#at least it still counted as correct though

[emilys-bangs]

The last thing you reblogged gave me an idea !

Touch starved Emily who is friends with you but would never dare ask you for unnecessary hugs etc., you two are close but she doesn’t want to cross that bridge since she definitely likes you a lot more than just a friend and also she’s scared of being so open and vulnerable that she admits she needs a hug and a cuddle.

You two are on a case once again, end up rooming together and there’s only one bed. You both don't really mind and go to sleep, each one on their respective side of the bed - except when you wake up in the middle of the night, Emily is cuddled around you, having subconsciously seeked your touch while she’s asleep.

You can decide how to go from there if this idea is any good to you, no worries if not and I hope you have a great week 😘😘

Tysm for requesting, I hope you have a great week as well! I sincerely thank that one post about touch starved Emily that made us all go insane <3

----

Midas touch | emily prentiss x reader

Tags: touch starved Emily, room sharing, bed sharing, fluff, a ridiculous amount of yearning

Word count: 2.5k

You’d have to be blind not to notice Emily’s affinity for touch.

It’s something you’ve picked up on after a mere week in the BAU, and honestly, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like she craves touch, physically needs the added comfort of hands wrapping around elbows, arms slung across shoulders and casual side-hugs. In the more lax confines of Rossi’s living room or o’keefe’s, it’s not unusual to see her wrapped around somebody, or at least closely sharing what’s meant to be personal space. 

At work, however, it’s different; a bit more subtle, but still palpably flowing with love—the way she sneaks behind Garcia’s chair and wraps her arms around her neck in hello, Emily’s cheek pressing against the analyst’s. How she runs her fingers through Spencer’s messy curls, and how—despite his protests—he lets her, almost imperceptibly leaning into her hand before she pulls away. Her hip is frequently attached to JJ’s, their temples touching as she slides her palm into the back pocket of JJ’s jeans. Rossi is given paternal kisses on the cheek, Morgan dragged around with his hand in hers, their fingers interlocking in a weave of pale and dark. Even Hotch gets his fair share of physical affection from her, though more subtle but no less loving; a tugging at his belt loops, a nimble fixing of his tie, the brush of her fingers along his elbow.

Everyone gets a piece of Emily’s attention. 

Everyone except you.

It upsets you in ways you can’t fully explain—at least not without admitting to yourself that you’re falling deeply and helplessly in love with her. None of it remotely makes sense; despite her very deliberately withholding her touch from you, she’s been nothing but lovely, always having your back and gently correcting you when you slip up. 

But still, when an overbooked hotel forces Hotch to relay the unfortunate news of doubling up and she turns to you, surprise renders you silent. 

“Me and you?” Emily asks, paying no mind to JJ next to her.

You speak through your dry throat, “Um—yeah, sure.”

Hotch places the key in your hand, glad to have one pair down. You dig it into the flesh of your palm.

“I’ll take that one, thank you.” Rossi plucks a key from Hotch’s hand and turns away, leisurely walking to the elevator as protests rise behind him.

Hotch shakes his head, exasperated. You almost feel sorry for him. “Morgan?” He says, looking at him. Morgan nods, which leaves JJ with Reid.

Reid looks pleased; JJ less so, but she doesn’t protest as she takes the key from Hotch.

“Aww, good luck, pretty girl.” Emily coos, cupping JJ’s cheek and tapping it playfully. Jealousy stirs in your stomach, hot and acidic as JJ shrugs off her hand with an eye roll, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

The key is in your hand so you turn on your heel, a bad taste in your mouth as Reid starts to protest, the sound getting lost somewhere between Emily’s soft laughs.

She knows them longer than she knows you, you think as you take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun the beating of your heart. Your somewhat blurry eyes pick out the door with the matching number on your key. Your legs take you to it, almost on autopilot.

“Hey, wait up,” Emily’s voice carries, reaching you in a cloud of spun silk. There’s a rush of air behind you and you feel her creeping over your shoulder, the scent of her perfume choking you sweetly. “You don’t want me to sleep in the hall, do you?”

You can’t bring yourself to rise to the teasing in her voice. Fitting the key in the lock with unsteady fingers, you mumble, “Would’a let you in if you’d knocked.”

But trying to keep your distance doesn’t work, because the one bed in the room glares at you as soon as you push the door open.

Your throat goes dry. 

Emily hovers impatiently at your back and you swallow as you take a step into the threshold of the room, wondering how the hell she’d share a bed with you when she seems reluctant to touch you in the first place.

Panicked, you take your bag and head into the bathroom before Emily can say anything, desperately needing a moment to compose yourself. It’s safe to say you spend more time in there than you usually would, lengthening your short routine to busy yourself.

Only when you’ve semi-calmed down do you go out, finding her perched on the edge of the large—king sized, at least—bed.

“Hey. Are you okay with this?” Emily’s eyes are wide and dark, shining with concern. 

There’s no place for you to sleep anyway if you said no, but somehow you get the feeling she’d make it work if you were uncomfortable. A confused rush of emotion runs hot under your skin; lingering jealousy and ever present bitterness and confusing pleasure at her concern.

God, you need to go to bed.

“I’m fine with it,” you force a smile. It must not be very convincing, because Emily frowns, a delicate pull drawing her brows together. Just before she says something, you speak. “Are you okay with it?”

That snaps her out of it. “Yeah,” Emily murmurs, a dimple winking at you as she gives you a small smile, “as long as you don’t kick.”

