lewis Hamilton crashed out. You were lucky your tyres were better during some overtakes. You were lucky for that good pitstop.

When you became World Champion that year, during the Mexican GP, it had all been worth it to endure. The weight of the trophy in your hands, the way you hugged it to your chest in the top step of the podium, crying as the other drivers splashed you with champagne, that was the taste of the years of dedication paying off.

The celebrations were wild, the team, some of the other drivers, everyone congratulated you. You were at a nightclub, drink in hand when suddenly Sebastian Vettel appeared out of nowhere. You supposed all drivers were invited, but you didn’t expect him to actually show up.

He walked up at you, loose shirt, messy hair and flushed face. Biting his lip to hide a smile, that genuine smile he had given you only once since you met him. And Sebastian had never seen you so beautiful. He knew you were always pretty, like you were some sort of model, but in that moment, you looked genuinely happy, and the smile you could barely contain in your face made you even more stunning than you already were.

“Congratulations, Principessa,” He smiled, stopping beside you. At that moment, you didn’t even remember that you were ever upset with him, that you had barely spoken the whole season. He remembered very well that feeling of being champion, the relief and happiness.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about what I said last year. I never meant to diminish you. And later on I understood why you felt upset by it.” Sebastian said, firmly. It made you feel validated, and it was nice that he had realized on his own.

“It’s okay. It’s water under the bridge.”

Sebastian nodded, understanding. You both went back to the party. And later that night you two were dancing on the dance floor with some other people. You were not physically close, more like jumping up and down and singing, facing each other, laughing. But there was that spark in each other’s eyes again, like there was a funny secret you two were keeping.

That’s how you two ended up going to his hotel, sitting silently in the back of a car, the windows a bit rolled down and the fresh air of the night hitting your faces. This silent tension that had always been brewing reached a boiling point. None of you moved or said anything, afraid of breaking the spell even on the way up to his floor. But the moment you crossed the threshold of his hotel room, you tiptoed to him, kissing him. He kicked the door shut, one arm around your waist as he pulled up to his height so he could properly kiss you. The other hand on the back of your head, pressing you further into him as if he wanted to merge with you, his lips and tongue coaxing yours open, his kiss all tongue and teeth as if he was starved for you. You two stumbled inside, but Sebastian managed to keep you upright by pressing you against a small side table, while you two laughed at his clumsiness.

When he put you down again, he reached for the back of your tube dress, tugging the zipper down, but it got stuck and he muttered a curse, which made you laugh again against his neck.

“Sorry about this,” he said, before forcefully tugging the dress, which made it rip off, and the dress fell down, pooled at your feet, leaving you naked in only your panties and shoes. He took a moment to take in your figure, humming appreciatively.

You took a step forward, removing his shirt without a second thought, followed by you also fumbling with his belt. You two were giggling when finally all clothes were out of the way and Sebastian pulled you into his arms, kissing you deeply before pushing you into the bed. His lips around your nipples as his hands teased your body, touching, groping, feeling the smoothness of your skin.

When he climbed up, holding your head so you would look at him while his fingers fucked you open, there was this deep sense of intimacy in his eyes as he watched you. Then finally, he got on top of you, holding one of your thighs up against his waist and he sank down, in one deep stroke as you two moaned. His movements were slow and hard, enjoying every little thing about you. The soft sounds you made, your dilated pupils, the way your cunt fluttered around him when he hit a particularly perfect spot.

It didn’t take you long to come, your hands around his waist, nails sinking into his back. After you did, he knelt back, pulling your legs up, ankles by his shoulders as he then went even faster with each thrust, your moans growing louder as you went careening into a second orgasm, and soon he followed behind you, biting on your ankle to muffle his groans.

“Damn…” He sighed, breathless as he plopped on the bed right beside you.

“Damn is right…” You laughed.

After that, you two got in the shower, kissing and making out like teenagers, until he bent you over the glass wall, fucking you again until you two came again, your back to his chest and his hand down your front to tease you clit.

When you two fell on the bed again, you were out like a light.

The following morning you woke up painfully early, his arms around you as you situated yourself, when you checked your phone, you realized you were late to catch your flight. So you carefully removed yourself from his arms without waking him up, stole some clothes from his suitcase since your dress was ruined, and left in a cab.

You didn’t speak about through the final two races of the season and not at all during winter break. A small part of you had expected him to say something about what had happened. You were not sure what.

As the new season started the following year, the underlying tension between you now had a new kind of meaning behind it. Since you couldn’t look at each other and not think of that night. Of his hands tightening on your ass, of your nails scratching his back.

You decided to leave it all behind, focusing on the season and trying to strike that second consecutive championship. It was hard, it wasn’t that your car was bad, per se, but it was unreliable. Sometimes you were about to win a race when it suddenly had some sort of malfunction or some kind of shut down that had you DNF a race you should’ve won. Despite that, you made the best of it, achieving a couple of podiums and eventually, your first win of the season.

That night, you met with Sebastian again, the first real conversation ever since what had happened the year before.

“Congratulations on the win,” He said with a smile.

“You too, congrats on the win last week.”

