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natsaffection · 2 months ago

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Redline. pt 6 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), 18+! MINORS DNI! sexual tension, trauma, violence, crashs

Word count: 12,1k

A/N: Okay…a really great time has now come to an end. I want to thank everyone who interacted with the fic, it literally blew up so much, I never expected it. I gained so many new people here and some lovely anons because of it, and I’m truly grateful. Thank you!

I hope I made the ending worthy of the story (even though Tumblr shortened it due to the word limit). I really hope it doesn’t feel too rushed. 🫶🏼🍾

Part 5

1 Month later

You were lying in Natasha’s bed scrolling through your phone, half-awake when the articles started popping up.

Romanoff’s Favorite – The Relationship Between Natasha and Her Rising Star.

Not Just Business? Photos Capture Natasha Romanoff’s Rare Smile at Y/N’s Victory.

More Than Just Racing? The Paddock Buzzes Over Y/N and Natasha’s Dynamic.

Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t new that people speculated about you and Natasha. The media was always looking for a story. Always waiting for something to tear apart.

But this? This was the first time they had proof. There were pictures.. Natasha, standing with the team, a champagne glass in hand, watching you on the podium. Natasha, smiling. Actually smiling. Natasha, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Your breath caught. Oh, fuck…

“You’re up early.”

You nearly jumped at the sound of Natasha’s voice. She was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still in the loose sweats she wore when she wasn’t dressed to terrify the entire paddock.

“Did you see this?” you blurted out, shoving your phone in her direction.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, stepping closer to take the device from your hand. She scanned the articles, lips pressing into a thin line. “Of course they’d make a story out of this.” she muttered.

“This is bad..” you groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “The press conference today is going to be a fucking disaster.”

Natasha hummed. Then, to your absolute horror, she smirked. “What?” you demanded.

She tilted her head slightly, tossing your phone onto the bed before leaning in closer, so close that you could feel her breath against your cheek. “You’re nervous.” she murmured, clearly amused.

“Of course I am, Natasha, this is a mess-”She cut you off with a chuckle, straightening up. “Let them talk.”

Your stomach flipped. She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t freaking out. She was enjoying this.

“You’re not serious..”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s inevitable. They were always going to figure it out.”

You blinked. “Figure what out?”

Her smirk widened, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned towards the door, pausing just long enough to glance at you over her shoulder.

“Get dressed. We have a press conference.”

The room was buzzing with anticipation by the time you stepped in. Cameras flashed, reporters murmured among themselves, and the air carried the weight of a dozen unanswered questions. The energy was different today, sharper, more expectant. You knew exactly why.

Natasha walked beside you, her presence as commanding as ever, a steady force in the chaos. Dressed in her usual sleek suit, she radiated an untouchable authority, but there was something else today. Something in the way she moved, the way her gaze flickered across the room before settling on you.

She was prepared. Always. But this wasn’t just about the race anymore. You took your seat, adjusting the mic in front of you, your fingers brushing over the cold surface as the press officer nodded for the first question.

A journalist from Racing Line leaned forward, eyes sharp with intrigue. “Y/n, first of all, congratulations on your win yesterday. A phenomenal drive. But beyond that, there’s been a lot of talk about your dynamic with your team principal.”

He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Care to comment on the pictures circulating? Romanoff looking unusually pleased with your performance?”

You clenched your jaw, pulse spiking. Of course. The photos had been everywhere this morning. Natasha, standing at the pit wall, watching you with a look that was unmistakably soft. For her, at least. And then on the podium, the way she’d lingered, the rare glimpse of a smile.

Natasha’s presence beside you remained steady. No reaction. Just sharp focus, like she was calculating every possible outcome of this moment. You exhaled slowly, forcing a small smirk as you leaned forward. “I think any team principal would be happy when their driver wins.” you said, voice level, playful even. “It’s kind of their job.”

A few chuckles echoed through the room, but the journalist wasn’t backing down. “True, but this seemed more personal. Some might say.. more invested than usual.”

You barely had time to process it before Natasha spoke. “If you’re implying that I don’t take every win personally, then you clearly don’t know me.” she said coolly, her gaze locking onto the journalist with a pointed sharpness. “I push my drivers to win. That’s my job. Y/n delivers. That’s hers.”

The response was effortless, perfectly calculated to dismiss any rumors while still standing firm. But you knew her too well now. The way her fingers tapped lightly against her leg under the table, the slight tick in her jaw, it was irritation masked under absolute control.

Another journalist jumped in. “Y/n, this season has been a defining one for you, but given your history with crashes and the challenges you’ve faced, do you ever feel like you still have something to prove?”

Your stomach twisted at the question, but you didn’t let it show. You straightened, fingers flexing against the table. “Every driver on this grid has something to prove. That’s why we’re here. But if you’re asking if I doubt myself? No. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I did.”

The room went still for a second, the weight of your words settling before another voice cut in. “Natasha, you’ve worked with some of the best drivers in the sport. Where does Y/n rank among them?”

Your breath caught. Oh. That was a trap. Natasha didn’t play favorites. Ever. Her entire brand of leadership was built on ruthlessness, on absolute control, on never showing anything that could be perceived as bias. But then, she turned her head slightly, eyes locking with yours, just for a fraction of a second.

“She fights harder than most..” Natasha said finally, voice even, measured. But there was something in her tone, something more. “And no. She hasn’t finished proving herself yet.”

The tension in the room shifted. You weren’t sure if anyone else caught the unspoken weight behind her words. But you did. The questions continued, each one sharp, some pressing about the championship fight, others about your rivalry with Walker, about strategy, about what came next. You answered, playing the game, maintaining your composure, even when the topic of your previous crash came up again.

By the time you made it back to the team’s facility, you barely managed to get your stuff done before heading straight for Natasha’s office, needing to breathe, to think, and the moment you stepped inside, she was already there.

Natasha stood near her desk, arms crossed, watching you. The way her eyes scanned you, calm, assessing made your stomach twist. She had felt it. She had seen it.

“What’s wrong?”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “It’s just..They talked like they know anything!”

“They don’t.”

You huffed, pacing the room. “But they think they do! They’re making this entire thing into some huge scandal, ‘Natasha Romanoff smiles? Must be because of Y/N L/N-

Natasha smirked slightly. “It’s not entirely false.”

You froze mid-step, whipping around to face her. “Natasha.”

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “What?”

Your frustration only grew. “How are you so calm about this? You know what people are saying-”

“I don’t care what people are saying.” Her voice was steady, unwavering. You stared at her, jaw tight, hands clenched at your sides. “Well, I do.”

Silence stretched between you till Natasha moved. One second, she was standing by her desk, and the next, she was right in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from her.

“You do?” she murmured, voice dropping. You swallowed hard. She tilted her head slightly, studying you, her gaze flickering to your lips for just a second before locking back onto your eyes. “What exactly is it that’s bothering you?”

Your breath hitched. “The attention?” she continued, her voice softer now. “The rumors? Or the fact that they might be right?”

Your stomach twisted, your body betraying you with the way your pulse spiked. She saw it. Of course, she saw it. Her fingers brushed against your wrist, light, teasing, but enough to make you shiver.

“I..” You didn’t know what you were going to say. Didn’t get the chance to find out. Because Natasha took another step forward, crowding into your space, her presence consuming, her scent, leather and something unmistakably her wrapping around you like a trap you didn’t want to escape.

“Tell me.” she murmured, her breath brushing against your cheek. You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t. Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know what this is..”

Natasha’s lips curved into a smirk, but her eyes softened just enough that your chest ached. “You will.” And then she kissed you. Slow. Purposeful. Like she had decided. Like she had always known. And for once, you stopped thinking.

Race 22

The moment you crossed the finish line, your grip on the steering wheel tightened. P2. Not the win, but damn close. And after the chaos of the rain, the battle with Walker, and the near spin that nearly sent you into the barriers, you’d take it.

“P2, Y/n! Well done!” Your race engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, but there was something else beneath it. A small pause.

Then Natasha. “Good job, Y/n.” her voice was controlled, professional, but you swore there was something more. A flicker of pride just under the surface. “You handled the conditions well.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, a slow grin tugging at your lips as you leaned back against the seat, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. P2. The points were crucial, but more than that? Your parents were here today.

You knew exactly where they were standing in the paddock, right at the edge, watching from behind the barriers. Your dad had always been more subtle with his pride, but you could imagine the small nod of approval he was giving right now. Your mother, on the other hand, had probably been clutching his arm the entire race, barely breathing each time you overtook.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head as you pulled into the pit lane, the sound of the crowd still roaring around you. The podium celebration was nothing short of euphoric. The champagne bottle was cold against your palm, the pressure inside ready to burst. You popped it, aiming the spray at the crowd, the golden bubbles soaking into your race suit as you laughed, high off the victory, the energy, the moment.

Walker was there, of course. You could feel his presence, could practically sense his frustration at not clinching the championship today. It fueled you. And then, the press again. It happened fast. The podium celebrations ended, and before you could even get a second to breathe, the paparazzi descended.

“Y/N! P2 today, how do you feel after that battle with Walker?”

You expected the questions. You were prepared for them. You kept walking, still riding the high, your team’s mechanics clapping you on the back as you moved toward the garage.

“Were you worried about the rain conditions?”

“Your spin almost cost you the podium- what was going through your mind?”

You answered, giving them just enough without revealing too much, your voice still buzzing with the rush of the race.

“The next race is at Silverstone. Your Silverstone. Are you ready for that?”

You froze. The air in your lungs thinned, and suddenly, the roaring of the crowd, the flashing cameras, the overwhelming everything..felt too loud. The wreckage. The fire. It slammed into you all at once. You blinked hard, forced the memories down, and made yourself breathe. Your voice, when it came, was calm. Controlled. “It’s just another race.”

A lie. But one the world didn’t need to know. You started moving again, Natasha keeping pace beside you, her presence unwavering. She didn’t say anything, but you felt her watching. And when the press had finally been left behind, when the cameras were no longer in your face, when it was just you and her walking toward the garage, she finally spoke.

“You okay?”

You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah, let’s go.” Her silence was sharp. Calculating. You knew she didn’t believe you.

The road stretched ahead in quiet darkness, the soft hum of the engine filling the air. The city lights flickered past the windows, casting brief flashes of neon against your skin. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still damp, the reflections of streetlights shimmering on the slick asphalt. You barely noticed. Your mind was elsewhere.

Silverstone.

Every corner. Every turn. Every shadow of the past that lurked beneath the floodlights of that track. You could see it. Feel it.

The way the car had snapped away from you in that fraction of a second, how the wall had rushed toward you. The helplessness, the terror. The excruciating pain that had followed. The fire. The pressure of the seatbelts locking you in place as you fought to stay conscious. The memories clawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to pull you under.

Would it feel the same next weekend? Would you hesitate when you reached that same turn? Would you flinch- You didn’t get to spiral too far before a hand suddenly waved something in front of your face.

A phone.

You blinked, snapping back into the present. The scent of Natasha’s car, the low music playing through the speakers, the woman herself sitting beside you with an expectant look.

“Order food.” Natasha instructed, smirking slightly. You furrowed your brows, still trying to shake off the ghosts of your past thoughts. “What?”

Natasha waved the phone again. “Food. You know, the thing we eat to survive?”

“Right..” you muttered, grabbing the device and pulling up the app. You scrolled through options, selecting your usual choices, though your mind was still distant. It wasn’t until you reached the address confirmation screen that you hesitated.

“Nat…” you said slowly, glancing toward her. “This isn’t the track. Where are we going?”

Natasha’s smirk widened as she turned onto a quieter road, one that led away from the team facilities and the usual places you stayed.

“My place.” she answered simply.

You stilled. Natasha’s home. You had spent countless nights together, hotels, at Natasha’s track, but never at Natasha’s place. It was private. Personal. Hers.

You swallowed. “Your place?”

“That’s what I said.”

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. Natasha flicked you a knowing glance, clearly sensing the shift in your demeanor. Then, with a devilish smirk, she added, “Relax, printsessa. If you’re thinking about it, I wouldn’t have bothered ordering food.”

Your face heated instantly. “I-I was not thinking about..!”

Natasha let out a low, amused chuckle, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “Sure you weren’t.” You groaned, slumping back into your seat. God, this woman.

When you arrived, Natasha pulled into the private driveway of a sleek, modern home tucked behind high walls and tall trees. The moment you stepped inside, you were hit with a sense of quiet intimacy.

The place was hers. Clean, organized, yet undeniably lived-in. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves, books and old records stacked neatly. But what caught your attention the most were the photos.

One by the entrance, Natasha in her racing suit, helmet under her arm, a victorious smirk on her face. Another by the bookshelf, her with her family, a rare moment of unguarded happiness shining in her eyes. A framed picture of her and another driver, a teammate from years ago, grinning with champagne in hand. You took it all in, feeling something warm settle in your chest. This was Natasha’s life. The parts she didn’t show to just anyone.

“You gonna stand there all night?”

You turned to find Natasha leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same infuriatingly attractive smirk.

“Just looking…” you murmured.

Natasha’s expression softened. “I don’t let just anyone in here, you know.”

Yeah, you knew. Your eyes met, and the air between you shifted. The teasing edge faded, replaced by something warmer. Deeper.

Natasha pushed off the counter and stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. You tilted your head up, your breath hitching slightly as Natasha’s fingers brushed against your jaw.

The kiss started soft, gentle, unrushed. But as soon as your hands found Natasha’s waist, pulling her closer, the heat between you ignited. Natasha’s hands were firm, sliding against your waist, gripping just enough to make your stomach tighten with anticipation. The kiss deepened, needier, hungrier. Your fingers tangled into Natasha’s jacket, pulling her in-

The doorbell rang, and you both froze. Natasha exhaled through her nose, dropping her forehead against your shoulder. “Are you kidding me?”

You laughed breathlessly, still gripping her jacket. “Food’s here.”

Natasha groaned but finally pulled away, muttering something about terrible timing as she went to get the food.

You sat on the couch, food spread between you, the glow of warm light casting soft shadows on the walls. The tension between you had shifted, not gone, but different now. It simmered beneath the surface, intertwined with something softer, more vulnerable.

Natasha watched you pick at your food, your fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of the takeout container. You weren’t fully present, still lost in thought.

“Talk to me.” Natasha said quietly, resting her arm against the back of the couch.

You hesitated, then exhaled, setting your food aside. “It’s just…”

Natasha said nothing, just watching and waiting. “It’s not just another race..” you continued. “I know I should be past it by now, but… I don’t know…”

“You don’t just ‘get past’ something like that.” Natasha interrupted gently.

You huffed a soft laugh. “You’d think nearly dying would be enough for me to quit racing.”

Natasha tilted her head. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah…” Natasha reached out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. Her fingers lingered a second longer than necessary, her touch soft. “Because it’s who you are. You’re not afraid of fighting for what you want.”

You met her eyes, something settling in your chest. Then Natasha smirked. “And for the record? You’ll be fine. I’ll be there the whole time.”

You let out a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help.”

The tension had lightened, but it still buzzed beneath the surface, the kind of pull that never really went away between you. Then, in one smooth, calculated move, you climbed onto Natasha’s lap. Enough with depression.

Natasha raised a brow, but didn’t move, didn’t protest, just watched. You settled yourself, your legs bracketing Natasha’s hips, your hands pressing lightly against the older woman’s shoulders.

“Thought you were nervous.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head up slightly, amusement flickering in her green eyes.

You smirked. “Maybe you’re just really good at distracting me.”

Natasha exhaled slowly, her fingers instinctively settling against your waist. “Mm. And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Natasha asked, voice low, teasing, her hands barely moving, just resting there, warm and steady. You leaned in slightly, your lips just close enough to brush against Natasha’s ear. “Distracting myself.”

Your voice was soft, sultry..a promise and a challenge all at once. Natasha exhaled, her grip tightening just the slightest bit. But she didn’t move to take control. No..she was going to let you play your game.

And you took your time. You let your fingertips graze down Natasha’s arms, featherlight, teasing, slow. You leaned in again, pressing an almost nonexistent kiss just below Natasha’s jawline, barely there, just enough to make Natasha’s breath hitch, before pulling back again with an innocent expression.

Natasha smirked, tilting her head. “You’re dangerous, printsessa.”

You smiled, shifting just enough that you could feel the reaction you were pulling from Natasha. A slow, deliberate roll of your hips, just a fraction of movement, but it was enough to make Natasha’s jaw tighten. She was watching. Letting you put on a show. Not stopping you. Not rushing you.

You ran a hand up Natasha’s chest, fingers lingering at the collar of her shirt. You played with the fabric for a second before leaning down, just close enough that your lips barely brushed.

Natasha wasn’t chasing. Not yet. You smirked. “Something wrong, boss?”

Natasha exhaled slowly, her control almost infuriating. “Not at all.”

A challenge. You leaned down again, pressing a slow, unhurried kiss to the corner of Natasha’s mouth, not quite giving in.

Natasha’s grip on you tightened just slightly. You were playing with fire now. You kissed along Natasha’s jaw, soft, teasing, dragging it out. You could feel Natasha’s patience thinning, the way her breath was a little heavier, the way her fingers dug just slightly into your hips.

You smirked against her skin. You were winning. Or at least you thought you were, until Natasha’s hands suddenly shifted, flipping your positions in one swift move. Now, you were on your back against the couch, Natasha leaning over you, hands braced on either side of your head.

You swallowed. Your heart stuttered and Natasha smirked. “You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”

You licked your lips, looking up at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about..”

Natasha leaned in, not kissing you, just hovering, watching. Watching your breath hitch, watching you squirm just slightly under her gaze.

“I let you have your fun..” Natasha murmured. “Now, it’s my turn.”

You barely had time to react before Natasha’s lips finally crashed into yours. This time, there was no hesitation. Natasha kissed you like she was claiming you, like she was making up for every second you had made her wait. It was deep, hungry.

Her hands moved, no longer still, no longer restrained. One gripping your waist, the other sliding up your back, pulling you in as close as possible.

You exhaled sharply, your fingers digging into Natasha’s shoulders, trying to keep up. You had started the game. But Natasha was the one finishing it. You barely noticed the way Natasha’s lips moved lower, kissing along your jaw, trailing down just enough to make your toes curl.

Until..The phone rang.

The sound cut through the moment like a blade. You both froze, Natasha’s lips still pressed against your skin. You groaned. “Nooo!!”

Natasha let out a low chuckle against your collarbone before pressing a quick kiss there and pulling back. She reached for the phone, but you grabbed her wrist, shaking your head. “No. It can wait.”

Natasha smirked. “Impatient?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start something you’re not going to finish!”

The phone rang again. Natasha sighed, glancing at the screen. She smirked, then, a knowing, smug little smile.

“Oh, this one can’t wait.” she murmured, amusement flickering in her gaze.

You frowned, still breathless. “Why?”

Natasha picked up the call, holding you in place. “Because, it’s for you.” she murmured against your lips before answering.

Here voice was low, calm, businesslike..echoed from the hallway as she wrapped up whatever conversation had interrupted you. You barely registered the words, still feeling the ghost of Natasha’s hands on your skin, the heat that had been building, building, building before that damn phone had stolen her attention away. The soft sound of the phone being set down made you glance toward the doorway.

Natasha was back.

She stood at the edge of the dimly lit living room, watching. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without a word, Natasha moved. She crossed the room with the same quiet, predatory grace that made her dangerous both on and off the track. Unrushed and in control.

You barely had time to process it before Natasha was climbing over you, bracing her weight on the couch, her hands framing your face, her knee pressing just enough between your legs. The breath hitched in your throat.

Natasha smirked. “Now.” she murmured, her voice like velvet and steel, “where were we?” And this time, nothing stopped her from finishing what she started.

—

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the sheets. You stirred, feeling the warmth of the bed beneath you, the soreness that came with exactly how last night had gone. A lazy, satisfied smile curled on your lips as you stretched, fingers reaching for the familiar presence beside you-

Only to find empty sheets. You cracked one eye open, frowning slightly. Natasha’s side of the bed was cool. She had been up for a while. You groaned, rolling onto your stomach, letting yourself melt into the mattress for a moment longer before you finally forced yourself upright. Your muscles ached in the best way, your body still humming from the night before.

That’s when you saw her. Natasha stood near the dresser, already fully dressed, the perfect picture of composure. She fastened the last button of her team-issued shirt, the usual red and black livery fitted perfectly to her frame, like the night before hadn’t just happened.

You huffed, your voice still rough with sleep. “You really have a habit of getting up and leaving.”

Natasha glanced over, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “I didn’t leave.” she countered smoothly.

You raised a brow. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up. Feels the same.”

Natasha chuckled, stepping closer. She leaned down, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tilting your chin up so your eyes met.

“I finished what I started, didn’t I?” she murmured, her tone edged with amusement.

Heat flashed through you at the memory. Natasha took full advantage of your silence, pressing a brief but thorough kiss to your lips before pulling back, still smirking.

“Come on..” she said, straightening. “We have to leave.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the pillow. “Too earlyyy..”

Natasha nudged the blanket off of you, ignoring the way you tried to pull it back up. “It’s not early, you just don’t want to get up.”

You peeked up at her, eyes playful, teasing. “And whose fault is that?”

Natasha only tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “Mine, obviously.”

You rolled onto your back with a sigh. “Where are we even going?”

Natasha simply grabbed her phone, checked something quickly, then looked at you. “You’ll see.”

You sat in the passenger seat, your fingers curled into your lap, your gaze fixed out the window as the world passed by in a blur of muted colors. The closer you got, the more the tension coiled in your chest, wrapping tight around your ribs.

You had already seen it. From a distance. The track. The place where it happened. Even from far away, it stood like a specter in the distance, a shadow of something you had never fully escaped. The floodlights, the sharp turns you once knew like the back of your hand, the long straights that had once filled your veins with nothing but adrenaline.

But now..now, it was different. You hadn’t set foot here since the crash. Since you had nearly lost everything. Your chest tightened. The closer you got, the harder it became to breathe, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. Your fingers curled against your thigh, your body going rigid as the memories threatened to surface.

Natasha sensed it. Of course she did. Without a word, she slowed the car, pulling over to the side of the empty road leading toward the track’s private entrance. The engine idled in the quiet, but she didn’t move to keep driving.

Instead, she turned her head. “Hey.”

You exhaled shakily, keeping your eyes forward. Natasha didn’t push. She just watched, her voice low, steady. Grounding.

“Look at me.”

You hesitated, your pulse still hammering. But you turned. And there it was. The thing that always managed to steady you no matter how loud the world got. Her eyes. Green. Certain. Unshaken. Like there was not a single doubt in her mind.

“You’re safe.” Natasha said softly, reaching over, her fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

You swallowed. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Natasha challenged gently, her fingers tightening just slightly. “Because you’re acting like you’re back in that car two years ago.”

You pressed your lips together, inhaling sharply through your nose. The older woman’s thumb traced slow circles against your skin, her voice unwavering. “You already won this battle, Detka. You made it out.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I thought I was past this. I hate it.”

“You will be.” Natasha assured. “But not by running from it.”

Silence settled between you, thick, heavy. But Natasha waited. She always did. And eventually, you nodded. Natasha studied you for another beat, then, without another word, she put the car back in gear and drove.

The entrance to the track loomed closer. Your fingers curled against your knee again, but you kept your breathing steady. Inhaling, exhaling. The gates opened as Natasha pulled through, leading into the pit lane, the vast emptiness of the track stretching out before you.

She stopped the car near the garage. For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Natasha unbuckled her seatbelt, stepping out. You watched as she rounded the car, her movements unhurried, purposeful. When Natasha reached your door, she opened it, the cool air from outside slipping in. And then, she stepped back.

She didn’t say anything. Just tilted her head slightly, gesturing to the driver’s seat. Your heart stuttered. You looked at Natasha, eyes wide, uncertain. But Natasha’s gaze didn’t waver.

You took a slow breath as you slid into the driver’s seat, fingers wrapping around the wheel. It felt familiar. The weight of it, the smooth material beneath your hands..it should have been comforting.

But it wasn’t. Not here. Not on this track.

Natasha shut the door behind you. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have to. She simply slid into the passenger seat, settling in like this was any other drive. Like this wasn’t the place where everything fell apart.

You swallowed, shifting the car into gear. You started slow. The track was eerily quiet, so unlike the last time you had been here. No roaring engines, no deafening crowd, no radio crackling in your ear. Just the low hum of the car beneath you, the whisper of tires on asphalt.

But you already felt it. The weight. The pull of the past creeping in. Every turn was one you had memorized. Your body still knew the angles, the braking points, the racing line that had once been second nature to you. But then, The trees. They appeared in the distance. And you knew. You knew what was coming.

The curve.

Your breath caught, your grip on the wheel tightening. Far before you even reached it, you saw it. You saw everything. The way the road bent, the familiar angle of the wall. You saw the moment your car had lost control, the sickening snap of the tires, the helpless spin.

You saw fire. And suddenly, it wasn’t just memories. The beep of machines. The sterile scent of antiseptic. Pain. A deep, agonizing pain that wrapped around your body like it would never leave. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the voices. Your parents. You couldn’t open your eyes fully, but you heard them.

“Will she walk again?” Your mother’s voice, raw, desperate.

A pause. Too long. Then, the doctor’s voice, flat, measured, carefully spoken like he was trying not to shatter them completely.

“We don’t know yet.”

Not a real answer. Not the one they wanted. Silence. Your father, his voice quieter, heavier. “You mean she might n-not?”

Another pause. “We can’t say never. But the spinal damage, the nerve trauma, her body went through extreme conditions. It will be a long recovery. She may regain movement, but returning to full functionality? To racing?” He shook his head. “It’s unlikely.”

You wanted to scream. You weren’t a body. You weren’t something to assess. You were here. You could hear them. You could feel the pain, the weight of your own broken body on the hospital bed. But you couldn’t move.

