#and kept the streak color from that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

niceutossu · 2 months ago

Text

Observant | Sakusa x Reader

Of course you charmed Hinata first, always matching his energetic and early morning greetings. Although the wing spiker was also easy to impress and even easier to like so it wasn’t too surprising.

Similarly, Sakusa wasn’t that shocked when Bokuto became putty in your hands. He always perked up like a little flower whenever you’d shower him with praise, your tone sincere but words firm; never going as far as to baby him but helping him get back up when he dramatically fell down.

Atsumu did take a bit longer than he had anticipated to come around. At first, he was acting like a high schooler with a crush, avoiding you at all costs until you offhandley mentioned having lived abroad. Afterwards, he easily became the most smitten.

Despite all your newfound connections, you had kept your distance from Sakusa, which he preferred and appreciated. During the brief moments you two did interact you always kept it professional, offering a polite greeting followed up by helpful advice. There was no pressure to become fast friends and you were already really good at your job, having been handpicked by Iwaizumi himself.

While he did come to silently admire your professionalism, and Iwaizumi-seal-of-approval, he found your ability to seamlessly switch gears between him and his teammates to be a bit…off-putting.

How was it that you could get along with him and Atsumu? It was unprecedented and you also were the newest addition to the team, so he couldn’t help himself from questioning your true intentions.

“Hinata-san is always so lively, huh?”

Sakusa paused upon hearing your voice, not wanting to intrude on you and Iwaizumi’s private conversation about his teammate. While he’d normally be one to mind his business, he couldn’t help but stand still for a moment to find out what you really thought behind the scenes.

“I guess you could say that.” Iwaizumi responded, having known the ginger longer than he had worked with him.

Sakusa slightly frowned at his tone, assuming you had broken your professional streak and were engaging in petty gossip. Of course you had been faking all those cheerful greetings, just as he had-

“Well, I like it.” Your clear voice interrupted his thoughts, tone firm as if challenging Iwaizumi’s previous comment and his own negative thoughts.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, feeling a brief sense of relief wash over him before he felt shame slowly replace it. What the hell was he doing eavesdropping and why did he feel guilty? It’s not like being a people person absolved you of anything, you were bound to show your true colors sooner or later.

Weeks later during your first ever team meeting, and Sakusa’s umpteenth, you catch him off guard yet again as their power-hungry assistant coach goes to make the same tired comment about Bokuto’s inconsistency.

“You’re just not very reliable during high-pressure moments.”

Glancing over to look at his teammate, he could already see his two-toned hair begin to droop when suddenly your hand shot up and all eyes turned to look at you.

Your expression was calm but your eyes were glazed over with purpose, so unafraid it almost seemed like this was your umpteenth meeting.

“Bokuto-san has always been someone who performs best when he’s supported. I’ve seen firsthand how well he steps up under pressure when he’s in the right headspace, and that’s something we can easily help him with.” You speak up, voice firm but polite.

Glancing over at his teammate again he can see the tip of his hair now standing tall, his amber eyes filling with overdramatic tears as he tried to start bounding towards you, barely held back by Atsumu and Hinata who knew better than to disturb a team meeting.

The tension in the room, despite Bokuto’s incessant wailing, was thick. Even though you were both assistants, you were younger which meant the assistant coach was technically your senior, and he had taken your comment as direct disrespect. Thankfully, Iwaizumi came to the rescue, not only agreeing with your point but adding a few of his own to de-escalate the situation.

Afterwards, Sakusa couldn’t help but keep glancing over at you during the rest of the meeting. The smallest part of him even hoping to catch your eye which surprises him.

Why would he ever want such a thing?

It’s their first big home game and nothing is going right for Atsumu. Sakusa can tell by the sloppy passes and frustrated grunts during rotations. Everyone was bound to have an off-game, it was human nature. Except Atsumu was anything but human— or at least he pretended to be.

Bokuto’s ‘don’t minds’ and Hinata’s ‘next times’ fell upon deaf ears as the setter finally began to crack. Before he could blow up on court the whistle was blown and a timeout was called.

The blond angrily made his way to the bench, brushing off his teammates encouragement as he sat down with his eyes locked onto the floor. He put his hands on his knees as he breathed heavily, clearly lost in thought over his minor but costly mistakes.

Even though the setter was a pain in Sakusa’s ass, he would never deny his skill when it came to the sport. He was annoyingly prideful but he had every right to be when it came to his precision and control during games. Any time he couldn’t show off these assets, his meltdowns were inevitable.

As such, Sakusa simply swipes the sweat from his brow while glancing over at his aggravated teammate from the sidelines. He knows it’s better to leave him alone to collect himself.

Just as he thinks this, there, from the corner of his eye, he sees you walking over to them. You stand right in front of Atsumu and he can tell the whole team is holding their breath as they wait for you to say something.

Over-the-top encouragement was a guaranteed way to piss Atsumu off, and also the go-to for inexperienced trainers. Sakusa can’t help but feel a little bad for you when the blond finally glances up at you, his eyebrows knit tightly and mouth parted as if ready to tell you off.

Before he can say anything though, you kneel down slightly to meet him at eye level, voice steady but soft enough for only him to hear as you speak. From his spot on the court, Sakusa couldn’t hear what you were saying but he does notice something strange: Atsumu is actually listening to you.

A few moments pass and you stand back up, offering him a small nod before going to stand at the sidelines. The setter isn’t staring at the ground anymore and the previous frown on his face has eased up. Whatever it is you had said, it had clearly resonated with him.

A few points later, Atsumu delivers a perfect set to Hinata who spikes the ball and wins them the rally. Afterwards, the blond turns back to look at you in the sidelines, flashing you a smile Sakusa had never seen before.

It’s not the annoying grin he puts on for fans or the one he’s practiced for pictures, but something more real and subdued: a genuine token of appreciation.

When Sakusa catches the exchange he feels stupid. Really stupid. You were authentic and true and he was a pessimistic asshole. At least, that’s what it felt like the universe was telling him as the rest of the match goes smoothly. Never once during it do you bring any more attention to yourself, despite having been the one to break through to their setter.

Later, during their time in the locker room and after having won, Sakusa overhears Bokuto ask Atsumu what you had said to him. Normally, Sakusa would be in and out, repulsed by the environment and wanting to avoid these sort of post-match conversations all together. This time though he stayed put, taking his time to pack his things.

Why did he even care?

“Nothin’ that hasn’t been said before.” Atsumu responded simply, and Sakusa can’t rationalize why he feels a pang of disappointment when everyone but him seems to know what that means.

He knows you had probably gotten closer to his other teammates, while he himself could count the amount of times you had spoken to him on one hand. But were you really that much closer to everyone else but him?

After he had seen the moment shared between you and Atsumu, he had silently accepted defeat. There was no need to question your intentions or gauge for your reactions anymore. He decided then and there that he could finally let it go. You weren’t like any of the trainers before, you were better in every way and then some.

But now, knowing that he had missed out on whatever magic you seemed to carry, he felt more on edge than he had waiting for you to fail.

He stuffs the rest of the things in his bag unceremoniously, clicking his tongue in annoyance and unintentionally gaining the attention of Hinata who gives him a curious look.

“You’re not really that close to Iwaizumi jr. are you, Sakusa?” The ginger asked, simply making a harmless observation but landing a critical blow on whatever remained of his fellow spiker’s composure. Honestly, Sakusa should’ve told him to stop calling you that ridiculous nickname but instead, all he could muster was a head shake ‘no’ before leaving.

The next few days during practice, Sakusa still can’t keep his eyes off you. Now without any judgement to cloud his mind, he’s started noticing things he hadn’t before.

Like how your hair always seemed shine when you would stand by Iwaizumi during morning meetings. Or how you smelled when you walked by, clean but never overpowering.

He feels like a creep for being able to pick up on it but he manages to convince himself he’s still merely observing, making sure you’re doing well for the good of the team.

Over time he discovers that if he gets you to meet his gaze you’ll tense up when your eyes meet his own, with you quickly feigning ignorance afterwards as you look anywhere but him.

Your subtle antics were starting to become a bit too endearing for his peace of mind. And before he knew it, getting you to meet his gaze became like a game of sorts. He felt a little mean at times but nothing excited him more than to see someone who was usually so composed, become so flustered.

You weren’t a serious person per say, he had overheard you cracking jokes even he found himself nose exhaling at. But you also weren’t so easily swayed. Hinata’s friendliness and Bokuto’s frequent touches usually went unnoticed by you. Even Atsumu’s blatant flirting left you unfazed (despite some of the lines making even Sakusa’s stomach flutter…).

So why was a little eye contact making you so nervous? He knows he can be an intimidating guy but he also can’t help himself from letting his thoughts drift to more interesting possibilities.

What if he made you nervous for…different reasons?

That thought alone led to a week of sleepless nights. He remembers the whole ordeal well because he had terrible eye bags. Or at least terrible enough for you to leave energy packets near his water bottle, neatly boxed and sanitized to his liking.

Yet again you kept him thinking of you without even saying so much as a word to him.

How cruel.

After that incident, he finds all of his thoughts drifting back to you, with his eyes now unconsciously following suit. He felt a little ashamed at times, given that you were an innocent bystander who had gotten caught up in his uncharacteristically messy emotions. The two of you weren’t even friends.

You were a stranger, charming and capable yes— but still a stranger. He was only seeing you through a rose-colored lens, he rationalized, having heard nothing but high praises from his peers. You definitely had your own germs and quirks he’d find annoying, a deadly threat to his very way of life.

But if he was being honest with himself, truly honest, you had your own gravitational pull. A sort-of welcome weight that went directly against his usual sound logic and reason.

He only truly noticed it when he saw the way you lit up talking to anyone and everyone. That’s when he thinks he’s starting to get it, to get you. And the patience and passion you have for the sport that rivaled his own.

The one he could see it in the hours you put in and the minute details you remembered, things that made you stronger and infinitely better than anyone before you.

Your quick wit was also a nice touch but these were things he didn’t even get to experience, merely yearn for from the sidelines for almost a year before he feels himself finally begin to give into your weight.

The old rickety dwellings of his heart creak at the thought of making room for another person. Especially after having spent his entire life trying to put space between him and the entire world.

Relationships with his teammates were a given, an unwritten rule in the countless contracts he had signed throughout his career. He could deal with people if it meant he got to play volleyball.

This, you, were different though. There was no need to pursue anything outside of daily niceties, simple hellos and goodbyes. You had given him the space to, the chance to live his life without another person’s germs to deal with.

But he didn’t want that, he hated that. He also hated that you had made the choice for him before getting to know him, even though you had only done so because you did get to know him through Iwaizumi. He feels stupid when he really thinks about it; how his feelings were just one big paradox.

If nothing was going to make sense, then there was no need to be logical. At least that’s what he decides when he catches himself searching for you during public events, never once actually spotting you among the crowds.

And it shouldn’t have been that surprising given your role, things he would have normally taken into account being such a rational guy. But all he can focus on for the rest of night is the disappointment he feels, and the heavy ache in his chest. It should’ve irritated him, should’ve made him push you further away but instead it left him wanting more.

Yes. He wanted more, even if it came at the cost of social interaction. If you were going to keep him up at night and occupy his thoughts 24/7, it was better to break his own rules than lose his mind thinking about you. And, if you were going to keep your distance, then maybe he’d to be the one to close the gap.

Whatever you were in the middle of writing down is suddenly forgotten when you feel his gaze on you again. It’s getting heavier each time, lingering longer, more insistent. It made it a bit difficult to focus on your work, especially when it was practically non-stop now.

Sakusa was an observer, that much was clear from the day you met him. He was a lot more laidback than the trio you had become well-acquainted with, preferring to stay back with Meian or Inunaki.

You never minded his gaze, noticing how his eyes closely followed anybody from his teammates to coaches. Except just like him you were also an observer, immediately picking up on his increased glances.

In the beginning it felt like he was judging you, gaze passive and discerning. There was no real interest behind it past cold calculation. Despite the heaviness, it was bearable then. You weren’t a stranger to doubts and Sakusa was just another person to prove wrong.

Except, his eyes on you feel different now: they’re searching, watching and impossible to ignore.

The first few times you had pretended not to notice despite the way his eyes burned into you, as if studying you. It made it harder to focus on the clipboard in front of you, your racing heart thrumming loudly in your ears. Why was he looking at you?

You kept telling yourself that you didn’t care, that you were imagining it, and that it didn’t matter either way.

But it did matter.

You had been trying so hard to convince yourself it didn’t, that Sakusa was just another player—albeit a more complicated one—and that whatever you were feeling were just misplaced nerves.

After all, you were surrounded by men like him all the time: strong, talented, and painfully good-looking. Bokuto’s infectious enthusiasm and Atsumu’s flirtatious antics didn’t make your pulse quicken. Even Hinata, with his boyish charm and relentless optimism, didn’t throw you off like this. So why Sakusa? What was it about him that had you so unsteady?

Perhaps it was the way he stood apart from the others, always watching from the sidelines, but never fully engaging unless he had to. He kept his cards close to his chest, making him difficult to understand and even harder to approach. His sharp jaw and dark eyes definitely didn’t help to ease your nerves either.

Honestly, it was a bit frustrating how much he was affecting you. Half the time you couldn’t even see his entire face but when you did, you’d always have to take your lunch then and there to collect yourself in the break room.

You had been so careful to respect his boundaries, so determined to keep things strictly professional, and yet here you were—practically stumbling under the weight of his gaze.

What made it even worse was the fact that he knew. He had to know, didn’t he? You weren’t that great at hiding it, despite your best efforts. It felt like every time he looked at you, he was waiting for you to slip up, to betray some part of yourself you’d rather keep hidden.

Despite this, you wanted him to acknowledge the tension that had been building between you for months now. Because at least if he said something, you’d know where you stood. You could finally stop playing eye tag, stop wondering what he thought of you, and stop second-guessing yourself every time his eyes lingered a little too long.

Except you doubted he’d ever comment on his effect on you and a part of you honestly preferred to live your life without him ever saying anything about it. Perhaps you were overthinking it, and there was a logical explanation waiting to be revealed.

Like your hair being messy or how he found what you thought was thoughtfulness to be overbearing. You were someone who usually prided themselves on their people skills but Sakusa had left you utterly perplexed. It was well-known he was a complicated person but this was way beyond your scope.

Normally, he would stare from afar but this time he was approaching towards you, and quickly. You turned your head to meet his obsidian eyes and flash him a friendly smile, doing your best to ignore the nauseating way your stomach flipped and heart squeezed.

What why what—

“Do you need something, Sakusa-san?” You ask, putting on a brave face despite your crumbling composure.

It wasn’t the first time you had said his name but it was the first time he noticed how sweet it sounded coming from you. It was like even your voice was attentive, carefully curling around the syllables of his name.

“Do you have a handkerchief I could borrow?”

You immediately freeze at his question, eyebrows almost knitting together in confusion before your expression turned neutral again, remnants of hesitation still evident in your eyes.

What the fuck.

From the first day you had met Sakusa, you had also learned another thing about him; he was a germaphobe on the extreme end of the spectrum. Iwaizumi had warned you to steer clear of his belongings and ‘let him come to you’.

You remember cracking a joke that he was kind of like a cat but Iwaizumi hadn’t laughed, or even smiled for that matter.

“Well, no, cause cats eventually warm up to you.”

You waved it off awkwardly before changing the topic, silently making a mental note of Sakusa’s habits. You didn’t mind having to accommodate to him or the fact you wouldn’t be able to get close to him period. This was your job after all, you’d respect any and every boundary of your new teammates.

So why, why was he standing right in front of you, close enough to where if either of you reached out your arms you’d touch, asking for something so…unclean. You blinked up at him, head still reeling at having been so caught off guard.

It was a well-known fact Sakusa would rather be caught dead than use anyone else’s, so he can’t even feel offended at your stunned reaction. If anything, he feels embarrassed that this is the only way he could think of getting closer to you.

You feel your spine tingle as his scent invades your senses. There was an expected cleanliness to it but behind that was a hint of sweat; salty but inviting like the sea. Normally you’d gag at the smell but the fact that it was Sakusa made it gratifying. You manage to hold yourself back from taking in a deeper breath and getting fired for sexual harassment.

You only realize you’ve failed to say anything for too long when he suddenly cleared his throat, now mortified from your earlier gaping. You let out a string of apologies, stumbling over your words as you hastily make way to the bench where you had set your things, looking over your shoulder to make sure he was following you.

Despite seeing you in this flustered state constantly, it never failed to make him feel excited. You never acted this way with other team members, never threw them such coy looks. But even if that was true, he was still himself.

Aside from the excitement of being around you, he was also nervous. Completely unsure of what he would do when he was forced to take what he asked for. Even though he was interested in you he was also not about to get over years of ingrained habits like it was nothing.

When you went to hand him the cloth, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly in surprise. You had his exact brand and style of handkerchief. He could have sworn you used a different brand, having seen you offer all his other teammates a checkered red and white one.

“I haven’t used it for anyone else or even myself yet, so,” you said, voice the least confident he had ever heard it. He knew you were well-acquainted with his germaphobic tendencies but thinking about how you had been holding onto something like this, for him, was almost too much to process.

He stared down at you, expression hardened as he remained unmoving. Your hand remained outstretched to offer him the cloth, still neatly pressed in the packaging. Had you been observing him as much as he had been observing you? If so, he had never noticed your keen eyes on him.

“This brand,” he started, unsure of what he wanted to say.

‘This brand…is my favorite?’ Stupid.

‘This brand…is the best.’ God what is he, Hinata?

‘This brand…isn’t what you normally use.’ Absolutely not.

“I saw you using one like it once and so I tried them out.” You stated, unknowingly saving him with your shy confession.

“What did you think?” He asked, refusing to let your first real conversation end despite the awkward pauses and stiff flow.

At his question there was a sudden beat of silence, your eyes scanning over his face with an unreadable expression. He felt his heart stutter in his chest at your gaze, wanting to run away and hide before you could find whatever you were looking for.

On your end, you were taking your time to admire his features up close. He was handsome, moisturized skin and matching lips. His eyebrows were well-maintained, and you felt your hand twitch at sight of duo moles above his right one; fingers longing to trace over each one individually.

If this was going to be one of your only conversations with Sakusa, and the closest you’d ever get to him, you wanted to savor it despite the tense atmosphere.

“You have a good eye.” You complimented, voice so sweet and honest it made him smile, a small one that he followed with an amused exhale.

At the rare sight you gave him your own unique expression, eyebrows knitting together with a pretty red tint blooming across your cheekbones. Your eyes were searching his own for some sort of explanation, as if you had read him wrong but when he let his smile fully reach his eyes your blush only grew deeper.

Sakusa wasn’t some sort of alien, he smiled when he felt like it just like anyone else, and between knowing you noticed him and having you compliment him, he just couldn’t help himself.

“Thanks, you have a good eye too.” He said, eyes twinkling with some sort of double-meaning that you didn’t quite pick up, evident in the way you cocked your head to the side.

Maybe you hadn’t noticed him the way in the same way he noticed you.

He waved his last statement off, opting instead to take the package from your hand, making sure your fingers touched despite your best efforts to avoid it. He felt himself tingle at the brief skin-to-skin contact, eyes meeting yours as if to say ‘that was on purpose’.

“I’ll be sure to return this.” He states in his usual cool tone as you remained in a bit of a daze, cheeks still slightly flushed with your mouth pulled into a tight line.

He had never seen you show any of the other guys such a vulnerable expression and he felt his chest swell with pride at the thought. The blush on your cheeks was fading faster by the second as you morphed back into the team’s pretty but above all, professional athletic trainer he had grown fond of.

“You can keep it, I bought it just for you.” You admitted, your voice once again brimming with newfound confidence as you bowed slightly.

Now it was Sakusa’s turn to be stunned. He had not expected you to be so honest. This brand was expensive and the store was out of the way. Had he really been worth the trouble?

The piercing sound of a loud whistle and squeaking of sneakers cut your exchange short. Without saying anything he met your eyes again with an intensity you finally understood the meaning of. At least enough to not look away this time, firmly holding his gaze despite the weak feeling in your knees and loud beating of your heart.

A few moments passed between the two of you, eyes locked onto one another’s in a silent confirmation of sorts, an unspoken I see you. After no more than a couple seconds he gave you a small thanks and wave goodbye. As he approached his teammates he felt himself wanting to look back at you, at your eyes more specifically. He always thought the way you looked away when he stared was a little amusing but having you finally hold his gaze knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Had he been looking at you that intensely? He pressed his lips together tightly as the image of your glossy eyes staring into his own flashed in his mind. Before he could think about it any further he remembered the brand new handkerchief in his hand, gripping it slightly before deciding to pocket it, having no real intention to use it then it there.

It had been a gift after all, and a thoughtful one at that. He’d have to save it for some special occasion, just like he’d also have to get you to look at him like that again.

#this one’s hefty #been in my notes app for a hot min lmk y’all #I lub u Sakusa :p #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x y/n #sakusa kiyoomi #hq sakusa #sakusa x reader #haikyuu sakusa #sakusa x you #sakusa fluff #haikyuu slowburn #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu headcanons #haikyu x reader #niceutossu

557 notes · View notes

yandere-writer-momo · 3 months ago

Text

1/2 10k follower special. I just wanted to treat all of you to a taste of what I may or may not continue.

Yandere Batman Shorts: Torn Between Two

Yandere Jason Todd x Fem Reader x Yandere Dick Grayson

TW: light yandere

Jason’s fingers ghosted over the scarred flesh of his face as a low sigh escaped his lips. Why wasn’t (your name) here today? She always swung by at five in the afternoon with a freshly made meal. Right before the sun began to blink its tired eyes and settle in the horizon for the night.

Yet it was now dusk. The pink and orange hues have long faded into violet blankets of color in the sky and the crickets began to create their serenades in the smoggy Gotham air.

Jason knew he often pushed her away, he just wished to keep her safe was all… he didn’t live a very safe or stable life. He was constantly in a deadly dance with danger. He never knew if she’d be swept up in the arms of his enemies and swallowed whole…

Yet his prickly mannerisms didn’t equate to him not caring for her. Jason did care! He just had never been taught how to show it. He’s never felt love all his life, how could he return the warm feelings she made bloom in his chest like the first flowers of spring?

Jason kept watch throughout the night, just in case she’d appear. He didn’t want to miss (your name) for the world…

He would give her two days. If she didn’t come before then, then he’d pursue her.

Dick felt his heart break as (your name) softly cried in his chest. His arms wrapped firmly around her as his fingers ran shapeless, yet soothing, patterns on her back.

“Shh. It’s okay…” He whispered in her ear as she shed a few more tears. Dick had no idea who this man was, but he wanted to beat the snot out of him.

Dick has had a crush on her for years and yet she began to crush on some delinquent? When he was right there?! It wasn’t fair!

(Your name) had been there for him through every failed romantic endeavor he ever had. She always picked him up and wiped away his tears with her thumbs. And somewhere along the way, he fell utterly, and hopelessly in love with her.

She was a perfect woman in his eyes. She was patient, kind, and filled with as much warmth as the first ray of sun in spring. Yet some random man in Gotham was making her cry like this? Unbelievable! How could anyone make her cry and live with themselves?! If he was the man who held her heart, he would cherish her and love her like the princess she was.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I didn’t mean to get your shirt all wet.” Dick didn’t care about the shirt, he would preserve it after this in his collection. He cared more about why she was crying and he wanted to know who made her cry.

“Don’t apologize for this. It barely fits me anyways.” He flexed his bicep which made (your name) explode in a fit of giggles. A big grin spread on his face from her reaction. There she was, there was his happy girl.

(Your name) covered her mouth to try to stop the giggles from their escape as he made his pecs dance for her. “Stop that, you’re so goofy.”

“But you’re smiling, aren’t you? You’re so much prettier when you smile.”

(Your name) rested her head on Dick’s chest as his heart thrummed like a snare drum. Her cheeks rosy from the small fit of laughter he had drawn out from her.

If only the desires of the heart were as simple as breathing… otherwise she would have yearned for a fairytale prince like Dick.

Yet she couldn’t help but be drawn like a moth to a flame to Jason’s story instead.

Jason’s jet black hair with the white streak in the front reminded her of a tuxedo cat at times. Yet he had the prickly mannerisms of a cantankerous stray… a true alley cat.

Jason Todd was a man with physical and mental scars that dug deep into his very soul, he had trauma (your name) could never hope to understand. He had a painful existence, and yet she wished to be a soothing balm to his constant torment.

(Your name) knew he was terrified of vulnerability. Yet she couldn’t help but desire to be the one to get him to open up. To take that violent stray into her warm arms and pepper his head with kisses.

Yet she needed to be patient… she needed to let him come to her this time. And she would give him that space. The final nudge to get him to enter solace for the first time in decades.

(Your name) smiled up at Dick who kissed the crown of her head. He was always so sweet… like a Labrador retriever.