And just as the first time, soon you two were wrapped around each other in the elevator, lost in a desperate kiss. Kisses and giggles as you made your way stumbling to your hotel room. This time, he had you bent over the bed, hands on the mattress as he knelt down eating you out for the life of him until you had come fisting the sheets, then he got up and fucked you from behind.

You two laid on the bed, breathless and with a thin layer of sweat as he pulled you closer, a palm over your stomach, tracing all dips and curves lazily.

“Here we are again,” Sebastian whispered, and you looked at his eyes, shining blue and flushed face.

“Seems like we keep coming back for more…” You pointed out, with a laugh.

He was about to say something when his phone rang, and he found his jeans and picked up the call. You just watched as he started speaking on the phone, quickly grabbing his clothes and starting to dress up again.

“I’m sorry,” He said after finishing the call, buttoning up his pants, “We have a photoshoot to do, and I had completely forgotten about it.”

“It’s fine,” You said, sitting up on the bed.

He paused for a moment, looking at you all naked and debauched on the bed, looking especially delicious. Sebastian wished at that moment he could have taken a picture to keep with him forever while you looked like a goddess. He just pecked your lips, deep and fast, before scurrying off. A stupid smile in both of your faces that you couldn’t see.

Weirdly enough, you didn’t talk about that again. It was like you were two different people in other settings, but back in the motorsport world, you had no opening or desire to be that two people that stole kisses in hotel rooms. But the silent glances were still there, a knowing look exchanged. You didn’t grow any closer out of those brief moments in space and time.

As the season progressed, you got a somewhat grip on the car, even reaching second place in the standings for the WDC.

Your encounters with Sebastian also kept happening, at least once a month. You didn’t talk much about the nature of your relationship, about what it meant, or why it kept happening. It felt like you two were always focused on making the most of the little time you had. One of you would always leave in the middle of the night or early in the morning, without waking up the other, like a silent agreement.

Still, you had a growing feeling that Sebastian didn’t like you outside those fleeting moments. And you knew that those things could happen, you could have great bed chemistry and still not be friends or not particularly be fond of someone. Just sex. It was what you told yourself every time you had to see him be cold and distant during race weeks. You couldn’t help but remember those few years back when he called you a perfect PR doll in a conversation. The harshness in his voice when he talked about you that day still haunted you sometimes.

It all came to a head after you won consecutively the three races in the triple header, and the media was eating that up. But unfortunately, Sebastian had two DNFs and a qualifying so awful that he only managed to finish the last race P8. During the following media day, which had both of you in the same panel, you were asked some questions regarding your recent wins and the perspective of the championship. After replying, there was a small scoff that Sebastian’s mic caught.

“Anything to add to her reply, Sebastian?” The journalist asked.

“No, nothing much…” Sebastian scoffed, “I mean, with Red Bull’s rocketship, winning is what’s expected of it, no?”

The words hit you like a punch, and it took a herculean effort to keep a straight face and seem unaffected. But the wave of silence and tension that followed was enough to show that everyone had caught that jab. Lewis even muttered a disappointed “man…” to Sebastian, away from the mic.

You didn’t look at Sebastian again during that conference, but at that point he could tell your real smile from the fake one. He could see the discreet clench of your jaw and he knew deep down that he had fucked up massively.

That’s why that weekend after the race, one you had placed P3, he went to your motorhome before leaving the paddock, knocking on the door quickly. He waited for you to open the door, hoping and praying you had not left yet. When you finally did, dressed in casual clothes, probably about to leave, he could see the surprise on your face that you had not expected to see him there. You looked around to check if anyone was seeing that before pulling him inside.

“What do you want? Be quick.” You said, finishing packing your bag and barely looking at him.

“I’m sorry about what I said during media day. That was fucked up.” He said, carefully.

“Oh, fuck off, Sebastian…” You scoffed, “we both know you just said what has always been on your mind.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He frowned.

“Don’t play dumb now, Sebastian. Everyone knows. I know and so do you.”

“Know what?” He frowned, taking a step closer.

“That you hate me!” You exploded, turning to face him.

“Is that what you think?!” He asked, offended, “You think I’d have sex with someone I hate?”

“It never stopped anyone before…” You said, rolling your eyes, “Let’s be honest here. All the secrecy, all the never talking about it, never calling or texting before or after… I’m just the ‘Perfect Fake PR doll’ that you don’t like.”

As soon as the words came out of your mouth, Sebastian frowned, but after a few seconds he remembered that he had said those exact words about you, with such annoyance and disgust. That was farthest from the truth, and he couldn’t dare to repeat those words now that he had seen so many raw, genuine parts of you.

“Listen, I just…” He sighed, “I just hate all this fakeness you sell. All this acting and playing a part.”

“It is survival!”

“Survival?” He scoffed, not buying your words, “you pretend to be someone you’re not to appease the world.”