Your mother’s breath hitched. “S-She just turned twenty-one..” she whispered. “She..she’s supposed to have her whole life ahead of her!! Her career. Her dreams. You’re saying that’s just- gone-“

“You’ll race again!” It wasn’t a doctor. It wasn’t your father. It was Natasha. Her voice was sharp, unwavering. Unshaken. You gasped, staggering back into reality. You blinked rapidly, hands trembling at your sides. The track was still there. The sky was still open, the wind still cool against your skin. You weren’t in that hospital bed. You weren’t trapped. You were here. Alive. Walking. Racing. And..Natasha was here, too.

You blinked rapidly, gasping as reality slammed back into you, but it wasn’t enough. The car felt too small, too tight. The air too thick. You needed to get out. Now.

Before Natasha could say anything else, you ripped off your seatbelt and shoved open the door. The rush of cool air hit you as you stumbled out, barely keeping your balance as you walked away, fast.

Your boots scraped against the asphalt as you stopped a few feet from the car, your back turned to the curve. You placed your hands on your knees, trying to breathe, trying to focus on the present, but the past kept clawing at you.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t, not yet. But you heard Natasha’s breath as she stepped closer, heard the patience in her voice as she spoke.

“You’re not there anymore, Y/n.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “I..know.”

Natasha didn’t correct you, didn’t push you to turn around just yet. Instead, she took another step, coming close enough that your arms nearly brushed.

“You think this track is what almost killed you.” Natasha murmured. “But it’s not.”

You closed your eyes, your breath shaky. “You made it out.” Natasha continued. “You fought. You survived. And now…”

You felt the warmth of Natasha’s fingers grazing against yours. “You came back.”

Your chest tightened. You exhaled. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around. And this time, You didn’t look away. The fear was still there, pressing against your ribs. The memories still whispered in the back of your mind. But they weren’t pulling you under anymore. They weren’t controlling you.

“Go finish your round.”

You glanced back at the curve. Then at Natasha. She just raised a brow, her smile soft, knowing. Like she already knew your answer. You inhaled deeply. And then, you nodded.

Without a word, Natasha gestured back toward the car. And this time, you got back in. You settled into the driver’s seat, your hands firm on the wheel. Your pulse still pounded, but this time, it wasn’t from fear.

It was from something else. Determination. Natasha shut the door beside you and leaned in slightly through the open window. “You good?”

You exhaled slowly, your grip tightening. “Yeah.” Natasha studied you for a beat, green eyes sharp, assessing. Then, without another word, she stepped back. You pressed your foot to the accelerator.

The car moved. The track stretched ahead, the tires gliding smoothly over the asphalt as you built up speed. The engine hummed beneath you, steady and strong, your hands guiding the car as if it was an extension of yourself.

And then, the curve. It came into view, and for a split second, you felt the flicker of hesitation, the whisper of memories trying to crawl back in. But you didn’t let them. Not this time. Your body knew what to do. You adjusted the wheel, keeping your line smooth. You hit the apex.

And you took it cleanly. No fear. No ghosts. Just racing. As you exited the turn, your heartbeat steadied. Your breathing evened. And for the first time since the crash, it felt like yours again. The track. The moment. The control. You slowed as you reached the pit lane, pulling up where Natasha stood waiting. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers flexing against the wheel.

“Again.”

You blinked, catching your breath. “What?”

“Do another lap.” Natasha said, tilting her head. “This time, without stopping.”

You gripped the wheel and pressed your foot to the accelerator, feeling the car respond instantly. The low growl of the engine vibrated through your chest as you sped down the straight, the track stretching endlessly in front of you.

This time, it felt different. This time, there was no fear clawing at your throat. No weight pressing on your chest. No ghosts chasing you. Only you. And the car. Natasha’s words echoed in the back of your mind.

“Again. This time, without stopping.”

So you did. The corners came faster now, the rhythm of the track flowing beneath your fingertips. You moved through each turn with precision, your body and mind in sync, your breathing controlled. Like you had never left. And then, the curve.

It came up ahead, just like before. But this time, you didn’t brace for impact. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t freeze. You just took it. Clean. Smooth. Fast. You barely registered the moment you exited the turn. Because suddenly, it didn’t feel like a monster in the dark. It was just a turn.. Just a part of the track. And you had taken it like you were born for it.

You exhaled, gripping the wheel tighter as you pushed forward. One more sector. One more straight. The finish line appeared before you, this time, not a symbol of survival, but of victory. You crossed it at full speed. And for the first time in years, you felt free. The car rolled to a stop. The sudden silence was almost deafening, the echoes of the lap still buzzing in your ears.

Your hands were still on the wheel. Your heart was still pounding. But you weren’t shaking anymore. You exhaled, letting your head fall back against the seat for just a second before finally pulling yourself together. You pushed the door open, stepping out, the cool air hitting your flushed skin. You turned, and before you could even speak, Natasha was there.

Close and proud. There was no teasing remark. No smug comment. Just a look. A look that said everything. You swallowed, your throat thick. “I did it.”

Natasha’s smirk softened. “You did.”

You blinked up at her, your chest still rising and falling with the weight of everything that had just happened. Natasha studied you for a moment, and, without warning, she reached forward.

Her hands cupped your face, pulling you in. And she kissed you. Slow. Deep. Unrushed. Not like the night before, not with heat, not with hunger. But with something else. Something heavier.

Something that tasted like pride. Like relief. Like I knew you could do it. When you finally pulled apart, Natasha rested her forehead against yours, exhaling softly. “That’s my brave girl.” she murmured. You smiled, breathless. And for the first time in two years, you really believed it.

Race 23

The paddock was alive with the chaotic energy of race day. Engines roaring in the distance, mechanics scrambling over last-minute checks, media teams swarming in every direction. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating. But you? You had drowned it all out. Headphones in. Music blasting.

Your fingers tapped against your thigh in rhythm with the beat as you leaned against the side of the garage, eyes closed, trying to steady yourself.

Silverstone.

The track where everything almost ended. You had studied the turns, visualized every sector, forced yourself to relive the crash over and over until it didn’t hold power over you anymore.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Natasha stood just a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes trained on you, her gaze calculating, unreadable. She was watching. And she wasn’t letting anyone interfere. Every few minutes, someone tried. Engineers, strategists, team personnel, all waiting to talk to you.

To brief you. To check in. To discuss last-minute adjustments. And every single time, Natasha stopped them. One sharp glance. One curt shake of her head. Not now. She wasn’t letting anyone break your focus. She’d made sure everything was in place. That all your data was locked in. That your team was prepped.

That you were untouchable. Until he appeared. “Still seeing the wall in your sleep?”

Your entire body went still. The music still played, but you weren’t listening anymore. Your breath hitched, hands clenching into fists. And that was when Natasha turned.

She saw the way your body stiffened. She saw your reaction. And in less than a second, she was on him. She grabbed him by the front of his race suit, shoved him backwards against the garage wall, the force of it making his head jolt.

Hard. His smirk vanished. Natasha leaned in, her voice a razor-sharp whisper. “I should have done this the moment you put her in the wall last time.”

Walker tried to mask the fear flickering in his eyes, but Natasha saw it. And she fed off it. She tightened her grip, voice deadly calm.

“You think you’re clever?” she murmured. “You think you can get in her head?”

Walker swallowed. “Romanoff-”

“I am not one of these fucking PR reps who’s going to slap you on the wrist and tell you to play nice.” Her nails dug into his race suit, jaw clenching.

Walker scoffed. “You’re losing it..”

Natasha’s lips curled into something dark. “I haven’t even started.”

Cameras were on them. Photographers had gathered outside the garage. Whispers spread like wildfire. But Natasha didn’t care. She was seething. Yelena was the first to try to pull her back. “Nat.” Her voice was sharp. “Let it go.”

But Natasha wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Not until he understood. Not until he felt what she had felt. Not until he knew, without a doubt- That if he touched you again, if he even so much as breathed the wrong way in your direction— She would end him.

“Stay the fuck away from her.”

The second you and Natasha stepped into the privacy of the team garage, the noise of the paddock muffled behind the heavy doors, the weight of what had just happened came crashing down on both of you.

Her jaw was tight, eyes burning with residual fury, her breath coming in short, sharp exhales. She was holding back. Holding everything in. Because she had lost control. And Natasha Romanoff never lost control. The second the doors shut behind you, she yanked her arm free, running a hand through her hair.

You had never seen her like this. Not like this. She had always been calm, sharp, precise. Every move calculated, every emotion locked down.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Yelena threw her hands up, her Russian accent thick with frustration. “Are you trying to get suspended before the championship? Or, I don’t know, arrested?”

Natasha didn’t react. She just stood there, silent. Yelena scoffed, shaking her head. “Jesus, Natasha.”

Then she turned to you, eyes scanning you up and down. “And you.” she muttered, gesturing vaguely. “Why the hell are you letting her act like your attack dog?”

You blinked. “I- what?”

“You know she would burn the entire paddock down for you, right?” Yelena said bluntly. “Like, full villain origin story.”

Natasha sighed. “Yelena.”

Yelena ignored her. “You have her wrapped around your little driver finger.”

Your face heated. Natasha shot her sister a warning glare. “I will kill you.”

Yelena smirked. “See? She’s in denial.”

You bit back a laugh, rubbing your face. “Can we focus on the fact that the media just saw that?”

Yelena shrugged. “Oh, yeah, you’re screwed.”

You groaned. Natasha ran a hand over her face. “How bad is it?”

Yelena pulled out her phone and tilted the screen toward you.

BREAKING NEWS: ROMANOFF EXPLODES ON WALKER IN PRE-RACE CONFRONTATION!

“Natasha Romanoff LOSES CONTROL—DRAMA before the final races!”

“TENSION RISES: WALKER VS. L/N, BUT IS ROMANOFF THE REAL FIGHT?”

Before you could say something, Your parents stepped in and Natasha’s blood ran cold. She recognized them instantly. She had met your parents once before, but this? This was different. Your father’s eyes flickered to the scene again behind him, the cameras, the tension, the way Walker was still adjusting his suit, trying to shake off the encounter.

And then? He turned back to you. He searched your face for a moment. And then, he sighed, shaking his head with a small, tired smile. “You never did back down from a fight, did you?”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t realize you had been holding it until then. And for the first time that day, You let out a laugh. Your father stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. And suddenly? You weren’t a racing driver. You weren’t the girl who had just been shoved into the spotlight again.

You weren’t the girl who had almost died here last time. You were just his daughter. And God, you had missed this. When he pulled back, he placed both hands on your shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. And he believed you. Your mother was next. She didn’t hug you. She didn’t smile. But she stepped forward. And that, alone, was enough.

“I still hate this.” The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t judgmental. They were just honest. You exhaled, nodding. “I know.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “But.”

Your heart stuttered. “But I also know how much you love it.”

She looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time since your accident, she saw the joy in your eyes instead of the scars. And when she spoke again, it was softer. “Just promise me you’ll be careful this time.”

Your throat tightened. But you nodded. “I promise.”

Natasha had been standing just a few feet away. She had given you space. But now? She stepped closer, until she was by your side. Your father looked at her. Then at you. And then? A slow smirk. “Romanoff causing trouble for you?”

You let out a soft laugh. And Natasha? For the first time since she nearly killed Walker, her lips twitched into something close to a smile.

“She does that.” And for the first time, your mother didn’t argue. She just sighed. “Then I guess you two are a good match.”

The roar of the crowd was deafening as you sat in your cockpit, hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Even through your helmet, you could hear the thunderous energy of the fans, the commentators hyping up the moment.

“After years of fighting her way back, Y/N L/N is back at Silverstone, the very track that nearly ended her career. And now, she has a chance to take another victory here.”

“The nerves must be unreal. This is the track of her nightmare.”

You exhaled sharply, steadying yourself. This wasn’t just any race. This was Silverstone. The last stepping stone before the championship. And even more than that, it was the race. The one that left scars on your body, that nearly stole everything from you.

Your fingers twitched against the steering wheel, tension coiling in your chest. A voice crackled through the radio.

“Radio check.”

It was Natasha. Firm, steady. The only anchor keeping you from drowning in your own thoughts. You pressed the button on the wheel, your voice tight. “Copy.”

A pause. “You good?”

Your throat was dry. “I don’t know.”

Another pause. Then, softer. “Breathe, Detka. I’m right here with you.”

The Russian curled around you, grounding you. It wasn’t something she used often, only in moments like these, when she knew you needed something solid to hold onto. You inhaled deeply. Held it. Exhaled slowly.

“Just another race.” Natasha murmured, voice smooth. “Just another grid. Just another set of lights. You know what to do.”

You clenched your jaw, nodding slightly. “I know.” But before you could settle into that thought-Walker. He was right in-front of you, P1 on the grid, his presence a venomous reminder that he was still in the fight. You caught a glimpse of him over the halo of your car, his smug expression barely visible under his helmet. Even from here, you knew he was going to make this difficult.

A tap on your helmet made you turn your head, Yelena. She crouched beside your car, her green eyes searching yours. “You ready?”

You scoffed. “Yes.”

She grinned. “Good. Now go kick his ass.”

You smirked, shaking your head. “That’s the plan.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the comms again. “Grid up.”

You pulled your visor down, locked in, fingers twitching on the wheel. This was it. “Let’s hunt.”

Five red lights flickered overhead.

Five… Four… Three…

Your breath caught in your throat.

Two… One…

The world held still.

Lights out.

The explosion of sound and movement was immediate. Engines howled, tires screeched, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air as the pack lunged forward. Your reflexes kicked in, instincts sharper than thought.

“Nice start.” Natasha’s voice was smooth over the radio. “Hold it, don’t rush.”

Turn 1 was pure carnage. Cars dove aggressively, desperate to gain positions before the field settled. You barely had time to process before reacting, threading through the chaos.

Lap 3 emerging worked perfectly.

Lap 7 Box stop. Your team executed flawlessly, barely 2.4 seconds before they released you back into the fray.

“Perfect stop.” Natasha praised, her voice low in your ear.

Lap 10 Walker was directly in front of you, his car a flashing red target in your sights.

“Don’t rush it.” Natasha warned, already anticipating your aggression. “You’ll get him.”

Lap 18. Your breath stilled. The curve. The very turn that had nearly taken your life was right in front of you.

Your fingers clenched around the wheel. Flashes of the past crept in, the moment you lost control. The helpless spin. The wall rushing toward you. The sound of metal crushing.

Your vision blurred for half a second. Terror curled its fingers around your throat. “Breathe.” Natasha’s voice was softer now, private. Just for you. “You’re in control.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Let it go, Y/n.” Natasha coaxed. “This track doesn’t own you anymore. You own it.”

Your breath hitched. The car rocketed toward the turn. This was it. You committed. Full throttle. The car hugged the track, smooth, controlled, perfect. No oversteer. No panic. No fear. A single tear slipped down your cheek. You did it. The pit wall erupted. Mechanics cheered, Yelena whooped in celebration.

Lap 20 You held firm, but he was defending every inch.

Lap 25 Final lap.

He lunged, reckless, aggressive. But you knew him. You baited him into Turn 6, letting him think he had the overtake. At the last second, you switched lines, cutting back perfectly. The move was flawless. You heard the frustration in Walker’s engine as he locked up behind you.

And then, the checkered flag.

“Y/N L/N WINS AT SILVERSTONE!”

Your vision blurred, heart slamming against your ribs. The radio exploded. Shouts. Cheers. Yelena screaming. “You did it.”

You exhaled sharply, swallowing the lump in your throat. You did it.. The car rolled into the pit lane. The moment you stopped, you ripped off the wheel, launching yourself out of the cockpit. A sea of bodies swallowed you, mechanics, engineers, your team, screaming, shaking you, holding you.

Natasha stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, her lips twitching at the corners. And for the first time, in front of the entire world, She smiled. And in that moment, you knew. You weren’t just fighting for yourself anymore. You were fighting for her.

And fuck..You were going to win this championship.

——

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but when you walked into the team’s headquarters the morning after Silverstone, still buzzing from the victory, you were met with something entirely unfamiliar. Silence. No scheduled briefings. No physical drills. No mechanical debriefs. Just a single message on your phone.

“Meet me at the hangar. Be ready.”

You arrived at the hangar, dressed in your usual training gear, expecting something, anything, resembling a preparation session. But instead, Natasha was standing next to a private jet, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, watching you approach.

Your brows furrowed. “What’s this?”

She smirked. “Your final week of training.”

You stared at her. “What does that mean?”

She pushed off the frame, stepping closer, voice softer now. “You’ve pushed yourself hard enough, detka. Now, you rest. You reset.”

You blinked. “And you’re deciding that for me?”

She arched a brow, tilting her head. “Do you trust me?”

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in her voice. You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yes. I do.”

Her smirk returned, this time softer. “Then get in the plane.”

You followed, still confused but knowing better than to question her now. The flight was peaceful. No talk of racing, no debriefs, just the soft hum of the jet’s engines. You sat beside her, fingers drumming idly against your thigh. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Natasha didn’t look up from her tablet, scrolling through something unreadable. “Nope.”

You huffed, shifting in your seat. “You know, normal people discuss things like this.”

She smirked but still didn’t look up. “And since when have we been normal?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into the plush seat. “Fair point.”

The destination remained a mystery until you landed. When you stepped out of the jet and into the warm, sea-salted air, your breath hitched. A private villa. Hidden away, far from the chaos of the racing world.

“You brought me to an island?” you asked incredulously.

Natasha just grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “You needed a reset.”

You blinked. “And your idea of resetting is a literal paradise?”

She glanced at you over her shoulder, smirking. “Would you rather be back at the track?”

You scoffed. “No. Absolutely not.”

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head. “Then shut up and enjoy it.”

For the first time in months, you woke up without an alarm. Without the weight of race strategy meetings, without the looming stress of upcoming battles. Instead, you woke up to the soft rustling of waves, the distant call of seagulls, and the scent of coffee drifting through the open villa.

And her. Natasha was sitting on the patio, her laptop open on the table, a cup of coffee in hand, her eyes flicking between the screen and the ocean. You leaned against the doorframe, watching her, arms crossing over your chest. “Do you ever stop working?”

She hummed, tilting her head in your direction but not looking away from the screen. “Do you ever stop overthinking?”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “Touché.”

She finally looked up, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Coffee?”

You nodded, sitting down across from her. The moment you took the first sip, you exhaled, the warmth spreading through you. “Okay. Maybe this was a good idea.”

Natasha chuckled. “Told you.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the waves providing a soothing backdrop. After a moment, Natasha leaned back, closing her laptop. “How are you feeling about Abu Dhabi?”

You hesitated, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t know.”

She didn’t push. Just watched. Waited. You sighed, setting the coffee down. “I feel ready, but also… it feels different now. Everything does.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Because of the championship?”

You swallowed. “Because of you.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. A beat of silence. Natasha’s expression didn’t change immediately, but there was something in her eyes, something soft, something unreadable. You looked away, suddenly nervous. “I mean—”

“I know.”

You met her gaze again. She exhaled slowly, like she was choosing her words carefully. “I feel it too.”

The confession was quiet. Almost vulnerable. Your breath caught. “Natasha-”

She shook her head, a small smile ghosting her lips. “Not yet. Not before the final race.”

Your chest tightened, but you understood. This..whatever this was, was too big to unpack before the championship was decided. But that didn’t stop you from reaching across the table, from sliding your fingers over hers. And Natasha didn’t stop you either.

The week passed in a haze of quiet moments. Soft touches. Unspoken words. Natasha never pushed you to talk about the race, never brought up Walker, never made you think about anything except being here.

But the night before you left for Abu Dhabi, everything shifted. You stood on the balcony, staring at the ocean, lost in thought. You felt her presence before she spoke. “You’re thinking again.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t help it.”

She moved beside you, resting her arms against the railing. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. “What if I lose?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “You won’t.”

You turned your head toward her, searching her face. “How can you be so sure?”

Natasha met your gaze, eyes burning with something fierce. “Because I know you.”

A pause. “And you’re mine.”

Your breath hitched. She turned toward you fully now, stepping closer. The tension between you snapped taut, electricity crackling in the space between. She lifted a hand, fingers brushing against your jaw. “And I don’t lose, dorogaya.”

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. And this time, this time, there were no interruptions. Her lips were on yours before you could even process it, warm, insistent, desperate. You melted into her, hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

The final race was tomorrow. The world was watching. The championship was on the line. But right now? Right now, the only thing that mattered was her. The atmosphere was electric.

Final Race

The Yas Marina Circuit in Abu Dhabi was alive with tension, the air buzzing with anticipation. Fans crowded the grandstands, waving banners, their cheers blending into the deafening roar of engines warming up in the pit lane. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting golden hues over the track, the last race of the season set to unfold under the lights.

This was it. The championship decider.

You stood in the garage, your fireproof suit already zipped up, helmet in hand, heart pounding in your chest. You had never felt this level of pressure before—every decision, every overtake, every second would determine whether you would leave this track as a world champion.

“Welcome to the final race of the season, the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix! And what a season it has been! It all comes down to this, two contenders, one final battle, and the championship on the line!”

“That’s right! Y/N L/N and Walker have been at war all season, and now, after 23 grueling races, it all leads to this moment. Whoever finishes ahead tonight will be crowned the world champion!”

The camera feed cut to Walker, standing a few garages down, already locked in conversation with his engineers. You caught his gaze for a split second, and he smirked, giving you a mocking two-finger salute.

Your jaw clenched. Natasha, who had been standing beside you, caught the interaction immediately. “Ignore him.” Her voice was firm but steady, grounding you. “He wants to get in your head. Don’t let him.” You exhaled sharply, nodding.

The pre-race ceremony was grand. Fireworks lit up the sky, and the national anthem echoed across the circuit as drivers lined up for introductions. Cameras panned across each contender, zooming in on your face as the commentators continued hyping the moment.

“This is the most anticipated title fight in years. The young challenger versus the reigning champion. Y/N L/N has defied all odds this season, recovering from injury, fighting back from setbacks, and proving she belongs at the top.”

“And let’s not forget the woman behind her success, Natasha Romanoff, the enigmatic and ruthless team principal who rebuilt this team from the ground up. This isn’t just a battle between drivers, it’s a war between philosophies, between two teams that have fought tooth and nail to get here.”

As your name was called, the crowd erupted in cheers. Your stomach twisted with nerves, but you forced a steady breath. Then, Natasha’s hand found your lower back, just for a second, a silent reminder.

“You’re ready for this.” she murmured, barely audible over the noise. You swallowed hard, nodding.

The camera moved to Walker, his confident grin plastered across the screens. He thrived under the spotlight, waving dramatically at the crowd. The moment passed quickly, and soon, you were making your way to the car, slipping into the cockpit for the final time this season.

The formation lap was tense. The weight of the championship sat heavy on your shoulders as you weaved through the turns, warming up the tires, getting a feel for the grip under the lights. Natasha’s voice came through the radio. “Alright, Y/n. This is it. We’ve prepared for this moment all season. You know what to do.”

You exhaled. “I do.”

A pause. Then, softer “I’m proud of you.” Your chest tightened, your grip firming around the wheel. “Let’s win this.”

This was it. The moment everything had been building toward. The last race of the season. The championship on the line. The crowd was deafening, their cheers vibrating through the grandstands, but inside the cockpit, it was just you, the machine, and the voice in your ear.

“Radio check.”

You exhaled, adjusting your grip on the wheel. “Loud and clear.”

A pause. Then, her voice softened, just slightly. “You’ve fought too hard to let this slip away. Start strong. Control the pace. And bring it home.”

Your heart pounded. Natasha had never been this soft over the radio before a race. It settled something in your chest.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Lights out.

The engine screamed as you launched off the line, your tires gripping perfectly, carrying you smoothly into the first corner. You held your position, P1. Exactly where you needed to be.

Walker was right behind you.

Lap 5

Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “He’s pushing early. Don’t let him dictate your race. You control this.”

You kept your breathing steady. “Copy.” Walker was testing you, feinting a move on the inside, but you covered the line perfectly.

Lap 10

“Box, box.”

You dove into the pits, your crew flawless. 2.3 seconds. You rejoined the track in P3, behind two drivers who hadn’t pitted yet. Walker followed, just seconds behind.

“Cold tires. Build them up. He’s going to attack.”

Lap 15

Chaos. Two cars behind you collided violently. A massive impact. Debris scattered across the track. One car spun into the barriers at high speed.

“Safety car.”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your eyes flicked to the mirrors. “Are they okay?” Your voice was sharp, urgent.

A long pause. Then, “Both drivers are out of the car. Medics are on them.”

You let out a shaky breath. The race was neutralized. But the tension didn’t fade. Natasha cut in, voice steady. Grounding.

“Don’t think about it. This isn’t your past. This is your present. This is your win.”

You nodded to yourself. You were not the same driver who crashed before.You were stronger. Smarter. Better.

Lap 20

The safety car pulled in. The race was back on. You timed the restart perfectly. Walker was right there, trying to lunge up the inside, but you blocked him cleanly. He was getting desperate.

And then, Lap 27.

He made his move. Too aggressive. Too reckless. Your rear tire was clipped. The car twitched violently. Your breath stopped. For a second, you felt it happening again. The Silverstone crash. The helpless spin. Your lungs locked. Natasha’s voice was calm, urgent.

“You’ve got it. You’re in control.”

You held it. You corrected, stabilized the car. Walker was still pushing. Still desperate. “Don’t let him rattle you. You have him.” Natasha’s voice was sharp.

Lap 35

Final one. Walker lunged forward. He was too aggressive. He clipped the curb badly. His car twitched. Your eyes widened. He lost it. His car slid sideways, full speed into the barriers. A brutal impact. Carbon fiber shattered. Metal twisted.

The crowd gasped. Your lungs locked. Your voice broke through the radio. “Is he okay?!”

Silence. Then, Yelena’s voice. “He’s moving. Medical is there.”

Natasha followed, controlled but tight. “Stay focused.”

Your eyes flicked up. The finish line was ahead. One more corner. You had done it.. The realization hit you all at once. You erupted in a scream. “YEEEESSSS!” Your hands trembled on the wheel as you crossed the line, the weight of everything crashing over you.

You had won.

Not just the race. Not just the championship. You had won yourself back. The sound of your own screams of victory echoed in your ears, blending with the deafening cheers from the crowd, the roaring engines, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline that flooded every inch of your body.

