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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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even softer than expected

yandere senpai satoru x kouhai reader, dubcon, yandere themes, obsessive behavior, manipulation, power imbalance, fingering, making out, dirty talk, orgasm denial, praise kink, bodily fluids, semi-public setting. 2.5k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i let him weaponize tenderness and gave him full custody of her dazed little heart. i write this with no intention of touching grass.

it starts with you clinging.

satoru thinks it’s adorable, of course. no—he thinks it’s perfect.

senpai and kouhai. that’s what everyone sees. he likes that word on your lips when you say it, likes the way you trail after him with that polite, reluctant look like you aren’t entirely sure why he bothers with you. he bothers because you’re his. you just don’t know it yet.

it’s the soft little inhale you make when the first jump scare goes off near the props closet, followed by your fingers instinctively curling into the back of his uniform jacket like he’s some kind of shield. and in a way, he is. a self-appointed one. a role he’s studied, perfected.

"what, scared already?" he drawls, but he’s not teasing you like he does the others. there’s a smile in his voice, yes, but it’s quieter. smug. almost fond. a shade softer than usual.

he doesn’t miss the way you flinch when the speaker hisses static again, your shoulders tensing beneath his palm. your eyes flicker nervously toward every new shadow. you’re cute when you’re scared. cute in the kind of way that makes his jaw tense. makes his fingers twitch with the urge to pull you closer, tuck you under his arm, let the whole world know you’re off-limits.

not that he’d let you notice that.

not yet.

he made sure you were assigned together, of course. loitered around the haunted house committee like it was a casual whim. a flash of teeth, a tilt of his sunglasses, and the upperclassmen agreed before they knew what hit them. you, on the other hand, were blissfully unaware. just grateful he’d offered to go with you. just flustered enough to say thank you with your eyes slightly downcast.

he nudges you a little deeper into the dark hallway, hand warm and deliberate on the small of your back. another jump scare—a skeleton rig this time—clatters down, and you make a soft noise, half-gasp, half-laugh. you press yourself a little closer. he leans down, lips almost grazing your ear.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm. “i’m the scariest thing here anyway.”

you stiffen in his hold. he feels it. not from fear of the decorations. something deeper. something that starts low in your gut and coils tightly. and god, it makes his heart race. his fingers flex slightly at your hip.

his white hair looks almost silver under the dim lights, falling in soft disarray over his forehead. his eyes, uncovered for once, glint pale and bright behind the gloom—focused solely on you. there's something wolfish about the way he watches you. head tilted. gaze sharp. patient. a predator who already knows his prey will come willingly.

you don’t know it yet, but he memorizes every little twitch of your expression. the way your brows pinch when you’re unsure. the way your lips part slightly when you’re startled. how your grip tightens on his sleeve each time something rattles. he’s attuned to every breath you take like it’s a song written for him.

he drapes an arm around your shoulders casually, fingers brushing your neck. you let him. maybe you think it’s harmless. senpai being playful again. maybe you think it’s all part of the act. a little fun, a little flirting.

but it’s not an act. not to him. not even close.

another clang. a metal bucket this time. you jolt, and he pulls you into him by the waist. your body fits against his so neatly, too neatly. the scent of you—shampoo, warm cotton, something faintly sweet—rushes up and makes his chest tighten. he wonders, briefly, how soft your hair would feel tangled around his fingers.

“you okay?” he murmurs, close enough that his lips graze your temple. you nod shakily, and he smiles. not a soft smile. something sharper. something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

his hand trails slowly up your spine, fingers warm and certain. “you know,” he says lightly, “if you’re this jumpy, we should hide in one of the back rooms until the crowd clears. i’ll keep you safe. promise.”

your eyes meet his, hesitant. wary. something in your gaze flits—trust, maybe. or the early seeds of it. you nod once, barely. he gives you that familiar grin—the one he knows works. the one that masks everything else simmering underneath.

and he doesn’t wait for permission.

he tugs you through a side door, down a narrow hallway the others won’t check. it’s quieter here, colder. the flickering lights are weaker, their hum drowned by distant screams and the occasional thud of footsteps in the main hall. the walls are paper-thin, barely holding together with peeling black paint and old festival flyers. satoru’s steps echo soft and certain. yours trail behind—hesitant.

he picks the door at the very end. tiny, half-rotted, marked “staff only.” inside, the room is even darker. cobwebs stretch across the corners like veins. an old box television hisses static in the far corner, its glow barely illuminating the room. it smells like paint, dust, something older too—mildew maybe. the door creaks closed behind you, and the lock clicks before you can speak.

“see?” he murmurs, voice low and warm like syrup. “much better.”

he doesn’t wait for your reaction. your back hits the wall a moment later—not harsh, but sudden, enough to draw a startled breath. his arms come up, caging you in. close. too close. the static paints shadows on his face, making his smirk seem carved. strands of his hair catch the flickering light, messy and white like winter snow, and his blindfold is pushed up like a crown of silk, revealing eyes too bright, too knowing.

he watches you like he always does—like it’s easy. like you’re something soft, small, and entirely his. you’re flushed already, fingers twitching at your sides. your eyes dart between his face and the door.

“you’re still shaking,” he says, tilting his head. “i thought i said i’d protect you.”

he thinks it’s adorable. how shy you still are, even now. how you pretend to resist him, even though your breath hitches when he gets close. he loves the way your mouth opens like you might object—but nothing comes out.

“senpai, we shouldn’t—someone might come—”

“they won’t,” he says, voice soft but decisive. “it’s dark. it’s loud. no one’s gonna hear you. not unless you want them to.”

he leans in, his breath a warm, teasing gust, carrying the faint tang of cherry candy clinging to his lips. his fingers trail up your throat, slow, feeling the frantic pulse jumping under your skin, each beat a little gift just for him. they cradle your jaw, possessive, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, tugging it down until it quivers. “besides,” he murmurs, voice a low, velvet taunt, “don’t you trust me?”

you nod, just barely, a shaky little jerk that makes his eyes flash with something hungry.

he kisses you, slow but fucking feral, a claiming kind of kiss that screams you’re his, like he’s carving his name into your soul with his mouth. his lips crash against yours, slick and bruising, not gentle but deliberate, a sloppy, greedy mess that makes your head spin. it’s your first kiss, and he knows it—fuck, he loves it—your inexperience is like blood in the water to him.

his tongue shoves in, no hesitation, thick and hot, prying your lips apart until you’re gasping into his mouth. he tastes you—warm, soft, the faint salt of your nervous sweat, the cherry chapstick you didn’t know he’d noticed—and it’s better than any wet dream he’s jerked off to.

his teeth graze your bottom lip, a sharp nip that makes you whimper, and he sucks on the sting, drawing a bead of spit that smears across your chin. his breath is heavy, ragged, mixing with yours, the air between you thick with heat and the sour-sweet tang of his candy-laced saliva.

your tongue fumbles, clumsy, unsure, and he groans, low and filthy, loving how you’re floundering, drowning in him. spit drips, slick and warm, pooling at the corner of your mouth, and he licks it up, sloppy, his tongue dragging across your jaw like he’s marking you. your hands grab his shirt, knuckles white, clutching like you’re clinging to a lifeline, and he feels like a fucking god, your desperation pumping his ego until it’s bursting.

when he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips puffy and glistening. he tilts his head, smirking, eyes raking over your flushed face. “you’re not scared anymore, huh?” he drawls, voice thick with smug amusement. “or is this just a different kind of scared?”

his thigh wedges between yours, hard muscle forcing your legs apart, his hips grinding in slow, deliberate, the bulge in his pants pressing just right to make you squirm.

you let out a gasp that dies into a moan, raw and shaky, and he drinks it in, watching your face twist, eyes fluttering shut then snapping open like you’re fighting to stay grounded. he’s obsessed with it—every fucking second of your struggle is his.

“you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice soft but cutting, like a compliment laced with venom. “caught.”

his fingers tap your chin once, a playful little pat, before two of them—long, deft, warm—press against your lips. “open up,” he says, a command wrapped in a smile.

you do, lips parting, trembling, and he slides them in, slow, letting you feel the weight. your tongue brushes his skin, slick and hesitant, and he groans softly, low in his throat, loving the wet heat of your mouth. his knuckles graze your lips, teasing, and he watches you struggle—watches the drool spill, slicking your chin, your eyes watering as you try not to choke.

it’s fucking gorgeous, the way you’re falling apart already.

“there you go,” he coos, voice dripping with condescension, sweet and patronizing. “good girl.”

he pulls them out, slow, spit clinging to his fingers, a glossy thread snapping against your lip. his cock twitches, aching, but he’s too caught up in this—your flushed cheeks, your shaky breaths, the way you’re already his without a fight. his hand dives under your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug. the fabric rips, a sharp sound that makes you flinch, and he smirks, loving that little jolt of fear.

his fingers press into you, two at first, thick and unyielding, sliding in slow, savoring the way your cunt clenches, so wet it’s almost obscene. the heat of you is unreal, slick and tight, and he bites his lip, eyes locked on your face.

“goddamn, look at you,” he purrs, voice low and syrupy, full of praise. “taking my fingers so nice, like you were born for this. my perfect pretty girl, huh?”

your gasp is high, broken, and he feels you shudder, your thighs trembling against his. he curls his fingers, slow, dragging them against your walls, feeling every pulse, every flutter. the wet squelch is loud, filthy, echoing in the cramped, mildewed room, and he loves it—loves how it’s proof of your body begging for him.

“listen to that,” he murmurs, almost reverent, his lips grazing your ear. “your pussy’s singing for me, baby. so fucking eager.”

he pushes deeper, knuckles brushing your entrance, and your hips jerk, instinctive, a whimper spilling from your lips. he adds a third finger, stretching you, the burn making you whine—a sharp, desperate sound that makes his chest tighten.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he praises, voice soft but edged with that condescending lilt. “look at you, opening up for me like a sweet little thing. bet you didn’t know you could take this much, did you?”

his thumb finds your clit, circling slow, deliberate, each swipe sparking shocks through your shaking body. your nails claw at his arms, leaving red scratches, and he fucking loves it—loves the proof you’re losing it for him.

his fingers pump, curling, twisting, hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. he slows, teasing, dragging them out, slick and shining, before slamming them back in, deep and hard. the rhythm’s relentless, the wet slap of his hand against your cunt filling the air, mixing with your gasps and moans.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, his eyes never leaving your face. “every little twitch, every sound—fuck, you’re my masterpiece.”

he’s not imagining anything else; this is it, the real deal, your body trembling under his hands, your cunt dripping for him, your face twisting in ways he wants burned into his brain.

he presses harder, fingers curling tighter, thumb grinding your clit faster, and you’re sobbing now, soft, broken sounds that make his cock throb and twitch in his pants.

“that’s it, cry for me,” he murmurs, voice dripping with praise, a touch of mockery. “such a pretty mess, all for your senpai. you’re making me so fucking proud, baby.”

your hips grind against his hand, chasing the friction, and he grins, holding you still with his free arm, pinning you to the wall like he owns you. “no running, sweetheart. you’re gonna take it all, just like you were meant to.”

he’s relentless, fingers plunging, curling, stretching, his thumb circling your clit with brutal precision. the squelch of your slick is deafening, dripping down his wrist, pooling on the floor, and he’s drunk on it—on the heat, the wetness, the way your body’s screaming his name without words.

