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fic-girlie · 14 days ago

Note

Hey! Love your fics with dad!Pedro. Can't help but think about Joel and reader having a baby too. Would you write something about that? Maybe how he would be during birth and how he'd react when he holds his babygirl for the first time (yep, he's meant to be a girldad, it's canon, I don't make the rules). Maybe their first day back at their house in Jackson with the baby? 🥺🥺

Another chance

Pairing: dad!Joel Miller x wife!reader Summary: Joel becomes a father again—and this time, he gets to keep it all. Warnings: established relationship, unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy reveal, sof Joel, giving birth, protective Joel, becoming a family

The world was quiet in the way it only ever seemed to be in Jackson during winter. The wind held its breath, the snow drifting down in a slow, unhurried hush outside the window. You stood barefoot on the cold wooden floor, wrapped in one of Joel’s old flannel shirts that still smelled like cedar and soap, your fingers curling tightly around the porcelain sink as you stared at the small test strip on the edge.

Two lines.

Not faint. Not maybe. Not up for debate.

Two bright, clear, undeniable pink lines.

Your breath fogged the mirror above the sink as you exhaled, shaky and slow. Everything in the room felt suddenly still. As if the house itself were holding its breath with you. Like even the walls understood how much this moment meant.

Pregnant.

The word didn’t sound real yet. It echoed somewhere at the edge of your mind, like it had been whispered from another room, part of a dream you hadn't quite woken from. You looked down again, just to be sure you hadn’t imagined it. That you weren’t just projecting hope onto nothing. But there it was.

You sank slowly to the closed lid of the toilet, the test still clutched in your hand, your heart beating steady and deep in your chest like a drum.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. The emotion wasn’t sharp enough for tears. It was something rounder, warmer—an ache right beneath your ribs. A fullness you didn’t know how to name.

Joel would be home soon. He’d taken a patrol shift, not because he had to, but because he liked to stay busy. He liked to keep his hands working. You’d teased him about it before. Told him retirement didn’t suit him. He always grumbled that someone had to do it if the kids weren’t gonna, and by kids he meant Ellie and Jesse and anyone under thirty. But you knew better. He liked the structure. The routine. It kept his mind steady. Gave him purpose.

You weren’t sure how to tell him. Not because you didn’t think he’d want this—deep down, in your heart, you knew he would. But because Joel carried love like it weighed something. Like every ounce of it had to be earned, carried, and protected. He wasn’t careless with it. He didn’t say things unless he meant them. And you’d seen what loss did to him.

You’d held him through nightmares, through those rare, quiet nights when he let his guard down and told you about Sarah in broken pieces. You’d seen the way his mouth tightened whenever he looked at a child too long, the way he always turned away before it got to be too much.

He’d loved his daughter more than the world. And the world had taken her from him.

That kind of grief leaves a permanent mark.

Still... Joel had let himself love again. He’d let himself love you. He’d let the cracks in his armour show and hadn’t run from what bloomed between you. When he held you, it felt like he was holding something sacred, like he wasn’t just afraid of losing you—he was afraid of failing you.

You looked down at the test again.

How would he react?

Would he be scared? Would it stir up ghosts? Would he think he couldn’t do it again?

Or—your heart ached at the thought—would he think he didn’t deserve it?

A soft breeze crept through the cracked bathroom window, stirring a loose lock of hair against your cheek. You stood slowly, cradling the test in both hands now, and set it gently in the drawer beneath the sink. Not to hide it. Just to keep it safe until you could find the words.

——

You hear the front door before you see him—hinges groaning against the cold, boots thudding against the wood floor, the soft scrape of snow being kicked off on the mat. You don’t stand to meet him like you usually do. Your hands are tucked in your lap, thumb grazing over the hem of your sleeve, and your heart is thumping with a rhythm too loud to ignore.

He’s home.

“Hey, darlin’,” Joel calls from the entryway, voice gravel-warm and familiar. There’s the sound of fabric rustling—he’s peeling off his coat, hanging it up by the door—and then those slow, steady footsteps cross the floorboards, inching closer. He smells like woodsmoke and winter, windblown and wild and so distinctly him it nearly undoes you.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a little softer now, sensing something.

You glance up, and the moment your eyes meet, his brow furrows. Concern settles into the lines of his face like it belongs there. His boots creak as he walks over and crouches in front of you, resting one big hand on your knee.

“You sick? You hurtin’? You’ve got that look like you’re about to cry, and—”

“I’m okay,” you interrupt gently, your voice thinner than you intend. “I’m not sick.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, scanning your face like he’s reading something only he can see.

“But there’s somethin’.”

You nod.

Joel doesn’t push. Never has. He waits, thumb brushing along your leg like a quiet reassurance, patient and steady. You love him for that. For all the ways he lets you speak on your own time, without pressure or fear. Even now, when your stomach’s twisting and your throat feels like it's closing.

You reach for his hand and guide it up, gently laying it over your belly. His brows twitch, just a little. But he doesn't pull away.

“I took a test this morning,” you begin, and the way his hand stills against you says he already knows what you’re about to say.

You swallow. “I’m pregnant, Joel.”

It’s quiet. Quiet in a way that makes the air feel like glass—too fragile, too still.

His mouth parts slightly, like he might say something. But nothing comes out. You see the pulse in his neck flutter. His eyes drift from yours down to where his palm rests against your lower stomach, as if he’s hoping to feel something move, even though he knows better.

You let the moment breathe, let him catch up to it. Because this isn’t small. This is life-altering. And for Joel Miller, who’s already lost so much... this is sacred territory.

“You’re sure?” he finally asks, voice rough and uneven. “You’re... really sure?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I checked twice.”

He draws in a breath that shudders at the edges.

You watch him carefully—watch as his lashes lower, as his thumb shifts just barely across your abdomen, as the realization begins to bloom in his eyes like dawn breaking slow and golden. You expect questions. Maybe even panic. He’s older now. The world is different. Safer in Jackson, sure, but still full of ghosts. You wouldn’t blame him for hesitating.

But when he lifts his eyes back to yours, there’s no fear.

Only awe.

And something heartbreakingly soft.

“You’re havin’ my baby,” he says it like a fact, not a question. His voice cracks on the word my.

You feel a tear spill, warm and fast down your cheek. He sees it and lifts one hand to catch it with his thumb, cradling your face now like you might vanish if he lets go.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get this again,” he murmurs. “This kind of chance.”

You lean into his touch. “I didn’t either.”

He shifts up onto the couch, easing beside you, arms pulling you into his chest so gently it makes you ache. His chin rests against the top of your head, and you feel his heartbeat through his shirt—fast and full, alive with something between disbelief and joy.

“I keep thinkin’... it’s gonna be a girl,” he says suddenly, voice muffled against your hair. “Don’t know why. Just feels like... she’s already there, y’know?”

You smile through your tears. “A girl, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “One who’ll wrap me around her little finger, just like you do.”

You laugh, the sound catching in your throat.

His arms tighten around you, his hand drifting back down to your belly, fingers spreading wide like he’s already protecting both of you from the world.

“God, I can’t believe it,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be a mom.”

“You’re gonna be a dad,” you whisper back.

He stills again. You feel him swallow hard. His next words are almost too soft to hear.

“I never thought I’d get to be that again.”

You lean back enough to meet his gaze. “You never stopped being one.”

His eyes flash with something deep—pain, maybe, but also something healing. Something warmer.

You take his hand in both of yours. “This baby... she’s not a replacement. You know that, right? She’s just... a new chapter. A new kind of love.”

“I know,” he says. “I know, baby.”

He kisses you then, slow and full, and it feels like the start of something entirely new.

A promise.

A quiet, aching joy.

He keeps his hand on your belly all night long, even after you’ve both gone to bed. And at some point, while you drift in and out of sleep, you hear him whisper something to the bump beneath your shirt:

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good at this again, little one... but I swear to you, I’m gonna try. With everything I got.”

And you believe him.

Because you know the way Joel loves—fierce and quiet, loyal to the bone.

And this baby girl?

She’s already his whole heart.

——

It starts slow. A backache that doesn’t fade. A pressure that builds like a distant thunderhead. And then, in the soft hours before dawn, it crests—a sharp pull in your lower belly that makes you clutch the side of the bed and hiss through your teeth.

Joel jolts awake beside you like he’s been struck.

“What? What is it? Are you okay?”

You nod, breath stuttering. “I think... I think it’s time.”

He stares at you for a second, and you see every emotion ripple across his face—fear, wonder, pure adrenaline. But the next moment, he’s on his feet, helping you sit up, steadying your back with that big, warm hand, already dressed and tugging on his boots with the kind of frantic precision only Joel Miller could manage.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying, more to himself than to you. “We’re gonna be okay.”

The walk to the makeshift clinic is slow. Snow crunches beneath your boots. Joel holds you with both hands, guiding you like you’re made of porcelain and lightning. Every few steps, you stop so you can breathe through another contraction, your forehead pressed against his chest, his palm supporting the small of your back.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he murmurs each time, like a litany. “So damn good, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Inside, the warmth wraps around you like a blanket. Maria’s already called the town’s midwife. It’s not the hospital Joel probably wishes for, but it’s clean, quiet, safe. There’s a birthing room at the back—candles glowing, water boiled, blankets ready. And Joel never leaves your side.

Time loses shape. The pain crests and crashes like waves, and Joel is your anchor in the storm.

He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

He doesn’t even sit down.

You see it on him—the helpless ache in his eyes, the way his jaw flexes every time your body seizes with another contraction. He presses cool cloths to your forehead, whispers steady things to you even when you’re too far into the pain to answer.

“You’re almost there, baby. I swear. You’re the strongest person I ever met.”

You cry out when the pressure becomes unbearable. Tears spill down your face, raw and exhausted. You clutch Joel like a lifeline, and he leans in close, forehead against yours, voice cracking.

“I know it hurts, darlin’. I know. But she’s almost here. Just a little more. You’ve got this. I promise you, you’ve got this.”

And then the world tilts.

A final push. A cry that splits the air—new and raw and impossibly alive.

You barely hear the words at first.

It’s a girl. You did it. She’s perfect.

You slump back against the pillows, half-broken and whole at the same time, sobbing without meaning to. And then Joel lets go of your hand.

For the first time in hours.

Because he’s reaching for her.

The midwife cleans her gently, wraps her in a soft, handwoven blanket. And Joel—Joel looks terrified to take her. He hesitates, hands trembling.

“You want to hold her?” the midwife asks gently.

His voice is just a whisper. “I do. I do... I just—” He swallows hard. “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

But he does it. He takes her.

And the world shifts again.

She’s so small in his arms. So impossibly tiny, her face wrinkled and pink, her fists balled up by her cheeks. Joel looks at her like he’s staring into the sun. Like he can’t believe she’s real. He doesn’t even try to hide the tears this time—they stream down his cheeks, rough and silent.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers, voice catching. “Hey there.”

You’ve never seen him like this. Not even with you. He’s undone. He’s wide open.

She shifts in his arms, makes a soft sound, and Joel lets out the softest laugh, half-broken with awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

He turns to you, eyes wet, throat raw.

“She looks like you,” he says, like it’s a miracle.

You reach for her, and he eases down beside you, helping you cradle her against your chest. His arms wrap around both of you, and you feel him exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.

“I don’t know how to do this again,” he says quietly. “But I’m gonna learn. For her. For you.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. You hold your daughter to your chest, feel her heartbeat like the softest thrum against your skin.

Joel tucks his head against yours. “I swear to you,” he murmurs, “she’s gonna have everything. Everything I never gave before. Every piece of me.”

And you believe him.

Because when Joel loves—he loves like it's the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

——

You walk home from the clinic with your daughter wrapped to your chest, the snow falling soft and slow like it’s afraid to disturb the moment.

Joel’s beside you the whole way. One hand under your elbow, the other ready to catch you if your knees so much as think about wobbling. The birth took so much out of you, and you can still feel the ache of it in your hips, your back, the weight of your body trying to remember how to just be again. But your little girl is tucked in close under your coat, snug in the bundle Ellie knitted—mauve yarn and mismatched buttons—and somehow you feel stronger because of it.

Because she’s here.

Because you did it.

The walk is only a few blocks—stone path lined with fences, Jackson hushed by winter. Smoke winds up from chimneys in the distance, and every window flickers warm with lamplight. It’s all familiar, and yet it’s like seeing it for the first time. You’ve never walked this path as a mother before.

Joel’s not speaking, not really. Just little murmurs.

“Watch your step here, baby.”

“You alright?”

“Need to rest a minute?”

You shake your head each time, squeezing his fingers in return. You can feel how tightly he’s wound. He hasn’t slept more than a few hours since labor started. Hasn’t taken a full breath, either, from the looks of it. Now he keeps one eye on you and the other on the tiny rise and fall of your daughter’s chest as she breathes under the layers.

He’s a little bit in awe. A little bit terrified. And absolutely, completely in love.

When your house finally comes into view—your shared place tucked between two quiet cabins—it hits you fully. That this is your home. That this child in your arms belongs here. That this man at your side, already pale with worry and flushed with love, is yours.

Joel opens the door for you with one hand, the other ghosting at the small of your back. “Let’s get you two inside, yeah?”

The moment the door shuts behind you, the silence deepens. It’s warm, dim, the fireplace lit from when Joel came back earlier to prepare the space. There’s a folded blanket on the couch. A kettle on the stove. The bassinet waiting in the corner of your bedroom like a held breath.

You pause in the centre of the living room, suddenly unsure. Everything feels different.

Joel doesn’t say a word. He gently eases your coat off your shoulders, then unbuttons the wrap to peer down at the baby’s face. His breath hitches.

“She’s sleepin’,” he whispers, like the sound might be too much.

You nod. “You wanna hold her?”

His eyes snap to yours—almost like he’s afraid to say yes too fast, afraid he’ll break something by wanting it too badly.

“Please,” he breathes.

You carefully unwrap her, your hands trembling—not from pain, not from nerves, but just the sheer tenderness of it all. Joel steps in close and scoops her from your arms like she’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched. Which, maybe she is.

He’s done this before. But not like this.

This is his baby girl. Yours.

And when she stirs in his arms, lets out a little sigh and frowns like she might cry, he shushes her instantly, bouncing just a little, his hand cupping the back of her tiny head.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Shh, I got you. Daddy’s got you now.”

Daddy.

The word tears right through you.

Joel rocks side to side, humming low under his breath. A song you don’t know but feel like you’ve always known. He keeps her close to his chest, cheek brushing her forehead, and you see the tears pooling in his eyes before he even feels them fall.

“She’s so perfect,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t believe she’s ours.”

You lean against the wall, arms wrapped around your aching torso, watching him fall apart in the most beautiful way. He holds her like something sacred. Like something he thought he'd never get to have again.

When you finally coax him to sit down, he doesn’t even think of letting her go. He sits with her against his chest on the couch, feet propped on the rug, rocking gently back and forth. You settle beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I keep thinkin’ she’s gonna wake up and realize I ain’t good enough,” he admits, voice low. “That maybe I don’t deserve this.”

You press your lips to his shoulder. “Joel. She’s yours. You are so good. She’s already in love with you.”

He nods slowly, unable to answer for a long moment. He just keeps holding her, watching every twitch of her tiny mouth, every breath like it's a miracle.

When she finally wakes and starts to fuss—just a little—you reach for her, but Joel stops you with a hand on your arm.

“I got her,” he says, already standing.

He walks her around the living room like it’s instinct. The fire crackles gently behind him as he soothes her, patting her back with practiced care. You listen to him talk to her, quietly, like the world might fall asleep to the sound of his voice.

“I’m right here, baby girl. Nothin’ to cry about, you hear me? You’re home now. You’re safe. Daddy’s got you.”

Eventually, the crying fades. Her breaths deepen. She falls asleep again in his arms.

Joel lays her gently in the bassinet by your bed, moving with exaggerated care. You stay behind, standing in the open bedroom doorway just to watch.

He leans over the little mattress, one big hand tucked around her tiny foot, just resting there like he’s afraid to let go.

And then—so softly you almost don’t hear it—he starts to cry again. Silent tears, falling as he stares down at the little girl you made together.

“I’m gonna protect you,” he whispers. “I swear, baby girl. With everything I got. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you. Not ever.”

He bends down and kisses her forehead. Then he looks at you.

There’s something in his face—shaky and soft and shining—that you’ll never forget as long as you live.

“I don’t know how to be anything but hers now,” he says, hoarse. “Or yours.”

You walk over and take his hand.

“We’re already everything she needs.”

And that night, the three of you fall asleep in the same room, Joel’s arm wrapped around your waist, your baby sleeping just a few feet away.

For the first time in a long, long while, the world feels right.

#pedropascal #pedro pascal #joelmiller #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #jackson!joel #pedro pascal fandom

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megwritesriddles · 2 months ago

Text

The First Move ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: A slightly disorganised account of being friends-with-benefits (or slightly more) with Spencer Reid.

Tags: Unprotected sex (birth control mentioned though), Creampie, P in V, Semi-public office sex, Fingering, Friends with Benefits, Secret relationship, Very minor hinted breeding kink (?), Awkward/Inexperienced!Spencer, Pining, Spencer Reid in glasses, Menstruation mention.

Word count: 3.7k

all fandom masterlist | cm masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This will probably be my last fic for quite a while because all my final uni due dates are rapidly approaching and sadly I need to focus on them, I will be back tho... I feel like this has a weird structure but I'm prob just in my head about it lol... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Spencer had never known what to answer when asked if he had a type, frustrated how regularly the question seemed to come up despite it being nobody's business but his own. His life had given him room for very few crushes over the years, in fact, for a long time in his teen years he had thought that sex and romance was uninteresting to him entirely, caught up in his studies and with no one age appropriate around to latch onto with his developing hormones. Sure, he saw pretty girls that caught his eye on occasion, but he was never around them enough to know if that feeling was anything more than aesthetic. He’d thought he was different from everyone else in this aspect as he was in most other ways, and had more or less come to terms with it, when it all changed. He hated change, even if this change made him more ‘normal’, and had been completely thrown off when he realised he could in fact experience crushes and arousal towards real women, rather than just fictional characters. It turned out, he had just been looking for something specific.

Now he knew what his ‘type’ was, but still had no answer to the question when asked, too embarrassed to admit it. He liked a woman who took charge, not to the point of a specific dynamic, but a confident woman who made the first moves. Perhaps it was a symptom of his insecurity, perhaps his general personality, but he found it very arousing when a woman took charge of him, showing unabashed interest and guiding him around. He wanted, deeply, to be wanted. You were just that, and deep down he’d known it from the moment he met you. Immediately, he was interested when he met you in the BAU meeting room, you being introduced as the newest member of the team. You were well-dressed and styled, but not to the point of standing out or being flashy, tasteful quality fabrics and an air of confidence most new recruits didn’t have. And, of course, you were insanely beautiful.

For months, he did nothing about the crush he was harbouring on you. He didn’t have the confidence, and either way, you were coworkers, it would just get messy if you did get involved in some way. Yet, when you made the first move, all of Spencer’s worries flew out of the window.

“I like your shirt,” you smile wryly, sitting yourself on his desk in front of him, forcing his eyes upward away from the case files he’s reviewing. He flushes. The two of you are completely alone in the bullpen, not for the first time, both working overtime. It’s another thing he likes about you, similar dedication to the work. He clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he gives an awkward tightlipped smile, spinning his pen between his fingers. You smile back, tilting your head and tracing your eyes down the fabric. A subtle light purple floral print.

“Most guys wouldn’t wear something like that,” you hum. The comment makes him nervous.

“I- uh… I know it’s not very manly–” he stammers, flushed and embarrassed, assuming you were being backhanded. He knew he didn’t dress macho like someone like Morgan, but at various times he’d gone shopping and tried on more ‘manly’ outfits, he’d just felt so completely ridiculous and not himself, so had given up on it. He liked the clothes he wore, did it really matter what other people thought? They already found him weird either way. But when it was you saying it, suddenly it mattered more than ever.

“No! Reid!” A chuckle escapes your lips despite yourself. “I’m serious, I like it, it’s a compliment, it’s fun,” you reach out, running a fingertip over the sleeve, making his muscles tense a little. He swallows, averting his eyes for a moment before looking back at you.

“Sorry I… I’m used to people meaning the opposite of what they say… you know?” he laughs nervously, stopping himself from speaking further, watching your hand fall back to your side. You shrug.

“I always mean what I say, I don’t bother with games, it’s a great shirt,” A moment of silence passes as your eyes meet. Spencer can’t seem to stop himself opening his mouth again.

“And anyway… I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as fun, I’m like… the opposite of fun… I uh…” he voice dies away as his eyes follow your hand up to play with the small pendant on your necklace, drawing his attention to your cleavage. He’s sure you didn’t have so many buttons popped earlier today. He mentally berates himself for even having noticed that, but can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your chest, especially as you lean forward a little. You notice his wide eyes on you and it reminds you why you came over here in the first place.

“Do you like my shirt, Dr Reid?” you whisper, your voice low and sultry and immediately travelling down to his crotch. The question throws him off and he flounders, his mouth gaping for a moment, the pen stopping between his fingers. Lashes flutter as his eyes meet yours, praying he isn’t imagining the lust he sees there. Still, he’s too nervous he’s misinterpreting you. He cannot comment on your body, the last thing he wants to do is ever make you uncomfortable, so he stays somewhere safer, albeit, unconvincingly.

“It’s a great… colour,” he smiles shakily. This seems to be the wrong answer, as your face falls a little in disappointment. For a moment, you think he’s rebuffed you, perhaps you’d been imagining his staring all this time and he really wasn’t interested. You shift your legs, preparing to hop off of his desk and leave him alone, when you spot his eyes darting to your thighs, Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably, eyes dark. Taking a great risk, you shift your legs again, spreading them just slightly, trying to cling onto your flimsy prospect of plausible deniability. His breath hitches, his eyes wide and laser-focused. The shadow of a bulge in his slacks as you glance down his body is all you need to finally stop beating around the bush.