“You wouldn’t ever know what this is about, Sebastian. You’re Formula One’s dream man. You’re the straight white guy they want, the perfect image for motorsports. Be fucking real with me. Do you think if I had half the attitude you do, I’d be treated like you? No, I’d be ostracized,” You said, eyes shining in defensiveness, like he was the enemy you had to pretend to, “I will do what I can to stay here. I do what I can to still have a seat and a career here. Everything I do, is to be perfect, to appease the audience, the sponsors, the FIA, everything, and I still have to deal with misogyny. I still have to hear people saying I should go back to the kitchen. So no, I won’t change.” It was like a dam had broken and you had to put out everything you felt, every pain you had regarding that.

Sebastian sighed, scratching his head. He had fucked up even more, because it had never gone through his head any of that. He had never thought of the backlash you must face, being a woman, about the difficulties to fit, to be accepted in an environment heavily made of older white men that liked things to stay the way they were.

“You got to see the real me, I let myself be vulnerable and genuine with you. God knows the reason why you have seen me more than anyone else has. And you get out there with your full chest implying that I’m winning because of the car, when you know the car has been unreliable and I’m bending over backwards to make this shitbox win races…” Your voice was shaken but you refused to let him see you cry again. That had become ammo in his arsenal one time, you wouldn’t repeat the same mistake again.

“I…” He stuttered like he had just been hit with that knowledge, ashamed that he had never stopped to think about any of that.

“You can hate me all you want, Sebastian. You can tell me you’d rather me be genuine, but I need to wear armor. Out there? I’ll still be the PR Doll you like to call me if it means I get to stay.”

“Principessa, I’m just so-” He started but you cut him off again.

“Just get out, Sebastian. This,” you pointed between you two, “was a mistake to begin with. We both know where we stand with each other.”

“I don’t hate you.” He said, suddenly.

“Right. You need to go.” You rolled your eyes.

“I need you to believe me in this. I don’t hate you.” He repeated, slowly, blue eyes pleading.

“Leave, Sebastian.” You said, not leaving room for argument. He took two steps back, knowing he wasn’t going to get through to you at that moment.

“I don’t hate you,” He said one last time, before turning around and leaving.

PART 2

Let me know in the comments if you wanna be tagged for part 2!

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 fic #f1 #formula one #sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sv5 #sv5 x reader #Spotify

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sp0o0kylights · 8 months ago

Text

Eddie was all about desecrating corpses.

Particularly, the huge ones--and nothing was larger than the burnt out husk of Starcourt.

Yellow caution tape, muddied and ripped from its time in the weather still decorated parts of the doors.

The place used to be crawling with security, but that had eased off now, the job returning to a local outfit rather than the smooth and swift guards who previously haunted the joint in pairs.

It was easy as two days spent camped out in his van, watching the main entrance and a few side doors. In no time at all, Eddie had schedules memorized, points of entry selected and even three possible escape routes should things get dicey.

He didn't expect them to.

Not when he’d already rolled his checks and came up with a number that, were this an actual D&D game, would make him a happy man.

It was always a point of contention between him and his Pa. This perception. The natural ability he had that good ‘ol dad just didn’t seem to possess.

The one that made him patient long enough to get a feel for a gig.

To know instinctively how hard a job might be, and how to go about doing it safely.

(Eddie personally doesn't believe much of it is talent. Thinks it is in fact, forcibly learned, due to the nature of his upbringing.

Grandma and Grandpa Munson, bless their dead, departed souls, had at least given something of a shit. Tried to keep family things family and work things work, even when said work was illegal as it gets.

They understood things like appearance and public reputation.

How that kept the pigs off your back and food on your table.)

His Pa had never cared for any of that.

Eddie didn’t grow up with family meals, or even food in the house let alone on the table. He grew up watchful, forced to learn or take a hit meant for an adult in the process. To weigh the risks against the benefits, and how to charm the pants off an unsuspecting target while doing so.

It was how he’d escaped his own prison sentence when his Pa finally got eyes too big for his abilities.

Eddi had gotten lucky in that situation.

Or rather--he’d gotten Wayne.

Wayne, who gave up his own room, his own bed, for his nephew. Had bought him his sweetheart on his sixteenth birthday and a van on his eighteenth. Both things were used, and a little battered around the edges, and Eddie had almost thrown up the day he accidentally found out Wayne had used his life savings for the damn car, but they were above and beyond anything he had any right too.

Eddie would be damned without him.

But he knows his uncle needs help.

Can't pay for himself and Eddie. Never really could, and so has been giving his nephew literally everything he has in an effort to make up for it until Eddie could help pay his way.

Not that a singular soul would trust a teenage Munson with such a precious thing as a part time job, and so Eddie had turned to the familiar.

The mall fire, and the resulting flood of federal agents had really put a damper on his income the past few months. Drugs were risky, and getting riskier with them sniffing about, and things were getting tight again in a way they hadn’t in a long, long time.

(All it had taken was finding the hidden stack of bills.

Big ol’ words stamped in red topped every one. Bold letters screaming ‘Overdue’ and ‘Payment Missed’ and ‘Late Fees.’

One single letter had panicked Eddie more than any other, the one that clearly said Wayne had been talking to the payday loan place down the street, and he’d be damned if his shortcomings made his Uncle willingly walk into a debt pit so few climbed out of.)

Growing up like he had, Eddie was trusted in certain circles. Had access to places many didn't as his sole inheritance, because he was known.