While Jason was apprehensive yet forlorn, Dick was friendly and affectionate. (Your name) had no doubt that Dick would violently wag his tail if he had one. He was such a loving man… she often felt like an awful person whenever he’d comfort all her frustrations away.

“Thank you, Dick. I feel better.” She smiled warmly at her best friend.

(Your name) wasn’t aware that these two men were brothers nor did she know of the frayed and fragile bond they had.

Both Jason and Dick would now stop at nothing to have her to themselves. She was torn between the two in a dangerous game of tug-o-war.

565 notes · View notes

iamquiantrelle · 11 days ago

Text

BLOOD OATH (chapter 6) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

previous chapter | next chapter

The helicopter descended through wisps of early evening fog, revealing rolling hills of heather and forests that stretched toward distant mountains. The Scottish Highlands spread beneath you like something from another time—untouched, wild, and hauntingly beautiful. After the chaos of Geneva, the isolation felt like both sanctuary and vulnerability, depending on how you looked at it.

Lewis leaned closer to the window, his profile outlined against the glass as the estate came into view. Stone walls rose from the misty landscape—not the ostentatious mansion you might have expected, but something older, more grounded, with turrets and weathered stonework that spoke of centuries rather than decades.

"My mother's family has owned it since the 1700s," Lewis said, his voice carrying through the headset, softer than you'd ever heard it. "One of the few things I kept when I built my own world."

The revelation caught you off guard—a rare personal detail offered without prompting. In the week since you'd crossed that pillow barrier in Geneva, these moments had become more frequent, yet each still felt like discovering a new room in a house you thought you knew.

"It's beautiful," you replied, meaning it. After a life surrounded by your father's preference for modern glass fortresses and Italian marble, the ancient stone felt like something from a dream—or perhaps a memory you'd never actually had.

The helicopter touched down on a clearing about a hundred yards from the main house, the rotors slowing as the pilot completed landing procedures with practiced efficiency. Through the windows, you could see a figure emerge from the house, a woman in her seventies with an elegant bearing that somehow reminded you of your own mother, though they couldn't have been more different visually.

"She's been tracking the flight," Lewis murmured, unstrapping himself with swift movements. "She always knows when I'm coming, even when I don't tell her."

The helicopter door opened, cold Highland air rushing in to replace the stale cabin atmosphere. Lewis jumped down first, then reached back to help you—not because you needed it, but because he'd grown increasingly aware in these small moments. His hand remained at the small of your back as you approached the woman waiting for you, her silver-streaked dark hair blowing in the wind.

Up close, Lewis's mother was nothing like you expected, yet exactly what made sense. The resemblance to Lewis was striking—not in coloring but in the way she carried herself, the sharp assessment in her blue eyes that missed nothing. But where Lewis controlled his expressions with practiced discipline, his mother made no effort to hide her thoughts as they crossed her face.

"So this is the American wife," she said, her Scottish accent much stronger than you were prepared for. Her eyes moved over you with unabashed curiosity. "Prettier than your photo, and far too alert for someone who's just escaped a firefight and flown half the day. I'm Carmen."

No pretense of polite small talk—just direct assessment that reminded you instantly of your own mother's practicality beneath her social polish.

"Mother," Lewis said, the single word carrying both warning and affection. "This is—"

"I know exactly who she is," she interrupted, stepping forward to take your hand in both of hers. Her grip was firm, her skin warm despite the chill. "Ricci's eldest. The one who graduated Columbia with honors while her father was busy making enemies across three continents."

The specific knowledge caught you off guard—most people in your world focused on your father's reputation rather than your own accomplishments. "You've done your research," you observed, meeting her gaze steadily.

"Knowledge keeps you alive in this world," she replied with a slight shrug. "Especially when your son brings home a wife from a family like yours with bullet holes in his transport."

The bluntness was refreshing after Geneva's diplomatic circles and Mueller's carefully coded conversations.

"I didn't invite the bullet holes," you said, a smile tugging at your lips despite the circumstances.

"No one ever does, love," Carmen stated, something warming in her expression. "But we all know whose names are on them, don't we? Come inside before you catch your death in this Highland evening. Neither of you are dressed properly for Scotland."

Lewis's hand pressed more firmly against your back as you followed his mother toward the house, the gesture communicating something you couldn't quite interpret. Tension, perhaps, or a deeper anxiety than he'd allowed himself to show during your escape.

The helicopter crew began unloading essential equipment behind you—communications gear, weapons cases discreetly labeled as sporting equipment, the necessities of life on the run when "life" involved international crime syndicates and Cuban vendettas.

"Jensen has the perimeter," Lewis told his mother as you approached the heavy wooden door. "Naomi's team is running digital interference. As far as anyone knows, we're headed to Amsterdam."

"While you hide in the last place anyone would think to look," his mother finished for him, pushing the door open to reveal a warm interior that defied the fortress-like exterior. "The ancestral home that doesn't exist in any records Lewis would be connected to."

Inside, the estate was a study in unexpected contrasts—ancient stonework alongside modern comforts, traditional Scottish elements mixed with subtle security technology that would be invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for. A fire roared in a massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across antique furniture and hand-woven rugs in rich colors.

A familiar snuffling sound drew your attention to a corner where Roscoe lay curled on what appeared to be a custom-made dog bed positioned near the fire. The bulldog raised his head at your entrance, his entire body wiggling with excitement as he recognized you both.

"He arrived yesterday," Carmen explained as Roscoe waddled toward you with single-minded determination. "Your team thought he might provide some comfort during the... transition."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise her meaning—Roscoe was here because someone had anticipated you might need emotional support as much as tactical protection. The insight spoke to either Naomi's surprising sensitivity or, more likely, Lewis's own consideration.

You dropped to your knees, all pretense of composed dignity forgotten as Roscoe pressed his wrinkled face against your hands, his stub of a tail wagging frantically. "Hey, buddy," you murmured, the simple joy of his presence unexpectedly overwhelming after the tension of the past twenty-four hours.

Lewis crouched beside you, one hand resting on Roscoe's back while the other found your shoulder—the three of you connected in a moment that felt strangely like family despite its improvised nature. When you glanced up, you caught Carmen watching with sharp interest, her expression thoughtful as she observed this unguarded interaction.

"He refused his dinner until you arrived," she commented. "Been sitting by the window waiting. Dogs know things people pretend not to."

The cryptic observation hung between you as Lewis helped you back to your feet, his hand lingering at your elbow a moment longer than strictly necessary. You'd noticed this increasing protectiveness since Geneva—subtle shifts in how he positioned himself with you, the frequency of contact, the watchfulness that went beyond professional security concerns.

"You'll want to rest," Carmen said, leading you deeper into the house. "I've prepared the east room. Best views, strongest security features." She glanced back at Lewis. "Your old room is made up as well, if you'd prefer to sleep separately."

The question beneath the statement was clear—testing the nature of your relationship beyond the legal framework. Lewis's eyes met yours briefly, an unspoken question passing between you. The pillow barrier in Geneva had dissolved days ago, but this was different territory—his childhood home, his mother's watchful assessment, the weight of family beyond strategic alliance.

"The east room is fine," you replied before Lewis could respond, making the choice with more confidence than you might have managed a week ago. "For both of us."

Something that might have been approval flickered across Carmen's features before she nodded once, continuing down a corridor lined with paintings that appeared considerably more valuable than their simple frames suggested. "Bathroom's been updated since your last visit," she told Lewis. "No more struggling with ancient Scottish plumbing. Some traditions aren't worth preserving."

The east room turned out to be a spacious chamber with exposed beams crossing a high ceiling, a large four-poster bed dominating one wall while floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the misty landscape beyond. Modern touches had been integrated seamlessly—the lighting, the discreet security panels, the subtle comfort improvements that maintained the room's historical character while providing contemporary convenience.

"I'll leave you to settle in," Carmen said, pausing at the doorway. "There's food when you're ready. Lewis knows where everything is." Her eyes moved between you with that same sharp assessment. "Naomi established the communications hub in the west wing. Said to tell you she's tracking movement in Geneva that suggests our Cuban friend is quite displeased with your disappearance."

With that understated summary of what was undoubtedly a complex security situation, she departed, leaving you alone with Lewis for the first time since your whispered conversation in the helicopter. Roscoe had followed you into the room.

Lewis moved to close the heavy wooden door, the soft click of the latch emphasizing your sudden privacy. The transition from active escape to this moment of quiet felt almost jarring—adrenaline still coursing through your system with nowhere to direct it, your body still braced for threats that weren't currently present.

"You should rest," Lewis said, his voice gentler than his words. "You've been running on fumes since Geneva."

"So have you," you pointed out, noting the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension still evident in his shoulders despite their return to relative safety.

"I'm used to it." He moved to the windows, checking the latches with automatic movements that spoke to ingrained habits rather than immediate concerns. "This place is secure, but old habits..."

"Die hard?" you finished, the ghost of a smile touching your lips despite the exhaustion beginning to settle into your bones.

Lewis turned, something softening in his expression as he looked at you. "Something like that." He crossed to where you stood, his movements deliberate but unhurried. "You're holding something back," he said quietly, the directness catching you off guard.

"What do you mean?" The question came automatically, deflection as instinctive as breathing after a lifetime in your father's world where vulnerability equaled weakness.

Lewis's eyes held yours with that penetrating focus that still sent involuntary warmth through you despite everything else happening around you. "Since the helicopter. Something's been weighing on you beyond the immediate situation."

The observation was unnervingly accurate. You'd thought you'd masked it well—the realization that had struck somewhere over the Mediterranean, the dawning understanding of exactly what you were feeling for the man whose ring you wore.

"It's nothing," you said, the lie feeling awkward on your tongue after the increasing honesty that had developed between you. "Just processing everything that's happened."

Lewis studied you for a moment longer, his expression suggesting he knew you weren't being entirely truthful but wouldn't push—another distinction from the men you'd grown up around, who demanded immediate answers regardless of readiness to provide them.

"Okay," he said simply, accepting your boundary with that unexpected respect that had drawn you to him from the beginning. "But I'm here when you're ready to talk about it." His hand reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. "Whatever it is."

The simple gesture nearly undid your careful composure—the gentleness from a man who had ordered executions with clinical detachment, the patience from someone whose world moved at the speed of digital transactions and tactical responses. You leaned into his touch slightly, allowing yourself this small acknowledgment of whatever was developing between you.

"I know," you managed, your voice steadier than you felt. "I just need some time."

Lewis nodded, his thumb brushing your cheek once before he stepped back, giving you the space he somehow knew you needed. "Take a shower, get some rest. I need to check in with Naomi about Suarez's movements anyway."

You nodded, grateful for both his perception and his restraint. "Your mother is... not what I expected."

The observation drew a rare genuine smile from Lewis. "She says the same about you. Though in her case, it's a definite compliment."

"And in mine?" you challenged, feeling some of the tension ease between you.

"In yours," Lewis replied, moving toward the door, "it's still being determined." The slight curve of his lips took any sting from the words. "But preliminary assessment is positive."

With that understated tease—another evolution in your dynamic that would have been unimaginable weeks ago—he slipped from the room, leaving you to the blessed privacy you suddenly desperately needed.

The bathroom proved to be as modernized as promised, the hot water a blessing against travel-weary muscles and the lingering tension of your escape. You stood under the spray longer than strictly necessary, letting the heat work into knots of stress that had accumulated since the first shots were fired in Geneva.

By the time you emerged, wrapped in a silk robe that someone—Naomi, probably—had thought to include in your hastily packed belongings, exhaustion hit with physical force. The adrenaline crash you'd been staving off since the helicopter couldn't be denied any longer.

The bed looked inviting, its crisp linens and heavy duvet promising comfort you hadn't experienced since the hotel in Geneva. Roscoe had already claimed a spot near the pillows, his snoring providing oddly soothing background noise as you surrendered to the pull of sleep.

Your last conscious thought was of Lewis—not the dangerous crime lord who had ordered Bianchi's execution or the strategic husband your father had arranged, but the man who had shielded you with his body during gunfire, who knew you were holding something back but respected your need for time, whose rare genuine smiles had become increasingly important to you.

*****************************************

You woke disoriented, the quality of light suggesting late afternoon rather than morning. For a moment, panic fluttered in your chest—too much time lost, too many developments missed during your unplanned sleep. Then reality reasserted itself: you were in Scotland, in Lewis's family home, temporarily beyond the immediate reach of Suarez and his vendetta.

The space beside you in the massive bed was empty but showed signs of having been occupied—the pillow holding the impression of someone who had lain there, watching over you perhaps, before leaving. Roscoe had migrated to the floor, his snores punctuating the otherwise quiet room.

Voices drifted through the partially open door—Lewis and his mother, their tones low but audible in the ancient house whose walls had witnessed centuries of family conversations.

"—can't keep her in the dark forever," Carmen was saying, her Scottish accent more pronounced in apparent frustration. "She deserves to know what she's truly involved in."

"It's not that simple," Lewis replied, his voice carrying that edge of tension you'd grown attuned to over your weeks together. "The less she knows about certain operations, the safer she is if things go sideways."

"That girl isn't some fragile ornament needing protection from harsh realities," his mother countered. "I've spent all of thirty minutes with her and can see she's made of stronger stuff than you're giving her credit for."

"This isn't about her strength." Lewis's response was immediate, defensive in a way you rarely heard from him. "It's about limiting exposure. Compartmentalization protects everyone involved."

A short, derisive sound from Carmen suggested exactly what she thought of that explanation. "That's your father talking, not you. Keeping secrets from family never ends well, as he discovered the hard way."

The reference to Lewis's father—a topic he'd mentioned only in passing during your time together—caught your attention. You moved closer to the door, something uncomfortably close to eavesdropping but justified by the apparent discussion of matters directly concerning you.

"This is different," Lewis insisted, though something in his tone suggested uncertainty beneath the assertion. "The Suarez situation is volatile. The less she knows about our countermeasures, the less she can reveal if—"

"If what?" Lewis challenged. "If she betrays you? Is that really what you're worried about, or are you afraid of letting her see the parts of yourself you keep locked away from everyone?"

The question landed with almost physical impact, silence falling between mother and son that suggested a direct hit on something Lewis wasn't prepared to address. You stepped back from the door, suddenly uncomfortable with your unintended intrusion into what had become a deeply personal conversation.

Roscoe chose that moment to wake, stretching with a series of grunts that announced your place to anyone listening. The voices in the hallway stopped immediately, footsteps indicating retreat to more private spaces for whatever remained of their discussion.

You dressed quickly in clothes someone had unpacked and arranged in an ancient wardrobe—simple but practical items suitable for the Scottish climate. The domestic thoughtfulness behind this preparation struck you; someone had still considered your comfort despite tactical planning and security protocols.

By the time you emerged from the bedroom, the house appeared empty, though sounds of activity came from what must be the west wing Carmen had mentioned. Following instinct and the layout Lewis had briefly described during your flight, you made your way toward what proved to be a large kitchen dominated by another fireplace.

Carmen stood at a massive wooden island in the center of the space, chopping vegetables with the skill of someone who knew their way around a knife. She looked up as you entered, those sharp eyes assessing you with the same direct focus her son possessed.

"Feel more human after some proper rest?" she asked, gesturing toward a copper kettle on an ultra-modern stove that looked incongruous against the ancient stone walls. "Tea's fresh. Cups in the cabinet to your left."

The simple domestic instruction felt strangely normal after the chaos of the past twenty-four hours. You found a mug and poured the strong tea, the steam curling between you and Lewis's mother like a physical thread of the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

"He's with Naomi in the communications hub," Carmen said, answering your unasked question. "Tracking Suarez's movements. The Cuban's apparently quite put out by your disappearance—making quite a scene in Geneva, from what their intelligence suggests."

The casual delivery of this security update highlighted the unusual nature of Lewis's family dynamics—a mother as comfortable discussing international criminal movements as most might mention weather forecasts.

"How long have you known?" you asked, the question emerging before you'd fully formulated it. "About what Lewis really does?"

Carmen's hands stilled on the cutting board, her expression shifting toward something more complex than her previous direct assessment. "Since the beginning," she replied after a moment. "I helped him establish his first legitimate front business when he was twenty-six. Set up the banking connections through my family's old networks."

The revelation landed with surprising impact—not just Lewis's mother's awareness of his criminal empire, but her active participation in its foundation.

"You don't seem concerned about it," you observed.

"Concerned?" Carmen resumed her vegetable preparation. "About my son building something that can't be taken from him? No, I'm not concerned about that."

The philosophical framing—crime as legitimate path to security in an inherently unjust system—wasn't unfamiliar in your world, but the straightforward acknowledgment of it from a mother about her son's choices struck you as unusually honest.

"My husband—Lewis's father—believed in certain principles," she continued, her rhythm with the knife never faltering. "Honor among thieves. Loyalty above all else. Protection of family at any cost." Her eyes met yours briefly. "He died believing those principles would save him. They didn't."

The underlying message was clear—principles without pragmatism were ultimately hollow, an expensive luxury in a world that didn't reward moral stances without tactical backup.

"Lewis learned from his father's mistakes," you said, understanding flowing from context rather than explicit information. "Built something different."

"Something that works," Carmen corrected. "That's the only measure that matters in your world—in our world. Does it work? Does it keep you alive, keep your people safe, build something sustainable beyond immediate advantage?" She scooped chopped vegetables into a waiting pot. "Everything else is just pretty words people tell themselves to sleep better at night."

The assessment aligned with what you'd observed in Lewis's operations—the focus on effectiveness rather than tradition, results rather than appearances. Another distinction from your father's more theatrical approaches to similar challenges.

"He's worried about you," Carmen said abruptly, changing topics with the same directness that characterized everything about her. "Not just about Suarez and the physical threats. Something deeper."

The observation caught you off-guard—both its accuracy and the fact that Lewis had discussed personal concerns with his mother rather than maintaining the strict compartmentalization he typically favored.

"It's complicated," you replied, falling back on vagueness that felt immediately inadequate given the circumstances.

"Most worthwhile things are," Carmen agreed, wiping her hands on a nearby towel. "But complication isn't the same as impossibility."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps announced someone. Lewis appeared in the kitchen doorway, his expression shifting subtly when he saw you��tension easing almost instantly, as if confirming your continued presence provided some needed reassurance.

"You're up," he said simply, moving into the space with that contained grace that still drew your eye. He'd changed into more casual clothes—dark jeans and a simple sweater that somehow emphasized his dangerous capability. "Feeling better?"

"More human," you replied, echoing his mother's earlier phrasing. "Though still catching up on what I missed while sleeping."

"Not much beyond confirmation of what we already knew," Lewis assured you, reaching for a mug and pouring his own tea. The act made your eyes linger longer than they should—this dangerous man performing ordinary actions in his childhood home, the controlled crime lord momentarily replaced by someone more accessible. "Suarez is making noise in Geneva, but he's lost our trail completely. The digital misdirection is working perfectly."

The clinical update couldn't quite mask the underlying concern you could read in the tension around his eyes, the careful way he positioned himself between you and the doorway—protective habit rather than immediate threat response.

"And the leak in your organization?" you asked, the question addressing one of the more concerning elements of the situation that had forced your hasty departure from Switzerland.

Lewis's expression hardened slightly, his jaw tightening. "We're narrowing it down. It's just a matter of time."

The controlled response didn't disguise the deadly intent beneath—whoever had betrayed Lewis's security protocols to Petrov and, by extension, Suarez would not survive the discovery. That much was certain without requiring explicit confirmation.

"Your father called again," he added, his tone shifting toward something more careful. "Three times in the past hour. He's... concerned."

His phrasing couldn't mask the reality—Salvatore Ricci was undoubtedly furious about being kept in the dark regarding his daughter's situation, especially given his extensive intelligence network that would have reported the gunfire in Geneva almost immediately.

"I should call him," you said, the obligation clear despite the complications it presented. "Before he decides to handle things his way."

Lewis nodded, understanding the implications without requiring elaboration. Your father's "way" typically involved escalating violence applied with theatrical flourish rather than strategic precision—exactly the opposite of what the current situation needed.

"Use the secure line in the communications hub," he suggested. "Naomi's established protocols should prevent any tracing."

Carmen watched this exchange with sharp interest, her assessment taking in both the practical security discussion and the unspoken currents flowing beneath it. "I'll have food ready in an hour," she said simply. "Sort your father out, then come eat. Everything looks clearer after proper sustenance."

Lewis's hand found the small of your back as you moved toward the door—that increasingly familiar touch that had evolved from performative gesture to genuine habit over your weeks together. The contact steadied you more than you wanted to admit, grounding you in the present moment despite the swirling complications surrounding you.

"I'll show you where everything is set up," he said, guiding you through corridors that blended ancient architecture with modern functionality. "Naomi's been coordinating with Claire's team while you rested."

"And you?" you asked, glancing up at his profile. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

Something softened briefly in his expression—surprise at the concern, perhaps, or acknowledgment of the care behind the question. "Enough," he replied, though the shadows beneath his eyes suggested otherwise. "I needed to make sure certain security protocols were implemented immediately."

The explanation made perfect tactical sense while avoiding the truth you suspected—that he'd found it difficult to rest while potential threats remained unresolved, his protective instincts heightened by the events in Geneva and whatever personal evolution was developing between you.

"After you talk to your father," Lewis said as you approached a heavy wooden door that appeared considerably newer than the surrounding structure, "we should discuss next steps. The situation's evolving faster than anticipated."

The careful phrasing caught your attention—professional terminology masking what sounded like more significant developments than he'd initially suggested. "How much trouble are we in?" you asked directly, stopping before the door could open.

Lewis met your gaze with that unflinching directness you'd come to both appreciate and find mildly unnerving. "It's manageable," he replied after a brief pause. "But complicated by certain factors we hadn't fully anticipated."

"What factors?" you pressed, unwilling to enter what was clearly a tactical hub without complete information.

Lewis hesitated, that internal calculation visible as he weighed operational security against partnership transparency. Finally, he sighed, decision made. "Petrov wasn't just feeding information to Suarez. He was coordinating with someone in your father's organization as well."

The revelation landed like a physical blow—betrayal not just within Lewis's carefully constructed operation but potentially within your own family structure as well. "Who?" you demanded, mind already racing through possibilities, assessing loyalties and motivations among your father's captains.

"We don't know yet," Lewis admitted, the acknowledgment of uncertainty clearly costing him. "But the communication patterns suggest someone who would know about our marriage arrangements before they became public."

The implication was clear—not just any soldier or associate, but someone your father trusted. Someone who might have had access to information about your movements, your security protocols, your future plans.

"I need to talk to my father," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Not just to reassure him, but to warn him without revealing what we know."

Lewis nodded, his hand finding yours in a gesture that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with genuine support. "Together," he said quietly. "We handle this together."

"Together," you agreed, squeezing his hand briefly before releasing it to face whatever awaited beyond that heavy wooden door. Whatever you were holding back would have to wait a little longer.

For now, there were calls to make, threats to assess, betrayals to uncover. The rest—the increasingly complex feelings developing between you and the dangerous, protective man you married—would have to find its moment later.

****************************************

Morning light filtered through heavy curtains you didn't remember closing. You stretched beneath the thick duvet, awareness returning slowly—the unfamiliar room, the Scottish estate, the events that had driven you here from Geneva. A day had passed since your arrival, a day spent in tense phone calls with your father, strategic planning with Naomi, and careful navigation of the unspoken current growing between you and Lewis.

The space beside you in the massive bed was empty again. Lewis slept little these days, his vigilance heightened since the ambush in Geneva. You'd felt him slip from bed before dawn, his movements careful not to wake you despite your light sleep. The consideration was becoming familiar—another small kindness from a man whose reputation suggested none.

Roscoe's snoring drew your attention to the foot of the bed where he'd migrated during the night, sprawled across your feet like he'd been sleeping there his entire life instead of just one night. The bulldog had attached himself to you with surprising devotion, following you through the ancient house with determined waddles whenever you left Lewis's side.

The smell of coffee pulled you fully awake. Not the fancy espresso from the hotel in Geneva, but something richer, more earthy—likely Carmen's doing. Lewis's mother had proven to be nothing like the aristocratic Scottish matriarch you'd half-expected, instead revealing herself as pragmatic, direct, and refreshingly free of the carefully coded language that dominated your world.

You slipped from bed, pulling on a soft sweater against the Highland chill that seeped through even the oldest parts of the house. The wooden floors creaked beneath your feet as you made your way downstairs, following both the coffee scent and the low murmur of voices from the kitchen.

"—can't just sit here waiting for something to break," Lewis was saying, frustration evident in his tone. "Every day gives Suarez more time to regroup."

"Rushing into action because you're impatient is exactly how people in our world end up dead," Carmen replied, her voice carrying that blend of motherly concern and tactical assessment that still caught you off guard. "Naomi and her team needs time to trace the leak properly."