“You’re getting hard,” you state simply, keeping your word about not playing games. Spencer’s mouth falls open, completely in shock that you’ve said that to him. Though he hadn’t yet noticed it himself, he can’t really deny it, glancing down, it’s clear that it’s pretty unmistakable. Your directness turns him on, so when you reach down, your hand curling around his tie and pulling him forward, he goes more than willingly toward you, rising from his desk chair. “I could help you with it,” you whisper as his lips stop just before yours, a shaky breath washing over them. “If you want…” you add with a seductive purr. He nods an eager agreement, eyes closed and breaths shallow, moaning the instant your lips touch. It’s nervous, as many first kisses are, Spencer is a little shaky, needing you to guide him to stand between your legs. You play with the strands of hair by his ear, using them to keep him held close, though he isn't exactly trying to pull away. An uncertain hand cups your jaw and he draws your bottom lip into his mouth, sucking lightly. It’s the only move in his repertoire, but it works beautifully, drawing a soft sinful sound from your lips. He responds in kind, whining as both of your hands tangle into his hair. To him, it’s heaven. When you lie back, he barely allows his lips to disconnect from yours, following you down in desperation, propping himself over top of your body. As your legs wrap around his hips and pull him in, he’s done for.

The night turns into your first hook-up of many to come. You let him take you on his desk, finding his fumbling enthusiasm both endearing and sexy. He’s gentle and cautious, it’s obvious he’s nervous beyond belief, but you placate him with sweet words, and take the lead whenever you need to. He’s long, thin and slightly curved, his head falling into the crook of your neck with a loud moan as he bottoms out inside of you. The actual sex is over a little fast, this isn’t his first time, but it’s not far from it, combined with the fact the two of you are technically in public and that he’s having sex with you of all people, means he really has no hope lasting long. Honestly, he thinks it’s a miracle he lasted as long as he did. Breathless and apologetic, he tries to think what to do next. He’s no douchebag, he isn’t going to use you and disregard your pleasure, but he’s entirely unsure how to achieve your pleasure. In theory, yes, he knows everything about pleasing a woman from all the books he’s read in case of this situation. But it is so very different to be presented with the real thing. You don’t look like one of the clinical diagrams he’s used to seeing, and he’s not sure he’s entirely lucid after being allowed to come inside of you. Seeing his release dripping out of you doesn’t help. You giggle a little as you see his wide-eyed look, the gasp that leaves his lips.

“I think I’ve just discovered something about myself,” he confesses, pupils dilated as he thoughtlessly reaches up and uses his finger to push the release back into you. The moan you grant him tells him you liked the action as much as he did. He gets to work trying to recreate what he’s read in his books now that his hand is on you anyway. After a good while of figuring out your anatomy, he’s surprisingly deft with his fingers. You knew you’d always stared at his hands for a reason. You pull him down for a kiss as you come, very glad for your birth control.

He can’t quite believe he’s had sex with you, sitting completely dazed on the metro on the way home afterward. He’d never done something so wild, with so little forethought or discussion, in his life. He certainly can’t bring himself to regret anything. Despite making very sure with you that no evidence was left behind, he was anxious, convinced that everyone would somehow know what had happened on his desk when they came into work the next day. He replays the encounter over and over in his head once he’s at home in his bed, never so grateful for his eidetic memory. Part of him wants to call you, but he just can’t get himself to.

It was nearly a month before you hooked up again, much to both of your chagrin. You had been waiting around for him to invite you to his apartment or something but slowly came to realise it wasn’t going to happen. He was still too nervous around you, more so than before, despite what you had done together. Constantly stuttering and wringing his hands when talking to you about a case, staring longingly across the bullpen and following you around like a lost puppy when on a case together. With his behaviour as it was, it was a testament to his professionalism that he was able to focus on the cases at all, but whenever there was a quiet moment, it was back to you. It amused you that no one on the team had figured out what had happened, just assuming Spencer’s little crush had got worse, always shocked how you managed to stay ‘oblivious’. He brought you coffee, carried your go-bag onto the plane for you, always hanging around you afterward for a while, staring at you shyly and waiting. But he never once dared to make the first move.

Eventually, you get sick of his pining and you just invite yourself to his apartment, catching up to him as he leaves work and threading your arm through his, taking the metro with him. He seems over the moon, chattering with nervous excitement to you as you walk from the metro station to his apartment. Once inside, you push him backwards into his bedroom, causing him to fall back on the bed. You hop up to straddle him and he’s never been so aroused in his life. He sounds so whiny and eager as you ride him, more than happy to be with you again and bring you pleasure in any way he can. By the end of that night, he knew he was addicted to you with no going back. When you fall asleep in his bed, he spends a long time just looking at you and stroking your cheek. You are beautiful and he is falling for you, but he doesn’t know what to say or do about it.

From then on, you invite yourself over at least once a week, if not more, walking arm in arm with him to and from the metro station, spending the nights blowing his mind and ever entwining yourself into his life for several months. You’d even hooked up in the employee bathrooms at work at one point, but had immediately decided not to do it again when Penelope nearly caught you. It had been fun nonetheless. Sneaking into his hotel room when out on a case was another common way to initiate, so common that Spencer had just started texting you his room number as soon as the team got to a given hotel, knowing you would come visit him once everyone else was in their rooms and not likely to catch you sneaking to him.

In a matter of moments from entering his room, you’re guiding him backwards toward the bed as you kiss feverishly, struggling to kick off your shoes before hopping up into his lap like normal. He hums happily, his large hands settling on your hips, fingers flexing anxiously, still not quite used to your physicality despite the months of hook-ups. He leans back against the headboard, looking up at you with a slightly awed expression. The heat was already rising between you, leading you to shrug off the robe you’d wrapped around yourself for your way here, letting it fall to the floor. Spencer twitches beneath you as the clear outline of your breasts, and your nipples which are pebbled from the cold, come into view. Yet, he doesn’t try to pounce on you like most guys might, just giving a shaky smile and running a tender hand up your side. You smile back, cupping his cheek and running your thumb over the cheekbone.

“Have I ever told you I like your glasses?” you muse. He puffs out a laugh.

“Once, when I first started wearing them, but I didn’t believe you,” he chuckles and you do too.

“Well, I do like them, they make you look cute,” You place a kiss on his cheek, trailing toward his jaw. He laughs once more, though more unstable now, tilting his head to give you access.

“I don’t think I get called cute all that much,” he jokes, eyes meeting yours as you pull away to look at him.

“You should be, you’re a total cutie,” you tease, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his lips which he eagerly reciprocates, his fingers twitching, debating moving somewhere else. “The,” kiss. “Cutest,” another kiss. “Ever,” you smile against his lips. He smiles back, a hand sliding up your back and pulling you closer to press against his body. You were so complimentary lately, it made his head spin. Your hands move up, gently removing his glasses as they press into you uncomfortably when the two of you kiss. “It’s a shame, they really do something for me,” you smirk as you fold them closed. He reaches out to stop you, taking the glasses from you and slipping them onto your face. You blink, trying to adjust to the blurriness of his prescription. He takes the sight of you in for a moment before dramatically wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah, not your look,” you gasp and smack his arm lightly, making him laugh.

“You total ass!”

“I’m kidding, you look as adorable as ever, it’s unfair, how can you make everything work?” he squeezes your side. You roll your eyes, taking off the glasses and placing them in the open glasses case on his nightstand. He watches you, rubbing your sides slowly. “Do the glasses really do something for you?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, I don’t really know why, they just do,” you shrug, sitting back up properly in his lap, shifting your hands to rub his chest through his pyjama shirt. “Anything that I wear do it for you?”

“Everything,” he grins. You laugh.

“I’m being serious!” you prod his chest.

“So am I! Seriously, whenever I’m around you it’s like… I’m one whiff of your shampoo away from getting hard,” he confesses, a quiet and slightly nervous laugh puffing out of his chest. Of course, he knows you must have noticed this by now, but actually confessing to it aloud feels a little pathetic. He’s just so… enamored with you. You tilt your head, staring down at him.

“You’re such a horny little freak,” you giggle, cupping his chin and leaning down to give him a kiss. “I would have never guessed it when we first met,” he laughs against your lips, shifting your hips against his so you’re sitting comfortably.

“You must bring it out of me, I wasn’t like this before,” he retorts a little nervously. He’s still a bit unsure around you, worried that he’s going to say the wrong thing and scare you away forever, but every day it gets a little easier. You get a little closer to him and don’t get scared away when you see the ugly. It feels so good it hurts.

Like the other week when you’d come home with him, only for his mother’s sanitarium to call while you’d been making out on his couch. It had only been to inform him about some medication changes, but the fact they’d called him had freaked him out. He tried so hard not to cry, it was ridiculous, nothing was even wrong, he wanted to be strong for you, but the tears had come anyway. Instead of finding him odd, or sitting and awkwardly waiting for it to pass, you’d soothed him for a bit, stroking his hair, and then endeavoured to distract him. You’d put on a documentary for him and made him some tea, sitting in his lap while he calmed down and watched the documentary. He’d felt like a big baby, but it felt good to be cared for. You’d left his apartment that night without getting what you’d come there for, but you never seemed upset, being your normal teasing self the next day at work, twisting his tie around your hand when you’d caught him alone by the coffee machines, taunting him by pretending you were going to kiss him and pulling back. He’d been able to steal a kiss later that day by hanging back to pack up after a meeting. When he’d apologised for the previous night, you’d just said you were glad he was okay. He blinks rapidly as you snap your fingers in front of his face.

“Spence? Where’d you go? You like… glazed over,” you pout. He smiles sheepishly, reaching up to push a hair out of your face.

“I was just thinking about you,” he admits. You huff.

“I’m right here! You don’t have to think about me!”

“I know, I know, sorry, just got lost in my thoughts,” he pulls you closer so your chests are pressed together, pecking your forehead and taking a subtle whiff of your hair. The scent seems to immediately lower his blood pressure, you just made him feel safe these days, he wished he could stop being so nervous and just enjoy things. “You mean the world to me,” he whispers in an effort to do just that. The words make you pause, you don’t really expect them, but they warm your heart to no end.

“You mean the world to me too,” you rest your forehead to his for a quiet moment. His eyes close and he drinks up your words and your closeness. One day, and it would be soon, he was going to ask you to be his girlfriend. It was a terrifying prospect and the idea that you might say no was so painful it was physical, but he had to do it. More and more often he almost finds himself blurting out that he loves you, and if he’s going to tell you that, it’s going to be on purpose. Probably with flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries, or maybe running through an airport if the movies he’d been watching for inspiration were anything to go by. However he decided to do it, it would have to be special, prove that he cared for you without a shadow of a doubt, and hopefully aid in making you fall for him. Part of him just wished you’d say it first, like you did with most things, but there wasn’t really any telling if you felt that way. You’d been different with him lately, and he hoped it wasn’t too optimistic to consider you might feel the same as he did. Your head shifted to his shoulder and your body melted onto his, clearly assuming that tonight would be a cuddling night. You’d done this a few times now, after particularly scarring cases or when you were on your period, it wasn’t really usual friends-with-benefits stuff, but in your line of work, a little cuddle was often very much needed, so was justifiable. He turns his head to kiss your forehead again.

“Don’t give up on me just yet,” he whispers, hoping to sound lighthearted.

“Yeah?” you ask quietly, looking up at him as he looks down to meet your eyes. “I’m not giving up,” you whisper, kissing his jaw a few times. The words have deeper meaning to Spencer and he takes a shaky breath.

“I just may need you to make the first move,” he smiles, shifting to face you. You smile simply.

“What’s new?”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

taglist: @i-live-in-spite , @raysmayhem-72

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lvrclerc · 2 months ago

Text

✶ STEAL YOUR HEART, TONIGHT!

summary: after the united states grand prix, the drivers decide to immerse themselves in the true american experience by going to the most infamous coyote ugly in austin to celebrate ─ needless to say, max is in for a culture shock, and maybe a little heart attack when one of the coyotes seems to take a fancy to him.

F1 MASTERLIST | MV33 MASTERLIST

pairing: max verstappen x coyote!f!reader

wc: 7.6k

cw: reader is implied to be southern/has a southern accent, reader smokes, alcohol, english is not my first language, sexual/romantic tension, i know next to nothing about coyote ugly this is based on vibes and vibes alone, use of y/n, bittersweet towards the end.

note: the idea of max verstappen just stepping in a coyote ugly is so funny to me. here's to lei @cntappen who wanted to see a max fic!

WARNING!

You may get wet

You may lose your tie

You may lose your bra

No men on the bar

No touching the girls on the bar - even if it’s your own girlfriend, do that at home!

We don’t serve free water

If you pick a bad song on the jukebox, you may get skipped

If you are easily offended, this isn’t the bar for you

Be nice and have fun!

YOU WILL GET DRUNK, YOU WILL GET UGLY!

What did Max get into?

The words were written hastily on a board in front of the bar with a black marker, making him wonder how it successfully stood the test of time. The night was dark around the slightly weathered wooden structure, but the obnoxious neon red sign made each detail of the street clear as day: COYOTE UGLY.

It looked like something out of a bad, anachronic Western film ─ scratched paint, flickering lights, the low hum of American dad rock vibrating through the walls. Still, there was a line out of the door and people littering the front porch ─ girls in jean shorts and cowboy hats yelling to each other above the music, guys already stumbling out with their shirts unbuttoned too far.

Daniel was the one who insisted.

He flew in to watch the United States Grand Prix, as it would be the only one he’d be free enough to attend and it had been a little while since he caught up with some of the drivers ─ including Max, Max who had been the happy winner of the aforementioned Grand Prix. “Come on Maxie,” he’d said that afternoon wearing a cowboy hat he definitely didn’t pack. “After-parties are always the same. Fake VIP tables, same music, same people. We need something different for tonight! Something fun!”

Max had muttered that he was fine drinking in a familiar place and that nobody really went partying after Austin anyway ─ it was just another win, and they had a day to pack for Mexico. That was without knowing Daniel, obviously, who had already sent a group text. Much to Max's surprise ─ note the sarcasm ─ most of the drivers had declined due to exhaustion and the general reputation of Coyote Ugly. He thought that would be the end of it, until Lando, Carlos, Pierre and surprisingly Charles had all jumped at the idea like it was the goddamn social event of the season.

Mostly because Daniel had the talent to sell a bad idea to someone like a lawyer. And that─ that explained why Max was there.

Carlos was already walking ahead of them, sunglasses on despite the fact it was nearly midnight, yelling something to a drunkard behind him in fast Spanish. Charles trailed behind, squinting at the building like he was trying to figure out if the neon sign was ironic or a warning ─ Max concluded he didn’t look up what a Coyote Ugly was before tagging along. Lando was busy taking a selfie with a wannabe cowboy and cowgirl who stopped him, already in his element.

And now Max stood between Daniel and Pierre, outside this absurdly American fever dream of a bar, and he was pretty sure people were getting murdered inside. He wondered if Daniel had finally lost his mind.

“You’re going to thank me for this,” the latter declared, hands out like he was presenting a five-star resort instead of a glorified wooden box.

Max raised a brow. “No. I’m already regretting this.”

“I love it personally,” interjected Pierre. “Smells like tequila and questionable decisions.”

Daniel threw an arm around Max’s shoulders. “See? That’s the spirit. Come on, Max. Live a little. You just won a Grand Prix, you should be dancing somewhere.”

“I’m a driver, not a dancer. Especially not that type of dancer,” he deadpanned.

Pierre smirked. “You might not have a choice. I saw a line dance when I passed by the window, and someone getting body shots done on the bar.”

“You’re fucking kidding.” Max could feel himself blanching.

Daniel grinned like the devil himself, and Max wondered why he wasn’t in his hotel room. “Oh it’s real, mate. You’re in America─ home of deep-fried butter and girls with fire hoses full of Jack Daniels.”

Lando, who had finally rejoined them, snorted. “You sound wayyy too excited about this.”

“I am! This is culture,” Daniel insisted. “This is history. This is─”

He was cut off as someone inside screamed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a whip cracking. Max stared at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the figure of a woman sliding across the bar and before he could catch another glimpse─ the blur of the people inside blocked his view.

“... Is that even legal?” He asked.

Daniel just patted his back in fake reassurance. “Too late to back out now, champ.”

He ran to catch up with Carlos in front of them, leaving Max stranded in his own hesitation. Was he really going to…?

Pierre laughed, following suit. Well, he guessed it was indeed too late to back out, and Max never left things unfinished, after all.

The door slammed behind him like a final warning.

The heat of the bar hit Max like a punch. Everything was sweaty, loud, alive, sticking to his skin and prickling it. The floor vibrated beneath his feet from the raucous movements of the crowd, barely walkable, and the scent of whiskey and cheap perfume hung in the air. People were everywhere ─ dancing, shouting, laughing, adding to the bass escaping from the humongous, vintage jukebox in the back of the room.

Someone threw a bra across the room and no one even flinched. Carlos cheered.

It was lawless. Much more than what Max was used to.

“Welcome to America, baby!” Daniel hollered over the music, arms spread around him like he’d just stepped into a holy place.

Max shot him a look, dread comfortably installed in the pit of his stomach. He brushed someone’s feather boa off his arm with a scoff. “Is that what you call fun?”

“A little different from Monaco bottle service, huh?” Daniel grinned.

“Right now I’m just doubting your taste in bars.”

“Eh…,” the Australian clapped him on the back. “It builds character.”

Why would someone want to get literally hosed down with whiskey to build character, Max didn’t know ─ and it’s not like he pulled the example out of his ass: a guy was taking a whiskey shower in the middle of the room, given by a girl in very tight clothing and run-down chaps standing on the bar.

He squinted. “How is this even sanctioned?”

“Man, you ask yourself way too many questions, just enjoy! Look at the others, at least they’re already having fun.”

Carlos was already gone, swallowed up by a pack of cowboy boots and red lipstick, while Lando and Charles were making their way toward the bar with wide eyes and the kind of expression Max hadn’t seen since their karting days. Pierre vanished. Someone bumped into his shoulder so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.

In the end, he just sighed. He wouldn’t win that fight. “If I get anything poured on me, I’m leaving.”

Daniel laughed. “Don’t worry, they’ll only do it if you ask. Or not. Anyways, let’s get a drink!”

Max started walking toward the bar, following in Lando and Charles’ footsteps before Daniel could even finish his sentence. If he wanted to survive the evening ─ hell, even just the ambiance ─ he needed something to keep him going. Preferably cold. Preferably strong. Preferably now.

But that’s when the music shifted, the lights dimmed ever so slightly, and suddenly ─ everything changed.

A warm glow from old projectors cut through the red haze, casting gold across the surface of the bar like a spotlight, and just like that, the crowd moved. Turned their heads toward the long wooden structure like it was a stage and not the stickiest surface in Texas. Someone behind Max let out a whoop so loud it nearly startled him, “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!”

In the shuffles of bodies and beer, Max lost sight of Daniel completely.

He would have cared in any other circumstances, and maybe a part of him did at the moment, but he was only human ─ his gaze caught on the bar as well. More specifically, his gaze caught on you as you stepped into the light.

Crimson red cowboy boots first, planted strongly on the bar top, followed by the curve of your legs and the ripped, distressed hem of your shorts, the glint of a belt buckle looking like it carried multiple stories. Your tank top clung to your skin in the heat, and you were probably drenched in something ─ what, Max wouldn’t want to guess. Your hair was catching on the light, wildfire-like, almost matching the red neons. One of your hands lifted in the air, claiming the moment, and the other held a mic ─ beat up, wrapped up in tape, completely yours.

You didn’t ask for the attention of the people in front of you, no. You commanded it.

“LET’S WAKE THIS DAMN CITY UP!” You shouted into the mic, voice hoarse and tone ecstatic, and the whole room erupted.

And the music kicked in again, louder this time ─ an unapologetic, southern rock anthem beating against the wall. You dropped low, hips rolling to the beat while your hands gripped the metal bar above you to keep you on your feet. You popped back up with a loud, teasing laugh, and, mid spin, someone handed you a bottle. You poured the liquor straight into a row of open mouths, feeding the fire you started.

Max couldn’t get himself to look away.

If all the other bartenders, or coyotes as Lando affectionately corrected earlier in the night, looked like they performed the overt confidence, you didn’t: you looked in your element, basking in the spotlight, the attention and the smell of burnt wood. And it wasn’t just the way you moved, no ─ it was the way you owned it. Unbothered, untouchable. Like the bar was yours. The music, the night? Yours too.

And then for a second, just one ─ you looked at him. Dead in the eyes, over the crowd. Over the sweat and light and noise, and you threw him a grin.

You caught him staring.

It should have been meaningless, the moment barely lasted enough to make note of it, but Max’s breath still hitched. The beat of the music wasn’t the only thing making his heart stutter off rhythm.

The chaos dulled, the music softened and just like that, you were gone. Lost behind the bar in the sea of bodies crawling in front of it. Max blinked. He wondered if he hallucinated you.

He shook his head to get rid of the haze his mind settled into. Before he could have time to think about anything else, or even try, an arm dropped around his shoulders and a cowboy hat was on his head. Daniel had reappeared. “What a show, huh?” He said.

“Where’d you go?” Max asked, rearranging the hat on his head. He knew that if he took it off now, Daniel would be quick to put it back on.

“Went to fetch you this. Stole it from someone puking in the corner,” Max's nose scrunched at the mental image. “Come on, let’s finally get that drink. Maybe the Coyote you’ve been ogling during the whole perf’ will serve you.”

He protested. “I wasn’t ogling.” Because he wasn’t. I mean ─ what else was he supposed to do? Look at the ground while you danced? But Daniel was already on his way toward the bar and this time, Max followed him without much of a complaint. Mainly because he had been eyeing the spot you disappeared behind for the entire conversation.

People crowded around the wooden counter like it was a lifeboat. Arms waving, voices raised, someone yelling for shots and someone else already halfway to a table with three beers in each hand. The bartenders, sorry, Coyotes, moved like machines ─ fast, efficient, ruthless. Max tucked himself between Daniel and Pierre, who had reappeared as well, with difficulty.

And then, he spotted you again.

It was more like flashes of you, really. A hand catching a bottle mid-air. A flash of glitter on your cheek. A bandana tied around your wrist. Your voice cut through the air like smoke, low and teasing and just loud enough to carry. That’s what made Max’s head snap ─ it was unsettlingly recognizable, even after hearing so little of it.