You didn’t expect her to agree so easily. Some part of you wonders if she’s lying, but you can’t look at her eyes long enough to decipher that—you’re mildly afraid if you sunk into their depths you’d never be able to claw your way out.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” you try to shrug casually. “Do you prefer a side?”

“No, go ahead. It doesn’t matter what side I sleep on, I always somehow find my way in the middle.”

That makes you crack a smile.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind her and you press your knuckles into your eyes, wondering if you can possibly get through this night without losing your already delicate composure.

It’s just a bed, you tell yourself as you take out a pair of sweatpants to serve as pajamas. And it’s just for one night. It’s fine.

It’s fine. Sure it is.

You’re already in bed and beneath the sheets when Emily walks out of the bathroom. It’s a mistake to look at her, because you think you’ve just fallen deeper in love.

She’s shaking her hair out from the confines of its ponytail and it falls in soft waves around her shoulders, curling at the ends where the water sprayed it. A cotton tank top gently hugs her body, and pale blue shorts skim the tops of her thighs.

She’s not wearing a bra.

You’re staring.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to share tonight,” Emily smiles sheepishly as she lifts the covers and climbs into the bed. A lump is lodged in your throat at the sight of her bare legs slipping through the sheets, shimmering softly from her lotion. It smells sweet, she smells sweet—like warm cocoa butter—and it takes everything in you not to inhale deeply like a creep.

“Neither was I.” You croak. Emily settles her head on her pillow and you try not to stare at her lashes, so naturally long and thick even without her usual mascara.

She’s literally going to be the death of you.

“G’night,” you mumble and turn away before she can answer. The heat in your cheeks burns, and you dig them into the pillow in hopes of cooling them down.

“Night,” Emily whispers back. The sheets rustle as she presumably turns, too.

Needless to say, it takes a while for you to fall asleep. 

It must happen at some point, though, because something wakes you. You open your eyes to the darkness of the room, unsure what it is. You just know that you’re abnormally warm and trapped beneath something smelling like cocoa butter.

Emily.

Your sluggish brain slowly puts the pieces together. Her arm is around your neck, cutting across your chest; her thigh is hitched over your hip. Cold fingertips are hooked into the collar of your t-shirt and you shiver despite the warmth of your own body. Slow breaths puff across your neck, warm and even.

Briefly, you think you’re dreaming, but just as quickly that thought dissipates. She’s too real, too warm—and anyway your imagination could never come up with something as divine as this.

You’re not completely innocent either. Your arm is hooked around her waist, your skin directly touching the warm skin of her waist. Her tank top has risen up and your blurry eyes catch a tattoo on her hipbone; a faded butterfly.

You should let her go. 

It’s an internal battle, because she fits there, perfectly, and even though you know it’s wrong, you close your eyes and continue holding her. 

It’s wrong, it’s so wrong. She doesn’t want your touch. She’s made that perfectly clear, but her warm body, the soft tickle of her hair, they cloud your senses, fog your brain and hide all traces of reason or sensibility.

But still, half asleep or not, you can’t betray her trust like this.

You’re just about to force yourself to let go when Emily snuggles closer, a long sigh escaping through her nose. Her lashes tickle your skin, wispy and light across your neck as she nestles into your collarbone.

Fuck.

You hold still and wait for her to move again. She doesn’t, other than the steady rise and fall of her chest, so you close your eyes too. You would’ve thought it would be difficult to fall asleep with almost every inch of her body touching every inch of yours, but you’re encompassed in warmth and softness and the scent of cocoa butter. 

Really, it only takes a minute before you’re asleep again.

———

She’s still in your arms when you wake up. Your alarm didn’t ring yet—it must’ve been a combination of Emily’s warmth and your internal clock that woke you up.

Her head is now on your pillow, one of her knees slotted between yours and her arm around your waist. She’s like a clingy koala, even in her sleep, and it only makes your heart ache.

Through the blurriness in your vision you see the small freckles that dot her cheeks. They’re tiny, almost unnoticeable, scattered over the bridge of her nose and under her swooping lashes. Her fingers tighten in your shirt and again the guilt surfaces, but it’s so slow to rise in the pale morning light, when you’re sluggish with sleep.

Emily’s eyes flutter open. 

Shit, you freeze, your muscles stiffening. 

You’re caught.

Suddenly you’re staring into dark chips of obsidian, clouds of sleep swirling through them. At first Emily gives no reaction, but then her brain evidently catches up and her eyes widen, her fingers letting go of your shirt.

Just before you apologize, she does.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. Her voice is raspy and you fight the shiver before it travels down your spine. “I get really—”

“Clingy,” you mumble. “Yeah, I know. It’s obvious.” Your voice is soft, mainly because you’re too tired to fight with your own demons so early in the morning.

“I’m really sorry,” Emily whispers again, mortified. Her cheeks flush a pretty pink as she retracts her arm and her leg, curling back into her side of the bed. The sheets she leaves behind are warm, and you fight the urge to place your hand where she once was.

“S’okay. You do it with everyone, I know that.” Then, because it’s the morning and your brain is half asleep and still fogged from holding her, you ask, “Why not with me, though?”

Her teeth chew down on her lip. “Why not you, what?” She mumbles.

“Emily,” you sigh, “it’s too early for you to mess with my head. You know what.”

Emily gives a sigh of her own. She doesn’t look at you as she fiddles with the hem of her tank top and drags it back down, hiding the exposed sliver of her torso. It doesn’t help that your eyes follow her movements, because her shorts have ridden up her thighs.