Through the radio, your team was exploding with excitement, voices overlapping, Yelena’s unhinged screaming, engineers shouting your name—everyone losing their minds.

And then, Natasha. But this time, her voice wasn’t just professional. It wasn’t just the sharp, controlled guidance of your team principal. This time, she laughed. A real, genuine laugh, the sound crackling through your earpiece, warm and unfiltered.

“Jesus, Y/n, you’re insane.”

You let out a breathless laugh in return, blinking back the sting of emotion. “I fucking did it...”

Her voice softened, low, proud. “Yes, you did.” The realization hit you like a freight train. You were the world champion.

The second you parked the car, you ripped off the wheel, unstrapping yourself as fast as possible. Before your brain could even catch up, you were climbing out of the cockpit, the weight of everything crashing into you.

They were everywhere. Your mechanics swarmed you, hands grabbing your suit, shaking you, hugging you, their cheers ringing out in celebration. Tears burned at the edges of your vision. This was real. You were on top of the world.

You hugged every mechanic who got to you, arms wrapping around engineers, feeling every ounce of their pride, their joy, their belief in you. But then, your eyes flickered up. And there she was.

Standing just beyond the chaos, arms relaxed, her lips curled into a rare, small smile, her green eyes locked onto you. And that’s when you felt it. The sting of emotions rising too fast, too sharp, the sheer weight of this moment overwhelming.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your legs were moving. You ran. Straight to her. Natasha barely had time to react before you crashed into her arms. She caught you effortlessly, her hands gripping tight, holding you like she had no intention of letting go.

Your breath was ragged, your heart hammering against your ribs. You buried your face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her, leather, champagne, and something unmistakably her. You felt her laugh, the softest thing, as her hand slid to the back of your head, holding you close. And then, before your brain could even fully process what was happening, Natasha leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your chin up, her eyes flickering between yours, searching.

And then, she kissed you. Right there. In front of everyone. The crowd erupted. The cameras flashed. The team roared. And none of it mattered. Because Natasha Romanoff was kissing you. Not rushed. Not hidden. Real. Raw. Completely, unapologetically hers. You melted into it, your hands gripping her suit, pulling her closer, desperate to feel every inch of this moment.

When she pulled back, her forehead pressed against yours, her breath warm against your lips. And then, she finally whispered it.

“I love you.”

You blinked, your chest tightening painfully. She had never said it before. Not once. Not when she held you after long, exhausting nights. Not when she whispered Russian against your skin. Not when her hands traced over your scars like they were sacred.

But here..in front of the world..she did. And fuck, you had never loved her more. Your fingers curled into the fabric of her race suit, your voice shaking as you whispered back.

“I love you, too.”

She smiled, a real, genuine, unguarded smile. And just as the cameras continued flashing, just as the team lost their minds, she pulled you in for another kiss. Because now, you were champions. Together.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as you made your way through the pit lane, your body still buzzing with pure, unfiltered adrenaline. Every muscle ached, every heartbeat pounded against your ribs, but none of it mattered.

You had won the fucking championship.

As you walked toward the podium, your crew and engineers lined up, cheering, clapping, some even grabbing your shoulders, shaking you with pure joy. The mechanics who had spent countless hours perfecting your car, the engineers who had studied your every move, your team, your family.

You grinned at them all, shaking hands, hugging anyone who reached for you. But then, your eyes flickered forward. Natasha Standing just beyond the team with your parents, arms crossed, her stance effortlessly composed as always. But this time, her green eyes weren’t filled with sharp calculation. They weren’t focused on data, strategy, or performance.

They were on you. And for the first time, in front of thousands of cameras, in front of the world, Natasha let herself smile. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t obvious. But to you, it was everything.

She lifted a glass of champagne, a silent toast from where she stood, her expression laced with something you’d never seen from her before, not in front of the cameras. Pride. Pure, unguarded, unmistakable pride.

Your chest tightened painfully. She was proud of you. And that? That made your throat burn more than anything. Before you could even begin to process it, an official gently tapped your arm, ushering you toward the podium. The crowd erupted as you took the steps, standing in the middle, on the highest platform. The place only one person got to stand. The champion’s place. Your team principal’s place. Natasha’s place.

Your breathing hitched as you stood there, the weight of it finally crashing over you. You had done it. Walker was a few steps below you, his expression tight, controlled. He wasn’t looking at you. Good. He didn’t matter anymore. Because this moment? This was yours.

The anthem played, the flags waved, and you felt the world shift beneath you. The bottles were handed over, the anticipation buzzing through the air. You grabbed yours, shaking it violently before popping the cork, the liquid bursting forward like a dam breaking.

And then, chaos. You turned the bottle, drenching the second-place finisher, who cursed but laughed, retaliating immediately. The third-place driver joined in, and suddenly, it was an all-out war of champagne and celebration. The golden liquid soaked your race suit, your hair, your skin. But you didn’t care. You laughed, heart soaring, the feeling unlike anything else in the world.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe. Let yourself feel it. You had climbed back from hell, from the crash that nearly ended your career, from the doubts, the nightmares, the whispers behind your back. And now? Now you were at the top.

Your eyes instinctively flickered past the cameras, past the roaring crowd. Straight to her. Natasha was still standing there, watching, her glass still in hand, her lips curled just slightly.

And this time, she lifted it higher. The acknowledgment. The silent toast. The unspoken message. Your vision blurred for half a second, but you blinked it away. And then? You did something you hadn’t planned. Something natural. You lifted your own bottle in return, mirroring her.

A toast. To the one person who had been there through it all. To Natasha fucking Romanoff.

The second you stepped down from the podium, the cameras swarmed. Questions flew at you from every direction, reporters desperate for the first statement from the new world champion.

You barely had time to process them.

“Y/n, how does it feel-”

“What a comeback! What do you have to say to your doubters-”

“What does this mean for your future-”

The questions were a blur. Your mind was still racing, your body still buzzing from the victory. “Alright, that’s enough.”

The reporters stilled. You turned, heart skipping a beat. Natasha was right there, her body angled just slightly in front of yours, the presence of a shield, a protector. And just like that, the questions stopped. Because when Natasha Romanoff spoke, people listened. She glanced over at you, her green eyes softer now, just for you.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

You nodded, exhaling softly, letting her take your hand, your fucking hand, right there, in front of everyone. The world had no idea what had just changed. But you did. And that? That was all that mattered.

The End.

🏷️ TAGLIST: @l0nelyish @ayrtonwilbury @ima-gi--na-tion @whatthesnoodle @blackswanxzn @ivyasproperty @seventeen-x @wandanatlov3r @nebthetautora @casquinhaa @veroeuqin @1234mockingjay @artemisarroxvolkov @natashasmuse @cactuslover2600

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha smut #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader

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grimeshound · 3 months ago

Text

SNEAKING AROUND.

word count: 1,289

pairing: in-ho x you.

summary: you can’t seem to leave your father’s friend alone, thoughts of him filling your mind with nothing but sick fantasies. luckily for you, in-ho’s got you in his sights too, and he’s more than happy to make those thoughts come true.

cn: 18+, huge age gap (reader is 18+ and in-ho is 54), dbf!au, sneaking around, creampie, pervert in-ho

a/n: gosh ……… writing inho is like a drug to me, once i start i just cant stop

was gonna post this sooner but had to proofread, so let’s just say i waited to post this on inho’s bday ^_^ happy bday to this old geezer

—-

“I like your watch,” you said, smiling up at In-ho.

“This old thing?” he chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced down at it. “This watch is older than you are, sweetheart.” His tone was light, but the implication beneath his words sent a shiver through you.

You tilted your head, pretending to be surprised, your curiosity laced with something darker. “Oh, really? That old?”

He laughed softly, his gaze lingering on you a second longer than it should’ve. “Had it since I was in my twenties. Now…” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, a faint smirk tugging on his lips. “I’m fifty-four. You do the math.”

You did, and instead of feeling any discomfort, you felt the opposite—an attraction that made your stomach flip. God, this was so wrong, but you couldn’t help yourself. The way he carried himself, the confidence, the way his voice dipped just slightly when he spoke to you—In-ho had you absolutely hooked.

Before you could respond, your dad called him over, pulling him back into the fold of conversation with the other men. You couldn’t hide the pout on your lips, the frustration at being left alone again.

In-ho noticed. Of course, he did. Before he moved to join the group, he leaned in close, his hand brushing against yours for the briefest moment. “I’ll be back soon, princess,” he whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear. Then, before you could even process his words, he glanced around and placed a quick kiss on your lips, causing your breath to hitch.

Before you could even blink he slipped away, leaving you standing there, cheeks flushed and heart racing. You couldn’t help but giggle softly to yourself, already counting the seconds until he returned.

Amidst the crowd and bustle of your father’s work party, your attention kept wandering back to In-ho. The way his eyes followed you, dark and hungry left you feeling weak in the knees. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of you, the intensity in his gaze burned into your every move.

In-ho wasn’t subtle, either. Every chance he got, he let his hands find you—fingers brushing along your waist, sneaking lower to rest dangerously close to the round curve of your ass. His touch lingered, just enough to send shivers down your spine and leave you craving more.

And then there was the way he “accidentally” pressed himself against you as he squeezed past in the crowd. His body was firm, his touch purposeful, and it left you reeling. You couldn’t breathe, the heat in your core pooling unbearably, forcing you to excuse yourself. You rushed to the bathroom, desperate to find some sort of relief from the ache he had been building with every teasing touch, every searing look.

Naturally, In-ho had his sights on you the entire time. His sharp gaze tracked your hurried steps, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you disappear into the bathroom. He didn’t wait long before following, slipping inside and locking the door behind him.

It was all a blur after that. One moment, you were alone, and the next, his hands were hooked beneath your thighs, pulling you flush against him. Your mind went blank while his voice, low and dripping with filth—spilled against your ear. The words barely registered, lost to the sensation of him grinding behind you, each syllable a ghost of sin against your skin.

He had you like that for a while, before lifting you easily, pinning you against the cool tile wall as he snapped forward, filling you to the hilt in one rough thrust of his hips. You gasped at the intrusion, your head falling back against the wall as he wasted no time pounding you.

The sensation was overwhelming. His pace was relentless, each thrust hitting spots that had you dizzy, the world spinning around you. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he buried himself deeper into your heat. You bit down on your lip, desperate to stay quiet despite the overwhelming pleasure ripping through you.

“In-ho—! Feels so good—” you moaned breathlessly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He groaned in response, his breath hot against your skin. The low, guttural sounds he made sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your cunt. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent like a man starved. “So sweet,” he murmured against your neck, his voice thick with lust. “This cunt was made to take my cock. So fucking good, baby.”

Your walls clenched around him as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, and you couldn’t help the high-pitched whimper that escaped. Your nails dug into his sleeve as you fought to keep yourself steady, the heat pooling low in your belly threatening to consume you entirely. “Mmf—Daddy!” you cried out suddenly, the word slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Clearly, that did something to him. Because you felt his cock throb inside you, his rhythm faltering for a moment just for his hips to snap forward, even rougher than before. His breath came out in a low, almost ragged rasp as he processed what you’d just called him.

“Daddy, huh?” he teased, pulling back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes were blown wide, the usual cold stoicism replaced by something primal and unhinged. “That’s what gets my little angel off? Dirty girl,” he chuckled, the sound dripping with mockery and lust. “Does my sweet little girl get off on the thought of daddy taking care of her? Like getting fucked by someone old enough to be her father?”

The filthy words sent a shiver down your spine, your head falling back against the wall as a loud moan escaped you. His hand darted up, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging harshly, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

“Answer me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes, yes!” you cried, your voice trembling as he pounded into you harder, each thrust pulling another gasp from your lips.

“Yes, what?” he pressed, his grip on your hair tightening as his teeth grazed against your neck.

“Ah!—Love it, need daddy to take care of me,” you whined, your words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

A dark, satisfied grin spread across his face as he pressed a kiss to your temple. His hips slammed into you with renewed fervor, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with possessiveness. “Takin’ daddy’s cock so well. Fuck—what would your father think if he saw you like this? His precious little girl, getting her needy pussy stretched out by his old friend.”

The thought alone had you unraveling, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm tore through you. Your entire body was trembling as he fucked you through it, the overstimulation sending shockwaves through your core.

In-ho wasn’t far behind, his thrusts turning sloppy and more erratic. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down onto him while he buried himself to the hilt, groaning loudly as he came.

By the time you rejoined the party, your cheeks still flushed and your legs weak, In-ho was already back in the crowd. He stood by your father, laughing and chatting like nothing had happened. Sharp eyes flicking to you for just a moment, a smirk tugging at his lips. the bastard. Acting like he hadn’t just fucked his friend’s daughter senseless in the bathroom, and acting like he doesn’t have her dirty panties tucked in the back pocket of his slacks to serve as his personal little trophy.

#hwang inho #inho x reader #inho smut #player 001 #squid game 2 #inho squid game #smut #oh young il #the frontman #fanfic

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spencerreidenjoyer · 11 months ago

Text

please, please, please | spencer reid x reader

wc: 2.8k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: office sex, professor!spencer/student!fem!reader, age gap (20 years?), rough sex, blowjobs, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, title kink (being called sir), questionable relationship, dubious consent (they both want it but again it’s teacher/student so…)

a/n: read too many professor!spencer fics and decided i had to throw my hat in the ring. i feel crazy and i need him desperately. pls go crazy with me too. (ao3 link here!)

It doesn’t take an FBI profiler to notice how Dr. Spencer Reid fails to hide the way he stares at you in his lectures, his eyes always lingering on you even when he’s addressing the entire classroom.

Maybe you’re just sensitive to his gaze, because he’s an extremely intelligent man whose attention you’re more than happy to have on you, given the fact that he is insanely attractive.

Maybe you’re just as attracted to him as he seems to be with you, because you absolutely preen at the attention Dr. Reid gives you in class, words of praise over your ideas often free-flowing from his lips.

Maybe because you know how hot you are, you shouldn’t have come into Dr. Reid’s office in a low-cut top and a short plaid skirt asking to discuss your final essay in his Criminal Psychology class.

Both you and Dr. Reid know you’re more than capable of acing this paper, your in-class ideas clearly brilliant enough to impress Dr. Reid himself. And yet, you’re in his office, seemingly worried about how to get your thoughts across on paper.

It doesn’t take an FBI profiler to notice how you’re positively bluffing, a little too eloquent to sound truly uncertain of yourself in your work for Dr. Reid’s class.

It doesn’t take an FBI profiler to notice the way Dr. Reid is staring at your tits in your top, eyes only flicking back up to your face when he realises he should be looking at you while you speak instead of at your… assets.

“Sir, did you catch what I just said?” You prod, very aware he most definitely did not hear you. You note how his eyes widen when you call him sir.

“Um– Well, I–” Dr. Reid starts, but it’s no use.

You stand up, putting your hands on the desk as you sigh, “Dr. Reid, I’m sorry if I’m boring you with my thought process.”

Your arms frame your tits just right, and you catch the way Dr. Reid’s eyes inevitably flit down to your cleavage. It’s so obvious when he looks back up at you, and you see his face redden. You quirk an eyebrow at him as a challenge of sorts, and he looks somewhat apologetic.

Dr. Reid clears his throat. He avoids your eyes for a moment, as he moves to take off his blazer. “I apologise. I’m just… distracted at the moment.”

“I wonder why that is,” you hum, twirling a piece of your hair with your index finger, like you’re deep in thought. Then, like the already-obvious answer just hits you, you add, with a pout: “Oh! Do I distract you, sir?”

“What are you doing?” Dr. Reid asks, and you can hear the way he’s trying to keep his voice steady, calm.

“I don’t know, sir,” you shrug. “Maybe you should share your thoughts with me.”

Dr. Reid blinks at you, takes the sight of you in. “Well, you’re giving me a hard time right about now.”

“Why?” You cock your head to the side. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, just for a moment.

Your professor’s tone biting, he answers candidly, “Your revealing clothing choice makes it difficult for me to focus. I didn’t expect you to dress like a slut when you were coming into my office for a simple consultation.”

Your sharp inhale is audible in the pindrop-silent room. Dr. Reid meets your eyes. He pauses for a moment, and you watch his tongue dart out to wet his lips. His eyes are dark. With a flick of his finger, he says, “Come here.”

You think of leaning over the desk just to fuck with him even more, but Dr. Reid looks so serious you think you might be in actual trouble. You scurry over to his side of the desk, standing next to him. He turns his chair towards you, and you can see the bulge in your professor’s pants. He’s big.

“You want this?” Dr. Reid says gently. It’s a loaded question.

Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “Yes, sir. I want you.”

“Good. Then get on your knees.” It’s a command, in a deep voice you’ve never heard from Dr. Reid in the past three months in his lectures. You hope your knees won’t bruise from the way you fall to them in a heartbeat.

“I didn’t think you would be such a slut.” Dr. Reid smirks, and it makes a shiver run down your spine. His hand reaches towards you, cups your cheek. He slaps your cheek gently, but the suddenness makes you gasp. “Fuck, you drive me crazy in class, but now I have you like this? I must have done something amazing in a past life to have you on your knees for me now.”

“Sir,” you exhale shakily. His touch is soft, his thumb stroking your cheek with a surprising sweetness.

“Let’s put that mouth to good use, hmm?” Dr. Reid says, his tone warm, syrupy sweet. He reaches for his belt, the metal clink as he undoes it making heat quickly pool between your legs. The belt gets tossed aside and he unzips his fly, pulling his half-hard cock out. You watch as his large hand wraps around himself, as he strokes his cock absentmindedly. His eyes are only on you. Your body flushes hot with arousal.

Dr. Reid beckons you closer with a finger. You look up at him, and you take his cock in your hand. His eyes tell you everything you need to know. You lean forward to take him into your mouth. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock softly, the warmth of your mouth probably feeling like heaven as Dr. Reid moans quietly as you do. You swirl your tongue over his tip, tasting the saltiness of his precome.

His hand comes up to the back of your head as he watches you suck his cock. You’re kitten-licking at his tip, which doesn’t seem like enough for him. Dr. Reid pushes your head down on his cock, forcing you to take more of him into your mouth. He’s big, so the sudden fullness of your mouth coupled with the way he hits the back of your throat makes you choke slightly. You glance up at him. He’s smirking.

“I’m sure you know how to suck cock, don’t you? Like this, sweetheart.” His tone is close to condescending, as the fist in your hair drags your head up and down on his cock. While it’s not like you don’t know how to please a man, Dr. Reid treating you this way makes you swoon – his teacherly mannerisms turning you on impossibly.

You gag as Dr. Reid fucks your face down onto his cock, his groans mixing with your wet, choked noises. He clearly seems to enjoy this, using you how he pleases, uncaring of your own arousal. It’s so hot you feel like you might explode. You hope you’ll get more out of this than just sucking your professor off, because if he doesn’t reciprocate you might have half a mind to report him for unprofessional conduct.

But Dr. Reid is moaning into his fist, eyebrows furrowed as you blow him, and you’ve always wanted to please your professor; be it in class or right in this moment.

You reach up to grab Dr. Reid by his wrist, tapping his arm to get his attention. His eyelids flutter open, revealing his gorgeously deep brown eyes. He looks at you, slightly concerned. “What’s the matter?”

You swallow hard. “Sir, I– Will you fuck me? Please? I want- I want to feel you inside.”

Dr. Reid closes his eyes for a moment, breathes through his nose. “Holy fucking shit,” He murmurs to himself, before he says, louder, “Okay. Yes. Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

You don’t get up from your knees, not just yet. You look up at him, hands in your lap, waiting for him to tell you what to do. You smirk up at him. Dr. Reid sighs, rubbing his face with his hand, and says, “You little minx. Get up on my desk.”

He extends a hand to help you up, your legs shaky from being on your knees. You look behind you to figure out how to get yourself onto the desk, but Dr. Reid is also on his feet now, and he hoists you up onto the desk, easily getting between your spread legs. You steady yourself by placing your hands out behind you, and shudder when Dr. Reid’s big, warm hands grab at your thighs. He squeezes at the flesh, before one hand comes down to your clothed pussy. He swipes his thumb over your clit, over your hole, and he tuts. “You’re so wet already. You must be desperate.”

You shudder. Dr. Reid’s touch is not enough to feel good, as he barely teases you over your panties. “You should do something about it, Professor.”

“I will,” he says. Dr. Reid exhales, looking down between where your bodies are pressed close, his hard cock pressed against your cunt. “Look at what you’ve done to me. You’ve ruined me.”

“Sir,” you say sultrily. “You should fuck me now.”

“I will,” he repeats, his hand on your hip. He looks you up and down, and then Dr. Reid’s hand is sliding across your thigh, his fingers slipping up the hem of your skirt. You feel calloused thumbs teasing at the waistband of your panties, feel them dip past the elastic to pull them down.

Cool air hits your cunt, as Dr. Reid slides your panties off your legs. He’s looking down at you, between your legs, clearly enjoying the view. You clear your throat, and he looks up at you, almost sheepish. He says, his voice cracking slightly, “You’re gorgeous.”

You smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Dr. Reid.”

“Yeah?” He laughs. “I’m glad you think so.”

As you talk, Dr. Reid has mindlessly started to rut his cock along your leaking cunt, your steadily-flowing slick making the slide easy. It’s so good, even just the friction of your professor frotting against you. You hold back a moan, looking up into Dr. Reid’s eyes.

“Sir– Oh, fuck,” you moan, as his cock slips inside of you with the way he grinds against you, your hole letting him in too easily. You’re so wet that he’d just slipped in. The feeling stuns you both, wet heat around Dr. Reid’s cock. He’s still rocking his hips back and forth, which pulls him out of you and pushes him back in. The head of his cock pushes back into you, and you both moan. You cry, “More, Dr. Reid.”

Dr. Reid steadies himself as he starts to fuck you, the movement of his hips shifting as he thrusts into you proper. There’s a practised ease in his thrusts, confident as he takes you on his desk. Your head falls forward, hair in your face, as your body takes in the feeling of your professor’s cock buried inside of you.

“You feel so good,” Dr. Reid grunts, his cock fucking in and out of you. He’s filling you up just the way you need it, his thickness stretching you out so deliciously. You clench around him at the praise, and his hips stutter. “So tight for me, sweetheart.”

And then, you can’t explain what you do next. You can’t help yourself, as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his neck, smelling his musky perfume and sweat. You whimper. You feel so good you don’t know what else to do with your body, but Dr. Reid doesn’t push you away. One of his arms wraps around your waist, his hand on the small of your back feeling so warm through your thin top, even though you’re feeling so hot you could explode.

You feel yourself being pushed onto your back onto the heavy wooden desk, Dr. Reid’s weight pressing down on you. Like this, you feel his cock press inside of you impossibly deeper, and it’s so good you feel like screaming – you don’t, obviously you can’t, but you muffle a moan into his shoulder instead.

“Such a good girl,” Dr. Reid murmurs softly, his cock punching deep inside of you. Each of his thrusts sends electric pleasure up your spine, through your nerves, and you’re tearing up from how good this feels. “Fuck, I wish I could hear you scream for me.”

You whimper, a broken cry pressed against his neck. “Dr. Reid–”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” Dr. Reid coos softly. “You’re doing so good, keeping it down for me. So good for me.”

You don’t like feeling so pathetic, but Dr. Reid makes you feel safe even while you’re vulnerable, while he’s fucking you on his office desk. You sob, “Dr. Reid, it’s too good– I’m gonna cum, I– please–”

“Come on,” he grunts, his voice laboured as he pants. “Cum for me, my darling.”

Your gasp is louder than you’d like it to be, in a professor’s office of all places, but you feel too good to remember to keep it down. You shudder through your orgasm, unable to control the way your body reacts to all the pleasure given to you.

“Fuck,” Dr. Reid blurts, his cock sliding out of you faster than you expect. You whine, but Dr. Reid is cumming all over your cunt, thick, hot spurts all over already-slick skin. “Oh, shit. Fuck.”

You’re thankful Dr. Reid didn’t cum inside, only because he didn’t have a condom on. You feel like a mess, but Dr. Reid’s looking at you like you’re a goddess. You feel his softening cock resting on your thigh. You want to go again, to feel him inside of you again, but perhaps that’s too desperate.

When his head is clear, Dr. Reid is quick to step back, reaching into the desk drawer.

“Sorry, let me just–” The commandeering, dominant Dr. Reid you just met is now gone, back to his slightly silly, bumbling self. He takes two wipes out from the packet of wet wipes he had pulled out from the drawer in his haste, but his hands are gentle when he wipes you clean. His touch is soft, sweet, and you feel so special in his hands. “I’m sorry I made a mess of you.”

You chuckle. “Dr. Reid, I’m more than okay with it. I think it comes with the territory.”

He smiles, albeit a little awkwardly. “Yeah, you’re right. I just don’t do this often, I suppose.”

“Oh, please. As if you don’t have other students throwing themselves at you too, Dr. Reid,” you laugh, waving him off.

“I do, but I’ve never done anything with them. Even if they try to proposition me, I tell them to leave my office. I’ve only… It’s just you.”

You’re stunned for a moment, blinking up at him. “You… Seriously?”

He frowns slightly. “Does it seem like I sleep around with my students often?”

“No! No, I just– I didn’t expect that. I thought you would be more… experienced? Considering how readily you let me… seduce you. I guess.”

“You’re definitely convincing,” Dr. Reid smiles. “Besides, I think you’re really special. I’ve never had a student like you.”

“Oh,” you say, because what else can you say in this scenario? Should you say anything else? It’s starting to hit you now, the implications of what you’ve just done walking into your professor’s office like this. “That’s… flattering.”

He tilts his head, brows furrowing. “Your pause seems to imply you don’t really mean that.”

“Oh, no, Dr. Reid, not at all, I–” You shake your head. “I’m really flattered that you think I’m special, I just– I’m not sure how I can navigate this. We’ve had sex, and it’s really hitting me now that I should not have seduced my professor because that’s definitely a violation of conduct, and–”

“Hey, relax,” Dr. Reid says, putting his hand on your shoulder. You breathe in deep. Dr. Reid looks at you warmly, and says, “I know we probably shouldn’t have done this, but I couldn’t resist you. And besides, it’s already done. We’re close to the end of the semester anyways. If you– I– If you want to continue this… outside of campus, I’d be more than happy to.”