“That’s your third tequila, cowboy. You aiming to dance or blackout first?”

Someone laughed ─ a rough, lovesick sound ─ and you grinned without looking up as you slid another shot glass across the bar. Through their drunk delusions, everyone around the table probably assumed they were in love with you, Max thought.

He stepped up, hands braced against the edge of the counter, waiting. That was when you turned and for the second time tonight, you looked right at him, as if feeling his presence before he could even call for another bartender.

Jesus fuck─ up close, you were something else entirely. Sun-warmed and sun-kissed skin, your cheeks were flushed from the heat along with your sweat-slicked collarbones. Your lips were pulled into the kind of smirk he’s sure could cause car crashes, and your eyes sparkled under the bar lights ─ like you knew exactly what he was searching for.

If you did, spare the poor soul and tell him, because Max wasn’t sure he wanted that drink anymore.

“You lost?” You asked. Your tone was smooth, a southern accent dripping from every word. God, that was dangerous.

Max blinked. Oh, he was gaping. “No,” he affirmed, a little too harshly.

Your eyes, intense, dragged over him, twinkling a little brighter than before. “You look lost.”

Max suddenly felt very conscious of how much he had to be sticking out. He had no outfits or items of clothing that fit this type of place ─ the light-washed jeans, the tennis shoes, and the black, short-sleeved shirt with his Formula One number in the back was as casual as he could do without looking homeless. The cowboy hat had to add some more ridiculousness to it, he realized.

He cleared his throat, frowning slightly. He usually wasn’t one to really care about outfits. “Just a drink, please.”

You leaned in, close enough that Max could smell your perfume. Warm, sugary, intoxicating. “Name your poison, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. He gulped. For fuck’s sake, where did the confidence he had a few hours earlier go, when he was brandishing the Austin trophy?

“Whatever’s strongest.” God knows he needs it right now.

You just gave him a look ─ just the faintest eyebrow raise, clearly amused. Grabbing a bottle from behind you with practiced ease, you poured without measuring, slid a glass toward him with one hand, and propped the other on your hip, where Max’s eyes lingered a little too long.

“Try that,” you said. “If it doesn’t knock the edge off, I’ll give you a second round for free.”

He reached for the glass. You looked too smug, challenging him like he was no one to you, which he probably was. But Max liked a challenge, he was known for never backing out after all. He handled stronger for sure and America wasn’t the place that was about to teach him alcohol. He threw the whole glass back.

It burned.

His eyes watered, and Max coughed so hard he thought fire was about to spill out from his esophagus. You, on the other hand, looked delighted, grinning widely at his misery.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

You laughed, and the sound echoed in Max’s chest like cathedral bells, so violently he froze. Must be the alcohol.

Noticing his lack of retort, you leaned your elbows onto the bar, eyes dancing. “Aww, ain’t you too pretty to be looking this miserable?”

You were going to be the death of him. The corner of your mouth curled as if you’d just lit up a fuse. Max swallowed, slowly recovering from the short circuit your voice alone had triggered. “Is that how you greet all of your customers─ uh…” He choked out, searching for your name on your shirt.

“Y/N.” The name sounded good sliding off your tongue. Max felt the need to know how it felt sliding off his. “And only the ones who look like they took a wrong turn at a country club,” you commented, chin propped in your hand, eyes still locked on his. Touché. “You got that look─ y’know, European.” You whispered that as if it was a bad word. “Quiet, repressed. Secretly judging everyone.”

“That’s harsh.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not judging.” He was. He just wasn’t judging you.

“Sure you’re not, Verstappen.”

Oh. Your tone was casual, tossed off like nothing ─ but the sound of his name in your mouth made something flicker in his chest. Not how you said it, even though the accent and the inflections played a part in it, but the fact you said it at all.

You knew who he was, and clearly ─ you didn’t give two shits.

“Anyways,” you kept on going, oblivious or choosing not to care about the semi-amused grin that slipped on Max’s face. “The drink in your hand says otherwise.”

He glanced down. He threw the glass back, yes, but the liquid was so strong he couldn’t even get half of it down before choking on it. “I’m drinking it.”

“Barely.”

Max straightened a bit. “Okay. Fine.” Again, his tone was harsher than he actually meant it to be. He just didn’t know how to handle whatever was happening there ─ your smiles, your presence. “What should I be drinking then?”

You didn’t answer right away ─ just tilted your head, eyes sweeping over him slowly, deliberately, like you were appraising a new kind of game. It sent shivers down his spine, and he was deeply ashamed to say he was enjoying it. “You trust me, pretty boy?”

There was the nickname again. “I don’t not trust you,” which was as far as he could go after knowing you for a dance and a drink. Maybe he needed more. Just to make sure you wouldn’t poison him.

“That’s a whole lotta syllables for yes!” You laughed, already moving, pulling down bottles Max could barely recognize, tossing ice into a shaker with a rhythm that matched the beat of the song playing overhead. Your hands moved fast, confident, dancing between ingredients as if you were born behind this bar.

Max was fast, yes, but not in the way you were ─ intricate, careful. Just like that, he was hypnotized again, eyes tracing your every movement.

It broke when you slid another drink toward him. Something golden, fizzing at the top, smelling like citrus and vanilla. Like you. “Go on, drink.”

He eyed the glass. “What’s in it?”

“You said you trusted me.”

“You put the words in my mouth.”

You barked out a surprised laugh. “Either drink or I’m telling your lil’ blond friend with the camera you can’t handle your liquor,” you nodded behind Max with a sharp grin. “Wonder how that’ll go down.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and Lando had his camera zeroed on him in a way that may have tried to be discreet but miserably failed. Max muttered a curse. First, because Lando had the bad habit of filming everything and for it to get leaked the day after ─ so if their little outing wasn’t public information already, it would be by tomorrow morning. Second, based on his first point, he couldn’t possibly be dragged through the dirt for going to a Coyote Ugly and have the reputation of a lightweight. His Dutch heritage would look like a joke. Max brought the glass to his lips.

It tasted like heat, honey, whiskey, and something floral he couldn’t name. “That’s… actually good.”

“Told you you should trust me,” you said, pleased. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I taste-test all the cocktails before I serve them. I’m not that much of a degenerate.”

You wet your lips, and Max’s eyes caught onto them for a split second. He wouldn’t let himself acknowledge the thought that almost formed in his head.

Instead, he blinked. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So… intense.” It was a genuine question. He met people with fire, he worked with them daily, and he could consider himself one in a way ─ however, it was the contained kind. The one that was shaped to work toward a goal. You were a forest fire, spreading, in constant reach of something. Max was sure your fingerprints could burn themselves on his skin if you let them linger long enough.

You laughed ─ loud and shameless. “Apparently. Tends to flare up when I’m bored.”

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the raucous crowd ignoring you both entirely, making it seem like you had your own, private sphere, but Max leaned forward, just enough to make your eyes imperceptibly widen by the action. It made his stomach lurch with a strange kind of pride. “And are you bored right now?”

You looked at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Not anymore.”

Max felt something stir low in his chest ─ heat, curiosity, the burn of your drink still coating his throat. He wished he could have lingered on it, maybe make sense of it but you took it from him, leaning back and breaking the tension with a sly glint in your eyes. A reminder you were in control of the room.

“You ever poured a shot before, pretty boy?” You asked.

That was a change of topic. “Uh─ no?”

“Well, that’s about to change.”

Before he could argue, or even ask what you meant, your fingers stroked his wrist and he forgot about everything he was going to say. That’s when you tugged him forward, He didn’t resist, more out of shock than anything else, but next thing he knew he was behind the bar, ducking under the pass-through from which Coyotes went and left. Pushing him into your world.

The heat was much worse with the change of scenery ─ the lights brighter, the music louder, you right next to him.

“Are we─ Am I even allowed back there?” Max asked, stumbling slightly as he knocked into a pack of plastic cups.

“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. Just as on cue, one of your colleagues piped up, something about ‘no men on the bar’ and the wooden board of warnings at the front of the bar flashed in Max’s mind. You flipped her off lightheartedly, saying something along the line that, technically, he wasn’t on the bar. Just behind it.

From under the counter, you took out a bottle of something probably lethal and a metal shaker. “Alright, Verstappen. Time to earn your keep ─ didn’t think those drinks were for free, were you?” So that’s what it was all about. “You’re gonna help me make a round of Flaming Coyotes.”

“No way in hell that’s a real drink,” Max frowned.

“Unfortunately yes,” you said, cracking ice into a tin. “And you’re gonna light it.”

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, and Max’s heart stuttered at how your whole palm could wrap around one of his fingers. You guided it to the matchbox you set on the bar. “Relax, I’m not gonna let you burn your eyebrows off… unless you’re chicken?” You gasped, mocking.

“You really want me to set something on fire? With no… prior experience?”

“Only a little.”

You’re insane, he thought. You’re insane and he was never going to leave this bar. But Max was not sure he wanted to leave as badly as he did earlier, that’s why he lit the match.

The crowd erupted when the flame caught on the shot glasses. In front of him, Pierre, Daniel, and Charles cheered and whooped as loudly as he could, and somehow Max forgot all about them in these 20 minutes. He looked up, breathless, adrenaline buzzing through his veins like engine oil. You were watching him carefully, looking like you’d just found something very interesting in me. “Look at you,” you said, tone playful. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

And Max smiled ─ actually smiled, for the first time since this night started. Wide, boyish, and wrecked by it all, and fucking hell did he look good, you allowed yourself to think. His chest swelled with something as you smiled back. And maybe it was the fire, maybe it was the cheers. Or maybe it was you.

The following hours were spent in a blur.

Not the kind of blur Max was used to ─ it wasn’t the sharp edges of a race weekend or the post-win daze of podiums and press conferences. This was so much more different. Warm, messy in a way that curled around his senses and dimmed the seconds together until the clock disappeared.

Shots kept appearing in his hand like magic, and he went from behind to the front of the bar as he pleased ─ most of the bartenders called him an ‘Honorable Coyote’, which shouldn’t have been as funny as it was at the time. The jukebox never stopped switching music, keeping him on his toes. Lando and Pierre had stolen a mic at some point, or maybe you gave it to them for the hell of it, and slurred She’s Country by Jason Aldean so off-key some of the girls threatened to cut them off, splashing them with ice-cold water. Daniel had tried to climb on the bar twice, failing miserably because rules were rules, Charles was attempting to dance with a girl in a cowboy hat three sizes to big for her head, and Carlos was desperately explaining race strategies to a group of drunken Texan who clearly didn’t know what Formula One was.

And then there was you.

Always moving. Always glowing, whether it be from the sheen of your efforts or the loud, obnoxious ambiance that sublimed your features. You’d disappear back into the rhythm of the bar and the beat of the dance, your natural habitat, flinging bottles in the air, laughing as someone tried to kiss your hand and you sent them waltzing away, yelling over the crowd without care. And now Max was convinced people there didn’t simply think they were in love with you. They undoubtedly were ─ six steps in and all that. And he would have been bothered in any other circumstances.

But whenever Max looked up, he caught you looking at him. Every time, you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Max didn’t know how much time had passed by that point, only that his throat was dry, his cheeks flushed bright red and hurting from how much he laughed, the back of his neck scorching from something stronger than just alcohol. Somewhere along the way, the night had stopped being about celebrating a win and started being about you.

Maybe that’s how he got roped in a messy attempt at a line dance.

He tried to resist at first. Truly. Max still stood by what he said at the beginning of the night: he was a driver, not a dancer. But when you shouted to ask if everyone wanted to see an F1 World Champion do ‘a little two steps’ and everyone cheered, including his friends and colleagues, the traitors, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not when you stood so close to him.

You’re Easy On The Eyes by Terri Clark twanged through the jukebox, loud enough to rattle the shelves and the floorboards, while Max tried to follow your explanations. His hands were on his hips, knees knocking together as he mimicked you except he was two steps behind and overthinking it. You were outwardly mocking him by now. “Your coordination’s better in a car, huh?” You teased.

Max huffed. “You call this coordination?”

“Aw, don’t pout, baby. You’re trying.” He rolled his eyes and you stuck your tongue at him. Daniel was somewhere in the back, filming, but Max had tuned the world out.

Somehow, in the whirl of bodies, he caught you again, his hands instinctively flying to your waist to steady himself so he wouldn’t faceplant ─ that would be the highlight of his night. Before he could process it, and you always a step ahead of him, you grabbed the cowboy hat off his head and in one slick movement, settled it on yours with a wink. The crowd roared in approval. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Max wasn’t fluent enough in Southern to know what that meant, but the half-lidded look you gave him translated across every barrier.

Game on.

You roped him into much more after that. Max followed blindly, always rising to the challenge, stuck in the daze of you. In the decadence of Coyote Ugly. In the secrecy of the nighttime, where everything felt allowed and nothing had to make sense in the morning.

By the time he was able to breathe, he’d long dismissed the idea to try and find out where his friends had scattered to. The only thing he could feel was the warmth of your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him past the old, swinging saloon-style door and out in the thick, velvet air of the Texan night.

The back of the bar was quieter. The hum of crickets, the soft hum of the neon signs bleeding through ancient wooden slats, and the echo of music and laughter still pulsing behind closed doors. Cardboard boxes were lying around, swallowed by the wild, uncut grass. The sky was wide and open above him, seemingly endless, stars barely cutting through the heat haze but present nonetheless. Nobody was there apart from the two of you.

Back against the structure of the bar, Max quietly watched as you lit a cigarette next to him. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Wordlessly, you offered him your open back with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t smoke.” He waved it off.

You shrugged, blowing a grey cloud out to the night. He didn’t mind it ─ driving every day of your life, you get used to the smell. “I don’t really like smoking either. It just gives my hands something to do.”

Max chuckled. That didn’t surprise him either, he already figured out life moved with you and not the contrary.

It seemed like you didn’t appreciate it when conversations stilled because you were quick to speak up again. “Didn’t think I’d see the day a world champion let a girl make a fool outta him in public,” you said, leaning against the wall. Your shoulder brushed his. The number of times you touched him tonight was too numerous to count, but this one felt different. Innocent.

Max threw a smile at you, eyes darting to his feet for a second, still a little glassy. “I’m not the type to mind.”

And that, for some reason, made you look at him. Actually look at him. The type of look stripping away the chaos, the teasing, the fire-breathing version of yourself you wore so proudly behind the bar. You looked at him and Max was faced with the fact that you were just ─ you. Still half-wild, still sharp, but a little less guarded under the moonlight.

He liked it. A lot.

“D’you always enjoy losing control that much, then?” You asked with a small smile.

Max’s lips parted to answer─ pausing.

He thought about it. How rare this was, to be in a place he didn’t understand perfectly, being in Formula One for 10 years, you get used to the pattern of events, and you know what to target when things don’t go your way to make them bend to your will. Right now, he was tangled in things whose sense escaped him, and did not want to run from it.

His voice was quieter when he finally answered. “Only tonight.”

You took that in with a nod and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

“I’m glad you came tonight, then.”

That was it. No confessions, no fireworks, but Max felt his chest tighten just the same. You were just two people, sharing the silence, letting the sticky Texas air settle into your skins, wondering what the hell would happen when tonight fades. He wasn’t ready to find out the answer yet.

So, Max asked, “What led you to this?”

“To what? Coyote Ugly?” You raised an eyebrow, blowing out a slow stream of smoke and watching it curl around the humidity.

“Yeah. Why do you do it?”

“That’s two different questions, pretty boy.”

“Guess I want an answer to both.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because no one ever asked. Not your friends, not your colleagues, much less your family who was less than understanding about your life choices.

You shifted your weight, eyes flicking toward the parking lot in the distance. “Well, I came in looking for a job, obviously.” Your voice was softer now. There was still a bit of tease around the commas, but not nearly as much. “Needed rent money. Didn’t want a desk.”

Max hummed. “Makes sense.”

You tapped the ash off the cigarette. “And then I stayed ‘cause… I dunno. You ever walk into a place and, as crazy as it sounds, even if it’s a mess, I mean like pure chaos, and wild and loud you think ─ yeah. This might be the only place I make sense? I get to perform. I get to be myself. Take up space. Alive, not rotting in place like I was scared to. I wasn’t allowed to… do all that before.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

“Didn’t think you would.”

“I race cars for a living. I get messy.”

It was meant to be a light answer, something thrown back with a crooked smile and a shrug ─ but as the words settled in the small space between you, something shifted.

Max looked out in the dark, the flicker of neon reflecting faintly off the metal of a rusted old pickup nearby. He let himself sink into the silence for a second, and you waited until he was ready to speak up again. And he did, in a whisper, more to himself than to you. ��Everything’s always so… calculated. In racing. It’s controlled and measured, even the mess, you know? It’s still part of the plan, of what’s expected, somewhat.”

You turned toward him slightly, hip still leaning against the wall, cigarette flickering between your fingers.

“You’re serious,” you said. Not accusatory ─ just curious. “Like, really serious.”

He glanced at you. “And you’re not.”

“Oh, I can be. I know when not to be, which just happens to be most of the time. And I like it like that, honestly,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to be stuck in something that’ll bury me before my time, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else now, not when I get to be unashamed like that.” Your last words were just above a whisper. “Free.”

The term stagnates for a while.

Until Max lets out a soft laugh, barely even there. “I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be anything else but serious.”

The words surprised him. Not because he never thought about them, but because he never said them out loud. He didn’t think he meant them. Now, they felt unescapable, slightly suffocating ─ and the way you looked at him, patient, didn’t help in the slightest. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s always about being perfect. Image, numbers, control. If I mess up, people lose money. I lose standing. Teams fall apart. Media goes insane. There’s no room to just.. exist? I guess?” His voice dips lower.

Max wasn’t about to say anything more. He sobered up too much to spill his guts further to a little more than a stranger. Yet, the way you looked at him ─ meeting his gaze with something softer than you’d shown him all night ─ and what you’ve told him, you didn’t feel like a stranger at all. You, who wore fire like perfume and laughed like a dare, stripped down to ashes.

You voiced what he was thinking. “So we’re not that different. I mean, we both perform. In our ways.”

He couldn’t figure you out, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much you’ve shown and hidden tonight but God, Max could have spent hours and hours trying to puzzle you back until you’d finally make sense.

Instead, he just dipped his head in agreement, which made you smile gently. You nudged him with your shoulder. “Alright, Verstappen. Guess you’re not just a pretty face, huh?”

Max choked on a laugh, and he couldn’t help himself. “You are, though. And a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes at his sad attempt at flirting, snorting, but the grin spreading your lips lingered for longer than it should have. Max shuffled a bit closer to you ─ subtle enough that it could’ve been the heat dragging him in ─ but not so subtle that he missed the way you shifted too, gravity pulling you both toward something unspoken.

Quiet still, you spoke up again, voice barely above the hum of the night. “It’s nice, though. People like us don’t get a lot of moments like this.” You gestured around, the empty half-alley, half-garden bathed in neon spill, the distant sounds of cricket, the sounds of the music and the people inside like a faraway dream. This. The in-between.

Max’s voice came back low, warm. “Then we should make them count.”

You turned to look at him, slower this time. And Max ─ he didn’t dare move. Just watched.

The way the light caught on your dewy skin. The glint of sweat at your temple. Your pupils blown wide, not just from the dark but from interest, curiosity. That sharp, electric pull that had lived between you all night, was finally quiet enough to be noticed.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, just for a moment. It was so fast that he thought he might have imagined it. His heart twisted anyway.

“And how are you planning on making it count, Max?”

His name, swirling around your tongue for the first time tonight ─ sweet, sharp, honey on a blade. It hit him square in the chest.

Something in his chest stammers, tires hitting gravel at full speed, and all reason is thrown aside after that. He doesn’t even know how it came to it ─ your back flush against the wall, his hands on your waist, your eyes boring into his and your cigarette half-smoked, forgotten on the gravel. He could feel your body heat as if it was his, your breath quickening at the contact. He could feel you and he wondered if you felt him just as intensely.

His eyes traced the curves of your lips and Max wondered what you tasted like. Smoke, citrus, spice. He wanted to memorize the taste, throw it into a drink he could get drunk on every night, threatening his health to grasp the memory of you again and again.

That was until─

“MAX?!” A shout echoed down the parking lot. Slurred, and unmistakably Daniel-sounding.

More followed.

“Mate, where did he fuck off to?”

“We’re leaving in ten, HURRY UP!”

It was muffled by the distance, but he knew you heard it as well. The half-smile on your face betrayed you.

“So, you gonna kiss me, pretty boy?” You asked.

It would’ve happened.

Max would’ve leaned in and would’ve chased the heat grasping his ribs whenever you looked at him. He would have mapped your mouth, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, would’ve swallowed every sound you made as he was starved for it. He would’ve kissed you and let you burn him alive, gladly, but─

The voices grew smaller. Daniel’s laugh, Pierre’s yell, Charles’ confusion. Reality bleeding back in. Max’s jaw tensed. If he waited a minute longer, he’d miss his ride. Miss the world contained in his hotel room that would stop spinning if he missed a minute off the clock.

He simply told the truth.

“If I start,” Max murmured, “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.”

That earned him a look. It wasn’t surprised, or angry ─ it was something a lot like expectancy, and in some way, it hurt a lot more.

You stepped forward, hand gently rising to meet his chest. The contact was light but the weight of it hit him like a crash and when you pushed, just a fraction, just enough, it wasn’t playful or teasing. It felt like goodbye dressed like mercy. You took the cowboy hat you stole from him earlier in the night and put it back on his head.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you whispered.

You gave him one last look ─ one he’d replay for days, conflicting emotions dimmed down to the flicker of a lighter in your eyes ─ and turned toward the door.

And Max felt awfully selfish when he asked the shadow of your figure, “Are you still going to be there next time?”

You didn’t even look back at him, but he saw your shoulders shake in a bittersweet sort of laugh, now out of his reach. “In a year, you mean? When the Grand Prix calls you back to Texas? I don’t wait, Max. My life isn’t drawn for me. I take my chances.”

You disappeared.