“It means…more when it’s you.” She eventually says, her voice quiet. Your breath hitches and she continues looking down, frowning at the hem of her tank top. “Everything does. Can’t touch you like that and pretend it means nothing.”

The slight slur to her voice makes her confession all the more intimate. As does her bed head, the red sleep lines on the underside of her arm. This is a soft Emily, a vulnerable one, and she’s laying herself bare for you in the morning light while sleep still lingers in both your eyes.

It only confirms your love for her.

Your relief is palpable; it quickly shifts to affection, something flowery crowding the back of your throat and making it hard to swallow. She doesn’t hate you, she doesn’t think you’re disgusting or repulsive. 

She couldn’t touch you because it would give her away. Because it’s the most genuine aspect of her, one she can’t dampen or hide any more than she can stop her heart from beating.

It seems almost too big a revelation for this small hotel room bathed in morning light. Still, your hand reaches for hers. You wrap your fingers around her own, both of them now resting gently on her stomach.

“It doesn’t have to mean nothing.” You whisper.

Emily’s eyes snap to yours. They’re like the black, bitter coffee you have no choice but knock back in precincts all over the country. They make your heart race, because they come closer—she comes closer—until both your heads are resting on the same pillow again. Emily cups your joint hands with her free one, reverently protecting the tenderness of your touch.

“You’re…” Her breath hitches and she falters, then sucks in a breath, “You’re telling me you want this?”

You squeeze her fingers. “More than anything.”

Emily blows out a low sigh. You bring your free hand up to trace the curve of her brow; she leans into it. “I do, too.” She confesses. “More than anything.”

Your thumb travels down to the corner of her mouth. “Then there’s nothing stopping us. Is there?” You ask gently.

“No.” Emily sighs. “Nothing.”

She tilts her head, lets you continue exploring her face with your fingertips. Her features are gently traced; the bridge of her nose and the outline of her lips and the shape of her brows. Slowly, her knee worms its way between both of yours.

You smile and Emily smiles back, a shy dimple in her cheek. 

“Be clingy. With me,” you murmur, keeping your voice low because you’re afraid love already spills from it, “I want you to be.”

Her nose nuzzles into your cheek. “You’ll soon regret saying that.” Emily mumbles, the vibration of her voice reverberating through your skin. It fills you with strange peace.

“Never.” You whisper.

Until the alarm rings, the two of you spend your time erasing away the boundaries, learning the lines of each other’s bodies with your fingertips with slow confidence.

Because now, you have all the time in the world.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism

[novamariestark]

Can I get a Dean Winchesterx reader using prompts 9 and 10 off list one and prompt 46 off list two, please?

Summary: A quiet date night with Dean gets interrupted.

Warnings: proofread but there's always a mistake after posting 🤣

Word count: 1229

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Prompts: “LITERALLY EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS ILLEGAL!” “Did you just... agree with me?” “I'm actually going to kill you”

[A/N] hope you like 😁

How did we even get here? Sometimes, life takes a strange turn, almost as if the universe decides to have a little fun with you—except you’re not laughing. The night had started so differently. It was supposed to be simple—normal even. Sam had dropped the two of you off at that tiny, run-down bar a few miles outside town, giving you some space for your long-awaited “date night.” You were supposed to have a quiet evening, maybe a few drinks, some laughs. No monsters. No hunts.

But, because some idiot stumbled into the bar, raving about a “monster” they’d seen outside town that meant date night was over. You’d barely finished your drink before you were dragged out, headed straight for where the alleged sighting had taken place. The kicker? Sam had taken the Impala to pick up some supplies, promising to come back later. So here you were, stranded without Baby, crouched behind a row of garbage bins like a couple of amateurs. This is not how you imagined your alone time with Dean would go. You had hoped for something more... normal.

Dean was in front of you, so at least you had something nice to look at. You’d be lying if you said he didn’t look good, but seriously? This was the worst idea he’d had all week—and that was saying something. At first you thought you had heard him wrong but oh no. You had heard him right.

You glanced at him, unable to believe what was coming out of his mouth. “Are you seriously suggesting we rob a cop car?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm, even though you were two seconds away from smacking some sense into him.

Dean turned to you with that infuriatingly casual grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Borrow,” he corrected, like that made it better. “It’s not illegal if we give it back.”

You stared at him for a moment, your brain struggling to comprehend the sheer level of Dean Winchester logic you were dealing with right now. He had to be joking. But he wasn’t. He was dead serious.

“Okay,” you shot back, your voice dripping with so much sarcasm that it could be visible, “maybe next we can walk into the nearest bank and help ourselves to the entirety of the vault. You know, for funsies.” Dean’s only response was to roll his eyes, still not seeing the problem. You took a deep breath as you waved your hands around for emphasis. “LITERALLY EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS ILLEGAL!”

Honestly, you weren’t sure whether to laugh or scream. You were a hunter—a damn good one. You could handle ghosts, demons, and all manner of monsters that most people couldn’t even fathom. And yet, here you were, stuck with this idiot, debating grand theft auto like it was something minute like, who’s turn it was to wash the dishes.

You gave him the deadliest deadpan look you could muster, hoping he’d catch a hint of how ridiculous he sounded. “I’m actually going to kill you.”

Dean’s grin only widened, those green eyes glimmering in the dim light. “But you’ll look good doing it.”