Someone who didn't rat, who could be trusted with given tasks. Who kept to the criminal code, and was good about not backstabbing you if caught.

He’d hit up a few old connections, dropped some hints. Put out “feelers” as one might say.

Got a nibble and soon enough, Eddie was back in business, getting called up and offered a few small tasks for decent dough.

Sometimes it was fetching information.

Sometimes it was ferrying an item.

Today, it was a retrieval.

There was something someone wanted in the ruins of Starcourt--and they were offering an insane amount of money to get it.

The plans hadn't made sense, not at first. The instructions Eddie had been given sounded outlandish, if not outright total bunk.

Like the existence of a multi level basement under Starcourt? How the hell had no one caught that being built?

Or that the security systems down there could possibly still be turned on? After four months?

Who was even paying for it?

Eddie had heard stupider things though, and the pay for this little jaunt was good. Too good to pass up.

"They want a local in case something happens and the rescue squad comes running in. That way, it's just a little trespassing fun. The town deviant getting his kicks in the big scary mall, and not what they think it is." His connection had told him, meeting with Eddie in a Mcdonalds the town over.

The place had a play palace, big enough to host a number of screaming rugrats. It made for a great cover as they pretended to be just two men in overalls, getting burgers on their lunch.

Not a soul could hear a sound over the kids screaming, and if a blueprint sat between them then, well, if it looks like a maintenance worker, and it talks like a maintenance worker…

People never did look twice.

"And what else exactly would they think this is?" Eddie asked, munching on the food he got for free as part of even entertaining the offer.

"A retrieval, Double D."

Eddie hated that nickname.

"Some rich kid bit it in the fire, and his parents are paying out top dollar to get a few of his things, seein’ as the feds wouldn’t let anybody back in after they condemned the place." The guy, whose name was Mickey said.

He idly traced a finger along the lines of the blueprint, the path he was wanting Eddie to take.

(The path Eddie would later ignore, on grounds that it was going to get him caught.)

“Specifically a signet ring and car keys.”

“Car keys?” Eddie had asked, mostly in a bid for more information. Mickey was the kind of guy you could breadcrumb into giving more information than he intended to, if one played their cards right.

And Eddie was a damn good poker player.

“Yup. Goes to a BMW--which they want you to drive to a safe place. Parents think he lost it somewhere around,” Mickey’s finger stopped, before tapping the blueprint twice. “Here.”

Something had niggled in the back of Eddie’s head. The first whispers of recognition, of a fact that he knew something about this--something he couldn’t yet recall.

He wasn’t stupid enough to ignore it.

“Who's the kid?” He’d asked.

Mostly because he was curious, partially because it was a way to ease in the real questions he wanted to ask.

Like what a rich kid was doing four levels down in Starcourt the night of the fire.

“Does it matter?” Mickey said, but dug into his pockets anyway. Retrieved a little 2 by 3 wallet photo, done in the traditional High School Picture Day style.

He’d tossed it on the table, and Eddie didn’t react.

Kept his face perfectly blank, even as his stomach contracted and his breath caught in his chest.

Carefully pulled the picture to him, to make a show of examining it.

“Don’t know him.” He lied after a moment, fighting to get his breathing back under control before Mickey figured out what was up.

“Told you it didn’t matter. What matters is that you get the shit. And hey, while you’re down there…”

Mickey talked a bit more, and idly, Eddie listened. He knew this little B&E was going to have more components than just retrieving a few things. Had long figured out that this entire front of retrieving “some rich kids keys” was just that--a front.

Word on the street was that Starcourt was hiding something--something a lot of very powerful people were getting increasingly interested in. He’d rolled his eyes when he caught wind of the first little rumblings, the rumors and whispers that the thing was shrouded in Government secrets and conspiracies, but hadn’t been able to ignore the shit that had come after.

Likely, the people who had hired him and Mickey understood they had to act now, before someone else did, to see if anything worthwhile was actually down there.

The real question is why the hell they were using Steve Harrington’s death to do it--when Eddie knew for a fact that Steve Harrington was alive.

Or alive as anyone could be, at two am at a Shell gas station.

“Alright.” Eddie said finally, pulling the blueprint towards himself before rolling it up, making sure to casually roll up Harrington’s picture with it. “You got me interested. Half up front and I’m in.”

Mickey grinned at him. “Knew you would be, kid.”

One hand shake and a hefty envelope later, and Eddie found himself on the way to Starcourt on his very first stakeout.

It was that first initial look that confirmed it--Harrington’s prized BMW was in fact, still sitting in the parking lot.

Abandoned by rich assholes who absolutely could have paid to have it towed.

Which led to a domino effect of stakeouts, late nights and confrontations, up to and including his present position, counting down the minutes before he could break into Starcourt.

“Ready?” He murmured, and one could be forgiven for thinking he was talking to himself given how quietly he said it.

They would be wrong.

“Yeah.” The not-so-dead rich kid drawled from the passenger seat.

Eddie tossed a grin at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

“Come on, Stevie.” He purred. “Let’s go find out who impersonated your parents, and why they want that ring you supposedly own so badly.”