Max didn’t follow. He just stood there, the imprint of your touch still warm over his heart, wondering if this night would feel like a dream come morning. If you ever existed ─ or if Coyote Ugly had simply conjured you from the smoke and the music to remind him what wanting felt like.

He hadn’t kissed you, but he would never forget almost doing it.

When he climbed in the back of Daniel’s car, he evaded all the questions, the friendly mockery, the knowing glances, the snickering about the cowboy hat he still held in his hand like it was something breakable. Max just sat there, humming along to the comments Carlos made about the night, fidgeting with the brim and rubbing his thumb along the worn fabric like it might give him answers. Maybe it had caught something of you ─ your perfume, your voice, your laugh, the heat of your skin ─ and would let it slip back to him if he held on it long enough.

But it didn’t.

Later, Max crawled into bed with the weight of the night hanging around his ankles like shackles, dragging the air from his lungs. He didn’t sleep much. He didn’t want to.

He woke up with the sun, far too bright for the early morning, streaming through the blinds he forgot to close. He could feel his brain pulsing behind his eyes, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open, the remaining, chalky taste of whiskey sticking to his palate like cement. The evening flashed before him, a fever dream he wished he had the strength to push away ─ the obnoxious music, the sweat, the alcohol, and your smile.

Almost.

Max groaned, sitting up with difficulty on his bed. Every single one of his muscles ached, a sore reminder of the failed attempts at dancing and bartending he made last night ─ some spots hurt more than others, and in some measure, they felt like the shape of your hands.

The cowboy hat he had tossed last night, in the desperate attempt to stop anguishing about the brush of your breath across his lips, laid in front of him, miserable. Max couldn’t help himself and he reached for it out of instinct.

It felt cheaper than it did before, most imperfect underneath the daylight. He’d already memorized the texture and shape of the memento, obsessively tracing it, and yet it didn’t feel sufficient. He supposed it never would, and he’d have to live with this reality.

Max was about to put it back on his nightstand. To swallow down an Ibuprofen, chase it with an ice-cold shower, and carry on with his life like always. Another plane, another race, hopefully another win.

But something made him pause. He turned the hat in his hands again, just like he did a few hours before sleep took him by surprise.

And there it was. Tucked just inside the brim, where the lining met the crown ─ scrawled in smudged black ink he’d bet his life was eyeliner, barely visible unless you were compulsively looking for it─

if you dare.

A little heart, and a phone number scribbled right beside it.

Max blinked, mouth parting just slightly, heart mistaking the rhythm of his breathing for the first few notes of a country song. He read it again, and again until it stopped feeling like a trick of the light and started feeling like a choice.

He left thinking you were supposed to be one moment. One night. A blur of burn and guitar chords ─ but you’d left a door open.

And it was seemingly Max’s turn to take his chance.

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

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mariasont · 5 months ago

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Need a bimbo assistant reader x hotch fic where the team is making fun of hotch for having no sense of humour until we say smth like "what are you talking about? Hotch is hilarious!" And everyone just turns to hotch like "wtf??" To which he immediately changes the subject. But surprise surprise he's only trying to be funny around us to be charming 😛

The Funny Thing About Him - A.H

a/n: obsessed with this request bc this is so canon, i just know mans is saving ever stupid pun he sees on his blackberry to tell bimbo reader lololo

but thank you so much for the request lovely!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, flirtiness galore, hotch being whipped and not knowing it yet, the team being a menace and lowkey bullying hotch, unintentional simping, bimbo!reader glazing hotch's sense of humor

wc: 1.9k

It was a rare thing for the team to spend time together outside of work, and even rarer to do so in a place like this. A dive bar that looked like it hadn't seen a deep clean since the Bush administration. But Garcia had insisted — no, demanded —that they all check out what she had referred to as her second office.

So here you were, crammed into a tiny booth with the team, surrounded by mismatched furniture, sticky tabletops, and walls that had somehow absorbed the faint tang of stale beer as if it were part of their structural integrity. But after a round of drinks, then appetizers, then more drinks, it had become kind of charming in a deeply questionable way.

Everyone had seemed to have loosened up. Hotch, naturally, was the exception. Seated at the edge of the booth, he looked almost hilariously out of place, like someone had photoshopped him into the scene. His posture was straight as ever, his suit jacket neatly draped on the back of his chair, and fingers loosely curled around a glass of whiskey.

He was listening, though, as he always did, dark eyes flicking to whoever was speaking, his small nods he only thing that gave him away.

You, however, were hyper-aware of Hotch for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with professionalism. The small booth had left you wedged between him and Garcia, and you couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse. On one hand, it meant you were close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, smell the woodsy, expensive cologne he always wore, and notice the little ways his expression softened just a hair every time you caught him glancing your way.

On the other hand, well, all those things were very distracting.

Like, very distracting.

Garcia was mid-story — something dramatic about a terrible date, an allergic reaction, and a wig — but you weren't really listening. You were trying, of course, but your mind seemed too busy cataloging the way your elbow accidentally brushed against Hotch's every time you shifted, or how your knees kept grazing under the table.

Each time, you'd mutter a quick, oops, sorry, and each time, you absolutely did not mean it.

You liked testing the boundaries with him, liked noticing his reactions. In fact, you liked being able to notice most things about him, the little details no one else seemed to catch.

Like how he had this funny way of pressing his lips together when he was reading something particularly dense, like he was silently judging whoever wrote it. Or how he always seemed to have a spare hair tie ready in his desk drawer because yours snapped at the worst possible moments, and somehow, he always had it ready right when you needed it, like he'd been waiting for you to ask.

Or how, right now, he kept subtly hovering a hand behind your head every time you leaned back in laughter, like he was ready to stop you from accidentally smacking the back of your head against the hard wood of the booth.

It made you feel warm and fizzy, like you’d downed one too many sugary cocktails. Which, honestly, you might have.

"Hotch," Garcia suddenly blurted, dragging you out of your thoughts. "Back me up here, there's no way this is the worst first day you've ever heard of."

He blinked, seemingly caught off guard. "I... I suppose it's up there."

Morgan grinned and shook his head. "Hotch, your definition of worst first date is probably someone not knowing how to file their taxes. You’ve got zero imagination for this stuff."

You glanced at Hotch, who just shrugged, not even bothering to defend himself.

No imagination, Morgan had said, and for some reason, you couldn’t help but try to picture it, Hotch on a date.

At first, the idea felt completely out of place, like imagining a celebrity shopping for milk. But then, the image started to take shape — he’d show up early, wearing one of those perfectly tailored suits that made him look like he belonged on the cover of GQ.

He’d pull out your chair, open every door, and probably order something practical, like steak or chicken. And even if the conversation started stiffly, he’d listen so intently, like every word you said mattered. By the end of the night, you’d be completely smitten.

Not that you’d thought about it or anything.

“I think you’re underselling him,” JJ said with a knowing smile, glancing at Hotch. “He might not have the most obvious imagination, but he has a way of surprising people.”

Emily snorted. “Yeah, right. Hotch probably schedules his surprises. Like, plan to laugh sometime between 8:00 and 8:15 PM.”

Morgan grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Hotch doesn’t laugh. He probably just stares at people mid-joke, makes them uncomfortable, and calls it a win.”

Hotch arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware my sense of humor was under scrutiny tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan said, his grin widening. “You’ve gotta admit, Hotch, you’re not exactly cracking jokes left and right. Your idea of funny is telling someone they’re late for work when they’re actually on time.”

“That was funny,” Hotch deadpanned.

The table erupted into laughter, and even Emily shook her head, biting back a grin. “You’re proving his point, you know.”

“What are you guys talking about? Hotch is hilarious.”

The table fell silent. Every single person turned to look at you like you’d just claimed the sky was green. Even Hotch stiffened beside you, his glass halfway to his lips.

Morgan’s head tilted, his grin fading into something more incredulous. “What did you just say?”

“Hotch?” Emily asked, her face the picture of astonishment. “Did you… did you bribe her to say that?”

“No!” you said quickly, holding up your hands like you were defending yourself. “I mean it! He’s, like, really funny!”

“Hotch?” Garcia repeated, looking at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “Our Hotch?”

“How can you guys not think he’s funny? I laugh at his jokes all the time.”

Hotch, who up until this point had been composed despite the teasing, suddenly looked… well, less composed. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but then he clamped them shut, the faintest tinge of pink creeping up his neck and settling across his cheeks.

Emily smirked, glancing between you and Hotch. “Okay, now I have to hear these so-called jokes you think are hilarious.”

You turned back to them, still looking baffled. “Well, I can’t just, like, repeat them! It’s all in the timing. Hotch just… he has a vibe. You wouldn’t get it.”

The team erupted into laughter, but you just sighed dramatically, crossing your arms and turning back to Hotch. “Seriously, Aaron, tell them.”

Hotch cleared his throat, setting his glass down a little too forcefully.

“So, Garcia,” he said quickly, his voice normal but his ears tinged red, “about this terrible first date —”

Hotch shot you a quick, almost panicked glance, but you pretended not to notice. Either way, you popped the fry into your mouth and smiled at him like you hadn’t just completely upended his reputation in front of the entire team.

Eventually the bar had mostly emptied out, including your team, the once-loud chatter replaced by the occasional creak of chairs and muffled laughter from the remaining patrons. You stood by the door, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket as another rush of cold air blew in when someone left. The chill bit at your cheeks. It wasn't the warmest coat in the world, but it was adorable, which you felt was more important.

Before you could even complain, however, Hotch stepped forward, placing himself squarely between you and the wind.

"Did you have fun tonight?"

You beamed at him, fingers idly playing with the end of your scarf. You took a small step closer, partly to escape the wind, partly for reasons you didn't feel you needed to disclose.

"Always," you said, tilting your head to examine him closely. "Did you?"

He nodded. "I did."

You blinked up at him. "Really? Even with everyone giving you such a hard time? I mean, they were relentless tonight.”

“They can’t help themselves." He huffed out a soft laugh, his breath misting in the cold air. Then, with a dry edge, he added, “And to be fair, I think I handled it better than you handled the fries Garcia stole from your plate.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with one hand.

“Hey! That was a crime! I had every right to be upset!” Hotch chukled softly, shaking his head. “See?” you said, poking him in the arm. “You’re funny! You are! Why aren’t you like that around everyone else?”

Hotch glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “I think I just… read the room.”

Hotch’s vague answer left you with more questions than clarity, but you didn’t push him. The more you thought about it, the more certain you became —he was different with you.

Hotch didn’t crack jokes in the bullpen — not unless you were there. He didn’t tell silly stories during late-night case reviews — not unless it was just the two of you staying behind in the office, sorting through files. Like that time he told you about his college roommate, you’d laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe, and he’d chuckled softly, shaking his head like he hadn’t expected you to find it so funny.

Or the way he’d once walked by your desk and dropped a note on it that said, if it gets any colder in here, we’ll be solving frostbite cases next. You still had it tucked away in your drawer.

The thought made you feel a bit warmer, like you’d just downed a champagne flute in one gulp. Your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

“You know, you’re the best boss ever. Have I told you that before?”

Hotch turned his head toward you, one eyebrow raised. “What do you want?”

“Nothing!” you said quickly, your grin widening. “I’m just being honest!”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "I hope you remember that next time you're twenty minutes late to a meeting because there was a sale at Bloomingdale’s."

You gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile.

“Well, maybe if you came with me to the sale, you wouldn’t have to wait twenty minutes for me to show up.” You leaned a little closer, your voice dropping into a teasing sing-song. “And I bet you’d look so cute holding my shopping bags.”

Hotch rolled his eyes, his expression impossibly dry. “I think I’ll leave the shopping bag modeling to Reid. He’s probably got the legs for it.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, covering your mouth with your gloved hands. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me!”

He exhaled a small laugh, finally relenting. “Alright, let’s go before you freeze.”

Still laughing, you looped your arm back through his and gave it a little squeeze as the two of you walked through the door.

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#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo assistant reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader #hotch #hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fic

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nezuscribe · 8 months ago

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there was this one time you and slytherin!gojo were walking back from the library after it closed, something the two of you did more frequently ever since you had gotten closer since working on that tedious transfiguration essay.

you’re talking about something, not noting the way slytherin!gojo could barely take his eyes off of you, and you’re too busy to notice the other pair of voices that’s about the round the corner.

your eyes shot up at the familiar sounds of other slytherins from your ear, your stare darting over to gojo, knowing he’d be caught dead before he’d be seen in public with you (he wouldn’t, but you didn’t know about the internal turmoil he was going through)

so instead, in your fit of anxiety, you just find your way into the nearest broom closet, expecting him to just leave, but he follows closely behind you in confusion.

“what are you doing?” he’d asked hushed, clearly not caring as your face of confusion mirrors his.

“i heard tillys voice,” you say as if it was obvious, but his white brows just furrow even more.

“…so?” he draws out, leaning closer to the wooden door to hear it for himself.

“what do you mean so?” you ask hushed, “isn’t she one of your closest friends?”

but he either chooses not to answer or just doesn’t hear you over the fact that he tries to open the door but to no avail, rattling the handle, his lips pursing as if refused to budge.

“how’d you manage to do that?” you ask, looking over his shoulder as he gives you a look of annoyance, his eyes rolling as he fidgets with the lock.

“i didn’t do anything, you’re the one who shoved us in here,” he mutters, brining out his wand as he tries to fix it.

“you followed me in!” you reply with a shocked laugh, dragging your hand over your exhausted face as you come to terms with the fact that you might be stuck in this stuffy room longer than you expected.

gojo tries a couple of spells but nothing works. he looks over his shoulder, shooting you a look.

“what?” you snap, exhausted and annoyed that he was putting the blame on you when you were the one trying to spare his stupid reputation.

“nothing,” he answers, shrugging as he leans back on the door, “was just trying to find the best place of the floor to sleep on.”

you groan, pushing him aside as you try to open it yourself.

you’ve gotten close enough to him over the past couple of weeks were this is normal, where this sort of banter isn’t out of the norm. it’s almost like you see friends interact with each other.

you feel heat rise in your cheeks at your close proximity, feeling his eyes bore into the side of your face as you try casting your own spells. you’re rarely so close to him that you can smells his lingering cologne, or hear the little puffs of air that escape his nose. his lanky and structured frame almost lean over you, but you try to ignore that.

“why’d you care about tilly?” he asks suddenly, his voice hushed, blue eyes shining as yours snap over to his.

you shake your head, nose wrinkling as you look away, trying to distract yourself with fixing the lock.

“why don’t you care about tilly?” you shoot back, your brow raises, stare still focused on the brass handle.

“because she’s dull,” gojo says instantly, the two of you so close together where you can feel his heat on your skin, “she can barely think on her own accord, she follows me around everywhere and…” a part of him wants to say she’s not like you, but it seems like lately he’s been wanting to say that about all of the people he’s considered his friends, “she’s spoiled.”

you ignore the beat of your heart against your rib cage, swallowing thickly as trying to focus on your spells gets increasingly harder.

“you’re spoiled,” you say, not knowing what else to comment as you hear him snort.

“so you avoid her because she’s spoiled?” he mutters teasingly, his eyes taking in your features; the curve of your lisps the little crease between your brows as your focus the slope of your nose.

you cast a glance at him, watching as he shrugs.

“i avoid her because she once stole my coin purse last month and used it to buy scarves.” the door clicks open, the light from the hall seeping in. but the two of you don’t make a move to leave.

his face falls, and you catch it.

“but i guess she’s a little dull too,” you mutter indifferently, feeling like you couldn’t blink with the way he was looking at you.

you’re the first that leaves, grabbing your bag as you make your way to the dorms.

little did you expect that a couple days later tilly would bashfully make her way to your room, giving you the money back that she had taken a couple weeks earlier, her head hanging low as you look around wildly in confusion.

and little did you know that gojo was well aware of how to fix a broken lock. he just didn’t really seem to care that much to fix it that night.

#slytherin!gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x reader fluff #gojo drabble

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goldfades · 4 months ago

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crazy cat people───joe burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had always been cat people—dogs were just too high maintenance, too needy. but you were never in a hurry to get cats until one night, joe finds a cat on a roadie and decides to bring her home.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | literally nothing but cat dad joe, and dog slander (JK!! not really, but we all know joe likes cats better). inspired by this clip.

The thing about Joe is that he’s always been a cat person.

You figured it out on your second date when the conversation somehow derailed into a passionate debate about why people automatically assume dogs are superior. It started off as a joke—some exaggerated takes for the sake of banter—but then Joe hit you with a well-structured argument about the independent nature of cats, their low-maintenance lifestyle, and the way they choose their people rather than blindly loving everyone.

“You ever seen a cat follow some random stranger home just ‘cause they waved at it? No. That’s some dog behavior.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “No self-respect.”

That was the moment you knew he was the one.

Well, not actually, but it definitely solidified your interest. Three years later, the two of you were still going strong, bound together by an undeniable connection, a deep understanding of each other’s quirks, and a shared stance that dogs—while undeniably adorable—were just a little too much. Too excitable. Too dependent. Too… needy.

“We’d be cat people,” you had declared one night while curled up on the couch together, his arm draped lazily around you. “Like, if we were to get a pet.”

Joe hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, but I feel like we’d be picky about it. Can’t just have any cat. Gotta be one with personality.”

“A little bit of an asshole,” you added.

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

Despite countless conversations about what you’d name your hypothetical future cat (the list had ranged from elegant, sophisticated names like Theodora to complete chaos like Little Shit), you never actually got one. Between Joe’s insane schedule and your own busy life, it never felt like the right time. You weren’t the type to impulsively adopt an animal just because it seemed like a cute idea—you took responsibility seriously. Joe was the same way.

But that didn’t stop you from sending him TikToks of cats daily. And it definitely didn’t stop him from pausing the TV anytime a cat appeared in a commercial, just to point and go, “That one’s kinda cool.”

It was just one of those things. A little inside joke, a shared fantasy, a part of your relationship that existed in theory but had yet to materialize.

Until Joe came back from a road trip with something unexpected.

Something small. And furry. And wrapped in the hoodie he had worn on the plane.

A cat.

He met your wide-eyed stare with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, funny story…”

It was one of those quiet, in-between days where everything felt a little dull without Joe around. You were used to it by now—his road trips, the stretches of time where you had to keep yourself entertained—but no matter how well you adjusted, the house always felt bigger when he wasn’t in it.

You filled the day the best way you knew how. Running errands, grabbing coffee from the spot down the street, making small talk with the barista who always remembered your order. You spent an unreasonable amount of time in Target, browsing the aisles aimlessly, tossing things into your cart that you definitely didn’t need but convinced yourself were essentials.

A candle? Necessary. A new throw blanket even though you already had five? An investment. A little ceramic dish shaped like a cat’s face? Joe would think it was funny.

By the time you got home, the sun was beginning to set, casting the living room in soft golden light. You went through your usual routine—changing into something comfier, throwing your hair up, and scrolling through your phone while curled up on the couch.

Joe had texted you earlier to say his flight landed on time, but you weren’t sure when he’d actually walk through the door. Traveling always took it out of him, and sometimes he lingered at the facility longer than necessary, just to settle back into the routine of being home.

So when you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking, you perked up, setting your phone down.

Joe was home.

You stood, stretching a little before padding over to greet him—only to immediately freeze in place.

Because Joe Burrow, your extremely predictable, routine-driven boyfriend, was standing in the doorway holding a cat.

Not a cat carrier. Not a box from the pet store with a new cat inside. No, he was physically holding a cat in his arms, cradling it like some kind of newborn wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had worn on the plane.

“Uh…” You blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “Joe?”

Joe, looking far too casual for someone who had just walked into your shared home with a whole animal, shot you a sheepish grin.

“So, funny story…” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the tiny creature, who—shockingly—seemed completely unbothered.

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Joe cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I found him at a gas station. In, like… the middle of nowhere.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Yeah. Just… chilling. No collar, no tags, nothing.” He looked down at the cat, then back at you, as if that explanation was supposed to justify the fact that he had apparently just kidnapped an animal. “He walked right up to me. Super chill. Thought, you know, maybe he needed a home.”

“You—” You ran a hand down your face, processing. “So you just… took him?”

Joe shrugged, completely unbothered. “No one stopped me.”

You stared at him, then at the cat, then back at him.

The cat—a small, scrappy-looking thing with fluffy black fur and bright green eyes—gave the smallest little stretch before curling back up into the fabric of Joe’s hoodie, as if this was the most natural situation in the world.

A sigh left your lips, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You stole a cat.”

Joe scoffed. “I didn’t steal him. I rescued him.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you check to see if he belonged to anyone?”

Joe paused. “I mean… he was alone.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, no one else was around,” Joe defended. “It was late. Freezing cold. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “So your solution was to bring him home?”

Joe, completely unrepentant, grinned. “Yeah. He’s cool, right?”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers against your temples before shaking your head.

This man.

This six-foot-four NFL quarterback who spent three years claiming you guys would be extremely selective about what kind of cat you got, had apparently abandoned all standards the second a gas station stray blinked at him.

And worse? You were already kind of attached.

Because the damn cat was still curled up in his hoodie, looking completely at peace, like he had already decided he belonged here.

You sighed, waving them both inside. “I can’t believe you.”

Joe grinned, stepping past you and into the house, clearly taking that as a win.

“Should we name him?” he asked, already making himself comfortable on the couch, cat still in tow.

You groaned.

“Oh my God.”

The first night with Miss Honey felt strangely natural, like she had always belonged here. Apparently, you guys had been misgendering her the whole time.

After the initial shock of Joe casually waltzing into your home with a stray cat, the two of you got to work making sure she was okay. A quick check revealed she was mostly healthy—just a little underweight and carrying a few ticks, which you carefully removed while Joe held her still, murmuring soft reassurances. Despite being a random cat from a gas station, she was surprisingly chill about it, blinking up at you with those big green eyes like she already trusted you.

“This is insane,” you had muttered, brushing your fingers through her soft fur.

Joe, stretched out on the couch beside you, smirked. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You rolled your eyes because, of course, he was right.

That night, the three of you curled up on the couch and put on Matilda, your mutual comfort movie. Joe made popcorn, you pulled out the throw blanket you had impulse-bought earlier that day, and Miss Honey—named after the warm, soft-spoken teacher you both adored—made herself right at home between you, paws tucked neatly beneath her little body.