You paused in the hallway, not deliberately eavesdropping but reluctant to interrupt what seemed like a strategic discussion. The ancient house carried sound in unexpected ways, making privacy both rare and easily violated.

"It's not impatience, it's practical reality," Lewis countered. "The longer we wait, the more opportunity for Suarez to establish new connections. We know Petrov was feeding him information. What we don't know is who else might be involved."

"And charging in without full intelligence is somehow going to improve the situation?" Carmen's tone suggested precisely what she thought of that approach. "I didn't raise you to make your father's mistakes."

The reference to Lewis's father—still mostly a mystery to you beyond brief mentions—hung in the air. You shifted your weight, a floorboard creaking beneath your foot and announcing your presence whether you intended it or not.

The conversation stopped immediately. When you stepped into the kitchen doorway, both Lewis and Carmen were looking your way, though with markedly different expressions. Carmen's face softened into something like welcome, while Lewis's eyes carried that careful assessment that had become more frequent since your escape—checking for signs of distress, evaluating your state in ways that went beyond merely professional concern.

"Good morning," Carmen said, gesturing toward the coffee pot with a wooden spoon. "Sleep well in that ancient bed? I've been telling Lewis for years we should replace the mattress, but he's sentimental about certain things despite his practical façade."

The casual revelation—Lewis sentimental about his childhood bed—added another piece to the complex puzzle. Each day seemed to bring new dimensions you hadn't anticipated when signing those marriage papers.

"I slept fine," you replied, moving toward the coffee with the single-minded focus of someone who needed caffeine before further conversation. "Better than in the helicopter, at least."

Lewis watched you pour your coffee, his expression unreadable to anyone who hadn't spent weeks studying the minute shifts that betrayed his thoughts. To you, the slight tension around his eyes and mouth spoke volumes—concern, calculation, something deeper he wasn't ready to voice.

"I was just telling my son that patience might be our best strategy at the moment," Carmen said, turning back to whatever she was cooking on the ancient stove. "Though he seems to have misplaced his usual capacity for it."

"I haven't misplaced anything," Lewis replied, the edge in his voice softened by obvious affection for his mother despite the disagreement. "I'm making a tactical assessment based on evolving intelligence."

Carmen rolled her eyes, the gesture so unexpected from a woman her age that you nearly choked on your coffee. "He always hides behind fancy language when he's worried," she told you, as if sharing an important secret. "Been doing it since he was twelve. Thinks it makes him sound more in control."

"Mother," Lewis said, warning and exasperation blended in the single word.

You hid your smile behind your coffee mug, finding unexpected comfort in this glimpse of ordinary family dynamics beneath the extraordinary circumstances that had brought you all together.

"Any other updates from Naomi?" you asked, steering the conversation toward practical matters as you slid into a chair across from Lewis at the kitchen table.

Lewis's expression shifted back to business, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Suarez has gone quiet in Geneva. No movement from his known associates for the past eighteen hours."

"That's not good," you observed, the tactical implication immediately clear. "When someone like Suarez goes quiet..."

"They're planning something bigger," Lewis finished, nodding in agreement. "Exactly my concern."

"Or they've lost the trail entirely and are regrouping," Carmen countered, placing a plate of what appeared to be homemade scones on the table between you. "Not every silence is a threat."

"In our world, it usually is," you said, finding yourself automatically aligning with Lewis's assessment despite Carmen's reasonable alternative. Your father had taught you early that apparent calm from enemies typically preceded the worst storms.

Carmen studied you with those sharp eyes so like her son's. "Your father's daughter indeed," she observed, though without judgment. "Always anticipating the next attack."

The point wasn't inaccurate. Salvatore Ricci had raised all his daughters to expect betrayal, to analyze apparent peace for hidden threats, to find the knife waiting beneath every offered handshake. Survival skills disguised as paranoia—or perhaps the other way around, depending on perspective.

"Speaking of my father," you said, accepting a scone with a grateful nod, "has he called again this morning?"

Lewis and Carmen exchanged a look that immediately raised your guard. "Twice," Lewis confirmed. "Naomi spoke with him the second time. She thought it might be better coming from security rather than family."

The careful phrasing couldn't disguise the reality—your father was growing increasingly agitated by your continued absence and limited communication, his protective instincts warring with the strategic necessity of maintaining your hidden location.

"What did he say?" you asked, though you could imagine the colorful language your father would have used when confronted with security personnel rather than his daughter.

"He's sending Paolo to London," Lewis replied, watching your reaction closely. "Officially to coordinate security protocols between our organizations. Unofficially..."

"To find me," you finished, understanding your father's methods without requiring elaboration. Uncle Paolo had always been your father's problem-solver, the one sent to handle delicate situations when Salvatore preferred to maintain plausible deniability. "When does he arrive?"

"Tonight, according to Naomi's report," Lewis said. "Our team is maintaining the digital façade suggesting we're in a safe house outside London. Your father's people will be led there while we remain here."

The strategic deception made perfect tactical sense while creating uncomfortable emotional complications. Lying to your father—even by omission—wasn't something you did lightly, regardless of the security justifications.

"He's worried," you said, feeling the need to explain what would be obvious to you and Lewis but perhaps not to Carmen. "Not just as a business associate concerned about alliance stability, but as a father. His methods are... complicated, but the concern is genuine."

"I understand family loyalty," Carmen said, her expression softening slightly. "Better than most. But right now, your safety requires certain measures that might feel uncomfortable."

Carmen Hamilton might lack your mother's social polish, but her straightforward approach carried its own comfort.

"I should call him again," you decided, the obligation clear despite potential security concerns. "Before Paolo reaches London. A short conversation would reassure him enough to prevent more... dramatic interventions."

Lewis's expression suggested he'd anticipated this response, his nod carrying neither surprise nor objection. "Use the secure line in the communications hub. Naomi has enhanced the protocols since yesterday—even better protection against tracing."

"After breakfast," Carmen interjected, placing a pot of tea beside the scones with definitive emphasis. "No one makes good decisions on an empty stomach, and Lewis tells me you barely ate yesterday."

The motherly concern behind the directive caught you off guard—not because it was unexpected from a mother, but because it was so rarely directed at you specifically. Your own mother's care typically manifested through strategic guidance rather than practical nurturing, a distinction born of necessity in your father's world.

Lewis's hand found yours beneath the table, a brief squeeze communicating something you were still learning to interpret—support, perhaps, or shared understanding of the complex emotions Carmen's straightforward care might trigger. The touch lasted only seconds before he withdrew, but the warmth lingered like an echo against your skin.

Breakfast passed with surprisingly normal conversation—Carmen sharing stories of the estate's history, Lewis occasionally correcting details with the precision that characterized all his communications. The domestic normalcy felt both foreign and comforting, a glimpse of what family interactions might look like beyond the constant strategic calculations that dominated your world.

"I need to check in with Jensen about the perimeter," Lewis said as you finished your tea. "The morning security rotation should be complete by now."

"I'll come with you," you replied, rising from the table. "I want to see the full layout of the grounds anyway. Understanding the terrain seems important given the circumstances."

Lewis's expression shifted toward something warmer—appreciation for your tactical thinking rather than merely accepting the desire to accompany him. "Good idea. There are approaches from the north that require some attention."

Carmen watched this exchange with that same sharp assessment that missed nothing, her eyes moving between you with what might have been approval. "Take proper coats from the mudroom," she instructed. "The highland weather turns faster than you can blink, especially this time of year."

The motherly directive, so ordinary yet so unfamiliar in your experience, brought an unexpected lump to your throat. You nodded, not trusting your voice for a moment as emotions you hadn't anticipated threatened to surface.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you left the kitchen, the touch now so familiar it felt like its absence would be more noticeable than its presence. The simple contact grounded you, pulling you back from the emotional edge Carmen's casual maternal concern had unexpectedly pushed you toward.

"She likes you," Lewis said quietly as you moved toward the mudroom.

The comment caught you off guard. "How many women have you brought to the estate?" you asked before you could consider whether the question was appropriate.

Lewis glanced at you, something like surprise crossing his features before his usual control reasserted itself. "None," he admitted after a moment. "You're the first."

The revelation landed with unexpected weight. Not just the first wife—that was obvious given the circumstances of your arrangement—but the first woman he'd brought to this particular sanctuary that seemed to exist outside his carefully constructed public identity.

"Why me?" The question slipped out, genuine curiosity overriding strategic calculation.

Lewis paused at the mudroom door, his expression shifting toward something more vulnerable than his usual composed exterior. "That's... complicated."

"I've got time," you replied, surprising yourself with the directness of the response. Geneva had changed something between you—the abandoned pillow barrier just the physical manifestation of boundaries dissolving on multiple levels.

Lewis studied you for a moment, that intense focus that still sent warmth spreading through your chest despite familiarity. "When we were leaving Geneva," he said finally, "with bullets flying and everything falling apart around us, I realized something."

He paused, seeming to search for words—unusual for a man whose communication typically flowed with practiced precision. "I realized that getting you to safety wasn't just about the arrangement or strategic considerations. It was about you. Specifically you."

The distinction might have seemed subtle to others, but you understood immediately the significance of what he was admitting. Not duty or obligation or professional responsibility, but personal concern transcending the boundaries of your strategic marriage.

"The thought of losing you..." he continued, his voice dropping lower, "it wasn't acceptable. Not in any calculation, strategic or otherwise."

The confession hung between you, more revealing than any physical intimacy could have been from a man who maintained such careful control in all aspects of his life.

"That's why I brought you here," he finished, his eyes never leaving yours. "Because this place is outside my professional identity. It's the one space that's just mine. And I wanted you in it."

The simple truth behind his explanation hit harder than any elaborate declaration could have. Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and calculating crime lord, had brought you into the one sanctuary he maintained separate from his criminal empire, not because strategic advantage demanded it, but because he wanted you there.

"Lewis, I—" you began, though you weren't entirely sure what you intended to say.

The moment shattered as Naomi's voice called from further inside the house, urgency evident in her tone. "Lewis! We've got movement. Multiple signals approaching the outer perimeter."

Lewis's expression shifted instantly from vulnerable to tactical, the transformation so complete it might have given you whiplash if you hadn't seen it before. "Stay here," he instructed, already moving toward Naomi's voice.

You followed without hesitation, the automatic obedience that might have characterized your early days together now entirely absent. "Not a chance," you replied, keeping pace with his longer strides. "If there's a threat, I need to know exactly what we're facing."

Rather than arguing, Lewis adjusted his pace slightly, allowing you to match him more comfortably as you both moved toward the communications hub established in what had once been a formal dining room. The acceptance of your partnership—even in potential danger—spoke volumes about how your relationship had evolved since those early carefully distanced days in London.

Naomi looked up from multiple screens as you entered, her expression professionally neutral despite the tension evident in her posture. "Three vehicles approaching from the east," she reported without preamble. "Not following any documented road, using what appears to be an old forestry track."

"Local authorities?" Lewis asked, immediately dropping into the chair beside her to examine the surveillance feed.

"Negative," Naomi replied. "No identifiable markings, and the approach pattern suggests deliberate avoidance of standard routes. Jensen has positioned teams at intercept points, but visual confirmation is still pending."

You moved closer to the screens, studying the topographical display that showed three blinking dots moving steadily toward the outer boundaries of the estate. "How did they find this place?" you asked, the security implications immediately concerning. "I thought it wasn't in any records connected to you."

"It isn't," Lewis confirmed, his attention never leaving the screens. "Which means either we have another leak, or..."

"Or someone followed Uncle Paolo's team to London and tracked communications from there," you finished, the tactical assessment flowing naturally from your lifetime in your father's world. "If he's arriving tonight as planned, advance teams would already be in place establishing security."

Lewis glanced at you, approval evident despite the tension of the moment. "Exactly what I was thinking. Tracking your father's security protocols would be easier than finding ours, especially if someone in his organization is compromised."

The revelation hung between you, not just the immediate threat of unknown vehicles approaching the estate, but the deeper implication that the betrayal within your father's organization might be more significant than originally suspected.

"Incoming call from Jensen," Naomi reported, activating the communications system with practiced efficiency.

Jensen's voice filled the room, the connection slightly distorted by distance but clear enough to understand. "Visual confirmation on approaching vehicles. Not hostiles. Repeat, not hostiles. Ricci markings identified."

The revelation landed with mixed impact—relief that the approach wasn't Suarez's men somehow tracking your location, but fresh complications regarding your father's resources appearing despite security protocols designed to prevent exactly that.

"Your father doesn't do anything halfway, does he?" Lewis observed, though without the irritation you might have expected given the security breach this represented.

"Never," you confirmed, already calculating potential approaches to this unexpected development. "Once he decides on a course of action, he commits completely."

"Like father, like daughter," Naomi muttered, though quietly enough that she could pretend you hadn't heard if challenged.

Lewis's lips quirked briefly before his expression returned to tactical assessment. "Establish communication with the lead vehicle," he instructed. "Confirm identity protocols before allowing approach beyond the outer perimeter."

"Already in progress," Naomi confirmed, her fingers moving across a specialized keyboard.

Lewis turned to you, that intensity back in his gaze though now focused on strategic considerations rather than the personal revelation that had been interrupted. "Your father's people arriving creates complications beyond the immediate security concerns," he said quietly.

The implication was clear—your father's security team would bring with them not just physical protection but the weight of Ricci expectations and observation. The fragile evolution of your relationship with Lewis would face new scrutiny, additional pressure from eyes reporting back to your father with potentially incomplete understanding.

"I know," you acknowledged, the complexity of the situation requiring no elaborate explanation between you. "But we adjust and move forward. Like we have since Geneva."

Something softened in Lewis's expression—gratitude, perhaps, for your understanding without requiring extensive discussion. "Together," he said quietly, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity.

"Together," you confirmed, the agreement feeling more like promise than mere acknowledgment.

The vehicles approached more quickly than expected, kicking up dust along the old forestry road that wound through the eastern edge of the property. From the window of the communications room, you could see Jensen's team establishing a perimeter, their movements precise and coordinated.

"Jesus, my father is so dramatic," you said, watching as not one but three black SUVs came into view. "Of course he sent a damn convoy."

Lewis glanced at you, that hint of a smile touching his lips before disappearing. "Would you have expected anything less?"

"No," you admitted with a slight eye roll. "Subtlety has never been his strong suit. When I was at Columbia, he once sent Uncle Paolo with four guys just because I missed a check-in call by like, half an hour."

Naomi kept her focus on the monitors. "Looks like Paolo's in the lead vehicle. Confirming identity now."

You moved closer to the window, watching as the first SUV stopped at Jensen's checkpoint. A familiar figure emerged from the passenger side, his body language broadcasting irritation even from a distance.

"Yep, that's Uncle Paolo alright," you confirmed. "I can tell by how pissed off he looks. He hates the cold, always says it makes his arthritis act up."

Lewis positioned himself beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours as he assessed the approaching team. The casual contact had become something natural between you, no longer the calculated touches of those early days.

"Your uncle seems... very displeased to be in Scotland," Lewis observed, his tone dry.

"He'll get over it," you said with a shrug. "Though he's gonna be a nightmare about the accommodations. He acts like he's allergic to anything that isn't five-star."

Carmen appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "I take it we're having company?"

"Family's coming to visit," you said with a grim smile. "Hope you've got extra coffee. Uncle Paolo turns into an actual monster without it."

"I've dealt with difficult men my entire life," Carmen replied. "One more Italian with opinions about proper coffee won't be the end of me." She glanced toward Lewis. "Though perhaps we should consider the security implications of having Ricci men on the property."

Lewis's phone buzzed with an incoming message. As he read it, that slight tension appeared around his eyes – the tell you'd learned to recognize when complications arose.

"Everything okay?" you asked, moving closer without thinking about it.

"It's the other team," he replied, his voice dropping lower even though Naomi was the only other person in the room. "They confirmed the potential source for the leak in your father's organization."

Your stomach tightened immediately. "Who?"

Lewis hesitated, glancing toward the window where your uncle was now talking animatedly with Jensen. "That's the problem. Analysis still points to someone in your father's inner circle."

"Someone like Paolo?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt, the suggestion hitting hard and fast. Your uncle had been like a second father to you growing up, his loyalty to your father seemingly absolute through decades of business together.

"It's preliminary," Lewis cautioned, his hand finding yours with that protective instinct. "The team is still cross-referencing data points. But the timing of his arrival..."

"Could be completely innocent," you finished, not wanting to jump to conclusions despite the sick feeling in your gut. "Or it could be the worst kind of setup."

The conversation halted as Jensen's voice came through the comm system. "Paolo Ricci and team cleared initial verification. Requesting final approval for approach to main house."

Lewis's eyes met yours, the question clear without needing to be spoken. This was your family, your uncle—the decision about how to handle his arrival was ultimately yours to make.

"Let them through," you said after only a moment's hesitation. "But keep the security protocols. And Lewis..." you paused, steeling yourself for what might come next. "I want to be the one to talk to Uncle Paolo first. Alone."

Lewis's expression tightened. "That's not happening."

"It has to," you countered, holding his gaze. "If he's involved, he won't reveal anything with you hovering nearby. And if he's not, then treating him like a suspect is only going to piss him off and make this whole situation worse."

"She has a point," Naomi interjected, not looking up from her monitors. "Family dynamics create opportunities for information gathering that external pressure can't replicate."

Lewis didn't look happy about it, but you could see him processing the tactical logic behind your request. "Controlled environment," he finally said. "The library. We'll have audio surveillance and Jensen's team on standby. First sign of anything suspicious, we intervene."

"Fine," you agreed, knowing this was as much of a compromise as you were likely to get. "But no visible security presence. Uncle Paolo's been doing this too long not to spot surveillance a mile away."

Carmen had been watching this exchange with that sharp observation that reminded you so much of Lewis. "I'll bring tea to the library," she said simply. "Nothing makes men let their guard down quite like an older woman they underestimate."

The plan formed quickly after that—you would meet Paolo in the library, ostensibly for a private family conversation, while Lewis monitored from the communications hub and Carmen provided the perfect cover for additional observation.

As the SUVs pulled up to the main house, you took a deep breath, mentally shifting gears. The uncle who had taught you to ride a bike might now be the same man who had betrayed your location to Suarez. The contradiction felt impossible to reconcile, yet you'd grown up in a world where such betrayals were practically a family tradition.

"Be careful," Lewis said quietly as you prepared to head downstairs. His hand caught yours, squeezing briefly in a gesture that carried more meaning than any words could have. "I'll be right here, watching everything."

"I know," you replied, finding unexpected steadiness in that simple fact.

Your uncle's voice echoed through the ancient house as Carmen greeted him at the front door as your head spinned with your thought. You pushed them aside for now. You can’t handle them now, not with the potential revelation of betrayal hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.

But later, when this immediate crisis had passed, you and Lewis would need to address what had been building between you.

For now, though, you straightened your shoulders and headed downstairs to face whatever truth Uncle Paolo had brought with him to Scotland—whether proof of family loyalty or confirmation of its limits.

*******************************************************

The library felt like the perfect setting for a confrontation—old books lining walls that had witnessed centuries of family secrets, heavy curtains half-drawn against the Scottish morning light, and furniture solid enough to have survived multiple generations of difficult conversations. You settled into an armchair positioned to keep the door in view, a habit ingrained since childhood.

Uncle Paolo burst in before you'd fully collected your thoughts, his presence filling the room with the same larger-than-life energy he'd always carried. At fifty-three, he remained imposingly fit, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short in the same style he'd worn since you were a kid. The outfit he wore couldn't disguise the street fighter underneath—something he'd never tried to hide, unlike the more polished captains in your father's organization.

"There you are," he said, arms spread wide in a gesture that was half relief, half exasperation. "Do you have any idea what hell you've put your father through this week? Not to mention dragging me to this frozen wasteland to find you."

You stood, accepting his embrace with the complicated affection that had always defined your relationship with your father's most loyal soldier. The familiar scent of his cologne—the same brand he'd worn for twenty years—brought a rush of memories.

"It's good to see you too, Uncle Paolo," you said, genuinely meaning it despite the circumstances. "Sorry about the dramatic exit from Geneva."

"Dramatic?" He pulled back, dark eyes scanning you for injuries with practiced efficiency. "Getting shot at in a neutral city is a bit beyond dramatic, don't you think? Your father almost had a stroke when he heard."

You gestured for him to sit, buying a moment to assess his demeanor. Nothing seemed off—the familiar concern, the slightly theatrical outrage, the way he glanced around the room with the automatic security check he performed wherever he went.

"So this is Hamilton's family place?" Paolo settled into the chair opposite yours, his gaze still cataloging details with professional thoroughness. "Gotta admit, I wasn't expecting something so... old. Always figured him for modern glass and steel, security tech everywhere."

"Appearances can be deceiving," you said, watching his reaction carefully. "The security here is better than it looks."

Paolo snorted, adjusting his position to better see the doorway—the same tactical habit you had. "Clearly not that good if I found you, eh? Though I'll admit, tracking you to Scotland was a pain in the ass. Your husband's digital people are no joke."

The casual compliment to Lewis's team registered as a potentially important detail. "How did you find us, anyway?" you asked, keeping your tone conversational despite the weight behind the question.

Paolo's expression shifted toward something more calculating, the uncle temporarily replaced by the professional. "You really want to know? Or is this a test?"

The directness was pure Paolo—no patience for games or diplomatic evasion. It was one of the reasons your father valued him; in a world of carefully coded language, Paolo's bluntness often cut through bullshit faster than any strategic maneuvering.

"Both," you admitted, matching his honesty with your own. "There's a leak somewhere. We need to know if it led to you."

Paolo's eyes narrowed, genuine offense crossing his features. "You think I'd sell you out? After everything?" The hurt in his voice couldn't be faked—not by Paolo, who'd never mastered the polished deception that characterized most men in your world.

"I think someone close to Papa has been feeding information to Suarez," you clarified, watching his reaction closely. "And I need to know how you found us so we can figure out who it might be."

The door opened before Paolo could respond, Carmen entering with a tea tray that seemed too heavy for a woman her age, though she carried it with easy strength. "Thought you might want refreshments," she said, setting it down on the table between you. "Scottish mornings call for something warm."

Paolo rose automatically, old-world manners kicking in despite the tension of the moment. "Thank you, signora. You're too kind."

"It's Carmen," she corrected, pouring tea. "And kindness has nothing to do with it. This conversation looked like it needed proper fortification."

Paolo's eyebrows shot up at her direct tone, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Hamilton's mother, I take it?"

"The very same," Carmen confirmed, handing him a cup. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Just black, thanks." Paolo accepted the tea with a nod. "Strong Italian coffee is more my speed, but this'll do."

Carmen's eyes met yours briefly as she handed you your own cup—a silent message passing between women accustomed to communicating beneath male notice. She'd assessed Paolo in seconds, her conclusion clear: this man was exactly what he appeared to be, no deception detected.

"I'll leave you to your discussion," she said, heading toward the door. "But the walls in this house are old and thin. Shouting won't be necessary for people to hear you." The warning was delivered with a smile that did nothing to diminish its meaning.

Once she'd gone, Paolo shook his head slightly. "Your husband's mother is something else."

"She grows on you," you replied, taking a sip of perfectly brewed tea. "Now about how you found us..."

Paolo set his cup down, all business again. "Your sister, if you want the truth. Sophia."

"Sophia?" The revelation caught you completely off guard. "How the hell did she know where we were?"

"She didn't, not exactly." Paolo leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the room's apparent privacy. "But she installed some app on her phone right before you moved to London. Said she wanted to stay connected, see what you were up to since you'd be so far away." He shrugged. "It's one of those things where you can share your location, photos, all that stuff. Pretty standard for kids these days."

You immediately knew what he was talking about—Sophia had been devastated about your quick marriage and move to London, insisting on downloading a family connection app where you could share updates and locations easily. You'd only been using it for the few weeks since your marriage, mostly sending her photos of London and occasionally Roscoe.

"So what happened?" you asked, still trying to understand how this led to Paolo finding you in Scotland.

"Your sister's been checking that damn app like every hour since she heard about Geneva," Paolo explained. "Yesterday morning, she noticed your location suddenly showed up in Scotland. Called your father in a panic, thinking maybe someone had stolen your phone." He shook his head. "Turns out you just forgot to turn the location sharing off."

The explanation hit you like a physical blow—so simple, so utterly mundane that no one could have anticipated it. You and Lewis had been so focused on sophisticated security protocols and digital misdirection that you'd completely overlooked the family connection app you'd been using to keep Sophia from having a meltdown about your sudden marriage and not being in constant contact with you.

You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up, edged with both relief and the absurdity of it all. "We got tracked through Sophia's family app. Oh my God."

Paolo's expression shifted from confusion to grudging amusement. "Technology, eh? Back in my day, we had to work for our intelligence. Now kids just push buttons on phones."

"So Sophia told Papa where to look," you said, pieces falling into place. "But that doesn't explain how you got past the perimeter security. This place isn't on any maps connected to Lewis."

