#I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!? WC this chap- 11.5k (longestt)

Warnings- WOW this chap has it all, heed the warnings - filming porn masturbation ( m) oral (m and f receiving) spit kink HIGH KEY, mentions of cum, multiple rounds, switching positions, size kink, swallowing (M and F) explicit sex, feral Gojo, squirting, mating press, tummy bulges, lots of fucking goddamn- Gojo is whipped mutual pining, obsessive Gojo. Angsty asf in places, lots of jealousy

A/N- Taglist closed- This was so smut filled I took MULTIPLE breaks aha, maybe my most smut filled one ever? don't read in public actually - please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Two - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Four>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Three

You can’t escape the desire you have, even in your dreams.

Waking up cumming was not just new, it was ridiculous, and you didn’t even know that happened until this morning. Waking up with your cunt throbbing around nothing, and gushing arousal, as your dream was filled with Satoru kissing you, fucking into you with that thick, huge cock, hitting spots deep inside that felt real even in your dreams.

That’s it, sweetheart, cum all around my cock, hmm? Lemme feel her- there you go, baby.

That had done too much to your sleeping brain apparently, because you couldn’t stop cumming either, crying out and whining when you’d touched your cunt and felt the slick coating everything. After shaking violently from it, you’d peeked and seen a good morning text from him, all while you had to go get cleaned up, trying to compose yourself before you texted back.

Jenna calls now, shaking you out of your reverie, and the two of you plan lunch the next day. “You’re having dinner with him?”

“Yeah, but as a… friend?”

“Oh baby, you’re too cute.” You sigh, leaning back as you stir up some dough for cookies you were baking later, the sunlight filtering in through the little kitchen window you have open wide. You peer out into the sky, thinking it’s not as pretty as Satoru’s eyes.

“I do really feel things, but Jenna I can’t not be near him, if it’s as a friend, then it’s as a friend.” Jenna sighs louder than you did. “Are we having a sighing contest?”

“I’ll win any loud moan contest, but your sighs are cuter.”

“Jenna!”

You both laugh then, and a beep sounds on your phones. “Ah, looks like he’s going to stream. Gonna go watch your friend?”

“You’re an instigator. Maybe.” She giggles again, as you finish preheating the oven, scooping the dough onto the parchment paper.

“Be careful, you’re a grown woman, and things change, but don’t forget yourself, okay?” You pause then, emotions catching in your throat at her words. “I’m not trying to be the ‘mom’ I swear.”

“I know, Jenna. I love you, see you soon?” You end the call after she says goodbye, popping the cookies in the oven and turning them on. You set up your laptop, deciding to do some work for the weekend on a project your friend hired you for, but the temptation of seeing Satoru keeps nagging at your mind.

The man certainly has a pretty cock, but you think it’s the way he looks at the camera that fucks you up, it’s probably why he’s so good at it, his job. And he clearly enjoyed it, even though you know he was having a little difficulty with the last shoot, perhaps he prefers solo lately? To think you had anything to do with that was foolish, so you wouldn’t allow the thought.

The timer beeps, you stand up and stretch, turning off the timer and oven then, grabbing a bright red oven mitt and pulling out the sheet pan, smelling delectable, the steam hot and rising, scent filling your nostrils. You loved to bake, especially when you were stressed, and you suppose you were, having feelings for a man currently stroking his cock for the camera was conflicting at best.

You keep trying to tell yourself that it’s not feelings, that you’re inexperienced and confused, but you know you’re lying to yourself. You eye that silver laptop again, remembering the last time, the image of him sucking his own cum off his fingers is burned deep, a core memory at this fucking point. You shake it off, then sigh, giving into temptation.

You’d just tip him a hundred again to be supportive, you tip Jenna all the time, it’s fine, it’s something a friend can do.

Right?

You log in to the onlyfans platform, the black and blue OF making you just a bit nervous, clicking on the stream then, taking several breaths as you click on it. Fully prepared to be soaking wet, the sight that greets you is not Satoru stroking his cock, it’s another woman, her thighs spread, while Satoru runs circles on her clit. She’s propped on his lap, her head against his bare collarbones, moaning.

Your heart shatters then, and it shouldn’t, no you’re so stupid!

You are Satoru’s friend, and it was your choice to check his stream, to tip and be supportive but ultimately you know what you potentially signed up for. You saw him with Jenna, and for whatever reason that had not bothered you- maybe because it was before he touched you, looked at you like that.

The girl in front of him has two of his fingers shoved deep as he has her feet propped up on his thighs while you blink away stupid tears that shouldn’t exist, there’s no anger but there’s so much jealousy you shock yourself. You’re a girl’s girl, you’re supportive, what is this!? You’d like to rip her right off his lap, and you hate yourself for it right now.

You shake it off, looking away as the cookies fill your home with the sweet scent of sugar and chocolate. It should be a cheery morning, but you can’t even focus on anything but the conflict in your heart. You stare back again, hearing Satoru’s soft, husky voice, watching all the comments in the chat while he grips one of her breasts in his big hand.

Her head falls forward, and the way you vividly imagine it being you instead has you heating up, in more ways than excitement, embarrassment - you’d never be that girl for him, you wish you could be that way. But Satoru and you together felt too special, especially to share, how could you fall when this was your idea!?

You can’t be upset.

You take a breath, shutting your eyes and looking away as his voice resonates through the laptop’s speakers, echoicing in the quiet. If you were crazy enough you’d say it sounded different than with you, that he let go more, that you were even wetter when he touched you, but you’re starting to think you’re delusional.

“So, we wanna hit this spot right here, for any men watching, you’re gonna curl up here, that spot feels good, doesn’t it honey?” Your jaw sets, swiping tears from under your glasses now.

“Ah, y-yes Gojo!” Her moan echoes too much, he pauses then, the squelching of her cunt stops, it’s all quiet as he just stares at the camera like he’s staring at you, his lips parted, eyes widening just a bit, but there’s no way.

You’ve lost it.

You tip him the hundred as you’d intended to, quickly shutting your laptop and damn near hyperventilating. What’s wrong with you!? His job is to fuck women, so you saw him touching one, what do you expect? The man had a gang bang scene just yesterday, and dinner with you tonight. You have to shove it all down then, you have to remember what he does.

It didn’t mean it wasn’t special though, for you.

Did he do things off camera with-

Stop it!

The phone rings a few minutes later and you just stare at it, lost in your own head, wishing you could compartmentalize it so much better, that you could separate the two. You were so stupid for engaging and knowing, but at the same time, to not have Satoru seems like something you can’t compute, even if it is just as a friend, even if you can’t be sexual.

Maybe you read it all wrong, that night.

Satoru calls again, shaking out his hand as his co star is now fucking herself quite expertly on a dildo, since Satoru can’t get hard for anything - it’s worse today than yesterday - he decided to turn it into a guided masturbation video. At least his fucking fingers still work, despite jerking off to you so much his cock is raw, remembering your lips surrounding it.

Even fingering her he’s picturing your pussy, fuck he wants to just bury his face in it again, he knows the two of you are ‘friends’ or whatever the fuck this was, but it’s exceedingly difficult when it’s affecting him like this. He keeps wondering if you all sleep together, will it make it worse or better? Was he all in his head, as if you would go for someone like him if he did date.

What was he thinking lately?

He saw your name in the stream and his stomach had dropped - and why, you’re just a friend, it was fine if you wanted to see a bit of a stream and tip, he knows it is to be supportive. You’re supportive and sweet, so sweet, god your taste and scent still haunt him, he’s been dying to see you tonight, in any capacity, but when he saw the name he felt awful.

He only wants to fuck you, touch you, but he has a career and commitments, to get her to agree to this instead of fucking was already difficult and he was slowly losing it as his cock kept refusing to work. Even if he could get it up, he didn’t like the idea of fucking someone else at all, after the debacle of a gang bang yesterday. But even touching someone was doing nothing for him.

Now he saw you leave so quickly, and decided to gently smack his co star’s ass, smiling as he bent her over, murmuring he needs a break. She eagerly took over the spotlight, the opportunity was a huge one for her anyway as a smaller star. Satoru keeps staring at your picture, sighing as he notices the little reflections in your glasses, touching the screen softly.

You saw him touching someone, did you care, did it bother you-

Why is he thinking like this!?

He calls again, and you answer, much to his relief, as his hands let go of the bathroom counter he’d gripped too tightly. “Hey Satoru, sorry I popped in, I thought it was um… you…”

“Jerking off?” He finishes the sentence, leaning back against his wall and shutting his eyes.

“Yeah, I didn’t know you did um… shoots at home. You should get back to it, why are you calling me, silly? Looks like um… you were, ah… doing… good.” You’re breaking out every voice, cursing yourself quietly, why can’t you just speak? You’re shoving it all down, trying not to cry - there’s no reason to!

“Ah, yeah I thought I’d try to teach people how to make women cum, they fail often you know.” He tries to make it light, as his stomach clenches, a sick feeling when he hears your forced laugh.

“That’s very true. Someone should give you a Nobel prize for this work.” He snorts then, as the laughter becomes a little more genuine. “No you’re amazing at that. Why not show them how?”

“You thought I was amazing, hmm?” His tone changes, cock throbbing when he just hears your sigh, picturing you vividly in his mind, while the sounds of his co-star echo, moans and squelching wetness that does nothing for him.

Didn’t he used to enjoy all of this?

“You know I thought that.” Your heart pounds, you have to remember, Satoru is amazing and just because you’re hurt, you can’t be mad or upset at him. He’s not yours in any way, even if you’re starting to wish he was. “Isn’t your co-star waiting?”

“She’s occupying herself fine. It’s not… sex…” Because I can’t get hard unless it’s you. “It’s just a tutorial.”

“Oh,” your relief shouldn’t exist, you shouldn’t care, but to hear that does make you slump over just a bit, before taking a breath. “Do you want to do dinner another day, it’s already four-”

“No, no!” Satoru panics then, since when does smooth pornstar Satoru freak the fuck out and act desperate? “I mean, no. I want to see you tonight. I have time to shower and get there.”

He wants to wash any of this girl off, frantically actually, he wants you all over him, even if it’s just him pleasing you more. But moreso, even if you just wanted to have dinner and that was it, he’d be happy, though the thought of fucking you with his fingers while you eat dessert is insanely tempting, making his tip drool precum quite annoyingly as he glares in the mirror.

“Okay good, I was looking forward to it.” Your whisper is soft and genuine, as he sees the red on his cheeks, the black pupils, just thinking of you shifts his entire face.

Fuck.

“I’ll start getting ready, I think it’s time you see I can get dressed up.” You tease softly, swiping stupid tears and trying to plaster a bright smile on your face as you stare in your mirror. Your eyes are puffy, the color drained from your face, lips trembling - just seeing that has affected your entire face, taking off your glasses so you don’t even have to look at yourself for a moment.

“I bet you’re gonna kill me, you look so pretty any time I see you,” his voice is hoarse, as he spills the vulnerable truth, and the two of you shut your eyes, leaning against your bathroom counters. “But I’m excited to see you dolled up.”

“Are you, Satoru?” You try to hide the insecurities haunting you, hearing his sexy, heavy sigh on the other line.

“Very excited. I’ll see you soon, sweets.”

The two of you hang up and you sigh, eyeing the clock now - you have about two hours to get ready, and you’re so nervous your palms are sweaty and numb. It may just be two ‘friends’ having dinner, but you want to shove that image back you just saw, and focus, and try to look beautiful tonight.

Satoru’s own hands are numb, as he curses, slamming a hand on his forehead, unable to think of anything but you, barely able to pull himself together. When he walks out, Suguru is there, nibbling in the kitchen, raising a brow at him. “You good, Satoru?”

“Fine, I… you wanna finish that for me?” He gestures to the room, while Suguru sips down water. “I think I have a kind of date or something.”

“A date!? Huh?” Satoru just looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t think it’s a date, it’s friends or something? Maybe... I don’t know. Is dinner a date if it's not with a costar?” Suguru rolls his violet eyes, sighing as he washes his hands now, patting them dry with a paper towel.

“You’re acting weird as fuck lately, that cute little good girl got you simping?” Satoru scoffs, rolling his blue eyes now.

“Suguru, just do me a solid.” Satoru pouts, earning Suguru’s scoff.

“Fine, fine, but you owe me one.” Suguru and Satoru enter the room, as Satoru eases the transition, the notes in the chat are going insane, he can’t help but exhale in relief, before pausing at the thought.

Was there some way to save his malfunctioning dick?

*****

Satoru whistles when he meets you at the restaurant that evening, running just a little late, you're sitting there nibbling on your thumb, peering at the menu when he arrives. Your eyes light up behind a different pair of glasses, these have cute red rims, matching the red dress you're wearing that's making him ache.

He hasn't seen you in something like this, not that you weren't always pretty, but when you stand up and he sees how it fits your body it almost takes him everything to hold back. Vividly picturing bending you right over that table and fucking you in front of the entire restaurant, gripping the red shimmery fabric that drapes across every line and curve of that body.

He can't form a word, notoriously known for never shutting up, but he can't think of anything to say, when you shyly look down, hands fidgeting in front of your lap, and he’s standing there sputtering. It’s awkward even, until the waitress comes up and smiles over at Satoru, gesturing to a seat, saying - ‘This must be the friend you were waiting for!’

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, you look beautiful.” He says finally, pressing a kiss to your cheek, feeling it heat up against his lips. You shake your head with a sweet turn of your lips, kissing his cheek in turn.

“You’re fine, Satoru, I still haven’t learned LA time.” He chuckles at that just a bit, sitting across from you now, before deciding to sit next to you instead, shoulders brushing together.

“This feels more comfy? It feels all formal the other way.”

“Does it feel too… date like?” He falters then, because that was not it, but the doubt has crept in on your face, when the waitress asks you all for your order, and he has to blink back the confusion. “What do you suggest?”

“Want me to order for you?” You nod shyly, god the submissive nature of you makes him ache in way too many ways, knowing how perfect of a girl you’d be for him in every aspect. “We’ll have this,” he says, pointing to the menu now. “And bring two glasses of champagne please.”

“Are we celebrating?” You tease, handing the waitress the menu, Satoru chuckles a bit, shaking his head while you take in how handsome he looks, brushing your fingers against his suit jacket. “You look so good, Satoru.”

“Thank you, sweets.” He holds your hand then, fuck it feels too good, pressing it against the dark red suit jacket that truly only he could pull off, black button down shirt left open, showing enough of his chest to make anyone die over. Your eyes look at it now, a few of the chains he wears resting along the strong muscles, settling between his collarbones. “You’re making me look bad, wearing in that dress.”’

“No way!”

“Absolutely, you are. You’re so pretty, fuck…” He’s brushing back a tendril, as you eye him, that look that drives him insane, the look that’s ruined him since he met you. He tries to smirk, to act calm, teasing, “I look that good?”

“Yes, shit. Sorry.” He laughs softly, shaking his head when you pull your hand back gently.

“We match, great minds you know.”

“Indeed, we clearly coordinated telepathically!” He laughs then, and it's just like that first night, when you and him just hit it the fuck off. It’s comfortable, it’s fun - so fun - that people smile at the two of you, as you laugh like friends for years. It’s how it feels, like you’ve known him, a way you can’t explain.

But you wished it was just the friendliness, not the heat in your tummy when he wipes a droplet of clear, bubbly champagne from his plump lips, if every time his thigh brushed yours you didn’t melt. Someone comes up then, a really pretty girl, and you feel Satoru stiffen a bit, making you tense, sipping on the tart champagne and averting your eyes a bit.

“Gojo, it's been what, a year?!” He smiles with ease, standing and kissing her cheek, hugging her tightly.

“It has been, shit, how you been?” It’s all very Hollywood, their exchange, you feel you’ll never figure it out, the two years you’ve been here after relocating and you still couldn’t get being kissy on everyone.

It makes you think of him earlier, his fingers in that-

Stop that!

He’s saying your name you errantly realize, you plaster on a smile as she looks at you curiously, eyeing you up and down. “Co-star?”

“No, no, she’s my friend. She’s a good girl.” He winks down at you, and she giggles then, holding her hand out.

“It’s awesome to meet you!”

“You too. Are you um…”

“A former co-star, yeah. Satoru is the best in the industry.” Ah, so she fucked him, too. You want to be petty and scowl and you hate yourself for it more.

You never, ever are like this.

You never have been.

She’s touching his shoulder and making you sick, when your eyes catch a familiar face, a man standing with a group of other men, smiling over at you, he’s one of your co-workers that is always working. You wave at him while Satoru finishes his conversation, and he adjusts his tan jacket, touching the arm of one of the men, letting them go as he walks to you.

You tense just a bit, while the girl finally leaves, and Satoru’s sitting next to you once more, as his phone rings. He turns it off, jaw tensing when a blond man takes your hand and bends down at the waist, like some old school gentleman, pressing a kiss to the back of your delicate wrist, the pretty bracelet slides down your arm as he does it, and he watches your blush.

The fuck.

He was trying his best to get that girl to go on, so he could get back to talking to you, but now some random guy has your attention, and Satoru doesn’t like it, not one fucking bit. “Nanami, this is Satoru.”

“Nanami, huh?” He leans back, flipping off his phone again, you look at him curiously.

“Need to grab that?” You ask, and he shakes his head, swiping it off once more, ignoring his manager while this Nanami guy eyes you behind green glasses.

“You look stunning, is that alright to say?” You giggle again, Satoru glares at you, how dare you giggle at him!?

He told you that you looked beautiful. Did you giggle?

He wants to punch this smirking man in the face.

What’s wrong with him!?

“Thank you, Nanami, I guess you don’t see me too dressed up at work, huh? You always dress so well.”

“Oh stop, you’re flattering me. And this is your…” He trails off, looking at Gojo, who has to wipe the glare off his face for a moment.

Say it, Satoru.

More than a friend.

You look at him then, as if you’re waiting for him to say that, to say something, while Nanami’s lips quirk up just a bit, making Satoru want to smack him again. He takes a breath, smiling then instead of glaring, but his hand is on the small of your back. “We’ve become close friends, very quickly.”

“Oh? I’ve known her for a long time,” Nanami says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. You look at Satoru, whose phone starts ringing again, and he curses, rolling his blue eyes. “Need to take that?”

“It’s my manager, they have horrible timing. I’ll be right back.” He murmurs, you smile understandingly, while his manager trips on him about earlier.

He knows his dick doesn’t work, and now he knows he hates touching anyone, but he doesn’t know how to explain it to anyone when he has no fucking clue why this is happening. He’s obsessed with a sweet, shy little thing that is currently getting hit on by a dude buffer than him.

Maybe he’d be good for you.

Satoru is too petty to admit it though, glaring instead while his manager goes on and on. “Listen, I get it, you need content.”

“We need you with women, a lot of your viewers are men, they’re not gonna tune in to watch you solo. Find someone that works for you, I don’t care who at this point, but we’re just not gonna make profit if you keep turning down roles. Or, I heard, you shoved a girl off on Geto.”

“I didn’t… shove her off, I just…” Satoru frowns again, the blond man is sitting next to you in the other seat, your eyes are on Satoru however they turn away when he catches your gaze.

He just wants to fuck you right in front of that fucking man now. God, if you would be interested in starring in something, you’d make bank, it’s not just his obsession, your pussy is the prettiest one he’s seen. Your tits, your body, they’re all so sexy, and your pretty face with those glasses? You’d kill any sexy nerd shoot there was.

“Satoru!”

Shit.

He can’t get the vision of you in some slutty ass librarian outfit from running through his head.

“Yeah, I got it. I’ll try to get something going, I mean I was gonna do a solo tonight anyway.”

“That’s fine, but remember you’re a lot more than just Onlyfans. You’re a star, Satoru, that comes with a certain level of appearances. So whatever is going on, you gotta get it together, or we’re both not making shit.” He sighs, leaning back against the wall now, eyes going back to you, giggling at something he’s said.

He’s too close to you.

Why does he mind so much?

“I’ll get a shoot done.” The words feel horrible, the thought of fucking anyone else just seems like an impossibility, and he doesn’t know how to compute it in his mind.

What did you do?

“Alright, I expect some video with a woman - not with Suguru. Though…”

“I’m not fucking Suguru.” He chuckles as people look at him a bit, running a hand through his white locks. “He is pretty but not my type.”

“He’s gonna be your type if you turn down every other actress.”

“Ugh.”

“Mmhmm, talk to you later.” He hangs up, frowning at his phone, trying to gather himself before he does something so stupid, jealousy filling him and for what?

You’re talking. You’re not his. He had his fingers buried in a girl this morning, why does he care if you did anything? He knows you’re not that girl, though, but you choose to be with him. It makes him feel far, far more special than he’d admit, the fact that you want him, that you trust him. Was he mistaking the look in your eyes, was it just desire there?

“If you are single, would you mind a date sometime? I haven’t had so much fun talking in a long time.” Nanami says softly, making you look down shyly, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks from the soft lights hanging above you in the dimly lit, pretty restaurant. “Am I too bold?”

“No, no. I just haven’t been on a date in forever.” Satoru feels like he’s been punched in the chest as he hears, nearing the table and acting like he didn’t wanna yank you to him and kiss you then and there.

But he chose to tell him you’re friends, that’s what you were, a friend he wants to fuck all night in every position imaginable. Then lick his own cum out of your cunt, abused from his cock, and fuck you all morning. God he can’t stop thinking about them all, have you dragged on his face, his hands on your waist, let you ride his mouth till he couldn’t breathe.

Real fucking friendly.

Satoru’s hands grip and release while he hears your answer, “I will think about it, Mr. Nanami, it may be fun.”

That’s almost a yes.

Fuck.

“Think about what?” He asks with a smile, leaned back in the booth, a hand brushing your bare thigh under the table, where your dress had slid up from you sitting, he feels it tense while he drags his fingertips across it, eyeing you then.

Was Satoru trying to confuse you more? You look at him again, some toxic part of you that you don’t recognize wants him to claim you, what the fuck was that!? You have never been that way, you’ve never been a lot of things until you met this blue-eyed man, however, and even with a handsome Nanami flirting, you can’t get Satoru’s moans out of your mind.

Snap out of it!

“A date with your lovely friend. You two are just friends?” He looks between the two of you now, and Satoru opens his mouth, but what can he say?

It’s what you ‘are’.

Would he be worthy of dating you if he wanted to, when his job was fucking other women? You didn’t deserve that, you deserved to be the only one, fuck you literally had become his one singular, consuming thought. He smiles good naturedly, eyeing you now, watching you bite your lower lip, teeth digging into the plush of it, while your thighs tremble just a bit.

“We just met at a party a few weeks ago, but we are really close. Quickly.” He murmurs.

“Can’t see you partying.” Nanami’s hand comes to touch your other thigh, and for a girl who hasn’t had any in forever, the sensation of two big hands on your thighs is addling your mind. “No offense, darling you seem a little straight laced…” his words are trailed off with his hand squeezing gently.

Satoru scowls at him.

Is he touching you!?

Do you like it?

“I don’t party, it’s true.” You smile now, a hand over his, thumbs brushing his knuckles, while Satoru’s squeezing so hard you wince before he realizes it, letting go of his grip, but the hand staying on your knee. “I think we could go on a date sometime, as long as it doesn’t make work weird.”

“Not at all, all right I’ll leave you two to hang out then,” he stands, holding out a hand for Satoru, he squeezes the shit out of Nanami’s hand with a forced smile, only for Nanami to squeeze tighter. And fuck he’s strong. Then, he takes your hand, murmuring a - “I’ll see you at work, then,” and kissing the back of your hand. “Darling.”

Darling.

Satoru will show him darling.

You giggle, only pissing him off more, nodding shyly, fuck you’re cute even when you’ve made him furious. He’s shared women so many times he can’t count, even girls he got closer to, regular girls that you could almost say he ‘dated’ he’d still regularly bang out with his friends. He’s not possessive in general, he’s open minded and a free spirit.

Or he was!?

“Sounds good, Mr. Nanami.” He hates how you say his name, when the man in the khaki suit and dumbass cheetah tie leaves, finally. “He’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, so sweet.” You look at him then, narrowing your eyes curiously.

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t know him. Seems boring, pretentious.” You blink in confusion, eyeing the retreating figure walking out, he even waves at you, which you return.

“He doesn’t seem like either to me. Satoru, you said we are just friends, are you worried that we won’t… do all that we do if I date someone?” Your words drop to a quiet murmur, and he sighs.

“Yes I would be very upset if I didn’t get to taste you again, why wouldn’t I be? It’d be a fuckin’ tragedy, sweetheart.” His words are too husky, when he leans against you, turning just so, his fingers slipping up your inner thigh, a side of sweet, nice Satoru you hadn’t seen yet, you almost think he looks…

He can’t be jealous.

Right?

You're delusional.

“I don’t just sleep around, so if we went on a date I wouldn’t do that. But, if I hit it off, and got serious, I wouldn’t continue our… lessons. I can only be with one person at one time.” He tenses then, is he going to lose you before he even gets you? “I don’t care if you do the same, I know it’s your job, but I couldn’t.”

“I’m not fucking anyone right now. My manager is bitching at me about it.” You tilt your head curiously, the chandelier earrings dancing in glittering prisms along your neck as you study him. “I’m having issues on set.”

“Is everything okay?” You ask, concern in your voice now, as he shakes his head. “Satoru, what's wrong?”

“I’m not in a good headspace it seems, the gang bang I failed, and I pushed the girl this morning on Suguru. So if I don’t give my manager something, they’re gonna be pissed. And no money for us if I can’t show up.”

“What’s wrong though, you seemed fine with Jenna in what I watched? Is this a new problem?” God you’re clueless to your effects, aren’t you? You touch his thigh too, instantly making his cock hard, looking down and getting flustered, he feels your heat, just making him harder. “You seem to work fine to me. Are the cameras getting too stressful?”

“I don’t know, but it really is a problem. Do you think… you could help your very handsome, amazing friend out?” You look up at him, curious.

“Help how?”

“Your good video skills, film a hot jerk off stream, good angles? Maybe that will get enough money he’ll chill some until I get over this.” You look away, the images of Satoru stroking his cock are burned in your brain. “Too much?”

“No, no. I can help, I feel I am taking up your time-”

“You’re not.” He cups your face then, turning it to him. “You’re never taking up my time, I enjoy being here. Okay?” You exhale, fuck had you been worried about that!?

How could you not know how badly he craves your presence?

“I feel bad that you’re going through this, is it the lesson?”

“The lesson did bring your taste into my mouth, and maybe no one tastes as sweet, it’s true,” his thumb brushes across your jaw line, smiling at how embarrassed you get then. “I think your taste would help me out.”

“Then, I’ll film you, but I can’t guarantee the quality.”

“It’ll be impeccable.” He raises two fingers, making your mind go to places it shouldn’t, you know another ‘lesson’ or session, or any time at all with Satoru was dangerous.

You’re teetering on the edge of feelings constantly, but you can do this, right, separate the two? He seems so good at it, at being your friend and then doing more, and you almost failed completely. You almost couldn’t say yes to Nanami because you are currently so delusional you think this star is so interested in you for more.

You have to accept him for who he is, no matter what, this was your choice to join his life at all. You take a breath now, trying to flip that switch off, the one that can’t stop thinking how much you’d love to kiss him, every minute of every day. The side that’s upset his fingers were inside someone, you have to throw her aside, and enjoy what’s here while it’s here.

He makes you question so much constantly, like every minute spent under that cerulean gaze brings out a side of you that you never knew of, some inner sexual side that only he can ignite. It’s so beautiful and special, his breath against your lips, you want to press them to yours, but so unsure, was he not about to be affectionate in public with you?

Was this just left for home?

He changes your thoughts when he kisses your forehead, far too sweet, then your cheeks, hot to the touch, down to your nose, making you giggle, relax. “You never ever waste any time.”

“I needed that.” You exhale, kissing his lips quickly as he smiles against your lips, and you pull back quickly. “I’d love to help you out.”

“I’ll make it worth your while, pretty.” His thumb brushes the slick on your upper thigh, right by your panties, watching your lashes flutter shut, as you take a shaky breath. “Come back to my place?”

“For the night or…”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure-”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Satoru’s paying the bill, signing a signature and leaving a hefty tip, then, holding out a hand for you.

“Did you drive here?” You shake your head, and he smiles, snatching up his phone now. “Perfect, I’ll have my driver take us over.”

*****

The second time coming to Satoru’s home was a little different, you were more comfortable, slipping off your heels now, he bends down to help you again, kissing your knees as he does, hands slipping up your thighs. Your hand brushes a lock of his white hair back, the unreal way you feel this comfortable, this drawn to him, makes your heart ache.

You’re so scared you’ll get hurt more, but you can’t stop yourself from being near him, from him looking at you like you’re the only fucking girl there is, are you so delusional?

Just enjoy it.

You close your eyes, sighing as he stands, kissing your lips again, easing your hand bag off your shoulder, brushing his thumbs across the mark it’s left on your shoulder. “Want another drink?”

“Yes please, if I’m going to be a porn director.” He laughs softly, shaking his head and taking off his suit jacket, laying it across the back of a chair when he pulls out the same bottle you’d sipped last time.

“You liked this one, hmm?” You nod, surprised he’d remember, taking the sweet liquid in the crystal glass, fingers brushing now. “Don’t get drunk though, I can’t have a shaky ass camera.”

“So demanding already, you really gonna make it worth my while you say?” You’re trying to tease back, like you can breathe or function in his presence, he just sighs, brushing back your hair behind your ear.

“That and more, sweetheart. We have hardly started doing things together, there is so much I can think of,” his hands slip lower, down the side of your neck, watching the goosebumps raise as he does, sighing at how perfect you look in his kitchen. “So many positions.”

“How many are there!?” He laughs now, at your embarrassed little look, pressing a boop to your nose.

“You’re endlessly adorable. Corruptible.”

“Oh!” He’s taking his own glass now, guiding you by your hand.

“Suguru’s out for the night, so we won’t get interrupted.” He’s leading you to his room, yanking off that black top, pausing as he sets up the ring light and grabs the camera, handing it to you, fingers brushing against each other. “You ready?”

“Ready,” your squeak of an answer makes him pause, taking your free hand, putting it on his bare chest as your heart hammers, trailing the hand lower to his belt and swallowing. “Need help?”

“Yes, I do.”

He needs you.

He’s desperate for you, fuck.

You’ve helped him undress, on your knees on the soft, plush carpet, when you start the stream, and he starts stroking that long, thick length right in front of you, he keeps looking at you, even when you gesture to the camera. He’s moaning, spitting on his tip, making it slicker for his big hand which still can’t come close to covering it, twisting and moving it all for you.