“She’s purring,” Joe whispered at one point, as if he was afraid saying it too loud would make her stop.

You had just smiled, gently scratching behind her ears. “Yeah. I think she likes us.”

It took less than twenty-four hours for Miss Honey to fully take over the house.

By the next morning, she had already established herself as a permanent fixture, weaving between your legs as you made coffee, hopping onto the couch like she owned the place, and—much to Joe’s delight—curling up on his chest while he lounged around watching film.

“She’s got good taste,” he mused, running a slow hand down her back.

You, sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting through your Target bags from yesterday, shot him a look. “You mean ‘cause she likes you?”

Joe grinned, glancing down at the cat who was currently making biscuits against his hoodie. “I mean, can you blame her?”

You snorted. “Unreal.”

Still, you had to admit—Miss Honey really did love Joe.

At first, you thought it was just convenience. He ran warm, he was still for long periods of time, and his heartbeat was steady enough to lull anyone to sleep. But over the next few days, it became clear that her attachment went deeper than that.

She followed him from room to room, her tiny paws padding against the hardwood whenever he moved. If Joe was at the kitchen counter making breakfast, Miss Honey was right there beside him, tail flicking lazily. If he was tying his shoes by the door, she sat next to him, watching intently like she had somewhere to be, too.

It was ridiculous.

“She’s obsessed with you,” you pointed out one night, arms crossed as you watched her bat playfully at the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Joe grinned, scratching under her chin. “Yeah, but don’t be jealous.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, truthfully, you loved it.

You loved that she trusted him. Loved that this cat—who had spent who-knows-how-long fending for herself—had chosen you both, nestled herself into the space between you like she had been there forever.

It didn’t take long for Miss Honey to establish a routine.

Every morning, without fail, she woke Joe up first. Not you—Joe.

You learned this the hard way when you woke up one morning to a quiet, disgruntled “Jesus,” followed by the sound of Joe shifting beside you. Blinking blearily, you turned over, only to find Miss Honey perched delicately on his chest, staring down at him like she was assessing whether or not it was time for him to get up.

“Babe,” Joe whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “Your cat is harassing me.”

You stifled a laugh, rubbing your eyes. “She’s your cat too.”

“Yeah, well, tell her to chill.”

Miss Honey, completely ignoring his complaints, took that exact moment to lean down and press her tiny nose against his, like a little wake-up kiss.

You melted on the spot.

Joe groaned, but even half-asleep, he couldn’t hide his smile.

From then on, it became a thing. Every morning, she woke Joe up first, then trotted to the kitchen like a little queen expecting breakfast. She had a schedule, and she stuck to it.

By the end of the second week, she had also taken over bedtime.

One night, you were finishing up in the bathroom when Joe called out from the bedroom, amusement lacing his voice.

“You’re getting replaced.”

You stepped into the room, brows furrowed. “What?”

Joe tilted his head toward the bed, where Miss Honey was curled up on his pillow, perfectly nestled into the space where your head usually went.

You crossed your arms. “Unreal.”

Joe smirked, patting the mattress beside him. “Sorry, babe. She called dibs.”

You shook your head, sliding into bed anyway, and—because Miss Honey was the most spoiled creature on the planet—you let her stay.

She purred contently between you, tucked snugly between your bodies, and Joe reached out, running a slow hand down her back before catching your gaze.

“I think she was meant to be ours,” he murmured, voice soft in the dark.

Your heart swelled.

Because he was right.

At first, Miss Honey had been a little more drawn to Joe. It wasn’t anything personal—she liked you just fine—but there was something about him that had her stuck to him like glue. Maybe it was his warmth, or the steady way he carried himself, or the fact that he had been the one to scoop her up from the cold and bring her home.

But after a couple of weeks, things started shifting.

It wasn’t sudden. There was no grand moment of realization where she decided, Actually, I love you too. It was slower than that—small moments that gradually built into something solid, something certain.

It was the way she started lingering in the kitchen while you made breakfast, winding around your ankles, soft fur brushing against your bare legs as she meowed up at you like she was part of the conversation.

It was how she started climbing onto your lap while you were reading, kneading her tiny paws into your stomach before curling up and purring herself to sleep, like you were something safe.

It was how she started following you into the bathroom whenever you did your skincare at night, sitting neatly by the sink and watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes, as if she was deeply invested in your routine.

She was still Joe’s shadow, but you had become hers.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“She likes you now,” Joe teased one night, watching as Miss Honey happily stretched out on your chest, perfectly content.

You smirked, scratching under her chin. “She always liked me.”

“Nah,” he mused, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “She tolerated you. Big difference.”

You gasped dramatically. “How dare you?”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Hey, it’s a compliment. You won her over.”

And you had.

Miss Honey wasn’t just a cat anymore. She was your cat. An irreplaceable little presence in the house.

Joe, naturally, leaned into it full force.

It started with the essentials.

A bed. A few toys. Some high-quality cat food that Joe meticulously researched before purchasing. He wasn’t about to give her just anything—he wanted the best, reading reviews like he was about to draft a new teammate.

You had laughed the first time you caught him looking up “best cat food brands for digestion” on his phone.

“Joe, she was literally eating bugs two weeks ago.”

“Yeah, and now she’s got standards,” he shot back, tapping on a link. “This one’s got good ingredients.”

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Joe was going all out—buying her the best litter (something natural and odor-free, because only the best for our girl), a selection of premium treats (“That Temptations crap is all filler,” he had said, with so much conviction you almost cried laughing), and multiple collars in different colors and patterns.

One morning, you caught him kneeling by the front door, carefully adjusting the tiny blue velvet collar around Miss Honey’s neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, leaning against the doorway, watching as he straightened the little golden name tag.

Joe glanced up, grinning. “She looks good though, right?”

You had to admit—she did.

But the real turning point? The sweaters.

That was unexpected.

It had started as a joke—one lazy evening, the two of you scrolling through Etsy, looking at cat accessories for fun.

“Wouldn’t she look cute in this?” you had said, showing Joe a tiny, knitted sweater in a soft cream color.

Joe snorted. “No way she’d wear that.”

Turns out, she would. And she’d like it.

The first time you slipped a tiny sweater over her head, Miss Honey barely reacted—just gave a big stretch, turned in a circle, and promptly plopped down on Joe’s lap like nothing was different.

Joe, stunned, just blinked.

“You’re telling me she’s okay with this?”

“She’s thriving,” you corrected, grinning.

And from that moment on, Joe took it as a personal mission to build her wardrobe.

Over the next week, more sweaters arrived in the mail—different colors, different materials, even a tiny hoodie with ears.

“This is getting out of hand,” you commented as Joe unboxed yet another package.

He held up a tiny lavender sweater, inspecting the material. “It’s for layering.”

You stared at him. “Joe, she’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked. “A stylish one.”

Miss Honey, stretched out on the couch, gave a slow blink, completely unbothered by the chaos she had brought into your lives.

And, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Three months in, and neither of you could remember what life was like before Miss Honey.

It wasn’t just that she had settled into your home—she had settled into you, woven herself into the rhythm of your days so seamlessly that the idea of waking up without her little body curled between you or coming home to a silent house felt… wrong.

Mornings were different now.

Gone were the days of lazy, drawn-out wake-ups—Miss Honey made sure of that. If Joe’s alarm didn’t get him up, her tiny little paws kneading into his chest certainly did. And if he dared try to roll over and ignore her? She’d take matters into her own hands.

Or, more accurately, her own whiskers.

One morning, you caught her using her best tactic yet—pressing her nose right against Joe’s, whiskers tickling his face until he groaned and finally peeled one eye open.

“You are the most spoiled creature on the planet,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Miss Honey responded by immediately rubbing her face against his chin, purring like a little engine.

Joe exhaled a laugh, eyes still heavy as he let his fingers trail through her fur. “Unreal.”

Meanwhile, your mornings had changed in a different way.

You used to make coffee alone, sipping it in peaceful solitude before starting your day. Now? You had company.

Miss Honey had claimed her spot on the counter—perched delicately by the coffee machine, watching your every move like an executive overseeing production.

“Supervising?” you’d ask her, sprinkling cinnamon into your cup.

She’d blink, tail flicking lazily.

Joe, walking into the kitchen at just the right moment, would snort. “She’s your little manager.”

And it was true—Miss Honey was involved in everything.

She had a routine. A life. A set of unspoken rules that ran the house.

If one of you was on the couch? She was there too, curled up in the crook of your leg or sprawled across Joe’s chest. If you were cooking? She was on the floor, watching you with silent judgment, like a tiny food critic.

If Joe was watching game film, she’d climb onto his lap and stare at the screen, like she had some real thoughts about the Bengals' offense.

She had her little preferences, too. She didn’t care for loud noises but loved when Joe played music on his speakers. She always sat with you while you read, always meowed when she wanted attention, and—for some reason—seemed particularly obsessed with Joe’s socks.

“She’s weird,” Joe said one night, watching as she enthusiastically dragged one of his socks across the living room like it was her prized possession.

“You brought home a gas station cat,” you reminded him. “What did you expect?”

Joe exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he reached down to scratch behind her ears. “She’s perfect.”

And she was.

She had changed things in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

The house didn’t feel empty when Joe was away anymore—not when you had her little paws padding around, her soft purrs filling the silence. Even on the loneliest days, she made it better, curling into you like she just knew.

And Joe—he had changed, too.

If he had been a cat person before, he was fully in his Cat Dad era now.

It had started subtly. The good food, the high-quality litter, the little sweaters he kept ordering. But at some point, it escalated.

Joe started carrying her around the house, tucking her into his hoodie when he was watching film, talking to her like she was an actual human being.

“Alright, Miss Honey,” he said one afternoon, kneeling in front of her as she lounged lazily on her little cat bed. “We got options. You wanna wear the blue sweater or the gray one today?”

You, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, stared at him. “Joe.”

He looked up, completely unashamed. “She likes choices.”

“She’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked, holding up the tiny sweaters. “A stylish one.”

And then there was the Ja’Marr conversation.

One night, after practice, Ja’Marr had made a casual joke—something about how “one cat turns into five real quick,” laughing at the idea of Joe slowly becoming that guy.

You had laughed too, shaking your head. “No way. We’re a one-cat household.”

Joe had nodded in agreement, completely confident. “Yeah, no shot.”

But then… a week later, he changed his tune.

You were curled up together on the couch, Miss Honey stretched between you, when Joe sighed, absentmindedly running his fingers down her back.

“She’s kinda lonely,” he mused.

You blinked. “What?”

Joe glanced over, tilting his head toward Miss Honey, who was currently kneading her little paws into his thigh. “I mean, she’s got us, but, like… I bet she’d like a friend.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Joe.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tone easy, like he wasn’t suggesting something huge. “She’s got so much energy. I think she’d like a buddy.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

Joe grinned. “Just think about it.”

And just like that, the conversation had started. And you had been so firm about it. Absolutely not. No second cat.

Miss Honey was thriving—happy, healthy, and fully attached to both of you. The idea of bringing another cat into the house felt risky. What if she didn’t like it? What if she got territorial? What if she felt betrayed?

Joe, of course, had started planting the idea like a damn politician.

“I just think she gets bored sometimes,” he would say casually while Miss Honey chased her own tail in the living room.

“She’s got a lot of love to give,” he mused one night, watching her rub up against every single one of your ankles like she was making the rounds.

“She needs a little sidekick,” he argued as she sprawled out dramatically on the kitchen floor, meowing at nothing in particular.

You shot him down every time.

Until, of course, fate decided to step in.

It was a random Saturday, and you and Joe were out running errands—nothing special, just a casual grocery run. You had been debating what kind of bread to get (Joe insisted the multigrain one tasted just as good as white bread, which was a blatant lie), when something caught his eye.

“Babe,” Joe said, suddenly abandoning the cart and heading toward the entrance. “Look.”

You turned, frowning as you followed his gaze.

Right outside the store, under a big white tent, was a cat rescue group—volunteers standing beside crates filled with tiny, curious faces.

A pet adoption event.

Joe immediately turned to you, eyes lighting up. “This is a sign.”

“No, it’s not,” you argued, grabbing the cart. “It’s just Saturday.”

“It’s a sign.”

You groaned as he practically dragged you toward the tent, already grinning like he had just won the lottery.

And then you saw them.

The kittens.

Tiny, wiggly little things with big eyes and oversized paws, rolling around in their blankets or climbing the sides of their enclosures with impressive determination.

You told yourself you were just looking.

Joe was crouched down almost immediately, eyes scanning the different crates as the volunteers smiled at him.

“You guys looking to adopt?” one of them asked.

Joe grinned. “Maybe.”

You shot him a glare. “We are not looking to—”

And then you saw her.

A tiny gray tabby, tucked in the corner of her crate, nibbling sleepily at her own paw. Big round eyes, the softest little face, and an expression that screamed, Yeah, I know I’m cute.

You inhaled sharply.

“Oh no,” Joe murmured, catching the look on your face.

You glanced at him, then back at the kitten.

“… I wanna hold her.”

Joe grinned. “Knew it.”

The second the volunteer placed the kitten in your hands, you were done for. She was so small, her little body barely bigger than your palm. She meowed—tiny and sweet—before immediately nuzzling into the crook of your neck, purring like she had just found home.

Joe, watching intently, exhaled a laugh. “Oh yeah. We’re done for.”

That night, you walked into your house as a two-cat household.

Miss Honey was not immediately sold.

The introduction process was slow—gentle, cautious. You followed all the steps, kept them separated at first, let them get used to each other’s scent. But, much to your surprise, Miss Honey didn’t react with any real aggression.

Mostly? She just seemed deeply confused.

The first time she saw the kitten, she just stared, tail flicking, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Joe, crouched beside her, grinned. “You got a little sister, Honey.”

Miss Honey turned her head, fixing him with a look.

You laughed. “I don’t think she asked for one.”

Still, within a few days, things started shifting.

The kitten—who you decided to name Fig—was relentless in her pursuit of Miss Honey’s love.

She followed her everywhere, mimicked her every move, and—on more than one occasion—attempted to curl up against her, only to be met with a single, unimpressed flick of the tail.

But then, one morning, you woke up to find them curled up together on the couch—Miss Honey’s paw resting protectively over Fig’s tiny little body.

Joe, standing beside you, smirked. “Told you she needed a buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt full.

And that’s how you and Joe became crazy cat people.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #bengals #jb9 #joe shiesty #cincinnati football #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc

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keepingitformyself · 4 months ago

Text

but i am flesh and blood (and this flesh has needs)

A/N: THE GIRLS ARE BACK!!!!!

synopsis: if it wasn’t for the crash, you wouldn’t have ever known of the quiet thing that bubbled for you inside of lottie matthews. the worst part, you can’t decide if it would’ve been better if you never knew at all.

word count: 5.4k

pairings: lottie matthews x reader

genre: typical lottie matthews as a cannibalistic cult leader behavior.

warnings: cult themes, cannibalism, dark behavior

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

lottie had always been the careful kind. she knew how to mask things well, how to give just enough before pulling away. but the softness she carried around you was constant, ever-present. maybe you never noticed it at the time. to be fair, she did always try to be subtle.

she had this quiet, unspoken thing for you. nothing overtly showy, very casual. it wasn’t ever meant to be obvious.

but she’d ask questions about your favorite things, in a way that felt like she was trying to understand you. she’d laugh at your jokes with a little more enthusiasm, but it was always very below the surface.

lottie would have never done anything about it. maybe. she liked having control over it in the ways she could control it. though she’d wish sometimes for you to see it first. to see her for what she felt. but you never did.

so, if she did like you, you probably wouldn’t have known it. maybe you were just too busy with your own feelings to ever pick it up.

she just always seemed otherworldly to you. you play for the same team, sure. but she was on a completely different status. lottie was rich, gorgeous, popular, and a star athlete….and you were just… you.

even when you knew lottie didn’t care much about those things. that popularity was the last thing on her mind, and that she only ever really cared about was playing some damn good soccer.

so yes, maybe you did have a quiet longing for lottie matthews. maybe it was admiration. maybe you were a little embarrassed about it. but it’s not like you’d ever do anything about it. you were perfectly content in keeping her in the little bubble you created just for her in your head.

the truth is, lottie had always been different with you. in a way that never came off too strong. in a way that was easy to miss.

it was in the way she’d stay up with you on bus rides home from a game out of town. how when you were once stuck in a rainstorm together and your clothes were soaked through, how she pulled you under a bus stop to keep you out of the rain. then how she wordlessly laid her sweater over your shoulders. like she’d give you everything she had without hesitation.

you just never saw it. you weren’t meant to.

and maybe lottie would have never confessed to you had the crash never happened. had you all made it to nationals and made it back home safely. lottie would have probably let it build, what she had for you. maybe she’d try to learn what do with what she felt for you.

maybe, lottie had convinced herself that what she already had with you was enough for her.

but that was before.

that pull she would come to acknowledge, the one that could only ever exist out there. in the wilderness. would be the thing that makes everything slip.

now, everything has changed.

the crash changed everything.

without any structure of your old world, the rules, the fear of what things should be, lottie doesn’t care. because out there, in the wilderness she doesn’t have to be subtle, she doesn’t have to hold back.

because out there, what was stopping her?

pre-crash, you always thought lottie was kind of a strange thing, but it was never in a super off-putting way. maybe more nuanced, as if she had something to hide. she was just too kind, too quiet for the average rich popular athlete at wiskayok. though, you suppose maybe that’s your fault for stereotyping.

but maybe you were right in your speculation.

within the first week in the wilderness she’s constantly wandering off, she sneaks up on you when you’re out scavenging, and sometimes you catch her thinking too hard as if something was in her mind speaking to her.

the team calls her weird, to quit talking if she isn’t gonna say anything helpful. especially taissa, who’s constantly firing down anything lottie has to say or everytime she mentions having a ‘bad feeling.’

and in a way, you do feel really bad, but lottie’s strange comments only make you more scared. you do try, in some way, to reassure lottie that everything is fine. you tell her with a encouraging smile that she’s just stressed and her mind is just making up falsities from having little to no food in her system.

but unbeknownst you, you have no idea of the war that’s been going on in lottie’s head. that she’s frightened over the fact that she only packed enough medication for a weekend. that she’s long since ran out. and that she’s already starting to feel the psychological withdrawal of no longer having anything to ground her.

especially after the incident in the cabin attic. when she banged her head on the glass window, then giggled to herself as she gripped shauna’s arm. whispering something to her about how, “it’s in you already.”

what it is? you don’t really know.

but it fucking scared you.

you see the small change in lottie shortly after she goes to laura lee for help. she seems in a way more tamed, or at least more comfortable with whatever situation she was having.

it doesn’t last very long though.

not after everyone witnesses laura lee’s fatal death in how the planes flames swallowed her whole. the plane in which she planned to get everyone the help they needed with.

a part of you can’t help but think that it all felt sort of like an omen. like a sign.

lottie is awfully quiet that night, everyone sort of is. you find her by the lake in the evening, not having had moved since witnessing laura lee’s brutal ending.

you approach her where she’s sitting with her knees to her chest. her head makes a slight turn to acknowledge you, but she doesn’t say a word.

“…lottie?”

her mouth opens and closes but she never says anything. you figure she’s still in shock, so you wait patiently beside her until she does say something.

“it didn’t want her to leave,” she whispers, you almost don’t hear it.

you turn to her, questioning, “what?”

she finally looks at you, and you see just how scared she is.

“it didn’t want us to leave.” and you really don’t want to, but you believe her.

she exhales, her hands start to tremble, and you don’t even think before you try to reach for her. she clings to you immediately.

in any other context lottie might’ve enjoyed the way your arms circled around her. but all she can think about now is how the one person who was helping her tame this thing inside of her is gone. and how she’s now having to fight it alone.

after that, lottie starts changing in a ways she doesn’t try to hide anymore.

you don’t mind it, not really, but she’s so intense. she’s already intense about everything, but especially about you.

things start slow with her. but she’s very much there. you think you feel her or you feel something. either way it’s slow moving, like a small buzz behind your ear.

she gifts you weird little artifacts she finds, coddles you, makes sure you’re well fed even when she’s not. and even when you tell the others you’re gonna go down to the lake for some fresh air, she’s immediately at her feet suggesting she comes with you.

you don’t know how to tell her no. you don’t want to. especially with the look she gives you. so, you just smile and nod. and it’s not like spending time with lottie is bad. in fact, she’s in such a good mood. and you like lottie in a good mood.

she’s pulling you through the wilderness, leading you both, constantly looking back at you with a smile on her face. and you can’t help but think, that even under such circumstances, lottie is quite ethereal. that she’s still untouchable in a way that makes your chest tighten.

so, you spend a whole afternoon at the lake. you try not to think too much of the effect lottie has on you when she strips down to just her undergarments. quietly exchanging looks with you as she does.

then there’s this moment between you.

you both just float in the middle of the lake, everything is quiet except for the occasional ripple of movement in the water.

then you feel it, feel her stare on you.

you’re looking off into the distance when you catch her eyes, already locked on you. lottie doesn’t look away.

you feel your stomach do a little flip. “what?” you ask, trying to laugh off the awkwardness creeping up your back.

she doesn’t answer. she just keeps looking, a smile growing slow and knowing as she stares. like she’s waiting for something.

you don’t know what to do. you feel the heat creep up to your ears, so you giggle, shaking your head at her. then she laughs too, soft at first until it grows into something that rings through the trees.

then one night, as everyone was busy with their own conversation, and as the fire crackled low, you could feel her eyes on you. the light casting shadows on her face. and in some ways, maybe you still see pieces of her old self showing.

lottie doesn’t say anything for a long moment. then when she does it’s soft, unsure.

“i didn’t think we’d end up here.”

you don’t say anything. not at first. unsure of what she meant. maybe she meant the crash, or maybe something else entirely.

lottie shifts in her seat, her movements slow, deliberate. she wasn’t coming off too strong, not yet. but she was there, just close enough for you to feel the pull. there was something in the way she looked at you. almost predatory, but gentle. like she was waiting for you to take the first step, to invite her in.