“Honestly dude I just want my car back.”

“That too.”

Part Two

#this is a two parter #the second part has the steddie lol #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #season 3 AU #sorta #0o0 fanfics #stranger things #I mean really how did he get his keys back #breaking and entering #you cannot tell me eddie wasn't drawn to starcourts remains like a moth to a flame

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artyandink · 5 months ago

Text

‘34 château margaux

SUMMARY: Spencer never knew to feel about you. Actually, he did. You were a career criminal, but also a liaison for the FBI, which prevented your arrest. You’re cunning, manipulative, persuasive and oh, so seductive. Spencer was warned against you, and he knew it. But even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory couldn’t resist you. Even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory can’t help but lose control around a woman like you.

TW: mentions of smoking, wine, seduction, badass reader, s7 Dr Spencer Reid, mentions of organised crime, mobs and mafia, Spencer’s weak for reader the poor baby, Hotch slander, smut

STW: Spence doesn’t stop the reader from kissing him, marking, oral (f. receiving), brief handjob, praise kink if you squint, dirty talk but Spencer style, degradation I think, wine play (I think), temperature play as subtext, ass slapping, profiling during sex, threat of exhibitionism, light choking, switch!Spencer, switch!reader, pussydrunk!Spencer, slight overstimulation, fingering

SONG INSPO: Greedy by Ariana Grande, Acapulco by Jason Derulo, I Did Something Bad by Taylor Swift and Make you Mine by Madison Beer

Femme fatales had a specific profile.

The "femme fatale" is typically depicted as a highly attractive and enigmatic woman in her late twenties to early forties, often characterized by a seductive allure that masks her manipulative and dangerous nature. Her primary weapon is her ability to ensnare men through charm, beauty, and sexual allure, ultimately leading them to their downfall.

While her motivations vary, she is often driven by power, revenge, or hidden trauma. Early literary examples include the biblical figure of Delilah, who betrays Samson, and Salome, who demands the head of John the Baptist. In classical mythology, Circe and the Sirens use their allure to seduce and destroy men.

The femme fatale's archetype is also evident in later works like Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth, who manipulates her husband to commit regicide. This profile of a femme fatale highlights her as a complex figure whose allure conceals a more sinister intent.

That was your profile.

Hotch had warned Spencer not to get too close to you, because you knew how to use your everything, and you had a sweet spot for the latter. Not because Spencer really was a likeable son of a bitch, but because you found him more fun than the other agents.

You were a pretty face, sure, but you were also a genius. A Dr Spencer Reid level genius, but you were the side of the spectrum that dissolved into a life of high crime and corruption.

Instead of becoming a federal agent - or law enforcement - you were the trusted advisor to a lot of the mafia and mob population, and even that was enough to put you away on charges of incitement/inchoate crime. But you were useful, extremely useful, so you also then became the liaison for the FBI whenever the mafia or mob circles became involved in an investigation.

This time, you were, as the unsub of a case in Las Vegas, Nevada seemed to be purchasing drugs like M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. It was a powerful mix and the dose was enough to cause immediate system failure and then death. The drugs were being purchased from casinos which were rumoured to be the cover of Vegas’ mob circles.

Your hotel room was the kind of thing Spencer only hoped to see in movies, with warm lighting, patterned red wallpaper, mahogany flooring with underfloor heating, glass and gold tables, mahogany dressers and a huge king-size four poster with curtains the same colour as the walls. There was a liquor cabinet as well as a fancy looking cooler, and it was nothing like Spencer had been used to seeing as he grew up in this very city.

It didn’t feel like his territory anymore. He wasn’t as comfortable as he usually was around these parts. He took the couple steps in, having closed the door behind him, now standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Maybe you weren’t in. Phew.

“Dr Reid.” Came the voice that made Spencer feel like he was on fire, a perfectly manicured hand brushing over his shoulder as you walked up from behind him, having come from the bathroom that was no doubt as fancy as the bedroom itself. After all, this was the penthouse.

You lived it big as a career criminal.

You stepped out from behind him, lips that he’d unintentionally imagined on his body stretched into a smirk as you picked up a quarter-full wine glass from the table and took a sip. You were killing him, wearing a black silk robe with just the right hint of lace, which stopped at your mid thigh and had a neckline that had his eyes dropping briefly before he schooled them and gave himself a very firm lecture inside his head.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Again, that voice, the cadence of it, Spencer couldn’t understand how something as simple as a damn voice could have him so unbelievably weak for you.

Spencer raised his hand in greeting with his bravest attempt at a smile, like he usually did.

“It’s a case.” He dug in his messenger bag, handing you some photos of some bodies. “Someone’s targeting bank workers around Vegas. It’s a ‘drug smoothie’ of M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. Morgan dubbed it that. Actually, smoothies are meant to boost the health of the drinker and contain nutrients from a liquid base such as yogurt or milk puréed with fruit, vegetables or items in a mixer, so I don’t see how this particular drug mix is a smoothie— a milkshake perhaps, as it hasn’t got as much nutritional value beside providing substantial energy through the intake of sugar and carbohydrates.”