For his fans.

It’s hard to remember them when your cunt throbs, when you’re so overheated you can hardly stand it, and Satoru’s talking, low and hoarse. “Gonna cum so much, fuck…”

When he’s cumming you damn near do just looking, thighs pressing together for that friction, mouth fucking dry when your shaky legs nearly give out, while you come from a lower angle, reading the comments of his spurting cum, shooting up against his silvery happy trail, sticking all over, making you ache to drink it up.

“Fuck, I’ve made a mess, need someone to clean me all up.” Satoru whispers, while you barely are able to hold up the camera any longer, the livestream is avid with questions, namely - who is filming Satoru Gojo? And offers from many viewers to lick every bit of him up.

Satoru should stare at the camera, but he’s looking up into your eyes instead, stroking his cum soaked length slowly, just pumping more cum out of his tip, so much it’s ridiculous, dripped down to his balls and inner thighs. You swallow nervously, tummy clenched with desire, knowing you needed to stay quiet for the stream of curious viewers.

Satoru murmurs cut then, and  you do just that, shutting off the feed, and setting down the phone with a shaky hand, clearing your throat. “They loved it I think.”

“C’mere.” He crooks two fingers, and you eagerly obey, walking up to him now, tempting him to no end with the way your eyes drink him in. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

You obey again, eagerly in fact, looking up at him under lowered lashes as his clean hand slips up the side of your pretty neck, then around to the nape of it, entangling in your locks. Your soft whine and shift of your hips are all he needs to know you’re enjoying it, your hands obediently on your thighs, as if waiting for his every order, so sexy he feels his cock twitch back to life.

“Do you want to clean me up?” He asks softly, but the command in his tone is there, you nod and he exhales, tugging you towards him then. “Then do a really good job, sweets. Lick every bit clean like a good girl, and I’ll reward you.”

“I’ll do a good job.” Your whisper wrecks him, as he guides your head down, and you suck him, still hard, into your hot, eager mouth. Your soft whine vibrates around him, his head falling back as your mouth moves.

He can’t help but think of earlier.

A date, you were gonna go on a date, and he hates the idea, no, he fucking detests the idea in fact, the rage alone making him fuck your throat deeper, harder, feeling you gag and choke on him instead of anyone else. He shouldn’t feel possessive over his friend, a friend who’s sucking his cum, who’s swallowing him up, all he can think is his, his, his.

But you weren’t his.

How could you ever be?

Satoru’s never felt anything better than your throat, except he’s a million percent sure your cunt is better, he knows it would suck him up so greedy. When tears fall from your pretty eyes, it’s hotter than any blow job he’s had on set, the eagerness and desperate need to please far surpasses experience, your glasses fogging up when you pull back to take a breath then.

Satoru looks at his slick, spit covered cock, to thin trails of saliva disintegrating between your lips as you pull back, swiping at your lower lip. “How did I do?”

“Perfect.” His whisper is genuine, the words feel too good, you know you should stop, that you already wish he was yours, but you’re too addicted to how those blue eyes make you feel like you’re the only girl there is.

Even if it’s an illusion, a trick of your brain, or a practiced look.

The feeling is too euphoric not to be corrupted by it.

“You did such a good job, look at it, not any cum left. You sucked it all down, so greedy huh?” His hand comes under your chin, squeezing your neck gently yet so possessive, he wants to say it - his - but he knows he can’t. But it’s too easy to teeter off the edge, when your breaths come faster, breasts pressed up in that dress, rising and falling with each one.

“Satoru… I can keep going.” Your soft voice nearly ends him, little hand stroking his cock again.

“I was thinking of something, but if you don’t want to, it's okay.” You blink a bit then, tilting your head, tendrils falling against your bare shoulders.

“What is it?”

“A scene with me, but not showing your face at all,” your gasp and pull back makes him sigh. “It’d be like me eating your pussy, we could have it zoomed so no one sees your face.”

The thought, along with Satoru's sweet cum down your throat makes your tummy clench, while he brings out more and more of you that you didn't know existed. Your hands tense on his thighs now, taking a shaky breath, fingers along the downy hair on his thighs. “I don’t… Satoru you have a million options for costars-”

“I want yours. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“Satoru…”

“It is. Wanna argue about my expertise here?” You just get more flustered and flushed, looking down nervously, but he tilts your chin with his big hand, angling your gaze upward. “I’ll split all the pay, you get eaten out, and anonymously. I’d never tell anyone, I’d never risk your career or anything. But I do need to do one, and I hate the thought of it not…” Satoru trails off now, the words sinking in.

“You like eating me out that much?” Your whisper makes him chuckle then, nodding and swallowing nervously.

“That pussy is perfect. How about we film it, and you watch it, and if you don’t want to, I just keep it to jerk off to…” Shit, he said that.

He’s so desperate and pathetic.

But you flush again, surprising him with your nod.

“Shit really!?”

“We can film it for us to watch, and… I doubt I’ll be okay sharing it, but we can see if you- ah!” Satoru’s got you lifted so fast you barely can blink, unzipped and turned in moments, leaving you in the prettiest red lace lingerie that makes him groan, his fingertips trembling on your skin. “I said probably not, don’t get excited.”

“I’m excited to bury my face between your thighs again, sweetheart.” You cry out when he’s pressed you on the bed, spreading your thighs and groaning, fingers tugging at your panties.

“How can you make sure my face isn’t there?” You ask softly, he grabs the camera and the stand then, cock just swinging around, balls smacking his thighs, so used to being naked he doesn’t realize his effects. You can’t stop staring when he gets it at the perfect angle, clicking his tongue.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, viewfinder showing your pretty cunt up close, he’s almost furious to think anyone could see it like him, but his career is teetering on the brink of nothing, and if you truly were okay with it, he only sees it as a win.

You broke his dick and now he’s begging to just lick you, and split pay with you, he never thought he’d be so pathetic, but it’s no wonder, thumbing your pussy and spreading it, sighing. “Mnh!”

“So, to keep it anonymous if you decide to show this, don’t speak too personally, okay sweets?” You nod shyly, gasping as he shoves your thighs up. “Also, hold them up high, so all we’re getting is a view of your pussy.”

“Yes, sir.” You tease, but his cock starts leaking again, earning his moan.

“Don’t speak too much, to be safe, I don’t ever want you to feel like anyone would know it’s you. Speak when we’re done, though, you can absolutely moan.” You nod, so nervous, what are you doing!?

It’s as if Satoru Gojo brings something insane and wild out, because there is a thrill of your pussy on camera suddenly, and knowing he is about to worship you, potentially in front of people has your cunt drooling for him. He hits record then, angling his face so his tongue was in perfect view lapping up the arousal, exhaling now as he shoves your thighs up higher.

Perfect, you’re perfect.

“God, look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs into the camera, parting your folds so all that syrupy arousal can pool out, he hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your red nails pressing into the plush of your thighs. His cock is already back hard, he has to stroke it and whines out as he laps you up, making you gasp.

He's slurping you then, head tilted just so the camera can see, smacking your clit gently, watching you jerk, pressing your thighs up higher and tilting the camera so it's higher, right over his head, looking at it and the reflection of your perfect cunt while he slips the tip of his tongue up. You're moaning at the sensations, twitching hips bringing your cunt more in his face.

Satoru can't stand it, how good you taste, he wondered if it was an illusion but no, you are the sweetest thing he's ever had. “You're so wet, god, take a look…” he's fingering you now, and you hear it while he watches it, glimmering from the soft ring light glowing on your perfect pussy. Making him so dumb he's just burying his face then, forgetting he's filming.

“Mnh!” You're trying not to call out his name, thighs still so high you can't see his face, to protect you from getting seen, until he adjusts it, spreading your thighs further, leaning up to look down at you under lidded eyes, chin coated in your slick. “Satoru…”

“You okay sweets?” His whisper touches you, his concern for you even during this, making sure you're okay. You nod and he exhales in relief, kissing you for a moment, knowing it's what you need, brushing your hair back, sighing as he looks down at you. “You're doing so good. Can you cum for me, baby?”

You nod again eagerly, and he’s dived back down, fingering you with two curled right in your cunt, hitting that spot that blinds you every time, his moans so filthy, guttural while he watches, angling his wrist and hitting something then, you feel so much pressure you panic, gasping, writhing under him.

“Oh my - ngh! Fuck!” You’re struggling to keep your voice a whisper, palming your mouth while you shatter.

“That’s it, right there, cum for me, lemme drink it up. Let everyone see how much you love my fucking tongue.” Pornstar Satoru was ridiculous to handle, hitting you with his fingers and the tip of his tongue on your clit, when the pressure releases, and your orgasm hits so hard you can’t help but scream, twitching as he pulls back in surprise. “Fuck, you’re squirting f’me?”

You have no clue what he means, you don’t see it as it starts pouring all over, making a mess, wet spot under you even as Satoru grabs you by the fat of your ass, licking up as much as he can. You’re a twitching, soaked little mess, your hands gripping his hair now, screams echoing in the room while he eases off you just a bit now, ready to fuck your slick, messy cunt.

He trembles as he pulls back and does one more shot, pressing a sweet kiss to your pussy before shutting off the camera, and leaning up, kissing you, so desperate, while your slick thighs rub together, and you feel the mess. He pulls up and takes a breath, flipping you then, making you gasp, handing you the camera while he kisses the backs of your shoulders, hands on your ass, spreading it wide.

“Watch it, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing across your shoulder blades, brushing your hair to one side while you barely have the strength to press play, and that’s when you see it. “Look how perfect you are.”

Your pussy right on camera, and him eyeing it like he’s worshipping it, like you’re his fucking altar and his mouth is that offering. Your cunt starts throbbing while he works you, kissing every inch of your body as you fall more and more into the abyss of sin, of lust, of desire- of Satoru Gojo.

“You love it, don’t you baby?” His words are hot against your ear, while you watch him on the screen licking your cunt, watch your thighs tremble, all while he’s behind you, sinking his two fingers so deep in your quivering hole again. You arch your back, moaning now, it feels so good you can’t stand it, so erotic watching this video you two took, while he’s fucking you with his thick fingers.

“I do, but it’s insane… ah! Satoru…” He sighs now, taking his fingers out, pressing them into your mouth for you to suck, which you quickly obey, eyes fluttering shut, the image of his tongue fucking you reflecting in the darkness.

“Keep it for us, or share? It’s all up to you. I’ll never pressure you either way,” he’s soft then, turning your chin as he lays heavy weight over you, and you eye the phone now, hand shaking just a bit, to close it out or to share, he takes your hand, steadying it. “It’s fine to be how you are, you’re perfect, okay?”

“It’s fine to be how you are, Satoru Gojo. A… question, though.” He sighs, leaning close, while he keeps holding your hand, hovering just so.

“Mmhmm?”

“Would I be your favorite co-star?” Your teasing question makes him laugh at the ridiculous nature.

You’re the only one he can even get hard for.

“You’re the prettiest, yummiest, sweetest co star I could have,” his words are just a little broken, as he almost says more. That he hopes your date sucks with that Nanami guy, that he’s planning to show up at your work tomorrow to glare at that man, that he’s become fucking obsessed, but instead - “How could you think you’re not?”

“And we’re… still friends…” You ache for him to say - no, it’s more - but he nods, against your neck, pressing kisses against it. “Even if we fuck?”

God.

He’s dying.

“You think I wouldn’t be your friend anymore? I’m not the guy to get what he wants and go. I promise.” You nod then, smiling just a bit, and tap the share button then, surprising both of you.

“Holy fuck, I did that…” Your whisper is met with Satoru’s kisses now, as your video plays for all to see, your moans on camera mixing with the ones induced from his play, one arm wrapping your body as his cock presses insistently against your ass, hot and heavy.

“Stop me now, because I can’t think of anything but fucking your pretty pussy raw right now,” his desperate words and dilated eyes just serve to ruin you, when you arch your ass up. “Fuck, you sure?”

“I want you inside me, please,” he eagerly leans back, gripping his cock and lifting your thigh, pressing into your tight ring of muscles, almost cumming from the fucking tip. “Ah!”

“You’re so tight, relax I don’t want to hurt you, please.” Satoru whispers it as he grips your chin.

You nod, as he is slipping a little deeper from the back, the stretch burning so deliciously, you’re convulsing while the viewers are going wild over Satoru’s devoted pussy eating skills with his mysterious, faceless co-star. His silk hair brushes your cheek as he exhales heavy in your ear, whispering your name.

You eye the video, the comments, vision blurry, while he sinks his cock deeper, and he moans as he reads the comments to you, filling your cunt so full of his cock, inch by inch - and there are so many, each thrust deeper while you cling to his wrists, his arms wrapping you. He keeps reading them, even as he shoves in all the way, making you jerk and gasp.

“Perfect pussy, look at Satoru go, god she’s so wet for him, she’s cumming so much - is she squirting? Look at that, you’re a regular star, huh? F-fuck…”

“Mnh!” Your eyes roll back in your fucking skull now, lost in him, lost completely. So deeply unraveled under him you can’t remember what this is, that it’s a friend, that it was a scene, that you’re now the girl who did that, anonymous but to know it’s you on that screen with Satoru devouring you does something, fuck it does too much.

He’s murmuring more comments, and his huge cock is stretching your slick, tight heat beyond its means. “That’s it, you love it, huh? They all want to be in your place, or they want to lick you instead, but it’s me, isn’t it baby?” He shouldn’t be possessive, he tries to tell himself it over and over, but how can he not be, when he’s shoved in so deep, he feels the bulge of your tummy, groaning. “Feel me, sweetheart?”

You can’t speak, just nodding desperately, while the feed goes insane, watching your cunt squirt on Satoru’s face while he’s buried inside you, filling you to the hilt, stretching you out so good you forget to breathe. “Toru!”

He pauses at the nickname, your slurred words and pulsing cunt ending him, he could almost cum then and there and he has amazing stamina, but he has to hold back, wrapping a hand around your throat and leaning up on an elbow while you gush down his cock. Satoru kisses up your neck hungrily, eyeing your pussy on the video and then your face, your eyes almost black with pleasure.

“Only I can hit that spot, hmm?” His tip drags along your spongy spot now, and you’re twitching, nodding, so consumed as he surrounds you, breath against your neck, moans in your ear, hand squeezing your throat just so under your chin. His cock twitches as he shoves deeper, impossibly deeper, while you helplessly grip the blankets beneath you. “Answer me, like a good girl.”

“Y-yes.” Your whisper drives him insane, feral, the way your walls quiver around his cock is exquisite, that grip unreal, but more than anything it feels perfect.

“Made for this cock, aren’t you pretty?” The words fall out before he can stop them, and your eyes rolling back, drool spilling out of your mouth while your cunt is pulsing is his answer. “Perfect, fuck…”

“Mnh!” You can’t take it, his words urging you when he shoves his cock so deep, the tip bruising your cervix, making you scream as his guttural moan fills the room, his hand squeezing just enough pressure to make your orgasm blinding, white hot.

“Cumming all over me, so good, listening f’me, hmm?” You just nod weakly, gasping when he flips you to your back, lifting your thighs and shoving them wide, slapping the tip on your slick cunt and groaning. “Wanna watch me fill you up?”

You nervously nod, swallowing now, and he sees it, you’re overwhelmed, he leans down, kissing you, and you’re desperately clinging to his back, eagerly kissing him despite being damn near slack jawed. You exhale nervously, eyeing him is even more intimate, impossibly more, his plush lips still tasting like your honeyed arousal from earlier.

“If it’s too much, tell me, I want you comfortable.” It’s hard for him to speak, but he does, making sure to reassure you, kissing your forehead before he leans back.

“It’s intense, Satoru but… I want it.” He moans at that, sliding his cock back inside, sucking in a breath when you’re gripping him fucking tighter this time, slipping in slowly, inch by inch. “Ah! Satoru, so d-deep!”

“I am, huh? I can get deeper, baby.” You cry out when he shoves his cock in deep with a sharp thrust, and then pauses, eyeing that bulge in your stomach. “Look.”

“Look at… oh.” You’re heating up at the image, and he’s all about angles, he makes sure your eyes catch every bit of his slow thrusts, filling your tummy full of his enormous cock, too much to take, but your cunt is willing and eager, struggling to take his size.

“Fucking you so deep, see it? Your body is so small compared to my cock, pussy stretched too much, f-fuck… god look at you…” He’s losing it, he was trying to talk sexy to you, which comes naturally, but now he’s just obsessed with the image, thin white brows lowering over his eyes, while he slams inside you, your thighs trembling as they wrap his slutty waist. “Oh my god…”

“Satoru… ah!” He’s done, he’s fucking lost in you, in your eyes when he shoves your thighs up, gripping your face with his huge hands while he’s got you bent in half, slamming so hard you scream. “Too much!”

“I need all of you, fuck… can you take more?” His eyes are so bright blue they burn to look at, but you can’t stop yourself, nodding and cupping his face in return.

“Kiss me please.” He moans at that, slamming his lips down when he rocks his hips, cock filling you so deeply you scream into his mouth, hands slipping to his hair while he’s got his heavy weight over you.

“I can’t control it anymore, baby, if it’s too much just fucking hit me at this point,” he’s nonsensical, leaning up now, hands on the back of your thighs in a mating press, fucking you hard now, powerful strokes that take you the fuck out, cumming in moments with a few strokes, making him whimper.

That’s a sound you know he’s never made.

You may be delusional, but you’re sure you’ve only heard him whimper for you, you’ve never seen that look in his eyes on any video or stream, not when he’s staring right into your fucking soul and slamming his cock deep over and over. You’re barely able to cling to the earth, so much pleasure rushing through your body, you feel every vein and ridge of that huge cock as it fucks into you.

“Perfect, pussy is perfect, fucking knew it but god. God… fucking feel her,” he slams into you again, head falling back, giving you a view of his throat before he eyes you once more, shaking his head and slamming his cock harder. “Can she take it?”

You just nod, you’d take anything, the way it feels to be ruined by Satoru Gojo is far beyond his balls slapping your ass, his cock stretching your cunt, his hands bruising your fucking thighs, no it was more. You want to be filled by him, folded under him, you want every bit of it, losing yourself in him, in his bright blue eyes, in his filthy fucking words, in his cock slamming your cervix.

You were ruined, and you knew it.

You feel too much, far too much, when he’s leaned back, holding your thighs high and watching his cock pull out and enter, slowing and rubbing your abused clit. “F-fuck, cum one more time, I’m close… your cunt is so fucking perfect, shit… c’mon, like a good girl, there you go baby…”

It’s like that goddamn dream.

Word for word.

You cum harder than you have, when he shoves into the hilt, stuffing your slutty little hole, blinded and dizzy, hardly able to breathe, while he watches you shatter under him, so fucking beautiful he can’t take it. Your brows drawn together, that sweat making your skin glisten, your mouth open in the sluttiest O, he can hardly stand what the image does to him.

He knows it then, he’s fucking beyond destroyed, and terrified at that fact, at the power you’re oblivious to over him. He almost busts inside you, something he has never done - he doesn’t even go without condoms - the thoughts of filling your cunt full are far, far too tempting. He stops himself, cursing and holding his slick cock at the base while you’re spasming around him, back arching.

“Where do you want all this cum, sweetheart?” He manages to ask, you’re so fucked out you’re dizzy, blinking Satoru’s white hair and pretty face into view as he pulses inside you, just thickening and making you whimper.

“W-what… where… you want, I… mnh!” You’re still cumming, aftershocks rocking you, making your skin so sensitive when he eases your sore thighs down, parting them and pulling out finally, stroking himself as you catch your breath, watching him spurt thick white ropes all over your cunt. “Oh! Oh…”

“Fuck, fuck… god… oh my…” He’s moaning as he’s desperately jerking his slick cock, so much cum it seems impossible, since he just busted so much, and you watch him, enthralled as the hot sticky sperm is coating your cunt. “God, look at it, fucking look at us baby.”

He’s too much, he’s too much.

You thought him eating you out fucked you up mentally, what is he, his insane ass eyes bright as he trembles, strong muscles bunching and tensing, a work of fucking art pouring his cum on you. You’re stuck, at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing, brain not even functional as you look up at this man, knowing this isn’t just sex, it fucking couldn’t be.

It can’t be like this with someone.

You almost spill every feeling then and there, lost in him, in his desperation when he rests his head on yours, moaning against your lips, tip brushing your engorged clit and making you whine out. “God, your pussy is too perfect, it’s… you’re too perfect, feel too good, look too good…”

“Satoru, are you okay?” You whisper softly, he’s slurring his words, almost hard to understand in their hushed whispers in between his pants.

He can’t even answer, pulling back and looking at your pretty cunt, all abused from his cock and puffy, covered in his white ropes. “Can I have a picture? Please, just for me.”

“Y-you want one?” He laughs softly, breathless, nodding, and you heat up at it, looking down shyly. 

“Only you can be adorable with your pussy beat up and coated in cum, huh?”

“Oh god!” He can’t take it, how cute you are, the affection eating at him, as he takes a deep breath, leaning back. “Just one.”

“Fuck…” He takes the phone, eyeing the amount of comments and tips while your breasts heave, trying to catch your breath, sticky cum dripping across your folds when you shift your hips.

“What is it?” You ask softly, he shows you the number, and your eyes nearly bulge out. “Holy fuck!?”

“This is good even for me, shit. Pussy is made for porn.” You’re blushing harder, biting your lower lip when he angles the camera, taking several photos and exhaling at how pretty it looks. “God, look at you.”

“Are you talking to me or my pussy?” He grins then, so boyish and charming it’s as if he wasn’t just fucking you into a mating press and filming your cunt. “Also I said one!”

“Sorry. I’ll make it up.” He’s kissing your thighs then, lapping some of his own cum off your slit, you gasp at the sensation, his tongue on your sore, overstimulated pussy now. Your hands entangle in his hair as he groans. “Fucking taste us.”

“Satoru you’re in-insane and- mnh! Fuck!” You’re shaking when he laps more off of you, desperately lapping at every inch of your cunt now. “Satoru!”

“Gotta clean my pretty costar up, she’s only my costar you know, only one I’ve ever-” He pauses, stopping himself, when you eye him, breasts still gently moving up and down as you eye him.

“Only one you’ve… ngh! Satoru!”

“Taste us.” He’s lapped more of his cum and yours, murmuring for you to open, which you eagerly do, letting him spit his cum and yours in your throat. “Swallow, there you go, see it’s perfect, huh?”

You’re lost then, in the filthy string of words, when he’s back down cleaning you up with a tongue that’s lethal in its precision, rocking his cock on the bed, hard for the third time with you as he moans desperately against you. He’s latched onto your clit, sucking, while you can’t stop cumming, pushed past overstimulation, but not once do you tell him to stop.

You want it.

You need it.

In tears from how much you’ve cum, desperate for more, swapping his cum and yours mixing, against your tongues as he talks you through it, as you lose yourself, Jenna told you not to, she told you not to forget. You are trying to keep it separated, but how the fuck can you?

It felt worth losing yourself, for him, under him, him inside you - around you - taking over everything, while he’s back inside you, his lips murmuring desperate, dirty words into your sweet mouth. When you’re so fucked out you actually pass out blissfully in his arms, you can’t even remember the girl you were a few weeks ago, waking up just to be filled by him again from behind.

Being in his arms, you hope it’ll counteract the pain when he moves on, when he’s kissing you while fucking you from the back, sweet little nothings against your lips filling the room along with the squelching of his cock filling your cunt again. Every inch of your body kissed by him, licked by him, head to your fucking toes, shifting you to some other dimension as you drink each other in, exhausted and desperate.

You’ll think about that pain later, for now it’s all pleasure, aside from the ache in your heart for more, endlessly more.

The love on this story is so sweet, it's FAR from over. Please be patient as these are long chaps and I have other projects, if you're not on the tags you can subscribe to me on ao3 or turn on notifs <3 Can't wait to hear your thoughts

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[snail-day]

You made a grave mistake:

Eating the last of your husband's mochi.

Really, you were just hungry. It was right there. So soft and sweet, how could you resist? You didn’t think about the consequences.

Now here you were, wrists pinned tight above your head by one of his big hands, Satoru looming over you with a faux pout tugging at his pretty, glossy lips. His snowy white hair fell into his glittering blue eyes, a few strands brushing against his flushed cheeks as he stared you down with all the exaggerated betrayal he could muster.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with mock sympathy as he shifts both your wrists into one hand, his grip so easy and effortless. His free hand snakes down, lifting your shirt just enough to reveal your soft belly. "But you left me no choice," he says dramatically, flashing a boyish, playful grin - one that makes your stomach flutter more than it should.

You squeal, squirming uselessly beneath him, but he just lets out a low chuckle, nuzzling against your bare skin before planting a teasing, open-mouthed bite right onto your belly. Sharp enough to tickle, soft enough to make you yelp and giggle all at once.

He doesn't stop there; he peppers little kisses and mock bites all across your stomach, humming little "om nom nom" and sounding like he's pretending to gobble you up.

"Pleaaaase, 'Toru!" you gasp between giggles, trying to wriggle away.

"I know, I know," he coos, leaning back just enough to beam at you, those crystalline eyes gleaming with so much affection it’s dizzying. "But c’mon, sweetheart. How am I supposed to resist..." His hand smooths over your side, slowly lingering, causing nervousness to creep across your skin. Stiffing in preparation for his next attack.

"...when you’re this cute? Hm?" he teases, brushing his nose along your tummy again.

"This pretty little thing…" A kiss.

"This greedy tummy that stole all my mochi?" Another kiss.

"Guess I’ll just have to…" He attacks, biting playfully at your side again, causing you to shriek. Fighting against the tight grip he has on your hands.

"And don't even think about begging for mercy," he whispers, voice low and sweet against your flushed skin. "You’re the one who picked this fight, baby."

[kage-meows-around]

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again,

NO SUCH THING AS A UGLY ANIMAL BABY

(Except humans, humans ugly af)

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: there’s some russian spoken here so i’ll put the translations into [little brackets] next to it

summary: nat cheated and you got a divorce. time jump of three years

warnings: smut (brief), alcohol, mentions of blood/injuries, house fire, child endangerment

word count: 17.2k (oops)

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 2: Secondhand Smoke

The drawer is open, its contents a mess. Old baby socks, screws, a teething toy. Natasha stares at it, trying to find what she's looking for. If she doesn't, you might kill her.

Behind her, Valerie runs down the hardwood stairs. She slips on her jacket and skids to the front door.

"Mama, we're going to be late!", she says impatiently. Lottie, sitting on the table with a donut in her hands, grins. "Hey, why'd she get a donut?"

"Because she wouldn't put her shoes on. Do you know where that permission slip for your field trip is?"

Valerie shakes her head. She steps over the backpack Natasha left on the floor to reach her shoes. "You can't find it?"

Natasha grunts and shuts the drawer, only to open the other one. More screws. A broken pipe wrench. A stack of documents she doesn't have a place for. She glances at the clock and realizes she's about to be late for the drop-off — again.

"Mommy's going to be mad", her older daughter helpfully informs her.

"Yes, bub, I know that", Natasha mutters. Lottie slides off the table, a sad little piece of donut in her hand, and tugs at her sleeve. "Hm?"

"Braid my hair, mama?"

She hesitates and looks at the clock again — 7.12. If they don't hurry, they will not only be late, but you'll get a text message from their schools as well. But Lottie blinks her big eyes and Natasha folds. As predicted in the hospital, she has your eyes, and she can't resist the sweet look on her daughter's face.

"C'mere", she mumbles, scooping Charlotte up and setting her down on the table. "Quick one, alright?"

Valerie groans and flops into the worn armchair. She stares at the ceiling, complete with wooden beams and a chandelier, and impatiently kicks her feet. Her shoes leave specks of dirt on the rug.

"Hurry", she drawls. Natasha curses quietly, her hands working on Lottie's hair.

"Shit", the younger girl parrots. She's been going through a phase lately. Whenever she learns a new word, she has to repeat it constantly until a new one catches her attention.

Much to Natasha's dismay, of course. She was forced to replace an entire list of curse words with kid-friendly alternatives.

"No, we don't say that."

"Why?", Charlotte asks. She's on the table, cross-legged, fingers sticky with sugar glaze. "Shit! Mama, shit!"

"You're not funny", Valerie mutters. She reaches for the remote and turns on the tv. Natasha gives her a hurried look.

"Wait, you can't-"

"I am funny!" Lottie turns her head. The braid slips from Natasha's fingers and comes undone. "Meanie!"

Ten minutes later. Natasha's sweaty, Charlotte's braid turned into space buns, Valerie's in a mood. The car ride consists of Elsa songs and two girls fighting over who gets to pick the music. Everyone's on edge.

Natasha can't help but think that this never happened when you were still married. A fleeting thought, but it stings. Once upon a time, she had her life together. Now, she's barely keeping it from falling apart. If it weren't for caffeine and duct tape, it'd all crumble.

She parks in front of the elementary school first and shoos Valerie out of the car. Right as she's about to walk away, Natasha rips open the door and hurries after her.

"Your permission slip!"

"You found it?"

"Under the car seat", she mumbles, turning Valerie around and putting the piece of paper against her back. She quickly signs it. "Here you go, bub. Have a nice day at school, yeah?"

She shrugs and grabs the permission slip. Natasha stands there, rubbing her forehead and watching her go, before she remembers that she still needs to drive Lottie and then make her way to work.

She turns around and gets into the car. The Elsa songs keep playing, Lottie keeps singing along, and Natasha is teetering on the edge between gratefulness and panic.

. . .

"You're late."

"I know. I'm sorry."

You're in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot with a sponge and holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. It's Sunday afternoon, which means it's time for Natasha to drop the kids off at your place for the week. You decided on shared custody together, because how could you not?

She cheated on you, but that doesn't mean she she's a bad mom. She loves the girls as much as you do. She shows up for the small and the big things. She's present, and even though communication still isn't her strongest suit, she's trying.

You're still holding a bit of a grudge, though, and you're far from letting her forget it. Natasha understands that sentiment completely, which somehow feels like the worse option.

You adjust your shoulder and put the sponge aside. Someone screams in the background, then you hear the maniacal cackling of your younger child.

"What's going on?", you ask, slightly worried. Natasha's house is not quite as toddler-proof as you'd like it to be. You’ve seen it via FaceTime — dumbbells and tools everywhere, a huge fireplace, some arts n' crafts table for Lottie she got started on.

At least the backyard is big, with plenty of space for the girls to play. It's the main reason why Natasha bought the cabin sitting on the edge of a forest, and she took full advantage of it. Within a single summer, she built an entire playground, complete with a sandpit and a merry-go-round.