“fuck, you’re soaking me,” he purrs, voice low and adoring. “making such a filthy little puddle. my good girl, giving me everything.”

he leans in, lips brushing your temple, tasting the salt of your sweat, and he groans, low and filthy, because you’re better than any fantasy he’s ever had.

you’re close, he feels it—your walls clenching, your breath hitching, your legs shaking like they’re about to give out. “gonna fall apart for me?” he whispers, voice soft but taunting, lips grazing your ear. “gonna cream all over my fingers like my perfect little angel? go on, show me how good you can be.”

he’s relentless, fingers pumping, thumb pressing, every motion pushing you higher, your moans turning into desperate, keening cries.

but then he stops, fingers buried deep, still as stone. you choke on a sob, hips bucking, chasing a release he’s ripped away. your cunt flutters, greedy, aching, and he smirks, loving how you’re practically fucking yourself on his hand.

“mm-mm,” he hums, sweet and cruel, like honey over a razor. “not yet, baby. you don’t get to cum until i say.”

he holds you there, suspended in agony, your body trembling, slick coating his hand, dripping down his arm. he leans in, breath hot against your ear, voice a soft, devastating whisper. “besides, we shouldn’t go any further,” he says, careful, calculated, a perfect trap. “not unless we’re, y’know, actually dating or something.”

you freeze, eyes wide, lips trembling, spit-slick and swollen. he’s still inside you, fingers heavy, a constant, torturous pressure.

he grins, lazy, smug, lips brushing your cheek. “so, what do you think, sweetheart?” he murmurs, fingers twitching just enough to make you whimper. “wanna be mine?”

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heritageposts · 1 year ago

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Harris has been a staunch supporter of Israel for years. In 2017 she addressed the American Israel Public Affairs Committee’s (AIPAC) annual conference and reminded attendees that the first resolution she co-sponsored as a senator was aimed at combating “anti-Israel bias” at the United Nations. “Let me be clear about what I believe. I stand with Israel because of our shared values, which are so fundamental to the founding of both our nations,” she told the crowd. In 2018 she gave an off-the-record speech to the organization, but eventually released her comments. In that speech she claimed that she raised money for the Jewish National Fund as a Girl Scout. “Having grown up in the Bay area, I fondly remember those Jewish National Fund boxes that we would use to collect donations to plant trees for Israel,” she told the audience. “Years later, when I visited Israel for the first time, I saw the fruits of that effort and the Israeli ingenuity that has truly made a desert bloom.”

For those unfamiliar with the Jewish National Fund (JNF), they're a Zionist organization that has been instrumental in the ethnic cleansing of Palestine.

See Stop the JNF for more information on their history, the way they operate, and their decades-long campaign of greenwashing (i.e. destroying native plants, crops, and agriculture under the banner of 'making the desert bloom').

Continuing, the Mondoweiss article goes:

“The vast majority of people understand the importance of the State of Israel,” she added later. “Both in terms of its history and its present in terms of being a source of inspiration on so many issues, which I hope we will talk about, and also what it means in terms of the values of the United States and those values that are shared values with Israel, and the importance of fighting to make sure that we protect and respect a friend, one of the best friends we could possibly have.” While running for President in 2019, Harris was praised by the lobbying group Democratic Majority for Israel (DMFI) for running to the right of Obama on the Iran deal. On the campaign trail Harris told Kat Wellman, a voter affiliated with DMFI, that she would reenter the agreement but “strengthen it” by “extending the sunset provisions, including ballistic missile testing, and also increasing oversight.” “I was very impressed with her. I thought she gave an excellent speech, she gave a very detailed, responsive answer to my question,” Wellman told a local paper after the exchange. “I’m pro-Israel, so I was I was very concerned and all about making sure we limit nuclear missiles in any country that could possibly destroy us all. I thought her answer was very good.” Harris has condemned the BDS movement and claimed that is “based on the mistaken assumption that Israel is solely to blame for the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.” However, she voted against an anti-BDS bill in 2019 citing First Amendment concerns.

For the full article, which includes Kamala's response to Israel post Al-Aqsa Flood, see Mondoweiss (July 22, 2024)

#palestine #israel #gaza #kamala harris #jewish national fund #JNF

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cressidagrey · 18 days ago

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Undone

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: 5 Times Oscar Piastri is undone by his wife and one time Felicity is wrecked by Oscar.

Warnings and Notes: Definitely NSFW, though there is no actual smut in this.

Inspired by a comment the lovely @scott-mccall-could-lift-mjolnir left me: Ok but Oscar def exceeds his sim rig budget often because he thinks Felicity looks hot when she’s explaining money or whatever to him.

This was the unhinged result.

Big thanks to @llirawolf as always, who listens to me ramble 😂

1. Sim Rig Budget

Oscar had a problem.

Well, technically, he had several. But the main one—if you asked Felicity—was his complete inability to stick to his sim rig budget.

It wasn’t like he was out here buying Lamborghinis or importing solid gold pedals. (Although, if he ever found a carbon fibre seat with a heating function, all bets were off.) No, it was smaller things. Sneakier things. A new pedal set here. A triple-monitor upgrade there. Adjustable haptic feedback, because realism, obviously.

Every time he promised it was the last thing.

And every time, Felicity would appear in the doorway—arms folded, tablet in hand, expression somewhere between unimpressed and unbearably hot.

Like now.

Oscar didn’t even hear her come in. He was halfway through calibrating the brake force on his new hydraulic pedal upgrade (read: totally unnecessary but felt amazing) when he heard her voice, low and calm and devastatingly focused.

“How much was it?”

He winced. “Not that much.”

She raised a brow. “Oscar.”

He turned in his seat. She was leaning against the doorframe in one of his old cricket shirts, sleeves pushed to her elbows, glasses on, tablet balanced on her hip like a loaded weapon. “It was a necessary—”

“It was £620,” she said, tapping the screen.

He blinked. “That… feels fake.”

She walked over slowly. “You submitted the order through our joint account.”

“Oh.”

She stopped just in front of him and tilted her head. “Want to explain why the line item marked ‘pedal upgrade 2.0’ exists when you swore you were happy with the first one?”

Oscar swallowed.

Because here was the problem: Felicity Piastri explaining finances was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. The calm cadence of her voice. The precise way she spoke when listing expenses. The way she wielded percentages like sharp little knives and cited her spreadsheets like scripture.

“You’re doing the thing,” he muttered, voice a little hoarse.

“What thing?” she asked, deadpan, sliding her glasses up her nose. “Explaining where our money went?”

“No,” he said, looking up at her like she was the sum total of every dream he'd ever had. “The thing where I want to put my mouth on you while you say ‘depreciation curve.’”

Her mouth twitched.

“Unbelievable.”

He stood slowly. “Say it once. Please.”

“Oscar.”

“Just one time.”

She took a deliberate step back and planted the tablet on the desk. “Fine. Depreciation curve.”

His hands were on her before she finished the sentence—hooking into her waistband, pulling her close, burying his face against her neck like he was starving of air and she was oxygen. “God, I love you.”

Felicity laughed, breath catching. “You’re not getting away with it just because you’re horny and helpless.”

“I’m not helpless,” he murmured, already backing her toward the edge of the desk. “I’m just… financially irresponsible and madly in love.”

She grinned—sharp, wicked, fond. “That’s not a defence.”

“Tell it to the budget committee.”

“I am the budget committee.”

He lifted her up onto the desk in one smooth motion, hands trailing up under her shirt. “Then I’d like to offer a very, very compelling oral argument.”

Felicity’s breath hitched, her legs tightening around his waist. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you,” he said, dipping his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, “are painfully hot when you talk about money like it’s a game of chess you always win.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair. “I do always win.”

He kissed down her neck, teeth scraping just enough to make her sigh. “I know.”

The edge of her tablet wobbled precariously next to her, flashing open to a spreadsheet that, hilariously, still had “Oscar Piastri’s Financial Recklessness – Q2” as the header.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, hungry and reverent. She smelled like cinnamon and spreadsheets, and he would happily ruin his bank account for the rest of his life if it meant getting her like this—glasses askew, cheeks flushed, breath trembling just slightly from where he’d found that one spot on her neck.

“I swear,” she whispered, hands fisting in the back of his shirt, “you get hotter every time you break a rule.”

“I’m not trying to,” he said against her collarbone, already trailing kisses lower, pushing the hem of her shirt up with maddening care. “I just get overwhelmed when you start talking about projections.”

“Projections,” she repeated, voice husky now, amusement laced into the syllables.

He hummed in response, nipping gently at her skin. “Forecasting. Margins. Show me a well-balanced ledger and I’m gone.”

Her laugh hitched into something closer to a moan when his mouth found the underside of her breast, soft and deliberate. “You’re—god, you’re such a menace.”

“And you,” he said, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes, “walked in here with a budget report and this shirt, so don’t act like this wasn’t premeditated.”

Felicity arched an eyebrow. “It’s your shirt. And technically, I was preparing to destroy you with bar graphs.”

He grinned. “I welcome the annihilation.”

His fingers moved with quiet precision—unbuttoning, unhooking, every action slow and practiced. Like he was undoing a problem set. Like she was the formula he’d never get tired of solving.

And when she finally tugged him up by the collar and dragged his mouth back to hers, her voice was barely a breath:

“Then let’s talk penalties.”

Oscar groaned against her lips, half-laughing, half-undone. “God, please, do.”

Later, as they lay tangled together on the floor—having somehow migrated mid-chaos, surrounded by scattered financial documents —Felicity rolled onto her side and rested her head on his chest.

“You’re over budget,” she murmured, already half-asleep.

Oscar tucked a hand into her hair, grinning against her temple.

“Worth every penny.”

***

2. Fixing his Car

It started with a weird noise.

Oscar had mentioned it offhandedly one night, barefoot in the kitchen, peeling an orange while Bee narrated her day’s adventures involving glitter glue and the neighbour’s cat. Something about his McLaren Artura’s engine note sounding slightly off—maybe a bit of a whine in third gear, maybe nothing. He figured he’d take it in next week. Eventually.

Felicity had just hummed, sipping her tea, and said, “I’ll take a look.”

Oscar thought she meant later. Like, next month. After the school run and the budget review and the weekly shop. He should’ve known better.

Less than 24 hours later, his Artura was in Felicity’s garage and Oscar hadn’t expected to be turned on by a mechanical diagnosis, but here he was.

Here he was, in the passenger seat of said McLaren Artura, watching his wife—his wife—slide into the driver’s seat with motor oil smudged across her collarbone and the calm authority of someone who had just fixed the damn thing herself.

“Fixed the bracket,” Felicity said, adjusting the rearview mirror like she owned the road. “Tightened the mount and checked the vacuum lines. Want to test it?”

Oscar was already half-hard and they hadn’t even started the engine.

“Test it,” he echoed, blinking. “Yes. Sure. Let’s test it.”

She started the car.