You rolled your eyes, though you could feel the faint heat creeping up your neck. His charm was both your kryptonite and your fuel—it was hard to stay mad when he looked at you like that, but then again, it also made you want to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy.

Glancing back at the cop car, you sighed. This was ridiculous. Utterly insane. The rational part of your brain screamed at you to shut this down, to come up with a better plan. But the other part—the part that had been on countless hunts with Dean, the part that trusted him more than anyone else—knew you were probably going to go along with it anyway.

“Fine,” you sighed, the word leaving your lips before you even knew you thought it.

The second it slipped out, you mentally kicked yourself. Seriously? Fine? Fine? Really? That’s all it took? One look from him, and you were ready to throw common sense out the window? You weren’t fine. Yet somehow, here you were, agreeing to what had to be the stupidest plan Dean Winchester had ever come up with. And that was a long list.

Dean’s voice cut through your spiralling thoughts, pulling you back to the present. “Did you just... agree with me?” His tone was laced with mock disbelief, but that smirk—oh, that damn smirk—said it all. He was enjoying this way too much, and it didn’t help that the glint in his eyes practically sparkled.

You hated that look. The one that always made your stomach do flips, like a rollercoaster you swore you’d never ride again, but kept getting back on anyway. It wasn’t just the smirk. It was Dean. He had this magnetic pull, and no matter how much your brain screamed No!, your heart—and apparently your mouth—tended to betray you in his presence.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered, crossing your arms, trying to regain some control over the situation. You weren’t completely rolling over here. You’d follow him into the fire, sure—but you’d still give him hell for it.

Dean winked, already turning his attention back to the car, pulling out his lock-picking tools and started to unlock the car, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered, shooting you another wink and that cheeky smirk of his that sometimes you wanted to smack and others, kiss until you both looked like smurfs.

Your heart fluttered in spite of itself as you tried to ignore the way he seemed so damn... charming while committing a felony. His words floated around your head. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you.” Oh, you knew exactly what he was implying. Your lips twitched involuntarily. Damn him.

You crossed your arms, glaring at the back of his head, “What? My criminal record?”

Dean finally got the lock to pop, a click breaking the silence. He stood up, turning back to you with that grin, “See? Easy as pie.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love it,” he said, with the cocky tone in his voice because he knew he wasn’t wrong. You hated how much he knew it, how much he knew you.

You took a step closer to him, eyes narrowing as you shot him a pointed look. “Just get in the damn car, Winchester.”

Dean chuckled as he pulled the door open, “After you, sweetheart,” he said, gesturing to the passenger seat.

You climbed into the car, the faint smell of cheap air freshener and coffee mixing with the cool air of the night. Dean slid in beside you, looking far too pleased with himself. The engine roared to life, and as the tires crunched over gravel, you couldn’t help but shoot him another sideways glance.

“So, what’s the plan, genius?” you asked, crossing your arms as if that might protect you.

Dean shrugged, “Find the monster, kill the monster, return the car—no harm, no foul.”

“If we end up in jail, you’re explaining this to Sam.” You said, leaning back into the seat, propping your elbow on the door, and resting your chin on your palm.

[randomthefox]

IT’S OVER!

Surge and Kit are confirmed to be redeemed after the Phantom Rider arc. Even Ian Flynn has given up on them because even he’s treating them like jokes now. 

Do you know what that means? I CAN FINALLY LEAVE! The ONLY thing stringing me along in this stupid comic was that I loved the concept of Surge and Kit and even enjoyed the execution up until issue 56. They were the only thing about the comic I liked after Starline died. But now that the original concept has been officially thrown into the trash, as signalled by Ian Flynn giving up on his original characters now that his idea for them has been completely destroyed by Evan Stanley, I can finally leave. I can finally cut all remaining emotional investment from this comic. It feels like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I no longer feel obligated to participate in the discussion of this comic. I know it’s ass; you know it’s ass. But know, I feel like I can finally accept that and just move on…

Or at least as much as I can while tumblr just censors posts with blocked tags rather than just removing them entirely.

I’ll still get pissed off whenever I see anything to do with IDW Sonic, but I know longer feel the need to read every issue. So I still count this as a win. Hooray for me!!! 🎉🎉🎉

(Unless it’s just a fake out. Where Surge and Kit decide that being heroes isn’t for them by the end of the story and go back to being villains so that Ian can course correct. I wouldn’t even be mad if that happened because it would be hilarious. It would mean Evan’s entire idiotic Phantom Rider arc would be fucking pointless, and that would be hysterical to me).

Oh it's from the new annual lol. Wow that's really asinine. Why are they releasing those pages now of all times? It's pretty much a spoiler for the current storyline. It's like how they released a trailer for the new spider man movie after infinity war.

>"unless it's just a fake out"

Can't tell if this is wishful thinking or addict mentality =P

Can't help but notice they appear to be in Central City. Aka San Fransisco. Aka the level from City Escape. And yet it appears to be populated by animal people instead of humans. Even though that doesn't make any sense and is actively acanonical to the way the world of Sonic was presented as per the Tailstube videos.

It's almost like these comics aren't canon or something.

[stellacendia]

Um. Duo. What??

[fingertipsmp3]

I’m never beating the “grew up in Innsmouth” allegations forreal

[horizonandstar]

I'm pretty sure some data entries you get from scanning suggest that the life in 4546b can, in fact, self fertilize and possess both male and female parts.