“you’ve changed,” you said mostly to yourself, but she heard it.

“have i?” her voice is soft, almost teasing, and yet there’s an edge to it. a low hum. “maybe we all have. or maybe i’m just showing you who i really am.”

her lips twitched, and you could swear she wasn’t smiling. but there was something in the way her gaze lingered on you that made your heart beat a little faster.

and then the events of doomcoming happen.

the thing with travis happens. you, like everyone else was pulled into the madness, the hunger. the wild energy of the moment. the thing that consumed you all.

you’d become something completely different. or you almost did. it scared you in a way, but felt so freeing. like nothing had mattered except the raw, primal need that was in everyone.

you weren’t immune to it at all. not as much as you would’ve like to had been. it wasn’t even about travis in those moments. it was about what everyone had almost done. what you had almost become.

when lottie kisses travis, you don’t know what to think. but you know immediately, that it isn’t some kiss of affection, or lust, or longing. it was something purely primal.

he was just a vessel to whatever she was trying to get a hold of. a conduit. a way to touch that part of herself that was fueled by the hunger and dark energy that has defined her since the crash.

it happens so quickly even then. and even when it happens her gaze finds yours. almost something like an apology, you think. but you know there was something more to it.

but the fear still twisted in your gut. because how does one explain what happened that night? how do you say you all got high on shrooms and nearly ate travis to bits?

in that moment you thank god for natalie disrupting when she did. for fighting shauna off before she cut travis up. before lottie could encourage her.

you don’t know how to face her after that.

not when the power she had over herself and over you was terrifying.

lottie never says anything about the kiss with travis. she doesn’t explain it, doesn’t justify it. instead, she shows you.

she finds you the night after doomcoming. when the night has settled over the cabin, and everyone has mostly gone to bed. you’re sitting in front of the fireplace, you don’t flinch when you feel her sit next to you.

“you’re quiet,” her voice is low, just above a whisper.

“mmm nothing to say.”

you don’t ever look to face her, but you feel her watching you. not just watching, more measuring, knowing.

all she does is hum in reply before she shifts closer to you, until you feel the heat of her body against yours.

she doesn’t need to say anything, because in a way you know. whatever fucked up dynamic has been created between you is enough for you to know.

because the way she’s with you is different.

different in a way you don’t know how to justify, and you know it’s not good, but you also know it’s all you really have.

and you know lottie, maybe not this version of her but you know enough to know that she wouldn’t actually hurt you.

not if she’s coming in to check up on you over some stupid kiss with a guy.

everything comes like a wave when it comes to lottie. it hits you hard, and you never really know what to expect.

two days later, lottie officially confesses to you.

you’re sitting by the porch as you stare off into the trees, quietly thinking of everything you don’t understand. you hear shauna in the distance cutting up rations of the bear-sacrifice. you think things couldn’t be shittier, but at least there’s food to eat.

you don’t hear lottie walk up, but you felt her the moment she stepped outside. like the pull that you can’t explain, the one that has kept you from fully staying away from her. you glance over and see her standing there for a moment before she lowers herself beside you on the porch.

you meet her eyes, and there’s something different in them. not the wild hunger you’ve grown used to, not that primal need you’ve felt too many times to ignore, but something quieter, almost hesitant.

it’s like she’s holding back a part of herself, unsure of how much to give or what exactly she’s trying to say.

she stays silent for a while. it’s like she’s waiting for permission to speak or maybe just a sign to know you’re ready for what she’s about to say.

like she’s trying to make this conversation something that’s real, and not just the aftermath of something that swallowed you whole.

she looks unsure, as if she’s even allowed to feel what she feels, unsure if she should even be able to ask for what she really wants.

if she’s earned the right to be soft with you in this way.

it’s like she’s realized how much she’s messed everything up, but still, desperately wanting, to make it right. to make this, whatever “this” is, something that doesn’t have to be another instinct to survive.

she glances at you again, switching between glancing at the ground and you. you don’t look at her until you hear her speak.

“i never really knew how badly i wanted to know you.” she whispered, her voice dipping lower, softer. she looked off to the side, as if looking at you would make her take back her words and go back inside. “not just know you, but…” her words trailed off but the implication of her words weren’t lost on you.

the following days she lingers near you, always close, always watching. lottie always lingered and watched though, but it felt different now.

there was something intoxicating about it. about her. the tilt of her head, studying you under that gaze of hers. like some divine creature was before her. something to be worshipped.

and then with that hunger in her eyes. raw and overwhelming. it made your breath hitch in your throat, and made you wonder how much of the girl you once knew still remained beneath the one she had become.

you’re conflicted on whether you should let her in or continue to give her a wider berth. but you no longer know where that line even is.

she’s whispering to herself all the time, staring off into the darkness of the wilderness. likes she’s become a vessel to something no one really understands. and it freaks you out. it freaks everyone out.

it doesn’t help that everyone is so hungry. that everyone is so moody because they’re hungry. you feel like your stomach is constantly trying to eat itself. and there’s a point when you find the remaining bones of a rat carcass behind some of the drawers, you almost consider chewing on it.

natalie and travis go out hunting nearly everyday. but their luck remains low when everyone starts to realize the winter is coming, and most animals are starting to go into hibernation.

when jackie dies, you cry. you start to feel yourself unravel. like you’ve just lost another piece of yourself and you don’t know how much more you can take. but when lottie tells you, “it wasn’t meant to be. she was always meant to stay here.” you babble into her shoulder, even if you know it’s wrong, you nod anyway.

you let her hold you as she leads you somewhere into the woods, as she presses her cold fingers into your temple, and you let her murmur something holy into your skin.

then when you get back to the cabin you hold shauna as the aftermath of the death of her best friend settles. you let her grieve for two months.

and then you all decide to eat jackie taylor.

weeks later, you follow lottie out one night. when everyone in the cabin is in a deep sleep, a night where you’re just on the brink of succumbing but never do. you knew lottie was still up, you could feel how her eyes would drift from you and to the window looking outside.

when you hear her quietly sneak out through the door you wait a few moments before following her out.

you shiver as soon as you step out. immediately wrapping your arms around yourself to conserve any warmth.

and you find lottie staring at the sky, the trees, everything. as if something unseen was looking back at her. she hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew she knew you were there. maybe that was her plan all along? to have you follow her out here.

you walk until you land right next to her, following her eyes to whatever is ahead. and maybe you feel whatever she’s seeing too. maybe you feel the way it’s demanding to be seen. but you’re not sure it’s something you’re entirely afraid of anymore.

“you can feel it too, can’t you?” she says, her voice low. she wasn’t talking about how cold it was outside, she was talking about something else.

“i’ve been feeling it,” she continued, unable to tear her eyes away from whatever is ahead of her. “i don’t know how to stop it.”

and you don’t know why you even say what you say, “you don’t need to stop it.” and you don’t know what you even mean when you say it.

maybe because a part of you felt safe knowing lottie seemed fine with letting it in. that maybe it was okay to give in.

lottie smiled then, but it wasn’t shy, it was a smile that didn’t entirely feel like her. it was too confident, too knowing. her hands brushed against yours, just a touch, but it felt like being lit on fire. and then lottie was closer, a lot closer, her face just inches from yours.

“you don’t have to be afraid of it,” she whispered. “you don’t have to be afraid of me.” and you do believe her, in some messed up way you do.

“i won’t take unless you give.” she whispers against your lips.

you feel her fingertips brushing your jaw slowly. her eyes switching between your lips and your eyes. but there’s something about the way she looks at you, like she already knows the answer, or maybe it’s the fact that you do want this. that in ways you can’t explain, you crave her.

then she kisses you, and you let her.

and it’s soft and slow at first. but lottie feels no hesitation once you’ve already given her the go. her hand slides to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. and as her lips move against yours you wonder why it took so long for you to let this happen. when it felt this good.

when she pulls away, lottie doesn’t go very far. she presses her forehead against yours, as she stares at you through her eyelashes. her breath hitting your lips as she exhales out. the smile on her face is unmistakable. you kiss her again.

after that lottie realizes you’re more malleable to her influence. more than you’d like to admit. you tell yourself nothing will change. that you won’t lose yourself in the way lottie has.

because it’s scary. it looks unhealthy and not real. like all it is, is some brief relief from how horrible everything is.

but lottie is damn good at persuading you. with her comforting touches, and hushed whispers, the way she looks at you. primal and unabashedly. she tells you things that don’t completely make sense. the whispers of “it” and how it wants you, that it “wants us.” in her words.

then she starts to persuade you, making you choose to follow her path, that “it” shows her things. she doesn’t explicitly say it but you know she means you.

but you feel it too. in a way that’s both frightening yet calming all the same. and you feel it in the way lottie touches you. because everything is so cold, in the middle of nowhere, in the winter. and all you can think of when she holds you is how warm she is. how you don’t mind anything as long as you stay here with her.

and then maybe you do let her in. maybe you do let her consume you. because jesus, you’re so hungry, so desperate, and hanging on to any last bit of hope you can find. and lottie is basically offering that to you with a hand held out.

so you let her. because you need something too. something that doesn’t just feel like some instinct to survive but also something that feels like it’s an escape from the instinct to survive. but maybe they’re the same thing when it comes to lottie. but maybe you don’t care.

sometimes you still feel like yourself though, sometimes you feel that old part of you creep out. you notice it when lottie doesn’t entirely feel like lottie. when she says things, in a way that don’t entirely feel like her. when she acts in ways the old lottie wouldn’t. but you agree. you smile and nod and agree.

because when has she ever been wrong?

because hasn’t she kept you safe?

and when she kisses you, when she pulls you into her arms, you don’t think about wanting to pull away.

you stopped wanting to.

one day you realize you don’t even question her anymore. you don’t even think about what any of it means before you act. before you follow along like some loyal servant.

when she beckons you into the woods to follow her, you listen. you sit with her in the snow, and listen to the trees, the wind, and when she asks, “do you feel it?”

you do.

even if you don’t.

because she does.

and isn’t that enough?

maybe lottie did feel bad. she does. she felt horrible for how much she’s changed you. she convinced herself it’s all been in the name of keeping you safe. because it is. that’s how it was always meant to be. but the thing inside her didn’t stop there.

it was thrilled with how you looked at her. how you believed her. how you believed in her. and lottie, god that’s all lottie has wanted. for you to see her for what she felt.

sometimes when it’s quiet, when the snow has stilled, she’ll look over at you and see glimpses of the girl she’s crushed on since junior year. the girl who thought superstitions were stupid, the girl who humbled natalie when she got too cocky, the girl who she would willingly give her jacket to if it were raining.

she imagines what it would’ve been like to really know that version of you that hasn’t existed in so long. she wonders if or when this whole thing is over if you’d ever get a semblance of your old self back. if you’d ever let her stick around to see it.

by the time lottie asks you something you haven’t thought of in a while, you’re already too deep in.

“do you ever wonder?” her voice quiet, the fire from the chimney crackled in the background. “what would have happened if the plane didn’t crash?”

it’s not meant to be a trick question. she just needs to know if you’ve felt it. if you’ve ever ached for something you never got the chance to have, like she has.

and the hard truth is, you haven’t in months. because it’s been so long, and thinking of anything outside this place hurts you.

so you say, “i think i used to.” as you stare off into the space as if there was some distant memory being shown to you. then you turn to look at her, “do you?”

it surprises you when she says she does, “i do.” lottie nods. “but then i stop. i realize it wouldn’t change anything by thinking about it.”

“what do you hope would be different?” you ask her. you’re sitting close, the way you always do now. knees brushing, hands only inches apart.

lottie shrugs, and reaches for your hand to rub. a quiet telling of how she truly doesn’t know what a softer version of all of this would be like. if it would even happen. “i would just hope this...that we would’ve found each other either way.”

her fingers lace through yours, her grip gentle. “maybe it would’ve been different,” she continues, “softer, easier…but you’d still be you. and i’d still be me.”

it’s not supposed to be a demand. the way lottie says it. just a thing she feels. a truth given freely. a hope that maybe there’s a version of you both where your luck could have been kinder. where you both weren’t something carved out by the wilderness, something that wasn’t forged out of desperation and survival. another version of you where it could have been a choice.

lottie watches you, she feels the weight of your hand in hers, the heat of you beside her. she has you now, that’s enough right?

but lottie wonders, she wonders of a life where the plane had landed safely, went to nationals, won or lost, then came home.

a life where she could have courted you the way you deserved, where you’d kiss her drunkenly at parties. where the only thing you had to worry about was high school graduation and how you’d make it work if you were gonna do long distance.

something that could have unraveled naturally, soft, innocent. through stolen glances and shy confessions, rather than in the existence of blood and fear.

she looks at you again, then laughs, then you look at her. she finds it all ironic, that she’s silently grieving a life that won’t even happen.

lottie wont tell you why she laughed. you don’t deserve that. she doesn’t want to make you sad. it’s not fair. not when it’s something that isn’t real. this is real.

her hands find your face. they’re surprisingly warm, you find yourself thinking.

“i love you,” she says instead. it’s the first time she’s said it. your mouth opens slightly. lottie knows immediately what it looks like. like something built from hunger and fear. in desperation.

but it’s not.

she continues before you can start, “i love you not because i have to.” her voice is steady. “not because you keep me sane.”

her thumbs brush over your cheekbones, tracing the shape of you, like she’s trying to memorize you by touch.

“if we had never crashed, if we were just—” she exhales, shaking her head, “if things were normal, it wouldn’t have changed anything. i still would’ve loved you. you have to know that.”

and lottie probably sounds insane. (what’s new?) maybe it’s naive, maybe even delusional. but somehow, it’s the one thing that has felt real to her, the one thing that feels certain.

because it isn’t like she hasn’t thought it over a million times in her head. she’s imagined a version where she had told you earlier, where the plane still would have crashed. the only difference is that maybe she would have had a little more time to be with you in a way that was just yours.

but the wilderness…the wilderness would have still bound you together, would have still tangled you up in something inescapable. it was merely the thing that ensured you were fated.

so if the plane hadn’t crashed? if the choice had been there? if she had gotten to love you the way you both deserved?

of course, it still would have happened.

because if it was meant to be in this version, in a life shaped by tragedy, then why wouldn’t it be meant to be in one where things were soft? where things were right?

before lottie could muster up the courage to tell you any of this, before she could even move, before you can even say you love her back. there’s a crackling sound heard, a sharp heat felt amongst the cold.

first there’s the smell of smoke.

then someone screams.

lottie and you both turn, the cabin is burning.

flames consume the walls, swallowing the only place that has kept them alive, the last place that has ever felt like a shelter to them, a home. everything is too quick for them to comprehend. too fast for them to even mourn the fact that the cabin was burning.

but you’re next to her. alive. breathing. and when lottie turns to you she waits for the devastation to hit, but it never does. at least not in the way she expects.

maybe the cabin was never going to last forever. maybe nothing ever does. maybe the only thing that really matters is what remains once everything else is gone.

and what remains is you.

lottie reaches for you, her hand wrapped in yours grounding her in the only thing that has felt real. the only thing that still exists in this moment, untouched by fire and ruin.

in the middle of the chaos, in the middle of the freezing cold, while everyone watches in horror as the flames completely swallow the cabin, you finally say it.

“i love you.”

it’s quiet, but certain. like it’s been your truth waiting to be spoken. lottie’s breath catches.

it shouldn’t matter. it felt selfish that this was the only thing lottie seemed to care about in the moment, but she didn’t care. even if their world was quite literally going up in flames. but it does. god, it does.

lottie exhales, squeezing your hand in hers as she brings her forehead to yours. despite every fucked up thing happening around them, you both manage to muster up a smile.

“i love you, too.”

and maybe one day when everything is better, when the wilderness isn’t something that weighs on you. when hunger is the last thing on your mind, maybe she’d tell you all about it. about the life she imagined, the one that could have been. the happier ending, with a choice.

but not tonight.

tonight the only thing that matters is making it through another night.

and then one more, and then another. until the spring comes.

#lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets

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coffee-and-tea-time · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere shop! Choose your yandere!

I was thinking, did you ever listen to yandere asmr videos? If so, you will catch on quickly that this is based on the yandere shop, which was so popular in asmr videos during the pandemia. - coffee

If you didn’t, quick summary Coffee gave me: imagine if there is a place where you can enter and you can ‘buy’ (they pay you since you are going to take care of a serial killer so he don’t kill people while you two got your twisted love) a yandere of your choosing. - tea

Word count: 1.2k but this will be edited to correct misspellings or weird sentence structure later, sorry in advance.

tw: yandere behavior, willing reader, delulu, written in you/yours, reader is a little nervous but really interested, you can choose humans yanderes and non-human (although humanoid) yanderes!

You fix your clothing and take a deep breath, your mind filled with ‘what if..’ yet, you were here, in a place that you didn’t trust was real.

A creak takes you out of your thoughts, a smiling man dressed rather formally, greets you cheerfully.

“Sorry to interrupt when you are so absorb in your pretty mind My dear, but you know, a little push may help you”

He said as he extended his hand to you, well, you already made your way here hoping to get a yandere so you gather all your corague as you take the man's hand. He led inside the shop, you can hear the click of the door closing behind you as you follow him.

“Oh, I hope you weren’t thinking of backing up so quickly Dear, want something to drink?”

You gently shake your head as you sit down in one of the couches, on the inside it looks pretty much like a coffee shop.

“Smart choice but you still seem rather nervous, want to say something before I go ahead and show you the catalog?”

“Well, I wanted to know, what can you do for the yandere you like to like you back? What if the one I choose doesn't like me back?”

Your worries were met with a not-so-subtly laugh from the man which make you kind of annoyed and embarrassed.

“Sorry Dear, I just never thought I ever meet somebody that feel insecure about the love of a yandere”

Now you wanted to punch him, is a normal question to ask! Yanderes have their own way to fall in love!

“Let me give you a quick explanation, if they had a darling, both of us know they would be busy stalking them. The yanderes we have don’t have a darling, but are eager for the sense of love on their own way which may not suit everyone so to avoid problems, this shop was put in place as a matchmaker between differents kinds of yanderes and people who enjoy them"

You sight in relief as you nod.

“alright, who is more likely to go even more insane if they don't get a darling soon.."

"Sorry, what did you just say? I couldn't hear you well"

"Oh, nothing Dear, I was just searching for the ones that been waiting the most, is how the list work, I will show you a few options first so you have an idea, you can ask for another kind if you had something else in mind, I'm sure we got something that will suit your taste; Although, do remember that is just one yandere, we had problems with that before"

"How is it that someone got the permission to have more than one? I thought you guys will keep in track that since well, it's dangerous for anyone"

"She didn't have permission but she manage because she stubbornly wanted a yandere harem, the result are expected, averyone in that house died except for one yandere, he is again on the list, and as you can guess, he end up more being more... intense. He is totally your perfect option if you like a very possessive yandere, he's a more serious yandere for that experience"

“That will be dangerous for me too?”

"Dont worry Dear, he is truly desperate for love like the rest, his name is Dizie. But if you rather a more gentle treat, Gabriel is your guy, I don't know much about him since he said that only his darling will get to know everything about him. As far as I know, he's kind of yandere that will kiss the ground were his darling walk, a worshiper you can say, if you like someone looks at you like you are a deity, he's definitely your perfect match"

“Isn’t every yandere a worshiper in their own ways?”

"Well, I guess? Is true that others have another específic ways to worship, look, he's the baker, relishes in your enjoyment of their pastries, a very skilled baker that knows how to include the most unique of ingredients to make the sweetest of treats, dreams of putting his heart and soul in every treat he bakes for his darling, his name is Oliver”

"What kind of ingredients tho?"

“The next one you may like is actually a popular singer, he chooses to keep anonymous unless chosen, but if you want to be a celebrity or date one, he is someone you can guess that will love to spoil their darling, he’s on the talkative side, if you like art or stuff like that, you will enjoy his house. although he babbles a lot of how he wish to hear the voice of his darling obsessively for hours”

The seller seems to dodge your question.

“Ah, of course, we also have some special yanderes if humans are boring or less attractive for you, look, he’s Myotis, the classic vampire, he even has wings! Isn’t it perfect to see the sky closer while you enjoy the company of a yandere that looks like he just came out of a book? If you are also into short kings, you gonna love him without a doubt”

"He's not going to drain me out of blood, is he?"

“Dear, why would a yandere who waits so long for their darling, kill them? But if vampires aren't your type, you could go for a mothman! You will be the light of his life, literally. He’s a big softie and kind of clumsy; he just eagerly waits for the arrival of his daylight. A good choose if you like special clingy yanderes, he is not around humans too much, but he said he wanted to be called Lior if he got chosen. Oh, if you are on the stronger side, you may want to keep your eye on Tarak, he said something about his name meaning something like star and protector I think, I guess he chose the name by himself, he’s a prideful dragon and really loves to talk, honestly, I’m not that intelligent to understand some things that he say, but if you like to know new things by listening, asking or reading, he's your man, you can try trying to teach him something new, I don't think is impossible to archive”

“You know what ag…”

You stopped talking when you catch a security camera in a corner moving around frantically yet appear like not seeing anything?

“Don’t mind him, is just Grier, even though I don’t know if that's his real name, I do know he loves trying to spy here using the security cameras so we end up having to put tape on them when a darling is coming to the shop; as you can guess, he’s a hacker, if you choose him, you will be very well protected and taken cared of since you gonna be being watched even when you think you are alone, if that what you wish for, please do choose him.”

The seller looks at you, waiting for an answer, to choose what kind of yandere you want or ask for a specific type now.

“You don’t really go outside too much, so I don’t think you gonna have problems with any of them”

You act like you didn’t hear his murmur as you look at the papers in your hand of every yandere he just talked about.

If your favorite options lose or you want something specific, just send an ask! We love comments and interactions in general so don't be shy.

Seller post

Sneak peek of the first encounters

The singer post

Grier post

sorry for any misspellings or weird sentence structure ❣

images from pinterest ⚘

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littlelovelunette · 4 months ago

Note

professor!sevika and teachers pet reader and your graded starts to slip so she takes reader over her knee and makes her read out the answers all while she adds a finger in or with like those wooden rulers that teachers have give the reader a swat

Improving Percentages

Professor!Sevika x Teacher's Pet!Reader

Contains smut, spanking, fingering

This one's a little funny because I have a muscular business teacher and I'm the topper in the class too…

Sevika is your business studies professor, always dressed in tight suits that make her muscles bulge through the fabric.