“Dr. Reid,” you gasp, shocked that your professor would even be interested enough in you to suggest something like that. A relationship, outside of class? Or whatever it is he was thinking of. Frankly, even if Dr. Reid wants to meet once a month just to fuck, you’d take whatever you could get, especially with a man as gorgeous as him.

“Call me Spencer. Please,” he smiles. “Outside of class, at least.”

You grin. “Okay, Spencer.”

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencerreidenjoyer writes

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adelliet · 2 months ago

Text

Joel Miller X f!reader

Drunk Desires

Summary: Joel hadn’t had any intimate contact with a woman for a long time, until he unexpectedly stumbled upon you. He saved you, and then rewarded you with an irreplaceable gift.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, weird creeps annyoing reader, alcohol consumption, strong language, age gap, nicknames (sweetheart, baby, ...), multiple orgasm (come on it's Joel Miller), fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex (p i v), pull-out method, short aftercare

A/n: Hey! So, it got a little longer, sorry, I really got into it… I also apologize if some phrases or parts aren’t grammatically correct or don’t make sense, English isn’t my native language! <3 Anyway, enjoy!

Masterlist

As handsome as Joel is, he hasn’t been with many women in his lifetime. Before the apocalypse, he was fairly active, but now? That part of his life is a mess. If anyone asked him how long it had been since his last time with a woman, he probably wouldn’t even remember. And honestly, he was fine with that.

At least, most of the time.

When he moved to Jackson to live near his brother, a small part of him hoped he’d reclaim some of his old self, that despite his age, he might become a “sex dragon” again. But things didn’t quite turn out that way. Instead of spending his days fucking, he found himself helping Tommy with hunting trips or organizing events for the local kids.

Not that he minded, far from it. In fact, he loved being able to focus on something other than survival, on something that didn’t revolve around whether he’d live to see another sunrise. But the truth was, he was alone. Sure, he had Tommy, and through him, a sense of family, but that didn’t fill the quiet spaces.

Most evenings, he ended up at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the amber liquid swirl as he idly played with it. It wasn’t exciting, but it had become his favorite pastime. Boring, maybe, but his.

And tonight was no different. He sat alone in the corner, quietly observing, and if he was being honest, judging, everyone around him. Every time his eyes landed on a couple, even the young ones, his chest tightened, and he had to look away. He hated to admit it, but he was jealous.

The only thing that dulled the sting was the whiskey in his hand, dark and bitter, with two cubes of ice slowly melting into it. He took a slow sip, feeling the burn trail down his throat, a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest.

He leaned against the wooden wall, taking a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of the bar, whiskey, cigarettes, and the faint musk of old wood, wash over him. It was comforting in its own way, allowing him to relax. Or at least, as much as he ever could.

Still, his mind refused to stay quiet. It wandered, spinning thoughts and fantasies about what it would be like if he had someone. A woman. Pretty, smart, independent, but not too proud to accept help when she needed it. He pictured them together, imagined the warmth of her touch, the way it would feel to hold her close, to kiss her, to-

A sudden, unnatural loud noise cut through his thoughts like a blade. His body tensed immediately. Snapping out of his daydream, he scanned the room, then stood up, instincts kicking in.

It sounded like two male voices cutting off a softer, more hesitant female one. Joel furrowed his brows and followed the sound, his instincts already telling him something was off.

As soon as he got a clear view, he understood the situation instantly. A young woman, pretty, clearly uncomfortable, was pressed against the wall in a booth. One of the men kept sliding closer to her, invading her space, while the other sat across from them, grinning like an idiot, chuckling under his breath. They both looked like creeps.

Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Any problems?” His voice was low, rough, predatory. The kind of voice that made people pause.

The entire bar seemed to hush for a moment as both men turned their heads toward him. And then there was you. Your eyes met his, wide with uncertainty at first, but then, hope.

“Fuck off, dude,” one of the creeps spat, barely sparing Joel a glance before turning back to you. You were still trapped, squeezed between him and the wall, your body tense, your eyes darting between them and Joel.

Joel’s jaw tightened. “I will,” he said, voice calm but firm, tilting his head slightly in your direction. “As soon as you leave her alone.”

The second man scoffed. “How about you mind your own damn business, huh?” he muttered, leaning in close enough that Joel caught a whiff of his breath, rancid, like cheap beer and rotting teeth. Joel nearly gagged.

And then, after a beat, he laughed. Loud. Deep. A laugh that wasn’t friendly at all.

Both men turned their attention back to him, clearly irritated now. “Hey, you shit, we’re telling you one last time, go to hell-“

The guy barely finished his sentence before he made the mistake of stepping closer. The second he was within reach, Joel’s hand shot out, gripping his jacket and yanking him in until they were nearly nose to nose.

Joel’s expression darkened, his voice dropping to something cold and lethal. “Leave,” he growled, eyes burning into the man’s like a wolf sizing up its prey. “And never, ever, touch her again. Or I swear to God, you won’t have those eyes or that pretty little nose left. Understood?”

The creep’s head shook in pure fear, and the moment Joel released him, he bolted out of sight. Joel then turned his attention to the other guy, the one still frozen next to you, his face pale with shock. He didn’t even need a warning, within seconds, he was gone too, disappearing as quickly as he had slithered in.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head as he watched them scramble. “Wretches,” he muttered under his breath before finally turning to you.

The relief in your eyes was unmistakable, and the way you looked at him, grateful, warm, made something inside him shift. Your eyes really were something else, he had to admit. Actually, you were something else.

“Are you… okay?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. You nodded quickly, offering a bright smile. “Yes! Thank you so much!”

Your voice was soft, elegant, so unlike the rough world around you. Joel wasn’t sure why, but hearing it sent something strange through him. A deep, twisting sensation low in his stomach. Something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“Alright.” He gave you a small nod and was about to leave you be when you stopped him. “Wait!” He paused, glancing back at you.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Joel huffed a quiet chuckle. “No, thank you-“

“Please,” you insisted. “It's the last thing I can do.”

You looked so earnest, so determined to repay him, that he hesitated. Any other time, his answer would have been obvious. A beautiful young woman offering to share a drink? Hell, in the past, he wouldn’t have thought twice.

But now… now he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and sitting across from someone like you, fresh-faced, full of life, felt almost wrong.

Then again, those eyes of yours had a way of convincing people. After a moment of silence, he sighed and gave in, sliding into the booth across from you, making you jump a little from excitment.

“So, what do you like to drink?” you asked, your voice brimming with energy.

Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just… looked at you. Studied you. Every little detail. The glow of your skin, the way your long lashes framed your eyes, the soft curve of your lips. Your hair looked impossibly smooth, the kind that begged to be touched. You were perfect, almost too perfect, like you didn’t quite belong in this world.

And somehow, he was sitting across from you.

“Hello?”

Your voice snapped him out of it. He’d been staring too long. Too long for it to be normal. He needed to be more careful, or he’d start looking like one of those creeps he’d just chased off. Clearing his throat, he straightened up, forcing himself back to reality. “Whiskey.”

You nodded, pursing your lips thoughtfully. “Ah. Bitter.” Joel gave a small nod, his usual unreadable expression in place, except for the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his face. Almost invisible, but it was there.

“And something else? Maybe something to eat or-“

“Whiskey is enough. Thank you,” Joel cut in smoothly, lifting a hand in a small, polite gesture. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, subtle but real.

You nodded and got up to head to the bar.

Joel exhaled, settling into his seat, but his gaze naturally followed you. Again, his eyes moved over you, taking in details he hadn’t allowed himself to before.

The way your tight black jeans hugged your legs and ass perfectly. The cropped brown jacket, fitted just right, didn’t reveal much from the back, but it didn’t need to. The curve of your body already told him everything.

And that’s when it hit him. He was checking you out. Like a damn teenager.

Joel clenched his jaw and quickly looked away, clearing his throat as if that would clear his thoughts, too. But it didn’t matter. You were like a magnet. And God help him, he was already getting addicted.

Joel let out a slow breath, trying, really trying, not to look again. But his eyes had a mind of their own.

You were leaning against the counter now, arching your back just enough to push that perfect, round ass out. It wasn’t on purpose, at least, he didn’t think it was, but damn, it wasn’t helping him one bit.

A heat started building in him, low and persistent, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not like this. Shifting in his seat, he tried to get comfortable, but even his jeans were betraying him now, getting tighter in all the wrong places.

Shit.

It was almost unbelievable, hell, embarrassing, that just from looking at you, he was already hard.

But here he was.

An old, grumpy bastard sitting in a booth, shifting uncomfortably, grateful that the table at least covered his lap. And waiting. For you.

A woman so far out of his league, it wasn’t even funny. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face, as if that would snap him out of it.

Get it together, Miller.

“Everything alright?” you asked softly as you sat back down, sliding the glass of dark gold liquid toward him. Joel exhaled slowly, nodding as he took the drink into his hands. “Yeah… thank you.”

But if he was trying to steady himself, you weren’t doing much better.

Your eyes flickered down to his hands, big, strong, rough in all the right ways. It was almost impossible not to imagine what they could do. What they could feel like.

And then there was his face. Sharp, rugged, pretty in a way that men his age weren’t supposed to be. Sure, your friends would call him old. Maybe even tell you he was too old. But you? You found him more attractive than half the boys your age.

Because unlike them, he wasn’t just handsome, he was experienced. In every way.

And definitely in that way.

Your gaze drifted to his eyes, dark and unreadable, full of secrets you desperately wanted to unravel. What was he thinking about? Did he, maybe, want you, too?

The heat between your legs pulsed stronger, making you shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together in a poor attempt to dull the ache.

“I’m Y/N, by the way…” you coughed out, desperate to break the thick tension settling between you.

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, having just poured the whiskey straight down his throat. His gaze flickered from your face, just for a moment, before dropping lower. Your chest. And then, just as quickly, his eyes snapped back up.

“Joel,” he finally said, his voice low, gruff. That name hit you like a punch to the gut.

Joel.

It planted itself deep in your brain, burning itself into your memory. You knew, right then and there, that you’d never forget it.

“And… thank you,” you added, suddenly feeling shy. “For, um… saving me.”

Joel gave a small shrug. “No problem…” He almost left it at that, like he had with every other response, but after realizing he was barely stringing two words together, he forced himself to continue.

“Those assholes needed to learn their place.” You nodded, fully agreeing. But deep down, your mind wasn’t on those men anymore. It was on him.

“And how do you live here, in Jackson?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation going. Joel took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes momentarily drifting away before meeting yours again. The connection was instant, like a spark in the dark. For a moment, you both just melted, caught in the pull of each other’s gaze.

It took you a second to catch your breath, your thoughts scattered. His eyes… they were so damn beautiful. “It’s been a few months now, I dare say…” He paused, watching you closely. “What about you?”

You struggled to find your words, your throat tight from the intensity of his stare. “I… I moved in just a couple days ago…” You swallowed hard, hoping your voice didn’t sound as shaky as you felt.

“A newbie, I see,” Joel said with a small scoff, his lips curling into a half-smile. You nodded, trying to play it cool, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you. You could feel your cheeks burning, the redness spreading across your face. It was like your body had betrayed you.

You quickly looked away, hoping the blush would fade, but there was no denying it. You were shy. Suddenly, you were aware of every little thing, how your hands were resting, how your legs felt, the way your breath hitched when you thought of him.

Despite that, you thoroughly enjoyed his presence, and even though Joel didn’t show it, he enjoyed yours as well.

A lot.

After a long and tireless conversation, where Joel spent most of the time just listening to your excited stories and experiences, you were now walking side by side. Not too close to invade each other’s space, but not too far either, so you could still hear each other if one of you spoke.

Right now, though, you were both silent. The darkness around you was beautifully illuminated by the warm glow of street lamps. Above, the stars shone brightly, guiding your way. The snow fell gently, blending seamlessly into the white carpet beneath your feet, your boots leaving soft imprints as you walked. A faint breeze whispered through the night, barely noticeable.

It was perfect. Neither of you spoke, yet the quiet felt comfortable. More than anything, you felt safe, something you hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Joel, on the other hand, finally didn’t feel alone. He was grateful for the company, especially because the company was you. It almost felt unreal, walking beside the sweetest, most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Like a dream.

Still, a part of him braced for the inevitable. He knew that, sooner or later, you’d probably stop talking to him. Maybe you’d acknowledge him with a polite wave or a nod when passing him on the street. But eventually, you’d move on. And he’d be just another face in the crowd.

For a fleeting moment, your fingertips nearly brush against his, a spark of electricity passing between you, silent, but impossible to ignore. It’s what finally compels you to speak.

“It’s really nice…” Joel’s brows knit together in mild confusion, unsure of what you mean.

“The weather,” you add quickly, prompting a soft exhale of understanding from him.

“Yeah… the town at this time of night is definitely something.”

You nod, your gaze drifting over the quiet streets before inevitably settling back on him. Just looking at him sends your heart into a steady climb, warmth pooling beneath your skin.

Joel gestures toward a small brown cabin a few meters away. “That yours?” You hesitate for a beat before answering, the words carrying a weight of something unspoken.

“Oh… yeah. That’s mine.” A faint trace of sadness lingers in your voice, too subtle to explain, but not enough to go unnoticed.

With each step closer to your house, the inevitable goodbye loomed nearer, a moment you weren’t ready for. Neither was Joel.

After years of relentless stress, of running from clickers and worse, the weight of it all had been suffocating. But now, standing beside him, everything felt different. Life felt worth living again. Like it was always meant to be. You didn’t want to give up this feeling, this moment with Joel.

“Well… looks like this is the end,” you exhale, suciing your lips together awkwardly, as you both stand at the door of your house. Joel nods. “Probably,” he murmurs, glancing down, bracing himself for the hollow feeling to return, for life to feel meaningless again.

Silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain, before an idea surfaced in your mind, one that could either be the best or worst decision of your life.

“Maybe I’m being silly for even asking…” Joel’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours, searching, waiting. “But um… don’t you wanna come in? Get something to eat… or drink, again?”

The moment the words left your mouth, regret crept through you. His expression shifted—hesitation flickering across his face. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. No, he wanted to. More than anything.

The problem was the voice in his head, the one that never let him rest. This is a bad idea. Someone could see. The neighbors were nosy, and people talked. Something could happen. He didn’t want to bring trouble to you, didn’t want to hurt you.

But God, he wanted you.

“Or if you don’t want to, it’s totally fine, I just—”

“Sure.”

His voice cut through your nervous rambling, firm and certain. Your eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise. “I’d love to.”

A quiet giggle slipped past your lips, as you quickly checked your pockets for your keys.

This is a terrible idea.

The silence in your kitchen grew heavier with each passing second, broken only by the occasional sound of you or Joel sipping your drinks. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say—you simply enjoyed the quiet. Though, if you had to choose, you’d much rather hear Joel’s crusty voice.

Then, an idea popped into your head. “How about we play a game?”

Joel’s eyes met yours the moment you spoke. “What game?” he asked, clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow. “Maybe a board game? Or cards… poker, maybe?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head as he looked down. Memories flooded back—late nights at the pub, playing poker with Tommy and the rest of the guys. Good old times…

“We don’t have to, I was just thinking—”

“Sure. Poker sounds great,” he interrupted with a smile. You never thought someone so tough, with such an intimidating look, could smile like that.

Your heart skipped a beat, and a quiet giggle escaped your lips before you jumped out of your seat and headed to your bedroom to find the cards.

Meanwhile, Joel took another sip of the coffee you had made. It was delicious. His gaze wandered around your home. So warm, so inviting. Compared to his place, yours looked so much better… and cleaner. He could get used to being here. Hell, maybe even living here someday. But that was a massive leap into the future.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away, and focused on the moment. Right here. Right now. Sitting in your chair, in a beautiful kitchen that smelled like heaven, enjoying a cup of coffee while waiting for an amazing girl to play poker with.

He couldn’t be happier.

…Actually, no. If he had the chance to touch you, to feel you, he would be definitely much happier.

He couldn’t stop the thoughts. Didn’t even want to, if he was being honest. His mind wandered to you in the most sinful ways, imagining everything he’d do to you, everything you’d do to him.

He pictured his hands exploring your body, tracing every curve, memorizing every inch of your soft skin. He could almost feel the way his fingers would slide beneath your clothes, slowly peeling away each layer as his lips claimed yours in deep, lingering kisses.

At first, he’d be gentle, taking his time, making sure you felt safe, comfortable. But the second you were both bare, he wouldn’t waste another moment. His hands would be all over you, grabbing your ass, squeezing just hard enough to leave dark marks on your skin. He’d bite your neck like a damn monster, his teeth sinking in just enough to make sure everyone in Jackson knew that you were his.

Meanwhile, you were upstairs, searching for the poker cards. It took you quite a while, long enough to make you question your own memory, but in the end, you found them. A satisfied smile spread across your lips as you grabbed the box. But just as you were about to close it, something else caught your eye. Another set of cards. A completely different game.

Drunk Desires.

The sleek black packaging practically screamed its purpose without you even needing to look inside. Still, curiosity got the best of you.

You sat down on the bed and opened the package, dumping the cards onto the sheets. There were two colors, white and black. Frowning, you picked up a white one and read it.

“Drink if you’re the best kisser.” Your eyebrows furrowed. What even is this game? You flipped through the rule card, hoping to make sense of it.

“DRUNK DESIRES is a drinking game for couples who want to spice things up. The physical edition contains 50 cards: 28 dirty (black) and 22 flirty (white).”

You blinked, surprised that you even owned something like this. Where the hell did you get these? Your curiosity burned hotter, so you picked up one of the black cards. As soon as you read it, a shiver ran down your spine. Absolutely not.

You quickly shoved the cards back into the box and grabbed the poker set instead. But just as you were about to leave, your gaze drifted back to Drunk Desires.

You bit your lip, hesitating. Which one should you bring? There would definitely be consequences. Side effects. This could end very badly if you bring the black ones…

“Hey, hope you didn’t fall asleep!” you said cheerfully, walking back down the stairs to sit across from Joel, who was still holding his cup. “Not yet,” he chuckled.

“So, um… unfortunately, I couldn’t find the poker cards,” you said, watching his face fall slightly into a look of disappointment, followed by a small “tsk, aww” sound. “But I found these instead,” you added, placing the box in the center of the table.

Joel leaned in to get a better look. “Drunk Desires?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah… you ever heard of it?” Joel shook his head, then leaned back into his chair. “Oh… well, we don’t have to play it,” you said quickly. “What is it?” He motioned to the cards, eyes locked on you.

You swallowed, a dry lump in your throat, before trying to explain without making it sound too awkward. “It’s basically truth or dare… with alcohol,” you said, a bit unsure.

Joel gave an almost imperceptible “aah” and nodded, understanding. It was, after all, just another version of truth or dare… right?

“Then let’s start,” Joel said, surprisingly eager. He placed his coffee cup down and clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation.

You were momentarily stunned by his sudden excitement, but quickly snapped back to reality. You stood up and headed to the cabinet to grab something strong. Vodka was the first thing your eyes landed on, and you didn’t hesitate.

“Alright, so you pick a card and read what it says. It’ll say something like ‘drink if…’ or ‘or drink…’ well, you’ll see. Let me start, I’ll show you,” you said, trying to explain the rules as best as you could.

You pulled out a card, thankfully a white one. You read it aloud:

“Do a squat with your partner on your back, or drink.” You both laughed as you immediately grabbed a shot glass and poured in the vodka. “Come on, I think you’d do it” He teased.

You just shook your head and downed the shot, the strong liquid burning as it slid down your throat, making your face muscles tense up.

“It’s… quite strong,” you said, half-opening your eyes, glancing over at Joel, who was grinning widely. Something told him he was going to enjoy this game.

“Alright, my turn,” he said as he reached for another card from the small stack. He read the text to himself, his eyes widening, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. You immediately started to worry, regretting that you hadn’t just picked up a deck of poker cards instead.

“Take off one item of clothing…” he read aloud, still staring at the card he was gripping tightly. A shiver ran down your spine. Maybe this was a bad idea. No, definitely, this was a bad idea. A man you had just met was playing a game meant for couples, there was no way he’d want to see you again after this.

“Alright,” he said, standing up before casually slipping off his shoes, all the while keeping his eyes on you with a playful smile.

Your heart pounded as you stared at him, lips parting slightly as if you wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

When he sat back down, you were caught off guard. Not really by Joel’s bold move, but by the entire situation itself.

“Are you gonna play or just stare at me all night?” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you let out a small giggle before reaching for another card.

Neither of you had any idea how much time had passed. By now, you were way too drunk for this. The game had turned out to be a lot more fun than you expected, and you definitely didn’t regret bringing it anymore.

The kitchen was filled with the smell of vodka and bursts of laughter. The neighbors were probably pissed, but you didn’t care.

Joel hadn’t laughed like this in a long time. And hearing him laugh made your heart feel warm. His voice was just so comforting.

But being drunk made your senses and desires a lot stronger. You started noticing his big hands more often, the way his muscles were tightly wrapped in his collared shirt, and your naughty imagination kicked in, making your panties wet Joel wasn’t much better. He couldn’t stop staring at you, at your body. Every time he tried to look away or focus on the cards, his eyes would automatically fall back to your breast. He blamed the alcohol for this, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just the vodka that made his jeans feel so tight all of a sudden.

“So…” Joel pulled another black card, smiling at you before reading aloud what it said. “Do your favorite sex position for one minute or drink.” You laughed, shaking your head. At that moment, you found every bullshit ridiculously funny.

You obviously expected him to drink, so you poured some vodka into his shot glass. But instead, Joel put his card back onto the table and slide away from the table, still sitting. You froze, staring at him, full of anticipation.

“I’m gonna need you for this,” he said, patting his lap lightly. Your eyes widened, and your heart stopped. Was he for real? His dark, hunting, intense gaze gave you all the answers you needed.

You stared at him for a moment, questioning your own consciousness, was this really happening? After a few seconds, you finally stood up, painfully slowly. It wasn’t just nerves holding you back; the alcohol in your system wasn’t exactly helping you see straight either.

You took a hesitant step forward, wide-eyed as you approached Joel. He watched your every move, his gaze trailing over you like you were the most mesmerizing sight he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it.”

Oh, that was the last thing he could be worried about. You had thought about this exact scenario, sitting onto his lap and riding him a million times over, despite the fact that you had just met him.

Without another word, you carefully settled onto his lap as he spread his legs, making room for you, making sure you were sitting right against his crotch.

The advantage of being this close? You could finally take him in, all of him. Every little detail of his rugged face, each strand of his graying beard, the way his thick, dark eyebrows framed those hungry, unreadable eyes. His lips, so full and tinted a soft pink, looked almost too inviting. But what burned the most was the intensity behind his stare. There was something hidden there, something much darker than just hunger or desire.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Not without your permission. After all, this was still just part of the game. He glanced at his watch, counting down a minute in his head. Trying, desperately, to focus on the time.

But the second you shifted, adjusting yourself just slightly in his lap, he was done for. He’d been holding himself back all night.

His gaze flicked back to yours. Eye contact, sharp and unyielding. The air around you thickened, tension pressing into every inch of space between you.

“Y-you’re not watching the time,” you whispered, breathless.

“Do you want me to?” His voice was low, rough, aged like fine whiskey. It sent a pulse straight to your core, making you tremble against him.

You shook your head, your heart pounding against your ribs. You wanted him, desperately. You wanted to rip his clothes off, feel his bare chest, his stomach, his muscles tensing as he held you close. But Joel was waiting. Patient. Even though you were making it nearly impossible, he wouldn’t be the one to break the barrier first.

But the eye contact alone made your legs weak.

You could feel him hardening beneath you, pressing right where you needed him most. The unbearable ache between your thighs grew stronger with each passing second, each torturous moment you sat on his lap. You couldn’t take it anymore. You had to make the move.

Shifting yourself against him, you rolled your hips slightly, pressing down just enough to make him groan. His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, and he let out a low, rich laugh, gravelly and deep. His hands still hadn’t touched you.

“Stop…”

It wasn’t a warning. It was a request. A request you knew damn well he didn’t want you to obey. He liked this. God, he liked this. But the fact that he couldn’t touch you made it so much harder.

“Or what?” you breathed out, voice teasing, dripping with need.

And then, you really moved. Rocking your hips against him, dragging yourself along his clothed cock, feeling every inch of his length press against you. This wasn’t just subtle shifting anymore.

This was dry humping.

He curled his fingers into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white as the rough denim of his jeans trapped his aching dick, holding him prisoner. Every roll of your hips, every delicious bit of friction you created, made it harder for him to keep his hands off you.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

The dull throb between your thighs was unbearable, the friction sending little sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. This was the only way to get some relief, to grind yourself against him, to take what you needed.

“Fuck…” Joel exhaled, his voice rough and strained as he threw his head back, staring at the ceiling like he was begging for strength. You were a real torture.

Your eagerness for him had long surpassed its limit. Without a second thought, you placed your hands against his broad chest, fingers curling slightly against the firm muscle beneath his shirt as your hips began to move faster. Your breath hitched, coming in shorter, more desperate gasps as you chased every bit of friction you could get.

And that…that was enough to break him.

Joel’s restraint snapped like a frayed thread. His large hand shot up, wrapping firmly around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just claiming, before he pulled you down into a kiss. Sloppy, deep, starved.

You gasped against his lips, but he didn’t give you a second to recover. His mouth moved hungrily over yours, devouring, tasting. You tasted sweet. Too sweet. Like a ripe, juicy strawberry, one he couldn’t get enough of. And just like strawberries, once Joel had one taste, he needed more.

His impatience revealed itself through the deep, guttural growls rumbling in his chest. One hand remained wrapped securely around your throat, a constant reminder of his control, while the other wandered, exploring every inch of your delicate body, frustratingly still covered by fabric.

When his rough palm finally found your hip, he sqeezed it, fingers digging in with a possessive force that made you gasp, a soft, breathless whimper melting into the kiss.

Joel only smirked devilishly, his lips curving against yours before he kissed you even harder.