He paused, seeing the soft, amused smile on your face, the light of the room casting a perfect shadow on the curve of your cheek. It felt like you were ethereal. “Did I say too much?” Spencer said meekly, rubbing his jaw.

“Not at all, Dr Reid, I completely agree. You can tell your friend Morgan to change it and you have my wholehearted support.” You gave him a nod, your head tilted and eyes looking big with the way you were looking at him. “You have no clue just how much your knowledge turns a girl on, baby, no clue at all.”

Spencer cleared his throat, realising that he was veering off topic and also almost salivating at the sound of you calling him baby. Having to lecture his eyes once again for looking at your legs that seemed to go on for days and seemed to also be calling for him to grab, knead and grip. “We need to stay on topic. Hotch needs the information about the case, and you need to give it.”

Spencer couldn’t help but always let his mind drop into the gutter at the sight of you. It was a Pavlovian response at this point— pure, unbridled instinct.

He couldn’t help but notice that with the way the robe draped on your body, you had nothing on underneath. That kind of assumed information had Spencer reeling.

You waved a perfectly manicured hand with scarlet nails, dismissing the idea of maintaining professionalism. “Hotch needs this, Hotch needs that. No offence to him, but he’s got a lock on you, Dr Reid. Enjoy for a night, let your hair down.”

“Well, t-the phrase ‘let your hair down’ originally was meant literally back in 1850, which was its first recorded usage but it has its roots in the 17th century. It was taken literally because women wore their hair pinned up in public, but the meaning of the phrase was to ‘get familiar’.”

Oh.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Spencer added hurriedly, searching for a notebook and pen in his bag. Licking his lips subtly at the sight of your v-neck and the way your hair framed your face. The curve of that pretty neck he wanted to kiss and lavish so it made those pretty lips fall open—

Jesus, keep it together.

“Anyway, do you want some wine?” You asked, tapping the bottle. “‘34 Château Margaux. This hotel really does have good taste.”

“I don’t drink on the job.” Spencer answered coolly. “And definitely not with criminals.” He would had Hotch not warned him— bad Spencer.”

You pouted, feigning upset. “That just breaks my heart. Putting my job against me? I’m only the advisor to some very powerful forty-and-above men who want some sexual gratification and overall ego boosts and also carry some lovely baggage with mommy issues written all over it. They want a pretty face to spill their secrets to, I give them that and get some cash in return.”

You saw the look on his face. “I’m not apologising for being a career woman.”

“Yet you liaise with the FBI about all that these forty-or-older sexually frustrated men tell you.” He countered quickly, firmly looking you in the eye. Not down at your lips, not at your tits, nor your thighs.

Spencer shook his head in exasperation, even though a shiver ran down his spine at how you advanced towards him, undoing his tie with a practiced hand. “What- ma’am, you can’t do that—”

“Ma’am?” You laughed, getting the maroon tie off and dropping it to the floor, unbuttoning his collar deftly. “Jesus, sweetie, that makes me feel old. Call me by my name, don’t be shy.”

Your name slipped off his tongue in barely a whisper, and became his only known prayer when he felt the warmth of your hands through his shirt, sliding up and up until the searing heat ran over his neck, resting in his hair and trailing down his arm, your nose brushing his before slotting in place.

Oh, God, he thought as you took his hand in your own soft one and guided it to press against your thigh, the fingertips of his index, middle and ring finger feeling silk while his palm, thumb and fifth finger felt smooth, creamy skin.

Oh, fuck, he thought as your lips got close enough to his to be a teasing venture into the cracks in his walls and defences that he’d flimsily put up against you.

“I’ll give you the information you need.” You said softly, in a way that had Spencer’s breath hitching. He should have looked away. He should’ve removed his hand from your thigh, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was stuck like that, entranced by you. “You just need to let loose for me. For one night, I’m all yours. Drop that professionalism, Dr Reid. Let yourself go.”

“You’re a career criminal.” Spencer murmured, his hand beginning to rub your thigh, gripping slightly at the end of the downward stroke. Bad hand.

“Semantics.” You smirked, biting your lip— oh, hell, that did nothing for his self control. It made him want to kiss those lips until they bruised or swelled, until they numbed. His hand on your thigh made his tongue long to devour your pussy. The way you were looking him made him feel like he was merely a puppet on strings. “Come on, Dr Reid. Don’t deny yourself a good time, hm?”

Spencer would’ve answered, but then your lips pressed against his, and suddenly, he had clarity. That this was wrong, so very wrong. But it felt so damn good. His hand now kneading your thigh was wrong but felt electric.

He pulled back, but his mouth didn’t need to do the chasing that they ached to do. You did it for him, silencing any bubbling protest. You kissed him for the sake of coaxing him to give in, to just kiss and touch until his lips and conscience went deliciously numb.

“We can’t-” He felt your lips against his, a hum replacing his words, unknowingly stepping back towards the bed. Or maybe he knew. “We - mm - Hotch will - mhm—”

“Baby, what Aaron Hotchner doesn’t know what hurt him.” You murmured, pushing him back onto the bed. Spencer fell back without a protest, taking you in, especially as you straddled his lean form that had scooted up the bed, set his messenger bag aside and began popping the buttons of his shirt while grazing his lips with your own, teasing him, taunting him and daring him to let go as you rolled your hips slow and steady against his.