Paolo's smile turned smug, professional pride evident in his expression. "Give me some credit, piccola. I've been doing this longer than your husband's been alive. Once I knew to look in Scotland, finding the property was just legwork. Old-school surveillance, bribes to the right locals, and a little luck." He shrugged. "Plus, Hamilton's security chief needs to vary his patrol patterns. Too predictable on the east approach."

The tactical assessment was delivered without hostility—one professional noting areas for improvement rather than criticizing a rival. Another small detail that registered as important: Paolo was evaluating Lewis's security on its merits, not looking for weaknesses to exploit.

"So it's not you," you said, the relief in your voice impossible to hide completely.

"Feeding information to Suarez?" Paolo's expression darkened, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. "I'd cut off my own hand before I'd put you in danger. Your father would put a bullet in my head himself, and I'd deserve it."

The vehemence couldn't be faked—not by Paolo, whose emotions had always run too close to the surface for effective deception. Whatever leak existed in your father's organization, it wasn't coming from the man sitting across from you.

"I believe you," you said simply, the weight lifting from your chest. "But someone close to Papa is talking to Suarez. Someone with access to secure communications, someone he trusts."

Paolo's expression shifted toward the cold calculation that had made him effective as your father's enforcer for decades. "I've had my suspicions for a while now," he admitted. "Things moving too smoothly for the Cubans in Jersey last month. Shipment schedules getting compromised. Your father thought it was just bad luck, but..."

"But you've been in this business long enough to know when bad luck is actually something else," you finished, understanding flowing naturally between you.

"Exactly." Paolo rubbed his jaw, the familiar gesture of concentration you remembered from countless family strategy sessions growing up. "Got a few ideas who it might be, but nothing concrete yet."

"We need to be careful how we handle this," you cautioned. "If we start throwing accusations around without proof, it could create openings for Suarez to exploit."

Paolo studied you with newfound appreciation. "You sound like a boss, not just the boss's daughter," he observed. "Marriage to Hamilton's been good for you, eh? Sharpening those strategic instincts."

The casual assessment caught you off guard—not because it was inaccurate, but because you hadn't fully acknowledged the evolution yourself until hearing it confirmed by someone who'd known you your entire life.

"It's been... educational," you replied, unable to fully articulate the complex shifts that had occurred since your arranged marriage began just weeks ago. "Lewis sees things differently from Papa. Different approaches, different priorities."

"But effective," Paolo acknowledged, surprising you with his openness to perspectives beyond your father's traditional methods. "Even your father admits that, though you didn't hear it from me." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Don't tell him I said so, but I think he's actually impressed with how Hamilton handled Geneva. Clean extraction, minimal exposure, effective misdirection."

The backhanded compliment to your husband from your notoriously critical father registered as significant—evidence that the strategic alliance was functioning as intended, regardless of the unexpected personal dimensions developing beneath it.

"So what's the play now?" Paolo asked, all business again. "Your father sent me to bring you home, but I'm guessing that's not happening with Suarez still hunting."

"No," you confirmed. "It's safer for everyone if I stay off-grid for now. The fewer people who know my exact location, the better—even within the family."

Paolo nodded, accepting this assessment without the argument you might have expected. Another evolution—he was treating you as a strategic equal rather than just Salvatore's daughter needing protection.

"Your father won't like it," he warned. "But I can run interference for a while. Tell him security concerns make immediate return inadvisable, feed him enough technical bullshit about digital tracking that he'll hesitate to push too hard."

The offer of alliance—Paolo effectively siding with your assessment over your father's direct orders—meant more than the practical assistance it represented. It was acknowledgment of your authority in your own right, not merely as extension of your father's will or your husband's strategic interests.

"I appreciate that," you said, the simple phrase inadequate for the significance of the moment.

Paolo waved it off with characteristic dismissiveness of emotional weight. "Just doing my job. Keeping you safe is priority number one, always has been." He took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly at the unfamiliar beverage. "Though I gotta say, I didn't expect 'keeping you safe' would involve freezing my ass off in Scotland while drinking leaf water instead of proper coffee."

The complaint was so perfectly Paolo that you couldn't help smiling. "Carmen can probably make you coffee if you ask nicely. Though fair warning—she doesn't respond well to demands."

"No shit," Paolo agreed with a short laugh. "Reminds me of your mother that way. Steel spine behind the proper manners."

The comparison caught you by surprise—not because it was inaccurate, but because you hadn't consciously made the connection yourself. Both women had navigated dangerous worlds on their own terms, maintaining autonomy despite the controlling men surrounding them.

A knock at the door interrupted before you could pursue this thread further. Lewis appeared in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral though you could read the tension in his shoulders.

"Everything alright in here?" he asked, the question directed at you despite his eyes quickly assessing Paolo with professional thoroughness.

"We're good," you confirmed, the simple phrase carrying layers of meaning beyond its surface reassurance. "Uncle Paolo was just explaining how Sophia's family connection app led him straight to us."

Lewis's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise breaking through his composed exterior. "The app you've been using to send her photos? Bloody hell."

"Technology, right?" Paolo said with a shrug. "Always the simple shit that gets you."

Lewis moved further into the room, his posture relaxing slightly as he read the situation. "I take it our concerns about information leaks have been addressed?"

"Not entirely," you replied, shifting to make space for him on the sofa beside you—a small gesture that felt natural despite its significance. "Uncle Paolo's not the source, but there's still someone in Papa's inner circle feeding Suarez information."

Lewis settled beside you, the subtle shift of his body angling protectively toward yours now so familiar you barely noticed it consciously. "Any theories on who it might be?"

The question was directed at Paolo, professional respect evident in Lewis's tone despite the lingering watchfulness in his posture. Two dangerous men assessing each other across a library in Scotland, their shared concern for your safety creating temporary alliance across traditional boundaries.

"Few possibilities," Paolo acknowledged, studying Lewis with equally professional assessment. "Nothing concrete enough to move on yet. But I've got people I trust keeping eyes on certain individuals."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without pressing for details you knew he'd want eventually. "Naomi has been running analytics on communication patterns within the Ricci organization. Might be worth comparing notes."

The suggestion—sharing intelligence across family operations—would have been unthinkable weeks ago. Another evolution in the alliance, boundaries shifting toward greater integration rather than merely parallel interests.

"Could work," Paolo agreed, surprising you with his openness to collaboration. "Though your analytics people should talk to our intelligence guys directly. Technical details get lost in translation when they go through too many channels."

Lewis glanced at you, something warm flickering in his eyes despite the tactical nature of the conversation. "Seems we're all on the same page then."

"For now," Paolo qualified, though without hostility. "Still haven't figured out why Suarez is so fixated on this particular situation. Guy's got plenty of other business concerns that should be higher priority."

"It's not business for him anymore," you said, understanding flowing from patterns you'd observed since Geneva. "It's become personal. Papa rejected his proposition, Lewis married me instead, and now he's determined to prove it was a mistake."

"Male ego," Paolo snorted, years of observing similar dynamics evident in his dismissive tone. "Always fucking things up where money and power should be the only considerations."

"Language, Uncle Paolo," you teased, falling into the familiar pattern established since your teenage years.

"Sorry, sorry," he replied automatically, though without actual contrition. "But am I wrong?"

"No," Lewis acknowledged, surprising both you and Paolo with his candor. "Ego makes men in our position vulnerable to manipulation. Suarez has always had that particular weakness—react to perceived insult rather than strategic advantage."

Paolo studied Lewis with renewed interest, reassessment evident in his expression. "Not bad, Hamilton. Sounds like something I've been telling Salvatore for years." He gestured between you with a knowing look. "You two might actually be good for each other, beyond the business alliance."

The casual observation landed with unexpected weight, voicing aloud what had been developing beneath the surface of your arranged marriage these past few weeks. Not just strategic partners navigating complicated circumstances, but something evolving beyond the parameters established in those initial arrangements.

Lewis's hand found yours on the couch between you, the contact hidden from Paolo's view but carrying significance beyond mere physical connection. You squeezed back briefly, the silent communication feeling as natural as breathing despite its newness in your relationship.

"So what's the plan moving forward?" Paolo asked, ignoring whatever he might have observed passing between you. "My team can't camp out in Scotland forever without raising questions. Your father's expecting reports, and he'll send more people if he doesn't like what he hears."

"We need to identify the leak before making any major moves," Lewis replied, shifting seamlessly back to tactical assessment. "We should have the preliminary analysis complete by tomorrow morning. If we combine that with your intelligence..."

"We might have enough to take action," Paolo finished, nodding in agreement. "Narrow the field at least."

You found yourself watching them with a strange sense of detachment—these two dangerous men from different worlds finding common ground in strategy and protection, their natural competitiveness temporarily set aside in service of shared objective.

"Uncle Paolo, your team can use the west wing for now," you suggested. "Carmen's already preparing rooms. We should coordinate communications protocols to ensure nothing compromises this place any further."

Paolo nodded, accepting your directive without the automatic challenge he might have offered weeks ago. "My guys are good, but I'll make sure they understand the sensitivity. No unnecessary communications, no mentions of specific location in any transmissions."

"I'll have Jensen coordinate with your security chief," Lewis added. "Integrated patrol patterns, clear chain of command to prevent confusion if anything develops."

The conversation continued—practical arrangements, tactical considerations, the temporary integration of two security teams with different protocols and loyalties. Throughout, you found yourself increasingly aware of the subtle shift in dynamics: both men treating you as an active participant rather than a protected asset, your insights incorporated into strategic planning rather than merely acknowledged and set aside.

As the discussion wound down, Paolo rose from his chair with the slight grimace of a man whose joints protested Scottish dampness. "I should check on my team, make sure they're settling in without causing problems for your people."

Lewis stood as well, extending his hand in a gesture that carried more significance than its casual appearance suggested. "We appreciate your discretion in this matter. And your support."

Paolo accepted the handshake, his assessment of Lewis evident in his expression. "Just doing what's best for the family. All of it." His gaze shifted to include you in that definition of "family," the boundaries expanding beyond traditional bloodlines.

Once Paolo had left to check on his team, Lewis turned to you, that careful control softening now that you were alone. "Your uncle is... not what I expected."

"He grows on you," you said, echoing your earlier description of Carmen. "Rough around the edges, but absolutely loyal once you've earned his trust."

"And have I?" Lewis asked, genuine curiosity rather than strategic calculation in the question. "Earned his trust?"

You considered this, thinking about Paolo's assessment and the subtle shifts in his interaction with Lewis throughout the conversation. "You're getting there," you replied honestly. "The fact that he's willing to help manage my father rather than just following orders to bring me home? That's significant."

Lewis nodded, accepting this assessment without pushing for more definitive reassurance. Another distinction from the men you'd grown up around, who demanded absolute loyalty rather than recognizing its gradual development through demonstrated worth.

"So it's not Paolo," he said, circling back to the central concern that had shadowed your reunion with your uncle. "But there's still someone in your father's organization feeding information to Suarez."

"Someone close," you agreed, the implications still troubling despite your relief about Paolo specifically. "Someone with access to secure communications and family matters."

Lewis's expression shifted toward that focused calculation you'd seen when he ordered Bianchi's execution—not emotion but absolute determination, the cold precision that had built his empire from nothing.

"We'll find them," he said simply, the quiet certainty in his voice more reassuring than elaborate promises would have been. "And when we do..."

He didn't need to finish the thought. In your world, betrayal had only one consequence—the only variables were the method and visibility of retribution. Quick and clean or public and mesmerizing, the end result remained the same.

"Together, right?" you asked.

Lewis's eyes met yours, something warming in their depths despite the deadly focus they'd held moments before. "Together," he agreed, the simple echo feeling like a promise rather than mere acknowledgment.

....tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x reader #mob!boss lewis hamilton #mob!lewis hamilton #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction

349 notes · View notes

agathasfamiliar · 3 months ago

Note

hi!! I just found your blog, can I request g!p detective!agatha railing reader in a missionary position and has a bulge kink (poking the bear🤭🏃‍♀️)

thank you so much for this request it was very fun to write, i hope you enjoy it!

fuck the police:

detective agnes o'connor x fem!reader

You fucked up and finally got caught for your long-running streak of graffiti artistry. What's worse than being arrested, however? Being interrogated by the one detective in town who causes you to question your all out hatred for the profession.

word count: 6.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, agnes is trans/intersex/has a penis, penis in vagina sex, power bottom!reader, service top!agnes (but agnes still needs a little control of course), handcuffs, breeding kink, bulge kink, agnes loves reader's tits, smut

author's note: trans butch agnes, my beloved. also i probably could've done more research into a more realistic set up/i know this isn't how someone being arrested/interrogated would work but it's porn so...hopefully you can look past that

You never thought you’d find yourself here, arrested and waiting to be questioned for your crimes. Perhaps you should’ve seen it coming, your graffiti art has steadily risen in popularity over the last few months, ever since one particularly evocative piece got featured on the local news and allegedly inspired a number of protests throughout the city of Westview.

Not that you had anything to do with that.

The police department has issued several requests for information on you, even offering a pretty handsome reward for the proven identity of “Hex”, the name you tag every piece with. A rumor has even reached your ears about a copycat artist getting arrested over in Eastview. Serves them right for using your signature, but it at least has kept the feds off your trail for a bit.

Admittedly, you’d gotten cocky thinking you could get away with tagging the squad car stationed at the busiest intersection in town. In your defense, it had looked empty. How were you supposed to know the deputy on duty was napping in the back seat? You’d made it halfway through the looping pink pig face you were sprawling across the windshield before he woke up and chased you down four blocks.

If you were wearing your usual running shoes instead of having slipped on an old pair of slides in your rush out of the house, you probably would’ve outrun the middle-aged cop chasing you, another mistake you won’t make again.

Now, you sit shivering in nothing but a sheer white tank top and sweatpants so spattered in all the vibrant colors of your, now confiscated, cans of spray paint, that you can’t even remember what color the pants originally were. You weren’t an idiot, you had a black hoodie on when you went out to do your work, but the rookie cop that booked you at the station also insisted on taking your sweatshirt for “evidence”.

You’re pretty sure he just wanted to see you suffer in the refrigerator-like temperature they keep the precinct at, clearly only recently having graduated the academy and already taking a shine to abusing his power. Pigs, indeed.

The interrogation room they brought you to well over 30 minutes ago sits at the very back of the building, a windowless box that somehow looks and smells both musty and sterile. A large one-way mirror covers the wall opposite the door, the only noise in the confined space being the tick-tick-tick of the clock above it that reads just past midnight.

You rattle the short chain connecting your handcuffed wrists to a bar on the heavy metal table in front of you, just to disrupt the suffocating silence. Have you seriously been forgotten here?

Just as you have that thought, as if summoning another person into existence with it, the door, opposite the corner where you sit, opens briskly.

Twin sighs of irritation drop from both your mouth and the supposed detective’s as she enters. You can’t make out too many details of her appearance at first because of the dim lighting that mostly just illuminates the table you sit at, as well as the fact that she has her head down looking over what you assume is your intake forms.

“I want a lawyer.” Are the first words out of your mouth once the woman has turned to shut the door behind her.

“Ha!” She laughs dryly and it has you simmering with rage already, but something about it also sounds familiar.

“Well, sweetie,” The still concealed detective continues as she finally steps into the light, “not likely to find a public defender that’s available at this hour, but if you insist on staying overnight…” She trails off amusedly, finally stepping into the light and causing your prepared reply to die in your throat as you connect the recognition of the voice with the blue eyes that meet yours.

“Detective O’Connor.” You greet, trying to keep your tone even.

Fuck.

Of fucking course, of all the detectives in the goddamn city, this is who had to come question you. The same detective you’ve served coffee to every morning for the better part of three years at your shitty cafe day job. The same detective who barely acknowledges your existence, but when her fingers brush yours as you pass her usual over the counter, you think about it for the rest of the day. The detective you berate yourself for fantasizing about, because she’s everything you despise and your friends would never let you hear the end of it if they found out, especially with how often you’re spouting your “radical” political beliefs (not that you see them that way.)

Detective Agnes fucking O’Connor…

This is not how you imagined it would look if you ever got her in a room alone.

“Huh? Do I know you?” She questions, almost offended, and now you’re the one to let out a dry laugh.

“Here, let me help jog your memory.” You say, picking up the small, paper cup of water that had been left on the table for you in one bound hand, holding it aloft and reciting her order.

“One large hot coffee with two sugars and half a pump of vanilla.”

She looks unaffected at your display, only raising both eyebrows once in sudden recognition before sauntering over to the chair on the other side of the table and sitting down casually.

“Impressive, that how you’ve avoided custody so long? Charming Westview’s finest by memorizing their coffee orders?” Her questions are laced with condescension.

“Nope, just yours. Why? Is it working?” You smirk despite your better judgment. You hadn’t planned to try the flirting route to get out your charges, but hey, the best schemes have an element of truth to them. Plus, if this is the only chase you’ll have to speak to the detective alone, you might as well make the most of it.

She doesn’t answer, instead leaning back in the rickety metal chair that lets out a squeal at the motion. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that’s tied low at the base of her skull. Blue flannel sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and it’s all you can do not to think about tracing your tongue over the veins that snake over her strong forearms.

The jeans she’s wearing strain with the way she sits, legs spread apart, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from letting out a gasp when you notice how it puts the delicious outline of what’s beneath the denim on display. Fuck, you do not need to be thinking about straddling the woman where she sits and grinding down against her bulge right now, but you are anyway.

Mercifully, she leans forward again in the seat to ask another question and the view is gone. You need to focus if you’re going to get out of this without incriminating yourself.

“What were you doing tonight?” She asks flatly, getting down to business. You know better than to provide anything resembling an answer, true or false.

“This whole thing seems pretty excessive, all things considered. I mean, an interrogation? Really, Agnes?” Her first name slips out before you can catch it, but you don’t really care.

“Just answer the question. And it’s Detective.” The flare of anger in her eyes only spurs you on.

“Sorry, Detective Agnes,” you correct yourself, purposefully using her name this time, just to see that flash of heat again.

“If you were so curious about where I was tonight you could’ve just asked me out.” Now that you’ve opened the floodgates, the suggestive remarks just keep coming out.

For Agnes’ part, she remains still and draws in an angry breath. Her blue eyes blaze with irritation at your lack of cooperation more than the intrigue you were hoping for, but that just means you’ll have to turn up the dial on this improvised plan you’ve laid out for yourself. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Listen, if you’re going to keep wasting my time I’ll just lock you up now and wait ‘til morning.” She threatens with a glowering expression, voice raising every few words in an attempt to intimidate. It’s kind of cute, actually.

You think she might hear just how her phrasing comes out and anticipate your next response, because she almost looks remorseful. The slightest pink tone that rises to her cheeks and the way she pokes her tongue out to wet her bottom lip when her eyes flick down to your barely covered chest don’t escape your careful observations either.

“Ooo,” you start, falsely scandalized, “now you want me to spend the night?” A slight giggle escaping you at your own words and the way you lift your handcuffed wrists in front of you playfully.

With the action, you’re sure to press your biceps against either side of your body to even more obviously display your tits, and she can’t help but look down with the movement, eyes raking over your nipples that stand at attention beneath the thin fabric in the cold space.

Heat is practically rolling off her in waves and you can’t tell for sure if it’s arousal or fury that is threatening to boil over, or what will happen when it does, but you have always been the type to take risks. Why stop now?

“Can’t you just get me off with a warning? I mean- let me off…” You ask before she can recover from your last question, attempting a simper at the intentional slip up in your speech.

It seems that this is what finally pushes her over the edge as she slams her hands loudly against the metal table and stands up, causing it to vibrate with the impact. Her chair goes clattering to the ground behind her, but she doesn’t seem to care. The satisfied expression you wear drops for a second at the forceful display, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, that’s enough!” She shouts, leaning over so you can practically feel her breath on your face before she rounds the table quickly.

“Do you really wanna keep poking the bear?!” She asks, furious, now standing at your right side and heavily folding at the waist to shout into your ear.

You have to lean away slightly at the volume that threatens to burst your eardrum and it provides just enough space to look the detective up and down where she stands.

That’s when you see it.

Unmistakable and pressing against the zipper of her jeans so forcefully that it’s a wonder they haven’t burst; Detective O’Connor is hard.

You can’t drag your eyes away from the tented fabric, so obvious that it nearly casts a shadow onto the denim in the odd light of the room. As you are still seated, you’re practically at the perfect level to just lean over and mouth the length through her pants. It’s all you can do not to let your head dip where it wants to most, as if you’re a magnet being drawn by its opposite charge.

“I- uh.” You stutter, unsure of your words for the first time since she walked in. The amount of saliva that has accumulated in your mouth at the sight in front of you forces you to swallow before you speak again.

“I think I’d rather have the bear poke me.” You breathe, sounding wrecked just at the thought.

When you finally drag your gaze back up to hers, her face is burning red, but this time you can tell it is much more out of embarrassment than anger. She looks self conscious in a way you’ve never seen and it’s so, so pretty.

“It’s okay I c-” You start, reaching out uselessly in your confines, but you’re cut off from your attempt at a rare comforting word when Agnes seizes your right shoulder and lifts you to your feet. She then immediately folds you over and presses you against the table on your stomach, handcuffed hands pinned beneath your chest. You let out a grunt at the forceful action as well as the freezing cold metal that almost stings your skin that has warmed at your flirting.

The position is much like the one you were put in a few hours ago upon your arrest, only now it causes you to ache with desire instead of seeth with fury.

“You think this is funny?!” She questions, but it sounds strained and unsure. Your own hesitance at her intentions keeps you from muttering out that it’s actually not funny, it’s really fucking hot.

It dawns on you then that she probably turned you over like this so you aren’t able to see the blush that’s probably still spreading over her skin, or the bulge in her pants that’s no doubt only getting worse, especially with how you purposefully arch your back in her grasp.

She has you pinned beneath her hands, one still on your shoulder and the other holding your waist, the perfect placement for her to pull you back against her. Instead, a shaky breath sounds from behind you. It seems like she’s deciding what to do next and you can almost feel the heat radiating from between her hips that begs her to choose the option you’re hoping for too.

You start pressing back yourself, impatient and using any amount of leverage possible to reach your destination. To help her decide.

“Come on, detective. Let me help you out.” You nearly whisper in the most convincing and sweet voice you can muster. Her hands loosen ever so slightly at the soft sound and you use the opportunity to slide the last inch backwards, your ass just barely brushing her front, aware also that if she had wanted to stop you she would’ve easily been able to.

You feel the hardness and heat of her cock against you through both your clothing and nearly release a whimper at the sensation, at the idea of her finally being inside you like you’ve fantasized about so many times.

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Her hands release you entirely and she steps away without a word, leaving you feeling even colder than the steel table you’re slumped against. You drop your head to the metal in defeat. That’s it, you think. Your efforts haven't worked and you’re not only going to spend the night in a cell, but you’re going to do so while very uncomfortably wet and wound up. Plus, she’s probably going to try to add attempted bribery or harassment to your charge sheet. God, this was a dumb idea. Why couldn’t you have just gotten some old guy detective whose questions you would have dodged coldly and without a second thought?

All these thoughts flash through your head in the few seconds it takes Agnes to step away from the table and turn you by the hips to face her, the chain keeping you there being just long enough to allow such movement.

You look down immediately, as if out of instinct, to find the large bulge still present, possibly even more so somehow. A bolt of desire strikes through your core at the small dark spot you notice has formed on the crotch of the already dark jeans. The evidence of your effect threatens to turn your legs to jelly. Finally, your eyes raise to meet Agnes’ with a curiosity, who stands less than a foot from you, hands still holding your hips loosely. The thrill of not knowing what she’ll do next makes your already racing heart beat even faster.

You find that she looks as weak as you feel, drinking you in like you’re an ice cold glass of water she’s found in the middle of the sahara. It’s clear that she’s used up every last thread of restraint she has to resist your offer, and it still has proven to be insufficient. Her blue irises have nearly been swallowed by blown black pupils that bore into you as she speaks her resignation to her rapturous fate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you,” she breathes the words out like she’s just run a marathon, “it’s gonna be while looking at those pretty tits.”

You lean back into the table in favor of collapsing straight to the floor at those words. How is this actually happening?

Seeing you stumble into the table, her right hand shifts down to your thigh and lifts, helping you to sit on the ledge as she steps closer to let your knees bracket her body. She looks so much more confident in this moment, and not in the same stone-faced way she had while you prodded at her before. It brings a soft smile to your lips and she looks away, somewhat coyly, at your noticing. It’s hard to decide if you prefer her shy or assertive.

Blunt nails graze gently over your covered thighs, to your hips, then your waist, before finally settling over your scarcely contained breasts. Your own sharp intake of breath meets your ears as you lean into the warm touch and she squeezes them with a smirk playing on her lips.