The engine purred, lower and cleaner than before, and she nodded to herself with a little hum of satisfaction, like it was nothing—like she hadn’t just rolled out from under a supercar like some kind of hyper-competent dream in oil-stained shorts and zero patience for incompetence.

Oscar turned to her slowly. “You’re aware this is doing things to me, right?”

She glanced at him. Smirked. “What, the car?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “You. Covered in oil. Fixing my car. Looking at me like you’re the CEO of my entire existence.”

Felicity put the car in neutral. Turned toward him fully.

She was straddling the line between amused and very aware of the effect she was having on him, and Oscar couldn’t tell which part made him dizzier—the smug glint in her eye or the glint of her wedding ring catching the light.

“You didn’t even say thank you,” she said, all mock offense and low heat.

Oscar leaned closer. “I was too busy trying not to beg.”

And then—god help him—she swung a leg over the center console and climbed into his lap.

Right there. In his McLaren.

The leather creaked beneath her, engine still humming low and alive under the hood. She settled on top of him like she’d done it a hundred times before because she had, thighs bracketing his hips, fingers threading into his hair.

“You like me like this?” she whispered, mouth brushing his jaw. “Grease under my nails. Bracket still warm.”

He groaned, gripping her hips like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. “You could read me an instruction manual right now and I’d come undone.”

“Mm.” She ground down once, slow and deliberate. “Torque specs do it for you?”

“Fliss—”

But she was already kissing him, hot and open-mouthed, sliding her hands up under his shirt like she needed to chart every muscle he’d ever used in a race. His hands roamed—up the back of her thighs, under her stolen t-shirt, over the line of her spine like it held the meaning of life.

And maybe it did. Because this—her—this was it. The only thing that ever made sense.

The windows fogged fast. Her laugh was breathless when he cursed against her neck, and the shift of leather and heat between them was all motion and hunger and history.

At some point Oscar managed to gasp, “We are absolutely never selling this car.”

Felicity bit his bottom lip and whispered, “Then maybe you should thank me properly.”

He did.

Thoroughly.

Twice.

The engine purred the entire time.

And when they finally stumbled back into the house, Bee asleep upstairs and the garage door closed behind them, Oscar was grinning like a man who had glimpsed heaven in a McLaren Artera and found out she answered to Doctor Piastri, engineer, mother of his child, ruiner of lives.

***

3. Lunch Boxes

Oscar didn’t mean to make it a thing.

But it was a thing now.

Because every time Felicity packed his lunch boxes—lined up like perfect little soldiers on the counter, each one colour-coded, labeled in her sharp, clean handwriting—he lost his damn mind a little more.

It wasn’t just the food (though, to be fair, the woman made roasted sweet potato taste like actual seduction). It was the way she did it. Efficient. Precise. Quietly brilliant. Like she didn’t even realize how stupidly hot it was to see her in the kitchen in the early morning, hair up, wearing one of his oversized shirts and no pants, organizing his macros like it was military strategy.

This morning, the purple box had a tiny Post-it on it.

Snack responsibly. Or don’t. Just don’t crash. Love you. —F

Oscar stared at it for a solid ten seconds before whispering, “God help me.”

That night, when he came home exhausted from sim practice and three hours of back-to-back meetings, he found her in the kitchen—barefoot, sipping tea, already halfway through prepping the next day’s lunch rotation.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and just leaned in the doorway for a second, watching her.

“Red for protein,” she was muttering to herself, “green for veg, purple for snacks, yellow for Bee… blue for—”

“You know that thing you do?” Oscar interrupted, voice low.

She looked up, eyebrow raised. “Which thing? I do a lot of things.”

“The thing where you make me lunch boxes so well I want to sin about it.”

Felicity blinked. “You want to sin. About Tupperware.”

Oscar walked toward her, slow, deliberate, until he was standing right behind her. “It’s not the Tupperware,” he murmured into her ear. “It’s the handwriting. The notes. The colour-coding. The quiet genius of packing a full day of nutrients into boxes with the precision of an air traffic controller. That’s hot.”

She turned, smirking now. “You’re telling me meal prep is your kink?”

“No,” he said, hands sliding to her waist. “You are.”

And then he kissed her—open-mouthed and needy, one hand finding the curve of her hip while the other slipped beneath the hem of her shirt.

“You really got all worked up over quinoa and handwritten macros?” she teased between kisses, breath hitching.

“You labelled my almonds ‘fuel: emotional and physical.’” He pressed her against the counter. “You packed my protein bar with a kissy face drawn on the wrapper, Fliss. I’ve been unhinged since breakfast.”

Felicity laughed—and then gasped when he lifted her onto the counter with a smooth, practiced motion. “This is deranged.”

“This is love,” he murmured against her thigh, mouth trailing higher, slower, more reverent now. “And also maybe a little bit of the fact that you’re a control freak with a pantry arranged by expiry date.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” she whispered, breath catching again.

He looked up at her like she hung the moon. “Of course I am.”

And later—when her legs were around his shoulders and her fingers were tugging at his hair like he’d gone and broken every budget in the known world—she managed to gasp, “You’re still getting a green-lid lunch tomorrow.”

Oscar grinned.

“Color-coded and cock-drunk,” he murmured. “God bless efficiency.”

4. Brushing her hair

Oscar loved brushing Felicity’s hair.

Loved the calm of it, the quiet focus, the rhythm. He’d been doing it since they were fifteen—hands careful, reverent, utterly smitten even then.

But what he loved most was when her hair was down. Unbound. Loose. A little wild.

No tie. No braid. Just Felicity with her curtain of dark, silky waves falling around her shoulders and brushing the small of her back when she walked around in his shirt—bare-legged, bare-faced, dangerous without trying.

It did something to him.

Every time.

Like now.

She was straddling his lap on the couch, one knee braced on either side of him, arms loose around his neck. Her hair was still damp from the shower, half-dried and curling at the ends, falling around them like a veil. It smelled like jasmine and shampoo and her.

Oscar could barely think.

His hands slid up her thighs, under the hem of her robe, his eyes locked on the way a strand of hair stuck to her collarbone. She looked down at him with that calm, knowing look—the one that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You like it down, don’t you?” she murmured, voice soft and smug.

“You know I do,” he said, his fingers already threading into it, tugging her forward.

She let him.

Let him twist his hands in her hair and pull, just enough to tilt her head back slightly, exposing her throat to his mouth.

He kissed her there, open-mouthed and slow, and she let out a sound—soft, breathy, wrecked. Her fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. Her hips shifted in his lap.

Oscar groaned. “You have no idea what this does to me.”

“I have some idea,” she whispered, teasing, gasping slightly when he pulled again, firmer this time.

The strands slid through his fingers like silk, catching slightly on his knuckles as he fisted the thick fall of it in one hand and guided her mouth to his. She kissed him back hard, messy, full of teeth and want and years of knowing how to break him with nothing more than a glance and unbound hair.

He pulled her closer, gripping at her waist with one hand, her hair with the other, guiding her rhythm over him like he owned her—except she was the one unraveling him.

Always had been.

Her breath hitched when he bit her lip, then again when he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “You wear it down on purpose, don’t you?”

She smirked. “I like it when you forget your own name.”

He growled, half-laughing, half-gone. “You want me to manhandle you?”

“I want you to stop being gentle,” she breathed, grinding down harder. “You can be gentle later.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

He twisted his hand deeper into her hair, pulled her head back just enough to kiss her neck the way he knew made her knees go weak, and let himself fall—fully, recklessly, gloriously—into her.

The hair fell around them like a curtain.

And the world disappeared.

5. Stretching

Oscar had survived Haileybury.

Barely.

And not because of the coursework or the races or the early morning training sessions.

Because of her.

Felicity Leong, with her quiet mouth and sharper mind, who once rewrote his history essay for fun and finished with a footnote critique of his comma placement. Who wore his oversized hoodies and ballet tights like it was the most normal thing in the world to have a brain built for astrophysics and a body made of silk and steel.

And who—at fifteen—could drop into a split in the middle of the common room while talking about Euripides without even blinking.

He nearly died.

Right there. On the threadbare carpet next to the vending machine and the crusty copy of The Economist some Year 13 had left behind.

Oscar remembered watching her stretch before her early morning classes, legs extended and spine impossibly straight, her bun perfect and secure, jaw tight with focus.

Teenage him had no chance.

None.

Every conversation with her had required mental gymnastics just to function. Every nod, every "cool" or "yeah, me too" had been a desperate attempt to sound normal while his brain short-circuited over the fact that she could fold herself in half and still remind him to submit his physics lab write-up.

He’d walk into form time like a zombie. Had actually missed a karting call once because he was too distracted watching her adjust the elastic of her ballet slippers. One afternoon she’d casually said, “Hold this,” and placed her leg on his shoulder mid-stretch and he’d honestly, truly thought he was going to ascend.

She’d said, “Don’t let it drop,” and he’d said, “Yep,” and then immediately forgot how to breathe.

Now—years later, married, living together, very much allowed to touch her—Oscar still wasn’t over it.

Especially not this morning.

She was in the middle of the living room, hair up in a loose bun, wearing one of his shirts and not much else, leaning into a deep split like it was the most casual thing in the world.

It wasn’t casual. It was violent. Criminal, even.

His wife, the mother of his child, casually stretching like her hip joints were made of warm honey and elastic string, humming something under her breath as she reached forward and flattened her chest against the floor.

Oscar sat on the couch, clutching a coffee he was no longer drinking, hard as a rock and feeling exactly like fifteen-year-old him again.

She glanced up. “You okay?”

He cleared his throat. “That’s… not legal.”

“What’s not?”

“That thing you’re doing. With your legs. And the existing. Like that.”

Felicity smiled, slow and knowing. “You used to lose your mind over this.”

“I used to pray to God to make me stronger,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

She slid her leg higher onto the coffee table. “You used to?”

He exhaled, stood, and crossed to her in one motion, crouching down beside her. “fifteen-year-old me didn’t know what to do with you.”

She leaned into him, lips brushing his jaw. “And twenty-four-year-old you?”

“Still doesn’t,” he whispered, sliding his hand along her thigh. “But I get to try now.”

Felicity kissed him, soft and slow, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “Floor’s yours, Piastri. Let’s see if you stretch as well as I do.”

He never stood a chance.

Not at fifteen.

And definitely not now.

+1 Being a dad

Felicity always knew Oscar would be a good dad.

She’d seen it in the way he held her hand the first time they saw Bee’s heartbeat on the monitor, the way he read parenting books with a highlighter like it was a race weekend strategy.

But nothing—not one single thing—could’ve prepared her for how stupidly hot it would be to watch him parent.

Like tonight.

Bee had a meltdown. A full one. The kind of tear-streaked, overtired, irrational tantrum only a three-year-old could commit to with full-body conviction. Over what? A banana. A bent banana. Felicity had tried to intervene, to soothe, to reason—but Oscar had waved her off gently, crouched down to their daughter’s level, and handled the entire situation with the same calm intensity he used at 300 km/h.

“Bumblebee,” he said softly, brushing Bee’s curls off her damp cheek, “I know it’s frustrating. But bananas don’t always stay perfect. It’s still the same on the inside. Like people.”

Bee hiccuped. Sniffled. Pouted.