My guess is it's more common for Leviathans to self fertilize since their numbers, as apex predators, would need to stay fairly low and thus have small clutches along with tending towards being quite territorial about their claimed hunting grounds, but they could also mate as normal if they wanted.

yeah! according to the wiki, a majority of fauna are simultaneous hermaphrodites, and i didnt make celestial leviathans an exception to this. i wouldnt be surprised if they were capable of being autogamous but i expect that it wouldnt be as common as sexual reproduction

but yeah, i expect sexual reproduction >>> autogamy. kind of the whole point is to swap genes and get a good amount of genetic diversity. if too many generations self-fertilize, then the offspring would have more homozygous genes

lets assume this gene is Aa, so Aa x Aa = 25% AA, 50% Aa, 25% aa

and if the offspring turns out to have AA or aa for this gene, then any further offspring gotten from self-fertilizing would have the exact same copy because theres really no other variation from that point forth. do that to enough genes, and that becomes a problem with the low genetic diversity

so yeah! asexual reproduction is still on the table, just that i imagine sexual reproduction would be the more common of the 2, even if the leviathans are territorial

[cryptidghostgirl]

The Love (Alastor x Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Description: Alastor is drunk and Charlie asks him if he has ever been in love.

Warnings: I don't think there are any but correct me if I'm wrong.

Word Count: 1,323

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

A/N Y'all, I'm lowkey dying from the requests. I'm sorry for the last five or so taking so long, I just need a little break and mix in some of my own ideas if that is okay.

Alastor was drinking at the bar with Husk, Charlie, and Angel. The day had been a lot, seeing Mimzy was always a lot. Yes she was trouble, but Alastor loved her. He loved her for the same reason he was trying to drink himself stupid at the bar. He loved her because she reminded him of Y/n. Mimzy had been her friend first, after all.

He sat off to the side in his own little world while Angel and Charlie chatted and Husk obediently poured the drinks. Normally, Husk would have joined the pair in the mindless, mundane chatter but after the events of the day, Alastor's presence kept him silent.

"No way!" Charlie exclaimed.

She and Angel were talking about some TV show they both watched or another. A mind numbingly boring background noise but, Alastor wasn't complaining.

"Yes! They are one hundred percent perfect for each other." Angel replied animatedly.

"Literally how. Name one thing that shows they have good chemistry."

"Uh, they’re constantly at each other's throats? If that's not love, I don't know what is."

"Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't know what love is."

Husk let out a short, sharp laugh as he topped off Angel's drink.

"Oh yeah? Well then, Princess, what do you think love is."

Charlie sighed, leaning her elbow on the counter as a dreamy look spread across her face.

"Love is... love is when you would do anything for the person. It's when they're your guiding star, your... your prayers answered."

"Uh, no? Love is when you want to literally kill the person but like, in a good way."

"Angel, what does that even mean." Charlie laughed.

"It means... it means there is passion. That spark everyone always talks about? It's violence."

"Hey Al!" Charlie suddenly called, leaning back in her seat to peer at Alastor behind Angel's back, "Who's right, me or Angel?"

Alastor looked up from his glass.

"I hate to say it, but neither of you are correct." he sighed in irritation at having been disturbed, "Love is neither a constant fight nor a blind devotion, though it contains aspects of both."

"Like you know anything about love, mister fancy talk creepy voice." Angel scoffed, turning to face Alastor as well now.

"Actually, I do."

Charlie's face lit up. She practically vibrated with anticipation.

"Alastor! You've been in love!?"

Normally, on a night like this, he'd be alone. He'd be careful to be alone, or at least have Husk as his only company. When he told Husk to shut up and pour, he listened. Other people, not so much.

"Yes."

Charlie had stars in her eyes. She inched closer to him.

"Are you gonna spill?" Angel asked after a moment.

"It was a long time ago."

Alastor took a long sip from his glass.

"Do you... do you not remember it?" Charlie asked, her excited smile slipping slightly at the notion

Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the long day, Lucifer, Mimzy, Husk. Those shark demons. Maybe it was just that secretly all along, he had wanted someone to talk to. He watched the liquor in his glass as he swirled it gently.

"It was a long time ago, but I still remember it." his smile softened as he spoke, "It's strange. I remember her laughter, her little quixotic tendencies. I remember the way her eyes would light up when she smiled and the way her perfume smelled. I know her favorite author, the way she took her coffee, the way she folded her clothes but, I can't seem to ever see her face anymore. I..."

He trailed off, taking a breath.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Charlie quickly said, not wanting to make Alastor uncomfortable.

Alastor shook his head.

"I've spent years not talking about her. Maybe... maybe something else would be nice."

"So, how'd you guys meet?" Charlie immediately asked.

Alastor looked up at her and let out a light chuckle. He felt like he was human again for a moment. It was odd.

"I don't know if you know this about me, but I was a radio broadcaster back when I was alive. A rather famous one at that, in New Orleans at any rate. Her family ran a restaurant near the studio that I went to get lunch at from time to time. She worked there as a server."

"And she loved you?" Angel asked, "Like, you weren't just delusional?"

"I was quite the lady's man back in my day."

"Uh-huh." Angel doubtfully replied, "Sure."

"Oh hush, Angel." Charlie shoved the spider demon slightly, "Tell us more! What was she like? Did you ever get together or were you just friends? Gah! I wanna know everything!"

"She was..." Alastor's gaze fell back to his glass, "you remind me of her in a way. She was so idealistic, so driven. So... bubbly. She worked hard and she cared deeply. I don't know how I swung her, despite my charms. We were friends for about a year. The whole time, I was trying to work up the courage to ask her out but she ended up being the one to ask me. We got married when we were in our mid twenties. I only had a few years with her as my wife before I died."