Your tongues tangled, battling for dominance neither of you truly wanted to win. Your spit mixed, your lips clung to each other with a desperate kind of need, like they simply couldn’t exist apart.

Your hands moved naturally, gracefully, into Joel’s soft curls, fingers threading through them like they belonged there. Every time he squeezed your hip, you retaliated with a sharp tug, drawing a deep, hungry groan from his throat.

He couldn’t get enough of you.

You were a drug, an addiction he never wanted to break free from. He needed to feel every inch of you, every detail, every imperfection that only made you more perfect in his eyes. He didn’t want to rush it, he wanted to savor you, but fuck, he had been waiting for this moment far too long.

After what felt like an eternity of heated, desperate kisses, ones that left both of you gasping, moaning into each other’s mouths, Joel finally acted.

Like a true gentleman, he let his hands slide down to your ass, gripping you firmly as he lifted you with ease. He placed you onto the table, making sure you were steady before he reluctantly pulled away, his eyes searching yours.

“May I?”

His voice was low, as he shot you those damn puppy eyes, fingers hovering just an inch from the zipper of your jeans. You barely managed to nod, breathless, your heart pounding so hard you swore he could hear it.

With a sly smirk, he lunged not only for your sore lips, but also for your jeans. He took them off in a second without any problems, making you pleasantly surprised how expertly and majestically he took off your pants and panties. His huge palms traveled to your thighs, closer and closer to your throbbing core, that was screaming to be filled.

Gently, he brushed his middle finger slightly on top of your wet folds, making you deepen the kiss and tug Joel's hair. God he loved it. It took a few more brushes, before he inserted his finger in, making you gasp in satisfaction. Joel smoothly found your neck and sucked on the sensitive spot, while adding his thumb to circle around your clit, deadly slowly.

You whined his name as you instinctively move your pelvis against his hand, craving for more friction. He noticed it quickly, so he went deeper as another finger joined to make you cum.

"You're so wet, sweetheart" he groaned against your ear, his chest moving up and down as the heat between his legs grew way too fast.

"Joel- I am gonna-" you wanted to warn him, but he knew. Damn well. Your whole body tensed, your core clenched against his fingers as your jaw dropped. You shudder, before you release yourself and cum all over his fingers. He was still curling his fingers inside you, making you overstimulated, until he carefully pulls them out, immediately sucking on them. He moaned, rolling his eyes as he tasted you.

"You taste amazing..."

He whimpered, looking deeply into your eyes. You smile, goosebumps appeared all over your body. You were a little embarrassed at how quickly Joel brought you to orgasm, but before you could process it, his head was hiding between your legs. You leaned against your elbows, checking what was he doing.

"Relax baby" his wolf, hot voice makes your core throbbing around nothingness, again. He observes you for a while, teasing you, before giving your puffy labia a gentle kiss. And another one. And another one. His needle-like prickly beard scratched and tickled you at the same time, creating a mix of sensations you couldn't name. The only thing you were sure of was, that it was fucking pleasurable.

You found his hair quickly and threw your head back, as his mouth burried fully into your vagina. It was a vicious circle, whenever you pulled his hair he would howl, sending a strong vibration through you, forcing you to tug his old hair.

In addition to obtrude his tongue inside you, he never stopped watching you. He analyzed your every little movement to find out how and what you liked the most, without even asking. He was a master at this, because all it took was a few experiments and you were back at your edge.

His tongue picked up pace and speed. His nose bumping into your clitoris without intention, as his smooth tongue flicks in and out of your core, that started closing around him, again.

"Fuckkk..." you moan, throwing your head back and tugging Joel's hair, really hard this time. It was a miracle you didn't pull some of them out. You though it's impossible, but this absolute monster, whom was still working on your core, led you to another unforgettable orgasm.

When you came back from your high, breathing hysterically, he finally let go of you and stood up. He watched you and his dick hardened even more at your sight. You were exhausted, sweat was pouring off you, your chest was moving up and down rapidly and your cheeks were all red. You were beautiful.

The best part was that Joel had gotten you into that state, just with his fingers and mouth. He couldn't wait any longer and exist with just an imagination what his cock would do to you. He had to find out himself.

He let you rest and catch your breath, while quickly taking off his belt and shirt. You were lying on the table, your legs still slightly shaking from the shock, but you loved it. You had never felt anything like this before. It was new, everything.

You already started missing Joel's lips and fingers, but behind his mischievous grin, you sensed that he was far from done with you.

The moment his shirt and pants touched the ground, revealing his full form, your mouth naturally filled with a load of saliva. Joel's godlike body was truly...divine. How can someone with these massive muscles be single?

Your eyes were scanning him from head to toe until you stopped. You swallow an imaginary saliva, as you saw his full length. It was massive. The veins, the sparkly tip, everything was just perfect. You couldn't wait to feel him, and so did your pussy.

When you were done admiring him, he leaned over and grabbed your ass, this time more roughly. He sat back down on the chair with you, the cold wood chilling his bare ass, but your wet hole was keeping him warm. It was faultless balance.

He sat you down in him, so that his penis was resting on your stomach and he hadn't entered you yet. His lips immidiatley found yours again. The kisses were rough, sloppy and messy. Joel's wrinkly fingers tangled in your long hair, while his other hand carefully unbuttoned your shirt. It takes you longer to take off your shirt, but Joel done it in a flash, even without looking. He really has magic hands.

You cooperated and together, you took off your shirt with your beautiful lace bra, which Joel fell in love with, but he admired your boobs way more. The moment he got the oportunity, he immediately cupped them and lightly squeezed them, making you gasp and jerk in place.

"You look amazing, you know that?" you shyly giggle and look down. He really knows what to say in every situation. Where has this man been for so long?

Finally, the time you've both been eagerly waiting for has arrived: Sex. Joel helped you lift yourself up and with a soft hiss, you slowly pushed him in. "That's it...good girl" Joel proudly supported you. You could clearly hear in his voice that he was already on the edge, even though you had just the tip inside you. "Yes, take it all in" he didn't rush you anywhere. His words really helped you relax and loosen up, so after a while you simply slid in.

You both exhaled loudly, your voices syncing up, helping to create a sexy atmosphere.

“Well done baby”

He let out a tired chuckle, as both of his hands found your weist, helping you to move. You were quite out of energy, from the last two orgasm, so it was obvious that Joel helped you.

At the beginning, you moved your pelvis gracefully back and forth, warming yourself up and touching his body. You still couldn't believe it and sometimes you doubted that this was reality. Joel's sighs were harmony to your ears, kicking you up and energizing you to a faster pace.

"Fuck you're-damn it" Joel's jaw clenched as he threw his head back, despite the fact he wanted to look at you and admire your satisfied face. But he couldn't take it anymore. Not with so tight pussy you had.

His breath was cracking, his grip slowly loosing its strength, but you were gaining it. You rested your hands on his muscular chest for balance and started jumping. It was exactly what you needed. At this pace, with this speed and position, you knew you would cum for the third time in a few seconds.

Joel's tip was hitting your g-spot frequently, as if you were made for each other. Your tongue knew no other words than his name, which you growled countless times.

"Princess I-" Joel tried so hard to hold back and not cum too soon, but at his age with your body, it was nearly impossible. Still, he didn't want to end this moment, so he decided to switch positions. He quickly grabbed you and placed you back on the table, thrusting into you with no mercy.

The wet sounds started to surround the whole kitchen, after a while, the whole house. Every time Joel pushed into you, you cried out, it was an endless circle, again. His nostrils were big, his brows furrowed and his pace was at the highest speed he could get. Your boobs synchronizing with Joel's pounding. He desperately tried to catch up his orgasm, until he finally did.

Just a second he was about to fill you up, he pulled out and squirted his semen all over your stomach, along with a loud husky groan. You came just the moment he pulled his dick out, so your thick sweet juice slowly poured onto the table.

You were both recovering, catching your breath. You were seeing double but you weren't sure if it was the result of third orgasm and overstimulation, or the alcohol. Probably both.

Joel's sweat was dropping on your warm body, his hands resting on the table, trying to keep his body from falling on yours. This was too much, you really woke up something wild in him.

"You did so good" when he was finally sufficiently rested, he complimented you appropriately and placed a reassuring kiss on your stomach. Of course, on a spot where his cum hadn't spilled. You smiled, your eyes keep tightly shut. You wanted to see him, but seeing him twice and then throwing up was an unwanted choice that you didn't even want to try.

"Let's get you cleaned up" he took the rest of his strength and went for the nearest napkin, using it to gently wipe your stomach.

It tickled a bit. Hearing you laugh made Joel's heart warm. He loved your smile. He...loved everything about you. You were his lost muse, his last hope, and you finally showed up. He definitely didn't want to lose you. At this moment, you were his and only his, and he wouldn't let anyone touch you.

You have regained comfort and protection, a personal bodyguard who will love you for everything you do. And of course, who will give you three orgasms in a row every night.

#smut #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro x reader #pedro pascal #zaddy pedro #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x y/n #joel x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller #tlou #tlou smut

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formulamar · 4 months ago

Text

CONTROVERSIALLY YOUNG GF | PROLOGUE

max verstappen x femalereader

680 words

➛ disclaimer ➛

seven year age gap. please do not read if it makes you uncomfortable!!! completely fictional.

When you began to go out with Max Verstappen you anticipated for the news to make the celebrity gossip pages and cause an uproar among his fans. Afterall, it was Max Verstappen – four time world champion - you could hardly believe it yourself!

Miraculously, you and Max dated for six months without any interference from the media. It's not like your relationship was a secret or anything. Like any other couple you went out to the movies and dinned at nice restaurants. But early on in your relationship you discovered Max was a homebody, like you! So as you grew closer most of your time together consisted of hanging out at his apartment or yours watching movies or talking for hours. Still, everyone in your inner circle was astounded at how long you were able to maintain your relationship out of the media's radar.

Once you hit the six-month mark and it became clear to both you and Max that your relationship was serious you had a discussion about how outside discourse from the media would affect your relationship. Although you had only been with Max for six months you had witnessed how invasive fans and the media could be. You constantly saw articles discussing Max's private relationships with his family and his team. Every word, every action, every glance was examined and scrutinized. Max often joked that the more interviews he did the more he wished to move somewhere isolated and live out the rest of his days with you far from the judgment of anyone else. But you knew he loved driving too much to retire so early on in his career even with all of his success.

As always Max was direct, "The media is going to be annoying. They're going to make up the most ridiculous stories you've ever heard. Honestly, the best thing we can do is try ignore them as much as we can." You both agreed, the smartest decision was to take control of the narrative instead of running the risk of having your relationship leaked. So you decided to attend a beginning of the season Redbull event with Max. It was a well documented event and important media figures and photographers would be present. The timing was a bonus. Everyone was focused on the upcoming season and most of their curiosity was concentrated on the new car rather than the personal lives of the drivers. It was a perfect way to debut your relationship to the media.

That night approached quickly, and it would be a lie to say it wasn't one of the most nerve-racking nights of your life. As someone who wasn't famous it was intimidating to be exposed to that world. Luckily, your boyfriend saved you from overthinking. Max was reassuring and attentive the entire night. On the car ride to the event, he made sure to hold your hand and make casual conversation as if it were any other night. He also organized for you guys to enter through the back, away from the paparazzi. Throughout the whole night he barely left your side and when he did he made sure you were comfortable. These small details helped you stay grounded.

Overall, it was a good night. It was nice to finally meet members of the team who had such close bonds with Max. You loved hearing all the stories about Max's victories and his race weekend habits. It was obvious that his team adored him and that only confirmed what you had felt in your heart since the day you first met him -- he was a keeper. You and Max went home confident that you had beaten the media. What could they even say? Max was in a new relationship and he was happy. There was nothing else to it.

Except you made the mistake of glossing over a detail the media would never forget. Before you, Max had only dated women older than him. And you were seven years younger than Max.

The next morning you woke up with a new identity. Max Verstappen's controversially young girlfriend.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: happy 2025 everyone 🫧 i had this idea… so i decided to go through with posting the first part. i’m thinking writing + social media posts! what do we think??? i’m open to suggestions so don’t be afraid to comment or inbox me!

#max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #red bull racing #red bull f1 #red bull team #f1 smau #f1 fiction #f1 2025 #f1 fic #f1 fic rec #max verstappen x you #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #red bull formula 1 #red bull formula one #max emilian verstappen

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heeluvv · 3 months ago

Text

UNDER MY EYES.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ park sunghoon x stalker!reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ stalking, voyeurism, exhibition, masturbation, etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

you shouldn't be here.

you shouldn't be watching.

but you can't help yourself.

your heart pounds as you peer through the narrow gap in his window, hidden just enough in the darkness outside. you've followed him for weeks—memorized every move, every habit, every tiny detail about him. but tonight? tonight is different.

because sunghoon knows you're here.

he doesn't look at you. doesn't acknowledge the fact that your eyes are glued to him, drinking in every inch of his perfect form.

instead, he takes his time.

he's fresh from the gym, sweat still clinging to his skin, the glow of his bedside lamp casting deep shadows across the defined muscles of his torso. his shirt is long gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and his sweats hang low on his hips, teasing, taunting.

he stretches, slow and deliberate, rolling out his shoulders before letting out a breathy sigh.

then—he moves to the edge of his bed and sits, spreading his legs wide.

palms himself through the fabric of his sweats.

your breath catches.

your fingers tighten around the ledge of the window, your entire body going still as you watch him touch himself, completely unashamed, completely unbothered.

you shouldn't be here.

but he's putting on a show just for you.

his movements are lazy at first, teasing himself the way you've imagined doing a thousand times.

“shit..” he exhales softly, tilting his head back slightly, fingers dragging over the thick outline pressing against his sweats.

then, finally—he slips his hand under the waistband.

your stomach flips.

a low groan spills from his lips as he grips himself fully, fingers wrapping around his length, slow strokes making his chest rise and fall deeper, heavier.

"fuck," he exhales, voice barely above a whisper.

he still doesn't look toward the window but you know he's aware of you.

it's in the way he keeps his legs wide open, his body shifting slightly, putting himself on full display.

it's in the way he lets out soft, breathy sighs, his hips rocking into his own palm just enough to make your thighs clench.

it's in the way he starts talking, voice low, hazy.

"baby..." he exhales, fingers tightening around himself. "you'd take me so well, wouldn't you?"

your breath stutters.

your nails dig into the wood of the window frame, your thighs pressing together as heat pools between them.

you shouldn't be here.

but god—he wants you here.

his pace quickens.

his body tenses, the muscles in his arms and abdomen flexing as he works himself harder, chasing the high he so desperately needs.

"so fucking tight," he groans, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him, his hips jerking into his own touch.

your whole body burns.

he's falling apart for you, even if he doesn't know your name.

even if he's never touched you.

even if the only way he's ever felt you is through the heat of your hidden gaze.

he's so close now—his breath coming in quick, uneven pants, soft moans slipping past his parted lips.

“fuck!fuck! s-shit—!”his head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in bliss as he finally lets go.

his body shudders, muscles tightening as he spills over his own fingers, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

you shouldn't be here.

but the way he sighs your nickname—the one you always left on his daily notes—like a prayer, breathy and satisfied, tells you he never wanted you to leave.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ okay something different that i tried out so let’s see how this goes, also tysm for 100+ follows and all the love <33

#park sunghoon #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enha #enhypen smut #sunghoon #sunghoon smut

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channiesbakery · 3 months ago

Text

doggy play date —

prompt / request — "that's not even your dog.”

pairing — reader + non idol!dokyeom

word count — 882

genre — fluff

you were a regular at the cafe seokmin worked at. he’s had a crush on you ever since you came in for the first time months ago.

today, he finally worked up the courage to ask you out. except he made a teeny tiny mistake of asking you out on a play date for your dogs instead of a date with just you.

another mistake? he doesn’t even own a dog.

“can i borrow latte?” seokmin asks soonyoung the minute he walks into his friend’s apartment. “my… dog?” soonyoung questions, unsure if he’d heard the question correctly.

“no, your cup of coffee. yes your dog!” seokmin exclaims sarcastically. “but why?” soonyoung furrows his eyebrows.

“i may or may not have set up a date with a girl i met at a cafe,” he starts to explain. “good for you man,” soonyoung grins, patting his shoulder.

“except it’s less of a date for us and more of a play date for our dogs,” seokmin finishes as soonyoung just stares at him blankly.

“so you set up a date for your nonexistent dog,” soonyoung repeats. “i know i sound insane–” seokmin starts. “I’m surprised you didn’t go buy a dog,” soonyoung says.

“can i borrow latte or not?” he sighs. “if it’ll help your love life,” soonyoung smirks a little. “but you owe me big time.” he adds.

a couple days later, you meet at the dog park, letting your dogs get acquainted while you and seokmin sat on the bench, starting to get to know each other.

you start talking about your dogs, asking him questions about latte: when he got her, why’d he choose the name latte, etc.

seokmin felt like he was sweating, trying to come up with lies to answer your questions. he felt bad for lying but he wanted to go out with you so bad that the only way he thought of bonding over you was your pets. well, your real pet and his borrowed dog.

the entire time you chatted, his brain was screaming “that’s not even your dog!!!” at him but he didn’t want to confess his stupid lie just yet.

“hey, a new cafe opened close by if you want to get a quick bite? i hear they have some dog friendly treats so our pups can have something too,” you suggest.

“that sounds like a great idea,” he agrees with a smile.

you walk to the cafe, both of your dogs walking ahead of you on their leashes. your hand brushes against his a few times and seokmin fights the urge to intertwine your fingers.

even after spending nearly two hours at the cafe, neither of you were ready to part just yet.

“you’ve got to be one of the most charming guys I’ve ever gone out with,” you laugh as you walk along the sidewalk, not really having a destination in mind.

“oh so this is a date? i thought this was just a play date for our dogs?” he teases. “you saying you don’t want this to be a date?” you gasp. “no i definitely like the idea of this being a date,” he smiles.

“so much that I’m not ready for it to end,” he admits. “well, we’re not too far from my place… how about a drink? i don’t think latte’s ready to say goodbye either,” you nod towards the two dogs walking ahead.

the dogs run off as soon as you take their leashes off in your apartment while you lead seokmin to your living room.

he takes a seat on your couch while you step into the kitchen to grab two beers.

your conversations continue naturally, your topics going all over the place. neither of you notice it but you keep moving closer to each other.

seokmin brushes a stray hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. his eyes glance down at your lips before you lean in, waiting for him to close the gap.

his lips move softly against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head to deepen the kiss. when he hears a bark from the other room, he suddenly remembers what led to his current position.

“okay i really need to confess something before this goes any further,” seokmin sighs, pulling away from your lips.

“uh oh. are you gonna tell me you’re a serial killer?” you tease. “okay it’s not that bad,” he chuckles. “so what’s the confession?” you hum.

“latte isn’t exactly… mine,” he says and you’re silent for a second. “oh my god, you kidnapped a dog? that might be worse than a serial killer,” you gasp.

“what? no! no, no! i didn’t kidnap her, I’m just borrowing her!” he quickly exclaims. “i’ve kinda had a crush on you for months and i fucked up when i asked you out only to make it a play date for our dogs,” he explains sheepishly.

“except you don’t have a dog, apparently,” you say, clearly amused with the situation. “i know, i know. i fucked up,” he sighs.

“it’s okay, i forgive you,” you hum, leaning in close again. “i kinda have a crush on you too. besides, you kidnapped a dog just to take me out on a date,” you tease, kissing him as he groans.

“i didn’t kidnap her!”

#dk x reader #dk fluff #dokyeom x reader #dokyeom fluff #lee seokmin x reader #lee seokmin fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #svt x reader #channiesbakery drabbles

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ssahotchnerr · 1 year ago

Note

you see when you did a fic abt reader getting a lil clingy when she’s tired , can we pls have it w aaron instead. like they’re all on the jet and he just puts a hand on her knee or keeps on giving her forehead kisses every second, or even he gets so tired to the point he falls asleep w his head on her shoulder

sleep deprived

clingy aaron my beloved cw; bau!reader, fluff <3

After many years of practice, Aaron's rather proud of his resilience to remain awake and alert despite extreme fatigue.

Some cases called for either little or no sleep at all. Was it his favorite thing to do? No - it knocked his body completely off schedule, worsened with time spent on the West Coast. Had he been exhausted? Absolutely. But he could ignore the feeling well, working just as diligently as if he had gotten a full night's rest.

Frequent helpings of caffeine also assisted.

But when a case resolved and the urgency was dismissed - it was like a switch flipped in his brain. His mind and body knew before he could fully process it, and he felt it. Sleep deprived brain fog, a newly significant heaviness to his body, more irritable if certain buttons were pushed.

He couldn't wait to be home. He couldn't wait to be in the comfort of bed. He couldn't wait for you to be at his side, secure and close in sleep.

Each one of those thoughts correlated to each heavy step as he trudged up the jet's stairs, his eyes latching onto you immediately upon entry.

You were stationed at the kitchenette, head down as you prepared your favorite soothing, nighttime tea.

A wave of affection rippled through him; simply seeing you made him long for you desperately, although you were near and already his. The love he felt for you was unfathomable already, but in a sleep deprived state, it was enhanced greatly. He wanted - no, had to be as close as possible, to be entirely consumed by you.

After storing his go-bag, he swiftly (and slightly clumsily) moved behind you, hands finding your waist easily.

"Hey," you greeted, steeping your tea. Your voice was soft, and he could hear the faint smile in your voice.

"Hey," Aaron echoed in a mumble, his hands sliding forward from your hips to your abdomen. "How are you."

You hummed gently, leaning back to lightly touch your head to his, closing the tiny gap that separated the two of you. "Better now that we're going home."

With your back to his chest, you felt his agreeable chuckle shake through him.

"You want a cup?"

"No, I'm okay." Truthfully, he was certain he would fall asleep before the rim of the mug touched his lips. His head turned, pressing a long kiss to your temple, speaking into it, "Thank you though."

His lips lingered while you finished prepping your tea, adding light honey and lemon. With you in his arms, matching your evenly distributed breaths, Aaron's hold wasn't only to hold you, but to keep him standing upright. The lights on the jet had already been dimmed, as everyone settled down for the red eye flight, so that wasn't helping his tiredness either. He was just as comfortable as if he were in his bed at home.

You felt him nodding off. His arms - unknown to him, as he thought otherwise - were loosening, his figure even swaying the smallest amount. You hurried, knowing he probably wouldn't claim his seat without you at his side. And when you made your way over, Aaron followed like a lost puppy, his fingers grasping onto the back of your shirt.

Your blanket was already at your seat; after setting your tea aside, you draped it over your lap, offering half to Aaron. You even managed to pry him out of his suit jacket and tie.

His hand started out in yours, before finding home on your thigh - enjoying the comfort of contact. His fingers were splayed across the width, keeping you as close as the seats could awkwardly offer. Part of him considered persuading Reid from his usual spot, allowing the two of you a turn to lie down.

But it was Spencer's favorite spot, the rest of the team would never let him live down visibly 'cuddling', and he was too tired to move, so the regular seats would have to do.

His thumb began brushing against the fabric of your pants, the lull bringing him closer to sleep. He placed a kiss on your shoulder, then your jaw, before nestling his head on your shoulder.

A faint blush trickled onto your face, feeling warm from both the tea and the open tenderness. "Aaron?"

A very drowsy, "Hm?" came from below your ear.

You simply leaned your head against his, a contentful sigh leaving you. Under the blanket, your hand rest atop his, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.

Aaron's eyes remained closed, but a sleepy smile made its way onto his face. In the smallest of whispers, "I love you too."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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horchatakoo · 13 days ago

Text

The More You Struggle, The Tighter I Hold

Synopsis: Jungkook has given you everything, so he doesn’t quite appreciate it when you choose a broke college boy over him. Themes: chaebol yandere jungkook, rich brat reader, mind conditioning, manipulation, age gap, older jk, nsfw, smut, dubcon, crempie, pregnancy kink

Jungkook has spoiled you rotten for as long as he can remember—lavishing you with expensive gifts, funding your every whim, covering your wishlist without hesitation. Free trips abroad for you and your friends, extravagant dinner dates, even pulling strings to get you into your dream university when your grades didn’t quite meet the requirements. A simple call to the dean, a casual mention of your "relation," and suddenly, doors that should have remained closed swung wide open for you.

He has always been there, protecting you, guiding you, offering advice like a good older brother would. And for years, that’s exactly how you saw him—a doting, dependable presence, someone you could always rely on.

But Jungkook never wanted to be just seen as an older brother.

He wanted more.

Maybe it started the first time he met you, when your father brought you to one of his meetings with Jungkook’s grandfather. You were just ten years old then, a shy, quiet child clinging to the edges of the conversation while he, at sixteen, regarded you as the little sister he never had. Someone fragile, someone to protect.

At least, that’s what he thought his feelings were.

Until you turned seventeen.

That was when everything shifted. Your body began to change—your hips, your chest, the graceful curve of your waist.

Your innocence took on an unintentional allure, oblivious to how you moved, how your body would be pressed into him when you came running to hug him, how you smiled, or how your presence began to unearth something dark and possessive inside him.

That was when Jungkook stopped seeing you as his little sister. And started seeing you as something else entirely.

He saw you as a woman, a woman that should belong to him, rather than that of a younger sister, but you are oblivious to that fact.

Jungkook’s help isn’t limited to just you—it extends to your entire family, ensuring their unwavering favor, shaping their perception of him as a saint, a savior, a blessing from heaven that they could never repay.

When his grandfather retired as chairman of the Jeon Conglomerate, Jungkook stepped into his rightful position, making sure that your family reaped the greatest benefits from his power.

But those benefits didn’t come without cost…

He had orchestrated everything. Pulled the right strings, made the right moves, and watched as your family’s company crumbled under carefully placed pressure—only for him to appear at just the right time with an outstretched hand and an offer too generous to refuse.

A lifeline. A godsend.

Your father and brother were given prestigious positions within his empire—roles they were woefully unqualified for, yet perfect for keeping them satisfied.