Oscar offered her the banana back with a solemnity that somehow made it feel like a peace treaty. “Would it help if I ate one too? We can be bent banana buddies.”

Bee blinked up at him with wet lashes and whispered, “’Kay.”

And just like that—chaos to calm.

Oscar gave her a cuddle, scooped her up, and carried her off to bed like he had all the time in the world. Like patience wasn’t something he ran out of. Like loving her was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Felicity just stood there, watching from the doorway, her entire body flushed with something that started in her heart and sank lower. Much, much lower.

By the time he padded back down the hall, barefoot and quiet, she was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“You’re so good with her,” she murmured, stepping into his space.

Oscar smiled, tired and soft. “She’s Bee. How could I not be?”

And god help her, that was it.

The shirt he’d thrown on was half buttoned, his curls still messy from wrestling with bedtime. He looked completely at ease and completely hers, and Felicity couldn’t take it anymore.

She kissed him, deep and slow, fingers curling into his hair, her other hand slipping beneath the hem of his shirt.

Oscar pulled back slightly, breathless. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“You’re ruining me,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his jaw. “You read her a bedtime poem about emotional regulation, Oscar.”

He laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”

“And you said bent banana buddies like it was a sacred vow.”

“I stand by it.”

She slid her hands up his chest. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a dad.”

“You’re filth,” she said, kissing him again. “Hot, responsible, emotionally intelligent filth.”

He laughed, low and wrecked, pulling her closer. “Is this about to turn into a thank-you-for-parenting-me-properly scenario?”

“It’s about to turn into a bend me like that banana scenario.”

Oscar groaned, backed her into the wall, and kissed her like he’d been waiting to all night.

And later—when the kitchen lights were low, when her back was arched and his name was a prayer against his shoulder—Felicity clung to him and thought:

She always knew he’d be a good dad.

She just didn’t know it would be this fucking sexy.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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wchswift · 6 months ago

Text

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ‘harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

#꣖ ີ ꣓ writes.#dean winchester 🪽#dean winchester angst #dean winchester one shot #dean supernatural #supernatural dean #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x fem reader #dean winchester drabble #jackles #jensen ackles #jensen ackles drabble #dean winchester x female!reader #supernatural #supernatural drabble #dean winchester fluff

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hivemuthur · 4 months ago

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Would you mind possibly making a fic for a reader that is a member of the itty bitty titty committee? For me personally there is nothing there and I just want Viktor to show me love for it lmfao also I love love love your work💞💞

Hi Anon! I'm sorry this took so long!

The Heart Below

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! fluff & smut :) artist!Reader and Viktor plays with her boobies, dat it :v

word count: 1,9K

author’s note: beta read and brainstormed with @rennethen!

artist on X

—

Shadow and light battle across the flat plane of your chest as you try to transfer the study of your figure onto the canvas in front of you. Each shift of your hand derails you slightly, and you wince, sigh, and adjust your position again, coaxing the shade under your breasts into place.

You’ve been working for hours, your eyes tired from shifting between mirror and canvas, trying to capture the delicate contours of your body—each curve, each dent in your skin. It’s a challenge to get the light just right—where it falls, how it rests—so that the shapes aren’t lost in the blending shadows.

Looking at yourself on the canvas is entirely different from studying the person staring back from the mirror. You decide to give her an objective moment—your shoulders sag, legs fall limply off the tall stool as you just scrutinize. Stomach bent so that the eye of your belly disappears into a lopsided smile-like crease, your hips spill beyond the stool’s edge in a pretty curve. Hands rest against your thighs before you bring them to your chest to cup your breasts.

You feel out their shape by touch. Not entirely flat, no—a subtle, symmetrical rise on both sides of your sternum, falling gently into skin stretched over your ribcage. Your fingers travel up to the pool between your collarbones and trace the lines from there to your nipples. A curious observation crosses your mind, how your body consists of triangles.

You turn back to face the canvas, adjusting the stroke, trying once more to get the effect just right. Silence envelops you and it’s peaceful, almost meditative, until you feel a presence behind you. It waits patiently until you set your brush aside and once you do, warm hands snake around your waist and a tickle of hair brushes against your cheek.

Viktor.

“Can I be the first bidder when you finish?” he asks and his breath fans your skin. His chin comes to rest in the crook of your shoulder and when you say nothing, he adds, “You look beautiful.” Reverently, like it’s the universal truth in this world.

“You can have it, if I finish it,” you say thoughtfully. “As long as you keep it in the basement,” you add with a smirk, and ghost your hand over his on your belly.

He squeezes you tighter and hums, “No deal. I want it above our bed. And a small version to carry in my wallet. In fact, could I just take these,” he teases, as his hands creep up to cup your breasts. “Once you are done?”

“And whatever will you do with them, hmm?”

“Oh, lásko,” he breathes against your shoulder. “I thought you’d never ask. Let me show you.”

You inhale sharply, hesitating as your eyes flick down to his hands, noticing you've already transferred some of the paint onto his skin. “Viktor,” you say softly, and he hums out a question before stilling, sensing the unease in your voice.

“What troubles you, my love?” he murmurs into your ear. “Does this have a deadline?” He lingers on the first thought—he might have just interrupted something.

“No, I’m just—” Your breath hitches when his lips trail up your neck, sucking just beneath your ear. “Not feeling it.”

“The painting?” Viktor asks—or rather mumbles—into your skin.

“The painting, and the body. It’s just… a shape,” you breathe out, leaning instinctively into him, then releasing a surprised oh when Viktor pulls away, his face reflecting a nearly outraged expression in the mirror.

“Just a shape?” he huffs, and you almost laugh at the way his brows scrunch in disbelief. “It’s not just a shape.” The last word is spat out as if it’s offensive. “It’s a beautiful thing, look,” he says, tilting your chin to face the reflection, then takes your arm and drapes it over his neck.

He drags a hand from your hip, across your waist, all the way up to your elbow. “Goosebumps. A new texture,” he says proudly. Then, looking back at you in the mirror, he adds, “And a new shape,” brushing his thumb over your hardened nipple.

You try to chuckle away the blush creeping up your neck, but Viktor nuzzles into your face, his voice soft as he whispers, “My favourite one.”

Eyebrows raised, you tease, “Since when are you so knowledgeable about painting—” but before you can finish the question, your nipple gets pinched between his calloused fingers, and you can feel his mouth curving into a smirk.

"Since I exist with a work of art daily," he replies, his voice low, the words almost smug as he watches you react.

"Viktor," you say, the tone laced with a hint of disbelief. But he’s not done. He smiles and shakes his head. “Don’t Viktor me now,” he murmurs, as he drapes your other hand over his neck. His fingers caress your chest gently, almost reverently, as if he’s tracing the curves and contours of something precious.

His gaze lingers on you, not just looking but seeing, as if he’s trying to imprint every inch of your body into his memory. “You are beautiful,” he murmurs, his touch lingering as he skims his palm along the soft skin of your chest, feeling the subtle rise and fall of your breath. “Not just a shape. A living, breathing body.”

His palm stills at your sternum, and his expression softens. “And here’s the best part,” he says, making your breath hitch. His favourite part is now thumping so feverishly you can almost see the tremor of skin beneath his fingers. “And I’m glad I can touch it so freely.”

You unwind one arm from his neck, threading your fingers into his hair as you pull him in for a kiss. And oh, Viktor is so pleased he hums into your mouth, taking it as encouragement when his palms cradle your chest lovingly. He spreads his fingers wide, tracing the lines of your ribs before clasping around your breasts, trapping your nipples between his knuckles.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he rasps, voice etched with gravel now, the words spilling into your mouth, rolling off his hot tongue. His palms rub up and down your front, the heels pressing into the soft flesh while his fingers catch beneath your collarbones.

He groans softly against your lips, hands teasing along the sensitive spots, as he rolls your nipples between his knuckles. Everything measured—each reaction observed and memorised, so he touches over and over until your skin blurs with red and pink. His breath is warm when he pulls away just enough to murmur, “Come here.”

Without breaking contact for long, he shifts, guiding you to turn on your chair as his knee presses between your thighs. His hands are firm but gentle when he grasps your hips, stepping between your legs and slotting himself close.

"Look at yourself," he whispers, tilting your chin toward the mirror. His golden eyes meet yours in the reflection, dark with desire. "How could you ever call this just a shape?"

And it’s hard to look away from Viktor, but you finally slide your gaze off his hands on your ribs to look at the swell of your thighs spilling off the chair seat, up the curve of your belly to your breasts—faintly swollen and reddened by his work. You smile when his head dips to kiss your neck. Not just a shape, you finally think.

Then his mouth travels down. His lips part against your collarbone, warm and soft, his breath fanning over your skin before he presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss there. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, and then he sucks—just enough to make the heat pool low in your stomach. He hums as he pulls back, admiring the mark blooming beneath his lips.

Lower again. Down the slope of your breast, then up, as if tracing invisible brushstrokes against a canvas. He licks each new lovebite with a brush of his tongue before sealing it with another kiss, possessive and ardent all at once. "Mine," he breathes, the word sinking into your skin with each mark he leaves behind.

Your fingers curl into his hair, gripping, pulling, wordlessly asking for more. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your sternum, before his teeth scrape lightly over the peak of your breast. "So gorgeous," he muses, voice thick with awe.

And then he takes your nipple into his mouth. The first pull of his lips sends a spark all the way down to your toes. His tongue flicks over your nipple before he sucks again, letting the warmth of his mouth sink into your skin. His hands grip your waist, knuckles whitening.

Your breath stutters when his teeth graze you, a sharp contrast to the softness of his tongue. Viktor hums, so pleased when you arch to meet him, he adjusts his grip. “My beloved,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the wetness he left behind. “Now I can feel the heart below.”

And indeed it’s there. Under his mouth, barely pressing to the centre of your chest. It twitches and beats, rising the plane of your skin in a frantic rhythm. The vibration travels through his lips, down, down his throat to his lower belly where he’s straining in his pants. He breathes into it, hot air dancing on the slick layer he’s left, more goosebumps blooming across your body.

He trails lower, dragging his tongue over the underside of your breast before leaving another mark, his mouth working as if to lay claim to every inch of skin. He takes his time, keeping every response somewhere precious—the sharp inhale when he sucks, the way your thighs twitch when he presses his teeth down just enough to sting.

His hands smooth over your stomach next, fingers splaying as he maps the softness there, brushing over your ribs before settling at your hips. His fingers press into your flesh, thumbs rubbing slow, lazy circles into the dip there. He leans back slightly, admiring the marks he's planted across your chest, then catches your gaze in the mirror. His eyes darken at the sight of you—lips parted, skin flushed, body pliant under his hands.

“Do you see now?” he asks again, but this time, his voice is lower, rougher. “How I see you?”

You turn in your seat to face yourself fully—glistening with his drool, a mosaic of red imprints from Viktor’s lips decorating your neck, chest, nipples, the tender skin beneath your breasts. Teeth marks remain visible on the swollen flesh, a gentle rise where he sucked harder. Your gaze shifts to his reflection—messy hair plastered to his forehead, lips plush and bruised, his eyes heavy with something dark and satisfied.

“I think I want to paint us like this,” you breathe, tracing your fingers over the places he’s marked.