A grinding motion that drove him insane and made him moan and gasp. The fabric of his trousers really did nothing to alleviate the friction and pressure.

Spencer’s hands shot to your hips, unknowingly helping you and guiding your movements under the guise of getting you off him. “Ma’am, I mean—” He whimpered your name instead of saying it like a normal guy would, “please, d-don’t—”

Saying don’t stop was the intention, but he held himself back with the rapidly fraying thread of control. His eyes screwed shut then opened wide with a gasp, wanting to lose himself in you.

He wondered if this was his state with every woman or just you.

Definitely you was the answer when you took your mostly empty glass of wine, pouring the remaining contents over his chest. Your cold hand cupped the side of his neck, a shiver flitting over his warm skin as you then bent forward, lapping up the liquid from his chest. Sucking, drinking the earthy-noted wine with a suspiciously high efficiency. A moan that even surprised him left his mouth when you ground down against him again, your tongue on his skin, and he never hated his trousers more than right this moment as the fabric strained against his clothed need.

He loathed them when you reached for the sash of your robe, untying the waves of tantalising silk fell off your shoulders and over the side of the bed, revealing nothing underneath.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed.

He snapped.

Within a second, you were flipped over, Spencer’s lips crashing down on yours as he kicked his shoes off, toed his socks off as he kissed you like he was going feral, hand tangling in your hair as he practically rutted against you, hard and fast and oh, so relieving.

He was gripping your face, free hand pushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue and making the blazing journey down your neck, which you bared to him gladly.

“Is this what you wanted?” Spencer panted, sucking at your pulse. “You wanted me to lose control, baby? Yeah, you got it. You. Got. It.” He punctuated the last three with nips to your collarbone and followed up with presses of his mouth on the swell of your tits.

You couldn’t even think, just letting out moans and sighs and needy whimpers of his name and unintelligible sounds, which did good to satisfy his frustration. Spencer’s mouth enveloped your nipple, sucking while tweaking the other between his fingers to have you arching into him and a smirk forming around his temporary fixation.

He switched his attention, pushing you down by your waist with his free hand to keep you from arching up. “Sit pretty and take it.”

Oh, those words sent a hot shiver up your spine. And then back down again, straight to your already soaking pussy.

He let your tit go with a small gasp, his eyes zeroing in on the prize and prompting him to start kissing down your stomach and nipping at your thighs.

If you chose to wear that robe for another person in the near future, they’d see his marks on your thighs. His. That was a thought that had a warmth swelling in his chest and cock.

He pushed your legs apart, holding them apart with his elbows and biting his lip at the feel of your hand in his hair. Testing the waters, his middle finger pushed with no resistance into your throbbing pussy, which had you gasping and moaning his name, while Spencer groaned yours upon feeling how you squeezed merely one finger.

Spencer had long fingers. Imagine what that meant for all you ladies out there.

He would’ve began pumping it, but he withdrew it and began licking it clean, tasting you on his tongue and almost whining at how good it was. Ignoring your whimper at the loss of contact, he maintained very intense eyes contact with you as he licked one long stripe up your cunt.

That didn’t last very long. The moment he got one proper hit of you, his eyes rolled back, then closed, mouth fell open, and he properly got to work, drinking you up like you did that wine on his body.

You’d honestly never been with a man as dedicated to eating pussy than Dr Spencer Fucking Reid.

“I’ve profiled you, y’know.” He murmured, still lapping at you and acting as if you weren’t writhing, moaning and arching your back - a complete mess - while he was having a fucking casual conversation with you and being the little shit that caused it.

He paused to suck at your clit as if it was all casual and part of a daily routine, little hums and encouragements between words where he’d absolutely devour you and make it look like him playing poker. Easy. “You’re promiscuous - mmh - like Lady Macbeth, except without the - mhm - implied infanticide and insanity.”

Spencer used his elbows locking your thighs in place to spread you open and get a new angle, and god damn it worked, because while you were crying out his name to Jesus and the holy mother Virgin Mary he was acting like this was another day at the office. “You use your body to get what you want - that’s it, be loud, baby - and on all counts it works. You also know how to play into people’s - fuck - psyche. It’s what makes you a textbook femme fatale.”

His middle finger slid in again, along with his index - both ridiculously long - and he crooked them just right, reaching places you didn’t even know existed and hitting the bullseye that was your g-spot all while tracing his name on your clit. Again, acting like you weren’t a complete and utter mess by now, but you were too far gone to care.

“You have an ability to see someone’s emotional desires— now, for example.” Spencer glances up at you, his free hand massaging your thigh and his fingers working you, pumping in and out and making sure his thumb got your clit while he talked. “It makes you highly manipulative, a-and your confident demeanour makes it - so tight, pretty girl - easy for people to trust and confide in you, hence why you’re the advisor to a lot of the mafia bosses on the FBI’s most - mmh - wanted list.”