“I might not remember your face…” she rasps, leaning to speak directly into your right ear, “but I definitely remember these.” Both thumbs move to brush over your already pebbled nipples, causing them to harden further. You roll your eyes, both at the comment and at the thread of pleasure that tugs right from where she touches you all the way down to your pulsing clit.

For all the humor in it, you can’t help but notice just how sincere her comment sounds and flashes run through your mind of every low cut top you’ve ever worn to work, wondering which one’s are her favorite.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You exhale with a chuckle against her cheek, momentarily forgetting your binds and trying to reach around her shoulders to pull her closer. The chain rattles loudly and you jerk with the reminder of your limited movement.

Agnes shakes her head and laughs at your needy but firm command as well as your inability to move.

“Here, let me.” She continues laughing gently as she reaches for the key ring you somehow hadn’t yet noticed swinging from her hip.

“No.” You blurt before you can think better of it.

“Leave them.”

It’s a daring statement and you run your tongue across your teeth mischievously while the implication works its way through the woman’s mind. Her lower lip disappears into her mouth with how hard she bites into it, looking at you in disbelief and utter need.

“Fuck,” is all she says, dropping the keys back to her side and moving instead to undo her belt with a clumsy haste.

You would be scrambling to remove your own pants as well, not wanting to waste anymore time, but your own request has left you unable to do so. Instead, you’re left in awe as the black leather belt is unlatched and left hanging loosely open while Agnes works at her zipper. Even less is left to the imagination when denim is pulled aside to reveal cotton boxer briefs protruding with the tension of her arousal.

Her cock is pressing tautly against the soft, grey material and the way the underwear clings to her body causes you to gape at the implication of how much the secure garment is still concealing.

The dark spot you’d noticed on her jeans is even darker and more centralized to its origin on the grey cloth. Saliva fills your mouth again at the sight, the only thing better than seeing her from beneath that last layer of clothing will be when it is finally removed.

As if reading your mind and wanting you to suffer a moment long, she pauses her motions of undressing any further. Before you can argue or make a snide remark, her hands are on your own waistband, tugging the paint-covered article down as much as she can while you’re still seated. You can’t very well lift yourself with your hands at the moment, so you slip off the table quickly to help get them the rest of the way down, hopping back up just as swiftly and letting her pull them off your legs, shoes falling to the floor one by one in the process.

The cold table under your mostly bare ass draws the breath from you momentarily, only a black pair of boyshorts now protecting you from the metal.

“Do you ever wash these?” Agnes asks down at the rainbow vomit littering your clothing before dropping the pants to the floor, a real dry humor in her voice replacing the stern, mocking one from when she first entered the room.

“What’s the point?” You ask, because seriously, why would you wash them if you’re just going to get paint all over them again?

“Do you answer every question with a question?” She fires back, moving back between your knees from where she’d stepped back to help undress you. Her fingers play again at her own waistband, dipping into them slightly before meeting your eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Do you always stall like this when a girl wants you to fill her pussy?” You ask with an exaggerated expression of curiosity, as if you are genuinely awaiting the answer and not just communicating your impatience.

Her cheeks pink again at the response, any clever comebacks quickly forgotten. You remove your gaze from her face and shift it back to her arousal to allow her to blush in private.

In your peripheral vision, you see her eyes flick up to watch your face as she dips her left hand into her underwear and grasps herself so gently, right hand pushing the material down to reveal what you’ve been waiting for.

You’re first met with a mess of dark curls that trail all the way up to her belly button, which you only catch a quick glimpse of with the way her shirt momentarily gets caught by her arm. You stifle a moan at the reveal of her thick cock; rock hard, reddened and still beading pre-cum, as you saw evidenced on the front of her jeans and underwear.

Now you slightly regret having her leave the cuffs on, as you long to reach out and take the length in your hands, or better yet, your mouth. Heat takes your face at the idea of getting on your knees before the detective and gagging on her length, and now you’re the one blushing and biting your lip.

Painfully tearing your eyes from the beautiful sight to catch Agnes’ expression, you find her still looking for your reaction. She finds exactly what she’s looking for in the way your eyes soften and you use one finger, your hands still bound at the wrists and settled in front of your chest, to beckon her forward.

Loose strands of brown hair that have escaped her messily tied back tendrils brush the side of your face as she leans in close to catch your message.

“I need your cock inside me, detective.” You husk, more than speak, into her ear, the lust dripping from the title she insisted on minutes ago causing a physical and auditory shudder through the woman. Looking back down, you see Agnes stroke herself once, as if your words have rendered her unable to resist.

Maybe she notices that you’re about to make a comment about it, because in one swift motion Agnes’ right hand flies up to your left shoulder, shifting you fully to your back on the table. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement, metal tabletop clattering at the impact and drowning out the sound. Just as quickly as you’ve adjusted to your new position, you’re being pulled by the thighs to the very edge of the table and towards exactly what you want, Agnes then guiding you to wrap your spread legs around her hips for support.

“You need this, huh?” She asks, hungrily looking over your body from her new perspective. You’re about to answer her question with your own when she slowly and teasingly drags the head of her cock from your clit to your entrance, over your underwear. Her timing is getting a little too convenient.

You groan at the feeling of your own wetness being pressed against you by her hardness. It makes you ache knowing it’s so close to being consumed by your heat, only a thin shield of fabric left between you. If you had full range of motion of your hands, you would have already ripped the rest of your clothing off, but the quick and dirty way you’re both still mostly clothed almost turns you on more.

Desperate to maintain the dizzying contact, your hips grind upward as your legs become a vice, pulling her ever closer. The clear enthusiasm only spurs her on, gliding back up and down again, circling your clit three times with her cock on the last pass until you're squirming beneath her and hopelessly trying to contain your whimpering. You would rather wait a lifetime for your orgasm than beg a cop.

You’re so sopping wet, though, that when you look down between your bodies you can see the way her cock shines with your arousal despite not having yet made full contact. It’s almost too much to bear, your clit throbbing in time with your pounding pulse. Something has to give or you’re soon going to be a blabbering mess.

“Just fuck me, Agnes!” You bark out, hips rising insistently and your voice verging on a whine.

The room goes still for a moment, even the clock ticking away on the wall seems to pause for dramatic effect as she quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head dangerously at your outburst. That same feeling from before washes over you, when you thought you might’ve really fucked up, but it only lasts for half a second before a hand is shoving your ruined underwear to one side and you feel the tip of her resting at your entrance.

Your eyes meet her blue ones, which are actually still mostly black, especially in this light. They burn into you like before and you don’t know whether her silence is a good or bad thing.

You draw in your own shaky breath, waiting for her next move, and on the exhale she sheathes herself to the hilt inside of you.

Even she can’t contain her half of the guttural growl that comes from both of you at the perfect feeling. You don’t even have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about just how fucking soaked you are that she was able to slide all the way in with one thrust, because the way her cock is filling you up so completely has rendered every other thought irrelevant.

A moment passes where you both breathe, adjusting to the stretch and squeeze respectively. You feel her throb once within you and think, at this point, with enough determination, you could come just from that small amount of friction.

You don’t need that determination, though. As if mocking that passing thought, Agnes skips any unnecessary build up and starts at a positively bruising pace. Just one moment ago she was panting over you, looking like she might not even make it two thrusts in before unraveling, and now she’s slamming into you with a literally breathtaking force.

No intelligible noises are able to come out of your throat at first, only broken, reedy gasps. Your eyes roll back in your head as the glorious, slapping sounds of your joining sexes fill your ears. Her length jabs over and over again at the perfect spot inside you, just where you need her.

Doing your best to focus your vision, you look up to see the red face of a woman clearly holding on to her composure for dear life. Her finger nails are short, but still able to bite into your hips ever so slightly as she practically slides you up and down along the table while also moving against you herself, which deepens her thrusts even more.

This also seemingly provides quite the show for Agnes, who you observe is splitting her time between watching your face contorting with pleasure, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy, and most of all, the way your tits are bouncing considerably with her every movement.

“You like these? You should fuck them.” You make out between gasping breaths, nodding down at your own chest.

Agnes takes a moment to respond, her laser focus causing her to not even register your words at first. When she does however, and notices your gesturing, her thrusting falters only for a moment, as if the idea alone has made her nearly swoon with desire. Crystal irises scan you over again and you can tell she’s thinking about it by the way her eyebrows knit together in a desperate sort of way.

“Maybe next time.” She decides, smirking down at you and ramming herself into you particularly hard once before returning to her rhythm, while her left hand comes up to grip your right breast greedily.

“Mmn- next time?” You ask around a moan, trying not to sound too hopeful, but it’s also such an unexpected sentiment from the detective you can’t help but question her further.

“I’d bet good money this won’t be your last arrest,” is all she says to satisfy your curiosity. While it’s also a subtle dig at your evading skills, your imagination still runs wild with the unspoken promise of how a future slip-up might turn out for you. It almost makes you want to get caught again.

“Right, because you’d love to f-fuck, fuck! Oh my god!” Your response turns into a moaning curse when her hand shoots down from playing with your tits so her thumb can land firmly on your clit and press down with flawless pressure, never letting up consistently filling you in the process.

“Oh fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..” The mantra spills from your lips while your orgasm mounts within you and you know you’ll be toppling over the edge any minute now.

If your hands were free you would be locking your fingers behind her neck and pulling her even closer to you to ensure you get what you want, but the burn of the metal chafing your wrists is a delicious alternative. The pain only sharpens the pleasure you’re feeling everywhere else and you throb at the idea of waking up tomorrow and seeing angry red and purple bracelets of evidence.

At your emphatic request, she doesn’t stop. You’ve never been so full before and when Agnes’ cock throbs within you after every couple of pumps, stars explode behind your eyes. There’d better be a next time because you’re pretty sure nothing and nobody has or will ever make you feel like this.

“I’m so, so close. Fuck!” You shout, unsure what possesses you to tell her, but her response only drives you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, yeah, fucking come for me. Come on my cock, come on my c-cock…” She huffs, the exertion that you were already impressed with her maintaining finally shows in her voice, but she still never lets up. It almost sounds like she’s begging, a “please” barely contained behind her lips, and that’s what makes you really want to come for her.

Chasing your orgasm, you redouble your efforts of rocking your hips up and it makes her length press even more fully against your front wall until you’re practically screaming with pleasure. The new angle caused by your rocking coupled with the way your walls are tightening around her in anticipation of your release is also clearly doing something for Agnes.

Her breaths are coming in short puffs and she is completely unable to stifle the loud whimper that bursts out of her when you clench around her even harder, your orgasm just seconds away.

That’s what finally does it, that mewl that you were able to pull from the tough detective. It sends you flying, every muscle tenses and wave after wave of pleasure causes you to buck against the table and Agnes, but she holds you firmly in place, fucking you through it and moaning herself the whole time as she marvels at your release. The aftershocks go on for what feels like forever while you float in your euphoria, never wanting it to end.

After your release, Agnes’ thrusts quickly become short and frantic, almost rutting into you with a fervor. The throbs you’ve felt are coming on every pump and you’re content to lie back in your blissed out state and let her take whatever she wants, until she starts to pull out of you, one trembling hand releasing your hip and clearly intent on finishing herself off.

You’re suddenly more lucid than ever, quickly locking your ankles behind her from where they’d fallen limp, and shoving her back into you until she bottoms out. A surprised breath leaves her at the action, a sheen of sweat breaking across her forehead as she stutters out her reasoning.

“I-I’m gonna-” She can’t even get the words out and it’s the second time in so many minutes that you feel your heart squeeze at just how adorable this usually grave woman is.

“I know, I know. Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is thick with desire and you’re still lingering bliss, the pet name slipping out like water, but you need her to know just how badly you want it.

Her eyes widen slightly as a deeper blush somehow takes over her already red face, unsure but so very full of want. You feel her twitch within you despite herself and her hips roll just at the words.

You don’t break eye contact, making clear how serious you are to quell her doubt.

Tentatively, after a beat, she starts up a slower pace, pulling almost out of you before thrusting all the way back in, like she’s giving herself time to think again.

“You can do it baby, I know you want to. Fuck, you feel so good inside me.” You gasp out the words while she fucks back into your pussy and you think you could come again just from the way she looks at you when you say them.

You repeat your cooing encouragements and it doesn’t even take three more of those slow thrusts before she falters and stays sheathed inside you, rutting weakly.

“Come on, baby.” You repeat, and you know she’s done.

More of those beautiful whimpers fall from her lips as you feel one stronger throb and then warmth explodes into your walls. You can’t help but moan yourself at the feeling of being filled by her. Spurt after spurt of her cum coats your insides while she holds you tighter and tighter, as if you’ll float away if she lets go. Her desperate moans die down eventually and she slumps against you, still inside, and draws in one big breath before releasing it slowly. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is now resting against your restrained hands on your chest.

It’s probably good they're restrained, you think, because if they weren’t you’d be having a very hard time resisting running your fingers through her long hair, tenderly scratching your nails against the nape of her neck.

Another beat passes where the two of you breath against one another and come down from your respective highs. The delicious mix of your and Agnes’ cum has started to drip out of you onto the table below and it’s a hot enough thought that your sensitive clit gives a weak twitch and you clench around Agnes unintentionally, causing her to crane her neck to look up at you.

Her eyes are clear again and softer than you’ve ever seen them; you let your coursing endorphins carry you away on a cloud of imagining leaning the six inches it would take to capture her lips in yours, but you don’t dare actually do it.

She starts to shift, maybe shaking herself from some similar thought, you can’t tell. Her soft sex pulls out of you slowly as she pushes up on her hands and waits for you to release her from the grip your legs still have her in. You unsteadily unravel yourself from her, shuddering slightly at the loss and trying not to think about how empty you feel without her.

Now free, she tucks herself back into her briefs and makes quick work of finally undoing your cuffs. Her hands rub at the raw skin absently, using her hold there to pull you into a seated position. She then reaches down for the balled-up mess you call a pair of pants and slides them back onto your trembling legs easily. After you’re relatively put back together, cum still leaking out and coating your already ruined underwear, she looks you over once more with hunger along with something else you can’t place.

She looks thoughtful, like she wants to say something else but thinks better of it, instead letting a sly smile pull at her mouth and a different comment sneak through with a soft laugh.

“Consider that your warning.”

#agatha harkness #agatha all along #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha all along fanfic #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader smut #x reader smut #female reader #fem reader #x reader #agatha harkness fanfic #agatha harkness smut #smut #agatha all along smut #familiar requests #agatha x you #agatha smut

466 notes · View notes

poisonlove · 6 months ago

Text

The Addams curse | w.a

Pairing: Wednesday Addams X reader

A/N: Okay, I admit it. I read a story that inspired me so much that I "stole" the idea

Wednesday was painfully aware of the curse she inherited from her family: the Addams curse. It was a curse that had existed since the 5th century, binding an Addams to their soulmate. A curse that would drive one to madness if rejected by that person, a madness that would torment them even after death.

As alluring as that last thought sounded, Wednesday didn’t want to become a slave to another person.

And she especially had things to do.

Just the thought of her father's expression when he looked at Morticia sent a warm, nauseating sensation to her stomach, a warmth that was far from pleasant. It was a reminder that in her life she would encounter… her other half. She would prefer to skin herself alive than to fall into this trap.

Because love was, in fact, a trap.

Thanks to reading a book about her family's history, she learned that the curse activated with the first contact with the destined person. A touch that sent thousands of electric shocks coursing through the body, a bond capable of quenching the thirst of her cursed soul.

That’s why she was averse to any contact: no one, ever, would trigger that curse to drag her into madness. She categorically rejected the idea of succumbing to temptation; she was even willing to kill the destined person, fully aware that she would die immediately afterward.

there was another side effect: if your soulmate died, you would follow them incapable of living without them.

Wednesday pressed her lips into a thin line.

That moment had arrived the instant she crossed the gates of Nevermore Academy. A warmth spread through her body and an annoying itch kept her on edge. Wednesday mentally cursed herself for having attacked students at her old school: at least she wouldn’t have anticipated her end. Her parents watched her with curiosity as they approached her new room and Wednesday tried to maintain an unreadable expression, fully aware that chaos reigned inside her.

Where her mother stayed in the past: Ophelia Hall.

As soon as they opened the door the itch intensified and something indefinable vibrated in the air. She wasn’t sure if it was due to the curse or the fact that she had entered a painfully colorful room. A girl immediately sprang up from the bed, a smile stretching from ear to ear as her blonde hair with blue and pink streaks danced toward their direction. Another girl sat cross-legged on the bed to the girl to far too… enthusiastic.

There it was again, that annoying itch.

“Hi, roommate!” the blonde exclaimed excitedly.

Wednesday felt nauseated, a wave of discomfort tightening her stomach in a cold grip. It was a new sensation for her. She felt her throat constrict, the urge to vomit ready to explode but the lack of food ingested that morning left her with only a painful emptiness, like an abyss sucking her from within. With a shiver she realized that the nausea wasn’t caused by hunger but by the curse that poisoned her insides, slithering through her veins like a subtle venom.

Oh no.

The impression of tiny spiders weaving her stomach from the inside sent a chilling shiver through her, insinuating itself between her bones. Every thread of that imaginary web seemed to tighten around her, making every breath harder than the last. The sensation of being trapped, of losing control, terrified her in a way she would never admit to anyone. Wednesday found herself immobile; perhaps "paralyzed" was the best word.

“Are you okay? You look... pale,” the blonde said with concern.

Other eyes turned in her direction.

“Oh… Wednesday always looks half dead,” her father commented with an ironic smile.

Her mother’s hand rested on her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze, a gesture that could have seemed comforting but for Wednesday was a reminder of the distance between them.

But inside, Wednesday felt a turmoil boiling in her chest. A raw, primitive energy surged through her like an electric current, making her muscles tremble. Paradoxically, it was the first time she felt so… alive. That pain, that sense of oppression and that devastating nausea had awakened an intensity she had never experienced before. It was as if the curse was showing her the limits of her humanity, forcing her to feel closer to life, precisely because she was on the brink of her annihilation.

If her mother hadn’t placed her hand on her shoulder, she probably would have fainted.

“I understand,” the blonde mumbled, a look of confusion on her face. “Anyway, I’m Enid, and that over there is my best friend Y/N,” she exclaimed enthusiastically.

Y/N timidly waved her hand as a greeting.

“I’m happy to meet you!” Enid exclaimed, filled with bubbly happiness, opening her arms and walking toward her.

Wednesday’s eyes widened and she quickly took a step back to avoid contact. The itch had appeared as soon as she entered this room and the gothic girl didn’t know if it was the blonde girl who was the possible cause. There was also the chance that it was the other girl, Y/N, but honestly she didn’t want to know in any case.

Enid slowed down and looked at her with disappointment.

“Oh… I see you’re not a hugging person,” she mumbled weakly, still wearing a big smile on her lips.

“Do you like the room?” she asked curiously, her eyes so bright it seemed like she had two stars instead of irises.

“No,” Wednesday replied venomously.

“Sorry… Wednesday… is allergic to colors,” her father justified and Enid raised her eyebrows in confusion.

“What does it do to you?” she asked weakly.

“My flesh is peeling off my bones,” Wednesday replied in a flat tone, her lips reduced to a thin line. She felt the itch slowly fade but the annoyance remained on her. A faint laugh reached her ears, forcing her to turn toward Enid’s best friend. “Sorry… that was funny,” the latter stammered trying to justify herself as her cheeks flushed.

Wednesday stared at her intensely, a visceral hatred bubbling within her.

“Well… I’ll go now,” Y/N mumbled weakly. The girl got up from the bed and Wednesday found herself analyzing her quickly: tall, slender, long y/c hair and eyes of the same color. A smile resided on her lips and the goth felt as if her own were about to rise in reflex

she held back.

“It was nice to meet you,” she mumbled timidly.

Y/N passed by her and the proximity was enough to awaken the unsettling sensation gripping her insides. But luckily for Wednesday, it lasted only a few seconds.

(...)

Nevermore turned out to be much more fascinating than Wednesday had imagined: gorgons, werewolves, sirens, vampires and all the other creatures that populated the world of outcasts. However, what intrigued her the most was the series of murders wreaking havoc in the quiet town of Jericho. A frenzy of curiosity filled her; she felt inspired.

She longed to discover the identity of the killer, continue her novel about Viper and investigate any mystery that could be connected to her ancestor Goody Addams.

She would think about escape later.

Regarding her curse, Wednesday had narrowed it down: Enid, Y/N, and Yoko. Tayler and Xavier had quickly been eliminated from her list. Tayler for covering her mouth during the excursion in the woods to avoid being discovered by Sheriff Galpin and Xavier for taking her to the infirmary when she fainted. In both cases, she hadn’t felt anything, a total absence of emotions.

But Y/N was different. She was almost 80% sure that you were her soulmate.

Every time they spoke, even if she could detect a note of sarcasm in your responses to her icy remarks, she felt a palpable energy between you two, an electric current that seemed to draw her closer to you. Her eyes couldn’t tear away from yours and an unbearable fire exploded in her chest. She found herself experiencing mental blackouts lost in your gaze and on more than one occasion she had even stammered. She hated the curse, hated herself, and above all, hated you.

But what got her into trouble were her thoughts crowding her mind like a chorus of impatient voices: Take her hand, kiss her, find out if you are her damn ruin. These thoughts didn’t manifest with Enid or Yoko. With Enid, there was a weak itch, a sense of comfort but not attraction, probably because they were roommates. And Yoko? Well, she was simply a friend of Enid and Y/N.

Wednesday blinked and directed her gaze back to her plate.

The goth found herself having lunch at a table with her roommate's group. Despite loving solitude, she found herself amidst Enid and Yoko, with Y/N sitting in front of her, a calm expression on her face.

The buzzing continued.

Wednesday was close to Enid, so close that their shoulders brushed against each other. Anxiety gripped her stomach but she needed to narrow down the list, she wanted to know: she bit her lower lip and decided to eliminate the distance by leaning her weight against Enid's shoulder.

Nothing.

“Oh, sorry,” Enid shifted.

Wednesday furrowed her brow. Why hadn’t anything happened? Maybe the contact needed to last longer? Should she hold her hand or something? The goth extended her hand and placed it on the blonde’s arm.

Nothing.

She quickly fell into a panic, the electricity increasing around her and decided to touch Yoko.

Absolutely nothing.

“Do you want to kill me? Did you touch garlic with those hands?” Yoko asked, panicking as she looked at Wednesday through her sunglasses.

“I don’t think so… You would have already burned,” Y/N commented playfully. Wednesday looked up and locked eyes with Y/N. This only meant one thing... Her suspicions were true.

It was you.

You were her soulmate.

Oh, fuck it.

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x you #wednesday addams x you #miércoles addams #wednesday adams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday #wednesday addams #jenna x reader #jenna marie ortega #jenna x y/n #x y/n #y/n

820 notes · View notes

rhiannonsknife · 5 months ago

Note

what abt a pt 2 where Jackie and r are sharing a room while the nationals are happening and after their little.. session they had, r was not talking to Jackie at all not even for team strategies. which made things easier at first for Jackie but she also began to dread it. And at one particular match one of the opponents keeps fouling r to the point that r cant play no longer and Jackie gets really mad and does something to get herself kicked off the pitch and then she storms to the locker room to comfort r

── WHAT’S THE NAME OF THE GAME?

— summary: part 2 of this.

— warnings: as always: implied cheating & internalized homophobia. angst. some nsfw content. so mdni. i did not beta read this. also i don’t know shit about soccer.

jackie thought this would be easier. she had really thought this would be easier.

the moment she told you to stay away after what happened in your involuntarily shared hotel room, she’d convinced herself that it was for the best. that she could pretend it hadn’t happened at all. that she could focus on nationals, on playing her best, on not getting distracted (on, for once, not feeling the constant urge to have you knuckle deep inside her whenever you’re around).

and for the first couple of days, it seemed like her plan was working. you were quiet, distant even, avoiding her in a way that should have been a relief. you didn’t so much as glance in her direction, and when coach called for team strategies or drills, you kept your responses strictly professional, never sparing jackie a single unnecessary word. on the field, you played your own very best and the yellowjackets were on a winning streak.

at first, she appreciated it. you were doing what she’d asked; giving her the space to breathe, to push down the confusing feelings that threatened to overwhelm her every time she thought about the way your lips had felt on hers. the way you felt around her fingers, or sounded like, moaning her name into her ear.

then, jackie started to notice the absence.

you weren’t laughing at shauna’s jokes during warm-ups. you weren’t offering quiet encouragement to the team before a big play. you weren’t you, and jackie hated how much it bothered her.

and now, as she’s watching you take the brunt of foul after foul from one of the opposing players during this match, she realizes just how much it’s been eating away at her.

the atmosphere at nationals is everything they’d hoped for: electric, buzzing with the kind of energy jackie lives for. no match in wiskayok or states could ever compare: the crowd roars, flags waving in a sea of team colors, a sharp contrast to the quieter games back home. it’s is everything you’ve worked for. it’s supposed to be jackie’s moment to shine.

she should be focused, completely dialed in, but her mind keeps slipping.

from the moment the whistle blew, she caught herself sneaking glances in your direction: watching the determined set of your jaw, the way you throw yourself into every play despite the thin layer of tension that still lingers between you two.

jackie forces herself to focus, calling out to shauna as the ball sails across the field. shauna moves into position, linking up with tai to create a well practiced formation. she knows they’re the best team here. she knows they can win this thing easily if she would only focus.

the yellowjackets are good -great, even- but jackie can tell this opposing team is different. they’re aggressive, physical in a way that goes beyond the rules. it’s the only reason they’ve come this far.

she spots it immediately the first time the girl fouls you.

it’s a hard shoulder to the side, not enough to draw the ref’s attention but enough to send you stumbling. you recover quickly, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and jackie tries to shake it off with your same kind of ease. out of all the girl’s on the team, you were always on the rather calm side, never drawing any negative attention on your playing.

but it happens again. and again.

the same girl -tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a number 8 jersey- zeroes in on you like she’s got something to prove. a shove here, an elbow there, and jackie feels the frustration building every time you go down.

by the first half, it’s impossible to ignore. you’re limping slightly now, favoring one leg, but you haven’t said a word about it to anyone. jackie’s jaw tightens as she watches you adjust your shin guard, her fingers itching to grab you and force you to sit out.