“Oh?” His brow arches slightly, his voice taking on a playful lilt. “Should I do anything?” He tilts his head, studying your reflection as his hands find your waist again, thumbs pressing idly into your skin.

“Yes,” you say, voice steady despite the warmth lingering between you. You turn toward him and run your fingers over his collar, toying with the fabric before slipping lower. A smirk tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze. “Get naked. We have to match.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #requests #viktor fluff

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keithyp00 · 2 months ago

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●・○・The Congressman's Shadow・○・●

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x f!assistant!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, secret identities, mutual pining, angst, eventual partnership, redemption, mild language, references to violence/espionage, tension

Word Count: 1.9K

Author Note: This was inspired by Thunderbolts* but does not contain any spoilers so don't worry!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

Washington D.C. was a city of secrets.

They clung to the marble walls of Capitol Hill and twisted like ivy up the columns of the rotunda. They slipped into briefcases and beneath the tailored hems of suits. And Bucky Barnes- James Buchanan Barnes, newly elected Congressman from New York's 14th district- was learning quickly just how deep those secrets ran.

But none, he would later say, ran as deep as yours.

______________________________________________________________

You were already in his office when he arrived that morning.

Coffee in hand, heels off, fingers flying across a tablet. You didn't look up when he opened the door, just muttered, "You're late."

"You're early," he countered, tossing his coat onto the couch in the corner of his office.

"I'm always early. It's my job to be early."

"And my job is to be charming," Bucky replied, flashing a grin. "Which means I'm on time, actually. Fashionably."

You gave him a flat look. "You have a committee hearing in twenty minutes and a briefing on the humanitarian bill draft after that. I moved your meeting with the energy council to next week because they double-booked you with a security panel."

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "How do you keep all that in your head?"

"I'm terrifying and overqualified," you smiled with a shrug.

You were. And he knew it.

When Bucky first hired you, he figured you were another one of those political lifers- impossibly efficient, quick with a lie or a smile, maybe both. What he hadn't expected was someone so... sharp. Like a blade that hadn't dulled with time. Someone who didn't flinch at veiled threats or news of violence overseas. Someone who looked at him like she'd already figured out every angle of his plan and had a backup for every possible outcome.

"You ever think about running for office?" He asked once, weeks ago, after a long day of policy wrangling and political bullshit.

You laughed. "No. I've seen what it does to people."

"From the inside?"

You just smiled. "Something like that."

______________________________________________________________

He learned more about you in pieces.

Like how you hated being called 'ma'am' even by staffers, or how you could defuse a tense room with a single sentence. How you noticed things- things Bucky didn't even know he's missed. The way a hallway felt too quiet. The change in security's walking patterns. You moved like someone who had trained to make herself invisible, only now you chose to be seen.

And god help him, you were his type. Smart, steady, unflinching. Unreachable, most days. But he could see the slivers. The soft smiles when he made a joke that landed, the concern that crossed your face when he rubbed at his arm for too long, the subtle way you always knew when he needed to take a break.

He tried to ignore it.

He failed.

______________________________________________________________

The shift came quietly. A fundraiser. A suit. Your dress.

"You clean up nice," he said, eyes trailing the sweep of your gown.

"You say that like I'm usually covered in dirt."

"You say that like you haven't threatened six lobbyists this week alone."

"They deserved it," you replied flatly, but there was the ghost of a smile lingering on your features.

He laughed and offered you his arm. And when you took it, something clicked into place.

You belonged at his side.

Not just in the office, not just at events. But somewhere deeper. And Bucky- who'd known war and pain and redemption- felt that longing stir like a ghost.

Still, he didn't act.

Not then.

______________________________________________________________

Everything changed in early spring.

A car exploded three blocks from the Capitol. Not near Bucky's office, not officially tied to his work, but close enough to raise alarms. Security tripled. Surveillance swept wider.

But it wasn't until the second explosion- a smaller one, near a protest line- that the fear set in.

That night, Bucky sat at his desk long after the rest of the building emptied. You stood across from him, tablet abandoned on your desk, arms crossed.

"You know something," he said quietly.

You didn't respond at first.

Then, softly: "It wasn't random."

Bucky met your eyes. "How do you know?"

You hesitated. Then: "Because I used to be the one who cleaned up after these."

The silence stretched.

Bucky didn't move.

"I wasn't always in politics," you said, voice flat. "I did clean-up work. Intel. Field extraction. A few other words that mean 'get in, get out, cover the mess.'"

His jaw tightened. "For who?"

"Multiple flags." You looked away. "Mostly ours."

The room spun slightly. You'd always been a mystery- but this? This was something else. Not a background in policy or communications. You weren't just overqualified.

You were dangerous.

He should have been angry. Should've felt betrayed.

But all he said was, "Why tell me now?"

"Because if this keeps escalating, you're going to need to be more than a congressman. You're going to need to be someone who knows the shadows."

Bucky stood. "Then I want you in the field."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You said you used to clean up messes. Well, we've got a mess. I want you in it with me."

You stared at him. "That's not how this works."

"It is now."

______________________________________________________________

The days that followed were a whirlwind.

Behind closed doors, you coordinated with quiet operatives still in the game. Bucky pulled strings through back channels, dug for funding, arranged travel that wasn't logged. Together, you became something more than just a politician and his assistant.

He wore suits by day, but carried a sidearm by night. You traded in heels for boots, tablet for a burner phone. The city didn't know that their congressman was going off-grid with a former spook, but they didn't need to know.

The intel led to a hidden cell. You were recognized once, during a recon trip in Prague, and Bucky had pulled you into an alley, pressed close, and pretended to kiss you to hide your face.

It wasn't a hardship.

Later, in the hotel room, you broke the silence. "I should've told you who I was."

He shook his head. "You did. Just not with words."

"And this? Us?" You met his eyes. "What are we?"

He stepped close. Touched your cheek. "We're a team."

Then, softly: "We're more than that."

______________________________________________________________

The mission ended with a fire. A final ambush. You dragged Bucky out of the flames with blood running down your arm and smoke in your lungs. He woke up in a safehouse, dazed and furious with worry- until you limped in, bruised but smiling.

"You survived," he whispered, pulling you close.

"You make it sound like I do this often."

"You do."

"...I did." You cupped his face. "Not anymore."

He kissed you then, fierce and aching and full of everything left unsaid.

______________________________________________________________

Back in D.C., the headlines never learned the full story. Just whispers of an international threat neutralized through backdoor diplomacy. The public never knew about the fieldwork, the close calls, the quiet way Bucky took your hand when no one was watching.

You returned to your role as his assistant.

But sometimes, when the shadows whispered of danger, he'd look to you.

And you'd already be ready.

Because you were never just a congressional aide.

You were his partner- in every sense of the word.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't talk about the kiss again- not for a while.

It lingered instead, suspended between you in the quiet spaces. In the mornings, when you handed him coffee and his fingers brushed yours just a little longer than necessary. In the silence of long car rides, where you sat just a little closer than before. In the hotel room in Berlin where you shared a wall but never knocked.

You were both too careful.

Bucky had lived through too many secrets, too many betrayals. And you... you had buried your heart deep beneath mission reports and false identities. Feelings, you'd once said, made people weak. Vulnerable. And Bucky had nodded, because he knew exactly what it meant to fear wanting something so badly it hurt.

But he wanted you anyway.

______________________________________________________________

Three weeks after the mission ended, you walked into his office just after sundown. You looked different- no heels, no blazer, just a soft sweater and jeans that made you look like someone who belonged somewhere safe.

He was still in his suit. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up.

You didn't say anything at first. Just closed the door behind you and leaned against it.

"I thought we agreed to keep it professional," he said gently.

"I didn't," you replied.

His chest tightened. "You didn't what?"

"I didn't agree. I just didn't say anything."

Silence stretched between you again, like a wire strung too tight. Then you stepped closer.

"I'm tired, Bucky," you said. "Of pretending. Of acting like I don't think about you every damn time I lay down to sleep. Like I don't see you in the field and feel something real, something dangerous-"

He crossed the room before you could finish.

His hands cupped your face. "You scared the hell out of me when you got shot during the last mission."

You smiled faintly. "I scare you a lot, don't I?"

"Only because I-" he stopped. Swallowed. "Because I don't know how to keep you safe without locking you away."

"I don't want to be safe," you whispered. "I want to be with you."

The kiss was slower this time. No need for cover. Just lips on lips, hands in hair, breath caught in throats. You pulled him in like gravity- like coming home.

______________________________________________________________

After that, it changed.

Not in the obvious ways. Not publicly. You were still his assistant, and he was still the rising star of Capitol Hill. But when the doors closed, when the world fell away- Bucky became yours.

He started spending nights at your place.

At first, he brought nothing. Then a toothbrush. Then a drawer's worth of clothes. He cooked like a man who used to forget to eat. You teased him for it until he made you pasta that tasted like heaven.

You weren't used to softness. But he gave it to you anyway.

You slept in his arms, legs tangled, his hand always resting lightly on your hip light he was afraid you'd vanish. You told him stories of old missions- bits and pieces, never names. He listened like every word mattered.

One night, as rain drummed against the windows, you asked: "Do you ever regret this? Politics, I mean."

He was quiet for a long time. Then: "I regret not meeting you sooner."

You looked at him, heart aching.

"I would've fallen for you no matter where we met," he said, voice low. "But maybe if I met you sooner, I wouldn't have been afraid of it."

______________________________________________________________

The next mission came quietly.

And anonymous tip. A potential mole inside a federal agency. Something smelled wrong.

Bucky wanted to send someone else.

You refused.

"This is what I do," you said. "What I've always done."

"But now you have more to lose," he said softly.

You reached out, resting your palm against his chest. "So do you."

The op was simple. In and out. Or it should have been.

Instead, it ended in a warehouse fire and a chase through the streets of Philadelphia. You made it out, barely. Bucky took a hit to the shoulder and refused medical attention until you were safe.

Back at the safehouse, you stitched his wound with trembling fingers.

"I hate this part," you whispered, dabbing away blood.

He looked at you. "Because it hurts?"

"No," you replied. "Because it reminds me what I'd do to keep you alive."

You sat on the floor afterward, arms wrapped around each other, like survivors after a storm. You didn't speak. You didn't need to.

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readingrecap · 1 year ago

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🏛️ June 27th Select Board Agenda Preview

The Select Board will be meeting this morning at 9:30am on Zoom only. This earlier than normal start time and date is to accommodate the Open Session and/or Executive Session Purpose 1: Discuss and potentially respond to Open Meeting Law Complaint against the Select Board by John Sullivan, received June 15, 2024. The complaint on page 3 of the packet alleges a June 4th violation by the Select…

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#Killam School Building Committee #OML #Select Board #Trails Committee

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pjmxtra · 3 months ago

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Perfect in my eyes‧₊˚ ⋅

paring: 니키 x fmr

warning: smut, angst, & fluff | bullying by the other members, itty bitty committee, p in v, reader is thin and described as small (if that makes you uncomfortable pls block me!)

an: another request by my fav anon!! Ily like sm you make my creative juices flow (´ε｀ )♡ I cried while writing it so pls enjoy!!