She gave the best explanations and lectures, not to mention, she never made you feel belittled for having a silly little question.

Her classes were always full though, and you needed to always be early to get a proper seat at her very front which earned you the title ‘Teacher’s Pet’.

Not that you really minded it but it made making friends become a tad bit harder.

Sevika had taken a test on ‘Organisational Structure’ and you were sure you had done well.

You were so confident and your answers seemed fitting with the questions too, no doubts.

When she handed your paper to you, she sighed and your world just about fell apart.

“You didn't do well this time, y'know why? I keep telling you to add information about the stem question in your answer and constantly hold the comparisons up so the examiner has an idea of what they're looking at,” Sevika scolded, crossing her arms, “The first time you made this mistake, I had told you never to let it repeat. But you did.”

“I'm sorry…” you could only mumble under your breath.

For a second, she didn't say anything before adding, “I'm putting you up for extra class.”

“Extra class—” you began but then she cut you out.

“I know you're busy Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday. I'm setting you up for Mondays and Wednesdays. You're free then, no?” Sevika asked, shocking you with the knowledge she had of your routine.

“M-Mhm, I'm free then,” you said in a small voice earning a nod of acknowledgement from her.

The next day, it was a Wednesday so you had the extra class with Sevika, sighing to yourself, you walk to the classroom.

You're a bit shocked because you saw the chairs were pulled back, leaving only Sevika's chair out.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you walked in despite a little hesitantly.

“Come here,” Sevika gestured to make you come closer to herself. Suddenly, she grabbed your wrist pulling you over her lap with ease.

You gasped at the suddenness of her actions, “M-ma’am…” you managed a little croak. Sevika pulled your skirt up and tutted. “Tsk, doll, so wet. How do you expect to study like this?”

She pulled your soaked panties down, she sent a harsh slap on your ass making you whimper.

“When I ask you a question, doll, you'll answer it.”

“Yes ma'am, I'm sorry,” you whimpered into her lap, pussy clenching over nothing.

Sevika gave you the answer sheet from the exam that you failed at, “Read it,” she said, pulling your panties down and shoving two fingers inside your pussy making you yelp a little.

“Ma'am, please…” you whimpered but realised you had no way out.

She started moving her fingers in and out of your hole as you bit down on your bottom lip, letting out a shuddering breath before starting to read.

“For the business mentioned in the stem, the best organisational structure wo-would be a narrow chain of command due to the fewer number of workers placed under respective ma-mana-manager,” you took a deep inhale, her fingers were drilling into you lazily and other hand holding you in place firmly.

“H-h-however, a n-narrow span of command increases the number of manag-managers— ah…” you let out a little squeak as you felt your clit being pinched.

Sevika tsked, pulling her fingers out and grabbing something off the desk. You didn't have much time to register what she grabbed when the harsh swat came down on your ass.

“Ma'am, please, I'm sorry,” you sobbed but she continued hitting your ass with the hard wooden ruler, “Please I'll be better— Ah! P-Please!

Sevika finally stopped dropping the wooden ruler, “Bunny, I don't wish to do this to you,” her big hands cupped your reddened butt cheeks, “But you give me no choice.”

“Please, ma'am, I'll be better I promise,” you whispered and whined.

Sevika shook her head, gesturing you to read as she plunged her fingers in your hole again, “Oh my gosh, ah… um— Wider chain of commands indicate m-more workers u-un-under a single manager which can affect their performance,” your breath hitched as you felt her add a second finger and you lost the sentence you left off at.

“Ma-Ma’am,” you began but Sevika understood, grabbing the ruler off the ground and spanking your ass with it again, creating red lines over your soft skin, you whimpered and sobbed as she continued hitting your ass with it.

“P-Please, please I'll be good, ma'am it hurts, my butt hurts,” you cried and Sevika sighed, shaking her head as she put the ruler away.

Sevika picked you up, letting you sit on her lap. You winced at the feeling of your swollen ass against her rough pants,

“You'll be better?” Sevika asked, squeezing your ass cheeks.

“Yes ma'am, I'll be better,” you said and she finally gave you a little smile, bringing you close, locking your lips in a gentle kiss.

#arcane #sevika #sevika arcane #sevika my love #arcane sevika #sevika i love you #sevika is my wife #sevika is so much more then a henchman #sevika x reader #wlw #sevika is a chewtoy worth risking your life for i feel #sevika my wife #sevika save me #sevika smut #sevika supremacy #sevika sevika sevika #sevika imagine #sevika tag

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aimless-imagines-for-fun · 2 years ago

Text

Vacation: Part one

PART TWO PART THREE

Pairing :: OPLA!Sanji x fem!Reader

Warnings :: 18+ Content, NSFW/SMUT, Oral(f recieving), Semi-Public sex(they did it in an alley), Light teasing

Word Count :: 3,373

Summary :: After being forced on a vacation at the Baratie, you catch the eye of a certain blond cook who loves to tease you.

A/N :: I was trying to find the right mix between pervert simp anime Sanji and suave charming live-action Sanji. There will for sure be a part two.

Go watch the One Piece live-action.

If you enjoy my work consider leaving a comment or kofi as support ʕ • ᴥ • ʔ ❤️

“I see a place we can stop to make repairs, Captain Tommy,” You said, eye still focused on the small floating mass in the distance.

You worked on a merchant ship for a wealthy businessman named Greylock. You were his top secret contract negotiator. The reason you were a “secret” was because he never introduced you as a negotiator. You would always find your way to sneak into his potential clients’ and contract partners’ inner circle to figure out what type of people they were and what they wanted. With this personal knowledge, you would then come up with the best plan of action to secure a beneficial deal for the business. It was easy for you thanks to your typically quiet demeanor. You knew when to stay silent and read the room.

Captain Tommy, Greylock’s business partner, set a course for the wooden structure floating. “Let’s hope the owner’s kind enough to let us port for a while.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to repair the damages?”

“The storm banged us up pretty good, not to mention all the scrapes we’ve gotten from pirates.” He glanced around the ship. “I’d say at least three to four weeks.”

You cursed quietly under your breath. “Greylock isn’t going to be happy about that.”

Captain Tommy shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do. The ship’s falling apart. We won’t be able to make it to a port town before the ship sinks.”

You knew Greylock would be upset once you told him, so you took precocious measures to alleviate the anger.

You stood with him on the deck, watching as you approached your soon-to-be temporary home. "You know sir, you've been mentioning wanting to take a vacation for a while."

He sighed, shrugging. "That's because I'm getting older and tired of working. I became a merchant to see the world, not to work endlessly."

"Well then, how about you finally take that vacation now while we repair the ship?"

He turned his head to give you a weary look. "Take a vacation while the ship is repaired?"

You nodded with a smile. "Captain Tommy told me it would take at least three weeks to repair the ship. Instead of worrying about work, you should relax during that time."

"(Y/N)-"

"And you can give the crew a chance to rest. Were y'all dreary from that dreadful storm, not to mention the attacks we had to endure before?" You patted his shoulder. "You know what they say, a happy crew is a dutiful crew. And a tired crew typically ends up killing someone."

Grey lock laughed at your made-up saying, but you were able to persuade him. "You're right. We've been working too hard recently without a break." He looked out once more, finally in the distance to see the name of the place you'll all be staying for the next month. "Lads!" He shouted loud enough to grab everyone's attention. "I want you lot to enjoy yourselves at the Baratie. Think of our unscheduled stop as a surprise resort! Haha!"

Immediately the crew lit up. While everyone cheered and began to talk about what they'd do with their spare time, aside from repairs, you looked up at Captain Tommy. He had a small smirk, giving you a wink. He knew if anyone could get Greylock to give the entire crew a break, it'd be you.

You walked into Baratie behind Greylock and Captain Tommy. It was typically for the three of you to grab a bite together whenever you arrived at a new town so that you could discuss your work objectives. Today, however, it was simply a meal between friends.

A fish man greeted you at the entrance, accepting a small fee before allowing you to take your seats.

You looked over the menu, wondering what to try first. You'd be around for a while and we're sure you'd get to try a few items on the menu before departing. Greylock and Captain Tommy chatted with one another, used to your silence. They knew that you spoke when you felt you needed to.

The swing doors to the kitchen flew open. You glanced up from the menu, seeing a blond man to have caused the small ruckus. He looked upset, brows furrowed and tight lips turned down.

'I wonder what got him so riled up,' You thought.

You kept your eyes on him, noticing he was making his way to your table with a tray of bread rolls in hand. When he was about halfway, he noticed you sitting right of Greylock and his mood instantly seemed to pick up. After his eyes locked with yours, his gaze lit up and a dashing smile graced his lips.

Seeing his mood do a complete one-eighty after spotting you, you shot your eyes back down to your menu. 'Please don't be our waiter. Please don't be our waiter. Plea-'

"Hello gentlemen and fair lady, my name is Sanji. What would you like to drink to start you off? We have several rare Micqueot vintages in stock."

Almost throughout his entire introduction, you could feel his line of sight fixed on you. He didn’t mind that you didn’t look at him. It allowed him to sneak a glance at your chest without being noticed.

"Anything fancy would be a waste on me. I'll just have a simple whiskey to start with," Greylock said. Captain Tommy put up two fingers, requesting the same.

"And what will you be having, darling?"

"Hm… I'll have a sweet tea."

"A sweet drink for a sweet girl understood."

Your eyes shot towards him, a little shocked by his straightforward demeanor. He gave you a quick wink before walking away.

Now, it was time for the old men to act like school girls.

Greylock started the teasing first. "Awe, our little (Y/N) has a young man who's interested in her,"

"And by the small blush on her cheeks, I'd say she's interested too."

"Wh-what blush?" You stuttered, only now feeling the heat center in your cheeks.

"The one that's covering your entire face." Captain Tommy laughed.

"Shut up. I was just caught off guard by his remark." You practically shoved your face into the menu, embarrassed to face the men before you any longer.

They continued laughing for a moment before talking about what to order.

After Sanji came back with your drinks, it was time for you three to place your orders. Again, your colleagues ordered before you. This time though, you spoke right when Captain Tommy finished his sentence.

"And I will have the seared ahi tuna."

"Do you want the chocolate sin cake after for dessert, love? It's so moist it'll melt in your mouth, I promise," He said in a sultry tone for no other apparent reason than to get a rise out of you.

And once more, you were left stunned and your face was heating up. You were certain he was only teasing you, but you were still upset giving him the presumed reaction he wanted.

"She would love the chocolate cake!" Greylock's hand patted your back hard, causing you to fall forward a bit on the table. "It's been a while since she's had a good pastry."

“Coming right up.”

He left with a swift turn on his heels and when he was out of sight you glared daggers at the two accompanying you.

“What do you think you’re doing, sir?”

“Trying to make sure you have a fun time here.” He took a swig of his whiskey before continuing. “Listen, you’re always working hard for us, and you rarely make any time for yourself.”

You sink in your seat a bit. He was right. On the rare occasion you did flirt with others, it was to secure a deal, and then, you were gone.

“Plus, the boy’s easy on the eyes. You’d be mad to not give him a chance.” He bursted out laughing.

Captain Tommy was a bit more comforting with his words. “You probably won’t interact with him much, so don’t mind him.”

Choosing to believe him, you relaxed for the remainder of the meal. ‘Captain Tommy’s right. As long as I don’t come here again, I probably won’t run into him.’

Too bad you had a crew that loved to go out because about two days later, you found yourself back at the Baratie. This time, Sanji wasn’t your waiter which you were more than thankful for. Captain Tommy and Greylock might’ve teased you a bit, but the men with you now would have embarrassed you so much you would never step foot out of your living quarters again.

Around mid-way into your meal, you excused yourself from the table to go use the restroom. While walking down the hallway, your attention was on the various paintings that decorated the wall.

Since you weren’t paying much attention to what was in front of you, you collided with a firm chest. You nearly stumbled back until a pair of arms wrapped around you, holding you in place.

“Ah-! I-I’m so sorry! I should have been paying attention to where I was… going…” You looked up at the person you had bumped into, locking eyes with a familiar blue-eyed blond.

He gave you a large grin, replying. “No need to apologize madam. I should be the one apologizing,” You tilted your head, “for disturbing a fine piece of art like you.”

You immediately turned away, hoping he wouldn’t catch your growing blush. “Can you please let me go?” You asked timidly.

You felt his hold tighten for a quick second before letting you go. Without another word, you rushed past him to the women's restroom.

Sanji watched you run away, a playful grin plastered on his face. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with this one,” He mumbled, already missing the feeling of your body pressed against his.

This would be how every interaction you had with the blonde cook and occasional waiter, played out. You would try to be formal with him, he'd make a flirty or suggestive comment, and then you'd start to blush or stutter.

Typically it was whenever you went to eat at Baratie, but there were a few occasions when he managed to catch you outside.

"I must be in heaven because I'm seeing an angel before me." You tensed up in your seat and froze upon hearing Sanji.

You were at the small outdoor bar next to the giant fish-headed restaurant. Around the end of the first week, you noticed that the place had a pretty good view of the sunset. Sure, you saw the sun set often, but you rarely actually watched it fall below the horizon line, disappearing until morning. It was a minor peaceful event you wanted to enjoy on your supposed vacation alone.

The sky had already darkened by this point. You were just around to finish the drink you had.

"Good evening, Sanji."

He sat next to you, pouting playfully. "Come on m, (Y/N). We've known each other for over two weeks now. There's no need for you to keep acting so stuffy all the time."

You crossed your arms. "I'm not stuffy."

"Yes, you are. Every time I see you it's always a quick sentence or two before nothing but silence. I'm starting to think you don't like me."

'I wish it was that simple.' In fact, you were having the opposite reaction. You were used to making contracts and business deals with people when you spoke to them. You weren't used to being openly flirted with for no reason.

Like always, you avoided making eye contact with him. This time, you fixed your attention to the remaining ice cubes in your drink.

He leaned closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "Or maybe, it's because you're too shy to admit you like me," He whispered, hot breath hitting your ear and sending a tingle throughout your body.

You snapped your head around, face burning up when you saw how close he was. That damn coy smile plastered on his perfect lips.

He chuckled to himself, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face. "That's it, isn't it?"

"Why do you keep messing with me?" You bluntly asked. Frankly, you were getting tired of his game, even if you weren't entirely sure what this game was.

This was the first time you had caught him off guard. He leaned back a bit, tilting his head. "What makes you think I'm messing with you?"

"If you actually had an interest in me, you would've told me or showed me by now. You just keep saying sweet nothings to mess with me and I'm sick of it," Your voice was growing frustrated, finally voicing your opinion. "I'm trying to enjoy my vacation, not be bothered by some- Hey!"

He grabbed your hand, lifting you from your seat with a tug and pulling you away. You followed, partly because you were unable to pull away and partly because of curiosity as to where he was taking you. He led you to a small alley a bit away.

Before you could question his intentions, he leaned down to press a firm kiss onto your lips. His hands fell to your hips, holding onto you with a firm grasp and locking you against the wall behind you. Almost as if he were afraid you’d try to escape. His nerves were quickly set to rest when you began kissing him back, your hands holding his shoulders. His tongue licked your bottom lip and you gladly parted, allowing him to shove his tongue in your mouth.

After some time, he pulled away and began trailing kisses down your neck. As he did, you felt his hands wander to the button of your shorts.

Feeling him work to undo them you asked him, “What are you doing?”

He pulled away, a coy smile still on his face. “Showing you that I have an interest in you.”

He began to pull your shorts down and you felt your heart begin to race. You weren’t directly out in the open, but if someone going down the main walkway happened to turn their heads they’d spot the two of you.

“Sanji, wait- What if- Ngh!”

He started rubbing your clit through your growing wet panties, chuckling at the quick response he got. “‘What if’ what, darling?”

You glared at him, trying to voice your concerns, but again, he continued to distract you with pleasure.

He knelt down on one knee, grabbing your left thigh, and hooking it over his shoulder after completely removing your shorts. You watched with half-lidded eyes as he pushed and held your underwear to the side, revealing your pussy. He stuck his tongue in first, licking up your folds while maintaining eye contact with you through his blond locks. He continued this motion and you bit your bottom lip, hoping not to make a noise.

He wasn’t having any of that though. If there was one thing he loved, it was to know he was doing a good job. At first, he had started to tease you a bit because he thought you were cute when you got flustered. As the days went on, he noticed that you might not have said much, but you couldn’t hide your physical reactions to him. Your face was almost always flushed around him. Your grip on whatever you held tightened with the simplest of sentences. It made him wonder what type of lover were you? Quiet, non-verbal, highly responsive to the slightest touches, etc.?

He had just never gotten you alone to figure it out, until now.

He sucked your clit, earning a squeal in response. Your hands immediately shot down to his head, grabbing hold of his hair.

‘She looks so cute trying to stay quiet.’

He could feel his pants tightening around his crotch, watching you squirm because of his touch. It was getting difficult for you to stay up with one leg, especially when he slotted two fingers into your wet cunt. He curved his fingers in you, moving them slowly at first before picking up the pace to match how quickly he was flicking his tongue against your clit.

“Sa-Sanji, I- I don’t think I ca-can last much longer,” You whined.

Even without you telling him, he could tell you were getting close. Your walls had started to tighten around his fingers and he had to hold the thigh of your standing leg to support you. He would’ve loved to have you come undone around his tongue, however, for his first time with you, he wanted to fully see your expression.

He pulled away and you let out a loud sigh of relief, panting a bit. You were a little disappointed you hadn’t finished but were hopeful to continue this in a more private enclosed area. Your head was a bit fuzzy though, and you didn’t pick up on the small noise of him undoing his trousers or when he completely pulled down your panties.

He grabbed your thighs and housed you up to position the head of his penis right at your entrance. When you felt it rub against your slick folds, your eyes widened. The two of you watched as he pushed his cock in, seeing it disappear in your cunt. He groaned, eyes rolling back for a moment at how tight you were wrapped around him. You whined, feeling his length fill you up.

Slowly, he rocked his hips back and forth, giving you a chance to adjust to him. He watched your face with amusement, a mix of pleasure and embarrassment in your expression. You were still biting down on your lip, hoping to be as discrete as possible given the situation you were in.

With one swift hard thrust though, you let out a moan. Your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his shoulders. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, allowing him to clearly hear all your little whimpers and mewls of delight.

After hearing your moan, he began to thrust harder, wishing to hear more of your voice. You could hear his grunting too, breath growing heavier and heavier with each stroke inside you.

No longer needing to hold you up with both hands, one of them slipped underneath your shirt, sliding under the cup of your bra. He groped your breast, happy at how soft it was in his hand.

The harder he continued to thrust, the shakier your moans got. You were getting close to your release again and he wasn’t far behind, his own breathing now becoming ragged. Now, with each thrust, he could feel your walls tighten around him. Wanting to make sure he got a good look at your face when you came, he briefly removed his hand from your breast to tug your hair back. With your face pulled away from his neck, he plastered his lips against yours, shoving his tongue once more in your mouth. After, his hand returned to groping your breast.

His grip on your thigh was so tight, that you were sure there would be markings. With how hard he was kissing you, your lips were bound to be puffy when he stopped.

Your mind was becoming foggy and all you were focused on was the pleasure you were in, no longer caring someone caught you. You moaned against his lips, your entire body growing tense in his hold. Your walls clamped around him, finally hitting your high.

Seeing your eyes fall shut, engrossed in the feeling of climaxing, combined with how your cunt squeezed against him, he hit deep one last time before unraveling himself. His cock pulsed in you, dumping his entire load inside, savoring how your body milked it.

He pulled away from the kiss, each of your breaths now shaky trying to regain your composure. Your head fell back against the wall, eyes remaining on him.

“What do we do now?” You asked.

“We plan out the rest of your vacation. You’re here for at least one more week, right?” He kissed your cheek. “That gives us one more week of fun, darling.”

#one piece imagine #one piece fanfic #one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #sanji x reader #sanji smut #sanji imagine #sanji fanfic #sanji fanfiction #one piece sanji x reader #one piece live action sanji x reader #one piece live action sanji #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji smut

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snitchbo · 7 months ago

Text

I dont know how to explain why this is important

But let's not forget that Parkour Civilization is a meritocracy. A socialist autocratic meritocracy.

I feel people don't dwell on this fact enough, opting to just focus on the capitalist allegories, which is awesome bc the allegory is strong and well made, but the literal government seperate from allegory is ALSO very well made and unique, i mean I've never seen a fictional government quite like it, and it's impressive.

People often struggle to conceive the thought of another government or societal idea, and Evbo managed to make an entire government and social norm completely different from any of our own.

Like, let's break this government (or lack of) down.

Parkour Civilization has a sole and all-powerful ruler, The Champion. Which makes the society autocratic with a dictator.

The "businesses" ( housing stores, buying food and blocks, etc. ) are collectivley owned, not belonging to a single person but rather the community. Especially in higher layers, people receive as much as they give to their society. If they work, they get food, they do extra tasks, they get blocks. It's essentially a Marxist Leninist socialist society, but one that's heavily affected by the meritocracy, which can make it seem more capitalist leaning.

Speaking of Meritocratic society, people often mistake the meritocratic aspects as being outright capitalistic, like the social hierarchies and needing to parkour for basic necessities. HOWEVER this is because the society is structured based on your merits in parkour, those with a higher skill level are placed higher in the social chain. Thats why the Parkour Champion is a dictator, because they're the person who is THE BEST at parkour, making them the most capable to lead society according to meritocracy.

In any case, the fact that people are forced to parkour ALL the time is pretty understandable, considering this government is based on merit. They're encouraging people to show off and practice their parkour because their skill level is the only thing to get them anywhere in society. Based on their merits, they get their bare essentials, and if they have particularly good skill levels, they can rank up in society and have access to better resources.