“focus up, jackie!” tai yells in passing, snapping her out of her thoughts as the ball rockets toward their side of the field.

thankfully, her captain instincts finally start to kick in. she redirects the team, shouting commands as she positions herself to intercept the play. for a few fleeting moments, she’s back in the game, back in control.

and then it happens.

number 8 takes you down again, this time with a brutal sweep of her leg. you hit the ground hard, and the sharp whistle of the referee barely registers over the sound of jackie’s own heartbeat pounding in her ears. the opposing player doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry. she smirks as she turns away, and something inside jackie snaps.

“that’s it!” she yells, storming across the field before anyone can stop her.

she shoves the girl, hard enough to make her stumble. serves her right. “what the hell is your problem?” jackie demands sharply.

8 stands, shoving jackie right back. the two of them are nose to nose now. “you’ve been playing dirty all game!” jackie growls, her fists clenched. “don’t think i haven’t noticed. stay away from her!“

the ref, who’s been turning a blind eye to all the fouls against you, finally steps in, blowing the whistle. he’s already annoyed with the confrontation, but jackie’s not done yet. the other girl laughs mockingly and then, she goes too far. she shoves jackie again, and this time it’s not just a gentle push. there’s force behind it. jackie’s chest tightens with a surge of adrenaline, and -all at once- she’s done holding back.

before anyone can stop her, jackie swings. It’s quick, instinctive, and lands right on 8’s nose audibly. the crowd gasps. the ref immediately pulls out the red card, the one that signals ejection from the match.

jackie’s chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath sharp and ragged. she doesn’t even seem to notice the red card being held up in front of her, or the shouting of the other players. she’s focused on one thing and one thing only: you.

“you’re done!” ref calls, his voice firm, cutting through the chaos. jackie doesn’t care. instead she’s turning, walking off the pitch with an intensity in her steps that matches her anger. somewhere behind her, shauna is calling her name, but jackie doesn’t stop. she doesn’t even look back, heading straight for the locker rooms.

when she bursts in, you’re sitting on the bench already, trying to ice your visibly swollen ankle.

“jackie…” you start, startled by her sudden presence, but she cuts you off.

“you’re hurt.” her gaze is hard as she stands in front of you, however her hands tremble at her sides. “that player- she-“

“you don’t need to do that,” you say quietly, lowering your eyes. “i can take care of myself just fine”

jackie pauses, her anger slowly deflating as she watches you with a huff. “why didn’t you tell anyone? why didn’t you let them stop her?” she demands. at least her voice is softer now.

you laugh bitterly, shaking your head.”what are you even doing here already?”

jackie lets out a short, breathy laugh, still a little wound up from what happened on the field. she kneels down in front of you, leaning forward to rest her hands on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. “you really think i’d just let that girl get away with it?”

you stare at her, puzzled, eyes wide, the throbbing pain of your ankle momentarily forgotten. “what do you mean?”

jackie rolls her eyes. “i might have punched her...in the face…and i might’ve gotten kicked off the field…but i wasn’t gonna stand by while she kept fouling you like that!”

for a moment, you’re silent. jackie, the jackie you’ve been avoiding ever since…well, since everything happened, just punched another player on your behalf. she can claim that it’s only because you’re one of her teammates all she wants. you know its not just that: last time shauna was fouled by the defense in another match, she hardly batted an eye: she just scored a stunning penalty kick right into the top left corner of their goal, sending the yellowjackets to the quarterfinals of nationals.

this isn’t about her being the captain, with a certain responsibility. this is about you getting hurt.

knowing that makes your heart beat a little faster.

then again, there’s a deeper part of you that’s conflicted. jackie just did something for you that no one else could. she went against everything she’s been trying to keep her distance from. and now, here she is, back in the locker room, having broken her very own rules all over again.

you swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. “i didn’t know you cared that much”

jackie meets your gaze, her eyes softening a fraction as she looks at you. “of course i care. you think i’d just let some random player get away with hurting you, especially when it’s been happening all game?”

you stupid heart stirs a little more, but you force yourself to try and push the feeling away. you can’t get lost in this. not now. she said it herself: this is nationals.

“well, thanks,” you say softly “you didn’t have to do that”

jackie’s expression falters for a moment, her lips pulling into a slight pout. “i know i didn’t have to” she looks down at her hands, then back at you. “but i couldn’t just stand there and do nothing…”

a beat of silence passes between you. you both avoid verbalizing the unspoken words hanging in the air. what does this mean? jackie’s gesture feels like it should mean something more.

and, still, you see the way her lips part, the way her chest rises and falls. you both linger in that charged moment, close enough to feel the intensity of the air between you. close enough, even , to feel the warmth of her breath on your face.

it’s just a second -an instant, really- but it feels like it lasts forever. you lean in slightly, jackie kneeling on the floor between your legs. all you can see is the way she’d looked at you that night, lingering above you, pleading you to cum for her. that same girl is in front of you now, just inches away, leaning in to kiss you.

jackie pulls back abruptly, breaking the moment with a quick intake of breath.

the anticipation shatters, vanishes to nothing.

“i’ve been thinking…” she clears her throat and looks away shamefully. your heart drops. “maybe we should just…let it go,”

you blink, confusion creeping up on you. “let it go?”

jackie exhales slowly, rubbing the back of her neck as if trying to find the right words. “yeah. let the…whatever the hell happened between us that night just be…whatever it was” her eyes flicker toward you, still avoiding your gaze. “it was a mistake, you know that. and i don’t want it to mess with the rest of the trip. we’re here to play, not to…complicate things!”

you don’t let your disappointment show. you can’t. you’ve been here before. you know the drill. you’re just a teammate. a friend. and she’s someone else’s girl. she’s jackie taylor. golden girl of wiskayok. team captain of the soon to be national soccer team champions. she’s not yours. she’s not even gay, as she so often reminds you.

you aren’t the same. you can’t just pretend that last night didn’t mean something to you. you still feel the heat of her skin on yours, the way she held you, the way it felt like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than what jackie is suggesting right now.

“yeah. i guess you’re right,” you say, your voice an attempt to sound casual, but your heart’s not in it. if jackie knows you half as much as she will sometimes, when it fits her narrative, claims to, she’ll be able to see right through you. and if she does, she doesn’t let it show.

“friends,” she mutters, as though trying to convince herself as much as you. “it’s the best option. teammates, friends…nothing else. we’re good like this, right?”

you nod, the words stuck in your throat. “yeah,” you finally manage to say, though it feels like a lie. “yeah, we’re good”

you’re not sure how long you’re sitting in the silence of the locker room, jackie’s words replaying in your head. friends. nothing else. jackie, sitting a few feet away, picks at the tape on her shin guards, avoiding your gaze. her jaw is tight, her focus resolutely on the task in front of her like it might keep her thoughts from slipping into dangerous territory.

eventually, the muffled sound of cheers erupts from somewhere outside. you blink, drawn out of your haze. it’s distant, like it’s coming from the stands, and for a moment, both of you freeze.

“did they-“ jackie starts. the door bursts open before she can finish the thought. nat rushes in first, her face flushed with excitement. “we’re going to finals!” she shouts. “we won!”

you are on your feet before the words fully register. her grin is radiant, and despite everything, it tugs at something in you. you can’t help but smile back.

“hell yeah!” jackie shouts, throwing her arms up, momentarily forgetting her red card-induced sidelining. nat is already disappearing back down the hallway, cheering as she leaves, leaving the two of you in the wake of her excitement.

jackie turns to you, her grin faltering for a split second before she catches herself. “guess we’re not going home yet,” she says lightly.

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

the days leading up to the finals are surprisingly… normal. sharing a room with jackie has somehow become easier, the tension between you two settling into something quieter, almost manageable. she’s careful not to cross any lines, and you do your best to pretend that everything is fine. most nights, you fall asleep to the sound of her breathing from the bed beside yours, trying not to think about how much you wish she were closer.

the final game day arrives with a quiet kind of chaos: everyone is jittery, buzzing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. breakfast is loud and hurried, the conversation dominated by what-ifs and strategy talk.

by the time you’re all in the locker room, the energy is electric. the coaches deliver their final pep talks, their words met with nods and murmurs of agreement. jackie’s red card suspension has been lifted, thanks to some technicality that coach martinez fought tooth and nail for, and the relief on her face when she found out was palpable. she’s been in full captain mode ever since, her voice steady and commanding as she rallies the team. it’s the jackie everyone knows, the leader. for a moment, you can almost forget the jackie who whispered your name like a prayer in the dark.

the game itself is brutal.

you’re exhausted by halftime, sweat dripping down your face as you gulp water on the sidelines. jackie, sitting a few feet away, is equally spent but doesn’t show it. she leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes scanning the field.

the second half is even harder: the score remains tied, each team clawing for an edge. jackie is everywhere: pushing past defenders, setting up plays, rallying the team when spirits start to flag.

the clock ticks down, and the tension is unbearable. with less than two minutes to go, jackie gets the ball. she’s at midfield, her path to the goal blocked by only two defenders. for a moment, everything seems to slow down. you can see the determination in her eyes, the way she sets her jaw as she calculates her next move. it’s the same look she’s had at states. right before she scored the winning goal.

then she’s off, cutting through the defense. jackie flakes left, then right, her movements precise. the opponent goalkeeper charges, but she doesn’t falter. instead, she fires the ball toward the net.

it slams right past the girl and into the back of the net.

the final whistle blows. just like that, it’s over. you’ve won.

the others are screaming, hugging, completely overcome with the weight of the victory. you’re champions. national champions.

you stand frozen for a moment, stunned. the chaos swirls around you: van jumping into taissa’s arms, shauna laughing breathlessly, but your gaze cuts right through it, landing on her: jackie is at the center of it all, her face lit up proudly while the other yellowjackets swarm her, pulling her into a mass of celebratory hugs. she’s laughing, elated and beautiful. then her eyes meet yours.

before you can even think, you’re moving, your legs carrying you across the field. jackie breaks away from the group just as you reach her, like she’s been waiting for you all along.

the impact knocks the air out of you when you wrap your arms around her, but you don’t care. her body is warm against yours, still buzzing with the same energy that carried her through the game. you bury your face in her neck, and the scent of sweat, grass, and the faintest trace of her perfume fills your senses. it’s overwhelming. intoxicating in a way that only leaves you clinging to her even harder.

“you did it,” you breathe against her skin. “jackie, you did it!”

when you pull back, your hands linger on her arms, your fingers brushing against her skin. jackie’s eyes are bright, her smile softer now. it’s in that moment, with the roar of the crowd fading into the background and jackie still holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her grounded, that you realize it once more:

you’re in love with her, hopelessly so. there’s nothing jackie can say or do that’ll undo what has happened between you. you’ve just won the national championship, and yet the only thing you care about is her. not the victory, not the title, not the way she others pull you in all over again, lifting jackie up over their heads. shauna and tai hoist her onto their shoulders, the team cheering louder as they parade her around like the hero she is. she laughs but even then, as she throws her arms out, her gaze keeps finding yours.

all of it is white noise to you, drowned out by the way your heart aches for her. for jackie, the girl you’ve been in love with all along.

even the plane ride back to wiskayok is still filled with laughter and celebration. the team is crammed into the too-small seats, the aisle filled with chatter, half-shouted stories of the game blending into the hum of the engines. van, a few rows back, holds court with her usual flair, dramatically reenacting jackie’s winning goal. “and then: bam! top corner!” she exclaims, raising her arms like she’s the one scoring the goal all over again.

shauna, seated just ahead of van, rolls her eyes at the performance, but even she can’t fight the small, amused smile tugging at her lips. it’s softer than you’ve seen in weeks, the tension that had been hanging over all of you finally giving way to relief.

jackie sits beside her, her head leaning against the window. she’s been quieter since the game ended, her energy subdued, though she’s smiled for every photo, every cheer, every teammate slinging an arm around her. now, as the plane dips lower, the landscape of new jersey coming into view, she turns to you briefly, her lips curling into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“you okay?” you hear shauna ask, her voice low. jackie’s attention shifts to her and just like that, the moment is over.

“yeah,” she replies, her voice almost drowned out by another round of laughter from van’s direction.

the plane lands with a jolt, and the team gathers their bags and spills out into the terminal.

van is still recapping highlights to anyone who will listen, gesturing wildly as tai nudges her forward. nat lags behind, whereas misty chatters at an exasperated coach martinez, her bag swinging dangerously close to his knee. everyone still seems too giddy to settle down just yet.

that’s when you spot him: jeff is leaning against a pillar near the baggage claim, his letterman jacket slung over one shoulder. there’s an edge of excitement as his eyes lock onto jackie.

your stomach twists as he steps forward, arms open.

you don’t even need to glance at jackie to know what’s coming, yet you can’t stop yourself. your gaze drifts to her, and the shift in her demeanor is immediate:

it’s like a mask slipping into place, a version of jackie you’ve seen a hundred times before but can’t stand to watch now. she meets him halfway, throwing her arms around his neck as jeff pulls her in for a kiss. it’s too much, too public, too perfect. she’s never been this affectionate with you in front of anyone before and now she’s clinging to him like she can’t bear to let go, her laugh too bright, her smile too wide.

you stand frozen, your bag slipping slightly from your shoulder as you watch jackie kiss him again. you try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that it’s all for show. that she’s just playing the part she’s always been told to play. but the way jackie looks at him is enough to shatter whatever fragile hope you’ve been holding onto.

the rest of the team starts to disperse, everyone heading off in their own directions, but you can barely move. jeff drapes his arm around her shoulder as they turn toward the exit, his voice low and teasing as she tilts her head up at him, laughing again, the sound growing fainter as they walk away.

most of the girls are gone by the time you snap out of it. from the corner of your eye, you notice nat still hanging around; she’s leaning against a wall nearby, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. when your eyes meet, she pushes off of it and walks over.

“need a walk-out?” she asks casually.

you hesitate, then shrug. “sure. why not?”

the two of you walk in silence through the terminal, the automatic doors hissing open as the evening air hits your face. outside, the parking lot is dotted with cars and families, a chaotic mix of reunions and goodbyes. you glance around, half-hoping your parents will already be there so you can get away. no such luck.

nat pulls a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, tapping one out and holding it between her lips as she flicks her lighter. “you okay?” she asks, breaking the silence. her voice is low, her words unusually measured.

you shrug again, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. “yeah. why wouldn’t i be?”

nat raises an eyebrow and takes a drag from her cigarette. “because i’m not blind,” she says matter of factly.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

the faintest hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “just saying…i’ve been paying attention. you and taylor aren’t exactly subtle, you know?”

you face heats up, and you cross your arms, looking away. “we’re just friends,” you mumble, the words -jackie’s words- bitter in your mouth.

nat laughs, shaking her head. “yeah, sure. friends.” she pauses. “look, i’m not gonna give you some big speech or anything, but…i’m sorry. i know it sucks” she flicks the ash from her cigarette, watching the glow of the embers fade in the breeze. “jackie is… jackie,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “she’s always gonna want to be what everyone else needs her to be. you don’t have to do the same”

you blink at her, “what are you saying?”

“i’m saying, let it go. before it messes you up worse than it already has.”

you don’t respond, the words caught in your throat. nat seems to sense it, because she pats your shoulder lightly and steps back. “your parents are here,” she says, nodding toward a car pulling up nearby.

you glance over, and sure enough, your mom is leaning out the driver’s side window, waving you over. when you turn back to nat, she’s already walking away, her bag slung over her shoulder again.

“hey, nat,” you call after her. she stops, glancing back at you with a raised brow. “thanks,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re thanking her for.

nat nods anyway, a small smile flickering across her face before she turns and disappears.

you sigh, hoisting your bag over your shoulder as you head toward the car.

by the time you get home, the celebration feels like something you imagined instead of lived. your family is thrilled, of course, their pride radiating off them as they shower you with congratulations, asking for every detail about the game and the trophy.

you mumble something about being tired, brushing off their excitement with a weak smile before retreating to your room.

only there, it really hits you.

the frustration, the hurt, the overwhelming ache of wanting something you can’t have. it bubbles up inside you until you can’t hold it in anymore.

you grab your pillow, pressing it to your face, and scream into the fabric. tears burn hot against your cheeks, spilling over as you bury your face deeper into the plush. your shoulders shake with the effort of holding it all in, even though there’s no one around to witness it.

the unfairness of it all claws at you. the way jackie can kiss you like the world starts and ends with you, only to turn around and act like it meant nothing to her. she can smile so effortlessly at jeff, leaning into him like he’s the answer to everything, when you know that he’s not.

you can still feel the ghost of her lips on yours, the touch of her fingers. you still hear her laugh echoing in your ears, but it’s all tainted now, wrapped up in the image of her clinging to him at the airport as if you were never even there.

but the worst part, the part that truly breaks you, is knowing that even if she never chooses you, you’ll never stop waiting for her to.

#˙💌 ̟ !! ─ my works #jackie taylor #jackie taylor x reader #jackie taylor x female reader #jackie taylor x fem!reader #jackie taylor x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x female reader #yellowjackets x you

402 notes · View notes

pricesprincess · 3 days ago

Text

fem reader + oc kids + angst + ex! husband simon

You stood under the soft porch light that bathed you in a warm, soft, golden glow that highlighted the look of disappointment that graced your features. Simon was home, late, again, and your kids were already asleep in bed by the time he showed up to your house.

"Here to see the girls." His voice was sullen, void of any emotion.

It pained you to see the man you loved once upon a time like this. "They're sleeping. I can't do this with you, Simon, not tonight."

Your words were like a knife carving up his heart, shredding the muscle in ribbons that tangled over his ribcage, leaving a bloody mess that he could feel pulsing like a fresh wound, flesh ripped open and bones gleaming under the harsh light of his own actions.

Simon stepped forward, his hands itching to reach out, but he knew you would only slap his hands away. "Can I come see 'em tomorrow? I can take 'em to school." He asked, his throat bobbing.

"No. I can't stand the disappointment on their face because you don't show up, and when you do, you smell like beer. Stop wallowing and better yourself." You slipped back inside without another word, like a ghost, leaving him to stand there on the porch, empty and aching.

So, he did.

Every day Simon texted you about the girls, asking for updates, pictures, anything to show that he was serious, and the questions about your day were dangerous because they reminded you of the family you once had. Simon had become his nickname each time he came back, a ghost of the man you had married and knew.

The girls, Analise, seven, and Simone, five. Both are spitting images of their daddy with highlights of your physical features, but not many.

"This weekend is the Daddy and Daughter dance. Do you think Daddy will be here to pick me up?" Analise asked, her eyes a blend of trepidation and hopefulness that made your stomach heave.

She was young, too young to understand the heartbreak of having a missing father figure, and you tried to shield her from Simon's shadowy grave that seems to keep him rooted six feet under.

Your hand smoothed down her hair as you paused packing the lunch boxes. "How about we call him tonight and ask?" You suggested hoping that he would answer. Analise smiled and nodded, running off to her bedroom to finish getting ready for school.

Simone, who could never see her daddy in a bad light, sat at the table swinging her little legs. "I want to go to the dance!" she told you with a toothy grin as she colored in her favorite coloring book.

"I think he could take both of you; wouldn't that be fun?" You asked, not wanting to see the disappointment in their eyes when Simon didn't show up, and you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But, honestly, you weren't sure if you could, not with his current track record.

After you dropped the girls off at school, you swung by his mechanic shop; the smell of oil and sounds of his employees shouting at each other, some hooting and hollering while the others stayed quiet.

"Mrs. Riley." A younger man named Sam greeted you at the front door that he opened for you. He was dressed in coveralls that he unzipped and tied the sleeves around his waist, and streaks of oil on his face.

"Sam. You know that's not my last name anymore. Where is Simon?" You asked him with a polite smile as you stepped inside the shop.

He kept his smile plastered on his face and gestured to the back office, watching as you walked away, your shoulders squared and head held high. This was for your girls sake, you reminded yourself.

Out of habit, you turned the doorknob and stepped into his office to be greeted with the scene of a woman pressed against him, her lips melded against his and her hands curled in the front of her shirt.

Your whole world tilted for a moment, and you stared, blinking for several seconds. He wasn't your husband anymore, but there was still a betrayal that hit you like an axe chopping wood. It was hot and immediate, the burning behind your eyes as you jerked the door shut.

With your head down now, you hurried through the shop, ignoring the calls of your name from the worried workers. Even when Simon called out for you, it all faded to nothing as you pushed the doors open and hurried for your car in an effort to gather your thoughts alone and get to work to think this whole thing over.

#minx writes #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon angst #simon x reader angst #cod angst #ghost angst #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you

208 notes · View notes

rcvcgers · 14 days ago

Text

Batter Up!

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: xavier x reader

synopsis: xavier shen is a college baseball star. when he loses a championship game & notices an opposing player make a move on his girlfriend, well, he needs to let out his frustration the only way he knows how.

word count: 6.5k words

content warnings: it gets smutty! oral (m receiving), fingering, poor reader's puss gets slapped, spanking, reader's hands get tied, batting gloves as a gag, unprotected p in v sex (PLEASE WRAP IT UP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD), cream pie, they almost get caught, xavier's lowkey a lil mean in this, semi-public sex lmk if i missed anything

author's note: hi! wow! so this is a thing i wrote! first time i'm posting a smut one shot so ......... go easy on me! i hope y'all enjoy !

main masterlist ~ ao3 link

The bases are loaded. Xavier Shen is up to bat. He stands off to the side, tightening his white baseball gloves. The crowd erupts into cheers when the stadium plays his walk up song, one that he chose specifically for you.

“Ladies and gentleman, we are in the bottom of the ninth inning! With two outs on the board and down by one run, how will the Philos Phantoms catch up?” the announcer’s voice booms throughout the stadium.

“Through Lumiere, of course!” the co-announcer proclaims. The stadium goes crazy. People chant his nickname from the crowd, everyone now standing from their seats.

Xavier casually walks up to the home plate. His metal bat, which is white in color with streaks of shimmering silvers and golds, swings around in the air. The tall baseball player nods his head at the umpire, ignoring the catcher’s ugly glare.

Xavier fixes his helmet on his head, pushing away the silver locks underneath the hardened plastic. He settles into the batter’s box, giving his sword a swing or two, hitting it against his dirtied cleats.

His blue eyes cut through the environment, scanning the crowd for you.

You stand behind his team’s dugout, always the closest seat to him with the best view of when he comes back to the dugout. Whenever he comes back from scoring a home run or striking out, you always smile and wave, blowing him an encouraging kiss.

Right now, though, you stand with your hands folded as if you are praying, eyes fixated on him. He smiles at you, a sense of warm flooding your bodies. His nerves slightly calm down. You take a deep breath, Xavier miming your actions, and remove your hands from your mouth.

Earlier in the day, Xavier kept you trapped in bed. He laid his head on your stomach, pressing gentle kisses to your skin. You ran your fingers through his silver hair and hummed along with the tune of a song.

“Are you nervous?” you ask him, gently pushing the hair off of his forehead. His blue eyes meet yours. Xavier shakes his head and buries his face back into your stomach, his nose pushing into your body. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” his breath is hot against your skin and his voice is muffled. You roll your eyes and laugh. His head immediately pokes up, the man now sitting up on his knees. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re cute! That’s all,” you giggle some more.

Xavier lets out a ‘hmph’ and slowly lowers himself back down on top of your body. This time, he places his head on your chest, his ear right over your heart. He silently listens to your heartbeat. Each and every beat is like a melody that makes him feel whole again. You smooth his hair and sigh, lifting his head so he looks at you.