You padded down the hallway in one of Niki’s shirts, the hem nearly brushing your knees. It swallowed your frame completely—soft fabric drowning your shoulders, sleeves hanging past your fingertips. Only your bare legs peeked out beneath it, small and pale against the oversized tee. The dorm was quiet aside from the occasional rustle of movement and low chatter from the living room. You shuffled into the kitchen, retrieving snacks with quiet precision before heading back.

The guys were draped across the couches, voices low with whatever conversation they’d been having—until they saw you..

Jake snorted. “Whoa. That shirt’s practically a dress on you.”

You paused mid-step, hands full of snacks, blinking toward them. “It’s like you just came out of the laundry hamper with the shirt still wrapped around you,” Sunoo joked, laughing softly.

“I could fold you up in it and still have room to spare,” Jake added, his tone light, teasing—but you still felt your stomach drop.

Jay tilted his head from where he lounged against the cushions. “Seriously, where are your limbs? You look like a floating head with legs.”

Your grip tightened around the bag of chips. You tried to smile, tried to brush it off with a small shrug. “I like it. It’s comfortable…”

“Comfortable?” Jake laughed again. “It’s practically eating you alive.”

“Yeah,” Jay chimed in, smirking. “You gotta put some meat on those bones or the wind’s gonna blow you away.”

The words stung sharper than they probably meant them to. You felt exposed. Your body, already something you’d been quietly insecure about, now felt like a spotlight had been thrown on it. You shifted on your feet, suddenly wishing the floor would open up and let you vanish back into Niki’s room without another word.

You lowered your head, eyes fixed on the snack bag, heart thudding. You hated that they’d noticed. Hated that your body never looked the way others expected it to. You weren’t curvy, soft, or womanly in the way you assumed Niki’s bandmates preferred.

Your silence must have lingered too long, because then— “Hey,” a voice behind you said, low and firm. “Let’s stop with the jokes, Hyung.”

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Niki’s voice was deep, calm, a grounding presence that wrapped around your spine and steadied your breath. He appeared beside you a moment later, his large hand sliding around your waist effortlessly, his fingers nearly touching in front as he held you close to his towering frame.

Jake gave a nervous chuckle. “It was just a joke—she’s tiny. It’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah, we didn’t mean anything by it,” Sunoo offered quickly.

“She’s just small, and you’re… well, you know…” Jay trailed off, trying to smile.

Niki didn’t look at them. His voice was low, cool. “You guys are pathetic.”

Then, without another glance at the others, he guided you away—back into the safety of his room, shutting the door behind you with a thud that seemed to mark the end of the conversation.

You sat at the edge of the bed, quiet. His shirt swallowed you even more when you hunched your shoulders. You picked at the hem, lost in your thoughts. Were they right? Did he secretly wish you were different? Softer, curvier—less… fragile?

“Kii,” you whispered, your voice barely there.

He stood at the door, back straight, eyes unreadable.

“Hm?”

You hesitated, then breathed out your doubt like it stung. “Do you think… I should change?”

He blinked, confused at first. Then—his expression tightened. “Are you serious?” he asked, crossing the room in three long strides. You didn’t answer, but the way your eyes shimmered said enough. Your lips trembled. You looked breakable—and it made his chest twist in frustration.

He knelt in front of you, gently pulling your small hands into his much larger ones. He pressed soft kisses to your knuckles, each one slow and steady. Then, looking up, he said, “You’re my girl. My beautiful girl. You don’t have to change for anyone—not even me. I love you.”

Your breath hitched. Niki stood and eased you into the bed like you weighed nothing. You clung to the warmth of his words, wanting to sink into them completely.

He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “I have no problem showing you what I see when I look at you." Your heart stuttered. How could he say things like that? So easily, so surely?

Your hands reached up to him, brushing his hair back. “Show me,” you whispered against his lips, barely audible. “Please.”

His lips captured yours in a kiss as gentle as it was grounding. His hands traveled your body—slow, firm, claiming. His knee slipped between your thighs, spreading them apart like it was second nature. His mouth trailed from your lips to your neck, marking you softly but deliberately.

The shirt came off. Your shorts followed. Left in nothing but a lace set that looked like it belonged on a doll, your arms instinctively came up to shield yourself.

Niki’s hands slid over yours, pulling them away. “No, baby,” he murmured, eyes dark and soft. “Let me see my girl.”

You dropped your arms, heart pounding. His eyes roamed your body like you were art, a reverence in his gaze that made you want to cry. “So fucking pretty,” he breathed, cheeks tinted pink.

He sat you up, unclasping your bra with ease and tossing it aside. His palms covered your breasts, so much larger than you they completely hid you from view. You whimpered at the contact, already sensitive.

He grinned, leaning in to close his lips around a nipple, licking and sucking as his free hand squeezed the other. Your breath hitched and your hand curled into his hair, tugging gently. He pulled back with a pop, staring at the glisten he left behind.

He gathered you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly and settling you in his lap. His hands held your tiny frame like you were precious—and his to worship.

His hands explored your body with a reverence that made your breath catch in your throat. There was no hesitation in his touch—no flicker of doubt, no holding back.

His hands roamed the dips and bones of your form like they were familiar territory, but still sacred. With every graze, every stroke of his fingertips, he was learning you again—reminding you that he saw beauty in every line and angle.

His body eclipsed yours completely, long limbs bracketing you on either side as he hovered above, and when he settled down, pressing his chest against yours, it was like being wrapped in a weighted blanket of warmth and muscle and protection.

Niki’s lips moved to your collarbone, mouthing the fragile ridges he found there. “So delicate,” he whispered between kisses, voice thick with something between awe and frustration. “I don’t understand how anyone could say anything about this body except how perfect it is.”

You whimpered as his tongue flicked out to taste your skin, hot and wet against the sensitive spots only he seemed to know. His hands slid down your sides, fingers curling around your tiny waist, spanning it like it was nothing in his grasp. He could probably lift you with one arm if he wanted to—and the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

“I can hold all of you like this,” he murmured, voice gravelly against your ear, his breath hot. “You’re so small I could keep you in my lap forever. Would you like that, baby?”

You nodded, unable to speak, your face buried in his shoulder as your hands clung to the fabric still stretched over his broad back. He sat up with you easily, guiding you to straddle his thighs as he rested back against the headboard. Your knees barely reached the edge of the bed beside him. His hands cradled your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles into your skin, soothing and possessive.

The lace underwear remained, the last barrier between you and him. He looked down at you, at your exposed chest, at the curve of your ribs, the way your bones created gentle shadows beneath your skin. “You’re art,” he said quietly, running a hand up your spine until you arched into him like instinct. “Not everyone can see it, but I do.”

Then, he leaned in, and his lips wrapped around the other breast, tongue swirling slow circles around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You gasped, hips jerking forward into his abdomen. You were so sensitive—so reactive—and he loved every second of it.

You let your head fall back, lips parted, breath coming out in soft, needy gasps. He pulled away only to trail his mouth down your torso, kissing down your ribs, each press of his lips purposeful. He made sure not to skip a single inch of you.

When he reached the waistband of your panties, he looked at you—eyes dark but soft, searching your expression. “Can I?” he asked, his fingers already hooked gently into the lace.

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. “Please…”

He slid them down slowly, savoring the moment like he was unwrapping something fragile and rare. His eyes stayed on you the whole time, making you feel more seen than you ever had in your life. When the last scrap of fabric was gone, he leaned back to take you in fully.

“Fuck…” he exhaled, hand ghosting over your hipbone. “You’re unreal. I didn’t know something this beautiful could fit in my hands.”

His fingers curled deep inside you, slow and deliberate, each stroke drawing a louder moan from your lips. You were soaked—your body clinging to him so tightly, slick and warm, trembling in his lap. Niki groaned low, watching your thighs twitch around his hand.

“You’re fucking soaked, baby,” he breathed, fingers working deeper, his palm grinding against your clit just right. “And all of it’s for me. Just me.”

You were barely holding on, jaw slack, head tilted back. You weren’t hiding the sounds anymore—couldn’t if you tried. Each thrust of his fingers pulled raw, high-pitched moans from your throat, and it only seemed to make him more possessive.

“You’re such a loud little thing now, huh?” he muttered, his tone dark with pride. “What happened to my shy girl?”

You whimpered, hips jerking into his hand, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

His fingers slid from your core, slick and glistening, and he watched the way your thighs trembled, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them clean slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re so sweet,” he murmured, voice husky. “I could taste you for hours.”

Heat bloomed across your chest, but before you could respond, he gently cupped your waist and guided you to shift. There was no urgency, just warmth and care in his touch as he helped you climb into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. You were trembling, both from what you’d already felt and what you knew was coming.

“You okay?” he asked, hands resting soft and sure on your hips, thumbs brushing circles into your skin.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, your tiny frame looking even smaller straddling his tall, broad figure. “Yeah… I just…”

His hands moved to cradle your face, tilting it up so you’d look at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be anything else. I love you just like this.”

Your throat tightened, and before you could say anything, he leaned in and kissed you—slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I want you to take me, just like this,” he whispered. “I want to feel you.”

You bit your lip and reached between you, fingers trembling as you guided him to your entrance. He hissed softly when he felt your heat, his hands never leaving your waist.

And then, slowly—gently—you sank down onto him.

Your mouth parted in a breathy moan as he stretched you open inch by inch. You could feel every part of him, thick and warm and deep inside you. You clung to his shoulders, head falling against his as you tried to catch your breath.

“Shh,” he whispered, hands sliding up your back. “You’re doing so good, baby. You feel like heaven.”

You whimpered softly, voice catching. “It’s so much…”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “But you’re perfect. You’re taking me so well. Just go slow.”

You moved slowly on his lap, hips rolling as you took him deeper with each breath. Niki’s hands never stopped moving—tracing your spine, your waist, brushing over the soft skin of your thighs like he was memorizing every inch of you. His thumbs caressed the dips of your hips like they were his favorite place on earth.

You rested your forehead against his, your small frame trembling with the effort, and he wrapped his arms around you tighter—supporting your weight as you moved.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured, voice thick with awe. “Just let me feel you. Let me love you.”

He took over the rhythm, fucking up into you gently while holding you against him. Every roll of his hips was smooth and unhurried, dragging a soft moan from your throat. The way he filled you—so completely—made you ache in the sweetest way.

Niki’s lips found your neck, pressing kisses there as your hands threaded into his hair. His tongue traced along your pulse point, then lower—his mouth open, warm, leaving soft marks along your collarbone.

Your legs tightened around him, trying to pull him closer even though there was no space left between your bodies. You buried your face in his neck, your gasps louder now—needy and open, every sound echoing off the walls.

And he wanted them to echo.

“Let them hear,” he said, voice rough with desire. “Let them know how good I take care of you. How good you feel when you’re mine.”

He kissed you again, slow and deep, swallowing your moans as he kept moving. His hands slid up your back, curling around your ribs, his fingertips reverent as they explored the curves of your small body. You were everything to him—he couldn’t stop telling you, couldn’t stop showing you.

You gasped as he shifted slightly, the angle hitting that spot inside you just right, your nails digging gently into his skin. His hands came up to cradle your face again, kissing you through every sound you made, soaking up every part of you like he couldn’t get enough.