Upon feeling and seeing how close you were, even if you didn’t know it yourself, Spencer smirked up at your face, looking like the prettiest picture with your eyes rolled back, mouth open, hand holding the sheets and your cheeks as pigmented as they could go. “But you’re easy to read when you’re in a vulnerable position. So why don’t you be a good girl, and come for me?”

You came apart easily at his cue, your high crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, feeling him lap at your pussy to clean you up— or so you thought. He actually didn’t stop, murmuring something about “one more” as his brow furrowed in concentration, really zeroing in on his target.

Not stopping, not letting up.

You were pretty sure you saw God and his army of angels frowning upon the sinful deed you two were partaking in, and how you were partaking of each other, while Spencer continued to steal your thoughts with that damn talented tongue and fingers.

He moaned at the taste of you, feeling drunk on everything you were giving him. Your sounds, the feel of you, the taste of you— you consumed all his senses.

You were a forbidden fruit. He was eating it. Except he was taking more than just one bite of the apple.

When you came again after a few more practiced licks, you felt a lot more sensitive then usual, but the satisfied look on Spencer’s face told you he’d made you come twice instead of once.

Testament to his skill, you guessed.

Spencer wiped all the residue of you off his chin with his thumb, licking his lips and quickly sucking the slick off by popping the thumb into his mouth. He made it look like his everyday Tuesday.

Then he undid his belt buckle and dropped it aside, his trousers and boxers going with as he pressed kiss after kiss to your body on the slow journey up. Spencer groaned as your hand wrapped around his cock, your thumb teasing the head before your hand began to move up and down… until he stopped you.

“Not right now, baby.” He chuckled. “Another time. Statistically, I’m fifty percent more likely to come if you do that.”

“That’s the idea.” You winked, but removed your hand off his dick anyway.

“I’m sure it is.” Spencer smiled, then looked around. “Do you have condoms? J-Just cause using protection during sex, particularly condoms, is crucial for several reasons, both from a-a health and social standpoint. First, condoms are one of the most effective methods for preventing the transmission of sexually transmitted infections, i-including HIV. These infections can have long-term health consequences, some of which are irreversible or even life-threatening. By using a condom, you're significantly reducing the risk of both contracting and spreading these infections to your partner. Second, condoms are a reliable method of birth control when used correctly. They prevent sperm from reaching the egg, thereby reducing the likelihood of unintended pregnancies.”

Then you pulled out the top drawer of the bedside table, which was full of condoms of all sizes. Which had him both slightly jealous and sheepish. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Spencer grabbed one, tearing the foil off with his teeth and expertly sliding the rubber on and entering you so fast your moan came in delayed timing.

“Fuck.” You gasped, especially as you adjusted to him and even better when he started moving back and forth at a steady rhythm, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in, feeling your pussy practically mould to him in a way that had his eyes rolling back and hips snapping forward harder.

It made your nails claw at his back, which made him bite his lip and release it, claiming your lips in a hungry kiss. ‘34 Château Margaux. It had an earthy taste to it.

Your perfume was intoxicating, and he smelt of new books and a cologne that drove you mad. You also got notes of butter popcorn from his time watching Russian movies and his lips distinctly tasted of you and you only.

It felt like your claim on him.

Next thing you knew, he’d pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach and thrust into you again, his mouth latching to your shoulder and leaving marks as he took your neck by his hand, not squeezing hard, but just enough to let you know he was there.

“So tight. How’re you gonna look - shit - all those mafia bosses in the eye, huh?” He panted, punctuating his words with a snap of his hip while you were reduced to cries of his name. “When you can’t walk because of an FBI agent?”

“Spencer, fuck!” Was the only admittedly pathetic thing that came from your mouth, along with a whimper when his hand came down on the side of your ass, soothed by a rub.

“That’s right, baby, call out for me.” He murmured, sucking a mark under your ear. “Make sure everyone in this hotel can hear.”

You found yourself coming at the words, gripping the pillows with your eyes rolling back, Spencer’s own copying as he felt your cunt clamp down on him like a vice. His hand on your throat squeezed a little tighter - but he was aware that it wasn’t enough pressure to cut off an airway - with his head dropping to your shoulder, pressing kisses to the heated flesh as he followed with a few clumsy, shallow thrusts later.

Oh, he knew what he did was wrong. He just couldn’t help himself when presented with you.

Spencer pulled out of you, both of you practically spent of all your energy. You rolled onto your back, wiping away a forming tear due to your sensitive pussy being wrecked by Dr Spencer Reid, but it was worth everything.

“I forgot one thing.” He murmured, moving so he could pull you into his chest and kiss your hair. Remarkable how this man can go from a hot dominant to a hot nerd. “From your profile, I mean.”

“Yeah, Dr Reid?” You smiled, kissing him softly yet intensely, drawing a hum of contentment from his lips.

“You, ma’am,” Spencer cheekily emphasised between kisses, “are very sexually proficient.”

That got a laugh from you, breaking away to playfully swat his chest, which got a noise of surprise from him and a small "son of a bitch!". “Is that your way of telling me this was mind blowing sex?”

“That isn’t how you tell someone that?”

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