“It’s just like any other game, baby,” you coo and cup his cheek. He leans his cheek into your touch, “treat it as such. You’re going to do great.”

Your words ring true in his ears, his heartbeat finally slowing.

“You got this,” you mouth to him, “I love you!”

Xavier nods with a smile. Turning away from you, he settles into the batter’s box, fists tightly grasping his baseball bat. Xavier closes his eyes, the bat settling on his shoulder.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out.

The man opens his eyes. He drowns out the crowd’s chants and cheers, his eyes focusing on the pitcher in front of him.

The pitcher winds up. He lifts his knee into the air, arm slowly swinging back before he launches the small white ball forward.

Xavier’s cleats nestle into the dirt, the spikes on the bottom of his shoes gripping into the red earth below him. His cheeks puff up as he releases a breath, his hands squeezing the small cylinder of the handle. He swings his arms from one side to the other. His metal bat slices through the air. The baseball connects with the center of the barrel; the metal bat dents in the process.

CRACK!

The baseball soars into the night sky. Xavier immediately drops the bat, his blue eyes never leaving the white dot, and begins to jog towards first base.

The crowd sucks in a breath. A low vibration fills the inside of the stadium, a slight rumble overtaking the crowd as the ball grows closer and closer to the edge of the fence.

Xavier is halfway to first base when the ball begins to descend in the air. The ball’s trajectory is like an optical illusion, teetering on being a home run or being caught by the outfielder chasing it. The baseball drops. It’s like it hit a wall and is now plummeting towards the outfielder.

Your heart drops in your chest. Xavier’s run slows, blue eyes tracking the ball before it is caught in the player’s glove. His foot connects with first base. He comes to a full stop and turns to look at you. Your eyes gloss over, hands covering the lower half of your face as the opposing team’s fans jump from all around the stadium.

“Xavier,” you breathe his name out as if he is able to hear it. A silent plea and comfort that it is going to be okay, that this year’s championship simply wasn’t meant to be.

He turns away from you, shame and embarrassment filling his body. His helmet slips off his head, running his gloved hand through his silver locks. Xavier slowly walks through the field, which is being flooded with reporters and parents. Girlfriends of the winning players brush past him with their arms wide open, a celebration that he was supposed to be having with you at this time.

Your eyes follow Xavier’s body. He doesn’t even look at you as he vanishes under the dugout’s ceiling. A slow, long sigh leaves your body. You sit back down in your chair, wiping away bittersweet tears from your boyfriend’s loss.

You cannot even imagine how much pain and anguish Xavier must feel right now. Sure, the Philos Phantoms have won the championship for the past three years so a loss was inevitable, but the sting doesn’t hurt any less.

Your heart aches for Xavier. Its pumps are slow, longing for him to be in your arms so you can console him, to hold him in your arms so he can fall asleep knowing that this one loss will not define who he is or the kind of player he is.

The stadium slowly seeps out its crowd. It is now an empty arena with only a few stragglers left behind. You have remained in your seat, unable to move until you see his head of hair exit the dugout. You smile at familiar faces; parents and friends of Xavier’s teammates comfort you before they leave on their own, an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air.

You sigh and stand up, grabbing your purse. Without thinking, you make your way down the steps and towards the entrance that leads to the field. The metal fence, once a place that you and Xavier have celebrated many victories at, feels solemn now. Melancholic.

“Hey,” Xavier’s voice soothes your body. You frown at him, slowly pushing through the gate. “I’m sorry if I—”

You immediately pull Xavier into your arms. His head drop, chin resting on your shoulder as your fingers slide into his hair. He lets out a tired sigh and places his hands on your hips. He squeezes your body and pulls you closer to him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“You played great today, baby,” you coo into his ear. You gently rub circles into the number on his back. He shakes his head refuting your claim. “You did, Xavier. You played your heart out! I am so proud of you!”

Xavier pulls his head away from your neck. His eyes are red, irritated from holding back tears. You cup his cheek and sigh, the pad of your thumb grazing against his cheekbone.

“It’ll be okay,” you try your best to soothe his nerves, flattering out the wrinkles of his uniform and flicking away any leftover specks of dirt. Xavier nods, a small yet tired smile spreading across his face.

“Can you wait for me out here? I need to grab my things,” Xavier’s voice is soft and gentle. He squeezes your sides. You nod at him, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“Take as long as you need to, baby, I will be here for you no matter what happens,” you respond, slowly allowing him to pull away from your body. You nod your head in the direction of the dugout, watching as he slowly sulks away and disappears once again.

A sigh leaves your mouth. You turn to face the field, always stunned by just how big of a playing field Xavier has been playing on. Even though his last hit of his collegiate career was an out, the amount of distance the ball went from his swing alone is nothing short of impressive.

Xavier took you to the college’s batting cages one time. You mentioned how you always wanted to learn how to hit after being to so many of his games and practices. He was more than happy to show you. He even let you use his bat, his hands on top of yours while he moves your body through the motions of a swing.

The memory still makes you giggle like the eighteen year old girl you once were. You’re now a senior in college, ready to graduate and take on the world with Xavier at your side. A small blush creeps up on your lips, a pool of heat gathering between your legs as the rest of the memory plays out in your head.

Xavier’s hands leave yours, placing themselves on your hips. He brings your body next to his. His hardened cock nestles into your ass, making itself at home through your thin clothes. You feel his calloused hands slide down your sides, leaning into you as you keep his baseball bat held up in the air.

“You’re perfect,” Xavier whispers into your ear. It sends chills down your spine. You turn to look at him, the bat wavering in your hands. “You are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Xavier,” just you breathing out his name was enough of a push for him.

Xavier closes the distance, his lips crashing onto yours. The metal bat falls to the floor with a series of clangs. His breath intertwines with yours, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip, silently asking permission to go further. You nod and turn in his arms.

Xavier’s hunger and passion for you takes over his body. He picks you up with ease. His tongue slips into your mouth, the baseball player pressing you up against the wall.

You shudder at the thought, pressing your thighs together while your eyes are closed. Reaching up, you touch your lips and smile. You love Xavier so much. You would do anything for him.

“Hey, pretty lady,” an unfamiliar male voice takes you out of your thoughts. Chills run down your spine, the heat you once felt before immediately diminishing. You turn around and stare at a baseball player who was on the opposing team. His Skyhaven uniform makes you want to rip your hair out, hating how Xavier lost to a bunch of fucking losers. “Can I get your number?”

“Excuse me?” you ask, holding back a shocked laugh.

“Your number. I want it…please,” the player slowly inches his way closer to you. You take a step back and hug your arms around your chest, turning away from him.

The player doesn’t back off, though, and instead circles around you. He settles into the spot in front of you and clears his throat, hands on his hips.

“Leave me alone,” you groan with an eye roll. You avoid his beady eyes and look at the dark clouds in the sky, admiring the stars, quietly making a mental note to have Xavier look at them when he comes out.

“I can’t do that, sorry,” the player laughs, “not until I get you out of those colors and into mine.”

You raise an eyebrow and look down at your shirt. It’s Xavier’s away game jersey. The gray fabric is accented by a light blue color, his last name spread across your shoulder blades. It’s big on you, seeing how your boyfriend is an absolute beefcake, but you wear it as if his last name is your own.

And let’s be real…it practically is.

“I don’t think so,” you shake your head. You take a step backwards, hugging Xavier’s jersey closer to your body, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. Just give me a chance!” the player continues to plead his case to you.

You shake your head and close your eyes, stepping backwards. One step follows another and the closer you get to Xavier’s dugout. The man persists while you remain an adamant no, trying to keep the distance between you two.

You gasp. Your back connects with something hard yet warm, something familiar. You open your eyes and notice a yellow star charm that hangs from the knob of a baseball bat. With one quick glance over your shoulder, you see Xavier’s darkened expression, his once bright blue eyes now shadowed from jealousy.

His arm is outstretched over your shoulder, baseball bat in hand. The end of the metal bat is pressed against the opposing player’s chest. Xavier gives him a push and the gold star charm bounces back and forth.

“Get lost,” Xavier growls. The heat that you once felt between your legs forms once again. You lean into Xavier’s chest, feeling his free hand wrap around your body, resting itself over your jean shorts’ zipper. The tips of his fingers graze against the metal, teasing it and you at the same time.

“Alright, man, chill out,” the player rolls his eyes, holding his hands in the air, “I’ll be nice and not let you lose twice today.” He turns on his heel and heads for the gate where his friends wait for him, laughing and pointing at his poor attempt to get your number.

Something inside Xavier’s head snaps. He glares at his opponent, fire and bloodlust hidden behind his eyes. His lips twitch, a sudden wave of possessiveness and dominance crashing over him.

You turn in Xavier’s arm, his hand now resting on your ass. He’s out of his uniform and wears his tight training shirt and a pair of joggers. You press your hands against his chest, leaving in. The material of his shirt is so thin that you can feel his muscles flexing and then relaxing under your touch. His dark blue eyes focus on you right as the other man leaves his sight. He moves his hand around in circles, caressing your obnoxiously short jean shorts.

“Xavier,” you breathe out, anticipation budding from within you.

Xavier has always been so jealous, even when you deny the person who tries to ask you out. He knows that you are forever his, something that he wishes to make permanent soon, and that you will never leave him for anybody else.

“Come,” Xavier’s voice is sharp. His hand moves from your ass to your wrist, tightly squeezing it.

Without another word, he pulls you towards the dugout. You stumble from behind, unable to keep up with his lightning fast pace. Dirt and dust kick up from your combined steps. Xavier drops down the steps, quickly turning before you can step down.

He quickly grabs you in his arms, tossing you over his shoulder with ease. You gasp. With one arm wrapped around the back of your legs, keeping you in place. His other hand slides up and down the back of your thighs, moving up to your ass, his open palm sending shocks directly to your core.

Xavier carries you inside the empty locker room. A few lights remain on while the others are shut off, a few straggling people who stayed behind too distracted to notice Xavier carry you inside. He closes the door to the locker room behind him, a low grunt leaving his throat.

Xavier’s hand leaves your body, his warmth now leaving your body feeling ice cold. You begin to whine but instead squeal when Xavier’s hand roughly connects with your ass. He sits down at the bench in front of his locker, adjusting you so you’re leaned over his lap.

“Hands,” Xavier’s voice is low. You nod, body trembling from anticipation. Slowly, you move your hands behind your back. They are immediately brought together, Xavier’s hand moving quick as light as he fastens his belt around your wrists.

“X-Xav,” you shudder. Your panties are already soaked, his fingers gliding up and down your clothed entrance. “What if someone finds us?”

“Then they’ll know,” he slaps your ass again, the sound echoing inside the locker room, “that you’re mine.”

Your body trembles against his. His movements are so sure, determined in each and every move. He takes his time with you, feeling the now damp fabric that shields your entrance. You can barely nod, arousal overtaking your body. His dick hardens beneath you, your squirming around making him feel restless, unable to control himself.

“Say it,” Xavier leans down and growls into your ear. He brings his hand down once again, the stinging feeling seeping into your skin.

“I-I’m yours!” you gasp when his hand connects with your backside again, unable to stile the moan that leaves your mouth.

The palm of Xavier’s hand is calloused from years of playing baseball. His slender fingers graze the back of your thigh and they leave goosebumps in their path. You close your eyes. You shudder beneath his touch, holding in a breath, waiting for his next spank.

But it doesn’t come.

Xavier’s fingers draw back up your legs, dipping between your thighs and behind the fabric of your soaked shorts. The light blue color is damp and it’s a sight for sore eyes. His fingertips slide up and down your clothed entrance, quiet whimpers leaving your mouth.

“Xav…baby please…” you breathe out, fighting against his belt, desperately wanting to touch and tease him as much as he is doing to you.

A gasp flies from your lips. Xavier brings you up and places you on your feet in front of him, hands still tied behind your back. He remains seated, his last name and jersey number painted into the wood of the locker. You clench your legs together. Xavier shakes his head and he taps your ankle with his foot. Knowing exactly what he wants, you spread your feet apart, legs already shaking from anticipation, watching as he removes his shirt from his body.

You salivate at the sight of his chiseled abs and toned body. His chest rises and falls with precise breaths, controlling his building lust towards you.

Xavier leans forward. He places his hand on the side of your thigh. He gently caresses your skin, being gentle as he takes his time with you. His blue eyes look up at you, connecting with a fiery gaze as his finger hooks into one of the loops on your shorts, pulling you closer to him. He hums to himself and tugs your shorts down your legs with ease. You kick them to the side and shudder when his fingers connect with the damp spot on your panties.

“I’ve had a long day today,” Xavier licks his lips. He presses into your clothed core, teasing you as your wetness coats his fingertips. You let out quiet whiners and bite your lip, trying to be as quiet as possible so nobody comes and finds you. “On your knees.”

You gulp and nod, immediately obeying his command. You kneel before him, trying to fight against the tight knot of his belt, and watch as he pushes down his gray joggers and boxers. His cock springs out, his tip already leaking and aching for you. You salivate at the sight. He kicks away the fabric and spreads his legs open.

His cock is big in his hand. He slowly strokes himself and you inch closer to him, a fire burning between your legs, trying so hard not to squeeze them together to give yourself some friction to make you feel good. Xavier reaches out and grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you towards his aching cock.

He removes his hand from his length and lets out a groan while he watches you take in every inch of his dick. The tip of his cock presses the back of your throat and your nose touches his body. You look up at him with teary eyes. He slowly draws your head back, air finally returning to your lungs, before moving your head right back down his length.

Your tongue massages the underside of his dick. Your saliva spreads across his skin, your mouth feeling empty as you pull your head back. Xavier groans and his grip on your hair tightens. Your tongue swirls over his throbbing tip, sucking on it before he slams your head back down onto him.

You begin to hum and the vibrations make Xavier lose his grip on your head. He rolls his head back and the room is filled with his breathy groans and grunts. You bob your head back and forth, taking your time with Xavier, making sure to lick and suck his sensitive tip before taking the entirety of his cock back into your mouth and throat. Your tongue memorizes the veins, sucking in when his tip is left in your mouth. You quicken your pace, wrists tugging against his leather belt, and look up at him with big doe eyes, knowing that it’ll drive him crazy.

“Just like that baby,” his sweet praises fill the room. He looks down you, his cheeks a light pink color. A knot begins to form in his stomach, his release imminent. He grabs the back of your head, fingers gripping your hair. He pulls his dick out of your mouth with a pop and you’re left kneeling before him, breathless, ready for more.

Xavier helps you up and is quick to pull your panties off of your body. He tosses them into his locker where his backpack sits and turns you around. You sit on his lap, your legs sat between his, feeling his cock slide across your entrance, making himself at home.

Just not inside you.

Xavier reaches around your waist, hand dropping to your clit. He begins to rub slow and demanding circles into your clit. You moan and roll your head back, feeling Xavier attach his lips to the side of your neck. He bites down against your skin and unapologetically sucks, leaving dark purple and red marks in his wake.

You squirm on his lap and roll your hips back and forth, your entrance gliding back and forth along the length of his cock. Xavier grunts against your skin, hissing whenever you slide over his tip.

“Look at the door,” his voice is low and gravelly in your ear. You nod and open your eyes, hips jerking against his touch as his fingers grind into your clit. “You’re going to have to be a good girl for me and be quiet, okay?”

Xavier pushes your legs open, placing your heels on the sides of the bench. You fully lean into him, your pretty pussy now exposed to the room. He slips two fingers inside of you, curling them when they’re deep inside. You involuntarily clench around him, a sigh of ecstasy leaving your lips.

Without wasting another second, Xavier pumps his fingers in and out of you at a fast pace. Your mouth opens into an ‘o’ shape and no sounds come out of your mouth. His fingers hit all of the right spots. You whine when his fingers leave your core but are immediately overtaken by a surge of bliss when he begins to ruthlessly rub your clit. You moan his name and roll your hips back and forth, earning grunts from him as your ass slides back and forth over his cock.

Warm sensations take over your body. You hum and moan, slipping into a state of blossoming ecstasy. Xavier’s fingers feel so goos inside of you. Your hips roll to meet the heel of his hand, needy and desperate for more.

“Stay still,” he demands in your ear, sticking his fingers back inside of you. You gasp and a loud, breathy moan flees your mouth. Xavier bites down on your neck, marking the exposed skin while you squirm on his lap.

Your hips jerk against his touch, begging for more, but his fingers slip out of you. You whine, opening your mouth to complain when he shoves his fingers inside of your mouth. You taste your juices on his fingers, swirling your tongue around, lapping up every last bit while Xavier adjusts your body.

“I told you to stay still,” he growls into your ear.

You clench around nothing, your swollen clit aching against the cold air. Xavier removes his fingers from your mouth. His hand drops to your pussy, giving it a slap as punishment. You swallow a shriek, the sound getting trapped in your throat. You’re breathless, cheeks a bright pink color as rationality comes back into your mind for a split second.

He lines himself with your entrance and lowers you onto him. You take his cock so well, the stretch making you gasp and lean backwards and into his chest, head rolling onto his shoulder. He captures your lips in a fiery kiss. You moan into his mouth, feeling his tongue swipe over your bottom lip before pushing inside.

Your lips break when his fingers dig into your hips, slowly rising your body before pulling you back down onto him. His cock feels so good inside of your cunt. He fills you up perfectly, making sure to touch every crevice inside you. You bite your lip, trembling as you take over the responsibility of riding him.

His hands leave your waist and move to the buttons of his jersey. He unbuttons them one by one, revealing your covered chest to the room. Your heart skips a beat, the fear of being caught becoming more and more real by the second. He gropes your chest, the sound of your quiet moans and your bodies colliding filling in the room. He pushes your bra down your body. Your nipples immediately pebble against the cool AC, his thumbs pinching the sweet buds, rolling them between his thumb and index fingers.

Your tied up hands remain at the low of your back. You flex your fingers as your brain slowly becomes fried, the heat in your stomach now burning. Xavier leaves open mouthed kisses along your neck. He stares at his last name on the back of his jersey, groaning at the sight. An intensity forms inside his head, something snapping. He removes his hands from your breasts and plants them on your hips, lifting you off of him.

“X-Xav, please!” you whine, feeling so empty without him buried deep inside you. He turns you around and licks his lips, sitting back as far as he can while lowering you on his lap once again. Your knees sit on either side of his legs. Slowly, you sink onto his length with ease, the feeling of being stuffed making you happy.

“You’re mine,” his eyes latch onto yours, “no one else’s.”

You nod and lick your lips. His hands remain on your waist, slowly raising you up before you come crashing down on him. Xavier leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate and sloppy kiss. Your breaths and moans mingle together as you begin to bounce up and down on his lap.

The tip of his cock hits your sweet spot perfectly. Xavier’s lips leave yours, trailing kisses down your neck before making his way to your breasts. They’re oh so perfect to him, the way they bounce so beautifully. He takes one of his nipples into his mouth, sucking and biting on your flesh. The combination of his dick and mouth makes you see stars.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” Xavier’s breath is hot against your sensitive nipple, making you cry out from pure pleasure.

Your cunt clenches around him, legs feeling tired as you continue your movements. You roll your head back, staring at the ceiling as the knot in your stomach feels like it is about to snap. He drags his tongue around your hardened nipple, looking up at you with a smirk as you slowly begin to fall apart on him.

One of Xavier’s hands move to your shoulders and fixes his jersey, making sure that is someone comes inside, they see his last name on your body, not theirs.

Your legs tremble, your body begging for a release. You try your best to stay quiet, your hushed curse words falling into Xavier’s ear. His hand snakes around to your back where your tied hands sit. With a few tugs, the belt falls to the ground. Your hands immediately attach to his shoulders, toned muscles flexing under your touch.

“Please, Xav, I-I’m so close,” you push the words out of your mouth, nails digging into Xavier’s skin. Your hands drop to his back. Your fingernails scrape his skin, leaving bright red lines down his back. He hisses and smacks your ass, making you cry out his name once again.

“Cum for me, love,” he grunts.

The blistering heat in your lower stomach bursts, overtaking your body as you cry out his name. Your head falls onto his shoulder, your moans and cries being absorbed into his skin. As you slow, Xavier pushes his hips up into yours. His movement is jerky, desperate to meet you in pure bliss. After a few more upward thrusts, Xavier coming right inside that pretty cunt of yours.

You take a deep breath, trying to regain some of your composure, and fully sink onto him, body limp as you lean into him. Thinking that your time with him is over, you lazily press kisses onto his neck and skin, praising him while he pumps you full of his semen.

Xavier lifts you off of him, his cock covered in your combined juices. You whine, allowing him to pick up your body with ease. You feel his cum drip out of your cunt, slowly rolling down the inside of your thighs.

He stands you on your feet, hands clasped around your wrists. He places your hands on the borders of his locker, your legs twitching as his semi-hard shaft grazes against the crevice of your ass. You draw in a breath, staring at the taped pictures of the two of you on the inside of his open locker.

You lean forward, knees pressed against the wooden bench that runs along the perimeter of the room. Xavier strokes his cock, staring at his name on your back. A smirk spreads across his lips. He closes the distance and opens your legs for him, dragging his swollen head across your puffy lips. He groans, dipping inside of your cunt. You let out a guttural moan, feeling the stretching sensations, Xavier’s dick finding places it hasn’t before.

“Gonna make for sure you get every last drop,” Xavier whispers into your ear, sending chills straight to your pussy, “gonna fuck it back into you.”

His thrusts are slow yet agonizingly deep. He pushes up his jersey so he can see your ass, dragging his calloused hands across the gentle and soft skin. He slaps it and you cry out, louder than you intended it to be. You freeze while he slams his hips into you, hitting your sweet spot.

“What did I say about being quiet? Hm?” Xavier’s tone is sharp.

He snaps his fingers at you, pointing to his batting gloves, a pair that you bought for him, that sit just on the inside of his backpack. You reach down, plucking them from their place and hand it to your boyfriend. He thrusts into you again. Tingling sensations overtake your skin and the inside of your body. He takes the gloves and balls them up, shoving them in your mouth as a makeshift gag.

You can taste remnants of the dirt from the field, the leftover sweat from the championship game. Your moans and whines are muffled by the fabric. Xavier’s hands move back to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. His touch is hard, dominating. You’ll probably have a few bruises there by the time you’re done.

“Be. Quiet,” Xavier demands. You nod, feeling him pick up the pace behind you.

He takes his time with you, though, keeping a steady pace despite him absolutely railing his cock into your cunt. Tears fill your eyes, a bit overstimulated since you just orgasmed a few moments ago. He slaps your ass and drags his hands up and down your body before his hand finds itself on your clit, teasing it.

Just outside the door, one of the facilities’ managers walks down the hall, clipboard in hand as he checks off his list. The sound of a slap catches his attention. He inches towards the locker room, one eyebrow raised as he cracks the door open.

“Hello?” he calls into the room.

You freeze. Your eyes shoot open and you stare at Xavier’s backpack, all sounds going silent. Xavier continues, though, and slows his pace. Each thrust dominates you, making your legs tremble as he pushes you closer and closer to another orgasm. A particularly loud moan escapes your mouth, escaping the confines of his batting gloves. Xavier glares at you, pinching your nipple, your back arching into his touch.

“Yeah?” Xavier calls out, his eyes remaining on your back. He traces a line along your spine, teasing you.

“Xavier? That you?” The door pushes open. Your cunt squeezes Xavier’s shaft, causing him to groan. “Is everything okay in there?”

“Yeah! Just getting changed. I think my girlfriend purposefully packed me small clothes. Everything is so tight,” his blue eyes burn into the back of your head. He reaches out and gathers your hair into his hand, yanking your head back, eyes meeting. Your eyes are glossy, tears ready to fall from embarrassment and arousal.

“Ah! Take your time then! We do need to close soon, though!” The door clicks shut and the two of you are free again.

Xavier tugs on your hair, back arching as you cry into his batting gloves. His thrusts quicken, becoming erratic as he pounds into you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, black spots taking over your vision. Xavier doesn’t let up. He continues, slamming his cock in and out of you, fully taking himself out just to slam into you once again. His touch is ruthless against your clit, feverishly rubbing it, giving it a slap here and there whenever you get too loud.

The sounds of him ramming into you bounce off of the walls. His gloves remain stuck in your mouth, biting into the fabric as the knot in your stomach tightens, ready to snap at any moment. Your cunt throbs in tiny spasms, ready to milk Xavier dry.

“You gonna cum for me, baby? You think you deserve it after being so loud?” Xavier grunts into your ear. He lets go of your hair and grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. You nod feverishly. He takes the gloves out of your mouth, letting them fall to the ground. “You wanna be loud? Do you want everyone to hear how desperate you are? Or do you wanna fucking cum?”

“Cum!” you fumble over the word, listening as it comes out as a shuddered breath.