You felt the pleasure build slowly, beautifully, your body growing tighter around him as your movements grew sloppier, more desperate.

“I’m close,” you whispered, breathless.

“I know, baby. I feel it—let go for me.”

With one deep thrust and a soft cry, you unraveled, clinging to him as your body pulsed around his. Niki held you close, whispering soft praises against your lips.

He chased his own release only after yours had quieted, thrusting up into you with slow, deep rolls, his mouth open against your shoulder.

“Inside you,” he whispered. “I want to finish inside you.”

You nodded, whispering his name, and seconds later he groaned low and deep, spilling into you with a trembling breath. He held you there, buried in your warmth, his body shaking gently from the intensity.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Your head stayed nestled in the curve of his neck, his arms cradling you with quiet reverence. The world outside the room faded—just the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

Gently, he lifted you in his arms and shifted onto the bed, still holding you close as he eased both of you under the blankets. He cleaned you up with careful, tender hands, kissing your thighs, your wrists, your chest—anywhere that had been marked by your love.

You lay against him, tucked into his side under the sheets, still wearing the hoodie he slipped over your head—his scent wrapped around you like the warmth of his arms. Your body was sore in the best ways, skin flushed, lips swollen, and yet your heart was heavier than you thought it would be.

He felt it—knew it, even before you said anything. His hand traced idle patterns on your thigh, fingers brushing over your skin with reverence.

“Talk to me,” he murmured into your hair. You hesitated, pressing your face into his chest. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this. Like… someone could want me like this. Like this body is enough.”

Niki leaned back just enough to look at you, his brows drawn, lips parted like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. One of his hands moved down, cupping your thigh, holding it in his palm like it was something delicate and sacred.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, low and steady. “You have no idea what it does to me—seeing you like this, knowing you are mine.”

He sat up, pulling you with him gently until you were straddling his lap again. This time it wasn’t frantic or rough—it was slow and quiet, his eyes burning into yours with nothing but awe.

“You’re perfect,” he said, fingers running over your waist, where his hands nearly wrapped around your entire frame. “Your hips… the way they fit in my hands—it drives me insane.”

He let his palms slide up, thumbs brushing over your ribs. “You don’t even realize what it does to me, do you? Every time I see you in my clothes—bare legs out, drowning in my shirt—it’s all I can think about.”

Your breath caught, his words soaking into your skin deeper than any touch.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers. “You’re not ‘too small.’ You’re mine. Every inch of you—from these soft thighs…” his hands squeezed them gently, “to this little waist…” he dragged his palms up your sides again, slower this time, making you shiver, “to these gorgeous tits—” his thumbs brushed over them through the hoodie, making your breath hitch.

“I love your body,” he said, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “I love how I can lift you, move you. How your whole body reacts when I touch you. And how you feel—wrapped around me, so tight and perfect…”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours. “I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

You stared at him, barely breathing, your heart clenching in your chest. He meant it. Every word.

“ki…” you whispered, voice breaking.

His lips touched your forehead. “You’re everything I want. Exactly as you are. I’ll keep showing you that until you believe it.”

And he did.

He kissed you again, soft and slow, and let his hands explore your body like he was memorizing it all over again—every dip, every bone, every shiver. His touches were gentler now but no less intense. Worshipful. Patient.

He didn’t need to prove anything—not anymore. You were already his. And he was going to make sure you never forgot how deeply he adored every inch of you.

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theconcinnitycompany · 4 months ago

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The Concinnity Newsletter – Board Management & DMC Updates

Subscribe to The Concinnity Newsletter for the latest updates on Board Management Software and Data Monitoring Committees (DMC). Get strategic insights, regulatory updates, and expert recommendations to enhance governance, compliance, and decision-making. Stay ahead—sign up today!

#clinical trial software #clinical trail oversights #Board management Software #DMC #Data Monitoring Committees

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wausaupilotreview · 5 months ago

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Wausau mulls naming park amenities after Pat Pekham, Waltraud Karkar

Two Wausau park amenities could soon bear the name of influential residents who city leaders say embody the spirit of the community.

#honoring Pat Peckam&039;s memory #honoring Waltraud Karkar&039;s memory #Pat Peckahm #River Edge Trail #Waltraud Karkar #Wausau Park and Recreation Committee

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novemberheart · 11 months ago

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{overview} You get attacked. Does your pack step up for you?

{warnings} violence, blood, mentions of sexual content (no sexual abuse), fem reader, cursing, poly141, pain, crying, angst, a/b/o dynamics

Chapter 10 <- Chapter 11 -> Chapter 12

It was Simon’s last day of physical therapy. If he passed this he would be cleared to get back out in the field. On his way, he dropped you off at another Omega Committee event. This one you were actually excited about. It was a hike through the forest at the far end of the base. Priya wasn't there and you wished you had the presence of mind to have asked her for her number. But luckily you ran into Anais.

“You smell like peaches and cream. Anyone ever told you that?” she asked. The sound of Johnny yelling “peaches” instantly ran through your mind.

“A few, yeah.” you smiled.

“Well that's what I'm going to call you, PC for short.” she giggled. You had been called worse. Anais was a chatter. You didn't really mind though.

“Can I ask you something- something personal,” she whispered, leaning even closer to you. Curiosity killed the cat.

“How does it work with all five of you? Do they take turns-” she whispered.

“Oh my god, Anais.” you couldn't help but chuckle, despite the flaming of your cheeks. To be honest you were wondering the same thing.

“That was too much! I'm so sorry. I was just curious and I thought we were friends”-

“Anais it's alright. If I knew I probably wouldn't mind sharing a bit of info.” You assured. She relaxed.

“So you haven't?”

“No,” you responded truthfully.

“Have you ever?” she trailed off. You hadn't. You never really had the chance. You weren't sure if your pack members would approve of you spilling this information everywhere. “I'll take that as a no.” she snickered. You gave her a playful side-eye.

“Don’t worry about it. Took me forever to lose mine too.” she signed.

“It has not been forever!” you gasped, swatting at her. She laughed loudly causing a few heads to turn. Neither of you really cared.

“Just don't get your hopes up. First times are always terrible,” she advised, bumping you with her arm.

“Thanks for the pep talk.” you huffed.

“Do you have a favorite pack member yet?” she asked suddenly. You quickly shook your head. You enjoyed them all- truthfully. “I think if I was in a pack I would have my favorites. Hopefully one would be my alpha, but you never know,” she smirked.

“Can I ask you something?” you began.

“Shoot.”

“Did it hurt when you were marked?” you questioned.

“The first time, yes. I was in a long-term relationship with an alpha who wasn't entirely nice.”

“I'm sorry Anais.”

She quickly waved you off. “Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago. The second time, not as much. He did it during my heat and it only hurt for a day when I came out of it.” she explained.

“You’re strong Anais.” you said. She flashed you a smile.

“We’re omegas, PC. We have to be.”

The hike back was partly uphill, which was nobody's favorite.

“It was so beautiful when we left. When did it get so bloody hot out?” you panted.

“Look. The heat turns you English.” Anais chuckled through her own pants. You may have picked up a few phrases from the boys.

“Alright, everyone, take five!” One of the group leaders shouted. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. You had made it to the edge of the base, still a little under half a mile to get back.

“I’m going to go refill my water. You need some?” you asked. Anais flopped down on the grass, her arms blocking her face from the sun.

“No thank you.” she groaned, rolling onto her stomach. You made your way up to the front, intending to tell one of the leaders you were going to go get some water. You huffed as the same five omegas were consuming all their attention. “Whatever.” you sighed. You knew where it was, you had filled your water bottle up with Kyle a few days ago when he took you bird watching. Besides, Anais knew where you were.

You made your way quickly towards the buildings, going between them to the other side where the water fountain was.

“My thumbs gonna fall off,” you grumbled. You had to press and hold the button down hard. Kyle made it look easy. Your ears perked up at the sound of footsteps. Your head darted around not seeing anything. You figured you didn't need water that bad and began walking back.

You were abruptly thrown to the ground. Your shorts offered absolutely no protection against the rough gravel. The whole left side of your body slid against the ground, the force of the shove sending you a few feet. There was a low growl behind you and you acted purely on instinct. You felt a hand on your ankle pulling you back. You flipped yourself around, swinging your arm luckily catching a man's face with your claws. He howled, throwing himself away from you. You quickly shuffled backward trying to find your footing.

“Shit, that's 141.” the other man with him cursed. He grabbed the bleeding man pulling him away. Even though they were leaving, you knew you weren't safe. You were finally able to get your footing and began running around the corner, almost knocking Anais down in the process.

“What the fuck!” she shrieked. You were beginning to bleed at this point. It started dripping down your left leg, and right knee. It was starting to show through your shirt on your left side, your elbow, both your hands, and your chin. “It's okay, lovie.” she soothed. You were trying your hardest to keep it together, not wanting to create a scene, however, the pain and fear were making it very difficult.

“I can't go back to the group like this,” you whined. People will think you’re crazy.

“Don't worry. This wasn't your fault. Everyone will understand.” she soothed, gently pulling you along. You held your ground shaking your head. “PC you're bleeding a lot. You need help.” she insisted.

“I want my pack.” you whimpered. You pressed the backside of your hand against your mouth, your throat constricting.

“If you come with me you can get to them.” she urged. It was the push you needed. Luckily you didn't get very far before a group leader noticed and raced towards you.

“What happened?” he questioned. You ignored him, not really in the mood to talk to strange men, and pulled your backpack forward grabbing your phone out of the front pocket. You were lucky it hadn't shattered in the ordeal.

“Someone attacked her.” Anais growled, annoyed that he couldn't use the context clues.

“Hello?” Johnny had picked up after one ring. Hearing his voice made it impossible to hold back any tears. You sobbed into the phone. You heard him repeat your name on the other end, it growing louder and louder every time it left his lips.

“I need you, please. I'm not really sure where I’m at.”

“It's alright, Bon. I have your location pulled up on my phone, I'm near there. Just don't hang up,” he assured. Your chip. You breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the side of the building.

“I think you should head back to the group.” The group leader directed towards Anais.

“No way,” she growled. “I’m not leaving her”

“Thank you.” you mouthed.

“Of course,” she whispered back. She leaned against the building with you. The rest of the group was still there, the other group leaders trying to prevent them from getting any closer. You didn't need to worry about that, as Johnny quickly rounded the corner, gravel flying under his feet. His mouth fell open at the state of you. His arms extended out and you quickly threw yourself at him, neither of you caring about any blood, sweat, or tears.

“I got you, baby,” he whispered, causing you to lose it again.

“I want to go home.” you whimpered, against his shoulder. Your legs were wrapped firmly around his waist, his arms squeezing you so hard you might have even more bruises.

“Alright.” he soothed. He nodded his head to the group leader and Anais.

“I'll come and visit you in a few days,” Anais called after you.

“Thank you.” you sputtered back. He didn't say a word but pressed his lips against the side of your head every few feet. He stopped setting you down causing you to sob louder. He peeled off his jacket quickly. Carefully dabbing your legs, where the most blood was coming out. He didn't want you to leave a trail of blood everywhere.