Unbidden ideas darkened the edges of his mind. Y/n had always been so good, so sweet. Alastor had no idea if she had ever learned of his... escapades. He figured she must know, considering the manner in which he died but it was a horrifying thought. He was grateful when Charlie spoke again, pulling his mind back to the present.

"Thats so cute!" Charlie exclaimed, clapping her hands as she looked between Alastor and Angel, searching for similar excitement.

"Can we meet this alleged doll of yours?" Angel asked, "Cause I am really not believing any of this bullshit your spouting."

Charlie gasped, suddenly struck by inspiration.

"Do you think she would want to be redeemed?"

"Oh dear," Alastor shook his head, meeting Charlie's eyes, "she's not here."

"Then wh-"

"She's in heaven?" Angel exclaimed, "You married someone who ended up in heaven?"

"Either that or she's over a hundred years old and still on earth." Alastor weakly joked.

"I'm sorry."

Alastor shrugged, downing the rest of his drink.

"No!" Charlie insisted, "You'll... you'll never get to see her again! That's so sad!"

"And here I thought you were trying to get us redeemed." Angel scoffed.

Charlie turned to him.

"I'm trying to get you redeemed cause you're a guest. Alastor isn't a guest."

"Right you are, my dear."

"But you could do that." Charlie said turning back to Alastor, "Angel's right, if you were a guest you could be redeemed. You could see her again!"

Alastor smiled kindly at the excited demon. He patted her back.

"I'm afraid I don't think that's an option."

"But why not!" Charlie insisted, "Anyone can be redeemed, Alastor."

"That's not the issue, my dear." he sighed, "I did some things on earth that she would most certainly view as... unfavorable shall we say? Things she most certainly learned of after my death."

"You're not even gonna give it a shot?" Angel asked.

"Yeah, come on Alastor. Let us help you. You never know how it could turn out!"

"It's alright. I have the time we spent together, the memories. I don't want to taint that." he slowly, unconsciously, raised a hand to his chest, his palm over his heart, "The love is still there, thats what matters."

The quartet fell silent as Husk poured Alastor another drink. Alastor sighed, grabbing the glass and examining it carefully, but not taking a sip.

"What was her name?" Charlie asked, her voice small and her smile long gone.

"Y/n."

It had been years since he'd said it out loud. His tongue relished every syllable.

"Her name was Y/n."

[auroralwriting]

the gun

spencer reid x genius!bau!reader

oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, they both reached for the gun, the gun, the gun…

"you just needed to prove to Spencer, once and for all, that you had all the skills to be the best agent, the best genius."

word count: 2.3k

warnings: cm violence, blood, enemies to lovers, kinda rushed im sorryyyy, fem reader slightly mentioned

a continuation of this story can be found here

Spencer and you always competed. He had an eidetic memory, you had a photographic.

The difference between you two was anything you ever saw, read, you held in long-term memory. Spencer’s, though, resided in short term. However, Spencer was also an autodidact, meaning he could teach himself anything. You also had a vast emotional intelligence. You had such strong empathy, you could detect any micro-detail anyone displayed, making you the perfect lie-detector one that even Hotch couldn’t evade.

Spencer was Jason Gideon’s special boy. Gideon helped Spencer make his way in the BAU. You were David Rossi’s special girl, him noticing your skills from a young age when he met you during a case. He guided you to make all the best choices, leading you to the BAU as well. It took a few years, timing and all, but you got there.

When Dave transferred to Quantico’s BAU, he requested your transfer as well. He thought you would mesh well with the team. More specifically, he assumed you and Spencer would become a genius duo; totally unstoppable.

Oh, how wrong he was. It was from the moment you’d corrected Spencer on some statistic he spewed, you both became enemies forced to co-exist on the same team. There was never a civil moment, always some fight. It was sad, too. You remembered the first time you saw him, you were struck by how cute he was. Too bad he decided to hate you before you got a chance.

Vividly, you remembered the most intense fight you both had.

“So someone with a medical degree,” Hotch muttered. “That’s got to be impossible.”

“It’s more likely that have a nursing degree.” Spencer replied. “We’d be looking at around one hundred eighty thousand people a year. If our unsub is a new graduate, that’s the numbers we’d be looking through.”

You shook your head, “It’s actually one hundred fifty seven thousand. Also, narrow it down to nursing degrees in New York, and you get around eight thousand. Eleven percent were men, so around six hundred. Lower it even more to those who don’t have any family members, most likely from group homes, you can get maybe seventy?”

oh, yes

Garcia clacked away at her keyboard, “My baby’s got it! Seventy two people. If we’re looking at NYU specifically, thirteen.”

Pride filled your system. It was fulfilling when you were able to get things right. Spencer, on the other hand, wasn’t too happy about that.

“You know, nobody asked your opinion.” He scoffed.

“It isn’t opinion, Reid. It’s purely fact, ones you should probably get right.” Your reply had Spencer clenching his fists.

How dare you insult his intelligence? His IQ was much larger than yours, you weren’t one to speak on that. “Maybe you should focus on the case instead of trying to be a people pleaser,” Spencer sneered your way.

His reply made you roll your eyes, “At least I can tell what people want. You’re oblivious, Reid.”

oh, yes

Slowly, the two of you began to go back and forth, your voices raising. Before the situation blew up, Hotch stepped in, trying to mediate. However, Spencer mumbled something under his breath, something you couldn’t just let go. It hurt, stung like a bee, and you weren’t going to let him walk away feeling victorious.