"Nothing- no, don't jump off that! Charlotte!"

You sigh and dry your hands, then exchange your shoulder for your hand. You open the fridge and grab the lettuce you bought the day before.

"Can you please make sure our daughter doesn't break her neck?"

"Sorry, babe. She's good, she just found one of my energy liquid gels."

In the background, you hear a high-pitched voice ask if it's mommy on the phone. You smile faintly and lean against the counter.

"You gotta hurry", you say, one arm crossed over your chest. "I made baked ziti, Vee's favorite. It'll go cold."

"Yep, yeah, in a minute." Natasha digs through something, and you hear bags rustle. "Goddammit, where'd you put your left shoe?"

"You lost her shoe? Which one, the Stride Rite?"

"Uh..."

Someone falls. You hear the thud, muffled but clear, and frown. Then, someone starts to cry. Natasha drops another curse word.

At this point, it doesn't faze you anymore. Charlotte is as energetic and reckless as Valerie was at her age, and you're used to the countless bruises and scraped somethings she brings home every week.

"Go help her", you sigh.

"We'll be there in a minute."

They, in fact, aren't there in a minute. It takes them forty minutes and a near-mental breakdown. But they make it, and Natasha pulls up in front of the house you once shared.

It's still the same. White picket fence, a red front door and window frames, the shoes next to the doormat. The grass has been freshly mowed, and the air smells like flowers and late summer nights spent on the porch together.

Natasha scoops Charlotte out of her car seat and carries her on her hip. The girl is barefoot and only dressed in one of Natasha's oversized shirts, which functions as a dress for her. Valerie's already a few steps ahead, so she opens the gate.

You step out the door and smile. "You made it!"

"Mommy!", Lottie shrieks. She starts kicking her feet until she's back on the ground, then she starts running.

"Hey, mom."

"Hey", Natasha adds, her hands in her pockets.

She takes a moment to look at you. Nothing about you is particularly outstanding, at least not right now — it's a Sunday afternoon, so you're in a white shirt and sweatpants. Your hair is up, your face bare, your eyes crinkling at the corners when you smile at the girls.

Then, you look up. Her heart flips. She's always been a little too weak for you.

"Hi", you say, crouching and hugging Charlotte as you redirect your attention. "You're barefoot, honey."

Natasha lingers by the gate, hands in her pockets and feet unmoving. She's still staring, still soaking in, and she's also zoning out. Even if just for a short moment in time, you're soft. Unguarded. You rub Lottie's arms, ask her if she's hungry, scoop her up and kiss her cheek.

You look at Natasha and tilt your head. It feels like there's miles between you.

"So", you start, adjusting your hold on the little girl, "we're going to have dinner."

"Oh, right." She nods and takes a step back. "Sunday afternoon? You'll drop them off?"

"Of course."

Natasha nods and turns around. Her phone starts ringing, so she fishes it out of her pocket and glances at the screen. She hesitates, then makes sure she's in the car before answering. You close the door behind you.

Valerie helps you set the table. Lottie is less productive — she's sitting on the floor with a coloring book —, but at least her humming is cute.

Between scooping baked ziti onto plates and pouring juice into glasses, you've been wondering who was behind that phone call Natasha got. It's a dumb thing to think about. It was probably her sister, or her mom. Clint also calls sometimes. Maybe he invited her to barbecue, as he sometimes does.

In the end, you're wrong. You're really wrong.

"Mommy, mama kissed a lady."

You freeze. Valerie's head whips around.

"Lottie!", she hisses.

"What? She did!"

"Yes, but-"

You lift your hand to interject. It's not your place to be jealous (you are); it's not your place to talk to the kids about this (you will); it's not your place to confront Natasha (oh, you have to). Yet, you can't help it.

She's not yours anymore, but when you were married to the one person who you actually loved, it feels like you'll always own a little piece of them. No matter what she did, it feels like she's still yours, in a way. Whether that's actually the case or not is debatable.

"Who was she?", you ask, trying to sound calm. But the way you keep wiping loose strands of hair out of your face is anything but.

"A lady", Lottie says. She's too enthusiastic for her own good. "She's pretty. She has a purple dress, mommy."

"Uh-huh", you say. Valerie looks like she's about to lose her mind. You raise your eyebrows at her. "You don't have to protect her from me, you know."

"I'm not!", she protests. "But I don't want you to get mad at mama."

"No, mama doesn't want me to get mad at her", you argue. You grab your phone and tap the phone icon. Valerie starts bouncing in her chair. "Just a quick call."

"Please!", she groans. "Don't fight again."

"Shush."

You walk into the living room, your phone against your ear. You barely hear how Valerie whispers something to Lottie about her ruining everything. For a split second, it's enough to make you rethink this.

Of course, Charlotte doesn't remember that day. She doesn't remember the yelling, the packed suitcases, how you kicked Natasha out. But Valerie does, and she's terrified of it happening again. She can't risk it — things are more or less peaceful right now. You haven't had a real fight in ages. This, however, might change everything.

Natasha picks up. She sounds almost relieved. "Hey."

"Who is she?"

A long pause. You swear you can hear her heart beat faster, louder. "What?"

"The woman", you say, coming to a halt next to the staircase. "The one you brought home. The one who met my kids without my permission!"

Natasha starts stammering. There it goes, her usual confidence. Goodbye, self-assurance and pride. You've always had a way of dismantling her like a children's toy.

"She, uh...her name's Irina."

"I told Lottie not to tell you!", Valerie yells from the dining room. You ignore her.

"And you let her come over?"

"It's not like I had a choice!", she says defensively. "She just wanted to pop by. She-"

"Does she know you have kids?"

"Who do you think I am??"

You barely manage to stop yourself from hissing the words that lay on the tip of your tongue. Throwing the fact that she cheated on you back at her would, despite everything, be a little too harsh. Plus, little ears are listening. All of this is bad enough already.

"Natasha, all I need is for you to tell me next time", you say, sounding curt. No room for softness, even if you still feel it between you. "I don't care that you're dating someone. But when it involves our children, that's when it becomes a problem."

She lets out a halfhearted noise. For some reason, she's stuck on you apparently not caring about her dating other people. It shouldn't bother her, but it does. Do you really not care?

She knows she'd care if you started dating. She'd lose her mind.

"Fine", she agrees. "But like I said, I didn't-"

"Well, you still let her kiss you in front of them."

"We were outside! They were probably peeping", Natasha says. "I'll tell her not to do that anymore."

"Yes", you mutter. "Good. Fine."

"Yeah."

You exhale slowly and glance toward the kitchen. Valerie's head is poking out the doorway, her face nervous. You give her a tight-lipped smile.

"Are you fighting?", she whispers.

"No, bub", you sigh. "Listen, Nat, we'll go have dinner now."

"Sure, yeah."

You give a noncommittal hum, then hang up.

You told Natasha you don't care. You told her that it's fine she's dating someone, because it should be. You're the one who rejected her when she tried to patch things up a couple months ago. You're the one who keeps avoiding her. You had every right to do that, and you have every right to keep reminding her of what she did.

It's simple — Natasha cheated. There are no excuses, no explanations, nothing that could justify what she did. She hurt you, which means that she should be in for a lifetime of being hurt by you as well. If only it wasn't for your kids. They're the reason why you try to remain friends with her, which doesn't always work.

The breakup was painful. Looking at her is, as well. Sometimes, you make Yelena pick up the kids or drop them off just so you don't have to see her. But there's secondhand smoke, still affecting you, and thought the support beams are burnt, they're still standing.

Still keeping it all upright.

. . .

Thick smoke curls out of open windows, tinted a dangerous black. Flames dance and flicker behind glass. Sirens blare and neighbors watch.

The fire engine comes to a halt, and Natasha immediately jumps out. The rest of the crew follows, all of them dressed in fireproof gear. Radios crackle and people yell — she's not sure who's yelling, but someone is.

They run toward the house, passing a distressed father who's trying to keep his wife from storming back into the house. Natasha knows what that means, and it only raises the stakes.

"Fire showing second floor, alpha side", the lieutenant yells. "Possible entrapment. Let's go defensive. Romanoff, search and rescue. Barton, fire attack. Rodriguez..."

None of this is new to her. She's seen it all before, and it's as familiar as breathing, but it's still scary. Adrenaline floods her, her heart beats faster. She's thinking on autopilot. Every move is practiced, from the way she breaks down the door to her crawling on the floor.

Smoke rises, after all. She has her BA mask on, but she still needs to stay as close to the ground as possible. It's hot inside, the heat even reaching her through the thick layers of gear she's wearing, and it's pitch-black. Her gloved hand sweeps across the floor, searching for bodies.

"There's a kid upstairs!", the lieutenant yells through the comms. "Up the stairs, first door to the left!"

She feels sweat drip down her lower back as she makes her way up the stairs. She doesn't get far, though — her path is blocked by a roaring fire.

"Fire located", she says, out of breath. "It's blocking the second floor, the kid's trapped. Need a ladder to the bravo side."

"Come outside."

The fire engine has already pulled up to the side of the house when Natasha gets there. She grabs an axe and starts climbing, her heart thudding and her baby hairs sticking to her temples.

In a field like hers, staying professional is important. You can't let your own feelings get in the way. But sometimes, that's impossible. All she can think about are Valerie and Lottie. Unlike this child, they're safe and sound, and somehow that makes everything hit harder.

The cries she hears are unbearable. They're not coming from the kid, no — it's their mom. Standing in the backyard, her husband barely keeping her from running straight into the flames. She doesn't blame her. She'd do the same.

Natasha grabs the axe and swings it. Glass shatters and thick smoke billows out. Fire's licking at the door that leads into the child's bedroom, but thankfully, the room isn't in flames yet.

She climbs in through the window and gets on the ground again, hand sweeping. She knows what kids do in situations like this one. She's a mother, of course she knows. She's also had to do this before.

The boy, maybe four years old, is hiding inside the closet. Tears have dried on his cheeks, but he's not crying anymore. It's hard to cry when you're unconscious. Natasha curses and gently picks him up, then she hurries back to the window.

"Child located", she says, clutching the boy like a little bundle of blankets. "Exiting now. Need a medic."

Getting down the stairs is, ironically, the hardest part. Her legs are shaking, her feet keep slipping, but her grip on the child is tight and secure. The second they're back on solid, safe ground, she drops down. Her eyes are red and teary, sweat is dripping, she feels like she's about to collapse.

Medics surround her and start to treat the kid. She only allows them give her oxygen once he's let out a cough and opened his eyes. The fire has been put out as well, and Barton sinks into the grass next to her. He nudges her side.

"You look beat."

"I am", she says, gulping water from a bottle she was handed. She's taken off her gear and is now sitting there in a soaked tank top and pants. The wind feels soothing against her skin, which is still way too warm from the fire. "Fuck."

"You're shaking."

"Yeah."

"It's hard when there's kids involved, huh?"

She nods, picking at the grass and still chugging water. She doesn't say anything. She can't. She's already close to sobbing. The boy was too close to not making it.

"I need to call the girls", she finally mumbles, running a hand through her damp hair. "Just to check on them."

"They're with Y/N?"

"Yeah." Natasha gets up and wipes her hands on her pants. "I think they're at some puppet show."

"The one that freaked you out?"

"Still getting nightmares. But the kids love it."

He nods, and she walks to the fire engine. Once she's found her phone underneath one of the seats, she sits down and dials your number. It takes seconds for you to pick up.

"Hi, mama!"

It's Lottie. Natasha nearly bursts into tears. But the kids get anxious when she cries, so she blinks a few times and inhales deeply to keep herself under control.

"Hey", she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "How are you guys?"

"Good! We saw puppets."

"Mhm? The scary ones?"

"They're not scary!"

She hears Lottie chew on something. Popcorn, probably. It's what the girls usually eat at those puppet shows. She also hears you, talking to Valerie and making sure Lottie doesn't run off.

Suddenly, she wishes she could be there with you, puppets be damned. Steal popcorn from the kids, kiss you in the dark, get fast food on the way home. It's not her life anymore, though. And the worst part is that it's her fault.

"So you had fun?", Natasha asks. She's leaning against the wall, legs stretched out. Outside, the crew is slowly returning to the fire engine.

"Yes! I want a puppet."

"You do, huh? I'll get you one for Christmas, how's that sound?"

"Mama, you're silly", she says, giggling. "Santa brings the presents!"

Of course. Even the imaginary bearded man from the North Pole, the guy who sits in malls and wears a fatsuit, outranks her.

"You're right, bub", she agrees. "Hey, how's mommy?"

"Mommy's good", Charlotte says, voice tiny and chipper. The second she says that, she hears you pause in the background. Valerie doesn't say anything, either. "She bought us popcorn."

"Yeah? Did you have lunch before?"

"No."

"That's a lie", you call, sounding muffled. "We had stir fry."

Natasha smiles to herself, but quickly puts on a neutral face when her colleagues enter the vehicle. She turns toward the wall a little, trying to shield the fragile bubble the phone call put her in.

"Mommy makes the best stir fry", she says. Men and women talk, change out of singed gear, intrude without being aware of it. She glances at them, then tries to focus on what her daughter's saying. "What was that, bub?"

"We miss you!"

She swallows and blinks. Her eyes are burning, but this time, it's not from the fire and the smoke. She rubs them to keep the tears at bay. She's surrounded by the crew, after all. They tend to not hold back on the teasing.

When she doesn't respond for a couple seconds, you gently take the phone from Lottie. Your voice cuts through the silence, kids' chatter in the background, and that makes everything worse.

"Hey", you say softly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine", she mutters. "Don't worry."

"You're at work?"

"Mhm." Natasha nods and flicks a blade of grass off her leg. "There was a house fire. It's all good now, though."

"Oh."

Something rustles, then beeps. Natasha recognizes it as the sound of your car being unlocked.

"Going back home?"

"No", you say, struggling to get Lottie into her car seat. "Wait, let me buckle you up- we're going to the library. Vee needs to pick up a book for her oral report."

"What's it on?"

You pause. "It's a surprise."

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh and nods, rubbing her forehead. The crew sits down, and the fire engine starts to drive away and back to the station.

"Well, I can't wait to find out."

"You'll love it. Want the kids to call you around bedtime?"

"Yes, that'd be..." She trails off and nods. "Please."

"Of course. Take care of yourself, yes?"

"You too."

You hang up with a click. Natasha stares at the screen for a moment, then a message from Irina pops up. She turns her phone off and tucks it into the waistband of her pants.

. . .

When you met Natasha, there was one thing you realized immediately. It didn't take long — she'd barely stormed into your apartment, fully dressed in her firefighter gear, and you knew already.

The woman in front of you was a flirt. She was putting out fires, yes, and she looked good doing it, but she was also flirting. Constantly, shamelessly, like it was as much of a routine as putting on her boots before work.

For some reason, you liked it. You were charmed by it. You knew you couldn't be the exception, that she probably flirted with just about every woman she ran into, but you didn't care.

Smoke had filled the kitchen. You were standing to the side, only in slippers and an oversized shirt, and coughed as she extinguished the fire. Her colleague stood to the side, assisting her and trying to get you out the door.

"Too much smoke", he said. "You'll damage your lungs."

"Fine, sorry."

A few minutes later, they both stepped out. Natasha took off her helmet and let her eyes sweep across you, from head to toe.

"You were making dessert?"

"Crème brûlée", you replied, hands tucked behind your back as you leaned against the wall.

She hummed, smirking faintly. There was the tiniest soot-smudge on her jaw.

"I'd advise against keeping cotton towels in the kitchen. They catch fire pretty fast", she informed you. She paused, looking at you again. "Though some things are worth the heat."

Pink color dusted your cheeks. You rolled your eyes and nudged her out the door, but now, there were two things you knew about her. She's a flirt, and she'd flirt with you again. Eventually.

You ended up being right about both. You went to the fire station a couple days later to thank them and drop off cookies (which you managed to bake without setting off another fire alarm).

Natasha was there, too. Smirking, teasing, a black undershirt displaying her casually muscular form. Her hands were calloused in that blue collar-way, her hair in a low bun. She accepted the plate and took a quick bite.

"No fire today?"

"Maybe next week."

Natasha, chewing, tilted her head. "Sounds like you want me to come back for seconds."

You suppressed a smile. The lieutenant was watching, after all.

"Careful", you said. "Don't want you to get in trouble."

"Might be too late for that", she mumbled, letting her eyes rake up and down your body once more.

No oversized shirt and slippers today — instead, you got into a short dress and dolled yourself up a little. Natasha appreciated it as much as she did the domestic little outfit you wore the other day.

Something warm stirred inside her. Before you knew it, you started meeting her for coffee. A quick 'I'm not seeing anyone right now' got tossed into conversations here and there.

You took her home one day, offered to make lunch for her. The third thing you figured out was that she loved fire jokes. She made them constantly, especially when you were handling something hot in the kitchen.

You had lunch together that day. You slid into her lap because she tugged you there, but you stayed because you didn't want to move. You feed her a forkful of food and managed to be the one who dusts her cheeks pink.

It was stir fry. To this day, it's her favorite dish.

Even when the plates were empty, she didn't leave. You sipped on a wine bottle together, talked, kissed once you were tipsy enough to have the courage to.

The night ended with Natasha in your bed and you on top of her. That joke she'd made a couple weeks ago — her being in trouble, thanks to you — turned out to be true. You were straddling her, hands on her shoulders, and she knew was falling way too quickly.

Natasha didn't do this. Not really. She flirted, she had sex, she blocked numbers. She excused all of that with her abysmal work schedule, her 24 hour shifts, the dangers that came with it. How would a relationship fit into her life when she barely managed to keep it together already?

She didn't expect you to come along, though. She didn't expect to fall in love. She did, anyway.

Suddenly, keeping her life together was the easiest thing she ever had to do. Because after every shift, she was able to look at the text messages you sent. She was able to come over, just like that, without having to announce herself. And you'd have a meal ready for her, even if she didn't warn you beforehand.

Natasha proposed a year later. At that point, you were basically living together.

It all felt easy, safe. You got married in a small vineyard (your idea), bought a house (her idea). Not even three years after you got married, you gave birth to your first daughter.

When Natasha gets called to that same apartment that started everything — the crème brûlée, the stir fry, the proposal between bedsheets and rose petals — she feels sick to her stomach. She goes home afterwards, tired and aching all over, and opens the door only to find Irina in the living room.

"Hey", she says. Natasha nods and drops her bag. "Sorry I didn't call. But you said there's an extra key under the doormat, so-"

"Yeah, it's fine." Natasha walks into the kitchen. It matches the rest of her cabin — counters made of walnut wood, complete with granite countertops. Steel appliances, chipped mugs, a protein shrine with powder, bars and beef jerky. She grabs a shaker and scoops powder into it.

Irina joins her. She feels her arms around her stomach.

"Someone rang the doorbell earlier."

Natasha pauses mid-water pour. "When?"

"I don't know. 2 o'clock, maybe?"

She curses and puts the shaker aside, then reaches for her phone. Surely, new messages have popped up.

Y/N: Vee is coming over later, so you can help her with her oral report — 11.42am

Y/N: don't know if you'll be home, a quick answer would be nice you know — 12.05pm

Y/N: you could've told me you wouldn't be home. — 2.38pm

The oral report. One on firefighters, inspired by none other than Natasha herself. She sobbed when Valerie told her over FaceTime a couple days ago.

"Why didn't you answer the door?", Natasha asks, already typing out apology after apology. Send her over, please, my phone was on mute, I completely forgot — and Irina is just standing there, peeking over her shoulder.

"I wasn't sure whether I'm supposed to."

"You weren't supposed to take the key either, yet you did." Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She left the key under the doormat for Valerie specifically, so she could enter whenever she felt the need to.

That plan didn't work out, though. Why did she have to tell Irina about the stupid key?

Irina leans against the counter, arms crossed. "It was your kid?"

"Yes, it was my daughter." She lets out a frustrated noise. You've received her messages, but aren't looking at them. "She was supposed to come over today."

"You forgot?"

There it is. Natasha puts her phone aside and grabs the shaker, shaking its contents until the protein powder and water have formed a silky, foaming liquid. She takes a sip and walks into the living room.

"I was stressed", she defends herself. "Had a grease fire. It was the apartment where..." She pauses, then shakes her head and sits down. Irina raises her eyebrows.

"Where...?"

"Doesn't matter." Natasha kicks off her boots and leans back. She turns on the tv, zaps through the channels, then turns it back off. Outside, it's getting dark. It's around dinner time, so you probably wouldn't appreciate a phone call right now.

Irina sits down next to her. Her body curls into Natasha's, warm and distracting. If she screwed up everything else, she might at least get some sex out of today.

Delicate fingers trail down her forearm, to the little beaded leather armband around her wrist. Valerie made it for her when she was five, and she only takes it off when she's working.

It's enough to pull her back into reality. Natasha gets up, leaving Irina alone and rejected on the couch.

"I have to call my kids", she says, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door.

She dials your number. You don't pick up.

On Sunday, Yelena drops off the kids instead of you. Apparently, you don't want to see her right now. Rightfully so, her sister says, and Natasha almost slaps her for it. But you'll get over it, like always.

No. You won't. She won't hear from you for a while, either.

. . .

"Please, mommy."

"No, honey. I'm sorry."

Lottie whines and bounces on the spot. She looks cute in her green dress, with her hair curled and the non toxic nail polish on her fingers. It is a special occasion, after all — it's her grandmother's birthday.

One you won't be going to, because Natasha will be there as well. It's been weeks of nothing. No phone calls, no texts, no dropping off the kids yourself. She's done a bunch of stupid shit in all those years that you've known her, but her forgetting Valerie like that may have taken the cake.

Valerie's not mad at her anymore, not at all. But, again, you're good at holding grudges.

"Mommy", your younger daughter whines. "I don't want to go alone."

"You're not alone." You put her on the table so you can put on the ballet flats you got her. "Your sister is going, too. And mama will be there. It's babushka's birthday."

"Lottie, stop crying", Valerie says. She sits down on the striped rug and puts on her own ballet flats. "There will be cake. You like cake."

"Exactly", you affirm. "You can bring me a slice, hm?"

"No", she says, covering her face with her hands. You get up and kiss her fingers, which are resting right on her forehead. "Don't wanna go."

You sigh, then scoop her up. You can't force her to do anything, but she'll probably change her mind once she sees her grandma, so you carry her to the car. Once everyone's buckled in and ready, you drive.

Melina's house is an hour away, but it takes you almost two thanks to a cranky toddler and her annoyed older sister. You wipe the seat with a wet wipe — Lottie, who got an apple juice pack as a sort of consolation, squished it so hard it exploded. Thanks to some miracle, nothing got on the girls' clothes, but it's all over the middle seat.

You scoop Charlotte out of the car set and dare to set her down. She immediately starts crying and stomping her feet, so you cave and pick her up again. Seems like the terrible two's sometimes last a bit longer.

Valerie is in a much better mood. She sees Melina's backyard — the wide patch of grass, the yellow shed, the huge tree with the tire swing — and immediately starts running. It's a sunny day, the sky's clear and the air smells like shashlik.

"Babushka! [grandma]", she yells, running straight into her grandmother's arms. She's embraced into a tight hug. "S dnem ​​rozhdeniya! [happy birthday]"

"Hello, my darling!" She kisses the top of her head and then pulls away to inspect her outfit. "Ah, red dress. Looks pretty!"

"Thanks!" Valerie smiles brightly. She seems to remember something, so she runs back to your side. "Mom, where's her present?"

"Oh, right here." You turn around and open the trunk of your car. You grab the gift bag, which is almost too heavy, and hand it to Valerie. Off she goes again.

You look at Charlotte, who has her face buried against her neck. You rub her side, try to coax her into looking at you, but to no avail. You've given up already and are walking toward Melina when, suddenly, she lifts her head and perks up.

"Mama!", she screams happily.

You freeze — no way —, then turn around. Yes way. Lottie's right, Natasha showed up. And she's not alone.

You're not too familiar with the blonde who's getting out of the car, but you can easily guess who she is — Irina. Dressed in a tight skirt and a blouse, her lips red and no dark circles under her eyes. Probably childless.

You adjust your hold on Lottie and try not to look too irritated. Melina, on the other hand, isn't trying.

"Who's that?", she asks promptly and straightens up.

Valerie turns around and grimaces slightly. You've raised her to be polite and kind, but in that moment, you can't blame her. You wish you were able to throw your own morals out of the window as well.

"You brought her?", Valerie says. She sounds so disbelieving it's almost funny. Instead, you rub her back with one hand and keep cradling Charlotte with the other.

Natasha looks stressed. She offers a tight-lipped smile as Irina kisses her on the cheek, and seeing that is enough for Lottie to lose the happy attitude again. The girl starts sobbing, because how dare her mom show up with a near-stranger?

"It's okay", you mumble, glancing at your ex-wife again. She lets Irina kiss her on the mouth, then the blonde turns away and waves at everyone in the backyard.

"Bye", she says, already making her way back to the driver's seat. The car engine roars and Irina drives off, thankfully.

Natasha lingers by the gate, and even though you're pissed, you can't help but look at her. She's always had a talent for looking her most irresistible when she absolutely shouldn't. Turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips, her beloved black tank top. Not at all birthday-conforming, but it's not like she cares.

Melina walks up to her. If there's one thing you know about your ex-mother in law, is that she's not going to be pleased with her daughter's decision to bring along a stranger. A stranger she wouldn't even introduce, for obvious reasons.

"Chto eto bylo? [what was that]", she asks, grabbing her daughter's shoulder and steering her further into the backyard. Lottie blinks away tears, then reaches her arms out for her mama again.

"Nichto [nothing]", Natasha says, glancing at the girl in your arms. She nods at you. "May I?"

Melina, shaking her head, answers for you. She steps in front of her. "What, 'nothing'? That wasn't nothing! Now don't play innocent. You don't bring stranger to my house, Natasha."

"She's not a stranger."

"She is to us."

Valerie crosses her arms and stares at the ground. Green grass, covered in wildflowers. You run your hand over her head.

"Listen", Natasha says, stepping around her mom to reach you and the girls, "she insisted on driving me. Said I never have enough time for her. I just didn't want it to end in a pointless fight. Hey, bub."

"Hey, mom", Valerie mutters. Natasha cups her face and tilts it up. "Hm?"

"I know I screwed up", she says apologetically, then kisses her forehead. "Your dress is beautiful, dochen'ka. [little daughter]"

"Thanks."

Lottie makes grabby hands, so you set her down. Without so much as even an ounce of hesitation, she tumbles into Natasha's arms. A few kisses, smiles, and she's back to being a mama's girl.

Then, Natasha looks at you. You raise your eyebrows, jaw set. She doesn't say anything.

Neither do you. You turn around and walk to the little porch. You enter Melina's house, which is somehow always cool and smells like tea and herbs. It's empty inside, no one to be seen, so you make your way into the kitchen and lean against the counters.

The fridge in front of you is covered in all kinds of memorabilia and keepsakes. An ultrasound of Valerie, a handprint of Charlotte. Family pictures, held up by little magnets. Another magnet, a souvenir one from Greece — you spent your first vacation as a family of three there.

You rub your eyes and turn around. Borscht is boiling on the stove, a bowl of pelmeni sits next to it. She made appetizers as well, which mostly consist of vegetables like radishes and cucumbers.

You grab one of the dirty bowls in the sink and start scrubbing it. Anything to distract your mind is welcome right now. Soap bubbles pop under your fingers, suds cover your hands. It smells like citrus.

Footsteps appear behind you. Someone leans in, blows warm air against your neck. You shut your eyes — when Natasha apologizes, this is her way of showing it. It's what comes before the words.

"Don't."

"I'm sorry." She nudges your hair aside, then places a kiss on the back of your neck. "I didn't know you'd be here. I wouldn't have let her."

You stand there, frozen, the feeling of her lips lingering hotly on your skin. You dry your hands, then turn around. She's standing so close she's got you caged in against the sink.

"You're going to pretend everything's alright?", you ask, crossing your arms. Natasha sighs. "Listen, you crossed a line. Multiple, actually. So don't act like, like..." You gesture desperately, then let your hand drop against your arm again.

"Like?"

"Like you're still allowed to do this." You swallow, trying your hardest not to look at the fridge again. "You showed up with her."

"She left", she says, putting her hands on your waist. Once a flirt, always a flirt.

"You're with her", you retort. It takes everything in you to push her hands away.

After all this time, they still feel comforting. Safe. They shouldn't be, but they are. She'd still start wars for you, and that may be the worst part. Those wars wouldn't be worth fighting.

"So?", she replies. "You're the mother of my children. Nothing will ever change that. Besides, things aren’t that serious."

"Oh, right." You laugh bitterly and shake your head. "If only that meant something. You cheated, anyway."

Natasha falls silent. Your words hit where it hurts most. She stands there, studying you in that inoffensive way she's got down to a tee. Despite her physique being the peak example of someone who's able to lift tree trunks double her weight off the ground, you've never seen someone resemble a hurt puppy more accurately.

"Nat", you plead.

"No, you're right."

"You know it's true. You've moved on."

"Mommy?"

You both turn your heads. Lottie's in the doorway, her mouth and hands stained red from the wild strawberries Melina always feeds the kids. You reach out your hand and she pads closer to grab it.

"You okay, sweetie?"

"I'm sticky", she says, holding up her other hand.

Natasha hums and scoops her up, then helps her reach the tap. You watch them, silently, your mind running in circles. For a moment, you see what things could've looked like if they'd been different. If everything had worked out.

Once Charlotte's hands are clean and dry, she zooms back outside to play with her cousins. You look at Natasha. She avoids your eyes and instead turns off the stove.

"Melina told me to get the borscht", she mumbles. "Can you help with the bowls?"

"Yeah, sure. Sour cream?"

You open the cupboard and grab every bowl you can find. Blue-rimmed, with little pink roses on them. Natasha hums and looks into the fridge, then pulls out two smetana cups.

It's silent. No one's speaking anymore. All you hear is the quiet clinking of silverware and the hum of the old fridge.

You almost bump into each other when you're leaving the kitchen. Natasha pauses and looks at you, contemplating. You tilt your head.

"You used to bite your lip when you're mad at me", she says. "It was easier when I knew what you're thinking. I miss it."

You falter, so much so that you almost drop the tall stack of bowls you're holding. She's flirting. Probably. Or she's using this to (cruelly) remind you that not only your marriage ended — but also the access you used to have to each other.