He went a back way, not wanting everyone to see his bloodied-up omega. Johnny carried you like you were a feather, weaving through buildings like it was just another day. Well to him it probably was.

Luckily too many people weren't hanging out around your home, the few that did were ignored or met with a snarl. You whimpered at the sound, all your senses on overdrive. You could tell how upset Johnny was, even though you couldn't smell him. He was shaking, growls escaping him nearly every moment. “Almost there.” he soothed. He made it out of the elevator, slamming his key card against the sensor and throwing open the door.

He set you down on the kitchen counter, making no move to pull away from you. He needed to calm you down first.

“S’alright,” he repeated against your head. “I need you to relax for me, lass. Gonna get you all taken care of, aye?” he shut his eyes tightly, resting his body against yours. Your hands dug into his shirt, and you growled at the inability to smell him. “I know what’ll help.” he soothed. He pulled away causing you to whine, and he darted into John's room grabbing a shirt out of his dresser. He brought it back, holding it up towards your face. You were about to bury your face in it but stopped.

“I don't want to get it bloody.” you sobbed.

“He won't mind, bon. Plus we know how to get blood stains out.”

You didn't need to be told twice, you buried your face into the fabric, nuzzling up to Johnny again. After a few moments, your breathing returned to normal and the tears fell quietly. You were quivering now, the pain making up for the loss of adrenaline. “Gonna tell the rest, okay?” he asked, causing you to nod.

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket.

-come home asap. Omega emergency

He tossed the phone on the counter, pulling away from you, sitting down in one of the stools so he was almost face-to-face with you.

“Need you to tell me what happened,” he demanded softly. He kept his jacket pressed against your legs and used a sleeve to stop the bleeding of your elbow.

“I went to get water,” you whispered. Your eyes burned, now dry. “I heard someone walking so I started to leave then all of a sudden someone pushed me to the ground.” his face twitched, his jaw clenching so hard you worried for his teeth. “He grabbed my ankle and started pulling me back, but I turned around and scratched him across his face. One of them said something about 141 and then they ran away,” you explained.

“That’s good. Did exactly what you should've. This happen by the water fountain?” he asked.

“Mhhh,” you confirmed, wondering what he was getting at. The door swung open.

“Holy shit,” Kyle hissed, eyeing you up and down. He was a bit out of breath and you wondered if he ran all the way here like Johnny had. “Let me see.” he insisted, nearly pushing Johnny out of the way. He peeled away the sweatshirt and pulled John's shirt out of your hands.

“Some bastards shoved her.” Johnny snarled.

“By where you took me to see the birds,” you spoke up.

“They've got cameras.” Kyle said exactly what Johnny was thinking. “Should get it pulled up for when the alphas come.” As if on cue the door slammed open again.

“Where is sh”- John cut himself off. “Let me see.” he demanded, pushing Kyle out of the way. If you weren't in pain you would've laughed.

“Someone pushed me, Johnny’s trying to find it on the cameras.” you caught him up to speed. Simon moved towards Johnny glaring over his shoulder at the device. “It was my fault,” you whispered to John. Everyone's head snapped to you. John had your face in his hands, looking over your chin. “I went away from the group to get some water. I should've stayed with the”-

“You don't get to take credit for this.” John sneered. “I don't care where the hell you are, who you are around, this should never happen to you. Understand?” he ordered.

“Yes, Alpha,” you responded quickly.

“Don't make it a habit though,” Kyle spoke, hovering back over by you and John.

“Got it,” Johnny said. John left you but Kyle stayed.

“I'm gonna take a few pictures of you, love. Gotta keep the evidence,” he explained.

“Okay,” you replied softly. Your eyes trained on the three men watching the video. Johnny's face curled again, gripping his phone so tight his knuckles were white. Simon and John appeared to be fairly level-headed, trying to pick up on every detail.

“Record it before someone deletes it,” John instructed. John came back to you, pressing his lips against your forehead. “I’m going to go take care of a few things. Me and Simon’ll be back soon,” he spoke through gritted teeth, taking an inhale of your scent to prevent himself from shaking. He pulled away, Simon following behind him like a dog. “Send me the pictures after.”

“You did good, pup.” Simon praised, heading out the door with John.

Hi friends! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Chapter 12 will be up in two days! See you then! 🧡

#novemberheart #captain john price #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #kyle gaz garrick #poly141 #price x reader #simon ghost riley #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #captain john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #as needed #cod men #cod x fem!reader #cod x reader #cod x you

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liliapleasesteponme · 2 months ago

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Two queens in a cage of gold

agatha all along week, BONUS day 8, politics au / song lyric

politicians agatha + lilia x new politician!reader

Summary - in the political world, lilia and agatha as a duo are unmatched, they can either make you or break you, and you have to get on the right side

Warnings - politician AU, luxury power couple, seduction, reader as rival, powerplay, teasing, manipulation, smut, reader gets devoured (emotionally + sexually), inspired by Marina's Venus Fly Trap

Taglist - @mgruiz @multixfan @angeliccss @renyfisher @ilovepattilupone @tinnisamy @thegoddamnfeels @p2pecleanerwitheyes @sapphic-girlss @womankissersworld @delusionalforolderwomen @lilia-calderus-pet-goat @bravewithacapitalb @live-laugh-love-lupone @lotus-ignis @lemz378 @emilynissangtr @yxxndry @agathaallalongweek

They don’t make room for you.

You’re ushered into the charity gala like an afterthought, handed a glass of champagne and a donor list that’s already been picked over by bigger names. You’re new, still glittering with the shine of your first election win. A victory snatched by surprise and sheer charisma. They all underestimated you. You get the sense that these two women still do.

Agatha Harkness: Majority Leader, snake in diamonds.

Lilia Calderu: Head of Education Reform, soft-voiced and steel-spined.

Together, they’re the power couple of Capitol Hill gossip. Enemies in public. Something else in private.

You can feel them watching you from across the room.

You’re a threat. Not because you’re the most qualified—but because you’re young, ambitious, and unapologetically loud. Because you don’t play nice.

You catch Lilia’s eyes first. She smiles politely, as if she’s unaware of the way she’s sizing you up.

Then there’s Agatha. She doesn’t smile at all.

They don’t invite you to sit. You invite yourself.

Slide into their booth at the afterparty. Lace your fingers around the base of your glass. Let silence hang a moment too long.

"You two always this territorial," you say, "or is it just when someone younger comes into the room?"

Agatha lifts an eyebrow. “Are you calling us old, darling?”

“I’m calling you obvious.”

Lilia presses her lips together, fighting a smile. “You're either brave or foolish.”

“Can’t it be both?”

It becomes a game.

Meetings where Lilia brushes your hand under the table. Press events where Agatha cuts your speeches down—but can’t seem to stop glancing at your mouth.

One late night, all three of you stay after a committee vote. Thunder outside. The empty rotunda echoing with the sound of your heels.

They corner you by the railing. Lilia speaks first.

“People are starting to talk.”

“They always talk,” you murmur. “Let them.”

Agatha’s fingers skim your chin. She tips your face up.

“You play dirty, don’t you?”

Your voice is steady. “Only when I want to win.”

Lilia steps behind you. Agatha doesn’t move. You’re caged between two women who could ruin you—or make you untouchable.

“Then win us,” Lilia says quietly. “If you dare.”

You don’t move—not when Lilia presses closer, not when Agatha hooks a finger into the lapel of your blazer like she owns it.

The silence stretches. Heavy. Electric.

“I thought politicians were supposed to keep their hands to themselves,” you murmur, eyes flicking between them.

Agatha tilts her head. “That only applies when it’s not mutual.”

Lilia’s breath brushes your neck. “And you want this. Don’t you?”

You do. God, you do—but you’ve worked too hard to crumble easily.

“I want to know what happens when I take power back,” you whisper.

That makes Agatha smile. A sharp, dangerous smile. “Then you’re in the wrong company, sweetheart. We don’t give power. We take it.”

Her hand skims down your chest, deliberate but slow—like she’s testing how far you’ll let her go before cracking. Behind you, Lilia trails her nails along your arm, ghost-light. Her touch is gentler, but no less firm. A balance to Agatha’s bite.

“We could eat you alive,” Agatha murmurs.

Lilia hums. “But we’d rather savor you.”

You could leave. You should leave. But you stay rooted in place, heart hammering, your body buzzing with the thrill of being devoured slowly.

“Tell me what you want,” Agatha purrs. “Or we’ll decide for you.”

You lick your lips. “I want both of you. I want to win.”

Lilia steps in front of you again, the warm weight of her body brushing yours. “Then prove it,” she says. “Starting tonight.”

You don’t remember how the three of you made it to Agatha’s penthouse suite.

Only that it happened in a blur—elevator buttons, impatient hands, your spine pressing to glass as Lilia kissed you like it was a dare. Agatha’s voice was the sharp edge whispering filth in your ear. You hadn’t even taken off your coat before she told you to kneel.

Now, you’re on your back. Lilia straddles your hips in that expensive dress she didn’t bother to remove—just hitched it up, letting the silky fabric bunch at her waist. Her thighs squeeze around you, grounding you. She looks radiant, panting, lipstick smudged as she rolls her hips slowly, torturously, against the friction between you.

Above, Agatha leans over the bed, one hand tangled in your hair as she kisses you with tongue and teeth—like she’s trying to steal your breath and keep it for herself.

“Look at you,” Agatha rasps, pulling back just enough to drink you in. “Laying here like a gift. Like you were made to be shared.”

You moan as Lilia grinds down harder, finding a rhythm—deliberate, practiced, coaxing more and more sounds from you. Her voice is softer than Agatha’s, but it strikes just as deep.

“You love being between us,” Lilia murmurs. “Don’t you? One of us in your mouth, the other in your head. So full of us you can’t think.”

You nod. You’d beg if they asked. You’d worship them with hands and tongue and mouth until your throat was raw.

But you don’t have to. Agatha pushes two fingers into your mouth instead, pressing to your tongue as you moan around them.

“Sweet little politician,” she purrs. “Do you want to be our good girl now? Or should we make you work for it?”

“I—” You try to speak, but she presses down harder, commanding silence.

Lilia’s movements quicken. Her eyes flutter closed as she ruts against you. “Agatha,” she gasps, “they’re close—fuck—”

Agatha chuckles darkly and leans in again, nipping your lip before whispering:

“Come for us. Make a mess. And then you’re going to repay the favor.”

And you do—falling apart between them, your body arching, legs trembling, a cry breaking free from your chest that makes Agatha smirk and Lilia shiver.

But they don’t let you rest. Not long.

Because before your pulse has even calmed, Agatha is pulling you to your knees, thumb beneath your chin, voice syrupy-sweet and lethal.

“On your knees, baby,” she murmurs. “Time to show us just how much you meant that power play.”

Lilia’s already on the edge of the bed now, legs parted, one heel still dangling. Her flushed chest rises and falls fast, her eyes heavy-lidded as she pats her thigh.

“Come here,” she purrs. “Be a good little thing and worship.”

And with Agatha behind you, one hand stroking your back, and Lilia before you, slick and gasping, you finally understand:

You didn’t win tonight.

You surrendered.

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