“At least my mentor didn’t up and leave me.” you snapped. “He’s still with me, he didn’t just vanish with a stupid little note as a dingy goodbye.”

Spencer had paused, face dropping. You read him like a book, you’d gone too far. He showed minuscule signs of distress, grief, sadness. The room was silent, no one quite knew what to say.

oh, yes

“Reid, I-”

“Save it.”

Spencer had walked away, leaving you to feel shameful of your words. Rossi just squeezed your shoulder. The man knew you didn’t mean it.

they both

Since then, it was like the two of you were on each other’s cases, constantly bickering and arguing. Now, you were almost subconsciously battling each other for the genius role of the team. Was there any need to? No, not at all, but your fights had become not a battle, but a war.

You stood outside the bank with your team. “They have hostages,” You identified, attempting to peer inside. “There’s no way we can go in. It’s a suicide-murder mission.”

oh, yes

“There’s gotta be a way,” JJ shook her head. “Maybe there’s another way in.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Derek sighed.

After a few hours, Will made the decision to go inside. You had to help hold back JJ as he walked in. Hearing the bullets made you sick. You physically had to double over, holding back the tears. It suddenly hit you how dire the situation was. You went back to the van with the team. No one really knew what to say.

"Did you see where he was shot?" JJ asked. "Is he alive or dead, Garcia?"

Penelope's breath was shaky, "I don't know."

"He was wearing a vest." Emily reasoned. "He might be okay."

JJ gave a smile, but it was one of disbelief. "Might be," She muttered, shaking her head in reply.

It was then that the team decided to go in. You shoved your gun in your holster, "I'll take first point," You offered. "Check and see if Will's okay. I'll try and manipulate them into letting me go to him." Hotch nodded. With your knowledge of psychology and your emotional intelligence, Hotch knew you could do it.

they both

"L/n, it's too dangerous." You heard Spencer say over the phone. "Just wait for me to tell you where to go in."

You rolled your eyes, "Reid, I'm not stupid. I've handled multiple hostage situations."

Spencer didn't reply. You liked that. This was the first time you'd be able to prove yourself without Spencer's help. This was honestly just a way for you to prove you were the better of the two. Your actions were motivated by the desire to be the best; a classic narcissistic move. You weren't a narcissist, though. You just needed to prove to Spencer, once and for all, that you had all the skills to be the best agent, the best genius.

Oddly enough, hostages flooded out of the bank as you made your way back outside. Maybe Will was alive and managed to get them all out. Once none more came out, you and two other cops began to make your way inside stealthily.

Right as you got in the middle of the bank, you heard Rossi's panicked voice over your comms, "Abort, abort!"

oh, yes

There was no time to reply. It all happened so suddenly. You heard the explosion before you felt it. It was hard to breathe. You couldn't see, hear. It slowly registered that there was a bomb, and it went off.

they both reached for

You had no clue where you had been thrown to. Everything felt cold, really cold. A loud ringing filled your ears as you slowly sat up. You touched your head, pulling back to feel stickiness on your fingers. Your vision was blurry, but you knew it was blood. You had to get out of the building. You needed help, medics, your team. Was anyone else in your team inside yet?

they both reached for the gun

A grunt left your lips as you stood up. You felt your legs give out under you, and you went down again. The desire to live was stronger than your physical weakness, and you stood up again. It was so dusty and hazy that you couldn't see. You leaned on the nearest wall for support, slowly using it to try and find your way out of the building. All that you heard in your head was get out, survive, get out, survive.

After what felt like ages, you felt a breeze against your skin. You followed it, hoping it would lead out, and it did. The light was harsh on your eyes as you tried to scan the area. It was then you saw Spencer and Hotch-- what was Spencer doing here? He was still at the BAU last you'd checked. Maybe the blast knocked you out cold.

Trudging your way over, you weakly called out. "Aaron, Spencer,"

the gun

Spencer knew he heard his name. He looked up from the blueprints of the building to see you, blood covering different parts of your body, your skin covered in debris and dust. You had limp, and your eyes were blown out. "Oh my god," he muttered, running over to you.

the gun

The genius took your in his arms as you fell into him, "How'd you get here?" you asked. "What's for dinner?"

Spencer took notice of your confusion as he allowed you to lean on him. He took your face in his hands, "Y/n, look at me. Focus on me,"

the gun

You couldn't directly look at him. Your eyes darted all over the place. "Where's Rossi? Did he go in?"

"No, Rossi's okay." Spencer leaned over his shoulder, "We need a medic!" He yelled, quickly turning his attention back to you. "It's okay, you're okay."

oh, yes

"I can't feel anything," you breathed out, "That can't be normal. Is that normal? Spencer, am I dying?"

oh, yes

Spencer shook his head, "You're okay, it's okay."

"I can't die," You softly whimpered. "I'm sorry, Spencer. 'M so mean to you, I don't mean to be."

Deep down, Spencer knew you meant what you were saying. The fear of dying without getting your true feelings out always lead to admissions of the truth. "I know, I know," Spencer smoothed your hair. "I don't hate you, I don't. You're going to be okay." Spencer slowly became anxious as he noticed the amount of blood seeping from your head. "Look at me, please, keep talking to me."

"'M sorry," You muttered, feeling your eyes grow heavy. Spencer's face began to fade as you collapsed in his arms.