Jungkook knew your father had been embezzling funds from the Jeons for years, a rat biting the very hand that fed him. But Jungkook never stopped him. He never exposed him. Instead, he tolerated it, even allowed it, letting your father gorge himself on wealth that Jungkook could make back in mere minutes.

Because money has never been an issue to him,

It’s not what Jungkook wanted the most…

You are.

Your family had been consumed by greed long ago, blind to the noose tightening around them as they dug their own graves.

And Jungkook?

He only watched in quiet amusement.

He had always known their sins would serve him one day. That when the time came, their insatiable hunger for wealth and status would tip the scales in his favor.

After all, they were nothing more than beggars dressed in wealth—always grasping for more, always willing to sell whatever was necessary for a place at the Jeon table.

Even you.

And why wouldn’t they? Everything they had—every luxury, every privilege—existed only because of him.

If not for Jungkook, your family would have sunk into bankruptcy long ago.

You were almost just like them—you couldn’t live without gold under your feet. The only difference was that you never took advantage of anyone, never used people for your own gain.

You weren’t capable of something like that.

In Jungkook's mind, a kind and innocent thing like you isn’t capable of such sin.

You were just... spoiled. If that was the right word for it. Born into wealth, raised in luxury, never knowing what it was like to beg for anything.

And Jungkook was fine with that.

More than fine.

Because once you became his, he planned on spoiling you even more.

For a long time, everything unfolded just as Jungkook had planned—until he received the most offensive news from you.

“Kookie, meet Hoseok. We’re in the same college department… he’s, um, my boyfriend.”

You introduced him shyly, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around your boyfriend’s slender frame.

Jungkook sat there, his glass of wine in hand, gaze locked onto the two of you. He looked at Hoseok from head to toe, trying to process what you had just said—as if hearing it aloud would somehow make it more real.

Here you are, standing beside a guy who looked like he had thrown himself together in five minutes—jeans, Converse, and a wrinkled T-shirt that was probably the first thing he grabbed from his small closet.

An attire that's entirely not suited to a luxurious dinner place like this

His nervous smile only made the contrast more jarring.

And then there’s Jungkook, in a perfectly tailored suit, polished shoes, a Patek Philippe watch on his wrist—an image of wealth and power that felt completely at odds with this moment.

“You never told me anything about this… guy, baby,” Jungkook finally spoke, his voice cold as he set his wineglass down.

Of course, you're twenty now. It's only natural that you’d have a boyfriend. But he never imagined it would be this soon, especially since he’d never seen you show any real interest in relationships.

He always thought your attention was his alone—that no unworthy man could ever steal it.

But it seems he was wrong.

In his mind, maybe he should’ve arranged your marriage with him sooner.

Hoseok stiffened at the way Jungkook called you baby, but he quickly shook off the thought. You’d told him before that Jungkook was like an older brother—maybe this was just how he spoke.

“Well, I always forget,” you said casually, taking a seat and gesturing for Hoseok to join you as you skimmed through the menu.

Jungkook only hummed in response, swirling the wine in his glass.

“U-uh, hi, sir,” Hoseok finally spoke up, his voice tentative, trying to break the tense silence.

You had warned him before coming in that Jungkook might come off as strong and intimidating, but that he was actually sweet underneath it all.

But nothing about Jungkook’s aura felt sweet to Hoseok.

Well—at least to you, Jungkook was sweet.

Jungkook certainly heard Hoseok’s attempt at a greeting. He even glanced at him briefly. But he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, his attention remained fixed on you.

“Baby, do your parents already know about this?” His voice was calm, but there was something heavier beneath it, something unreadable.

You tensed for a second but quickly recovered. “Kookieeee, please don’t tell them. You know how they can be sometimes. I only told you because I knew you’d be happy for me,” you said with a sweet smile.

You were definitely wrong about that.

None of this made Jungkook happy. Not even a little.

But he chuckled softly, watching how you tried to act cute in front of him, hoping to convince him to keep your little secret.

"Fine,”

Hoseok sat there, feeling increasingly uncomfortable—the way Jungkook’s presence seemed to dominate the space, the way the dynamic between the two of you didn’t quite sit right with him.

This wasn’t how normal childhood friends act, even if you say that you're very close with Jungkook.

Still, he chose to remain silent. He wasn’t about to speak out of turn in front of a man who looked like he could crush him for even the smallest mistake.

Jungkook drained the last of his wine, then glanced at his wristwatch before rising from his seat.

“Well, you two have fun,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Order whatever you want.” He said as he handed you his black card.

“But Kook! I thought you had cleared your plans for tonight?” Confusion flickered across your face.

“Yeah, I know, baby. But you know how it is. I’m a busy man.”

That was a lie.

He had indeed cleared his schedule. This night was supposed to be just for the two of you. But Hoseok’s presence had ruined his appetite.

My driver will pick you up at eight,” he continued, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You know how your mom doesn’t like you coming home late.”

“Uhh, sir… I actually intend to bring her home myself—”

“Alright, baby?” Jungkook cut him off, his voice gentle but firm, like a parent dismissing a child.

The conversation was already over.

You hesitated for a second before nodding. “Okay…” you murmured, the slight sadness in your voice betraying the unspoken truth:

Jungkook didn’t like Hoseok for you.

And he never would.

And just like that, the night ended with you being picked up by one of Jungkook’s driver after you and hoseok finished eating dinner that jungkook had paid for.

Hoseok might not say it aloud, but he hated it…

Hated how Jungkook had effortlessly covered the bill when he could’ve just taken you somewhere he could afford.

It felt like a reminder—like a quiet way of putting him in his place.

And it didn’t help that you wouldn’t stop babbling about how good the food was.

“God, that steak was delicious! It tasted almost the same as the ones we had on our Europe trip…”

Hoseok only hummed in response, already annoyed, his fists clenching at his sides as the two of you stepped out of the restaurant. And there it was—a sleek black Mercedes waiting in front of the restaurant, Jungkook’s driver standing there to greet you.

“Good evening, Miss Y/N.”

You barely noticed Hoseok’s stiff posture beside you. “My driver’s here. Bye, Hoseok!” you chirped, flashing him a small smile before slipping inside the car without a second thought.

Hoseok stood there for a moment, watching as the car pulled away, his jaw tightening.

If that’s how Jungkook reacted, then what more if your parents found out you were dating him?

And though you had always been so kind to Hoseok, he couldn’t help but feel like he was beneath you—like he wasn’t someone worthy of standing by your side.

A week had passed since that dinner. The one where you introduced Hoseok to Jungkook like it was nothing, like it wouldn’t shift the earth beneath your feet.

You honestly thought things were going fine.

But Hoseok had been… gone.

Not in the literal sense—no, he was still enrolled, still somewhere in the city—but he hadn’t attended any of your shared classes, hadn’t shown up at the student publication office where the two of you spent almost every afternoon.

His name no longer popped up in your notifications, no missed calls, no good morning texts.

Just... silence.

A gaping void where he used to be.

You reached out to people, trying not to sound desperate.

But the responses were all the same:

"I don’t know." "Ask someone else." "We’re not getting involved in your drama."

Drama?

What drama?

Everything was going fine. Wasn’t it?

Something in you says that he's avoiding you, but you refuse to accept that, because everything was just fine. Instead, you convince yourself to believe that maybe something has just happened that doesn't concern you, perhaps a family emergency that he has to take care of.

But why is he not messaging you if that's the case? The longer the silence dragged on, the more it chipped away at your patience.

Until finally, you decided you’d had enough.

If he wasn’t going to face you at uni, then you’d confront him at his apartment. You need to get your answers to the questions that have been bugging your mind.

You didn’t bother texting. You didn’t even knock.

The spare key he’d given you months ago still worked.

The lights were off when you stepped inside. Your first impression was that he might not be home—you were halfway through calling his name, just to make sure he really wasn’t there, when you heard something from the bedroom—faint, but unmistakable.

A moan.

You stopped cold.

Your heart plummeted straight into your stomach.

No.

No, no, no.

You moved before you could think better of it, storming down the short hall toward his bedroom. The door was cracked open just enough.

You pushed it.

And instantly wished you hadn’t.

There he was.

Hoseok.

On top of someone, some girl you barely recognized from one of the campus orgs. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back, both of them breathless, gasping, fucking like they had no care in the world until they felt your presence that caught them off guard.

You felt stupid—after all those days of searching for him, calling and worrying, wondering what could've happened to him, only to find him enjoying himself between some other girl's legs.

A strangled noise left your throat as you stumbled back a step. Your vision blurred for a second, and the ringing in your ears drowned out whatever garbled excuse the girl tried to throw on as she scrambled for a sheet.

Hoseok didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t even look guilty.

He didn’t bother covering up. Didn’t even look surprised anymore. Just annoyed.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling away from the girl beneath him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You were frozen, the image of him and that girl still burned behind your eyelids.

“You stalking me now?” he scoffed, reaching for his jeans without shame. “God, I should’ve known you wouldn’t take the hint.”

“The hint?” your voice cracked. “You disappeared on me, Hoseok. You ignored my calls, ditched class—what the fuck was I supposed to think?”

He rolled his eyes, zipping his pants. “That it’s over. That’s what you should’ve thought.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But… you didn’t even—”

“Didn’t even what? Text you some sappy breakup message?” he sneered.

“Why would I waste my time on that? It’s not like we were anything serious.”

Your breath hitched, refusing to believe what he just said, though it was crystal clear.

"You told me you loved me!"

“Yeah, well,” he said, grabbing a shirt and carelessly pulling it over his head, “I say a lot of shit. Doesn’t mean I meant it.”

The girl behind him giggled under the covers, which only infuriated you further, and Hoseok didn’t even glance at her. His eyes were on you, and they weren’t kind like how it was before.

“Look,” he said, “That Jungkook guy? He opened my eyes, alright? You’re nothing but trouble. Ever since I got with you, my grades lowered, fuck, my scholarship's even hanging by a thread. My future is on the line. You dragged me into your chaos and I’m finally fucking done.”

You blinked back the sting in your eyes, confusion tightening in your chest. How was Jungkook even involved in this?

“No… Jungkook wouldn’t do that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not like that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hoseok barked a bitter laugh, eyes blazing. “Well, he fucking did.”

“Go cry to your sugar daddy or whatever the hell he is to you. I’m done.”

You were speechless.

As much as you hated Hoseok for cheating on you, there was one person you blamed even more—Jeon Jungkook. The tears came before you could even begin to process it all, a sob breaking in your throat as the pain swallowed you whole. Hoseok didn’t spare you a second glance; he shoved you out of his dorm like you were nothing, slamming the door shut in your face.

You felt betrayed...

not just by Hoseok, but by Jungkook.

How could he sabotage the one relationship that meant the world to you? How could he be so cruel and manipulative, as if destroying what you had would somehow bring him any satisfaction?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Jungkook had always been your angel, your protector. The thought of him being the one pulling the strings, the one who ruined you, didn’t make sense.

You wanted so badly to believe that Hoseok was just lashing out, making excuses for his betrayal. But no matter how tightly you clung to that hope, his words rang with a cruel kind of truth that you couldn’t ignore.

You didn’t even know how you got here.

After all the drama, the shouting, the betrayal—after all the tears you’d shed in Hoseok’s hallway just this afternoon—you should’ve been curled up in your bed, buried under blankets, trying to sleep the pain away.

But here you were.

At Jungkook’s building.

At his penthouse.

Driven by rage, betrayal, confusion, everything tightening in your chest until your body moved on its own.

You barely remembered how you got through the lobby. The security guard looked up from his desk and blinked in surprise, but when he saw your face, something in his demeanor softened.

“Miss,” he said gently, “You can go right up. He said you’re always welcome.”

Of course he did.

You hated how familiar this was—how the elevator doors opened to his private floor like the building itself was trained to welcome you. You hated that your trembling fingers still remembered the code. The moment the door swung open, his scent was already wrapping around you like a trap.

And you hated, most of all, that he looked happy to see you.

He was standing in the middle of his massive living room, wine glass in hand, dressed in a soft brown sweater and slacks, like the world hadn’t just been shattered around you.

His smile bloomed the moment your figure came into view.

“There you are,” Jungkook said, voice warm and slow, eyes twinkling as he opened his arms for you.

“Come here, angel. I was just thinking about y—”

Instead of a tight hug, all he got from you was a slap in his cheek.

The slap rang louder than you expected.

His cheek snapped to the side, skin blooming red where your palm struck him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Just stood there with his face turned, lips slightly parted, as if you’d short-circuited something in him.

Silence.

Then slowly, his eyes returned to yours as his calm demeanor didn't change.

A slow smile curled at the corner of his mouth—too knowing, too soft, too smug.

“Ah,” Jungkook murmured, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “So you found out.”

And that was the only confirmation you needed. It was all his doing. A part of you had already known it was him, but you needed to hear it from him, and he delivered.

Your throat tightened, but no tears came this time. You were all cried out.

“So you really did it,” you whispered. “You ruined us.”

Jungkook tilted his head as he eyed you intensely. “Ruined?” he echoed, like it was a foreign word.

He let out a breathy laugh, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“No, baby. I didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly. “I just reminded him of what he already knew.”

You stared at him in disbelief

His eyes dropped to your swollen, puffy face—red-rimmed eyes and cracked lips. He stepped closer, not to console, but to admire.

“I hate seeing you cry,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle against your cheek.

You slapped his hand away.

He didn’t flinch.

“You had no right,” you snapped, voice trembling with restrained fury. “Hoseok and I—what we had, it was real. He loved me. We were—”

“He was weak,” Jungkook cut in smoothly, “and undeserving.”

“You don’t get to decide that!" You shouted at him as your face flushed red from anger.

“I do,” he said calmly, like he was explaining something to a child.

"Don’t you get it, Y/N? You belong to me. After everything I’ve done for you, for your family, and you still dared to choose him? I was being generous, patient, so fucking kind with you. But let me make one thing clear."

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he grips your chin a little too tightly, leaning in until his lips nearly graze your ear.

"I don’t share. No one touches what’s mine."

Your breath hitched, skin prickling where his words lingered against your ear. It all started to make sense—every sweet gesture, every moment he showed up exactly when you needed someone, the silent ways he looked at you like you were already his. His care had never been brotherly. Not even close. You had been so foolish, blind to the possessiveness hiding behind his soft smiles, mistaking his obsession for affection.

And now that the truth was out, there was no going back.

Your legs felt unsteady as you took a step back, but Jungkook didn’t let you get far. His hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, gentle yet firm, anchoring you in place.

“You manipulated Hoseok,” you whispered, the realization choking out of you. “You wanted to ruin us.”

He didn’t even flinch. His thumb caressed the curve of your jaw, voice steady and low.

“No. I had to ruin him. Because he was in the way.” His smile curved, slow, and sinful. “He was holding onto something that never belonged to him in the first place.”

Jungkook, you used to know, the boy who used to laugh with you, protect you, was gone. In his place stood a man whose obsession clung to you like a vice, dark and suffocating.

He looks like he could kill in this moment, as you keep on throwing hurtful words at him

“You’re fucking insane! I don’t ever want to see you again! I swear to God, I’ll leave the country if that’s what it takes to get away from you!” you screamed, ripping his hand off your neck with every ounce of strength you had. He was too strong. It took force, and it hurt.

You see, Jungkook had always been patient. Painfully patient. If he hadn’t been, he would’ve taken you years ago.

But now? Now the thread had snapped. And the moment those words left your mouth, something inside him broke.

Leave?

You were going to leave him?

After everything he gave you? After everything he destroyed for you?

“No, baby. You’re not fucking leaving,” he said lowly, eyes dark as he stalked toward you like a predator. He gripped your arm hard, making you stumble back, his breath hot against your face.

“Let go! I’ll tell my father everything!”

He smirked. “Oh yeah? Want me to dial him for you?”

You tried to fight him, lashing out like a wild animal. The vase by the table shattered as your arm knocked into it, and you didn’t even think—you just grabbed a jagged shard and held it up, hand trembling, eyes wild.

“Stay the fuck away from me, you psycho!”

He stared at you with that maddening calm, like you were amusing. Like, your resistance was cute. And then he stepped forward with lethal grace.

He knew his flowering words and soft tone wouldn't work with you in this situation, you left him with no choice but to use a little bit of force in order to tame you.

“You really think I’d let you hurt yourself over something this stupid?”

In one swift movement, he twisted the shard from your fingers, faster than you could react. Before you could scream, his hand was in your hair, the other on your waist, and your head slammed into the wall with brutal force.

The last thing you heard was your name on his lips before everything faded to black

Your head throbbed painfully as consciousness slowly crept in. The ceiling above you was initially unfamiliar—until the soft fabric brushing against your skin, the scent of expensive cologne, and the dim glow of the city lights pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows reminded you exactly where you were.

You're still in his penthouse... in his bed.

You shifted, realizing you were wearing one of your pajama dresses. One you hadn’t worn in ages. One you hadn’t brought here.

A soft voice broke through the fog in your head.

“You’re awake,” Jungkook murmured beside you, his fingers gently stroking your hair, eyes filled with something unsettlingly tender. “You hit your head, baby. I had to take care of you.”

For a fleeting second, you saw him—the version of Jungkook you used to know. The kind smile. The boy who was always there. But you forced yourself to push that illusion away. That version of him is just an illusion, a facade to his true, dark intentions.

You scrambled off the bed in a panic, nearly tripping over yourself as you ran to the door. Locked. Every other exit—locked. No keypad, no handle you could pry open. You darted from one end of the penthouse to another, only to find nothing but dead ends.

“It’s no use,” Jungkook said calmly, standing from the bed, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you look for an exit.

“You’re staying here now. I’m not letting you run away from me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” you snapped, voice cracking with disbelief.

Then you saw it—all your designer clothes, your bags, your makeup, your shoes, tucked neatly in his walk-in closet like they belonged there.

Like you belonged here.

You spun to face him, breath short and broken.

“You moved my things…”

“I’ve been preparing this for a while,” he simply said as he slowly walked toward you.

“This is insane,” you whispered, eyes wide with disbelief, your voice trembling before it exploded into a scream. “My parents—they’ll come for me! You’re gonna pay for what you’re fucking doing!”

Jungkook chuckled low, dark, and slow, like he found your defiance amusing. He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with possessive fire as he tilted his head. “Come for you?” he echoed, voice almost mocking. “You mean your greedy parents who work for me now?”

He leaned in, voice dipping into a growl against your ear as he added, “Sweetheart, they’re the ones who sent all your things here. They were more than happy to hand you over to me."

And that’s when it hits you—you’re alone in here, with no one to run to. Even your parents betrayed you, their only daughter, all because they were too blinded by the money Jungkook has.

"No! This is impossible. My parents wouldn’t do that—Jungkook, please," you begged, falling to your knees as you wrapped your arms around his legs. At this point, you didn’t even know why you were begging him. Desperation? Hope? A final plea for the version of him you once knew?

But empathy was the last thing on his mind.

Instead, the sight of you, broken, pleading, lips trembling as you whispered his name, only turned him on.

There was something so intoxicating about having you like this, so helpless and pretty on your knees, as your plump lips were wet with your tears.

Sooner or later, he'd have you crying for something else.

"Shh, sweetheart," he cooed as he crouched down to meet your level, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that contradicted the madness in his gaze. "Stop crying. You’re going to learn to love it here. This is your home now."

Indeed, you had no choice but to stay in his penthouse for these past few weeks, trapped in his world with no way out. Your days blurred into one another, a monotonous loop of routines: a cold, solitary bath, forced meals, and endless hours spent staring at the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You waited for Jungkook’s return, your mind spiraling as the isolation ate away at your sanity.

The silence was maddening. The lack of human contact drove you to the edge, and desperation took hold.

You missed the life that you once had, partying and going out with friends, attending classes, and so on, so you tried to escape, of course.

The first time, you managed to hurt one of his security guards as you scrambled your way out, though it was of no use as there were too many of them.

The second time, you threatened to harm yourself with a kitchen knife if they didn’t let you out.

That was when Jungkook decided that enough was enough. He began working from home, his eyes always on you, keeping you under his watchful gaze, with every sharp tool that he thought you could use to hurt yourself are now hidden or moved away.

"Ahhh... please stop!" you pleaded as a harsh slap landed on your bum. You were bent over, turned around with your tummy pressed against his knees as he spanked you (if that makes sense).

"Fucking stubborn woman! What did I tell you about lying, huh?!" he growled, landing another slap to your ass. The dress you were wearing had ridden up, exposing your bare core—he hadn’t allowed you to wear any undergarments.

You didn’t know why, but your body had been so needy and hot these past few days. You’d been getting wet out of nowhere, so turned on that you ended up touching yourself in the bathroom whenever he wasn’t around—too embarrassed to let him see you like that.

And just like now, you were already soaked from the way his rough palms met your skin, each slap sending a sting of heat through your core, making you tremble with want.

It was humiliating… and unbearable.

But of course, Jungkook knew everything.

He’d been slipping aphrodisiacs into your meals every time he forced you to sit on his lap and eat like a baby. And yes—he knew how you secretly touched yourself, thanks to the hidden cameras planted all over the house. He got off on watching you fall apart when you thought he wasn’t looking, addicted to how lewd you’d become under his control.

“Dirty whore,” he sneered, fingers suddenly sliding down back and forth to your slick folds. “You’re even getting wet from this, huh?”

You shuddered instantly, a sharp moan ripping from your throat as his fingertips grazed your sensitive pussy lips before spreading it with his fingers, exposing just how soaked and desperate you truly were.

“Look at you,” Jungkook muttered, almost amused as he ran his fingers along your soaked slit, spreading the slickness just to watch you twitch. “Dripping all over my lap like a fucking slut. Getting off on being punished?”

You whimpered, face flushed with heat, your fingers curling into the fabric beneath you as his touch sent sparks down your spine. His voice was low and mocking, but it lit you up in the worst way.

“You act like you hate it,” he said, dipping one long finger inside you without warning, “but your cunt tells me the truth.”

A breathy moan escaped you, hips jerking as the digit curled deep inside. He moved slowly at first, dragging it out just to watch your body react. Then he added a second, scissoring them apart, stretching you as you gasped.

“Such a filthy little thing. Bet you’ve been dreaming of this, huh? My fingers inside you while you grind your pathetic pussy on the bathroom sink,” he hissed into your ear, his fingers now pumping with more force. “You like being watched, baby? Knew I’d see you eventually?”

You couldn’t even form words anymore—just broken moans and whines as your walls clenched around him.

Then came the third finger.

You cried out, your legs trembling as he stuffed you full, knuckles deep now, fucking you rough and slow, like he wanted to feel every desperate flutter inside you. The stretch burned and thrilled you at once, leaving you clawing at his thigh, right on the edge.

So close. You were right there. Vision hazy, thighs slick and shaking, pleasure curling so tight it hurt.

But then he stopped.

Just like that—everything halted. He pulled his fingers out, slow and wet, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing.

You gasped, back arching as if trying to chase the feeling, your body trembling with frustration.

“N-no—please!” you cried, writhing against him, your once stubborn self now long gone, like a passing rain as you begged “Please, Jungkook… don’t stop, please—I need it, I need you—anything!”

He held his slick fingers up to your lips, eyes dark with twisted satisfaction. “Anything?” he smirked. “Then beg like the needy little cumslut you are.”

Without hesitation, you nodded, eyes glassy, lips parting as you leaned in—desperation burning in your gut.

“Yes—please, Jungkook. I’ll be good. I swear. Just—please—”

But he didn’t wait for you to finish.

He pressed his fingers against your lips, the same ones slick with your arousal, and you moaned as you eagerly opened your mouth, sucking them in like they were his cock. Tongue swirling, lips sealing tight around each one, you cleaned them with such obedience it made his cock twitch beneath you.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, his breath shallow, eyes dark and gleaming.

Fuck.

The drug worked.

He knew it would, but seeing the result was another thing entirely.

There you were—his once defiant little brat—on your knees, brain fogged, drooling around his fingers like they were candy. Completely unaware. Completely his.

So sweetly fucked up that you didn’t even care anymore that you were locked in here. That he owned your body, your mind, your every breath.

And now, after all your pathetic little protests, you were begging him to touch you? To fuck you?

Thought you hated me, sweetheart. Thought you wanted to escape.

His cock throbbed at the thought—how far gone you were. How easy it had become to twist your desire into obedience.

And he wasn’t even close to done.

Jungkook slowly pulled his soaked fingers from your mouth, watching your tongue chase after them like you couldn’t stand to be without the taste.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “You want to be fucked that badly, huh? You want to be ruined?”

You nodded, whimpering as you pressed your thighs together, slick leaking down the insides of your legs. “Yes—please, please—kookie"

That was all it took.

He gripped your hips with bruising force and dragged you down off his lap, flipping you over like a ragdoll onto the plush carpet. You barely had time to gasp before he was yanking his sweats down, cock already thick and hard, veins throbbing with anticipation.

“Then take it,” he growled, grabbing your thighs and spreading you open. “Take all of it, slut.”

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

Your back arched, a choked scream bursting from your lips as he buried himself to the hilt—stretching you so deep, so full, it knocked the air from your lungs. There was no time to adjust. He didn’t give you that luxury. His hips were already snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls as he fucked you raw.

“God, listen to you,” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back. “Crying on my cock like you were made for this. And maybe you were, huh? Just a filthy little hole to fill up and break down.”

Your mind was gone—drugged, drunk off him, off the stretch and the heat and the possessive grip he had on your body. Your moans turned to sobs, pleasure slamming into you over and over, your nails clawing at the floor as he pounded into you without mercy.

“Gonna come?” he mocked, voice ragged, hips grinding against you with devastating precision. “You’re already close, aren’t you? Fucking pathetic. All it took was a few slaps, a little drug in your food, and now you’re creaming all over my cock like a whore.”

You could only moan his name in response—broken, needy, soaking him with every thrust. The coil in your gut tightened so violently you couldn’t breathe, your body ready to shatter.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice like poison and silk.

“Then come for me,” he whispered. “Let me feel this ruined cunt squeeze around me.”

And just like that—you snapped.

Your orgasm hit like lightning, legs trembling, walls clenching around him so tight it dragged a feral groan from his throat. He didn’t stop—riding you through it, fucking you harder, chasing his own high.