You used to be entangled. Without having to talk, you knew what the other was thinking. You remember an instance where she brought home comfort takeout without even knowing you'd been sobbing over Valerie outgrowing a onesie all morning. You remember her building dozens of seemingly useless things — a birdhouse, another bench (but make it kid sized), a whole pergola. She thought that it'd help.

You used to complain. Now, you look at your empty garage and miss the stacks of wood she used to have on hand.

"Yeah", you say, struggling to speak. "I know."

Natasha stops in the middle of the hallway. It's pure instinct for you to do the same.

"I miss you", she adds. You stare at her, desperately holding the bowls. "I think you know that. Just had to tell you."

"I mean..." You trail off. "Yeah. I guess I do."

There's a window at the end of the hallway. Small, insignificant, not even big enough to let much fresh air into the space. But it's slightly ajar anyway, just enough for Valerie to hear your mumbled words.

. . .

"Happy birthday!"

"S dnem ​​rozhdeniya!"

Melina raises her eyebrows, but you can tell she's enjoying the attention. She blows out the candles, eyes closed, then immediately gets up and starts cutting it into slices.

"Wait", Natasha says, grabbing the paper plates. "It's your birthday, for god's sake. Let me help."

Yelena stretches out in her lawn chair and yawns. She arrived an hour late, but she made up for it by bringing a puppy. She thinks she made up for it — in reality, only her and a handful of kids enjoy the hyperactive dog that's now chasing Lottie through the backyard.

She giggles loudly, then trips over nothing and falls into the grass face first. The puppy climbs onto her back and licks her red curls.

"No, no!" She giggles, then lets out a frustrated noise. "Mommy!"

"That's me", you mumble and stand up.

As soon as you've left, Valerie turns to Yelena. She's been carrying this little secret around for way too long now. She's itching to get it out.

"Aunt Lena", she whispers. Yelena raises her eyebrows and leans in.

"Is this a conspiracy?", she whispers back.

"No." Valerie shakes her head. "I heard mommy and mama talk. In the hallway. I think they still love each other."

Yelena freezes, her eyes locked onto the child's. Being Natasha's sister, she's usually the first to find out about stuff. She sometimes handles drop off's, whenever you're not in the mood to look at your ex-wife. But you and Natasha still loving each other? That's news.

"You mean, love-love?"

"Mama said she misses her", she adds. You return to the table, Lottie sitting on your hip, and Valerie puts a finger over her mouth. "Shh."

You sit down, oblivious, and thank Natasha when she hands you a slice of honey cake. Valerie gives Yelena a pointed look. She suppresses a grin and puts her hand over her niece's eyes.

As evening approaches, it gets colder outside. Charlotte falls asleep on your chest, Natasha scoots closer with her lawn chair. She drapes a blanket over you, and Valerie rams her elbow into Yelena's side. The blonde nearly chokes on her water.

"Blyat-"

"The kids", Natasha warns her. Yelena shoots her a glare. "What's your problem?"

Yelena grunts and sinks into her chair. You are my problem, she thinks, bitterly crossing her ankles. You and your ex-wife are. Just figure shit out.

You won't figure it out. Not for a while. But Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders and you lean into it. Melina and Valerie both watch, one stunned and the other trying to hide the hope that's flaring up in her.

You ignore the others. You look at Natasha, who's warm and familiar despite everything that's happened, and feel her thumb rub circles against your shoulder. She hums, either not aware of what she's doing or overly confident in it.

"It's getting dark", you remark, voice hushed. She nods. "I should get the kids home. It's a one hour drive."

"Let me drive you", she whispers. You hesitate. "You said it yourself. It's dark, you're probably tired. It'll make it easier for you."

Valerie tugs at your hand. She heard every word, despite you trying to be quiet and discreet. You squeeze her hand, but don't look at her.

"I don't know, Nat."

"Come on", she says. "I don't like the idea of you and the kids being on the road this late. Let me drive you."

You hesitate again. But it's completely dark by the time you decide to leave, so you have no choice but to agree. You know you're in good hands with Natasha, so what's the harm in letting her drive you?

Valerie is half-asleep but thrilled. She tugs Natasha to the car and, despite knowing exactly how to do it, makes her buckle her in. You handle Lottie, who almost wakes up. Through some kind of miracle, she stays asleep.

You get into the passenger seat and wave at Melina and Yelena. The puppy in her arms yaps and tries to break free from her arms, but he doesn't succeed. The car drives off, and suddenly, it's just you and your sleepy kids in the back.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think it's always been like this. You, Natasha, the girls. Valerie watching like a hawk, despite her eyes being sleep-heavy. Music low and windows down just enough to let in some night air. A stuffed tiger in the middle seat, dangling from Lottie's limp hand.

There's no need for words, but there also isn't space for it. Anything you'd possibly talk about is not fit for Valerie's ears. She's still awake, so you need to be careful.

You glance at the time, which is displayed on a little screen. 9.21pm. Way past her bedtime.

"Honey", you say, looking at your daughter through the rear view mirror, "don't you want to sleep a little? Rest your eyes? It's a long drive."

"No", she says, shaking her head. "I'm not tired, mom."

"Your mom's right", Natasha says. "Take a little nap, hm?"

"No", she says stubbornly. She squeezes the hem of her dress. "I like it when it's the four of us. I don't want to sleep now."

You and Natasha glance at each other. It's quick, silent, but it's everything you need in that moment. She'd reach over and hold your hand, but again, there's a little hawk sitting in the back.

"Yeah", she says, voice softer. "I like it, too."

You don't know what to say. You can't afford to start missing this life that you never got to have, so you turn your head away from her. The fields and houses outside the window pass by in a blur.

. . .

Each of you balances a sleeping kid into the house.

Halfway through the drive, Valerie fell asleep as well. Neither of them woke up, even when Natasha pulled your car into the driveway, so you now have to deal with the unnecessarily difficult task of relocating children without waking them.

You slowly make your way up the stairs, Natasha following close behind. Lottie's limp in your arms, her mouth slightly agape. Asleep like this, you see the features she got from Natasha. You exhale and focus on not accidentally falling down the steps.

You carry Charlotte into her bedroom and tuck her in. Bedsheets with a zoo animal pattern, her little tiger plushie still clutched in her hand. You kiss her forehead, adjust the nightlight next to her, then walk out the room and leave the door ajar.

Natasha and you step into the hallway at the same time. You look at her, then quickly turn to go back downstairs. You're hoping she'll follow. That she won't stay upstairs, where it's way too close to your bedroom.

You're not sure what you'd do if she asked. If you'd say yes, if you'd allow yourself to bask in a fantasy that can only end in being hurt all over again. A fantasy, doomed to end eventually.

Thankfully, you hear her footsteps behind you. You walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. Natasha leans against the counter.

"They didn't wake up."

"No", you say, taking a sip. "They usually do."

"Yeah." She nods. "I know."

It's awkward, because you're both forcing yourselves to talk about something you don't want to talk about. But it's the safer option — always has been — so it's what you're going for.

You clear your throat and put the glass aside. Natasha watches you, contemplating, her arms crossed. Eyes meet, heads tilt, and she smiles faintly.

"Tired?"

"I'm fine", you say, pushing off the counter and walking into the living room. Natasha hesitates, then follows. "Didn't get much done today. Sorry about the mess."

"I found a bagel in my bookshelf last week", she says, helping you gather a couple toys and throw them into a laundry basket. "This is nothing."

You both reach for a baby doll. Your hands knock together. It's nothing but a brief touch, but you falter and look at her. You're crouched on the floor, so close you could kiss if only you leaned in a little.

You don't know if you should. Irina is lingering at the back of your mind, with that stupid skirt and the flawless, well rested-looking face. But Natasha's staring back at you, unmoving, and her eyes flicker to your lips.

That's when you quickly straighten up and grab the laundry basket. You hold it in front of you like a shield.

"It's late", you say, shifting awkwardly. "I'll call you a taxi, if you want. I don't know if there are any buses this late."

The disappointment is etched into her face, but so is a subtle sense of relief. Natasha is sure that her and Irina aren't that serious yet. There are no real labels (though, she did hear Irina refer to her as 'her girlfriend' before), and she doesn't want to put a label on it.

However, she cheated once already. She can't do it again, at least not if there's nothing more attached to it. Unless it promises her the future she thinks she's lost, she won't do it.

"Taxi's fine", she says, tucking her hands into the pockets of her pants. "You'll drop off the kids tomorrow?"

"Yeah." You nod, then remember something. Good thing you didn't forget thanks to the almost-kiss. "They're going to their cousin's birthday party next Saturday, if that's alright with you. It's a sleepover. I'll text you the address?"

"No, no." Natasha shakes her head. "Gracie, right? We've been there before."

"Mhm." You hum and lead her to the front door. "I got her a gift, all you'll have to do is make sure the girls bring it."

"Will do, captain."

You smile and lean against the doorway. The door is open, Natasha is standing on the porch. The wind is making loose strands of her hair flutter. Green eyes twinkle in the porch light, and a calloused hand squeezes your arm.

You recall hundreds of moments just like this one — late at night, Natasha coming home from a shift or leaving for one. Handing her a lunchbox, kissing her goodbye; or getting a 'I'm home'-kiss. Kisses that stopped, eventually. Nobody warned you that you'd have to go without them one day.

It's hard, not leaning in and trying to revive that little habit you had. Natasha has to keep herself from stepping over the threshold again. It wouldn't be fair, not to you or Irina. But there's a part of her that doesn't care whether it's fair to the blonde who can't be bothered to learn her daughters' names.

She doesn't know whether you'd want that kiss, so she finds a compromise. Her lips press against your cheek, quick and soft, and she pulls away. Your face burns up, you almost reach out, but she's already making her way to the gate.

"Taxi", you call, dumbfounded.

"I got it", she calls back. "Go inside. It's cold out."

"You don't have a jacket!"

Natasha taps her index finger against her lips, then she smirks and steps out of the front yard. She closes the gate, pulls out her phone, and gone she is.

You linger for two minutes. Pretending this is just another night — you waiting on the porch, dinner warming up on the stove, Natasha returning from a late shift — is the stupidest thing you could do in that moment, but you do it anyway.

The wind chime above you tinkles, and you look up. Another apology, back when she forgot to do something mundane. You stare at the shapes, all of them custom and dedicated to each member of what was once her family. A psi for you, a soccer ball for Valerie, a tiger for Charlotte. Natasha's, a fire helmet, dangles just a bit lower.

Despite everything, this is her family.

. . .

It's Natasha's idea that you go pick up the girls together. At first, you hesitate; it's not just that you'll be alone with her for a longer drive, but because this Sunday is hers. It's her time with the kids.

Your sister, however, texts you that Lottie's been whining and asking for you all morning. To help Natasha avoid having to deal with a cranky toddler, you agree.

She pulls up twenty minutes late. You're waiting by the front door already, dressed in a white shirt and short denim dungarees. Sunglasses are perched atop your head, and you immediately look up from your phone when you hear her.

"You're late!", you call, making a beeline for her pickup truck.

"Sorry", she says, leaning over the open the passenger door for you. "Look at you, all dolled up."

"Look at you, not even changing out of your pajamas."

Natasha grins. She's not too offended — she knows she looks anything but put-together, wearing shorts and an undershirt.

"It's warm out. Can't blame me."

You hum, agreeing, and sink into the seat. "A/C works again?"

"Fixed it last week", she says absently, turning down the volume of the radio a little. "Lottie helped me. She grabbed a wrench and added a nice dent to the door panel in the back."

You grimace apologetically. A song comes on, one you both can't stand as it brings back memories of alcohol, a party at the fire station, and vomiting into shrubs. When she kissed you on the hood of her truck and thought she could impress you with vodka shots. When she got drunk and told you she could see this being forever.

You reach out to change the station, then you stop in your tracks.

What you noticed is not worth mentioning, really. It should mean nothing. In that moment, it feels like a little stab.

"Don't like the 'new car' smell anymore?"

"What?" Natasha glances at the air freshener. "Oh, that. No, just thought I'd try this one."

"What was wrong with the other one?", you ask, sounding snippy.

For as long as you've known her, she used the 'new car' air freshener. Always. Whenever you'd stop at a gas station to buy a new one, she'd get that one. Obviously, it shouldn't be that important. For some reason, it is.

"Nothing's wrong with it", she says, glancing at you. "What's the issue?"

"Thought you'd at least be loyal to a fucking scent."

Natasha stammers. She glances at you from the corner of her eye a few times, her hand nervously tightening around the steering wheel. She's dumbfounded. She expected you to say a lot of things, but not that.

"It's- it's just a scent", she says weakly. "It doesn't have some deeper meaning."

"You're sure?", you hiss.

"Yes, I'm sure! God, you're going all therapist-mode again!"

You raise your eyebrows at her, and she winces slightly. That was the wrong thing to say. She regrets even thinking those words now.

"This has nothing to do with that! Ask any sane person, suddenly switching scents after years of having a favorite is not normal!"

"It's just a scent."

"It's not!"

"It is", she insists, suddenly grabbing the air freshener. You shut up and watch her tear it off, then she tosses it out the window.

Just like that, it's gone. You don't even hear it hit the ground. You stare at her, then shake your head and slump into the seat again. You hear her exhale, quietly but filled with so much frustration you swear she's about to have an aneurysm.

You cross your arms and shift in your seat. Natasha doesn't say anything. She keeps driving, the car passing by a gas station and some convenience store.

"That's not good for the environment, you know", you mutter, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Y/N!"

"You saw that documentary!"

Natasha rolls her eyes, but doesn't reply. Of course she saw the documentary. You randomly sent it to her one morning, with a text attached to it — use metal straws. That was it. Nothing else.

She watched the documentary, of course. And of course she bought those stupid metal straws you told her about.

The silence lingers, heavy like the clouds hanging in the sky. They're dark and thick, and before you can even think about the incoming weather situation, it begins to rain.

Raindrops patter against the windshield and roof, constant and rhythmic and loud. You hope it won't be that bad — just a couple raindrops. A drizzle, maybe. Nothing so bad that it'll affect you.

It's not just a light drizzle, no. It starts bucketing down on you, rain pouring and the sky darkening. It begins thundering in the distance, then lightning strikes. Despite the air conditioning being on, you feel the air in the car get chillier.

"We'll be fine", Natasha mumbles when you glance at her. "Just a storm. I've driven during worse conditions."

It gets worse. On top of rain and thunder and lightning, the car makes a whining noise when it accelerates. The radio flickers, the headlights weaken, and you give her another worried glance.

"That's nothing", she says, but you don't miss the slight frown on her face.

"Nat, we're already running late!"

The car wheezes pathetically, then it slows down. Natasha curses and hits the steering wheel a couple times, but it's no use. It breaks down in the middle of the road, and she just barely manages to pull over.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Wait", she says, stressed, and gets out of the truck.

Within seconds of being outside in the rain, her clothes get soaked. She ignores the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric sticking to her skin and pops open the hood. You stay where you are. She can get wet all she wants, but you're not moving. No way.

Something clatters, then you hear her curse. She stomps back to the driver's side and gets in.

"So?", you ask impatiently.

"The alternator's dead", she mutters, reaching for her phone. "I'll have to call AAA."

You stare at her, then exhale slowly. No need to start a fight — but your blood is boiling. All it took was one air refresher, and your day is ruined. Pair that with a storm and a truck that's broken down in the middle of the road, and it can't end well for Natasha.

"The kids are waiting!"

"And the truck broke down", she replies, pressing a button and holding the phone to her ear.

When she's done talking, she lowers it. The silence tells you everything you need to know. It'll be a long wait, possibly around an hour. That was the case a couple years ago, when you were on your way to your parents' place for the holidays.

"Idiot!", you hiss. "Did you know about this?"

"Well, it was acting up last week", she says, rubbing her face. "I thought I tightened the belt enough. It should've held."

"You thought? Nat, we're stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere! The kids are waiting!"

"I know that!"

"No, you don't!", you snap. Tears shoot into your eyes, and you're not fully sure why. "You can't do this anymore, Natasha! You can't pretend everything's alright and then be surprised when it all goes up in flames! Actually take care of shit for once! Be responsible!"

"I'm trying!", she retorts. She's a mess — water is dripping from her hair, her clothes are drenched (as is the car seat), and she's panicking. Another fight. Everything's been going somewhat well, and now you're about to get into another fight. "You think I wanted this to happen?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. Those are the words Natasha said on the phone three years ago, right before she told you she'd slept with Wendy. It's funny, how the human brain pushes some information aside and yet retains things you'd love to be able to forget.

You didn't forget, though. You stare at her, teary-eyed and furious, then open the car door and jump out. Natasha stares at you as you leave, the raindrops heavy on your skin. It takes her a second to register what's going on.

"Shit! Y/N, wait!" She accidentally hits her hand trying to open the door, then she storms out. "Wait, please!"

"Fuck you!"

"Y/N", she pleads. She's a firefighter, and she's faster. She reaches you within a matter of seconds. "Please."

You whip around. Loose strands of hair are sticking to your cheeks, and your eyes are red. She can't see the tears due to the rain, but she can't tell you're crying.

"Why'd you cheat?"

She blinks, her heart sinking. She never figured the 'why' out, either. There was never a reason, or an explanation, for what she did. It was cowardice, and idiocy, and selfishness all poured into what'd end up being the worst mistake of her life.

"Tell me!", you sob. "Come on! Don't just stand there!"

"Because I was an idiot", she says, finally able to speak again. She steps closer. "Because...I..."

You shake your head. The rain keeps pouring, and it thunders again. It's a furious sound, sizzling and crashing, and it sends lightning zipping across the sky.

"You don't even have an answer", you say. "Was it worth it? Destroying everything and not even knowing why?"

"It was a mistake, Y/N", she says, her voice breaking. "I told you."

"No." You laugh bitterly. "I hate that word. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. You chose to do it."

Natasha doesn't say anything because it's true. You're right, unfortunately, and it's painful to admit. Spilling juice, losing a key, forgetting about an appointment — those are all mistakes. They're forgivable, human. But cheating is not.

"I regret it every fucking day", she says quietly. Another step closer. "I miss you constantly. I don't just miss our family, but I miss you. I married you for a reason, Y/N. That day you almost burnt down your apartment for crème brûlée? I mark that date in my calendar every year, and I buy crème brûlée because god knows I'd end up burning down my kitchen as well, but I buy it because it's the reason why I got to marry you."

The crème brûlée. What started as a poor attempt at making a French dessert ended in you meeting and marrying this woman in front of you. Rain-soaked, stupid, but you love every tiny part about her. Even the ones that ended up hurting you.

Believing someone who cheated, however, is hard. Love doesn't change that.

"Bullshit", you whisper.

"It's not bullshit", she pleads. "I've loved you for over 12 years, and that's not something that's going to change. I love you."

"Natasha." You let out a soft sob. "You slept with someone else. That's final. Do you know how much it hurt me? It still hurts. Every day. God, Vee and Lottie both look like you, and sometimes it hurts to look at them!"

Natasha swallows. Tears fill her eyes, but she blinks them away. Emotionally avoidant — that's how you once described her as to Valerie. In hindsight, you shouldn't have. But you were tired and sick of her, and in that moment, you needed someone to vent to. Though there are certainly better options for that than your child.

That doesn't change the fact that you were right, though. Your ex-wife was never good at communicating. She doesn't like to show her feelings. Even now, tears are something she needs to suppress.

"I know", she mumbles. The storm is so loud you can barely hear her. "I'm sorry."

"I love you too", you say. Your voice shakes. "I don't think I can change that."

She blinks and nods. You shiver pitifully, and Natasha reaches out. You want to back away, but then her hands touch your arms, and you're pulled in. She feels warm against you despite the cold rain, and she feels solid.

Way too much of you relies on the woman who's holding you. Despite the divorce, and the fights, you can't imagine existing without her at this point. It's your biggest weakness.

You look up, jaw set. You shiver again. She smiles, eyes glassy with tears, and you tip your head back a little. She's taller than you, and what you're doing is instinct. It makes it easier for her to kiss you.

It's been years, and yet, the feeling of her lips moving against yours is as familiar as breathing. You get on your tiptoes and cup her face to keep her close. Bodies pressed together, you nod your head and deepen the kiss.

She tastes like tears and rain and that gum she always buys. Her hands run down your sides, squeezing and roaming, and she keeps pulling you closer like you aren't already intertwined.

You wrap your arms around her neck. Natasha hums quietly, her hands on your thighs, then hoists you up. You pull away.

"What are you doing?", you ask, out of breath. She's already walking back to the truck.

"You're shivering", she says. "I got a blanket in the back."

"Oh."

With the door open, you slide into the backseat. You tug Natasha in with you, and she doesn't resist. As soon as she's sitting, you're swinging one leg over her lap. She feels a twitch inside her shorts, a familiar one, and shifts.

"It's fine", you mumble, pressing your lips to her jaw. She exhales quietly. "I know what I'm doing."

"You're sure? We haven't..." She trails off. You close your eyes.

You haven't slept together in over three years now. Not long before you got pregnant with Lottie, sex turned rare and lost what it once overflowed with. It was hollow and lacked passion. But if you try hard enough, maybe you'll be able to pretend that never happened. That sex is still the same as it was. That you still know each other's bodies by heart.

Even if it's just to distract yourself for a short while.

"If you don't want to, we don't have to. Obviously."

"No, that's not..." Natasha laughs nervously. "I'm not going to last long, love."

"That's what you're worried about?"

She shakes her head, then kisses you. Her hands move upwards, undo the straps of your dungarees, take them off. You feel the bulge in her shorts, straining against the fabric, and help her out of it.

You straddle her again and sink down onto her. Neither of you are worried about using protection in this moment. You're too fixated on the feeling of her inside of you.

The rain keeps pattering against the windows, which are now fogging up on the inside. Her hands are holding onto your waist like it's a lifeline. The backseats creak softly, you grip the backrest, and everything around you stops mattering.

She lets out a quiet curse when you clench around her. You bury your face in her neck and smell rain and cologne.

"I mean it. I love you."

"I know", you moan. Her hips thrust off the seat.

"I want to fix this. I want to fix us."

You hum vaguely, but it shifts into a soft whine. "You're really picking your moment here, Nat."

"Sorry", she gasps. Her forehead is presses against your shoulder. "But I mean it."

"I know", you repeat, nodding and biting back moans. A shiver rolls up your spine, and heat pools in your lower belly. "Just...wait a minute."

"Right."

Her hips roll up against yours, and the orgasm washes over you like the rain earlier. You shudder and slump into her. She kisses your neck and you feel something warm drip down your thighs.

The windows are fully fogged up by now. It smells like sex and rain, and you close your eyes to soak it in. Her heart beats against yours, steady and rapid, and you feel like you got tossed back into the past.

. . .

The girls ask no questions when you pick them up, but you've never seen Valerie look this excited.

She jumps into the car, clutching her duffel bag like an oversized teddy, and gives you a toothy grin. It should relieve you that she's happy about this — in reality, it freaks you out.

There were no promises made. Nothing's certain. For all you know, you're playing house instead of trying to become an actual family again.

Thankfully, Lottie distracts all of you. She's cranky from a sleepless night, so she's fussing and complaining about everything. The fruit pouch you hand her is squeezed to death like that apple juice pack a couple weeks ago, and her stuffed tiger ends up flying through the truck and hitting Natasha in the head.

To try and bribe her into calming down a little, you grab ice cream at a fast food drive in. It offers you three minutes of peace, then it's smushed against the window. More tears come, little feet kick against the seat, and Natasha and you decide going home is probably your safest bet.

Natasha parks her truck in front of your house. You unbuckle, then give her a hesitant look. Just sex — except it wasn't. Not when there's so much history tied to it. It's tied to everything you do.

"I'll help you", she finally offers. You exhale, thankful she broke the silence. "I just gotta wipe the window."

"Sure. I'll get the kids."

You get out of the truck and gather the girls. One in your arm, the other holding your hand, and go inside. Natasha follows minutes later and drops off their duffel bags.

The moment she steps over the threshold, you silently agree on something neither of you says out loud. She doesn't consider leaving, and you don't consider asking her to. Instead, you move around in the house like this is how it's supposed to be.

(And maybe it is.)

Lottie doesn't question it. She inhales the grilled cheese Natasha makes for everyone, then drags her upstairs for nap time. Valerie stays seated at the kitchen table, legs dangling. As soon as she's alone with you, she leans in.

"Have you made up?"

You frown and put the knife aside, then dry your hands. "What? Nonsense. We weren't fighting, honey."

"You're lying", she says. She grabs the plate of apple slices you hand her and eats one. "You were. You always fight. Is mama moving in again?"

You stare at her, but she doesn't flinch. You doubt she isn't aware of the weight of what she just asked; she's been perceptive of her surroundings ever since she was a toddler. She's certainly acting like she has no clue, though.

"You're too observant", you finally say. You stand behind her and start fixing her hair. "Don't worry about me and mama, alright? You should read that book for your English class instead, bub. These are grown people-problems."

"But mom-"

"No", you reply. You use the hair tie around your wrist to put her hair into a ponytail. "I promise I'm trying my best here, alright? And so is mama. But there are some things that are just hard to deal with."

"I could help", she offers, getting up from her chair. "Please."

You furrow your eyebrows at her. Footsteps on the staircase make you pause, and you both peek into the hallway to see Natasha return. She looks at you.

"Lottie's asleep", she says. "Anyone want to watch a movie?"

Apparently, trying to distract Valerie from anything only works if you're Natasha. Even if just for tonight, she lets go of the topic. Instead, she curls up between you on the couch and stares at the tv screen like it's offering her the entertainment of a lifetime.

An hour later, Lottie joins. You finish watching the movie and put on some cartoon. You make dinner — stir fry; Natasha wants to both kiss you and sob her eyes out —, and then go outside. The rain has stopped a while ago, but the slide is still slippery, so Lottie almost zooms into the shrubs.

When it's bedtime, you get the kids ready together. You tuck them in, kiss foreheads, turn on nightlights and search for specific stuffies. Once everyone is happy, you meet in the hallway and go downstairs.

Again, there's not much talking involved. You don't have to say it out loud to agree on it. You get the couch ready like it's second nature — pillows, blankets, a change of clothes — and linger by the door when she sits down.

"Just for tonight, right?", she says, slowly unfolding the blanket. You shrug.

"I'm not going to answer that."

Natasha shoots you a faint smile, then sits down. "This is like that night where you kicked me out of bed."

"It's not the same at all", you argue. "Get some sleep, alright?"

She looks up and hums quietly. Join me — she doesn't say those words out loud, but she certainly thinks them. You, however, turn around and head up the stairs. Something rustles in the living room.

You're not ready to commit, or to pretend nothing ever happened. You can't go back to normal. But you can't bring yourself to let her go, either. All you can do is survive the moment and pray you don't fall apart in the morning.

By the time the sun comes up, three warm bodies will have joined Natasha on the couch.

2am. Valerie wakes up, thirsty, so she pads into the kitchen and fills up her water bottle. When she walks past the living room, she stops. Her mom's on the couch, asleep and snoring. She hasn't slept here in forever. Valerie hesitates, then curls up next to her.

4am. Charlotte wakes up. She carefully makes her way down the steps, her hand gripping the metal rods of the railing. She sees that the couch isn't empty and sleepily climbs on top of Natasha. She's knocked out within seconds.

5am. Something rips you from your sleep, so you get up and go downstairs to get started on breakfast. But you see all three of them on the couch — Natasha, on her back; Lottie, on top of her; Valerie, tucked between her side and the backrest of the couch. You pause and blink, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Walking up to them is not an active decision, and neither is laying down next to the woman who was once your wife. At least that's what you tell yourself, because it's been years since you were able to fall asleep this quickly.

When Natasha wakes up, all three of her girls have joined her on the couch.

You stir as well. As soon as you register where you are and what happened, you freeze.

Last night wasn't a dream. You didn't make it up. You were stupid enough to have sex with her, take her home, let her sleep over. Now, you're all entangled on the couch, and you have to deal with the aftermath.

The domestic peace you feel is the same thing you felt years ago. Back when everything was safe, when you trusted it. You were naive. You now know what it's like to have that feeling be taken from you, and having it taken away a second time will only hurt more.

Lottie and Valerie wake up at the same time, and you scramble up and excuse yourself. As soon as you've closed the bathroom door behind you, you sit down on the closed toilet lid. You feel the tears well up and roll down your cheeks. You cry quietly, hand over your mouth to stifle any possible noise.

Then, it knocks. You freeze and don't reply.

"Y/N?" That's Natasha's voice, soft and cautious. "You alright?"

"I'm good", you lie, ripping off some toilet paper to wipe your face. "Something happen?"

"Valerie's going to be late for school. It's almost 8am, which means she needs to be there in five minutes. I'm not good at maths, but I feel like that's kinda hard to do."

"Get her dressed", you say, getting up. You open the door and Natasha falters. "Grab a few snacks, she can eat those in the car."

"Are you-"

"Give her some lunch money too", you cut her off. You walk past her and scoop up Lottie, who's about to fall asleep again on the floor. "I'll pick her up later."

Natasha stays rooted in place. She looks helpless and confused; a little regretful too, maybe. You're gone already, having disappeared upstairs with a sleepy Charlotte in your arms.

She wants to follow you and apologize. She wants to talk about this. But Valerie runs to the front door, dressed and ready to leave, and she has no choice but to go.

. . .

Three days later, you find a jewelry box on your porch.

It just appeared there. No warning, no note, no quick text from the woman who made it for you. Another apology, disguised in wood and nails and painted white. You pick it up, flip it, inspect every inch of it.

Then, you open the lid. Between the little cushions she put in one of the compartments is a ring.

You know which one. It's the one she proposed with over a decade ago. It's the same width, the same diamond cut, the same design. It glistens in the sun, and you slam the box shut.

"What's that?", the woman behind you asks. You turn around and see Maria leaning against the doorframe. "Oh no. Don't tell me..."

"Yeah."

"She still does that?"

You gesture at the shoe rack next to the front door. "This thing's from, like, half a year ago."

Maria snorts into her coffee cup. She steps closer. Without even glancing at you, she pops open the jewelry box and pauses. "Dear god. Has she lost it?"

You give her a tired look. Maria is a firefighter as well. She works alongside Natasha, and she knows her almost as good as she knows you. She's also aware of Natasha's inability to communicate with words instead of DIY home projects.

"Guess", you mumble, shutting the box again.

"Is this her way of proposing?", she asks, following you inside. "I thought she'd be able to do at least that without a prop."

"What?" You stop in your tracks and whip around. Maria, startled, bumps into you and spills coffee. "Shit- are you insane? Why would you ask that?"