People also always talk about how Evbo didn't make food and resources accesable for free without parkour, which is kind of where the capitalist lens takes over because those things ARE free. There isn't a system of currency in Parkour Civilization. it's all just MERITS. The fact they can die from parkour and the fact they use language like "buy" and "sell" makes it seem capitalistic, but they dont work and receive currency. The currency is infinite as long as their SKILL SET allows it. People had to worry about the consequence of dying from parkour, which is what made it scarce and less accesable, people werent willing to try. Evbo, however, gave them the ability to try again without consequence, which pretty much DOES make everything free, as free as it gets. They have infinite "currency" based on their skills, and theres no consequence for failing or trying again.

I also feel that when people beg Evbo or the future generations to turn Parkour Civilization into more of a communist society, they're completely ignoring the worldbuilding. That is an insane leap to make, from a society based on parkour abilities to having nothing to do with parkour? "Well, they can still parkour!" They could, but you'd be removing the vitality of it completely. I mean, imagine asking the states to become fully communist? It's an insane change that their society would never make, and thats not the end goal. Society can be functional and good without our interpretation of a utopic government because every society is different.

I love the government in Parkour Civilization. Please hear this. And ask me questions or talk to me about it.

#parkour civilization #parkciv #evboverse #evbo #pvp civilization #pvpciv #the secret 6th yap layer #pkcv

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months ago

Text

It is so rare, for a day of peace. So, so rare. For the Apollo cabin to be empty, for siblings to be busy, for the sun to be gentle and the birds to be sweet.

"Hey, Will."

So serene. Truly. Cecil lounging on Will's bed, remembering to have taken his shoes off for once. Quietly flipping through a comic book. Will, suffering but willingly, with his Calculus III textbook on the floor. Actually making progress this time, gunning through practice questions.

And Lou Ellen.

It always has to be one of them.

Lou Ellen watches, velvet skirts tucked under her crossed ankles, dark eyes squinting in contemplation.

Will barely looks up, scrawling something illegible over the most graphite-smudged paper maybe in the entire world.

"Yeah."

"Can we kiss for a little bit?"

That works. The slowly shifting sun through the dusty windows pauses. The chisme plants turn, slowly, shifting their stems to the center of the cabin. Will takes a full seventeen seconds to visibly separate from his textbook, process the question, and erupt into a shade of red previously unknown to man.

"Um," he says, or rather squeaks. "Yes?"

Cecil snorts, turning a page.

"Bicycle."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"Just like your father."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"I just want to try something," Lou Ellen soothes, potentially hearing the lack of breathing happening in Will's general direction. "Like, for science. That works for you, right, nerd?"

"Science generally begins with a hypothesis and due process," says Will weakly. But he dutifully crawls over to her direction, settling in front of her. "Um. Now?"

"Now would be great," Lou Ellen agrees. She tilts her head. "So do you just, like, go for it, or...?"

"I mean. In my experience?"

"Which is about to go from two to three," Cecil adds.

This time, Lou Ellen and Will are in perfect sync:

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil!"

Cecil flips another page and promises nothing.

The determination has slowed some of the blush in Will's face, containing it high in his cheeks. Or, well, spite. Cecil-branded fury. That does a whole lot of activating every modicum of ADHD impulsivity in Will's soul.

"Okay," he says, nodding to himself. He meets Lou Ellen's wide, round eyes. "Okay, so I'm gonna -- lean in. And we gotta close our eyes or it's weird. And then I'm gonna kiss you, okay? And you test."

Lou Ellen nods, serious. "Got it."

She breathes in, then out. She purses her lips, leaning forward. Her hands rest, fingers spread, on her knees. Her eyes flutter shut.

Will exhales. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He leans in, gently, and presses his lips to hers, resting a warm hand on the soft curve of her jaw.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, as they separate. "Hm."

Will shifts nervously.

"You smell good," he offers. "And you taste like orange shampoo. In a good way."

Lou Ellen narrows her eyes at him. She reaches her hand out slowly, like how you may approach a startled horse, and grabs Will's chin with the tips of her fingers.

"Why," Will says.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, again. She moves his face from side to side, inspecting. Will does not protest, but does choose to make an entirely unintelligible gesture with his hands. "You are hot, aren't you."

"Gah??" Will says. The confusions shifts rapidly from his face; his eyes widen, pupils narrowing, he tries and fails to pull slightly away and generally makes a collection of noises that boil down to hey, pardon. "I'm??"

Cecil choses this moment in time to tuck his comic carefully away, facing his friends in full. He also chooses to take this time to appraise Will's slightly squished face, nodding smugly.

"Yeah, he's a babe."

"Right, okay, that's what I thought. It's the bone structure, right, it totally --"

"Yeah, yeah, and the pouty lips, that definitely --"

"--you're so literally right --"

"You ever watched his shoulders?"

"They're biteable! Biteable, and when he plays volleyball it's like --"

"--yep. And his legs are approximately the length of the equator."

"Freckly, too, it's so --"

"His eyes??"

"I know??"

"Honestly wild."

They turn to him, twin dark brown eyes glowing amber in the sun, appraising him from his golden hair to his bare toes. Will, unfortunately, seems to be right on the urge of passing out, so red he has begun to glow, so warm Lou is forced to let go, and so lightheaded he has begun to sway.

"Hngg-what," he mumbles, eyes far away. "Wha -- I'm --"

Cecil pokes gently at him with his toe.

"I think we broke him," he observes.

"I see," Lou Ellen agrees, chin in her hands. "That's kinda cute, too."

"Oh yah. He's like -- he's never not a smokeshow, you know? Like he's hot when he's mad."

"Smoking."

"And the whole -- it's diabolical to say, but he's like..."

"Movie star pretty when he cries. Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

They turn to each other, lips pursed in thought. They turn back to their slightly dying friend.

"Hm," they say, together.

Will begins to pray. His father, intrigued, only shifts to better the lighting on Will's face. Will agonizes, shifting to pray to his aunt. This too proves useless.

"You know," says Lou Ellen. She taps her manicured finger against her cheek. "We could always share him."

Cecil raises his eyebrows. "We could?"

"Do I??" Will gestures wildly, face now glowing so brightly he is kind of hard to see. "Get a say??"

Cecil and Lou Ellen look at each other. They look back at Will.

"No."

"Nah."

"That's! I am -- taken, okay! I!"

Cecil snorts. "A long-standing crush on greasy Gerard Way does not count as --"

"It's not his fault he's greasy!"

Lou Ellen observes the boys. She hums to herself, rocking back on her knees.

"-- and he's hardly ever here, you met him like twice --"

"Four times! And he's charming!"

Hm indeed.

"I have an announcement to make," Lou Ellen announces.

Both boys stop immediately. Lou Ellen nods graciously, sitting regally on Will's bed. Will pouts a little, but says nothing.

"I am considering converting to lesbianism," she says solemnly. "I'm not sure yet, but I have been presented with a case and it is compelling."

Will and Cecil shrug, making noises of agreement.

"Yeah, fair."

"I mean, girls. I get you."

Will clears his throat. "But, uh. No boys? For sure?" His pout returns. It is indeed very cute. "Did I do a bad job?"

Lou Ellen reaches over and pats him very gently on the head. Her bangles get in his eyes a little. He blinks them away politely.

"Aw, no. You just seem very hung up, and I'm not sure how well dating Cecil would work, and no one else will talk to me yet."

"Dating me is an amazing experience, I have references," Cecil says, at the same time Will says, "Wait, still?"

There is a pause. Again, they speak at the same time:

"Stop using me as a reference, Cecil, gods."

"You want me to vandalize their possession for you, Lou? I would love to do that for you."

Lou Ellen moves to pat Cecil gently and condensendingly on the head.

"I'm good. Thanks, though. Chiron says they just need time. And perhaps an ass-kicking, if I feel so inclined."

"Sage."

"Good advice, that."

They all nod at each other. Wordlessly, they stand, returning to their earlier positions: Cecil, reclining on Will's bed, having abandoned the comic book for a nap; Will, poking at his math; and Lou Ellen, passing a green spark around her fingers and carefully Observing.

It takes her several minutes of reflection to blink and realise.

References.

Her eyes widen.

"Hey, wait a second --"

#this is so so stupid i love them 😭😭#pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #will solace #lou ellen blackstone #cecil markowitz #will solace & cecil markowitz & lou ellen blackstone #chaos trio #solangelo #pining will solace #barely but whatever LOL #shenanigans #they are all so so stupid #my writing #fic #longpost

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enchantresss97 · 3 months ago

Text

New Look +18

Characters: Bill Skarsgård x reader

Description: After a month apart, Bill invited you at his new movie premiere in New York, but he looks—different. The transformation leaves you breathless, igniting a fire between you both.

Warning: mature theme, SMUT, language, sex, fingering.

Word count: 3060

A/N: So, after yesterday's premiere and Bill's new look, this is a must. As I said before, I think this look of his is my favorite of all. He looks so damn good, so fucking handsome… So, fresh out of the oven, I present to you todays story. I simply couldn't resist. Hope you'll enjoy it.

New Look

It’s been a month since you last saw him. Since you last touched him. You’d FaceTimed, texted, called late into the night, but nothing compared to having him here, right in front of you.

New York is alive tonight. Flashing lights, clicking cameras, the murmur of fans crowding behind barriers. All of it blurs together as you step onto the red carpet, heels clicking against the pavement.

Bill stands a few feet away, caught in the storm of photographers and interviewers, his posture effortless yet commanding. But it’s not just the usual premiere chaos that has your breath catching.

It’s him.

Your breath catches. He looks… different. His thick, beautiful hair is gone, the hair you used to tug on when you kissed him, the thick strands he always ran his fingers through. Gone. The buzz cut sharpens every angle of his face, the brutal structure of his jaw, his cheekbones, his big green eyes. And his body…

Your fingers twitch at your sides. The lean frame you were used to has changed. His suit fits him like a damn glove, hugging his shoulders and chest in ways that make your stomach tighten. He’s filled out, broader, heavier in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

He hasn’t seen you yet, too busy charming the cameras, flashing that easy grin that makes the whole world swoon. But when he finally does catch your gaze over the chaos, his smirk deepens just slightly. The flicker of amusement. If recognition, sends a shiver down your spine.

You barely get a word in. A brush of fingers as he walks past. A murmured, “Hey, baby.” Then he’s gone again, swallowed up by flashing cameras and eager reporters.

It’s not until the after-party that you finally get him to yourself.

The venue is dimly lit, buzzing with music and laughter. Champagne flows freely, and conversations blur into a hazy hum. But all of that fades the moment you feel his presence behind you.

“I was looking for you” He said with his lips dip close to your ear.

You swallow, still speechless about his new look.

“You’re different,” you murmur, voice lower than intended.

He hums, crowding you subtly against the bar. “Good different?”

You wet your lips, still trying to process it, but your body already knows the answer. You feel warm, hot, even. A different kind of heat from the one in your cheeks.

His eyes drop to your mouth as he invades your space, close enough that the scent of him, clean, warm, unmistakably Bill floods your senses. “Cat got your tongue, baby?” His voice is thick with amusement.

You turn slightly, meeting his gaze, heartbeat thrumming. “Maybe I was just admiring the view.”

His lips quirk. He leans in just a fraction more, enough that his mouth nearly brushes your skin when he speaks. “That so?”

Your pulse jumps. You should play it coy, tease him like you always do but instead, you tilt your chin up, fingers grazing the lapel of his jacket. “You look…” Your voice drops, just for him. “So fucking good.”

His breath hitches. His eyes darken.

And then, before you can push him further, he straightens, stepping back just enough for others to hear when he says, “Can you come with me for a second? I want to show you something.”

You excuse yourself from your friends saying you’re coming back soon. Smiling and letting him take your hand, and he leads you away from the noise, down a quiet hallway.

Your heart hammers as he nudges open a door, pulling you into the dimly lit room. A private lounge, empty and waiting. The moment the door clicks shut, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes against yours, raw and hungry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You gasp into him, fingers threading into the remnants of his hair,feeling a strange sensation now, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. He groans, deep and low, pressing you against the nearest wall.

When you finally break apart, your breath is ragged. “So,” you murmur, eyes locked on his, “what did you want to show me?”

His lips brush over your jaw, trailing lower, voice thick with heat when he finally answers.

“How much I’ve fucking missed you.”

Your stomach clenches. Heat floods through you, pooling deep.

His hands tighten on your hips, his mouth ghosting over yours again, teasing. “Needed to get you out of there,” he murmurs, “because I need to feel you.”

You barely manage a breath before his lips claim yours again. Deep, slow, and devastating.

The second his body presses into yours, a shudder runs through you. It’s not just the heat, not just the weight of him. It’s everything.

The absence. The waiting. The quiet ache of missing him in the dead of night, of longing for the warmth of his skin, the feel of his mouth moving against yours.

Bill exhales sharply, his breath warm as his lips trail along your jaw. “A month,” he murmurs, voice rough. “A fucking month.”

His fingers dig into your waist, like he still can’t believe you’re here, beneath him, solid and real. You tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and his lips latch onto the skin there, desperate, needy.

“I thought about this every night,” you admit, voice thick, barely more than a breath. “About you. About your hands on me.”

A quiet groan rumbles through him, his nose brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. “You have no idea,” he murmurs. “How much I needed this. How much I needed you.”

Your hands explore him, tracing over muscle, over the solid weight of him, over his arms, broader than before. He feels different. Stronger, heavier but still so familiar. You arch beneath him, pressing yourself closer, needing more.

Bill’s lips hover just above yours, his big green eyes dark, hazy with heat. His breath comes hard, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he takes you in. Like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

And his lips. God, those full lips. You’ve spent a month missing them, dreaming about them, and now they’re so close, so warm, his mouth just barely brushing yours, teasing the way only he can.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “I need to feel you.”

His fingers slide down, tracing the bare skin of your thigh, pushing higher, pushing your dress up, his breath growing heavier. “I know, baby,” he murmurs. “I know.”

His fingers glide over your thigh, slow and deliberate, tracing delicate patterns along your skin. The warmth of his touch sends shivers up your spine, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room.

Then Bill’s fingers linger at the edge of your panties, teasing, torturing, his touch light enough to leave you desperate. You try to move against him, but he stops you, holding you in place with a gentle, commanding pressure.

His lips trail along your jaw, his breath warm and heavy against your skin. “I can feel how wet you are for me,” he murmurs, his voice thick, like he’s savoring the way your body responds to him.

You swallow hard, unable to hold back the soft whimper that slips from your lips. “Baby, please.” you breathe.

He groans softly at your words, his thumb brushing the wetness through the lace, sending a wave of electricity coursing through you. “Yeah, baby? You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you” His fingers press harder, his grip tightening on your pussy. “Waiting for me to touch you like this again.”

You nod, panting now, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

Bill’s lips brush against yours, soft, barely there. Just a tease. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, his fingers sliding down to finally slip beneath the fabric, inserting one finger inside you, his touch warm, rough. “I was thinking so much about how fucking perfect you feel around me” he said introducing another digit.

You gasp as his fingers press deeper, his touch slow and deliberate, exploring, pushing you further into the rush of sensation. You’ve never needed him more than you do now, and he knows it. He knows exactly how to make you feel every inch of him.

His thumb circles your clit, slow, purposeful, his other hand gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might slip away. But there’s no chance of that. You’re completely at his mercy.

“Bill…” you gasp, your hands gripping at his shoulders, your nails biting into his skin.

“I know how much you’ve been craving this. How much you’ve missed me.” He murmurs, his fingers move faster now, his thumb pressing with just the right amount of pressure.

Every stroke, every movement has you gasping for air, your body tightening with need.

“You feel so good, you don’t know how fucking long I’ve been wanting this,” he growls, his green eyes dark with lust, his breath a rasp against your lips. “I’ve thought about this so many times, baby... Been so fucking long since the last time I felt your tight pussy dripping on my fingers”

His lips crash into yours, your body flooding with warmth as his fingers continue to drive you crazy.

There’s nothing but him, nothing but the way he makes you feel. Touched, wanted, like you’re the only thing that matters in that moment.

It��s like everything inside of you snaps at once, your body tensing as an intense wave of pleasure crashes over you. A deep, trembling release takes over, and you gasp, your hands clutching at him, your nails digging into his skin as you ride out the pleasure.

Bill’s thumb doesn’t stop, pushing you through the waves, guiding you to the peak, keeping you there, making sure you feel every moment. You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in shaky bursts, but you don’t want it to stop.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, his fingers moving in time with your body, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from you. “Come for me. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

When the last tremor fades, you collapse against him, completely spent, your body trembling in his arms. The world feels hazy, but Bill’s presence keeps you anchored. He holds you, his hand caressing your back, making sure you’re safe, still with him.

Bill pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with desire. With a firm, possessive grip, he spins you around, positioning you so your hands brace against the cold wall in front of you. You’re bent over slightly, facing the wall, your chest heaving as your pulse races to catch up.

You feel exposed. Vulnerable. But you also feel the tension between your legs building again. Bill’s gaze lingers on you, taking in every inch of your body, before he moves closer, his body pressing into yours from behind. You can feel the heat of him, the hardness of his cock against you as his hands slide over your hips, pulling you closer to him.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his lips trailing gently along your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “I need to be inside you baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough, just a whisper in your ear that sends a wave of heat to your core.

His fingers slide between your thighs, gently parting them as he takes his time, making you ache all over again. His touch is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring each moment, each inch of your body. You feel yourself getting wetter, your body betraying you as it begs for him.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips tighter, urging you to push back against him. “Missed this. Missed you.” and with one slow, deliberate motion, he enters you from behind. The feeling of him filling you completely, slowly. Is enough to make you gasp, your body still trembling from the previous release, but your hips pushing back toward him as if you need him to claim you once more.

His hands grip your hips, holding you still as he thrusts into you slowly, teasingly, making you feel every inch of his cock. The sensation is almost too much, the raw connection between you both almost unbearable.

“God, you feel so fucking incredible,” Bill mutters, his voice low and guttural. He pulls back, only to slam into you harder, his hands steady on your hips as he moves with a rhythm that makes you lose yourself completely.

His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he slams into you harder, faster. The sound of his body slapping against yours fills the air, raw and desperate. You can’t stop yourself from pushing back against him, meeting every thrust with equal hunger. Every movement is a reminder of how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve missed this.

“I can’t get enough of you, baby.” he groans, his voice thick with lust.

You let out a breathless moan, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “Bill… I…fuck, I’ve missed you so much,” you whimper, the words coming out in a rush as he continues to thrust into you, each movement making your body shake with need.

Bill’s hands move up your body, grabbing your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your neck. You feel his lips trail down the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing against the sensitive skin as his body pounds into you from behind, relentless. The pleasure is almost too much to bear, and your knees tremble, struggling to keep you upright.

“Your pussy feels so good,” he growls, his voice low and commanding, as if he’s trying to claim you in every way possible. “I need to feel you so fucking much.” His hands grip you even tighter, and he thrusts harder, deeper, pushing you further into the wall. The sound of his words, the heat in his voice, sends a wave of excitement through you, and you can feel yourself on the edge again.

“Bill, please… I need you to…” you cut yourself off with a sharp moan as he changes his angle, hitting a spot that makes your whole body tremble.

“You need me, huh?” he mutters in your ear, his breath hot and urgent against your skin. “You want me to fuck you hard until you can’t walk tomorrow?”

Your body trembles at his words, the filthy promise making you ache even more. “Yes,” you gasp, unable to stop yourself from giving in to him completely. “Yes, baby. I need it. I want you. Holy fuck!”

Bill pulls your hips back harder, forcing you to take every inch of him as he slams into you with no mercy. You’re lost in him, your mind spinning with lust, your body taken over by the raw intensity of his touch. He leans forward, his chest pressed against your back, and his lips find the sensitive spot on your neck, biting down sharply as he keeps fucking you hard.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” he growls, his voice rough, low, full of heat.

You moan loudly, your words a breathless confession. “I want you so fucking bad, baby… Make me come again…”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. With a deep, savage thrust, he drives you into the wall, hitting the spot that makes you scream out in pleasure. Your fingers claw at the wall for support as your body jerks with the force of your orgasm. The pleasure crashes through you, raw and untamed, making your legs go weak as you shudder against him.

But Bill doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down. His hands grip your waist even harder, lifting you slightly to give him better leverage, making you to stay on your toes, and then he’s fucking you harder than ever. You’re almost numb with pleasure, your body writhing under him as his rough thrusts push you closer to another climax.

“You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re gonna make me come so much. I need to feel you fucking squeeze my cock.” His words are filthy, possessive, and it only makes you want him more. You cry out, your body shuddering against the wall as he drives you into oblivion.

“Bill,” you gasp, breathless. “Please baby.” You moan loudly.

He groans deeply, his hands pulling you back, forcing you to take him deeper, harder. The pressure builds again, your body already sensitive from the last orgasm, but your body is begging for more. You feel him, deep inside you, his cock moving with a frantic need, and you feel the tension in your stomach coil tighter.

With a final, powerful thrust, you explode again, your body shaking with release, your nails digging into the wall as your orgasm crashes over you. Bill groans your name, his hips stuttering as he finally comes with you, his fingers gripping your hips desperately as he fills you, each spasm of his body sending waves of pleasure through yours.

For a moment, neither of you moves, both of you breathless, spent, and tangled in each other’s arms. Bill’s hands gently move up your back, holding you against him, still deep inside you as you both catch your breath. He places soft kisses along your neck, his lips still trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment.

You let out a slow, raspy laugh, your body still trembling, feeling lightheaded from everything that just happened. The sound is soft at first, but it slowly grows into something more, a soft, breathless giggle escaping your lips. You don’t know if it’s from the overwhelming pleasure or just the sheer release of tension, but you can’t help yourself.

Bill’s lips curl into a slow, satisfied smile as he brushes your hair away from your neck, his breath still ragged. “If I’d known cutting my hair would lead to this,” he murmurs, his voice still heavy with lust, “I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

You laugh again, the sound husky, more from desire than anything else. “You look even better now,” you whisper, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. “I think I like you more this way.”

Bill chuckles, the sound deep and low. His fingers gently caress your back, as if he can’t get enough of touching you. “Good,” he says softly, his voice still thick with the weight of the moment. “Because it stays.”

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