“Take it,” he grunted. “Take every fucking drop. Gonna put a baby in you, gonna make you round and full"

With one final thrust, he slammed deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, cock pulsing as he filled you full. Your body jerked, overstimulated and wrecked, tears sliding down your cheeks as you lay there trembling under him.

Breathless and used

And Jungkook—still buried deep inside you—grinned.

The room still smelled like sex.

Your body was limp in his arms, skin marked with his touch—red, bruised.

Jungkook hadn't let you move much after he’d fucked you into the floor. He'd simply gathered you into his lap, his cock still wet with your slick, and held you there, stroking your hair like you were the most precious thing he ever ruined.

“I think it’s time,” he murmured against your temple, voice soft. “You’ve been good lately.”

Your lashes fluttered as you looked up at him, dazed and exhausted. “Time… for what?”

“To go see your family.”

Your breath caught.

He chuckled. “Under my watch, of course. couldn't let you be naughty"

Jungkook knew he couldn’t keep you locked up forever. That would only risk bringing back your stubborn streak. No—rewarding you with a bit of freedom was the smarter move. After all, you were already too blind to see that any of this was wrong.

You should’ve felt uneasy or angry, like the first time he brought you here. But you didn’t.

Not anymore.

Now, you understood.

Jungkook was right. He did know what was best for you. You were wrong to think the man you once loved was gone. He wasn’t. He never left. He just needed to tame you—to show you who you truly belonged to.

“Thank you, Kookie,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him, clinging to the only person who ever really saw you.

clearly pleased—finally seeing you with the man they had always wanted for you. It wasn’t just approval in their eyes anymore… it was pride. As if they, too, had finally earned their seat at the Jeon table.

You sat quietly beside Jungkook, his presence towering even in his silence. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the table, firm and possessive. Every so often, he’d squeeze—his palm sliding just a little higher, fingers teasing slow circles into your skin, right where it made you press your legs together.

And then he walked in.

Hoseok.

He wore an apron now, working as a server at the restaurant your parents had chosen. His eyes widened when he spotted you, tray in hand—probably shocked to see you after the messy breakup you had with him.

You should have felt mad that he was there—should’ve remembered how deeply you once loved Hoseok, loved him enough to choose him over Jungkook, again and again.

But you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Because now you knew. You remembered what Jungkook told you—what he made you see.

Hoseok had never loved you. Not really. He’d cheated on you. Lied. Gaslit you into thinking it was your fault.

Only… he hadn’t done it on his own. Jungkook had orchestrated it all—manipulated things behind the scenes to tear you away from him.

And you weren’t even mad about it anymore.

Because he’d been right all along.

You didn’t belong to Hoseok. You never did.

Jungkook squeezed your thigh again and leaned in close, his voice low but unmistakably proud.

“We’ve been trying for a baby,” he said loud enough for Hoseok to hear, tilting his head just so. “Finally setting a date for the wedding too.”

You blushed on cue, eyes falling to your lap, but you didn’t pull away when he kissed your cheek—didn’t protest when his arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer.

Hoseok’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but then he nodded stiffly and focused on serving your family before he turned back to the kitchen, defeated.

Good.

Jungkook’s fingers traced idle circles on your hip, slow and smug.

“That’s right, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine. Always were”

#jungkook #bts fanfic #yandere jungkook #jungkook oneshot #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts #jungkook x reader #fanfic #bts yandere #bts oneshot #yandere

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luveline · 1 year ago

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what if bombshell!reader proposed to Spencer? Instead of Spencer proposing to bombshell!reader? Would he be upset or just as happy? Also, I absolutely adore your writing! 🥰💕

ty for requesting!! —spencer gets a love he deserves, 1.4k, fem!reader

The first proper time that you and Spencer slept together, he wasn’t nervous. It was sort of like a high school sleepover. You’d slept in shared beds in stuffy hotels and he’d once stayed the night while he was too drunk to remember it, but the first time you invited him in with intention to just be together, he wasn’t scared. You remember being surprised. Looking back, you shouldn’t have been.

You laid together like you are now. He wore a grey t-shirt and a pair of blue chequered pants, and he’d pushed his hair back all day leaving the front pieces limp, and he’d touched your cheek to encourage your face to his before he moved in for one polite kiss. “I love you,” he’d said, much too early and a couple years too late at the same time.

You turn on your side now to look at him. His contacts are out, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He’s watching a video on his laptop and the line of his jaw is soft. Or, softer than usual. He has a very sharp jaw.

You shift a bit to alleviate the pressure on your hip.

“You okay?” Spencer asks. He doesn’t look away from his laptop nor does he sound tuned in. It’s sort of funny that he manages to care even when he’s not paying attention.

“Yeah.”

“Tired?”

“Not really.”

“Hungry at all?”

“Just brushed my teeth.”

“That’s not the question I was asking.”

“Not hungry, Spencer. Can I watch too?”

He turns the laptop toward you to the point where his view is obscured, raising the volume a touch. “It’s about Tuberculosis. Do you wanna watch something else?”

“No, this sounds interesting.”

He settles in next to you. His fingers brush your chest. For a good forty five minutes, you and Spencer watch the rest of his video. He gets visibly tireder the longer it goes on, but neither of you attempt to get ready to sleep until the video’s finished. He closes the lid of his laptop, twisting in bed to deposit it gently on the floor. There’s a familiar shush of him sliding it under the bed to stop you from standing on it (a learned precaution).

“Did you take that vitamin, the primrose?” he asks, flicking off his bedside lamp, leaving yours as the only source of light in the entire room. It’s a pink glass shade that kisses his pale skin a rosy hue.

“Yeah, Spence.”

He shakes the sheets back and the over you both. One minute you’re apart and the next he’s pulling you into him, confident handed, his breath warming your face as the gap between you thins. Despite his readying, he doesn’t say goodnight, or close his eyes. This is your time now. You often spend time at night just talking to each other about everything you’d meant to say that day, or nonsense conversation, until one or both of you has been lulled into a peaceful sleep.

“I have something I want to tell you,” you say.

“Okay.” He sounds completely trusting, no worrying, no reluctance.

“You remember the first time you stayed at my apartment?”

“No.”

“The second time,” you correct.

“Yes,” he says, grinning. “I was much less intoxicated that time.”

“You were sober.”

“I didn’t feel sober,” he says.

“Nice. You’re getting so good at this.”

“Thank you.”

“But do you remember that?” You trace the curve of his nose. He’ll have to take his glasses off soon. They’ve already worn red crescents into his skin. “You told me you loved me.”

“I can’t forget it,” he says, still grinning. You’ve tried to tell people —idiots— who don’t understand you and Spencer that, even without his million charms and idiosyncrasies, you’d love him for his smile. It changes his entire face. He never looks as beautiful to you as he does when he’s smiling.

“I didn’t say it back.”

“We’d only been together for a few days,” he says. “It was one of my moments.”

“Spencer, I did love you, though. I should’ve told you. I knew in that moment that you really, really meant it, and I just want you to know that when you said it, I could have said it back. I should have. I loved you just as much, I promise.”

“I know,” he whispers, eyes slightly widened.

“I think I’ve loved you since the day we met. It’s cliche.”

“Sometimes things are cliche because they’re good,” he says, laying his cheek more firmly into his pillow as he raises a hand to your face. His thumbs rests in the space under your chin. His fingertips brush along the skin just beside your lips. “And true. I loved you the minute you introduced yourself.”

You savour the feeling of his hand on your cheek.

“You’re so handsome,” you say, “and kind. You’re everything to me. You know that.”

Spencer wraps his arm gently under your chin and behind your head as he lays closer to you. “I know. You’re everything to me. You’re my best friend in the whole world, I– didn’t even know how happy I could be before now.”

“Me too, baby.”

He closes his eyes. Your noses touch.

“Spencer Reid, will you marry me?” you whisper.

Quiet. Aching, total quiet. He curls his arm behind your head until your lips are a hair’s width apart, and when he answers, it’s like he’s spoken directly to the deepest parts of you. “It’s all I want,” he says.

“I got you a ring,” you murmur.

The air races with your heart. The sound of your skin and clothes is the only thing to be heard between breaths. “I got you three,” he says.

“Spencer, what for?” you ask, afraid to open your eyes and break the spell, the branching, unending feeling of connection you share.

“I didn’t know which one you’d like.”

“You’ll marry me?” you ask.

“Angel, I already said yes. I love you. I told you already we’d have to get married.”

“Oh, we have to?”

Spencer kisses you. It’s startlingly open-mouthed for a moment, but you adapt and overcome, you love him and his every touch, tilting your head to the side to allow him room to ferry in and kiss you deeply. It’s slow and measured, then quick and undecided. He turns his face one way to kiss you, then the other, back again, a hint of roughness —of hunger to it as he pulls your face to his.

A spark of heat against your nose.

Your eyes flutter open, a pinked path of light scored diagonally down his cheek. “Spence,” you say, feeling the weight and heat of tears gather behind your eyes, even as you smile, “don’t cry, baby.”

“I feel like I spent my whole life waiting for someone to love me and it doesn’t feel real that it’s you,” he whispers slowly.

“No? How do I make it more real for you, sweetheart? What can I do?” you ask sincerely.

He shakes his head.

You push your forehead into his. He doesn’t cry anymore than two burning hot tears, rubbing your shoulder as you yourself sniffle back your own emotion. You’re really not sad. You hurt for him, but this is one of the best things that’s ever happened to you.

“Do you want to choose your ring?” he asks, enthusing his voice with cheer.

“Do you want to see yours first?”

“Did you get me a diamond?” he asks.

“Don’t be silly, Spencer, of course I did.”

He laughs and kisses you three times in quick succession before he sits up, wiping his face, chuckling wryly. “Sorry, I didn’t think I would react like that.”

You tangle your fingers with his before he can get too far away. “I love you, honey. There’s nothing wrong with crying about it.”

You aren’t expecting to start crying when he slides one of the rings he’s chosen for you over your finger. He says you can see each one in action and choose after you've seen them all, but the moment the band is over your knuckle, you know it’s the one you’ll keep. You push the ring you’d bought for him onto his finger with your cheeks still tearstained.

The diamond on his ring isn’t quite as big as the one he’d bought for you, but it looks right nestled against his pale skin. That night, you talk more than you ever have before, falling asleep only minutes after the glowing threads of morning have painted your twined hands with gold.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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aspenmissing · 2 months ago

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I'm so happy your requests are open again!! But I'm glad you closed them for a while since you get so many and write so much for each one.❤️❤️

Could I, pretty please with a cherry on top, request arcane characters (specifically viktor, jayce and steb, if you write for him if not that's ok) with a reader that's usually well spoken and composed, think before they act kind of person. But once they're comfortable and let their guard down, they start stuttering and stumbling over their words because their mind is quicker than their mouth, and they keep getting frustrated because they can't say what they want. Kind of like an autistic person automatically unmasking when they're around someone that makes them feel safe, but they weren't planning on unmasking so they're frustrating with themselves.

Hopefully, I managed to explain what I mean😅, please do take your time. You can write it whenever.❤️❤️

~🍒

ᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ? || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5306 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴄʜᴇʀʀʏ! ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛʟʏ! ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱᴛᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ɪ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ! ᴊᴜꜱᴛɪᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ!

JAYCE

Piltover adored control. It thrived on meticulous planning, on rules and order, on minds that could bend chaos into something neat and palatable. You had spent your entire life mastering that balance, shaping yourself into something sharp-edged and refined, a presence that commanded respect in every room you entered.

You had learned early that precision was power. People listened when you spoke, when every word was deliberate, calculated, and polished to perfection. You were the kind of person who could dismantle an argument before it was fully formed, who could read a room and adjust accordingly, who never let emotions cloud reason.

And then there was Jayce.

Jayce Talis, all boundless enthusiasm and effortless charm, a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and let his emotions lead him before logic ever caught up. He was brilliant, yes, but he was also reckless, a man of impulse and grand gestures. You should have found him insufferable.

Instead, you trusted him.

That was your first mistake.

And now, you were paying for it.

"Y/N?"

Jayce’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, low and filled with something dangerously close to concern. You blinked, refocusing, only to find him watching you intently. His head was tilted slightly, brows drawn together, his lips pressed into a soft frown.

"You okay?"

No. No, you were not okay.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as heat pricked at the back of your neck. Your mind was still racing, but your mouth had completely betrayed you.

You had been explaining something—a theory, something important, something that had been circling your brain all day like a restless storm. The words had been there, clear and coherent in your mind, but the moment you had let them out, they had tangled, tripped, collapsed into a jumbled mess of half-formed sentences and stammered syllables.

Jayce had been patient. He hadn't interrupted, hadn't tried to fill in the gaps. He had just waited, listening, giving you the space to get the words out.

But you hadn't been able to.

Your stomach twisted. You were used to control, to confidence, to certainty. But now—now your tongue felt heavy, your thoughts moved faster than your mouth, and the more you tried to push the words out, the more they refused to cooperate.

Why now?

Why him?

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding against your throat. You had spent years perfecting this—honing your speech into something unshakable. And yet, in the presence of Jayce fucking Talis, your brain had apparently decided to throw itself off a cliff.

“I— I was t-trying to say—” The words broke, stumbled over themselves, catching on your tongue like jagged stones. Your breath hitched. Your hands twitched. You could feel the frustration rising, tightening in your chest like a vice. “It’s— it’s not— ugh! It’s in my head, I j-just can’t—”

Your jaw snapped shut, teeth clenching hard enough to ache. The silence that followed was deafening.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. You couldn't even look at him.

Jayce didn’t fill the silence.

He didn’t push, didn’t try to smooth over your faltering words, didn’t do anything except stand there, watching you with an expression that was far too soft.

That, more than anything, made something in you crack wide open.

“I’m s-sorry,” you muttered finally, jaw tight, frustration burning beneath your skin like wildfire. “I d-don’t— I d-don’t usually—”

Jayce smiled. Not the politician’s smile, not the confident smirk he wore for the world. This was different. Smaller. Softer. Real.

“I know,” he said simply.

You froze.

Your eyes snapped up to his, searching—for what? Mockery? Pity? Some kind of forced reassurance? Something that would justify the knot of shame twisting in your gut?

But there was none.

Jayce just knew.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs.

How long had he noticed? Had he always known? You had spent your entire life perfecting the mask, ensuring every word was polished before it ever left your lips. But somehow, without even trying, Jayce had seen through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I mean, I figured. You’re always so careful with your words, but sometimes, when you get comfortable, you just... go."

His smile widened, dimples pressing into his cheeks. "It’s kinda cute."

Your brain completely short-circuited.

Cute?

You could have handled pity. Could have handled irritation or even indifference. But this? This stupid, easy, genuine affection?

Your stomach flipped violently. Heat crawled up your neck. You stared at him, wide-eyed, caught between mortification and something you didn’t quite have a name for.

Jayce shifted, suddenly uncertain. “Not that it’s bad! Or— or weird, or anything. It’s just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just mean, you don’t have to force it with me. However you talk, however you think—I want to hear it.”

Your throat tightened.

You had spent years forcing it, shaping yourself into something the world could understand, something presentable. You had never expected to find someone who didn’t mind the unfiltered version of you—who actually liked it.

The thought was terrifying.

The thought was freeing.

Your hands twitched again, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration. Slowly, cautiously, you let yourself breathe.

Jayce grinned. "There it is."

You scowled, heat creeping up your neck. "Sh-shut up."

Jayce laughed, bright and easy, like you hadn’t just had a full-on existential crisis in front of him.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to rehearse what came next.

Maybe—just maybe—some things didn’t need perfect words.

Maybe you didn’t need them.

Not with him.

VIKTOR

The laboratory was quiet, save for the gentle hum of machinery and the rhythmic tapping of Viktor’s cane against the floor. The scent of parchment, metal, and something faintly ozone-like filled the air, the ever-present signs of scientific discovery in motion. Y/N sat perched on a stool beside one of his many workbenches, her hands moving animatedly as she tried—emphasis on tried—to explain a theory she had been mulling over for weeks.

Usually, she was composed, articulate, the kind of person who measured each word before releasing it into the world. A person who never spoke without intention. A person whose thoughts were always carefully curated before they left her lips.

But that version of her had been left behind the moment she grew comfortable in Viktor’s presence.

Now, words tumbled from her lips in an erratic cascade, her thoughts outrunning her tongue like a stampede she had no hope of controlling.

“So—so, if you, um, if you factor in the—the—ugh, the—okay, okay, wait—if you consider the way—ugh, no, that’s not—” She groaned, gripping her hair in frustration as she tried to catch up with herself. “Okay, what I’m trying to say is that—oh, never mind.” She threw her hands in the air and slumped forward, practically melting onto the workbench.

Viktor chuckled softly, the sound warm and indulgent, like he was enjoying a particularly amusing scientific observation. “You were doing quite well. Please, continue.”

Y/N shot him a glare, though there was no real heat behind it, only the kind of irritation reserved for someone she trusted not to judge her. “I was not doing well.”

“On the contrary,” he said, leaning slightly against his cane, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “I quite enjoy watching you speak when you are truly invested. It is… animated.”

She let out a dramatic groan and buried her face in her hands. “It’s infuriating is what it is. My brain is working faster than my mouth can keep up, and now I sound like an idiot.”

He hummed, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Ah, but I think it is quite endearing.”

She peeked at him through her fingers, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His smirk widened, and he tapped his cane lightly against the floor. “Just a little.”

Her groan was muffled against her palms, and Viktor chuckled again, watching her with the same quiet, unshaken patience he always had. She never had to apologize for her words with him, never had to fear looking foolish. He listened, even when she made no sense, even when she grew frustrated with herself. And worst of all, she knew he wasn’t just humouring her—he actually liked watching her get lost in her own excitement.

“Would it help,” he mused, “if I attempted to guess what you are trying to say?”

She peeked at him again, skepticism written all over her face. “…What, like a game?”

“Of sorts.” He tilted his head, his grin taking on a teasing edge. “Let us see if I can translate your brilliance before you become too flustered.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips now. “Alright, genius, give it a try.”

Viktor straightened, adopting a faux-serious expression. “You were trying to explain a new variable in your experiment, something that has been overlooked in traditional calculations. However, the implications are complex, and you are frustrated because you want to articulate the exact significance without losing momentum.”

Y/N blinked at him. Then blinked again.

“…Damn it,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “That was almost exactly what I was trying to say.”

Viktor’s grin turned victorious. “I will take that as a win.”

She huffed but couldn’t stop the warmth from creeping up her neck. Despite her frustration, there was something undeniably comforting about the way Viktor simply listened, the way he never seemed annoyed by her occasional verbal trainwrecks. If anything, he found them charming.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t mind that so much.

JAYVIK

The Piltover gala was as extravagant as ever—glittering chandeliers, golden champagne, and an overwhelming crowd of scholars, council members, and socialites who seemed more interested in flaunting their wealth than discussing anything of substance. You had attended these events countless times before, always maintaining your polished demeanor. Your words were measured, your posture poised, and your mask of composure carefully crafted.

At least, until you got comfortable.

The night had started smoothly. You moved through the crowd effortlessly, engaging in discussions on politics, technology, and academia with the same ease as a seasoned diplomat. It wasn’t that you were pretending to be someone you weren’t—you were intelligent, well-spoken, and composed. It was just that keeping your thoughts neatly packaged and your speech precise required effort.

And then, a group of scholars approached, intrigued by your involvement in the latest Hextech advancements. The conversation drifted toward the complexities of stabilizing arcane energy in compact devices—an area of research that you had poured your heart and soul into. Excitement sparked in your chest. You leaned in slightly, eager to share your thoughts.

That was when everything began to fall apart.

“Well, uh, s-so, the—the thing about Hextech, right, is that it’s—um, it’s volatile, but not—uh—ugh, no, I mean—so, like, if you—okay, okay, let me—” You gestured wildly with your hands, words tripping over themselves in a desperate attempt to keep up with your thoughts.

The scholars exchanged puzzled glances. One man furrowed his brows. “I’m… sorry, what exactly are you saying?”

Embarrassment hit you like a freight train. Your stomach twisted, and frustration burned at the back of your throat. You knew the answer. It was so clear in your head. But the words wouldn’t come out the way you wanted them to.

And then—

“She means,” Viktor’s voice cut through the awkward silence, smooth as silk, “that the instability of raw energy makes miniaturization particularly challenging. The frequency shifts unpredictably, which is why traditional containment methods fail.”

You blinked as he appeared beside you, leaning lightly on his cane. His amber eyes held amusement, but his tone carried an unmistakable warmth, as if he found your struggle endearing rather than embarrassing.

“Exactly,” Jayce added, stepping up on your other side. Ever the charismatic presence, he offered the group an easy grin, effortlessly slipping into the conversation. “That’s why we’ve been experimenting with precision-tuned matrices. We’re trying to stabilize the fluctuations instead of suppressing them.”

Relief flooded your system. The scholars’ expressions shifted from confusion to comprehension, nodding along as Jayce and Viktor elaborated on your idea with the same excitement you had intended to convey.

Your shoulders relaxed slightly, but the residual embarrassment still prickled at the edges of your composure. You turned your face toward Viktor and Jayce, lowering your voice so only they could hear.

“Thank you,” you murmured, feeling warm and a little sheepish.

Viktor’s lips curled into a smirk. “No need to thank us, můj drahý,” he murmured, his voice teasing but undeniably fond. “It’s rather charming, watching you get flustered.” (My Dear)

Jayce chuckled, reaching over to brush a thumb across your cheek in an affectionate gesture. “Yeah, you should let loose more often,” he mused, his grin widening. “You’re kinda cute when your brain short-circuits.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “I hate you both.”

Viktor tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming mischievously. “Oh? Then perhaps we should let you fend for yourself next time?”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his in horror. “Don’t you dare.”

Jayce laughed, sliding a warm, strong arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Relax,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got you.”

Viktor let out a soft chuckle before reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a gentle squeeze. “Always.”

With them beside you, the night didn’t seem so unbearable anymore.

VANDER

Vander always admired the way you carried yourself. Composed, measured, deliberate. A mind as sharp as a dagger, words chosen like the perfect hand in a game of cards. It was part of what drew him to you. In a place like Zaun, where chaos ruled and emotions ran hot, you were a steady presence—unflappable, always thinking before speaking, always in control.

That was, of course, until you let your guard down.

He’d noticed it the first time you'd lingered in the bar after hours, long after the usual crowd had stumbled home. A few drinks in, boots kicked up, letting yourself relax for once—and suddenly, words tangled on your tongue, tripping over themselves in their rush to be spoken. You’d furrowed your brows, lips pressing together in frustration, trying to force them into order. It had been endearing, to say the least.

And, apparently, the kids had noticed too.

Now it was a game.

"Come on, just one little ramble," Vi grinned, perched on the counter of The Last Drop, arms crossed with a knowing look. "Tell us about, I dunno, the history of Piltover’s trade routes or something."

You shot her a glare, but it lacked any real heat. "I—That’s not—"

"Or maybe about how different alchemical components react to heat," Mylo chimed in, a wicked smirk on his face.

Claggor, the more merciful of the bunch, just shook his head, though even he was biting back a chuckle.

You inhaled deeply, steeling yourself. "I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t—"

"You sure? You’re already hesitating." Vi dangled her legs over the edge of the counter. "Bet you can’t explain somethin’ real fast without trippin’ over yourself."

You narrowed your eyes. "I—"

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. You had the words in your head—so many of them—but as soon as you tried to get them out, they jammed up in your throat, stumbling over each other like a pileup in the middle of the bridge.

Your jaw clenched.

Vander chuckled from his spot behind the bar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that amused, knowing smile.

"Don’t encourage them," you huffed, turning to him with exasperation. "They—They’re doing this on purpose!"

"Oh, I know." His grin deepened. "But I gotta admit, it’s kinda adorable."

Your face burned. "It’s—it’s not adorable, it’s—frustrating!" Your hands clenched at your sides as you tried to string together a proper retort, but the words kept getting away from you. "Infuriating!"

Vi and Mylo were grinning ear to ear, fully enjoying the spectacle.

Vander, on the other hand, just walked over, resting a heavy, warm hand on your shoulder. His touch was grounding, like solid stone beneath unsteady feet. "Take your time, love," he murmured, voice low and warm, meant just for you. "Ain’t a race."

You exhaled, closing your eyes for a moment, letting his presence settle you.

The kids, of course, weren’t satisfied with that.

"You should’ve seen her the other day," Vi snickered. "She was tryin’ to tell Benzo about some new Piltie security measures and nearly short-circuited. Just—" she waved her hands dramatically— "total breakdown."

You groaned. "Vi."

"And you get all fidgety, too," Mylo added, grinning. "Like your hands try to talk for you when your mouth can’t keep up."

"Probably ‘cause she’s gotta keep up with that big ol’ brain of hers," Claggor said, nudging you gently. "Nothing wrong with that."

That earned him a little glare from Mylo, but you—despite your frustration—sighed and relaxed slightly.

Vander gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall away. "You don’t gotta be perfect all the time," he murmured. "We like you just fine the way you are—even when you trip over yourself."

You huffed. "You say that, but—"

"But nothin’," he interrupted, tipping his head slightly. "Ain’t gotta have every word come out polished. Sometimes the best ones don’t."

You glanced at him, and despite yourself, your heart softened. Damn him and his easy way of making you feel seen.

Vi, of course, ruined the moment.

"Bet if Vander asked you somethin’ real nice, you’d really start stuttering," she teased.

Your stomach flipped. "I—That’s—"

And, as expected, the words tangled up all over again.

Vander laughed, and this time, even you couldn’t help but chuckle, rubbing a hand over your face in resignation.

The kids cheered in victory.

SILCO

Silco had always admired your composure.

In a world teeming with chaos and deception, you were a rare creature—one who wielded words like a scalpel, precise and measured. Whether negotiating with smugglers or diffusing tension in The Last Drop, your speech was always deliberate, your tone unwavering. It was something that set you apart, something that made you invaluable.

And then there were moments like these.

Moments when your guard slipped. When the walls you so carefully constructed crumbled, not from fear or anger, but from something far more dangerous—comfort.