She rolls her eyes and puts the cup aside, then tugs at her shirt. It's stained with lukewarm coffee, and the fabric is sticking to her skin.

"Gee, I don't know. The engagement ring she gave you, maybe?"

You give her a stunned stare. "That's not- no. That's not what this is. I mean, that'd be..."

"Crazy? Insane? Completely bananas?" She shrugs and walks into the kitchen to grab a towel. You follow her. "Amen, sister. But it's kinda what it looks like."

You put your hand against your head and lean against the wall. Maria dabs at the stain and sighs.

"She's not proposing", you say. You're not sure if you genuinely believe that or whether you're trying to make yourself believe it. "I mean, she's with Irina."

"No, she isn't."

Your hand drops to your side. You wait for Maria to continue and explain — she can't just drop a bomb like this one and then not elaborate, after all. But she just frowns and rubs at the persistent stain on her shirt.

"What do you mean, she isn't?"

Maria looks up. She shrugs. "She had sex with you, didn't she?"

"Yeah, well." You laugh bitterly. "She also had sex with Wendy when we were married, so there's that."

"Yes, sure, but-" She sighs and takes off her shirt, then waltzes straight into the laundry room. You're tired of her constant back-and-forth, but you follow her anyway. "But she's changed. I think. And I heard her dump someone in the bunk room. She was on the phone, it got pretty ugly."

You stop in the doorway. Maria grabs a stain remover and dabs it on her shirt, then she puts it aside. You barely register any of it.

Apparently, Natasha's made a choice. She's sabotaging (sabotaged?) her relationship because of you. It's desperation in real time, and it's quiet, and messy. But she's picking you.

And you? You're not sure if you want to be picked. Maybe not being the first choice would be better for you this time. You still can't help the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You press your hand against your lower belly.

You're confused, you're scared, but you're also tempted. Part of you wants to believe in her, and in this love that still exists between you.

"She didn't tell me", you say dumbly.

"Of course not." Maria glances at you. "Why would she? She's terrified. She's fucked up before, and she's smart enough to know she's not immune to doing it again."

"Yes, but...she didn't tell me. She didn't...I mean..."

"Breathe, honey." She gently leads you back out into the hallway. "I mean, you should probably confront her, right? Don't be too nice, either. Make her suffer."

"Maria."

"I mean it."

You give her a deadpan look. She's one of the few who know why you and Natasha got divorced, and she's been a hater ever since. She used to be friends with your ex-wife, now she barely tolerates her. Seeing them in a room together is pretty funny, but you don't need her to act like this all the time.

She smiles and shrugs on her hoodie. "She deserves it."

"Yes, but she's Natasha."

"And this is why people fuck you over."

"Alright, time for you to leave."

She laughs and walks out the door. You stay on the porch, leaning against the railing, and watch her get into her car. She winks at you.

"I think she's off-duty today", she calls.

"No."

Maria nods and starts her car. "Yes. Absolutely", she says. "I mean it."

You groan. She sounds the horn, then drives off. You're left on the porch, alone, with a ring in a box waiting inside the house for you.

There's about a hundred things you'd rather do. Vacuum the house, mow the lawn, reschedule that appointment at the optometrist you won't be able to go to. In the end, you sit down in your car and drive to the other end of town.

Straight to Natasha's cabin.

. . .

Her cabin isn't unfamiliar. Not entirely.

You've been there countless times to drop the girls off, or to grab a toy one of them forgot. You know what it looks like — the dark wood, the gray trim, the metal roof. A huge backyard, half grass and half dirt patch, and a covered porch with a worn couch. Tools everywhere, even on the staircase.

You stay in the car for a long moment, then you get out and walk up to the porch. You don't knock, don't ring the doorbell. Instead, you lift the corner of the doormat and snatch the spare key Natasha apparently forgot there.

The door creaks open, and you're hit with a smell of pinewood and cologne. Sawdust and coffee are tangled into the scent, and you exhale softly as you step in. Now it's unfamiliar.

You inspect the coat rack, weighed down by jackets and fire gear and a diaper bag. You glance at the pairs of shoes scattered around underneath it. You peek into the kitchen and spot the protein powders and beef jerky on the shelf there.

Silently, you wonder whether her breakfasts are still as ridiculous as they were when you still lived together. She used to wolf down 5 to 6 eggs every morning, and sometimes followed up with waffles and leftover steak.

You shake your head and walk further into the house. It's comfy, you have to admit. Lived-in, too. You pick up a little sock with rainbows on it and put it on the coffee table, then you keep going.

A small staircase leads you into the walkout basement. You hear the sound of someone scrubbing something, so you keep going. You push open another door and freeze.

Natasha, on the floor, crouched next to a dresser. Sanding paper in hand, she's sanding the side. As soon as the door has swung open, though, she stops.

All you can do is stare at each other. Her hair, slowly coming loose from a low bun. The grey hoodie she's wearing, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes, still looking up at you in that way that never stopped making you weak.

"You let yourself in?", she asks, her voice cracking.

"Why'd you give me the ring?"

She pauses. She slowly puts the sanding paper aside, then she wipes her hands on her sweatpants before getting up. You swallow, the jewelry box firmly clutched in your hands.

This is what you wanted. An answer. Watching her squirm, hesitate. Letting her feel what it's like to drown for a moment. You didn't come up for air for much longer, after all. Grief, motherhood, betrayal — crushing your lungs and pulling you under the surface. It's her turn.

"I don't know", she then says. You shake your head, but she lifts her hand. Her expression is pleading. "I wanted you to know I still had it. I didn't know how else to...you know."

"No", you say, both sharply and weakly. "I don't know. You think you can just drop this off and fix it all? I've told you that you building shit doesn't repair anything, Natasha."

"Yeah", she mumbles.

"And neither does this ring. I don't want it. Not like this."

She nods and steps closer. You willingly hand her the box when she reaches for it, and you watch her open it and pull out the ring. It gives you flashbacks to that night in your bed, when she was lying on her side with the ring between her fingers. She'd dumped rose petals all over the room, bed included.

It was right after sex when she revealed the ring. You were both flushed and out of breath. Back then, you swore you'd never be able to fall in love like this again. As of right now, you were correct.

"I'm not proposing", she says. She keeps the ring in her fist, careful to not drop it. "Honestly? I don't know what I'm doing. I haven't known for a while. But I need to fix this, Y/N. I need to fix us."

You shake your head. "No, Nat. You-"

"Wait", she begs. "I keep thinking about it. About the way you looked at me that night. Like I was the best thing you'd ever seen. And-"

"Natasha-"

"And I want to be that again", she finishes. You rub your eyes. "I'm not supposed to burn stuff down, you know. My job is to put fires out. But I burnt us down. And now it's my job to undo the damage."

"This is not the same as burning down a house", you say. "I'd prefer that, honestly. We'd just build a new one. But you can't do that with a marriage."

Natasha's running out of moves. She's sitting in this grief, letting it encompass her. It's like a heavy weight, one she hasn't been able to shake in three years. But she needs to keep trying, even if it costs her what little dignity she has left.

She steps closer, again. You stay rooted in place, which is both relieving and saddening. Not that long ago, she couldn't have imagined that she'd ever fear you not wanting her close. But you're still here, still in front of her, and she's not only running out of moves — she's running out of time as well.

Her eyes search yours. You avert your gaze when it becomes too much.

"Please", she says. "Just tell me what to do."

"I don't know", you say, looking at her again. Sawdust on her hoodie, her eyes filled with quiet desperation. "I can't do this if you're not sure. And even then, I..."

"No. Don't."

"Can it even work?"

"Yes. It can."

You chew on your lip and glance at the floor. More sawdust. A hammer. A stack of sanding paper in various grits. A bottle of water, and a shaker filled with some protein shake.

"You cheated", you say slowly. You're hyper aware that you're starting to sound like a broken record, but you can't help it. Natasha winces. "You slept with someone else. How do you make anything work after doing that?"

Unfortunately, she has no idea. Love and relationships don't come with usage manuals or instructions. You can either try to figure it out yourself or wing everything and pray it'll be okay.

She did try. Then, she screwed up. She struck the match, burnt it down, and now, you're standing between ambers and ash. You're breathing in the smoke in a desperate attempt to clean the air, but there's only two of you, and without opening a window, you'll die before you succeed.

There's only one solution left. Tear down the walls and let the smoke escape before it suffocates you.

"I can't undo what I did", she says. "I know apologizing isn't enough. It will never be. But I know I love you, and I'll keep working on myself, and I'll make sure that you'll never doubt me again."

You stare at her, hesitating. "Nat."

"I'm serious, Y/N. So serious." She exhales, her breath shaky. "Let me prove it to you. Give me a year. A test phase. You can back out at any point. You can always end it. But give me one chance. Just one. I'm not asking for anything else."

"And then?", you probe. "I don't trust you anymore. Not like I used to. What if I also don't trust you in a year?"

"That's okay", she promises. She cups your face, the ring stuck between her fingers and pressing against your cheek. "I'm not asking for anything else. I want you and the girls back. Just give me a shot at trying."

This is so her that you almost smile. Laying out blueprints, strategizing, framing it like something practical. Turning your relationship into a deal. But somehow, she's managed to make it raw and hopeful.

At the end of your life, you don't regret what you did — you regret what you didn't do. The 'what if' hurts the most. The knowledge that something could've been, if only there'd been more courage. If only you'd been braver. If you'd taken that leap instead of walking away.

Your marriage has always been centered around fire. It's the reason why you met. It's what Natasha deals with every day. It burned your marriage to the ground, even if not literally.

You feel it all over her, too. In her hands, which are calloused and strong. Her eyes blaze with it. Whenever you'd kiss her, you felt it. She's the human equivalent to fire. She's messy and unpredictable, she can cause disastrous amounts of damage. But when it comes down to it, she's there to warm you up.

Fire meant safety. Early humans used it as a source of light and protection.

It turns out that, even millions of years later, some things don't change.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your eyes are burning.

"Don't disappoint the girls", you mumble. "Not again. Because I'll kill you, Romanoff. I swear."

Natasha lets out a breath. Her eyes glass over, her fingers shake against your cheek. You ended it with a threat, and truthfully, she deserves it. She'll have to fight for every scrap of softness now, but that's okay. It's worth it.

"I won't", she promises. "You know they're in good hands."

"Not the point."

"I know." She brushes her thumb over your lip. You move your head so her hand drops from your face, then you lean in and kiss her.

It's not a big deal. Just a quick brush of lips, lasting a mere second. It shoots adrenaline through her entire body and her heart begins to race. You pull away and reach up to remove some sawdust from her hoodie.

You stay silent for a moment as you study her. She doesn't say anything either, just stands there and admires you like the idiot she is. Finally, you pull away, but not without snatching the ring from her.

"I'll hide this", you say, walking up the stairs. She raises her eyebrows.

"Okay...?"

"You're not proposing unless I allow you to."

"Oh, uh- alright."

"It better be. Now get a move on, we need to pick up the girls."

She stares for another second, then she hurries up to follow you outside.

. . .

Picking the kids up together once was fine. Doing it a second time, though, left Valerie bouncing on the spot like she's a battery operated toy.

She's smart. She knew. All it took was seeing you and Natasha, waiting by your car. There was less distance between you this time. She'd touched your arm, hesitantly, and you'd opted for a faint smile.

Something'd changed. Which, for once, was a good thing.

Months have passed, and it's turned into more of a routine. You pick Charlotte up together, with Valerie waiting in the car already. The second she's in front of you, she lifts her arms at Natasha.

"Up?", she asks. Her voice is grouchy in that tired toddler-way.

"Sure, bub", she says, scooping her up. Natasha's always held babies like they're made of gold. It doesn't matter if said baby is three weeks or three years old. "Let's get you home."

"We're going to mama's place tonight", you inform them. Valerie tilts her head. "Sounds good?"

"You're not mad anymore?"

Natasha and you had a little argument last night, but it really was little. And, to be fair, it was mostly your fault. There's no need to start yelling over a roll of toilet paper.

You buckle up and look at your daughter through the mirror. Way too perceptive. That won't change. You love that about her, though, even if it sometimes drives you up the wall.

"Who said that?", you ask, smiling.

Natasha sits down and starts the car. She glances at you, then forces herself to keep her eyes on the road. "You got homework, bub?"

"Answer the question", she drawls. "Are you still mad?"

You get a pointed look from Natasha. You roll your eyes and push your hand against her cheek, making her laugh quietly.

"No", you say. "Not mad anymore. Sorry for the fight, honey."

"We didn't think you'd hear", Natasha adds. She takes a left turn and drums her fingers against the steering wheel. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I don't care. You can't fight even when I'm sleeping."

"You're not the boss", Lottie says, throwing a LEGO figure at her sister. Valerie retaliates by grabbing her stuffed tiger and whacking it over her head. The next thing you hear is screeching and whining.

Exasperated, you turn around and intervene. "No, absolutely not. If we can't fight, then neither can you."

"She hit me!", Lottie cries out.

"She threw a LEGO at me!"

"Stop fighting and I'm getting you nuggets for lunch", Natasha mutters.

You want to intervene — don't bribe the kids into behaving, this can't end well, etc. — but then you remember that she's been doing this without you every other week for three full years. So far, nothing bad has resulted from it.

You slump into your seat when they immediately stop bickering. Natasha doesn't say anything, but she puts her hand around yours and squeezes gently.

At home, she grabs both kids and carries them into the cabin. One on her shoulders, the other in her arms, she slows down and turns around. You're close behind, holding their backpacks and the takeout paper bag.

You meet her halfway. There's a second of silence, of you just staring at each other, then you get on your tiptoes and kiss her. It takes her by surprise, for some reason, and you can't blame her.

You pull away first, and Valerie gives you a mildly disgusted look. She's been hoping for this for years, but she doesn't need to see you kiss.

"Can you not?"

Natasha shoots you a smile. You put your hand on her shoulder and turn her toward the cabin again. It's a spring afternoon, the sun is warm and the grass is covered in hundreds of little flowers. On the porch, Natasha left a half-finished bookshelf for Lottie's room.

As soon as you're inside, you wash your hands and dish out the food. You allow the girls to eat lunch in front of the tv for once, and they happily agree to find something to watch without fighting.

Then, it's just you and Natasha left in the kitchen. She's leaning against the counter, her hand twisting the top part of a water bottle. You can feel her watching you as you empty out the takeout bag and put the food on two plates.

"Want to share the onion rings?", she asks, pushing off the counter and walking up to you.

"You'll make me share my fries if we do, won't you."

"You know me too well", she mumbles. She wraps her arms around you and kisses your temple. "I'll let you have a sip of my beer."

She does. You end up on the porch together, sitting on the floor like teenagers. You stretch out your legs and she pulls them into her lap. You bring the beer bottle to your mouth and tip back your head. It's still cold, fizzy, tasting like the early days of your relationship.

You pass the bottle back to her, and she finishes what's left in it.

"Bookshelf looks nice", you comment. "Looks like a little house. Lottie will love it."

"I'll paint rainbows on it, too", she says. Her hand runs up and down your calf absentmindedly. "She asked for a bed with a slide, you know."

All you say is 'no', quickly and without hesitation. Natasha grins.

"I already told her no, don't worry. Not after the soap incident."

You hum, agreeing. Back at your house, Charlotte had dumped a small bucket of soapy water onto the slide and then slid down. Needless to say that didn't end well. You're still haunted by the blood coming out of nose.

"She laughed", you mutter, rubbing your temple. "She sat there and laughed. That's all you, you know."

"Sorry."

"Well, you better be. If she ends up wanting to be a firefighter, I'm suing."

"Maybe she ends up wanting to be like you", Natasha says. "I wouldn't mind that, you know."

You nudge her shoulder with yours. She sets her plate aside and wraps her arm around you.

Fire burns and destroys. It leaves behind ambers and smoke, soot and ash. The landscape looks scorched, your marriage was a wreckage. Things looked dead. But ash is fertile, and though you're marked, you're still here.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlet @jassgunner @marvelwomen-simp @fairyfandomwhore @womenarehotsstuff @twentyonetornmyheart

[81pastrys]

Osc

Summary— Lila is a little behind on talking, but she catches Lando’s nickname for his teammate.

Warnings— fluffiest dad fic ever ; overuse of the word cute

A/N— this is absolutely adorable.

Dad Lando List

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

Request— I love your writing the way your write all the drivers as dad 🥹 so cute could you do like Lila as a toddler maybe hearing lando call Oscar osc and she repeats it to him or something cute and fluff it’s okay if you don’t do it -🫶🏻

Lila was usually independent at the track. Walking around, handing out stickers and such. Today happened to be different, all she wanted to do was be held by Lando. He obliged, it was quality time he liked spending with her.

They were nearly done for the day and Lando was packing things up. He would narrate what they were going to do and such. She was a girl of only a few words, like ‘mama’ or ‘daddy’ or short words. So the doctor suggested to talk with her even if she wouldn’t respond, just to kickstart the sentences or fragments.

“Once we leave we’re going to go home and see mama, then we’ll eat dinner and go to bed.” He was saying. Oscar knocked and said his farewell. “Bye Osc, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said returning his voice to normal for his teammate.

“Bye, bye bug.” Oscar said to Lila. She waved back as he left. Lando kept on his rambling sentences and she listened. He got her in the car and she rambled and made noises.

“Os, Os, Os.” He heard. He awed internally, not wanting her to stop. It was adorable cooing. They got home and he took her out of the car. “Mama!” She babbled when they walk in.

“Hey my sweet girl!” She said, crouching to the 2-year-old. “How was your day? Did daddy take you out on track?” She asked. Lila nodded and looked to the tall man hovering to get a kiss from his wife.

“She learned a new word today.” He whispered with a smile and light chuckle. “Who did we say bye-bye to?” Lando asked, hoping she connected the name to the face.

“Os!” She exclaimed. Her mum nearly doubled over at the cuteness of her daughter. “Bye-bye os.” She repeated.

“You said bye-bye to os?” Her mum asked. Lila smiled and reached for her mum. She got what she wanted and was picked up. “I bet Os is going to love that.” She said.

“I’m not telling him, he’s going to find out tomorrow.” Lando laughed. “Is that not the cutest thing?”

“Well what can Lila do that isn’t cute?” She asked. “Look at her face.” She pinched one of the little girls cheeks and Lila giggled.

The next day they arrived on track and Lando settled in his driver room with the little girl. Oscar knocked and opened the door. Before he could get any words out he heard Lila. “Os!” She exclaimed and hugged his leg.

Oscar looked to Lando, smiling ear to ear. “Hey bug!” He greeted her. “You know my name now.” He said looking more to Lando.

“Bye-bye os.” She said. Lando laughed and Oscar joined him. “Os.” She repeated again and again.

“Isn’t she the cutest little thing?” Lando asked smiling at her repeating the nickname. “Os is right there sweetheart, see?” He pointed to him.

“Bye-bye os.” She said again and Lando laughed. He explained Oscar isn’t leaving and picked her up to walk out with Oscar.

Cutest little kid ever I know it.

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @itznotsophia @pandabiiissh @justaf1girl @chertik-007vvv @kallanfiona

[p1astr81]

hi again! i adore your writing style and think it would be cute for oscar to secretly learn how to braid hair and after reader and oscar haven’t seen each other in a while he’s really excited to show his new skill (love the polite cat vibes)

- 🧡

You sat in front of the full length mirror. He watched from across the room as your fingers twisted in your hair, trying to braid it without being able to see it. Though you tried to keep it contained, could feel your frustration.

The hair band twisted around the end of the braid. You dropped your hands to your lap once you were finished. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get.” You sighed. He could hear the disappointment in your voice.

He came up behind you, inspecting your hair. Wrapping his arms around your shoulders, he propped his chin on the top of your head. “It looks great, baby. Stop worrying.” He eased, kissing your head.

“You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.” You grumbled, but you still relaxed in his hold.

Admittedly, it didn’t look perfect, but it wasn’t terrible. It just wasn’t even, one strand having slightly more hair, too loose in some places and too tight in others.

“Maybe, but it looks fine.”

You hummed. “Well, does it look good or fine? Pick one.”

“It looks good.” Maybe he was lying a little, but he was just trying to ease your worried. And besides, it didn’t look all that bad.

He was at home with his family for a week while you were staying with yours.

“Mae?” He called.

She hummed in response, popping another chip in her mouth.

“Can I braid your hair?” He asked nervously.

She paused, eyeing him with suspicion. “I guess.” She shrugged.

He tried to work on memory, recalling how you’d twist one strand around the other. When he was done, it was very, very ugly.

“What is that?” Hattie asked, condensing of the sight in front of her. “You can do better than that.”

He shrugged. “That’s the best I could do.”

“Alright, undo it. I’ll teach you.”

He listened while Hattie shouted instructions at him.

“Those pieces aren’t even.”

“No, pull it tighter.”

“Don’t let go of the strands.”

“Oscar, you’re terrible at this.” She criticized. “But I guess it’s better than the first attempt.” She grimaced.

Sighing, he sat next to Mae. “I tried.”

A chip was held out to him. He took it. “Why do you want to know how to braid anyway?” Mae asked.

It took him a moment to respond, knowing what the response from his sisters would be. “Well, y/n couldn’t braid her hair so I thought that I could learn and do it for her next time.”

The room was silent for a moment before Hattie broke it with her laughter. “Oh you are down bad!”

Edie shrugged. “I don’t know, I think it’s cute. And nice.”

Every day, Oscar would ask Mae if he could practice on her hair. She agreed every time, though not very thrilled about it.

By the last day, he’d finally gotten the hang of it.

“Well, it’s not perfect. Definitely a little loose, but it’s good!” Hattie gave him a look of approval.

The next time he saw you struggling to braid your hair, he smiled.

He came up behind you, a hand on your hip. “Can I try?” He asked, nervous but excited to show you his new skill. You furrowed your brows at him, but agreed with a nod anyway.

You watched him through the mirror. Smiled at the way his tongue poked out in concentration, the furrow of his brows.

“Since when did you know how to braid?” You laughed softly.

“Uh, Hattie taught me.” He mumbled, more focused on the braid and remembering everything his sister taught him. Tension. Even parts.

He stepped back once he was done. “How’s that?” He asked nervously.

You twisted, looking at the braid through the mirror. You ran your hand over it, laughing in disbelief. “It looks amazing, thank you, Osc.” He smiled proudly. You turned to face him, littering his face in kisses to thank him even more.

[ijustwannabecool]

Drive to Survive – Episode 3: Family Mode

Lewis Hamilton x Wife!Reader

Summary... The world knows Lewis Hamilton for his speed. But in Monaco, Drive to Survive captures a side no one’s ever seen before: the chaotic, adorable magic of the Hamilton family—through the voices of his three biggest fans.

Trigger Warnings: Pure fluff, children with microphones, soft dad Lewis, emotional overload, very light language from the kids that will make you giggle.

A/N: hope you guys enjoy this fic. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next. Request are open!! Happy reading and have a beautiful rest of your day!!

Like, share, comment, reblog!

-----

The paddock is buzzing with race-day energy—teams in motion, engines roaring, broadcasters perched, cameras flashing. But Y/N’s entire world is bundled on the couch of the Mercedes suite.

Mateo is hanging halfway off her lap, Leo is sitting cross-legged on a beanbag in front of the screen, and baby Sofia is snuggled to her chest in a wrap, a pacifier bobbing gently as she hums.

Netflix producers are circling, politely attaching clip mics to the boys' shirts.

“I don’t know if I love this,” Y/N murmurs to Lewis, who is already half-suited and crouched next to them, one hand balancing Sofia’s head for a kiss.

“You don’t have to do it,” he says immediately, his voice low and warm. “One word from you and I’ll tell them to shut it down.”

“No, no,” she smiles, brushing his curls from his forehead. “I’m just being protective. This is the first time people are going to see them. Like... really hear them.”

Lewis leans in, nuzzles the side of her face and whispers, “They’re gonna love them. They’re gonna see what I see every day.”

She rolls her eyes, but it softens into a grin.

“Alright,” he says, standing up and pressing kisses to all three of their heads. “Wish me luck, superstars.”

---

MIC’D UP CHAOS: “THE HAMILTON KIDS AT MONACO GP”

Leo (7): “Mum, is Daddy gonna beat Verstappen today?” You (laughing): “You say that like it’s a video game.” Mateo (4): “I beat Max in Mario Kart yesterday.” Leo: “That was me, Teo.” Mateo: “Liar.”

---

Leo (pointing at the TV): “Look! Daddy’s waving! That’s for us!” Mateo (squinting): “No it’s not. That’s for the tires.”

---

Mateo (gasps): “Why did Daddy say that word! That’s a BAD word!” You (whispering): “Yeah, and we don’t repeat it.” Leo (grinning): “He only says it when he’s behind someone slow.” Mateo: “So Max is slow?” You: “Oh my God.”

---

Sofia (9 months): [happy squeal] Mateo: “Sofiiiiii, stop yelling. I’m listening to Daddy’s car.”

---

Leo (dramatically): “If Daddy doesn’t win, I’m never eating broccoli again.” You: “Wow. Revolutionary protest.” Mateo: “I already don’t eat broccoli. I’m winning.”

---

Mateo (whines): “Mum, Leo took my popcorn!” Leo: “You dropped it!” Mateo: “IT’S THE PRINCIPLE!”

---

Sofia (fusses quietly) You: “I know, I know. You miss Daddy too.” Leo (softly): “He always kisses her forehead before he races. Maybe she knows.”

---

AFTER LEWIS’S LAST-LAP OVERTAKE FOR P2

Leo (standing): “GOOOOOOO DADDY!” Mateo (screaming): “ZOOM ZOOM ZOOMMMMMMM!” Sofia: [Claps] You (cheering): “That’s it! That’s our guy!”

But the cheering turns to panic for a split second when Lewis swerves on the final corner to block a late overtake.

Mateo (voice trembling): “Is Daddy okay? Is his car broken?” You (squeezing his hand): “He’s fine, love. That was just… some spicy defending.” Leo: “Daddy’s got the grip of God, that’s what Uncle Nico said!”

---

POST-RACE: THE REUNION

Lewis skips press. Walks right past the crew. The helmet comes off, the smile is tired but real—and it grows tenfold when he sees them.

He jogs to the suite, rips off his gloves.

Leo runs straight into him, launching into a hug. Lewis swoops him up, spins once before grabbing Mateo in his other arm. Sofia is still wrapped on your chest, and he presses a kiss to her cheek before kissing you right on the mouth—sweat, adrenaline and all.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, breathless.

“I know,” he says, grinning. “But did you see that move?”

“They all saw it. And heard your entire potty-mouth symphony too.”

Leo: “Daddy, you said the F-word three times!”

Lewis: “Three? That’s all?”

Mateo (serious): “I’m telling Grandma.”

Lewis (laughing): “You traitor.”

---

CUT TO THE FINAL MOMENTS OF THE EPISODE

The family is on the couch later that evening in the motorhome, Netflix crew wrapping up.

Sofia’s finally asleep.

Leo is laying half-on Lewis’s chest. Mateo is holding the remote like it’s a championship trophy.

The race replay is on. The audio is off.

But the family noise? Oh, it’s all still there.

Mateo: “Next time, can I wear Daddy’s helmet?” Lewis: “Only if you want to get helmet hair.” Leo: “He already has helmet hair.”

You (laughing): “He was born with helmet hair.”

Lewis looks at all of them—his wife, his kids, this moment. And he whispers it low so only the mics can catch:

“Best podium I’ve ever had.”

---

BONUS SCENE: THE LAST CLIP OF THE EPISODE

“MIC CHECK: LEO AND MATEO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS” (Filmed post-race, aired during the closing credits)

The screen fades from the on-track footage to a quieter room inside the paddock hospitality area. Two chairs. A backdrop with the Ferrari logo. Two small boys—Leo and Mateo—sit with juice boxes, clip mics still taped to their shirts, legs swinging in rhythm.

-

A Netflix producer off-screen asks, “Okay boys, ready?”

Leo (nodding seriously): “We’re always ready.”

Mateo (confused): “Ready for what? Are we fighting?”

---

Producer: “What’s it like having Lewis Hamilton as your dad?”

Leo: “He’s just… our dad. He makes pancakes on Sundays. They’re okay.”

Mateo: “He lets me eat cookie dough when Mum says no.”

Leo: “He also yells a lot when people drive slow.”

---

Producer: “What does he say when he’s mad?”

Mateo (smirking): “I’m not allowed to say.”

Leo: “But it starts with F.”

---

Producer (laughing): “Who do you think is his biggest fan?”

Leo: “Me.”

Mateo (gasps): “No, it’s me!”

Leo: “You didn’t even know what DRS was until last week!”

Mateo: “Well you cried when he lost in Baku!”

Leo (shrugs): “It was emotional.”

---

Producer: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leo: “Race engineer. I want to help Daddy win.”

Mateo: “I wanna drive faster than Daddy.”

Leo: “That’s impossible.”

Mateo (grinning): “I’m gonna do it in reverse.”

---

Producer (last question): “If your dad could hear you right now, what would you tell him?”

Leo: “We’re proud of you.”

Mateo: “Love you, Daddy. You’re the best vroom vroom.”

Both (together): “And can we get ice cream now?”

The camera lingers on their faces for just a second longer—Leo’s confident grin, Mateo’s wide-eyed innocence—before the screen fades to black and the episode credits roll to the sound of a faint baby squeal in the background.

[totemstones]

Burnout

(Giselle x Male Reader)

Tags : Bratty Gigi, Handjob, Sloppy Toppy, Sex, Dirty Talk, Mommy Kink, Recording

w/ plenty amount of music gimmicks

Length : 2.1K words

‘Nah, come on, you’ve never been like this. What happened?’

‘I just... have a little bit burnout’

You and Giselle are friends. You start getting closer to her since you have been doing songs with her, 24 songs that you and Giselle have done together, both finished and unfinished. Once you even think that you want to do a collab tape with her.

You were supposed to finish the verse on one song off Giselle's solo album. But at some point, you can’t even think of any lyrics, or words. 

‘Nah, keep your head up, man. You can do this. You can tell me what happened. We have been doin’ this things so many times. I’ll be your therapist’ - Giselle trying to cheers up yet concerns

‘I don’t know, i just-, feel like I can't think any words. But I don't have any problems for real. Don’t worry, nothin’ can stop me’

‘Cap. You look like a miserable guy right now, i can see. Let me do something’

Suddenly, Giselle starts to kneel in front of you while you sit on the sofa in the studio. She starts to put both of her hands and slide up from your shins, to your knees, and finish at your crotch. Then rubbing it at slow pace.