“Be a good girl and cum for me then,” his hand drops to your neck, fingers curling around your throat. He squeezes it, a silent threat that he’ll keep you here all night if he has to. You nod, closing your eyes as waves of pleasure crash throughout your body.

You come undone. Your second orgasm is just as riveting as the first, leaving your legs a trembling and shaking mess, ready to collapse at any given moment. You swallow your cries and quietly moan out Xavier’s name. He lazily kisses the back of your neck, his high quickly following yours.

He thrusts come to a slow, helping the two of you come down from a shared orgasm. You swallow leftover spit in your mouth, head falling, fingers holding onto the sides of his locker for dear life. His cum spills into your cunt, filling you up even more than before. It spills out through the think barrier between his cock and your pussy, dripping down your legs.

Xavier pulls out of you, grabbing one of his practice tees that hang inside the large locker, wiping the sticky and slick residue off of his length. He stares at you, watching as your arms lazily fall to your sides, weighing more than they usually do. You spin around and Xavier is right behind you.

You can feel his semen drip down your legs. The man chuckles to himself, reaching down as he pushes his cum back inside you with a few simple pushes. He reaches to the side, grabbing your panties, and helps you step into them, sliding them up your legs with ease. He kisses your cheek and whispers into your ear, “that’s for being loud.”

Xavier steps back and helps move your bra back up your body, buttoning the jersey back up. He gives you his joggers, the material baggy around your hips. It kills him to not be able to take you again. You sit on the bench and watch as he changes back into his shirt, slipping on a pair of baggy gym shorts he wears for conditioning.

The man gathers his belongings, slipping his baseball bat into its sleeve before extending his hand out towards you. You stand and take it, allowing him to guide you out of the locker room without anyone noticing. As soon as you step onto the field, you turn and look at him, cheeks a hot and your hair a complete mess. Xavier waves to the grounds keeper, turning to you with a smug look on his face.

Just looking at his smirk makes your pussy throb for him. You swallow the lump in your throat and step through the gate, a lingering feeling weighing on your mind as you leave the field and head towards the parking lot.

“You’re not done with me, are you?” you ask him as soon as you reach his car. Xavier chuckles, shaking his head as he helps you into the passenger seat. He leans down, hands resting on top of the car and the door.

“Baby, we just got started,” he tilts his head to the side, a flash of amusement and lust hidden behind his eyes. Your eyes shoot open, your body already preparing yourself for the long night ahead.

as always: likes, reblogs, & comments are greatly appreciated! <3

#xavier smut #xavier au #xavier x reader #xavier is jealous #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x you #xavier lads #xavier spice #lads smut #xavier lads smut #lads xavier #xavier x mc #rcvcgers writings

364 notes · View notes

amaranthineghost · 1 year ago

Text

| EVERY GODDAMN INCH OF YOUR SKIN IS MINE ( lando norris. ) |

ꕥ pairing: lando norris x reader

ꕥ summary: he can't stand her, but he can't keep his eyes off her

ꕥ authors note: I tried to make their thoughts parallel? if that makes sense. whenever it's focused on lando, it says his feelings or thoughts, and then to the reader, it's repeated in a way. so if it's repetitive, it's purposeful. also this was so like awkward to write ?? how do people do this all the time? and I would've gotten this out sooner but black friday shifts kicked my ass sooooo. gonna focus on requests after this :3 (last half unrevised because I wanted to get this out so I might edit some errors)

ꕥ warnings: smut, mentions of alcohol, etc.

HE COULDN'T STAND HER. from her mere existence to the tiniest detail of her. from the way she carried herself to the freckled skin of her body. the way she wore her hair, the dip in her skin just above her thighs. the curvature of her spine. her god-awful voice that came out of her pink, pouty lips. her half-lidded, tired eyes that had the color of pools of honey when they basked in the light.

he fucking hated it.

the way her hips swayed more than usual and her hands delicately grasped the handrail as she sauntered down the steps to the party. she wasn't apart of it before and she wouldn't be now. he would make sure of it. eventually.

his eyes burned into her even, pale skin. he fucking hated how she acted so oblivious. the way her body wore the blue, striped brandy melville shorts. how they rode up her figure and clung to her in seemingly all the right places. the tiny piece of cloth, that he would barely consider a shirt, exposing the valley of her back when it was naturally arched just slightly.

the way her dark eyes scanned the crowd, occasionally catching a streak of light. the way her lips barely parted. her lashes fluttering as she blinked painfully slow as he watched her. he could've swore she was in slow motion.

she looked out of place. he couldn't stand it. he couldn't stand the eyes on her, glancing over their shoulders. but he was one of those pairs of eyes.

and so were his friends who surrounded him, but he paid no attention to them. his eyes were on her. they had been ever since he caught that first glimpse of her.

he always swore he couldn't stand her, he repeated it more times than his friends could count. he swore he hated her, but his friends saw the way he looked at her.

he always cursed them, muttering that he looked at her with disgust, contempt, hatred. and sure, they saw that.

but there was always something hidden in the glint of his eyes that they couldn't even identify. though they'd never mention it to him.

they'd never question when he would tune out the world to keep his eyes on her. the first time it happened, they'd teased him relentlessly, but got brushed off by him. they wouldn't tease him anymore. not in his presence anyways. more behind closed doors and in light-hearted manner about his silly infatuation.

and not only did they know there was always something more, but they knew how to push the right buttons to prove it. and the way to do it was simply by conversing with the girl, or speaking about her in his vicinity.

he'd always bark back at their remarks about her. telling them to quit, or get lost. because only he was allowed to say such things.

and when they'd raise their hands in drunken defense, laughing it off as they held a beer bottle in their hands, he scoffed at their behavior.

she wasn't his. he reminded them unfailingly, even though he acted like it.

but just because she didn't belong to him, it didn't mean anyone else could have her. he made sure of it. he always did.

she laughed breathlessly, a red flush to her face as she kept the corners of her lips upturned. she was rather engaged in the conversation before her with the tall gentleman she knew as george russell. though she knew he had a girlfriend, so the interaction was nothing more than catching up with one another.

they'd known each other for years, being introduced to the other by their mutual relationship, carmen.

even though she reiterated numerous times that the brit was nothing, but a brother to her, she knew a certain someone would always make a deal out of it.

the interaction between the two lasted no more than a few minutes when george had tapped his finger on her shoulder and lazily pointed behind her, "you've got a secret admirer," he'd joke, shaking his head with a smile before taking a sip of his alcoholic beverage. his curled hair lightly bounced as he did so.

she twisted her upper body. her eyes flickered between faces and bodies to find him, searching relentlessly.

there he was.

with his drink in his hand, his eyes bore into hers so uncomfortablely, she felt chills down her spine. he swore he could see the goosebumps rising on her skin from where he sat, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel his pants get tighter.

she despised him.

she hated how he'd always find her in a room and never lose her. he'd scare off any guy that even came within ten feet of her, but wouldn't even come as close himself.

she hated the way his eyes were so green, like fresh cut grass, or like the leaves of evergreen trees in winter. the way the light hit them and how his pupils turned to pins, revealing the gold ring of his eye.

she hated his damn skin. the perfect evenness of his tanned flesh. the way his veins were so perfect, like he had lightning from the sky in his very hands. and how they branched up his arms, stopping just as they got to his bicep.

though as much as she loathed when he would intimidate potential hotties who tried to win her over, part of her would be thankful for all the times his eyes were on her. especially with unwanted presences. she had that to thank him for.

a blurred hand waved in front of her face, breaking the contact between her and norris. she breathed a sigh of relief when she once again looked at george.

"and you're telling me you guys hate each other?" he scoffed and shook his head, "bullshit."

he muttered the last thing under his breath, striding away, which prompted her to look back at the green-eyed brit. biting her bottom lip, her eyes travelled down his arms and lightning struck veins. she noticed the dark, silver rings on his fingers and she would be lying if she said her stomach didn't have butterflies.

his jaw clenched as she practically eye-fucked him, god she made it difficult. rolling his tongue over the inside of his cheek, he raised his glass to his mouth. a smirk pulled on the corner of his lips at the thought of her getting turned on merely by his arms alone.

his hand tightened around the object, so harshly it could've shattered. he watched a guy strut his way to his girl.

what? what was he saying, she isn't his. he rubbed his eyes, assuring himself it was the alcohol talking for him.

by the time he focused his vision upon her again, the scumbag he didn't even know had reached her.

to him, it was one thing if he knew them, it was another when he didn't and that's what made him angry. he could trust another driver to back off.

he bit his tongue painfully between his teeth, he could've drawn blood. he was debating on what to do. normally, he would stand from afar, but this wasn't a normal circumstance. he was fed up of the line of guys that pushed and scrambled to even get a chance to say a word to her.

his glass slammed down on the table, the cool alcohol splashing up and back down onto the table and some on his hand. it made the people around him flinch, and his friends raised brows. he wouldn't see, they knew where his eyes belonged. and probably his heart too.

he huffed a dramatic sigh. he pushed himself from the elevated table, the cushioned stool he sat on scraped painfully loud against the wooden floors. but he didn't care. he wanted her. he wanted her away from any guys, at least.

so when he stood up so abruptly, shoving past his friends who threw whistles his direction as he charged to her. he ignored the sounds of their cheers, tuning them out as usual as he tunnel-visioned on her. he swore he saw red.

it took all of three seconds for him to manifest behind her, he towered over her petite frame. but instead of his gaze being on the back of her head, he glared at the guy before her.

the guy noticed lando before she did, but she knew when his arm spread around her back, his forearm folding across the skin of her collarbones. she felt his fingers graze the base of her neck and he played with the gold necklace she had clasped. chills falling down each vertebrae of her spine as his chest pressed against her back.

lando looked like he could kill. he would, and he might.

with a harsh shove to the shoulder, lando told the guy, "back off."

the guy raised his hands in defense, drunkenly muttering a slur of words inaudible to their ears. lando nodded his head to the side, signaling him to get out and the guy stumbled away.

watching lando's behavior and demeanor, other guys in the vicinity took the intiative to scurry away. they didn't want a fight. he did though.

she felt the flush of anger rise in her body as she watched all the guys in the general proximity to her and lando flee. potential and non-potential hotties alike. her tongue rolled across her cheek, and she sighed heavily.

she grasped at the wrist that held her to him. it was warm, contrast to the cold dangling of bracelets and few charms that decorated it. the frigid feeling of his jewelry sent shivers through her arm and down her body, residing in her stomach, more than she would care to admit.

she peeled his arm off her. the warmth that was spread across her chest left when his tanned skin did. but her heart remained fuzzy. why?

she faced him. an obviously unpleasant expression written all over her face. but she still held his wrist in her hand.

"what the hell was that, lando?" she looked up at him through her lashes, but venom flecked through her eyes. he studied the creases in her skin while she furrowed her brows at him, he knew the look. he knew it too well. he would be lying if he said his stomach didn't do a flip.

"what was what?" he muttered in a way that made her think he had a few too many drinks. that he was acting on the alcohol, but really, he was staring at her. he wouldn't admit it though. never.

"what's wrong with you, norris?" she exclaimed to him. her hands lifted, taking his arm up with her as they slapped back down to her thighs, "im not doing this with you. you always do this."

she dropped his wrist and turned around to storm off back upstairs but his hand caught her wrist this time. he pulled her back, her shoulder colliding with the bare of his chest, due to his white shirt that had a few too many buttons undone.

"do what?" his demeanor changed when he clenched his jaw. her strong energy that came at him weakened as she watched the muscles on his cheek. she pursed her lips, her tongue gliding against her teeth.

she glanced around uncomfortablely, noticing the gather of gazes from different groups they'd collected with his shenanigans. she shifted in her stance.

he noticed this. he knew the shift of her behavior when she didn't like something. he knew her like the back of his hand. he hated it, but loved it at the same time.

he'd understood the thought of this conversation being heard by those who surrounded them, it was like there was no escape. but he would create one.

with his hand still grasping her, he dragged her through the crowd. he had shoulder-checked practically everyone he pushed through to get back to the stairs. she nearly lost him in the crowd due to the height of some of the party-goers.

but when they'd reach the stairs, she thought that the pull-along would abruptly end—she was wrong.

she knew how to walk up stairs. she thought it was stupid of him to keep leading her through her own house. he didn't even know where her room was.

except he did. so when he barged into her room, pulling her in front of him to shut and lock the door behind him, she confronted him.

"what is your problem?" she spoke so outwardly now and her voice barely echoed off the walls. she nearly flinched when he took just a few steps to reach the position in which she stood.

"you. you are my fuckin' problem." he spoke lowly, but god, she felt herself turn to putty as he kept striding towards her until her back pressed the cold wall.

she looked up at him and gulped, staying silent, which prompted him to continue speaking.

"you are my problem because you can't stop talking to every single goddamn guy in the world," his head leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching. she felt like she was getting scolded, maybe she was. maybe she kind of liked it.

but she wouldn't dare admit it.

"and parading around in these-" his finger hooked the waistband of her shorts, pulling them away from her body and then releasing it to slap back onto her skin, "-slutty little shorts doesn't fucking help."

"fuck you, norris." she spat back, their forehead touching and noses grazing. but she didn't anticipate the hand that settled on her neck. the pretty lightning of veins that became more prominent.

she felt his fingers pressured the sides of her neck, her heart rate increasing dramatically. she felt like jelly in his hands, molded into shape.

he scoffed, 'tsk'ing at her words as he shook his head with a smirk. a smirk from him was never good.

he looked into her eyes, a lustful glint revealed with the streak of light, "maybe I'll just have to fuck the attitude out of you."

he watched the way her pupils dilated, the already dark of her eye becoming black as the words left his mouth. she felt a feeling of desperacy between her thighs.

he knew he had power over her. he didn't know he had this much. and just to prove it, he slid his finger up her neck, near her jaw for a pulse. a fast one.

he chuckled lowly, it sounded evil.

he looked in her eyes as his hand slide up the length of her neck, resting just as her jaw as his thumb caressed along the line. his forehead pressed against her.

a phantom feeling of his lips grazing hers, but not closing the space. not yet. not without.

"is it okay?." he asked simply. and she nodded against him.

but it wasn't good enough. maybe for others it would be, but not him. he needed to hear it. confirmation.

"words." was all he said, but she got the memo, rolling her eyes slightly, but nonetheless.

" 's okay-"

it was all he needed. he closed the gap of their lips within milliseconds. the suddenness of the warm flesh against her lips incited a small gasp, which split her lips just enough for him to intrude her mouth with his tongue.

she didn't fight with him. she knew he would win. he always does. even if the odds were never in his favor, he'd play the right cards.

but she was desperate. desperate for the taste of his faded spearmint gum and booze from his mouth in hers. it might've been an odd combination of flavor for anyone else, but to her, it made sense. to her, it was what she's been searching for.

their lips molded together. they were made for no one else but each other, at least that's what it felt like.

lando's other hand traveled down the exposed skin of her side, feeling the rising goosebumps. she felt him smirk against her lips and with the hand tangled in his curly hair, she tugged lightly. she felt the vibrations of his groans in response to her actions.

but it didn't stop his hand that traveled down her waist, and then hips, and then her thigh. she felt the smooth of his palms and fingertips as they parted her legs slightly, coming to rest on the inner most part of her thigh.

she felt her heart thump in her chest, the rising excitement in her body and the want to be touched by him. only him. she hadn't realized how much she could have wanted this to happen until now.

how often she'd find herself on the bed, that laid barely ten feet away, under plush covers with her skin covered in sweat, baby hairs that never grew out sticking to her forehead. how often she'd find herself saying his name rather than anyone else as she had her hands between her thighs, the hand she pictured to be his. like his hand is about to be.

his hand creeping up her skin, teetering on the edge of her laced panties under her striped shorts. he dipped his fingers around the hem before pulling away, teasing the idea of giving into what she had fantasized. but he wouldn't know she got off to the thought of him.

and she wouldn't know he did too, letting her name slip past his lips one too many times while he satisfied himself with her in mind. one too many times too loud too.

their lips split from each other, their heavy breaths only heard by the two of them, and they could still hear the bass of the music that raved downstairs.

her head found his shoulder, pressing herself into the white linen button-up that unfortunately covered his torso. the hand in his hair remained, tugging at his curls every time he did something she liked. her other arm snaked around the back of his neck for support.

he smirked. he hadn't done much yet, and he wanted to keep messing with her mind.

though, lando wanted to give her some satisfaction, so he ran his finger along her clothed core, shaking his head at the strangled moan that slipped past her lips.

pressing the side of his face to hers, she felt his breath pan across her ear, " 'm going to need you to be quiet for me, love. can you do that?"

butterflies in her stomach, her head shook desperately, but once again, it wasn't enough for lando.

"words, darling," his lips met the skin below her ear, his hand slipping beyond the cloth barrier. he felt the heat that radiated from between her thighs, ghostly touching her.

"f-fuck," she groaned, clenching the hair between her fingers, "yes."

"good girl," he smirked against her skin, she felt it but she was too desperate to say anything to prolong what she needed from him.

two of his fingers ran across her cunt painfully slow, feeling how wet she was for him. it was an ego boost to have her like putty in his hand.

her thighs clenched together at the contact, a strained groan caught in her throat as she bit her lip. she knew she was desperate, but she didn't expect herself to melt like this for him.

he lifted her leg apart from the other, supporting it with his hand on the backside of her knee.

lando teased her a bit more, enjoying the struggling sounds that managed to escape her sporadically. eventually, he slipped his fingers all the way into her cunt, feeling his knuckles press her skin. with his thumb, he teased her clit, practically sending her over the edge

he felt her walls clench around him as he remained unmoving for a few seconds for her to collect herself, only to be ruined again as he thrusted his fingers slowly. she struggled to keep it to herself, her eyes were screwed shut and her lip could've bled from how hard she bit it.

but when he picked up the pace, she was gone. she couldn't keep quiet, letting out her moans into his white button tee, which somewhat muffled them.

his pace remained steady, and he could tell she was reaching her point after a while when her moans upped an octave and her clenching around him.

it felt like heaven, a feeling she could've never achieved with her own two hands, she hadn't. but he did.

he slowed his fingers as she came down, pulling out of her cunt and panties. she raised her head and looked at him as sweat coated her forehead, causing those same baby hairs to stick to her skin.

they stared each other in the eyes as he raised his hands, covered in her slick, his mouth. he stuck open his tongue, running his fingers across it and licking them before smirking at her face.

"you taste sweet, darling," he pushed strands of hair behind her ear with his other hand.

he picked her up, his hands under her thighs supporting her weight while he walked a few steps to her messy, unmade bed. he threw her gently, the springs of her bed squeaking quietly against the shift of weight.

she laid, propped on her elbows as lando pressed his knees into the bed. his hands sunk the bed below him as he practically crawled on top of her. it prompted her to lay fully on her back, her hair sprawled on the piled blanket behind her.

one of his hands came to rest at the side of her head. pushing into the bed, he pulled himself closer to her as he dipped his head into the crevice of her neck, biting lightly on her skin.

she'd let out little winces at the feeling, her hands finding the buttons of his shirt, though it seemed half were already undone. but when she spread his shirt to the side, she ran her fingers down his chest, through his light abs that twitched under her cold fingertips. she smiled softly at the happy-trail on his stomach, tracing down it and along to his v-line. he groaned against her neck.

she fetched his belt around her fingers, working the clasp desperately to get it undone. she needed him and he knew that. which is why he is letting her do the work to get to him.

when she'd finally undo it, she pulled it from the loops, tossing it aside on her carpeted floor. she focused back on his dark jeans, fumbling with getting the button undone.

he noticed this, and only because he wanted it as badly as she did, he disconnected his lips from her flesh, momentarily standing off the bed to slip from his jeans, and pulling off the unbuttoned shirt from his body. they laid on the floor to get cold.

and now, to him, she was too clothed. he needed to see her skin, her curves. he wanted her. he wouldn't lie, not at this point.

so he'd crawl back across her, his bare skin appealing to her. his hands landed on her hips as he lifted them in the air. his fingers curled around the elastic of her shorts and panties as he dragged them down leisurely, like he had all the time in the world. like time had stopped and they were the only ones moving.

he'd let the cloth get to her ankles before letting her finish the work, advancing back up her body to rid the tiny top he barely deemed appropriate for anyone other than him to see.

he pulled it over her head, her arms spread above her head as the cold air greeted her chest. he wasn't surprised she didn't have anything under the top, he didn't expect her to in her own house.

he exhaled shakily at the sight of her chest. she was perfect to him. he admired her features from above. the curves of her body that dipped in the right places, the goosebumps scattered on her skin, her hard nipples from the cold air.

he pulled her to towards him by her hips, her wet cunt colliding with the tent that had built in his tent. their groans synced as they grinded against each other, the other thing stopping them was the cloth of his boxers. her clit was sensitive against the rough cotton and she whimpered softly.

he felt the cold sensation of her slick dampen his underwear, practically throbbing to feel her, to have her. low groans escaped his lips, his fingertips digging into her bare hips, turning her skin white.

he, unadmittedly, was desperate for her. he could've torn the cloth of his boxers, but he didn't care. he had money for more but he didn't have this moment forever. he wished he did.

dripping with precum, he stroked himself a few times, looking at her, he could've gotten himself off just to the visual of her.

he moved back over her body, lining himself when she pripped herself on her elbows, "no condom?"

he shook his head, mumbling as he pushed her shoulders back down, " 's fine, I'll buy you plan b, jus' need you," he admitted it. he really did.

she wouldn't lie when she said she needed him too. she had for a while. he seemed to be the answer to most of her problems.

he'd slowly push the tip in, watching her expression closely as she winced. he dipped back to her neck, kissing the skin and leaving more small marks she knew she would curse him for in the morning. but it helped.

it'd also help when she'd dig her fingernails into the even skin of his back, now ruined by red scratches he would stare at for hours after. he would've proudly displayed them if he could.

he shushed her in her ear, slowing pushing himself further into her. he let out of a low moan against her neck. he stayed like that for ten seconds, relishing in the capsulating feeling of taking her.

when he'd move, his thrusts started slow and even, he was cautious. the skin of his hips pressed into the back of her thighs every time he'd push himself all the way in, forcing her to take all of him.

and when her small cries turned to whimpers and moans, letting out strings of curses and his name, every so often, he'd take it as a sign to start thrusting quicker.

moans got louder and the sound of their skin contacting filled the room. he'd force her to quiet down with his hand on her mouth, muffing her unfortunately so pretty moans against it. her head fell back with her chest arching against his.

"eyes on me, pretty girl," he'd manage through heavy breaths, looking into her dark and very dilated eyes. his forehead came to rest against hers and watched her face. her mouth was open, he could feel it against his hand. her skin was flushed and red, skin sweating, making her hair stick to her face. he couldn't be more turned on.

he knew she was close, he was too. like earlier, she clenched around him, her mouths loudening under his hand, increasing in pitch.

she knew he was close by the uneven pace and his thrusts, his eyes becoming half-lidded and his lips glued to her skin

with his free hand, he rubbed circles on her clit, which seemed to set her over the edge as he watched her eyes almost roll back, feeling her walls clench around him.

"fuck," he groaned as he came with her. it was hard not to when he had waiting for this for a long time. too long.

his thrusts slowed greatly as their highs rode away. he felt onto the space or the bed beside her, panting heavily as they laid side by side.

the reality that they'd just fucked set it. they were supposed to hate each other, everyone knew that. but everyone also knew the tension between the two was more than just one feeling of hatred.

he'd disprove his hatred when he'd clean her up gently, with a damp, microfiber towel he'd stolen from the bathroom. he'd pick out a new shirt for her that covered her significantly better than her previous one. he'd dress her, wash her up and put her in bed.

he'd already gotten dressed against when he'd tuck the blanket by her side, he went to walk away, but the sound of her tired voice called to him, "lando, can you stay?"

her voice was sleepy, her eyes were glazed as she laid on her side, but her back was to him. he stopped in his tracks and turned back around. his belt was in his hand, but he'd dropped it immediately. disgarding his shirt and jeans, he dragged his feet against the carpet to the other side of the bed.

when he'd slip into bed, before he could even pull the covers back atop him, she had her arms around him, her face against his chest, and her leg around his waist.

his eyes softened and the warmth of having her against him wasn't so bad. he actually loved it. he would admit that.

he went to bed with a smile on his face and his girl.

the light had shown through the window, the lacy curtains, spilling onto his face. he grimaced at the light, groaning as he sat up in the bed.

they had separated during the night, but her legs remained across his stomach, he ran his hand across her leg, caressing it.

he yawned, taking in the nice, early morning when the door to her room had opened. he'd see his friends looking curiously around the room, seemingly looking for him.

when they'd see him, they silently cheer and giggle. they were definitely going to use this against him. about how right they were.

he chucked a pillow at them, which prompting them to fler before he causes harm. the door shut quietly and he laid back down with his hands under his head.

a smile crossed his face as he felt her against him again.

2K notes · View notes