Sitting across from him in his office, with a tumbler of whiskey half-forgotten at your side, you were completely at ease. It was a rare sight, one he relished. The tension that usually sat in your shoulders had eased, and for once, you weren’t calculating your every word before speaking.

Which meant—

“I j-just—ugh, no, wait, I—wh—wha—”

Silco watched with a bemused smirk as you stumbled over your words, frustration flickering across your face as your mind outpaced your tongue. Your fingers curled into your lap, gripping at fabric as if that might help slow your thoughts down enough to articulate them properly.

A lesser man might have laughed. Might have teased you for the stammer that had replaced your usual eloquence. But Silco was not a lesser man.

Instead, he simply raised a brow. “Having trouble, my dear?”

Your lips pressed into a firm line, cheeks heating in frustration. “I—I know what I want to s-say, it just—” You huffed sharply, shaking your head. “It won’t come out right.”

Silco hummed, swirling his whiskey before taking a slow sip. He let the silence settle, his gaze steady, patient. “I don’t mind.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, uncertain. “Y-you don’t?”

“If I wanted idle chatter, I wouldn’t have chosen you.” He leaned forward, placing his glass down with a soft clink. “Your words have always mattered. Stammer or not.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Silco never wasted words, and he certainly never offered empty reassurances.

Something in your chest warmed.

But of course, peace never lasted long in Zaun.

The room was dimly lit, thick with the scent of smoke and whiskey. Shadows clung to the corners, pooling in the cracks of the old wooden walls. A lantern flickered overhead, its dull glow barely penetrating the haze. The air was heavy, tense with the weight of yet another exhausting supplier meeting—one of many that drained your patience. You preferred efficiency, precision, but men like Varn made that impossible.

Varn was one of Silco’s smugglers, a man who carried himself with the kind of arrogance only emboldened by ignorance. He had been droning on about the Enforcers, about how difficult it had become to slip shipments past their patrols. Complaints, excuses—never solutions. You listened, expression unreadable, even as irritation prickled at your composure.

Still, you remained poised. Even as frustration coiled tight in your chest, even as your thoughts outran your tongue, snagging your words before they could fully take shape.

“The—Th-the next s-shipment will—” You clenched your jaw, closing your eyes for half a second. Breathe. Focus. Try again.

“It will arrive t-tomorrow. Docks. Late.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Varn scoffed. He leaned back in his chair, his smirk carved deep with mockery. “Didn’t realize Silco was hiring broken records now.” He tapped his fingers against the table in a rhythmic pattern. “Maybe if we give you a minute, you’ll get through the whole sentence, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap.

Not because they were the worst you had ever heard. Not because they were new. But because he said them here.

In Silco’s domain.

The air shifted.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. It slithered between the bodies at the table, curling around throats like an unseen noose. The temperature hadn’t changed, yet a cold dread settled in your stomach.

Because Silco was watching him now.

He had not moved, had not even spoken. But the weight of his gaze was enough to send a chill down your spine. His fingers traced the rim of his glass in slow, deliberate circles, the rhythmic motion a stark contrast to the simmering menace behind his mismatched eyes.

Varn, still oblivious to the razor-thin ice he had stepped onto, chuckled. He expected others to join in.

No one did.

Silco’s voice cut through the silence like a blade slipping through silk.

“Broken record?”

Varn hesitated, his bravado flickering. “I—I only meant—”

Silco stood.

It was an unhurried motion, almost lazy, yet it sent a ripple of unease through the room. He didn’t need to rush. The sheer gravity of his presence filled the space, a silent warning wrapped in elegance.

“You talk too much, Varn.” His tone was smooth, deceptively calm. “And yet, somehow, you still say nothing of value.”

Varn swallowed. The confidence that had bloomed so easily in his voice a moment ago had withered under Silco’s scrutiny. “I didn’t mean any offense, boss.”

Silco exhaled slowly, tilting his head as though examining a specimen under glass. “Ah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He took a measured step forward. “You didn’t think.” Another step. “Didn’t stop to consider the weight of your words.”

Varn flinched as Silco came to a halt beside him, his hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, fingers idly drumming against the wood.

“You see,” Silco murmured, leaning down so his lips hovered near Varn’s ear, “I detest people who waste my time.”

The room was still. Deathly still.

“Do you know why I keep her by my side, Varn?” His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it sliced through the air with precision.

Varn’s breath hitched.

Silco let the question linger, then turned his gaze toward you. Something flickered in his expression—something softer, something almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless.

“Because every word she says matters,” he continued, voice smooth as glass. “She does not waste them on arrogance, nor on fools.”

The message was clear.

Varn was a fool.

And Silco had no use for fools.

Without hesitation, Silco retrieved the knife from his coat pocket. He did not flourish it, did not draw attention to it. He didn’t need to. The soft glint of steel against the dim light spoke loudly enough.

Varn stiffened as the cold tip pressed just under his chin, tilting his head up ever so slightly. His pulse jumped beneath the blade’s edge.

“If you ever speak of her that way again,” Silco murmured, voice silk over steel, “I’ll make sure the only sounds you’re capable of are whimpers.”

Varn’s breath stuttered. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, as if fighting the urge to tremble.

Silco leaned in closer. “And those who whimper in my presence,” he mused, almost thoughtful, “don’t last long.”

A moment stretched—sickening, suffocating.

Then, just as smoothly as it had appeared, the knife vanished. Silco straightened, slipping it away with practiced ease.

“Get out,” he said coolly.

Varn bolted.

The door slammed behind him, leaving nothing but the distant echoes of his hurried footsteps. The silence that followed was deafening, your own heartbeat the only sound pounding in your ears.

Silco settled back into his chair as though nothing had happened, swirling the whiskey in his glass before taking a measured sip.

He glanced at you, an amused glint dancing in his gaze. “Something on your mind?”

You swallowed, still processing what had just transpired. “I think...” You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together before continuing again. “You just scared the stutter out of me.”

Silco smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in something almost affectionate. “A pity.” He leaned back, exhaling contentedly. “I was rather fond of it.”

Your cheeks burned, though this time, frustration had nothing to do with it.

STEB

The cobblestone streets of Piltover stretched ahead, glistening under the dim glow of the hextech lamps. The city was quiet at this hour, a far cry from the usual midday bustle of merchants, students, and enforcers barking orders at troublemakers. Now, only the occasional carriage rattled over the stones, the faint hum of distant machinery threading through the silence.

A quiet evening patrol—just another night of keeping order.

Y/N walked beside Steb, hands tucked neatly behind her back, each step measured, uniform pristine. Composure was something she valued, something she cultivated. Every action was deliberate. Every word carefully chosen. In a city like Piltover, where reputation carried more weight than gold, she refused to be anything less than precise.

But somewhere along the way, she had grown comfortable.

And comfort, she was learning, came with its own set of problems.

Because comfort made her talk.

And once she started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop.

“…and it’s just, you know, ridiculous that the new regulations say we need approval for every hextech enhancement when—no, actually, it’s not ridiculous, I get the safety measures, but—I mean, does it really make sense to lump minor repairs in with full-scale augmentations? Like, say you have a gauntlet with a minor power fluctuation—”

Her words tripped over each other like a pile of toppled playing cards. She exhaled sharply, trying to recalibrate, but the second she opened her mouth again—

“—and, and it’s like, I get it, okay, regulation is important, but if we’re—ugh, damn it—if we’re patrolling and need—ugh—if we need to—gah—words!”

She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples as if she could physically force her brain and mouth to work together.

Steb, who had been walking beside her in comfortable silence, turned his head slightly.

His eyes flickered over her face, unreadable, calm. He had the kind of quiet presence that never demanded space but occupied it effortlessly. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was never more than necessary. A sharp contrast to her current mess.

Y/N let out a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping slightly. “I swear I’m not an idiot.”

A pause. Then—

“…It’s okay.”

Two words. Simple. Steady. But there was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just an automatic reassurance, like he meant it.

When she finally forced herself to look at him, he was already gazing ahead, his usual neutral expression softened by the faintest curl of a smile. Not mocking. Not pitying. Just… there. Steady.

And that was somehow worse.

Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, and she hastily turned her face away, rubbing at her temple as if that could chase away the heat creeping up her neck.

“…Yeah,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “I know.”

They kept walking.

She tried to keep her mouth shut. She really did. But silence felt so much heavier now. And despite her frustration, despite the way her brain constantly outran her mouth, she didn’t mind talking to Steb. It wasn’t like talking to anyone else—there was no pressure to fill the quiet, no expectation of a response.

So before she could stop herself—before she could consider if it was wise—her lips parted again.

“Y-you—” She winced at the stumble, frustration already bubbling up again. “Ugh, damn it—you never talk much, huh?”

Steb didn’t react right away. He simply existed beside her, steps never faltering, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Then, after a long beat—

“…No.”

Y/N huffed out a small, breathy laugh. “Yeah, I, uh—I noticed.”

Silence stretched between them once more, but this time, it was lighter.

She fiddled with the cuff of her uniform sleeve, suddenly hyperaware of how unraveled she sounded. How her tongue kept tripping over itself. She never did this with anyone else.

Just him.

Why just him?

“You, uh…” She swallowed. “You ever get frustrated when you do talk?”

He didn’t answer right away, but she could feel him considering it.

Finally—

“…No.”

She blinked up at him.

His eyes, though still their usual blank, unreadable dark, held a flicker of quiet amusement.

“Oh, well, good for you, then,” she grumbled, dragging a hand down her face. “Meanwhile, I sound like I got into a bar fight with the alphabet.”

Steb exhaled—a sound that wasn’t quite a chuckle but was close enough.

She turned to glare at him. “You think that’s funny, don’t you?”

A pause. Then, a small nod.

“…You’re the worst,” she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

They kept walking.

The city was quiet, but her mind wasn’t. It was racing—jumping from one thought to another, desperate to form a coherent sentence before it got tangled up again.

Instead, what slipped out was—

“We make a good team, huh?”

Steb glanced at her, tilting his head slightly in silent question.

“I mean—” She waved vaguely between them. “Someone who talks too much, someone who barely talks at all. Kinda funny, don’t you think?”

Another long pause. His expression didn’t change, but she could tell he was thinking about it.

Then, in that same steady, measured voice—

“…Yeah.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, the tension in her chest easing. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Steb didn’t say anything, but his lips twitched—just a fraction, just enough for her to know it was there.

She decided she liked it.

And though she still stumbled over her words, still fought with her own tongue, she didn’t feel so bad about it anymore.

Request Answer Continue: My dear Cherry, I hope you enjoyed the Steb! And no need to apologise! I am willing to write for characters one off! And from what I've read about Steb, he may or may not talk, so I went with the headcanon where he does talk, but barely. So I do hope it's alright! <3

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #steb x reader

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1800titz · 4 months ago

Text

POMEGRANATE | Hades!Harry

>13.1K on patreon

Something pops. The world stretches apart into static. A bird croons overhead. You open your mouth wide as it wracks through you, but nothing comes out as your surroundings shatter like glass. Instead, the casing of your teeth can only echo what he murmurs into the gap. A word you can barely hear through the haze as bliss tears you apart. “Persephone.”

CONTENT: nipple play, pussy inspection, size kink(!!!!), slight humiliation, dom/sub undertones, p-in-v, anal play (if you squint), praise kink, slight degradation, spanking-ish (mostly just cheeky ass smacking)

preview

How do you come to terms with your own undoing? You always thought death would come quiet and sharp. Easy like a whip-crack. You wouldn’t have to wade the sticky deluge of awareness.

It would happen in a split second.

But you know it. Get it. This nauseating instinct burgeoning in your guts isn’t paranoia. It’s not the whisper of a footstep in a shadow. The dark alcove you pass in the city, feet moving a little faster to fall back under the yellow sanctum of a streetlight. Something bad can happen here.

This is the bad thing— the worst thing— this is justified fear. You feel it itching like nausea on the back of your tongue. Worming its way into your thunderous heart.

You thought you knew what it was like to be scared. But this twists in your chest and snakes to your stomach, coiling up and sitting heavy like a rock—

You are dying, and you are aware of it.

Something strange kicks in along the moribund stretch between here and there— the cognizance that cobwebs in little cracks across the foundation. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

A sense of urgency. Late-onset hypervigilance (something you should have had on the road, with your hands on the wheel and your foot lingering in that safe-space between gas pedal and brake). You’ve never had to coach yourself into clambering off your deathbed before, but you’re distinctly aware that if you don’t start talking yourself out of it, you’ll fold yourself into the covers.

When he speaks, the sound is wedged into the twinging paradox of familiar and distant, all at once. Archaic— some sense of knowing buzzes along your bones. It sounds like homecoming to a place you’ve never been.

A place you don’t want to go.

The man leaning over your battered center console, your deformed gearshift— you, blinking up at him weakly—

Is an uncanny farrago.

Past the blurry vignette of your eyeline, the fuzzy streak that ruptures along the center, he looks almost human. Miming the perfect pastiche, down to the mussed coiffing of his hair, the ridging, pink line of his mouth. The flat, indifferent shapes of his face; the slope of his nose, the score of his lips. All entirely bereft of… emergency. Dread. Anything reasonable to the discovery of a sedan with its hood crumpled against an oak trunk. You, sandwiched between your tilted driver’s seat and the mangled steering wheel.

Instead, he stares down at you with the kind of undisturbed calm you’ve only found before a storm. The mirage of nirvana-like quiet along the cloudless sky, the tired, unmoving wind.

He’s the most handsomely apathetic man you’ve ever seen. Sculpted from marble and soft, borrowed flesh.

The kind that almost doesn’t belong. Too… simple. Just the mold of something familiar for you to grasp. The costume doesn’t bend itself enough to fit his shape, and so the imitation loses itself somewhere along the seams.

It’s the perfect example of beauty sewing herself into peril.

The biggest giveaway are his eyes. They’re bleary star-shapes through your gaze. Over-saturated colors. And they’re unlike anything sublunary you’ve ever seen before.

They make you feel like you’re drowning. Suffocating. A reminder that you’re too close to something much more than you.

Too close to the ghosting kiss of death.

They’re the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. Preternaturally vibrant, almost glowing, framed in arsenic white. But it’s the charcoal black pools in them, like endless trenches, that make your lungs feel heavy. Their unfathomable depths. The way they refuse to echo the trepidation that lingers over your chest, bruising bones and stringing into the fibrils of your soft tissue.

You see a piece of yourself in them. Something waning.

It’s your own reflection. You’ve never seen yourself like that. Scared like a caged animal. Eclipsed behind the fear like the sun hiding in the shape of the moon.

“Time’s up,” is what he says. Low, and quiet, and pragmatic, gaze deadpan.

(Obsidian pits, unmerciful gemstones cut straight from the crust, gold-flecked like a reflection of the molten layer beneath.)

So unmoved. Indelicate. Like he’s got a horologe of your lifespan in his palm. You want to tell him to check his invisible wrist watch— that he’s wrong, it’s not.

Turn the hourglass, you think hysterically, almost feeling the granules you’re shedding as your time lapses. Crumbling around you. In on you, collapsing like a poorly-structured roof. Today, you’re built out of a flimsy house of cards.

You took three pages of notes on Hades in college.

Somewhere in your childhood home, the Greek Mythology notebook is wedged into a box in the attic from when you brought it home with you for winter break.

You watched animated renditions of the Grim Reaper dance across your TV in a hood, as a kid. Old cartoons off the floor with a bowl of cereal in your lap before school.

You learned about the devil in church.

Metaphysical kinship feels overdue, like a half-assed afterthought. But you stare up at the obscure wreathe of midnight black smoke wisping around the shape of his head, the nearly imperceptible, swirling coat of charcoal smoldering off his shoulders, and try to remember the words to prayers that were left to collect dust on your tongue years ago.

“You an’ I,” the seat crinkles when it shifts under his weight, the lopsided center console clicks under his forearm, “have somewhere to be.”

It’s not an open-ended invitation; come if you want, stay if you don’t. No. It’s an edict. You can’t chisel into the edges of dogma around it— the unspoken ones— but you know that this man is final. He is the law, the declaration, the order.

You’re not ready to die.

Too young, still wet behind the ears. You can’t wipe it off on the napkin your bucket list will be crumpled into— you’re still supposed to see Ayutthaya, and ride in a hot air balloon, and try that Thai place your friend recommended weeks ago; the one you’ve been putting off, because there was always more time. And that’s the thing, you think, it always feels like there’s more time. The bottle never runs out. You stare down into it and keep drinking like it’ll fill itself back up. The aspirations feel so nugatory now. The little army men maquettes your dad collected in the basement, speckling the peripheral ledges of this yawning, all-consuming demise. You sink into it. Flail. Sink deeper. Until— what?

The horrifying thought ripples the surface of the cesspool. These mountains stretch for miles. They arch, and roll, and recede; Gaia’s heavy-handed fingerpainting.

No one is here.

No one saw you.

And no one will know where to begin to look for you.

For what’s left.

And what is left of you? Inconclusive alphabet soup in the local newspaper? Headlines: missing; tragic accident; too young; thoughts and prayers. Eventually, a body to put into a box? A hole in the dirt, for tree roots to snake out like a cage and cradle your wilting, still heart?

You open your mouth. Close it. Mouth at the air, wordlessly, panting, like a guppy, with your tongue thick and numb and the words dangling precariously along the rim of your wobbling lower lip. You breathe them in shallowly, and they nearly die at the back of your throat.

How do you barter with Death? Look it in the eyes— the eclipse of your own, waning soul— and bargain?

It starts like this:

“I’m not ready.”

A time old tale. You intend for the words to be forceful— a kind of declaration. Rebellion is a trait that wouldn’t necessarily serve your case (but maybe he’d admire the dauntless passion). But they come out weak. Dizzy. Tired.

The console clicks again. Then, the sound of fabric brushing on leather. He’s closer. Leaning into you more. Over you. These are the only sounds besides your trembling pants, the rabitting pace of your heartbeat. A sharp contrast to his leisurely disposition. You feel it throbbing in your neck like a vice, like it’s swelling and taking up too much room the harder it thrums, too much space for your airway.

And you can’t look away from him. The supernovae whirling in the green beds of his eyes. Varicolored webs in motion, swirling like liquid, the way human eyes— so fixed, so temporary, so delicate— don’t. It’s the contrast of another world against your own— you stare into it like you’re watching two pools of another dimension unfold in his skull.

They’re not sorry for you. They sit on you. Magmatic. Unwavering.

“Tha’s too bad.”

The words shudder and bruise through you like a sucker punch. Cut into you like the edge of a blade. The gravity they’re saturated in sinks between your ribs. It’s not I’m sorry.

You almost flinch. Despite how harsh the words are, how cruel, his tone is nothing but unembellished. Prosaic. Dull with unsentimental truth. That’s too bad; he says it like an observation, and nothing else.

And you shouldn’t expect different— can’t— from …whatever he is. An impassive numen: Death; The Reaper.

A deity doesn’t grieve temporal flesh.

You can’t expect him to. You wouldn’t feel sorry, either you think— you’d be desensitized. But it feels so much sharper from the other end.

It doesn’t matter what you should do. What you shouldn’t. It’s what you can’t.

You can’t accept it, give in. Not like this. It’s human instinct— to fight. The drive worms under your skin and mangles whatever is left, twisting it into something noxious. Full of bite.

You wear it on your teeth when you bear them to spit, “I won’t go.”

It’s full of anger. Vicious. Anger at him. The clumsy doe. The circumstances. Yourself. And it’s stubborn. This pluck against a… God, against whatever he is, surely won’t do you any favors.

But he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of the fight. Your tone, the shuddery breath you take as you sit up a little, square your shoulders, doesn’t chip the veneer on his clean, unemotional demeanor. The haze around the borders of your vision is a bleary smear that pans in, and you blink it away, lashes fluttering to bat it off. It has a tear trickling down your cheek.

When he stretches his hand up, it makes you falter. A reflexive tick, chin tipping. Flinching away. But the knuckle in his curled forefinger grazes your skin. Slow. Featherlight, like coaxing a frightened animal out of the corner it’s backed itself into. And the heat you find there makes you gasp. It’s hot against the crest of your cheekbone, so hot you think you’re feeling the fumes of that molten core, the crushed flinders of magma that swim along his irises. So hot you’re sure, now, that he’s pooling boiling ichor, veins running like lavascapes under the pastiche of a man he wears.

It knocks your resolve. Throws you off. It’s so… against your expectations. The notion of death.

Death is supposed to be cold. It’s supposed to kiss you with gloam, and unspool shadows across your heavy lashes, and chill you like the Vinson Massif snowcap with its tongue.

But he burns. Running so hot, it’s almost a human touch. Too much. Too close.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he coos, curled knuckle bumping the side of your jaw. Your chin.

You can’t move. Can’t break. Won’t give, lost in his tar-black pupils, like two mirrored, bottomless polynyas. The marbled, snaking tendrils of sunflower-yellow and green framing them.

For the first time, he looks at you with something besides nonchalant indifference. It’s still cold over the surface. A cosmetic veneer that makes him solid and inexpressive— but it fractures like a chisel sawing an ice hole. You can’t decipher what you find. It’s a misslip. A kind of parapraxis— the way his eyes rove you, dipping like scoping the valley in the mountains. A Freudian slip. They linger on your eyes, then— fall. To your mouth. Your neck. The soft lines of your chest. His fingers skid from your jawline to the hair that’s fallen over your shoulder. He twists a piece of your hair around his forefinger.

It has something peculiar pulling apart in your head. With the crash, the circumstances, the way you’re slowly slipping into this territory you don’t know, the finality of death with its boots on your doorstep, you’ve grown so numb.

But this hits you like a freight train, pulls you out.

Awe. There is something undeniable in what’s oozing from behind the dispassionate shell— this is the way a man looks when he wants.

With instinctive drive— basal need. It’s too close to human longing. The way a man looks at a bar. The slow rolling eyes, in sultry descent, from the other side of the couch. Knuckles on your thigh, bare skin, come closer unspoken.

His eyes are on the coil around his finger. Your lips again. When you swallow, there’s cotton in your throat. Nestled in it is the last ditch effort.

“What if— I give you… something.” It’s silly. The words shake and spill before you can throw them back and chase them with acceptance. You’re not asking. Not begging. Offering.

Something flickers. It’s different. His eyes flash. And then, a slow-seeping smile trickles across his lips. Something like it. Amused, then, you realize. He’s amused.

His forearm splays back over the center console. Your hair falls back into its place, over your shoulder. He cocks his head. Hums. He is the picture of languid ease and you cup your fright between your hands like a firefly and pretend.

“Trying to bargain?”

His eyes are a little easier, then, not so unblinking. Eyelids drooping half-mast. You wonder if you’ve thrown a wrench into the script— added a splash of color into the monotonous bleak spreadsheet of a routine he’s been cycling through for aeons. His fingers drum against the tilted center console (your eyes oscillate to them. Back. To them. Back. Onto the other hand, sliding down his thick thigh as he sits up).

“Isn’t that just…” thump, thump, thump. His fingertip on the broken plastic. Your heart in your ears. “…the sweetest thing.”

You swallow. Your throat clicks. His mouth is a malleable, broken moon. Quicksilver. Crescent sharpening, falling dull. Sharp again. He leans in a little closer. Up close like this, you can smell him. Taste him on the back of your throat. A cold cave, the wet, dark layers of the earth when you dig into the dirt too deep, a fallen cypress, leaves you can crumble between your fingers. White lillies. Bereavement flowers in careful, somber clusters around a casket.

“And what do you,” his eyes oscillate from your gaze to your slightly parted mouth, “have to give me?”

Your heart is rabbiting. Head dizzy. Every joint aches and creaks like a rusty hinge. The rattlesnake of it all slithers around your lungs.

“Sex,” you bluster. Your eyes are wide. Brows notched. It sounds a little shrill, a little incredulous. Far too callow for the offer you intend it to be.

Silly little human. And this is where he laughs. Tilts his head, nostrils flaring as he huffs through them. White lily-teeth in neat rows at your gall. But he doesn’t laugh— not outright, anyways. Your pulse throbs thick in your throat but you cling to it, because it means you’re still alive. His eyes are embers. Live coal in the pit of a campfire, and you feel the heat of it through your skin.

“That right?” he muses instead of outright chuffing, oiled in mirth.

You close your mouth. Open it. Close it again. All retorts die ugly at the back of your mouth— you fluster beside him because you’re finally feeling the heat, razing you, and the taunt slicking his tone is like kerosene to the flame.

Three ruckles crease across his forehead when he raises his brows. You count them; one, two, three. They look so out of place— crinkles in the perfect, porcelain-smooth amalgam that is an almost-human face carved from marble.

“In exchange for…?” he probes, chin ducked. Staring at you from over the bridge of his nose.

“My life.”

He hums again. Musing. Mocking. It’s the slow roll of the summer into autumn. The dying breath of an orbit collapsing to stutter anew.

“Awful brave,” he gibes, white teeth— white like cold skin, like snowfall under glowing apricity— flashing for a second from behind the lopsided curve of his smiling lips, “negotiating with a God.”

So he is. Your eyes inch in increments like you’re taking in every particle of this being, soaking up the dust-dark wisping off his shoulders. All around him. Dumb, little girl. He says it like he means it that way— stupid, plucky little human.

“Thinks it’s that easy, mm?” he says, “You… spread your pretty legs and what—? Turn back time?”

“That’s what the offer sounded like, yeah,” you tell him from between your gritted teeth, tone flat.

There is still a pulsating in your head, thrumming in your temple. But the sound of fabric brushing in the front seat of your cramped sedan, the way he huffs, is unmistakable.

“Cheeky, cheeky,” he drawls, but it’s all ease. Saturated in mirth— perhaps you’ve caught Death in good spirits. “Got a mouth on you.”

It’s his next words that have you faltering. Both because you’re, maybe, biting off more than you can chew, and because of the unanticipated heat that melts apart inside of you at the tone. The vulgarity.

“Maybe that’s what you need for a mouth like that,” he tells you, all low, eyes as white-hot as his touch, “do you some good. A nice, hard shag.”

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