‘Woah woah, what you doin’?’

‘I just, you know-, give you a little heat. So, I decide to rub your wood. Based on the science, when the wood got rubbed, it creates fire. I heard that you’re burnout right? I want to lit your fire back again’

After that, she unbuckles your belt and takes off your pants down on the mat. The plump bulge that was caused by your friend got shown. When Giselle sees that, she does her mischievous smile after saw your wood.

‘Oh! I never knew that you have… such a big cock, a really really big one. Why you never show this to me? I guess this is your hidden talent, don’t hide it to me after this. OK?’ 

Your last cover was over, she takes off the underwear. Her face was too close to your cock that caused your cock flip up and hit her cheek.

‘Oh!, it slaps me. But what will hit me harder, your lyrics or your cock’

Giselle puts one hand to stroke your cock, and another hand to fondle your ball. Giselle pursing her lips while doing it. This action of hers can make you look at the ceiling and release a satisfying moan.

‘Have you ever thought- about… the fantasy about me?’

‘Nev- Never. Cuz you know- you’re my friend, it would be weird i-if I ever think about that. But since you’re doing this to me, i might looking forward about it- and thanks for this therapy’

Then, she pacing up the tempo and puts her both hands to pumping your cock, still seeing the glans even when she puts both hands on.

‘Your cock is so fucking big. Anyways. Do you love me-?’

‘Yes. I fucking love you’

‘I’m not even finished the fucking question, I just want to ask that if you love me when I'm doing this’

‘Fuck’

You thought that she was asking if you love her, you slipped out your real feeling of her.

‘So. Do you really love me?’ 

‘Definitely’ 

‘Alright. call me mommy then?’

‘What- Ah hell nah, you’re not my mommy’

At first, you feel offended. But then, Giselle start to playing with your cock, put her face closer to your cock and place it on her face, you can feel the breath from her nose that give you a goosebump.

‘Look at me! Your cock is longer than my face. I don’t know how many times I’ll say this, but you have such a big cock’

Giselle puts her nose and drags along from your balls to the cock. Then started to put it into her mouth.

‘Oh! I'm sorry. I just wanted to play with it for more minutes, but it ended up in my mouth. I'm sorry for the accident. But I think you want it to happen, right? So, since it happening, I’ll continue it’

Giselle starts to suck you cock, goes up and down, while keeping both eyes on you, wanting to see your relaxing face from this therapy section. Giselle keeps spitting on your cock, and oftenly switches to handjob that more slippery than before. Giselle getting more sloppy, her face full of her own saliva, her lips have lipstick color faded marks. She start to giving faster pace for you.

‘I've been doing this for a while now. Can you finally call me mommy?’

‘No. I didn’t see your full potential yet. Instead, Can you show me your hidden talent? Since i had already showed it to you. If it great, i might call it for you then’

‘Deal. And i’m not only do it for the calling, ‘cause i’ll make you scream it’ 

Giselle moving far away from you, standing in the middle of the room. Then, she starts to pull her jeans down, showing her pink panties. Then taking off her pink hoodie, showing the pink bra that she is wearing.

‘That’s a bar’

‘What? I’m not even rapping yet’

' I'm just saying that's a 'bra' '

‘Alright, enough. Fuck me then’

‘You want it now?’

‘Yeah, fuck that. I want it now’

Giselle starts to take off her bra, showing her pink titties. And take off her panties as well, showing her pink pussy. She’s throwing both of covers at you. You gotta wipe it to the side to see her full naked body. 

‘Damn. How many pinky things in you?’

‘All pink. But i’m thinking ‘bout dying my hair red. So, Can you paint the white for me before?’

‘As you want, Gigi’

Giselle moving closer to you, controlling your head up by her finger and kissing for a moment, you feel like you’ve fallen into a trance by her passionate kissing. While Giselle still not moving her mouth out of you, you can feel that your cock is starting to sense something had touched and its moving slowly.

‘You feeling it?’

‘A Little’

‘Wanna feel more?’

‘Yeah’

Giselle puts her body down like how gravity works. Both of you release the moans, feeling the same thing. She hugs your neck and slowly moves up and down, while you sucking at her tits.

‘Ah- it’s feeling so good, never have a big cock inside me like yours before. This satisfying me a lot’

You also move your hips to hit her pink kitty, the slapping sound has turned both of you on so much.

‘It’s getting too quiet in here. Can you come to the recording room to open some songs for me?’

‘Aight’

Before you take it out, Giselle hits your arm and pushes you back before you even stand up.

‘Wha- What?’

‘I forgot to tell you, I have a little challenge for you; Move to the room with me, but your cock have to still stuck in me, don’t take it out yet. Can you do it?’

‘Ah- fine’

‘Yah! Good boy’

You stand up and carrying her body to go to the inside of the room, one hand entwines her butt and the other hand hugs her from behind. Giselle starts to move again, but moving like she’s struggling. You can’t fully control your legs and it makes her back hitting the table at mixing panel. And then, she starts screaming.

‘AHHHHHHH Help meeeee’

‘I’m sorry. Where’s you hurting’

‘Just move and come into the room!’

‘Ok Ok’

You ran into the recording room, and put her on the table and checked what happened to her.

‘AHHHH HELP ME!’

‘WHERE DO YOU GET HURT- WHERE!’

You look at every spot of her body that if she’s hurting or anything. At that moment, Giselle starts to laughing at you.

‘Haha i didn’t say that i’m hurting, dumbo, don’t overreact. I mean ‘help me- to cum already’, i’m too horny for this, i can’t bare with it anymore. I want you to cum in me and cum with me together’

‘Bruh, bratty behavior’

You put her on the table and start pounding her again while Giselle grabs her phone and tries to select the song.

‘Can you fucking stay still? I can’t even clicking the song’

‘Guess it’s my challenge then’

‘Alright’

You continue pounding her without knowing what song she will put on the speakers. Once it got play, you can recognize your voice on it. 

‘Is that our song?’

‘Yea- Yeah. It’s our song, i always love thi-this song, ah- i love hearing your voice on the track, it makes me wet every time. Once i ever fingered myself while playing this song on repeat’

‘That’s romantic f-for me. But wait? This song isn’t finished yet right?’

‘Ye- Yeah?’

Giselle already knows that you might bring the mood back again, the feeling of unfinishing the work. Then, she starts to have an idea.

‘Ca- Can you bring that mic to me’

‘Huh? What you gon do?’

‘Bring that shit!’

You bring the microphone to her and put it beside you and Giselle.

‘Can you o-open the file of this song and record it?’

‘Al- alright What you gon do?’

‘Have you ever heard of ‘P Power’ by Gunna’

‘Oh. I understand it’

‘Yeah, do it like what they did’

You turn your back to the computer and look for the file of this song. When you find it, you prepare to start the special recording session.

‘You Ready?’

‘Let’s do it’

You press the record button, the 90’s R&B instrumental fulfills this sex scene, it makes you pound her harder than ever. All the sounds that happen in this room got recorded through a microphone.

‘Ah- Ah- Harder baby I'm nearly cum now. Ah- you’re pounding me so good baby. Make me cum please and we can cum together’

‘Ah- Your pussy is so good baby, wish i could pound this forever. No better pussy like yours baby, you sucked me so good lately’

The song was close to the outro and you feel like you are about to cum soon.

‘I’m about to cum baby, are you close yet?’

‘Ah- Yes Baby. I’m nearly cum now’

‘Let’s cum together’

‘Before you cum in me, ah- Can you call me mommy one time?’

‘Yes I can. Mommy. Milking me please, ‘til my breath runs out, ‘til i can’t cum anymore’

The part where the drums were cut off is the time that you and Giselle had cum together, only the sex scene sound and a few instruments. You both felt good feelings for each other, showing their relieved expression. You bend closer to her and whisper.

‘I love you baby’

‘Love you too’

Before you start to get tissue to wipe anything, you press the stop recording button on the screen and start to clean the booth for her.

‘You love this idea aren't you?’ 

‘Love it, you’re so fucking creative’

‘I’m creatively fucking, should add bed squeaking sound after’

‘You want to add it?’

‘Yes. It might add more tension for the song’

‘Let’s record it at my house then’

You have the fire again and recorded a few songs after that sex. And you went back home with Giselle to recorded the bed squeaking sound.

Next week, the appointment of the next recording session. You open the door and see the producer sitting in front of the computer.

‘Hey! What’s up man’

‘Hi Nice to meet you bro’

‘Nice to meet you too. How many beats you’ve produced this morning’

‘A couple, man’

‘That’s great. Show it to me then’

‘Before I show it to you. Can i ask you a question’

‘Yeah?’

‘I just went to see what you produced last week, and then I found this: What happened to this song?’

‘What song?’

The producer plays that song that had special recording last week, the voice recording was the length of the full song, 4 minutes long with sex sound behind it. You start smiling to the producer.

‘What the fuck is this?’

‘I mean, It's a sample bruh, just put it for the mood man, 90’s R&B vibe’s songs often play while people are having sex, you didn’t know that?’

‘I mean-, alright. i’ll give it to you man’

‘Yeah, right? Slow and smooth instrumentals are created something, don’t cut it off the track, leave it, it’s already finished’

You talk with producer and then go into the booth to record some songs. Suddenly, your producer wants you to listen something.

‘Hey, you want to listen to the song that Giselle had recorded a couple days ago? You might want to hop on the track’

‘Yeah play it’

The producer plays Giselle’s unfinished song with this bar on it.

‘If you wanna be my pet, call me mommy’

You start to smile and giggle a little at what she said. The producer sees your reaction. 

‘What do you even laugh about?’

‘Nothing’

Then you continue this session, while that bar is still around your head, reminding you of the special session last week. 

- totemstones

[goyardgoyangi]

really hot tutor

best friend's older brother! suguru x reader <3

You’ve been avoiding Suguru Geto for three weeks.

Which is hard to do, considering he’s your best friend’s older brother, and he’s been in and out of the apartment more often now that he’s wrapping up his final semester.

He’s almost gone. Degree practically in his hands. Full-time job lined up—some engineering firm downtown with sleek office floors and smart people doing what smart people do. The kind of job that means he won’t be around much longer.

Which is perfect, really. Ideal.

Because maybe once he’s out of the picture, you’ll finally stop remembering how it felt to have his hands on your waist in the dark. Or how his voice sounded when he whispered your name, all whiny and wrecked, like it meant something.

It didn’t, though. It couldn’t.

You’re just his little sister’s friend.

And it was just one night. An error in judgment. A mistake.

A big, stupid, why-did-I-think-this-wouldn’t-be-weird mistake.

“Still stuck on that assignment?” your best friend asks, peering over your shoulder at your calculus notes.

You slam the textbook closed, defeated. “I hate math.”

She laughs. “You need help.”

“I know,” you groan. “But no one in my class gets it either, and the TA ghosted me, and—ugh, whatever. I’ll just thug it out.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Suguru’s good at calc.”

Your spine stiffens. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No.”

“I think he’d—”

“I said no, okay?”

She raises her hands, backing off, but not without a knowing look. “Fine. Just thought I’d offer. He’s on campus tomorrow anyway.”

You don’t answer. You’re already drowning in the memory of the way he looked at you afterward—half-shocked, half-silent, like he couldn’t believe what just happened either.

You haven’t talked since.

Not really.

So when your phone buzzes later that night and his name lights up your screen, your heart goes completely still.

You stare at the message.

Short. Neutral. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t once fall apart on his cock, his cum filling you until you could barely remember your own name.

Need help with calc?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then come back.

Just calc.

You press your lips together, eyes scanning the words like they might rearrange into something more honest. But they don’t.

And you already regret saying yes.

Because the second you see Suguru waiting by the steps outside the student union—tall, lean, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he’s trying to look casual—you feel the panic set in.

You said yes because you needed the help.

Not because you wanted to see him again. Not because part of you misses the weight of his hands on your waist. Not because—

It’s not just the way he looks (annoyingly hot, per usual) or the way he straightens when he spots you. It’s the way he smiles—small, almost hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to anymore.

You stop a few feet away. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, long fingers threading through his hair. “Brought you a drink. Didn’t know what you liked, so I went with something pink.”

He passes you the cup, your fingers grazing his. It’s stupid, really, how something so small makes your face heat up instantly.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Of course.”

The library is quiet in the way that makes your heartbeat feel loud.

You and Suguru take a seat at one of the back tables—hidden away between the towering shelves, tucked beneath a flickering overhead light. You’ve sat here a million times with your best friend. It’s never felt this small before.

He pulls his chair closer than necessary. Opens your textbook without asking. His fingertips graze the margin of the page like he’s easing his way into something more delicate than derivatives.

“So,” he says, pen in hand, “what’s killing you?”

“Everything after series and sequences.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods slowly and leans in.

And God—he’s close.

His voice drops as he starts walking you through the steps, smooth, serious, and painfully focused. He’s always sounded like this when he explains things—like every word is weighed and placed intentionally. You never noticed it before. Or maybe you did and pretended not to.

But now?

Now you can’t stop noticing.

The curve of his mouth when he says “converges.”

The way his brow furrows in concentration.

How the longer strands of his hair fall forward when he leans closer, like it’s trying to graze your cheek.

He’s explaining something, but you can barely hear him over the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne and the heat of him sitting too damn close.

“You still with me?” he murmurs.

You blink. Fuck. His eyes are on you now— forcing you to really look at him, not just steal glances from the side.

You’re trying. You really are. But after hours of formulas and boxed-in equations, your brain’s fried.

Suguru’s been patient—too patient, if you’re honest.

You groan. “Ugh. I’m not built for this.”

Suguru chuckles. “You’re doing fine.”

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, leaning back and stretching your arms over your head. “I wish I had, like, a hot personal tutor or something. Someone who just sits beside me and explains everything and doesn’t make me want to throw my textbook out the window.”

You say it without thinking. Offhand. Harmless.

But then you feel him pause beside you.

You glance at him.

Suguru’s jaw is tight.

He’s still looking at your notebook, pen motionless in his hand, but you can see the little twitch in his brow. The flicker of something restrained in his throat when he swallows.

“What,” you tease, nudging his arm, “jealous?”

He finally looks at you. Straight-faced. Dry tone. “I am your personal tutor right now.”

“Yeah, but you’re not—”

You stop yourself.

Too late.

You don’t even finish the sentence, but he raises an eyebrow anyway. “Not what?”

You pretend to focus on your page, suddenly very invested in the difference between divergence and convergence. “Nothing.”

But his voice drops, lower, a little slower. “Not hot?”

You glance at him—and he’s looking right at you now, eyes half-lidded, corners of his mouth barely curved, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your throat feels dry. “That’s not what I meant.”

He leans in just slightly. Not close enough to touch, but enough to tilt the air between you.

“Okay,” he says. “But just so we’re clear… if you did have a hot tutor—hypothetically—you’d be paying attention to anything but calc right now.”

Your stomach flips.

You open your mouth to say something. Anything.

But then his pen taps the textbook.

“Page 214,” he says, like he didn’t just throw your brain into complete disarray.

You stare at him.

He smirks. Barely.

And somehow, you're more distracted than ever.

You try to focus.

You really do.

But your mind’s a mess now—numbers and symbols smearing together behind the sharp curve of his jaw, the soft shadows beneath his lashes.

He hasn’t brought it up again… yet.

But then—

“So,” he says casually, spinning your pencil between his fingers, “what exactly qualifies someone as a ‘hot tutor,’ anyway?”

You look up from the problem you’ve been pretending to solve for the last five minutes. “Oh my god. Let it die.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, grinning now, fully leaning into it. “For academic reasons.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally so annoying.”

“Is it the voice?” he muses. “Because I have been told my voice is kinda sexy. Like, could probably convince you to join a cult.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically onto the table. “This is bullying.”

He leans in, resting his chin on his hand, voice dropping to a low murmur. “I mean… if you ever did get a hot tutor, you’d let him sit this close, right?”

You look up slowly. His face is inches from yours.

“You’re unbearable,” you say, heart hammering in your chest.

He smiles wider, but there’s something softer beneath the smugness now. Something warm.

“You didn’t say no,” he murmurs.

You stare at him. “Suguru.”

“Hm?”

“Stop flirting.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I’m just trying to meet the academic standards you set for me.”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He sees it. Of course he does.

“Besides,” he adds casually, going back to your notebook like the conversation never happened, “you already called me hot. It’s on record now.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Mm, close enough.”

You sigh, slouching back in your seat. “Remind me why I asked for your help again?”

He looks up at you, a faint, calculating smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Because, even though you’re clearly too distracted by me,” he says with a playful sigh, “you still need my help with calc. Unless, of course, you’d rather fail.”

And damn it—he’s right.

You don’t answer. But you don’t deny it either.

[moonstruckme]

hi darling mae <33 I had a request for u if u don't mind today i woke up while having a panic attack i mean i don't know if it was a part of a dream but it was one of the scariest things ive ever experienced. and i was really hoping u could writing something with a reader going through the same thing with some hurt/ comfort as she wakes up ? any fandom, ship of character is fine by me,, if not that's ok lm just really spoked sorry :<

Hi angel! That sounds awful, I hope that was a once-in-a-lifetime event for you and you're feeling much better by now <3

cw: panic attack

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 785 words

You wake choking on your heart. 

It’s in your throat, and it’s galloping, the quick beat too much for your half-conscious mind to process. What you know is that you are terrified. 

At first you think you’re being smothered by your pillow. You turn your face to the side, gasping in the best breath you can, but it’s no use. It’s not the pillow, it’s you, there’s something wrong with you and you’re helpless to stop it. It feels like you’re collapsing from the inside out. 

Spencer mumbles your name, slow and confused. Then again, waking.

“Spence,” you say back, strangled. You reach for him, fisting your hand in his shirt with an unthinking neediness you’d never allow in full consciousness.

“Are you…?” His hand covers yours, brows coming together as he sits up blearily. You can tell by his face that the half-formed question is rhetorical. “Okay. You’re okay. Wait here.” 

You’re desperate to have him stay, your grip tightening on his shirt. “Spence—” 

“I know, I know, it’s just for a second.” Spencer disentangles your fingers gently, slipping from your grasp. “I’ll be right back.” 

You don’t know how much time passes before he is. You’re curled up on your side, covers kicked down beneath you, wondering if you should drag yourself to the toilet in case you get sick. 

“Shh, it’s okay.” Spencer’s hand slips underneath your shoulder, lifting you off your side. “Let’s sit up. Okay? I’ve got something that’s going to help.” 

You let him maneuver you however he likes. You wind up slouched over with your knees to your chest, Spencer twisting your hair up in his hand to lay a wet washcloth over the back of your neck. It’s so cold that you gasp. 

“I know.” He pulls you closer, settling you against his side. The smell of his deodorant is grounding; it cures your nausea like a tonic. “Hold this for me?” 

Spencer puts his hand over yours. You cup your palm instinctively, shocked when he drops three cubes of ice into it. They’re already melting, cold water making rivulets of the lines of your palm. Some drops fall onto the sheets. 

“Cold exposure stimulates the vagus nerve,” Spencer explains, “which is here—” he taps the flat of your chest lightly with his middle finger, just over that deafening heartbeat “—and here.” He touches just underneath the cloth on your nape. “It controls the parasympathetic nervous system. Stimulating it causes that system to shift, which regulates your heart rate. Among other things.” 

You push your head into Spencer’s shoulder, your breaths skittering down his arm. He touches his lips to your head. 

“You’re okay,” he says into your hair. “I know it feels like you’re dying, but you’re not. It’s just a panic attack. It’ll pass.” 

You think that he might be wrong, but Spencer’s never actually wrong about anything. And even if you had the energy to argue, you could never really have enough energy to argue with him. It’s a losing battle. So instead, you close your eyes and feel the drip-drip-drip of ice water slipping from your palm. 

You spend a while like that. Spencer holds you securely against his side, once flipping your washcloth over when the part on your neck starts to warm. He tells you more about your nervous system, about studies and blood vessels and things you have to imagine he knows you won’t retain but doesn’t mind relaying to you anyway. The ice in your palm melts away completely. 

“You’re doing better,” Spencer murmurs, his fingers touching gently the pulse point of your neck. “Your heart’s slowing down. Can you feel that?” 

“I can feel.” You exhale, trying to release the tension from your muscles. 

“That came on kind of fast.” He sounds concerned. You nod, using your hand that held the ice to smear cold water on your face. “Were you asleep?” 

“I think so.” 

“Do you remember what happened?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. 

Spencer lifts part of the washcloth, feeling underneath before folding it over again and settling it back in place. “That must not have been a very nice way to wake up.” 

You don’t have the energy for levity or belittlement. You can only shake your head again. 

Spencer rests his lips on your head. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” You let your head rest against his shoulder again, feeling bone-weary. “Thanks for helping. It wasn’t a fun way for you to wake up, either.” 

Your boyfriend makes a soft, demurring sound. “I’m sure that was tiring. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“No.” 

“Okay.” He takes the washcloth away, running his knuckles over your damp skin. “We’ll wait until you feel ready.” 

[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

WHAT’S DONE IN THE DARK, COMES TO LIGHT

PAIRING : sam winchester x fem!reader | dean winchester x fem!reader

SUMMARY : sam and reader have been together a few months. after a night out with her friends, she comes back to the motel, determined to have sex with her boyfriend. too drunk to notice, she climbes into the wrong bed.

WARNINGS : estalished relationship. strong language. fluff. angst. smut. oral (m. receiving). unprotected p in v. daddy kink. misunderstandings. violence. cheating. pining. mutual jealousy. mentions of alcohol.

A/N : had this idea in the archives for a while and thought it was time to share it. hope you like it as much as i did. also, if you need a clue: y/f/n-your friend’s name, y/o/f/n-your other friends’s name. y/n/n- your nickname

You and the boys had a case close to the city your best friends lived in. So, after the gruesome hunt, you catch up with them at their favorite bar. The brothers decide to join, eager to celebrate your victory while meeting your childhood friends. You walk into the bar, hand in hand with your handsome and tall boyfriend, his brother following behind as you search for the girls. Their eyes land on you, and their faces drop.

“Hey!” You shout as you see them making their way through the small crowd.

Letting go of his hand, you wrap your arms around your two best friends. They squeeze you tight, having not seen you in almost a year. It felt so good to be in their presence. You loved the company of the Winchesters, but it was due time to see your girls. And with luck on your side, they dropped all their plans to get together.

“Ugh, I’ve missed you guys!”

They let you breathe, pulling away from the embrace. “We missed you!”

“We’re glad you made it in one piece!”

They knew you were a hunter. You couldn’t lie to them. When you dropped out of college after learning about the supernatural firsthand, you couldn’t find an excuse good enough to tell them why and where you were going; You didn’t want to either. They begged you not to join the life, but they knew that whatever they said, wouldn't stop you.

“Thanks to these two,” You turn and intertwine your fingers with his before facing them again. “Guys, this is my boyfriend, Sam.”

Their eyebrows raise, and their lips curl. “Boyfriend?”

Sam extends his free hand for them to shake. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

“You too,” they say as they each accept his strong hand.

Dean stands beside you, eyeing up the girls. You glance toward him, swallowing your annoyance as you introduce, “And this is his older brother, Dean.”

Like every straight woman, they stare at the gorgeous specimen with hungry eyes. You knew your friends well enough to know what they were thinking. You couldn’t blame them; He’s magnificent to look at. When you began working with the boys, you had the same thoughts, but they vanished once you started dating Sam.

Like his brother, he reaches and shakes their hands. You felt a strange tinge in your body when Dean’s touch lingers. Unsurprisingly, the girls liked it, and pretty soon, they were paying more attention to him than you. After ordering drinks, everyone moves over to the pool table, to play a game of Cutthroat. The match wasn’t much of anything; Dean took turns with them, his arms wrapped around theirs, taking his sweet time to show them how to align and hit the ball just right.

You roll your eyes, feeling jealous, and you aren’t sure why. After prying your eyes away from the scene before you, you lean into Sam. He wraps his strong arm around your waist, kissing the crown of your head. Given he’s much taller, you tilt your chin to the ceiling and meet his gaze. He gives you a small smile, already knowing your request.

He clears his throat and calls over to his brother, “Hey, man, it’s getting kinda late. I’m gonna head out. You ready?”

Dean looks up from your friend and over at Sam. “Late? It’s only 10:30.” Your boyfriend gives him a look, and he takes the hint. “Oh, right.”

“Well, I’ll catch up with you boys later,” Sam pulls you into an embrace, and you whisper in his ear, “Don’t wait up.”

He plants a sweet kiss on your lips before turning his attention to your friends. They smile and give him a quick discussion on the consequences of what’ll happen if he doesn't treat you right. Sam chuckles at their attempt to be threatening but understands where they’re coming from. He would never hurt you, and you knew that. They exchanged their goodbyes with your boyfriend before turning towards Dean.

“Well, ladies, it was nice meeting you. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Maybe we can catch up tomorrow,” “You know, somewhere more private.” They purr in his ear.

It had been a while since his last threesome, and though the attractive women were tempting, he had his eyes on another girl, one that already belonged to someone else. He knew he could never make a move, and he had no choice but to be okay with it. After all, he only has himself to blame for constantly putting his brother’s happiness before his own. He plasters a fake smile and shakes his head at the proposal.

“I would, sweethearts, but the world ain't gonna save itself.”

"You're so brave," one of them fawns.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the tenth time. Hell, you’re surprised they haven’t rolled out of your head already. However, you’re the tiniest bit relieved when he declines their offer. You wouldn’t know who to be more angry with: him or them. Your friends weren’t the kind to have one-night stands but Dean never would’ve guessed. Knowing so, they would’ve gotten attached if they weren’t already. He says a final goodbye before walking towards you and Sam.

“Let’s go before I regret it.”

Sam gives you one last kiss, one that leaves you wanting more, earning a side glance from Dean that no one catches. “Have fun.”

With that, the three of you watch as the handsome brothers leave.

“They’re so hot.”

“How you get any work done is beyond me.”

With a chuckle, you shake your head. “It ain’t easy.”

“I could take them both and not in a fight,” Y/F/N says.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head at your friend’s quip. Y/O/F/N laughs in agreement. Your mouth had fallen open, taken aback by her blunt honesty. Could you blame her? Not one bit.

“Well? Aren't we all thinking it?”

“Of course not!” You squeak.

“So you’re telling me that you wouldn’t have a threesome with them if the opportunity arose?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

“I mean…” You shrug your shoulders, not wanting to lie but not wanting to tell the truth either.

“Ha! You totally would!”

Shaking some sense back into your head, you speak over the loud, drunken individuals. “I love Sam. I don’t think I’d be with him if Dean and I ever…”

“Fucked?” Y/F/N finishes.

“Yes.”

“I could!” Your second friend shouts.

“I’ll drink to that!” says your first one, holding up her shot glass and waiting for you two to do the same.

You clink glasses and down the hard liquor. The alcohol burns in your throat, almost making you regret drinking it in the first place. You missed your girls. You adored Sam and Dean, but you couldn't get as rowdy and loose in front of them as you needed to sometimes. A few hours had gone by, and you each had switched to water after one too many shots of tequila.

“You’re telling me…tha you‘n Sam…haven’t donnit yet?” Your friend slurs.

You nod but stop when your head begins to spin. “Not once. I think ‘e wants to take it ssslowww.”

“Nuh-uh! You have ‘ta have’a drink from that talllll glass’iv wat-ter.” Your other friend says before raising her empty glass to her lips. She frowns and waves the bartender over. “Can I have’a tall glass of waterr?”

You three burst into laughter at the “coincidence.” The fading alcohol makes you all tear up a bit, making the not-so-funny joke hilarious. The bartender comes over, and sets your friend’s hydration on the counter in front of her, paying half a mind to your boisterous trio. A few minutes had passed and the joke began to die.

“Seriously, Y/N/N. You need to’ride that man, like yesterday!”

“Yeah! You go back to that motel ‘n get dicked down!…Dick him down!”

Despite her words, you knew exactly what she was saying. With confidence, you stand from the bar stool. “Youknow what? I willl! ‘M gonna go and do my boyfriend!”

“Yeah!” The cheer.

After downing the rest of your water, you throw your share onto the bar. “All right, bitches. Ima go get laid,” You wrap your arms around their necks and pull them in for a hug. “I’ll see ya guys, tomorrow.”

“We want alllll the details.”

“You b-better not hold out on us.”

“I promise!”

Fortunately for you, the walk wasn’t long. The motel was down the street from the bar they chose. The cool air helped sober you up, not much but enough to see straight. Once the Impala’s in sight, you smile to yourself. You pull the key out and silently struggle to get it in the keyhole. Finally, you hear the lock click.

“Aha!” You exclaim before shushing yourself.

You push the door open to the dark room. Sam had gone to sleep over an hour before you showed but Dean was wide awake. He couldn’t sleep. He hadn't been able to since he realized he had feelings for you, his brother unknowingly beating him to the punch. The moonlight shined across the floor, eliminating the foot of the beds. You quietly shut the door, and stumble to your duffle bag near the table.

Assuming the Winchesters were asleep, you don’t bother going to the bathroom to undress. You kick off your shoes, holding on to the table to keep your balance. Dean squints in the dark and sees your shadow, watching in secret. You pull your shirt over your head and his eyes widen. He looks away, knowing he shouldn’t watch, but he can’t help himself.

You wiggle out of your jeans, and Dean practically drools. Though the darkness engulfs you, the moonlight peeks through the thin curtains, casting a perfect glow over your curves from where you stand. You were in nothing but your undergarments, causing his pants to tighten. He knew he was wrong for watching you, for wanting you, for being so turned on but it wasn’t his fault. He can’t be blamed for how he felt, especially when you were almost naked in front of him.

Unsure if it was the confidence from the alcohol or the anticipation, you eagerly stroll between the beds. Dean closes his eyes, fearing that you’d catch him staring. You lift the bed sheet and the mattress dips softly beneath your weight. He stirs, forcing you to stop. Once he stills, you move again, this time between his legs. You kneel in front of him, grabbing the front of his jeans. His large hands stop yours, squeezing gently.

“What’re doing?” He whispers.

You push them away, whispering back, “I want you.”

With haste, you unbutton his jeans and yank down his zipper, allowing his boner room to grow. You lower his boxers, enough to expose his untrimmed hair, and though he wants to stop you, his mind clouds with lust as you pepper his pelvis with kisses. He wanted nothing more than you to take him into your pretty little mouth. To feel your lips around him, your cheeks hollowing as you suck harder and harder—no! You couldn’t.

“We can’t, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“You’re drunk.”

He heard the drunken drawl and figured you only wanted him while under the influence. Though a pang struck his heart, he would never take advantage of you. Even if that wasn’t the case, even if you did want him, his brother was in the bed beside yours. No, he thought. We can't. He sighs, hating his decision but knowing it was the right one.

“But I’m sober enough to know I want this.” You straddle his hips, setting your heat on his erect and clothed member.

“We shouldn't…” He weakly fights but a gasp escapes once you move.

“Please,” You grind, enticing him with every word. “I want you so bad, baby. I’ve wanted you for sooo long. I’ve dreamt of your perfect cock inside me, filling my pussy with your cum. Please don’t make me wait any more. I need you.”

He bites his lip; He could spill his load right now if he chose to let go. Fuck! You had him so whipped. He couldn’t say no to you, not like this. But his brother invades his thoughts.

“But what about—?“

“What about him? I want you.” You feel his hesitation so you curl your fingers around his shirt, pressing your palms to his abdomen and sliding them up to his chest. You lean down and kiss his tattoo. “Don’t you want me?”

Without missing a beat, he answers, “Fuck, princess, I want you so bad.”

“So fuck me,” You sit up and grab his hand, bringing it to your damp panties. “I’m so wet for you, baby.”

He huffs in shock; You weren’t exaggerating. You were drenched, just for him. His thumb rubs against your folds, smearing the wetness against the soaked underwear. He runs his digit upward, applying light pressure to your aching clit, eliciting a quiet moan from your impatient body. He couldn’t fight it anymore. He needed you just as much as you needed him. He nods, and you see the shadow before you agree.

You nearly squeal with excitement but the quietness reminds you why it has to stay that way. After all, you didn’t want his brother waking up to the intimate and long-awaited scene. You return to your previous position and eagerly pull both his boxers and jeans down. With your face so close, his erection pops out, lightly smacking your cheek. The harmless slap goes directly to your core making it tingle with anticipation.

All you want to do is pounce and bounce on him, but you desperately want to swallow what he’s packing. You drag his pants to his ankles and he quickly kicks them off. Your hand wraps around his member and you’re thrilled by the size. He was thick but not too thick, long but not too long; Like you suspected: He was perfect.

He forces himself to keep still, letting you take charge. His breath quickens as he feels your own fan against his sensitive sack. You take his tightened nut into your hot mouth, sucking gently. His body flinches, not out of discomfort but out of immense pleasure. You stroke his twitching cock as you show love to his other testicle.

His breathing comes out in huffs; He isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to last and you haven’t even taken him in your mouth yet. As if you read his mind, your mouth travels upwards, your tongue licking the underside of his dick until it reaches the tip. Your mouth swiftly closes around it, tasting his delicious pre-cum. His fingers weave through your hair, desperately wanting you to go further but not wanting to rush you.

You get his unsubtle hint and take him down your throat, inch by inch. He throws his head back, loving the way your mouth feels. Needing air, you retract and breathe through your nose. You go down again, your cheeks beginning to hallow. Soon, you determine a steady pace, sucking harder with each bob.

The longer you pleasure him, the wetter you get. Your saliva escapes your mouth, traveling down his shaft and over his balls. He was so close, closer than he wanted to be. He was half tempted to cum down your throat but held off, wanting to fill you elsewhere. You’re so lost in giving him the best head he’s ever received, that you’re confused when he pushes you back.

“W-what? What’s wrong?” You whisper, dazed.

“Get on, sweetheart.”

Your pussy flutters at his words. Finally, you thought. Fingers hooked on the hem of your black lace thong, you drag it down your legs and toss it on the floor. You move so your knees are beside his hips and you hover above his erection. His tip brushes against your drenched folds, causing you to whimper.

His hands fly to your hips, helping you maintain your balance while trying to hide his eagerness. You’re so close to fulfilling his, and your, dreams of being deep inside you. Sure, he was always respectful of you, never objectifying you, but he’s a man after all. Yet, it was more than wanting sex. He wanted that connection; He craved it.

You reach between your legs and take hold of his awaiting phallus. Without prolonging it any longer, you align him with your entrance and slowly ease down. Your head falls back as you each moan softly, finally getting the touch you desire. His wet member and your soaked pussy allow a smooth acceptance and you’re damn thankful for the preparation. Your core meets his base, and you smile at being able to take him fully. After all, he’s bigger than what you’re used to.

He sheds his shirt and rubs your thighs as you adjust to one another. You place your palms against his torso, readying yourself to move. He positions his hands on your hips again, prepared to assist. You lift yourself, and he glides out of your tight hole. His breathing quickens as he watches himself disappear.

The pain of him stretching you out is drowned by the alcohol in your system. If it wasn’t for the liquor, you could’ve sworn you were just drunk on him. It doesn’t take long before you create an unholy rhythm. He was captivated by you. The way your hips roll and your body bounces…It was intoxicating. The line between the best ride he’s ever gotten and it being you was blurred. No, it’s definitely her talent.

What he wouldn’t give to see you and not your shadow. His hand cups your covered breast, squeezing lightly. When it doesn’t suffice, he reaches around and unhooks your bra. After tossing it with your underwear, his fingers twiddle your hardened nipple. Groans and quiet moans fall from both your lips but once his other hand moves to your front, you forget why you were trying to remain silent. His thumb instantly finds your clit, eliciting a loud whimper.

“Shh, sweetheart. ‘Don’t want to wake him up, do you?”

“No, Daddy,” you whine. “‘M sorry.”

The nickname sent chills down his spine and he wanted more. It wasn’t the first time a woman had addressed him that way in bed but you were the only one he wanted to hear it from. It egged him on, so much so that he found himself thrusting up into you, taking control. I’ll show her who her daddy is, he thought.

You moan again, just above a whisper. The hand he used to fondle your breast goes back to your hip, guiding your body up and down, up and down. His hips meet yours and his thumb adds more pressure. You begin to squirm above him, the pleasure raking over your body as it also builds in the pit of your belly. Heavy pants mix with the sweet sound of skin slapping—a symphony to your ears.

With his rhythm so vigorous, and your aching thighs, you were ready to topple over. His thumb rubbed harsh circles on your sensitive clit, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. You were so close and so was he, but he refused to cum before you did. His hips snap up, hitting your G-spot with every thrust. Your nails dig into his skin, as you teeter on the edge of your most powerful orgasm yet. Fuck, keep going, Daddy, you thought what your mouth just couldn’t say. Just like that. He knew you were close by the way your walls clenched around his shaft. Just a few more—

“Dean, seriously? You—” The lamp between the two beds is switched on, blinding you and your partner.

Your high’s disrupted. You squint in the light, and when you see your boyfriend sitting up and across from you, your eyes widen. W-what the—? Your head whips to see the man still buried deep inside your guts. D-Dean?!

Suddenly, you become very sober. With a gasp, you push yourself off your deceiver. His mouth was agape, a mix of shock and guilt. We weren’t that loud, were we? But that wasn’t the point. No, he just had sex with his brother’s girlfriend.

Sam’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. The combination of moans, the collision of skin, and the mattress bouncing had awoken him. He groaned to himself, annoyed his brother would have sex in the same room he lay asleep in. Unable to ignore it, he decides to stop the fornication. What he didn’t expect was to find you on top.

“What the fuck?!” He shouts, throwing off his covers.

“Baby, i-it’s not what you think.”

You’re terrified. It wasn’t your fault, you thought Dean was Sam. In a way, it wasn’t Dean’s, either. He assumed you wanted him. You begged him. It didn’t matter. It was both of your faults. You should’ve known it wasn’t your boyfriend and he should’ve told you no and stuck to it.

“Sammy,” Dean holds his hands in defense. “Hold on a second—“

Sam leaps toward the bed, striking Dean across the face.

“No!” You cry, trying to pull your boyfriend away.

He lands another punch across his brother’s face. And again. You continue your pleas but he doesn’t listen. All he can see is red. You and Dean try to stop his violence but his strength overpowers you both.

“Baby, stop!” You tug his arm once more but he shoves you away.

He doesn’t mean to do it so hard. The force pushes you off the mattress. The room spins, not because you hit your head, but because of the alcohol and complexity of the situation. The possibility of you being hurt, of him hurting you, breaks through his fit of rage. He stops his punishment against Dean’s countenance and checks on you.

You sit up and see Sam with a worried look. Seeing you’re fine, he steps into his shoes before grabbing his duffle bag, and the keys to the Impala. With as much haste as you could gather, you begin to stand. He stomps to the door, throwing it open then storming out. You quickly wrap a sheet around your body before running out of the motel after him.

“Sam, wait!” You jog towards him, trying to catch his attention. “I swear it’s not what it looked like.”

He stops abruptly, and you run into his back. You stumble as he turns on his heel, “Really? ‘Cause it looked like you were fucking my brother!”

You shake your head frantically. “I thought it was you!”

“What? How the fuck do you get him and I confused?!”

“I—It was dark, I was drunk—I am drunk. I forgot which bed was ours,” he stared at you wildly. “Baby, I would never cheat on you. I’m yours, only yours.”

He chuckles darkly, sending shivers down your spine. “Yeah, well, not after this.”

Sam spins around and in a few strides, he’s beside the Impala. The door creaks open and he throws his bag into the passenger seat. He hops in and shuts the classic door behind him. You run towards the car, and put your hand against the glass. Tears begin to well in your eyes, afraid he’s serious. How could he not be? His girlfriend and his brother…the perfect recipe for disaster.

“Please, don’t go. We can work this out,” You plead, your eyes reflecting the desperation.

He ignores you and starts the engine. It roars to life and you’re petrified of the sound. You know if he drives away, it’ll haunt you forever. And that’s what he does. You begin to pound on the window, following the car as it backs out. The tears spill over and your breathing is erratic.

“Don’t go! Please! Sammy, don’t leave! Please, baby, I love you! No, no, no!”

Your boyfriend peels out of the parking lot, leaving you a crying mess. You didn’t know what to feel most ashamed of: The fact you cheated on your loving partner or how good it felt before the light turned on. Back in the motel room, Dean gets dressed. He touches his sore cheek, flinching from the pain. He had heard your confession and he couldn’t have been any more devastated. You thought he was his brother.

What was he thinking? He should’ve known better. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken the girl Sam liked away but this was the first girlfriend. He couldn’t help himself; He’s in love with you. You should’ve been his for the start.

He isn’t sure which is worse: That he might’ve lost Sammy for good, or that he doesn’t regret what happened.

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ᯓ sweet spot — chapter three

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

notes: honestly, i fucking hate this chapter but i didn’t have it in me to redo it all. it’s all over the place and for that i apologize. i’ll try to make the next one better. but regardless, i really hope you all enjoy! and thank you guys so much for all the nice comments, they truly make my day. i’ve already started chapter four so it should be out tomorrow, monday at the latest. love you.

wc: 2.7k

paige laid on her stomach, face half-buried in her pillow, phone in hand. the screenshot of azzi’s private profile stared back at her like it was daring her to do something.

she wasn’t doing anything, though. she had decided that.

until nika texted again.

n: i bet she’d accept it

p: i bet i’d implode

n: stop being so dramatic. it’s not that deep

paige groaned dramatically, flipping onto her back. she tapped her screen off, then on again. back to azzi’s account. still private. still untouched.

she wondered what kind of stuff azzi posted on there. stories? rants? screenshots of text convos with her boyfriend? paige tried her best not to flinch at that last one.

azzi had mentioned him so casually.

“my boyfriend.”

like it wasn’t a knife to her goddamn chest.

it naturally got brought up again the following day, when paige was shooting around early, headphones in, trying to look chill. emphasis on trying. she caught herself glancing toward the doors every five seconds like some romcom loser.

then she saw azzi walk in, hoodie on, hair pulled back, yawning like she hadn’t slept. paige’s heartbeat tripled.

azzi waved when she noticed her— just a small one. paige waved back. cool. normal.

totally not weird.

then nika appeared, completely ruining the illusion of calm.

“so,” she whispered, bumping shoulders with paige mid-dribble, “you follow her yet?”

“jesus, nika.”

“she posts the funniest shit. like crying selfies, bad song lyrics,” she laughed. “it’s like a whole different side of her.”

paige blinked once. “you followed her?”

“duh. we’re friends.”

paige hated how jealous that made her.

“she hasn’t posted about noah in a while, though,” nika added, almost too casually. “that’s all i’m saying.”

paige said nothing. just stared at the rim and tried not to read into that.

the blonde laid in bed, lights off, hoodie on, thumb hovering over her screen again. she couldn’t stop thinking about azzi yawning that morning. or the way she’d smiled yesterday. or nika’s dumb snarky comment.

without giving it another thought, she hit the follow button.

instant regret.

she tossed her phone across the bed like it caught on fire. then crawled under her blanket and pulled it over her head.

her phone buzzed twenty seconds later.

follow accepted.

paige peeked out from the blanket.

her heartbeat might’ve actually stopped.

azzi had accepted her request.

paige unlocked her phone with trembling fingers and opened the profile.

the first post was a close-up of azzi’s face, clearly crying but also clearly laughing. the caption read: “i swear this was about a group project and not a man. probably.”

paige nearly dropped her phone all over again.

she scrolled, curiosity growing.

more chaos. rants. song lyrics. selfies of her and with some friends. a mirror pic with the caption: “am i cute or do i just have anxiety?”

and then, finally, a pretty sunset over some beach in california. captioned: “miss this sometimes.”

the post was from one week ago.

paige didn’t like anything. didn’t comment. didn’t breathe.

she just stared.

and she knew— knew— that she was so, so royally fucked. because azzi was so impossibly beautiful that there was no other way to be.

paige scrolled back to the sunset post. the caption hit harder than she wanted to admit. she knew what that kind of homesickness felt like— how it crept in during the quiet moments, curling into her ribs like smoke.

she stared at the photo for a long time, thumb tapping the edge of her phone like a metronome. the caption was simple— miss this sometimes— but paige felt it in her chest.

the picture wasn’t even anything dramatic. just a hazy sunset over rooftops and a caption typed too fast. no filters, no nothing. just a soft sort of sadness, and something unspoken.

before she could talk herself out of it, she opened azzi’s dms. clicked her name.

typed. deleted. typed again.

p: just saw ur post about missing california. i get that. sometimes it hits out of nowhere, and then it’s all u can think about. if u ever wanna chill or smth, i’m here

she sent it. then quickly added:

p: just thought id say that

immediate regret flooded her. not because she didn’t mean it— god, she meant it— but because it felt personal, a little vulnerable.

she turned off her phone and tossed it to the foot of the bed like it burned her. a few minutes later, she turned it back on.

no response.

then suddenly— three dots.

a: that’s actually really nice to hear right now. it’s been a weird week. sometimes it feels like i’m walking around in someone else’s life. thank u for saying that

paige exhaled. her heartbeat sped.

p: no problem. really. i mean it

another pause.

a: honestly? i wouldn’t mind hanging out

p: i got u. wanna come over?

p: i’ve got snacks and a bunch of shitty netflix recs from nika that i’ve been putting off

a: deal. i’ll be over soon

around thirty minutes later, azzi— in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie—knocked on paige’s door like they’d done this a hundred times before.

paige flung it open, trying not to look like she’d been pacing for the past ten minutes.

“hey,” azzi said quietly. “thanks for inviting me over.”

paige smiled. “yeah, sure.”

they sat on the floor with a shared blanket between them and a bowl of popcorn that neither of them touched much. the movie played in the background, but neither of them watched it.

instead, they talked.

not about basketball. not about school. just… stuff. small stuff. azzi mentioned a diner she used to go to back home, how they served pancakes all day. paige talked about her favorite childhood memories from when she lived in minnesota.

at some point, azzi leaned her head against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

“i don’t miss california,” she said. “not really. it’s more like i miss who i was there. before everything got so complicated.”

paige didn’t answer right away. she just nodded in understanding, watching the soft flicker of light play across azzi’s face.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “i know what you mean.”

the popcorn went cold. the movie ended. but neither of them moved.

it wasn’t a date. it wasn’t anything like that.

but it mattered.

and paige knew she wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon.

after that night, azzi started hanging out in paige’s room a lot.

it wasn’t like they planned it. it just sort of happened. a post-practice cooldown turned into ice cream. then it became watching film together. then music. then nothing at all. just existing. together.

paige definitely wasn’t complaining.

except… she was, internally. constantly. because being near azzi and not being able to kiss her was basically slow, romantic torture.

azzi would curl up on paige’s bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, brown curls framing her face in a way paige adored, legs tucked under her. paige would sit at her desk pretending to do homework while her entire brain short-circuited from the proximity.

tonight, azzi had her head on paige’s shoulder while they watched love & basketball on her laptop.

“this movie’s so dramatic,” azzi mumbled, half-asleep, “but i love it.”

“same,” paige whispered, very aware of how azzi’s cheek was resting against her collarbone. “you’re the q to my monica.”

azzi laughed gently. “that makes you the love interest.”

i’d like to be. paige didn’t say it. but the words pressed up against her throat. instead, she said, “you doing okay?”

azzi was quiet for a second.

then: “honestly, i don’t know.”

paige looked down. azzi was staring straight ahead, lashes long, voice soft.

“i talked to noah yesterday,” she said. “he got mad i couldn’t facetime right after class. it’s just… hard, lately. the distance. everything.”

paige felt something clench in her chest. she hated that he made azzi feel like this. that he could.

“you don’t deserve that,” she said, firm and direct.

azzi shrugged. “he’s just stressed. i get it.”

paige didn’t. but she kept that to herself.

there was a pause. then azzi nudged paige’s side gently.

“you’re so sweet, you know that?”

paige scoffed, blushing hard. “me? no. you’re literally… like, the kindest person i’ve ever met.”

azzi smiled, eyes soft. “that’s not true. you’re not like how everyone thinks you are.”

paige shook her head, was silent for a moment. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

azzi tilted her head. “what do i do to you?”

paige blinked. shit.

“uh— nothing,” she said too fast. “i mean— like— not nothing, but not—”

azzi was smiling now. “are you nervous?”

paige buried her face in her hands. “you cannot just ask that.”

azzi laughed and bumped her shoulder. “you’re adorable.”

she’s going to kill me, paige thought. this is how i die. at the hands of sweetness.

later that night, paige was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. she hadn’t stopped replaying every word since azzi left.

fuck it. she gave up trying to sleep and texted her.

p: u make it back to ur dorm okay?

azzi replied instantly.

a: yup. thank u again for letting me hang in ur room. i swear its cozier than mine

p: that’s bc its been blessed by ur presence

p: scientifically proven

a: lol ur too much

a: fr tho ur such a good friend. its been nice having u around lately

paige’s fingers hovered.

fucking friend. paige tried her best not to roll her eyes.

p: always here for u. friend or otherwise

azzi didn’t reply for a minute.

then—

a: goodnight paige

a: sleep well <3

paige turned off her phone and curled deeper into the covers.

she wasn’t going to sleep. not with that stupid little heart pounding in her head.

it was a rare night off, and coach had ordered team dinner at this little family-owned italian place downtown. long tables, red-checkered tablecloths, warm lighting. the whole team packed in tight, plates of pasta being passed around, laughter echoing off the walls.

paige sat at the end of the table, half-listening to nika’s story about a tinder date gone rogue, when she felt it— azzi sliding into the empty chair beside her.

her breath caught. she hoped nobody noticed.

“you look nice,” azzi said quietly, nudging paige’s knee under the table.

paige blinked. “sorry— what?”

azzi grinned. “didn’t think the team dinner dress code included looking like a low-key goddess, but here we are.”

paige laughed a little too loud and immediately looked down at her outfit. she was in jeans and a black zip-up. casual. nothing special.

but azzi was looking at her like she was wearing dior.

“you’re one to talk,” paige mumbled, hoping the restaurant lighting masked how pink her ears had gone. “you could wear a trash bag and still look perfect.”

azzi’s grin widened as she sipped her lemonade. “so dramatic.”

“you started it.”

they smiled at each other for a beat too long.

that’s when kennedy— one of paige’s flings she’d forgotten all about until this moment— walked up out of nowhere, and immediately leaned in.

“so, paige,” she said, twirling her straw in the drink she was holding. “you dating anyone?”

azzi blinked.

paige flinched like she’d been slapped. “uh… no. not really.”

kennedy smirked. “crazy. someone like you? i just assumed.”

across the table, azzi was quiet. still smiling, but not quite the same.

paige tried to steer the conversation away, suddenly hyperaware of azzi’s leg brushing against hers under the table. she didn’t dare to move.

halfway through dinner, paige reached for the bread basket, and so did azzi. their fingers touched.

azzi didn’t pull away. neither did she.

“you’re warm,” she whispered.

paige looked at her, heart in her throat. “so are you.”

they froze like that for a second, hands still barely touching.

azzi opened her mouth to say something, but—

nika’s voice cut in from the other side of the table. “hey azzi, what’s your dog’s name again? the one in your story?”

azzi blinked, pulling her hand back. “oh— stewie. she’s tiny and thinks she owns my parent’s house.”

paige stared at the empty space between them like it had just betrayed her.

only a few hours later, however, paige— comfortably positioned on her bed— typed out a message.

p: u were gonna say something earlier. what was it?

she stared at the text.

deleted it.

she tried again.

p: i like when u sit next to me

fuck no. she’d never send that. not in a million years.

she deleted that too.

in the end, she sent nothing. just stared at the ceiling and thought about how good azzi looked tonight— pearl earrings, soft smile, words lingering behind her teeth.

almost.

the gym was nearly empty.

most of the team had left after practice, but paige lingered, shooting free throws in silence. her earbuds were in, but no music played— just a shield, something to make it feel like the world was further away than it was.

she didn't hear the door open.

but she did feel the presence.

“didn’t think anyone else would still be here,” came a voice she knew like the back of her hand.

azzi.

paige turned, saw her in gray joggers and a uconn hoodie, hair pulled back, cheeks still flushed from practice. paige pulled out one earbud and tried to act casual, even though her heart was now sprinting.

“you caught me trying to live out my late-night kobe fantasy,” paige said, grinning.

azzi smiled, walking toward her. “mind if i join?”

paige tossed her the ball. “only if you promise not to show me up.”

azzi smirked and drained a three like she wasn’t casually pulling on the strings of paige’s heart.

they played for a while— just light shooting, taking turns. no talking. just the sound of bouncing rubber and squeaking sneakers. paige was too busy watching the way azzi moved, like everything she did was effortless. beautiful, even when sweaty.

at one point, azzi missed a shot and groaned. “ugh. that one was for pride.”

paige grabbed the rebound and passed it back. “guess your pride’s mine now.”

azzi raised an eyebrow. “is that how it works?”

“yeah,” paige said, stepping closer. “you lose a shot, you owe me something.”

azzi’s lips curled. “what do i owe you, then?”

paige paused. she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“dinner,” she said before she could stop herself. “like, i dunno. team dinner. or— if you want— just us.”

azzi’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “paige…”

paige knew that tone. that soft, sad, hesitant tone. her stomach twisted.

“it doesn’t have to be a thing,” she said quickly. “i just like being around you.”

azzi dribbled once, staring down at the ball.

then: “i like being around you too.”

paige took a breath, let it out slowly.

azzi looked up again, something unreadable in her eyes. “noah called me earlier. said he might fly out next month.”

“oh,” paige said. her voice came out flat. she hated that it did.

azzi stepped forward. “i don’t know what i’m doing. with him. with any of it.”

paige didn’t move.

“you don’t have to figure it out right now,” she said, softer this time. “i’m not asking for anything.”

azzi nodded. “i know.”

a beat passed.

then, quietly: “but sometimes i wish i met you first.”

the world felt like it tilted on its axis. her heartbeat was definitely thudding at an abnormal, mildly concerning rate.

paige opened her mouth. closed it, unsure what to say.

azzi looked at her like she regretted saying it, but didn’t take it back. she simply said, “let’s get out of here, yeah?”

paige nodded.

she didn’t say it out loud, but in her head, she screamed:

fuck noah. i’m right here. i’m all you need. you’re all i need. i would never treat you like he does.

those words stayed put in paige’s brain, never leaving once. because god, did she mean them. every single word, every letter.

© wbbobsesser

[formulaonecrumbs]

Could you do Lando x older sister reader when she and the rest of family goes to support him on his first karting race?

a champion from the start 🏅

Lando Norris x older sister!reader

summary: the norris family rally around lando for his very first kart race. he’s nervous, but his big sister’s encouragement is all he needs.

warnings: nervous baby lando. all fluffy.

A/N: not much to say but THANK U FOR THE REQUEST ANOONNN!!!! I LOVE U. ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

home film #12 (out of a gazillion)- found in a cardboard box labelled ‘memories’

(recorded: buckmore park, chatham, kent)

timestamp: 12:11 pm 04-11-2006

the video opens a little shaky, the lens catching the early morning sun flaring across a patchy little kart track. the sky is bright blue, not a cloud in sight. you can hear flo giggling somewhere off-screen and the crinkle of food wrappers as your mum tries to pass out sandwiches nobody wants to eat yet.

then—there he is. tiny lando. a whole head shorter than most of the other kids, wearing a racing suit that still looks a bit too big for him. his helmet is tucked awkwardly under his arm, his other hand clinging tight to the strap of his backpack. he’s bouncing slightly on his toes, nerves practically pouring off him.

“look at him,” ollie’s voice says from behind the camera. “he’s gonna pee himself.”

you swat him off-screen. “shut up, ollie, he’s gonna do great.”

the lens zooms too close suddenly, a shaky shot of lando’s face. he’s trying to look brave. he really is. but he keeps glancing sideways at the older kids already sitting in their karts, engines rumbling. he grips his helmet tighter.

you step into the frame, squatting down a little to meet his eye level.

“hey,” you say, grinning up at him. “you ready, champ?”

lando bites his lip and shrugs, looking suddenly very small under all the gear.

“you’re gonna smash it,” you tell him, totally serious, like you’re talking to an f1 driver and not your seven-year-old baby brother. “you’ve been practicing loads. remember when you beat me around the garden?”

lando’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

“and if you get scared,” you add, lowering your voice like it’s a secret just between the two of you, “just pretend you’re racing me. and you wanna beat me so bad you drive like a rocket.”

he finally laughs—a small, shy laugh—and nods.

flo runs into frame, nearly tripping over her own feet, waving a handmade cardboard sign that says “GO LANDO!!!” in messy glitter glue. cisca, still in her stroller, shrieks something incomprehensible but happy.

lando grins properly then, the nerves pushed back by all the noise and love.

“i’ll be really fast,” he promises, looking at you more than anyone else.

you give him a big thumbs up and ruffle his hair until he bats your hand away, laughing.

cut.

the next shot catches him climbing awkwardly into the little kart, a marshall helping him strap in. he looks once over his shoulder, towards the fence where you and the rest of the family are crowded.

you’re the one who waves first—both arms, big and exaggerated so he can see you from all the way over there. ollie shouts “don’t crash!” and you smack him again off-screen, your voice overlapping, “ignore him! go smash it!”

cut.

the final clip: the flag waves. the little engines roar. the karts zoom off like a swarm of bees. lando’s one of the smallest ones out there, his kart wobbling a little around the first corner, but he’s determined. you can hear your parents yelling encouragement, flo screaming random words, and you—you’re the loudest.

“go, lando! go!” you yell, bouncing up and down, hands cupped around your mouth. the camcorder can barely keep up, wobbling wildly trying to catch a glimpse of him through the crowd.

at the very end of the clip, he crosses the finish line—not first, not even top three—but you’d think he won the world championship with how you all react. the camera goes blurry as it jerks upward, someone (probably you) running to the fence to meet him.

and somewhere underneath all the shouts and claps, you can hear it: your voice, proud and so sure—

“told you, champ. you’re the best.”

THE END :>

[goorgeousz]

emily mentions your underwear once and your brain short circuits

drabble

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader

content/tw: alcohol, mentions of underwears, reader wears a g-string, spencer gets super flustered, emily and reader flirt around like derek and garcia

a/n: I’ve listened to “guess” over 15 times in a row yesterday and this scenario keept popping up in my mind. anyways, hope you enjoy it <3

dividers by @uzmacchiato

“Ugh. Why do men.” you groaned, placing your phone back down on the table after checking your new notification.

“What did he say now?” Garcia asked, leaning towards you.

“He asked me the color of my underwear.” you handed her the phone. Morgan and Reid, on each of her sides, leaned closer to see the text, in amusement and disgust, respectively.

“Reid, why do men seem to be so fascinated with women’s clothing?” Emily asked him.

“This is not… exactly my…field of expertise.” he started, blushing slightly, but excited as he always gets when someone encourages his ramblings. “But I do think it’s similar to the thought of people preferring privacy accounts over porn videos. It adds a level of intimacy and personal connection to the fantasy. He could just… masturbate thinking about you or looking for a picture. But when he asks you this, he’s bringing you into his imagination, making you actively participate in it. That’s my take, I think.” he shrugged.

“That’s… very smart.” you state, amazed. He smiles. “But I still think men are horrible. Terrible.”

“Don’t generalize.” Morgan pointed out, which earned him eye rolling from you, Emily and Penelope “Okay, okay!” he raised his hands in mock surrender “I’ll get another round of shots to apologize on our behalf.”

That earned him a kiss on the cheek from Garcia. She followed him toward the bar, leaving on the table only you, Spencer and Emily.

“I still don’t see the appeal. It doesn’t turn me on thinking about what kind of clothing he has on right now.”

“Well, women's undergarments are much more attractive than men’s.” Spender answers to you, blushing again furiously

“Let’s test that theory.” Emily suggests, turning her body completely towards you.

Mirroring her move, you turned on your seat to face her “What’s the color of your underwear?” you asked between giggles, trying (and failing) to make your voice sound low and sexy.

Emily, on the other hand, managed to bite back a laugh just fine, her amused smile turning into a smug smirk in a second. She leaned in, “I’m wearing a dark purple lace bra. It has a white bow between my… you know.” she winked.

Instantly you felt your mouth dry, the loud music from the bar faded away and it was only you and her. And her dark purple lace bra. You and her are used to jokingly flirting here and there, but, for some reason, it never actually felt real until that moment.

Your mind went blank, the only thing you could come up with was “Yeah?”

Her smirk grew, like she knew what it was doing to you “Mhmm. And it’s a set. My underwear is just like my bra: dark purple and lace, with the white little bow on the top. A g-string, just like yours.”

And that’s when you collapsed. Your eyes widened slightly, your face heating like she just slapped you.

Then, she switched it off. Her teasing posture was gone and she laughed loudly. Because you had no idea what just happened or what to do, you laughed with her, but clearly fakely. She turned towards Reid, whose eyes were about to pop out of his head, his face somehow redder than yours.

“I see the appeal.” she confessed to him, like she wanted him to add that to his database.

“Woah, what happened here? Why does Reid look like he just got a second-degree burn?” Morgan asked, setting the five glass shots on the table.

“They were flirting. Again. Guys, you know it breaks Reid.” Garcia chimed in, placing down a little plate with salt and lemon slices.

“Leave the foreplay to the bedroom, Misses.” he added, giving you a teasing wink.

“Oh, I wish. She likes boys.” Emily said, putting salt on her wrist before turning to you with a knowing smirk “But she knows I’d hit it.”

[reiding-writing]

Heyyyy, I think it would be soo cool if you could write a scenario where cold!reader actually works a case like idk but yk the typical talking w witnesses or family members.

I also would loveee to know what her interrogation style is like, morgen was always pretty aggressive and Hotch was always so straightforward etc. so I would love to know how she interrogates suspects.

Have a nice one, ly and ur work sm !! ^_^

THE REID TECHNIQUE. /spencer reid/

you volunteer to interview a middle-aged woman suspected of kidnapping a little girl.

cold!reader 4.2k series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | had this one in the works for a few weeks after learning about the reid technique in my forensic psych lecture ✊

The clock above the whiteboard marks every second with an unforgiving tick. It's been twelve hours since the child, eight years old, brown hair in braids, green jacket, was last seen.

You know too well how thin the margins are.

“Local PD has brought in a suspect. Margaret Ellery. Lives four streets over from the family. No hard evidence yet, just circumstantial.” Hotch discards his phone in his pocket.

You push off the table, the movement casual, but inside something sharp and certain slices through the haze. Margaret Ellery. The name means nothing to the others yet, just another possibility. To you, it burns.

“They've got CCTV placing her car near the park at the estimated time of abduction,” Emily says, flicking through images on her tablet. “No witnesses saw the actual snatch, but...” She hesitates. “It’s something,”

“Something," you echo, voice flat.

You can feel Spencer’s gaze flick towards you from his desk. You don’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—the thing coiling under your skin, the certainty you can’t explain.

You know it was her.

The others begin discussing who should lead the interview, voices overlapping—Emily suggesting herself, Morgan arguing the woman might respond better to a softer touch—and for a moment, you let them talk.

Then, calmly, you speak.

“I’ll do it.”

The words drop like stones into the room.

The conversation stalls. Morgan frowns, one eyebrow lifting. Hotch studies you, impassive. Spencer’s pencil stills in his hand.

You don’t volunteer for interrogations. Everyone knows it. You only step in when everything else has failed—the nuclear option. The last resort.

You have built your reputation on results, not likability. You dismantle people, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the truth. It's not pretty. It's not kind. It's necessary.

But this time, without waiting for anyone to fail, you want it.

Hotch’s mouth tightens into a line. He doesn’t like it, but he also knows better than to argue when you make that face—the one you wear now, cold and still, like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

You nod once. Precise. Final.

“She’s guilty,” you say. Not a question. Not a theory. A statement of fact.

“How do you know?” Emily asks, cautious.

You flick your gaze to her, then away again. You don't explain things like this. You never have. You just know.

Hotch’s brow furrows. “You’re sure?”

You nod once. Crisp. Certain.

“I can get her to talk.”

He hesitates. You don’t blame him. It’s not just that they’re worried about the woman cracking under your methods, it’s that they’re worried you will push too hard, dig too deep, and leave something broken beyond repair—something in her, something in yourself.

But there’s no time for cautious sensibilities. There’s a child missing. The longer they dither, the colder the trail gets.

Hotch considers for a beat longer, then relents with a sharp nod. “On your lead.”

Morgan shifts his weight, clearly cautious. “I’ll second,”

“No.”

Hotch exhales slowly, measuring you with a look that’s half reluctant approval, half silent warning. “You know the protocol.”

You incline your head with a sigh of exasperation. You know it backwards.

“I work better alone,” you say calmly, before he can open his mouth to suggest otherwise.

That’s non-negotiable. You’ve explained it a thousand times—too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many variables ruin the interrogation. One misplaced glance, one ill-timed question, one unspoken judgement radiating off a team member— it can destroy hours of work.

No one interrupts you when you’re working. No one even breathes too loudly.

Hotch nods once. Reluctant but resigned.

“Room Three,” he says. “She’s waiting.”

You turn sharply on your heel, the heels of your boots clicking lightly against the floor, and make your way down the corridor without looking back.

Behind you, the team watches you go in silence.

Spencer’s gaze lingers the longest.

He understands. Not completely—no one ever could—but enough.

Enough to know that once you step into that room, you’ll become something else. Something sharper. Harder. Merciless in your precision.

And God help the woman on the other side of the glass.

—

You pause outside the interrogation room, hand resting lightly on the door handle. Through the one-way glass, you see her: hunched, fidgeting, a picture of nervous innocence.

She’s shorter than you expected. Plumper. Her hands twist nervously at the hem of her cardigan.

She looks like someone’s kindly aunt. To the untrained eye, she might seem harmless. Sad, even.

You don’t let it fool you.

You close your eyes for a moment. Centre yourself.

This is not about rage. Rage clouds the senses. This is about control. Subtlety. Precision.

When you open your eyes again, you’re a blank slate.

The woman jumps slightly at your entrance. Good. She’s on edge already. You file the information away for later use.

You close the door with a soft click and cross to the chair opposite her, sitting down with a deliberate, unhurried grace. You say nothing for a long moment, simply studying her, letting the silence stretch taut between you.

She fidgets again, clearing her throat. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours and then away, unable to hold your gaze.

You watch her, utterly still.

Already, you can see the cracks beginning to form.

You offer a thin, perfunctory smile.

“Good afternoon,” you introduce yourself, voice low and even. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?”

She licks her lips nervously. “I already told the others— I didn’t do anything,”

You tilt your head slightly. Not a challenge, not an agreement. Just an acknowledgement.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “We’ll go over everything again. Just to be thorough.”

You slide a thin manilla file onto the table between you. The movement is calm, almost lazy.

In reality, every microexpression, every twitch of her fingers, every catch in her breath — you’re cataloguing all of it.

You see guilt. Not the guilt of a wrongfully accused woman, but the heavy, aching guilt of someone who knows precisely what they’ve done and is terrified of the consequences.

You suppress the flicker of satisfaction that rises in your chest.

This will be easier than you thought.

You fold your hands neatly on the table.

“Let’s begin.”

You watch her closely, noting the way her shoulders stiffen under your gaze. She’s nervous.

“I’d first like to briefly remind you that you don’t have to answer any question that you’re uncomfortable with, and you have the right to an attorney if you require one,” You keep your tone measured, almost conversational, as you begin. “This interview is being recorded, and can be submitted as evidence if needed in court,”

Margret’s response is nothing more than a brief nod, and you quickly move on.

“We’ve spoken to several people who know you, Margaret,” you say, glancing briefly at the file in front of you for show, though you don’t need to. You know the contents backwards already. “Your neighbours speak highly of you. Friendly. Involved. Always ready to lend a hand.”

She swallows, nodding a little. As if being agreeable will somehow absolve her.

You continue, letting the words come slowly, giving them weight.

“You knew the Hartleys quite well?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, hands twisting harder in the hem of her cardigan. “We… we live near each other, yes. I used to babysit for them sometimes, when Claire was first back at work,”

You incline your head, as if pleased by the admission. You knew that information already of course, but the fact that she’s supplying the truth to you early is a good sign.

“And you’ve stayed in touch since then?”

Her mouth twists slightly. “Not really. They… they got busy. New friends. Things change,”

You let the silence settle for a beat, as if considering that. Then you lean forward, just slightly, enough that the space between you shrinks.

“The thing is,” you say, voice still calm, almost gentle, “we have several witnesses who say they saw your car near Westwood Park yesterday afternoon.”

You watch her stiffen, the flicker of fear crossing her face before she can mask it. You press on, smooth and relentless.

“That’s the park where Elsie Hartley was last seen.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She shakes her head, a tight, jerky movement.

“I must have been passing through. I had errands— the shops—”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “At four-thirty in the afternoon?”

She falters. You don’t need to press the point yet. Just plant the seed. Let it fester.

You sit back again, steepling your fingers lightly.

“We’re not here to attack you, Margaret,” you say, voice dropping slightly. Softer. Sympathetic. “We just want to understand what happened.”

Her eyes dart to the door briefly. You catch the movement, file it away. Already thinking of escape.

You won’t allow it.

“Things happen to people,” you continue, letting your voice thicken just slightly with understanding. “Painful things. Things that change how we see the world.”

You see the way she flinches, barely perceptible. A tiny tell, but enough.

Good. She’s listening now. Feeling now.

“Tell me about your daughter,” you say quietly.

Her face crumples before she can stop it, a raw flash of grief, there and gone.

She tries to cover it up, sitting up straighter, forcing a small, brittle smile.

“She… passed away. A long time ago.”

You nod slowly. “Nine years.”

Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

You lean in again, lowering your voice further.

“Grief can… distort things,” you murmur. “It can make you see injustice where there is none. It can make you desperate to fix something, to make up for what you lost.”

Her breathing has quickened. You see the pulse hammering at her throat.

“Sometimes,” you continue, “it makes people do things they never thought themselves capable of. Good people. Kind people. People who were simply… overwhelmed by sadness.”

She’s trembling now. Just slightly. You act as though you don’t notice.

“You saw Elsie playing in the park,” you say softly. “Maybe you thought her parents didn’t appreciate her enough. Maybe you thought you could give her the love your own daughter never got to fully experience.”

Tears are brimming in her eyes now, but she’s fighting them. Fighting herself.

She shakes her head weakly. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

You don’t argue. You don’t contradict her.

You simply sit back, offering a small, understanding nod.

“Of course you didn’t mean for things to get so complicated. You just wanted to make things right.”

The denial is there, trembling on her lips, but you ignore it.

You pivot neatly, seamlessly, back to the facts.

“You said you were running errands,” you say, as if returning to a mundane detail. “Tell me about that. Which shops?”

She stares at you, panic flickering behind her eyes. She wasn't ready for the shift. That’s the point.

“I— I went to 7-Eleven. And then… the pharmacy. I had a prescription,”

You scribble something meaningless onto your pad, nodding slowly.

“The pharmacy?” you echo. “Do you have the receipt?”

She freezes.

“No,” she says after a moment. “I must have thrown it away,”

You don’t react. You just jot down another line.

“Which 7-Eleven?” you ask, tone still mild.

She blinks. “The one on Briar Lane,”

You hum thoughtfully, making another note. She’s lying. You know it. And she knows you know it.

You give her another moment to stew in her own fear before steering the conversation back.

“Funny thing, Margaret,” you say, lightly conversational, “we pulled CCTV from Briar Lane yesterday. The store, the pharmacy, the petrol station.”

You look up, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since you sat down.

“You’re not on any of it.”

The colour drains from her face.

You don’t press. Not yet. Let her feel the walls closing in. Let her suffocate on the inevitability of it.

She shifts in her seat, wringing her hands.

“I must have got the times wrong,” she mutters weakly.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “It’s easy to get confused. Especially when you’re upset.”

She clings to the lifeline you’ve thrown her, nodding desperately.

“Yes. Yes, I was… distracted,”

You offer her a small, almost pitying smile.

“I understand, Margaret. Truly. No one’s here to judge you.”

Another beat of silence. You watch her, patient and unblinking.

“I can see how hard this is for you,” you say after a moment, voice softening again. “Reliving yesterday. Remembering what happened.”

Her mouth trembles. She presses her lips together tightly, like a child trying not to cry.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take her,” she says, almost whispering.

You nod thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

“Of course,” you say again. Calm. Unthreatening.

Then, without warning, you steer the conversation right back to the beginning.

“Tell me again what you were doing between three and five yesterday afternoon.”

Her face crumples. She wasn’t ready for the cycle to start again.

But you are tireless. Patient. Merciless.

That’s the thing about interrogations — it’s not the dramatic threats or slammed fists on the table that break people. It’s the relentlessness. The subtle erosion of certainty, the slow dismantling of lies.

She tries again.

“I was at home, actually. I remembered— after the pharmacy I went home. I didn’t feel well.”

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally. “Your neighbour said they saw your car leave around two, and you didn’t return until gone six.”

You tilt your head, watching her carefully.

“They must be mistaken,” she says quickly, too quickly.

You don’t argue. You just let the inconsistency hang there between you, a slow, toxic drip of doubt.

The denials come more frequently now, growing more desperate with each cycle.

“I wasn’t near the park.”

“I don’t even know where she disappeared from.”

“I just… I was having a bad day.”

You let each one slide past you without reaction, without resistance.

Each time she throws out a denial, you seamlessly redirect — not forcefully, not aggressively, but subtly, like water flowing around a stone.

Back to the CCTV.

Back to the witnesses.

Back to her tangled, faltering story.

You give her a moment to stew in her latest denial. Watch the way she clutches at the hem of her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. Her breathing is shallow now, you can almost hear it hitching every few seconds.

She’s trying to believe her own lies. Trying to build walls faster than you can knock them down.

You lean back slightly in your chair, as if relaxing, as if you have all the time in the world. Then you let your voice slip into a more analytical register.

“Let’s review what we know,” you say, tapping your pen lightly against the table.

The soft sound makes her flinch. Good.

“Your neighbour saw your car leave at two o’clock sharp. CCTV from Briar Lane shows you were not at the pharmacy or the store, as you claimed. In fact—” you pause, leafing slowly through the papers on your clipboard, letting the moment stretch, “—your car was picked up again. Not in Briar Lane. But parked a block from Westwood Park.”

You place a printed image on the table between you: the grainy still of a pale blue Volvo estate. Her car. The timestamp in the corner reads 4:14 p.m.

Margaret pales visibly, staring at it.

“That’s not me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

You arch a brow, slow and sceptical.

“Registration plates don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes are wild now, darting across the table, as if searching for some unseen escape hatch.

You press the advantage mercilessly, but with a surgeon’s precision.

“You told us you were at home,” you say calmly. “Yet your vehicle was a block away from the site of a child’s abduction.”

You let the words hang heavily in the air. They don’t need dressing up. They’re lethal enough.

“I just— I just parked for a bit. I wasn’t feeling well—”

You shake your head, slow and deliberate.

“No pharmacy visit. No store. No proof of you being anywhere else.”

You place another sheet on the table, another CCTV still, this time capturing her figure, blurred but unmistakeable, moving across the park entrance at 4:20 p.m.

“Witnesses place you in the vicinity. Cameras place you there. Your alibi doesn’t hold.”

Her lips tremble. You can see the walls crumbling now, piece by piece.

You don’t drive the knife in yet.

Instead, you shift your posture — lean forward, just slightly, closing the space between you by mere inches.

Subtle, calculated.

Not enough to threaten. Just enough to pull her attention inward, to focus it entirely on you.

You keep your gaze steady, non-threatening but utterly unwavering.

Your body language speaks louder than your words. I am your only way out of this.

Margaret's eyes flicker between your face and the photographs, her breath hitching audibly now.

You watch as the fight starts to bleed out of her.

Still, you’re careful. She’s fragile now. One wrong move and she’ll retreat into full panic, barricade herself behind the last reserves of her denial.

You soften your expression by degrees. Let the razor edge dull into something gentler. More… understanding.

Margaret sniffs loudly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. Her composure is breaking apart under the sheer, relentless weight of the truth pressing down on her.

“I just—” she chokes. “I didn’t— I didn’t plan anything—”

You allow a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not agreement. Just… acceptance.

You lower your voice, pitch it softer.

“I know, Margaret,” you say quietly. “I believe you. You were overwhelmed. You weren’t thinking straight. You saw a little girl alone, vulnerable—”

“She was sitting by herself!” Margaret blurts suddenly, anguished. “Just swinging on those stupid swings— and no one— no one was watching—!”

The confession hangs there, raw and shaking.

You don’t react. Don’t let the triumph show. You simply soften further, offering a small, almost maternal tilt of your head.

“You wanted to keep her safe,” you murmur. “Like any mother would.”

Margaret’s face crumples. Tears spill over at last, fat and helpless.

You fold your hands neatly on the table. Stay calm. Stay steady. Be the lighthouse in her storm.

—

“She’s using phased psychological reinforcement,” Spencer says quietly, almost in awe. Like you’ve never quite been so alluring.

Emily glances at him. “In English, please?”

Spencer shifts slightly, tapping his fingers against the glass in a subtle rhythm.

“She’s employing the Reid Technique,” he explains. “It has nine stages that are worked through in order to achieve a state of psychological comfort that elicits more honesty from the suspect,”

“The Reid technique?” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“It’s uh, named after John Reid, he was a police officer in Chicago during the 1950s. It revolutionised formal interviewing, although it’s actually very difficult to implement in practice, because if the suspect catches on then they’re likely to shut down,”

He nods towards you, still composed, still relentless inside the room.

“She’s between stage four and stage five right now— Addressing why the suspect hasn’t confessed, and using mirroring tactics to keep the suspect engaged,”

Morgan hums low under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Sounds scientific,” he goads.

—

Margaret hiccups through her tears, twisting the sleeves of her cardigan into knots.

“I didn’t—” she whispers again.

You make no move to comfort her. You don’t offer tissues. You don't even shift your posture.

You simply remain present. Solid. Reassuring by your very stillness. In her shattered mind, you are the only constant left. Exactly where you want her.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for Margaret to drown in it, her sobs the only sound filling the sterile room.

Then, softly, so gently it’s almost a caress, you push the conversation where it needs to go.

“Margaret,” you say, voice low but firm, threading compassion through every syllable, “I’m not here to judge you.”

She drags her tear-reddened eyes up to meet yours, desperate and wide.

You offer the smallest of smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just human.

“You loved your daughter, right?”

Her face crumples. She gives a broken little nod, a whimper catching in her throat.

You lower your voice even further, until it's barely above a whisper. “And now there's this... ache. This emptiness. It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

She presses her sleeve to her mouth, trying to smother another sob.

You let the moment hang there, let her sit in the shared understanding you’ve carefully, ruthlessly constructed.

“Were you trying to cause trouble, Margaret?” you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if puzzled. “Or were you simply trying to give that little girl the love you never got to finish giving your daughter?”

It’s everything.

It’s everything she’s been trying to make sense of for the last twelve hours.

And you’ve handed it to her, neatly gift-wrapped, an explanation she can live with.

Her face crumples entirely.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she wails, folding in on herself. “I just— I just saw her— all alone— they weren’t even watching her! She was just sitting there, swinging by herself, and I thought—”

She breaks off, hiccupping on a sob.

You remain silent, giving her the space to pour it out.

“I thought— she deserves better. Someone who’d see her. Someone who’d love her properly. I could— I could do that. I could give her what she needed.”

Tears stream down her face now, unchecked.

“She’s happy with me,” Margaret insists desperately, as if trying to convince herself as much as you. “She’s smiling. She’s laughing. I’ve never— I’ve never seen her laugh like that. Not once when she was with them.”

You allow yourself a single, careful breath.

But you’re not finished yet.

You shift your tone again, turning almost maternal, gentle and firm.

“Margaret,” you say, leaning in just a fraction, letting her feel the sincerity. “I believe you care for her. I do.”

It’s not a lie. Margaret does care. In her own warped, desperate way. “But she’s scared. She misses her family. She needs to come home.”

Margaret sobs harder, hands shaking so badly she nearly knocks the water cup off the table.

“Help me bring her home safely, Margaret. Please.”

For a long, fragile moment, she just cries.

And then, brokenly, she nods.

“She’s—” she mumbles through the tears. “12A, Eversham Court… I made up the spare room for her, I got her toys and clothes—”

She’s rambling now, stumbling over herself to spill every detail she can think of.

You don’t interrupt.

Outside the room, you know Hotch will already be sending officers to the location, moving fast but discreetly.

Time still matters. Every second counts.

Everything has been recorded. Every word, every sob, every admission captured, preserved, incontrovertible.

You stand slowly, gathering the papers with smooth efficiency.

As you move towards the door, Margaret’s voice breaks behind you, small and shuddering.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she says again, voice thick with tears. “Tell them that. Please. Tell them I just wanted to love her—”

You pause, hand on the doorframe, and glance back over your shoulder.

Your face gives away nothing.

“I’ll tell them,” you say simply.

It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s enough.

The door opens with a quiet click. Uniformed officers step inside, moving with trained efficiency.

Margaret doesn’t fight. She’s too broken to resist. She sobs helplessly as they read her her rights, the words barely cutting through her cries of apology. “I’m sorry,” she gasps as they cuff her. “I’m so sorry—”

You watch silently for a moment as they lead her away.

She’s still crying. Still apologising to no one in particular.

You feel no satisfaction. No triumph. Just the faint, hollow weight of inevitability.

You step back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The others are waiting. Hotch nods once at you, brisk and approving. Emily looks grim but relieved. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds like "damn," but you don’t linger on it.

Your gaze flicks automatically to Spencer.

He’s watching you the way he always does after you work. Not with fear, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something sharper.

Admiration. And something almost akin to academic attraction.

“Seven minutes, twenty two seconds,”

You don’t smile. You don’t say a word. You simply walk past him, your boots clicking steadily down the hall.

New record.

[star-suh]

Lights, Camera, Action !

Park Jisung x Male Reader

cw: camboy park jisung his nickname is song, big dick jisung (11”), established relationship

—

park jisung or song – how is he known in the av world – is a famous content creator, he’s always on the top of users on the platform. many people would ask why that is. it only takes some clicks to realize why – an 11 inch dick hanging in between his legs – is massive, girthy and veiny. it’s like a dream for the people out there, they want it inside them claiming they can take it all.

-”please let me ride it, i promise i’ll take it balls deep” he read in one of the comments on his livestream.

-“hahaha guys i’m not planning to do collabs, just solo things for now”.

crying emojis flooded the chat, why is he forbidding everyone the pleasure of touching and feeling such massive meat. it’s a question that every subscriber and fan asked themselves, if he did collabs he would escalate spots and be the number one on there. would be a lie to think he hasn’t thought about it but he doesn’t wanna do it with anyone he has just one person in mind, his boyfriend.

they met back when they were living in the university dorms, as a way to pay his fees jisung took advantage of his little friend down there an opened an account on the website, the first video was of him just jerking off, ‘first video’ was the title of it and it quickly gain recognition in between the platform users. ‘so big’, ‘i need him so bad’, ‘until the room stinks’ were some of the comments he received.

the next video was of him squeezing an entire little bottle of lube, coating his shaft in beads of the liquid that rolled down towards his balls and made it glisten in the light. moans and little whispered fucks can be heard in the recording, once again the video was a hit for him, making subscribers eager to know when the next video is gonna be reuploaded. in one of his recordings he made loud noises that disturbed the student next door, yn, who angrily storm his way out towards his neighbour. he opened the door without knocking catching jisung spurting ropes of cum all over his body, he has a ski mask on – to have at least a bit of animosity – after he rode his high he turn his head to the side to see yn standing there, mouth agape and in shock. he just saw jisung orgasming but not only that, he saw that big ass dick hard as a rock. 

“what the hell jisung?” he said surprisingly, a whispered shout, closing the door immediately.

“why do you think i’m jisung?” the man questioned, trying to act fool. “these aren’t shared dorms dumbass” yn turned around breaking eye contact, face flushed and his dick threatening to get rock hard, “cover that monster please” he says as he leaves the room leaving a dumbfounded jisung lying on the floor, tired, “ahh shit i feel so tired to get up and clean myself” he uttered while staring at the ceiling.

next day was awkward between the two jisung apologized for the situation and yn did the same because at the end of the day it was his fault for not knocking first. “ok then but you have to accept my invitation to go eat something”, “i would accept but to be honest i don’t have enough money right now” yn muttered lowly, ashamed. “don’t worry, it’s on me”.

days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the dates became something regular in between them, in one of them jisung confessed to yn how he gets all that money and the av job he had now. “are you disappointed in me?” jisung asked –pouting.

“uhmm… i’m not. it’s your life man do whatever you want as long as it doesn’t affect your well being” jisung looked at him surprised, “besides… you umm… have a really nice thing down there” yn look everywhere around but jisung, his cheeks turning into a pinkish hue, the same happening to jisung, “thanks i guess”. next thing they knew was them on jisung’s bed letting all the steam and sexual tension go.

soon jisung asked yn to be his boyfriend and he accepted, jisung’s content creator side job wasn’t a problem at all for yn because after all is just videos of him stroking his dick. they can fantasize all they want about it but would never have it.

“come on baby, let's do it”, jisung tried to convince yn, “i'll put a ski mask on you too, no one would know it's you”. “i know jisungie but i don't know, you're fine doing it as a solo. what if they stop supporting you because they're seeimg you fucking someone else” he sighs, “their fantasy would fall down” he adds.

“i don't really care prince, plus, this is what they want” jisung walked closed towards yn, handps gripping and kneading yn's ass, “they'll go crazy seeing this slutty ass engulfing 11 inches. such a hungry pussy, almost ☆☆☆☆ if you ask me”. he kissed yn's neck then went up towards his lips brushing them with his tongue. yn opened them up letting him go inside and explore it with it. yn uttered a little "okay” agreeing to do it.

jisung was setting his camera ready while yn got ready when a notification popped up, someone just subbed to his page. happy he opened the app cheering a bit, he opened the camera of the app to record a thank you video for his followers. “are you ready?” yn came into picture, with the black ski mask on him and wearing only a thong, the piece of clothe was so little that the backside was barely covered, it was just a finger-thick string that sat pretty right in the middle of yn’s hole.

“fuck, look at this” jisung smacked his ass, “are you so eager that you are already eating the thong?” he said pulled the string to then let it go smacking yn's hole, drawing a moan out of him”. jisung didn't remember that he was on the platform's camera, he was ready to press the record button when yn sat on top of him, making him slide his finger setting to the live button. he then pressed the red button thinking he was recording.

*SONG IS LIVE* 

song and his boyfriend were making out not noticing the live chat, in their minds they haven’t started recording yet so why bother checking out?. 

-”damn he decided to do collabs”.

-”me next”.

-”finally an ass is bouncing on that pole, we cheered”.

-”so hot, i’m gonna nut so hard!”.

his followers were going crazy, jisung’s heavy dick staying still in between yn’s cheeks, a fat drop of precum forming on the tip. while they were kissing jisung applied oil on both yn’s ass and his dick making them shine. yn pulls the string on the thong up so there��s nothing in between the warm, throbbing dick of his boyfriend and his pulsating, eager hole. then he releases the string for it to fall and stays taut on jisung’s dick, securing it. the string working overtime trying to hold in place such a thick piece of meat.

the precum started to roll down his shaft, landing on yn’s hole. coating it with the clear substance, mixed with the lube poured before. “ufff” yn sighed, eagerly to take the first inch inside him. their fucking is always tortuos for them, not because of the pain but because they have to restrain themselves –yn wanted all of it inside at once while jisung wanted to fuck his brains out. the tip is already inside, loads of precum coating yn’s walls. the head making its way inside in charge of stretching so the rest of the dick could enter with no problem.

yn’s insides stretched to the max, every inch that entered hurt like hell but iit was delicious, a pain that yn loved, soon it will turn into pleasure anyway. sinful noises coming out of his hole, engulfing his partner’s cock, the viewers going crazy in the live chat.

-”woah look at that, he could take it all”.

-”craving that boypussy”.

“you’re taking it like a champ” jisung praises, kissing the pain away –his lips covering the other’s collarbones with kisses and some hickeys here and there. finally jisung bottomed out, his dick bulging the other’s tummy. “tell me when to move” jisung reassured, smacking both his hands on each oiled cheek leaving his handprints on there, then grabbing a fistful to jiggle them around his cock, yn whimpering thanks to the sensation.

-“he definitely trespassed his second hole”.

-”the perfect fleshlight”.

some viewers said on the live chat. “you’re being so good for me” jisung mutters, “a good cocksleeve”. “your good cocksleeve” yn corrected him and kisses him, his tongue licking jisung’s lips. he then moved his hips, rocking them in a circle motion, squeezing his hole around jisung’s throbbing cock. “fuck prince keep doing that” jisung expressed, his hands on yn’s hips to guide him. the bulge on his stomach moving along with each movement. jisung locked his arms around yn’s torso to keep him steady and he started to thrust upwards slowly at first but the pace started to accelerate little by little. his thrust went from slow almost sensual to fast, brutal ones. 

-”is he a bottomless pit? how is he able to take all that?”.

-”I’M CUMMING FUCK!!”.

jisung withdraws his dick leaving just his swollen head still inside, then gripping yn’s hips with force he sank him down his rock hard meat. a guttural moan came from yn’s mouth, every viewer excited about the show their looking at. “fuck, love this greedy boypussy” jisung grunts, “so eager. starving for my big thick cock”. “whose this pussy belongs to?” jisung jiggled his globes with his veiny hands, nails being buried on the skin, “belongs to you baby” yn whimpered. once again jisung pulled out leaving only the tip inside and made another brutal thrust, yn’s body jerked due to the overstimulation. thankfully yn could handle jisung’s dick if it was another person they would surely be broken already. 

yn’s hole clenches on it, with all the strength left in his body. the lube turning creamy white for all the friction created by the merciless thrusts given by the top. “milk me dry baby. swallow it all with your whore boypussy”. yn kissed him while putting his hands on jisung’s shoulders –to gain leverage. then he plops himself on top of jisung leaving him the rest of the job, using yn like a toy to pursue his orgasm.

jisung used yn’s hole like his cocksleeve, giving him gently thrusts that signaled he was close, “cum with me”, jisung uttered latching his lips on yn’s nipples while one of his hands coated in spit jerked him off. yn’s body trembled, being stimulated on both sides was overwhelming him but he loved it, especially if it’s jisung doing it. the top pulled out, giving his cock a few strokes that made him spurt his sperm, ropes of it were expelled like a fountain, covering yn’s back and glutes. meanwhile in the front yn’s sperm was being scooped by jisung who then smeared it on his softening cock to put it inside the bottom, “cockwarm me baby” he demanded and yn nodded.

“we got carried away that i forgot to record” jisung laughs and stares at his phone, his smile fading immediately when he saw the live sign on red, “oh fuck” he uttered quietly. “umm guys, i hope y’all liked it, it’s a teaser of what is coming next on my page so stay tuned” he managed to disguise his concern as if everything was planned. it worked tho, his followers were loving his content even more, now they can see that 11 inch cock in action, drilling on poor asses that are brave enough to take it.