Spencer felt his breathing grow heavy as he held you tightly. "Medic! She's-- oh, god, Help!"

they both reached for the gun.

A steady beeping was the first thing you heard as you woke up. The light was a blinding white, and you let out a groan at it. Your body hurt like hell, and your head was pounding.

"Shh, shh. It's okay, here, let me just--"

The white lights went out and all that was left was the stream of daylight coming through the windows, along with a lamp that was a warmer light. It was much more comfortable that way. You quickly guessed you were in a hospital. The beeping, white lights, smell of rubbing alcohol that you just identified.

"How do you feel?"

Spencer. You turned your head to look at him. His face held deep concern. He was holding your hand. "I--" You paused, considering his question. "I feel like shit."

He let out a soft chuckle, "Yeah. You kind of got exploded." That's right, the bomb.

"Oh, Will, the team, are they okay?" You softly asked.

Spencer nodded, "Everyone's okay, we got the unsubs. It's all okay now."

You remembered Spencer's words. You should have waited to go in. If you had waited, maybe you wouldn't be in this situation right now. "I should've listened to you." You stated weakly. "You were right. I was being stupid."

"Hey, no," Spencer quickly interrupted. "You were doing your job."

"I wasn't," you shook your head. "I wanted to prove myself. I-I wanted.. to show that I didn't just do victimology and simple hostage relief situations. I wanted to prove myself like you have." You stopped, sucking in a pained breath. You felt your eyes become glassy. "I wanted to prove to everyone I was just as good as you."

Spencer felt his heart break at your words. You both knew overall, he was smarter. It never occurred to him that your constant bickering was to prove yourself, and not to prove him wrong. "You're better." Spencer decided to say. "I mean, I can't relate to our victims, hell, our unsubs the way you can."

"Spencer,"

"I'm serious." He continued. "You're so important to this team. You-you push us to be better." Spencer cleared his throat, "You push me to be better."

You stared at Spencer blankly for a moment, "I never told you that I like this haircut."

Spencer gave you a slightly surprised look. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," You hummed. "It makes you look, I don't know, less like Einstein and more like, uh, a really smart James Dean."

"James Dean," Spencer repeated, "I've never gotten that one before. Are those meds talking right now?"

You shook your head slowly, "Probably the clearest I've thought in a while." You replied, causing Spencer to smile. "Why did you stay with me?"

Spencer paused for a moment, "I wanted to make sure you were okay. I know we bicker a lot. Well, more than a lot. Probably several times a day, but I still care about you. I-I was.. really scared for you. I don't think I could forgive myself if I let you walk in there and you'd died."

"It wouldn't have been your fault," You tried. Spencer just shook his head.

"It would have been. I should've rationalized it with you. When I saw you, I just thought, 'What have I been doing this whole time? Have I really been wasting my breath arguing with you when we could've made the best team'? I remember when Rossi first introduced you, I was like, 'No way someone this pretty is doing this', when you should've been some model or something." Spencer rambled. He did that, paired with hand fidgeting, when he was nervous. He rambled as he played with your fingers.

You took a breath in, hoping for the best. "Hey, maybe we could, uh, go to one of those team based trivia nights at O'Keefe's?"

"Are-are you asking me out?" Spencer asked.

"Only if you're saying yes." You responded. "I, uh, maybe thought we could start over."

Spencer gave a chuckle, "Yeah, trivia night sounds good. I'd like a retry at this. Maybe we're, uh, meant to be more than just a team."

You smiled at him, knowing that a simple friendship wouldn't be highest point of your new relationship with the genius.

[joeloverture]

snowbound | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog | ao3 mirror pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel is the only guy you know with four wheel drive in the rarely-snowy state of texas, so it seems like a no-brainer to have him pick you up from work — until his truck breaks down, leaving you two to the classic 'huddle for warmth' solution. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!joel, age gap (assumed 20s/40s), reader borrows joel's coat, but does not wear it and uses it as a blanket, self-indulgent humor & banter, joel has sarah and she's a 15y/o menace which means liberties are taken with the timeline, blink & miss it drug mention, close proximity, unprotected piv sex, vaginal fingering, (mocking) dirty talk & dirty talk alluding to anal but no actual anal, daddy kink, degradation, dom!joel, brat!reader, brat tamer!joel, mild bondage (with a scarf), rearview mirror sex, clit stim, riding, doggy, a few pussy spanks, 2 spanks, truck sex, sort of edging, getting caught after the act [no use of y/n] word count: 12.3k a/n: this fic was a labor of love from a request i received earlier this month. i didn't expect it to be this long but i really enjoyed these two! massive massive massive shoutout to talia, @lovesickonmybed, for putting up with me + advising. this fic was way too much to handle on my own. they're the reason i pulled it off. joel is latino here, but i think game!joel can be interpreted as latino too, so read who you'd like.

“Looking ahead for our chances at wintry precipitation tonight – measurable snow, freezing rain, or sleet. It’s hard to get snow here in central Texas – if only, huh? We’re seeing some strong flurries tonight, turning into snow showers in the early morning. Low chances of any significant build up, but you can expect hazardous driving conditions. Black ice and low visibility will make extensive travel dangerous–”

The radio in Keith’s Hardware is old fashioned, curving around the volume and tuning knobs. It’s one of the ones that still has a dial pointer, which is almost always aimed at 92.7 if Keith’s in the back (country); 96.7 (pop) if it’s just you and the only other girl that works in the carpenter’s wet dream of a store. Right now, though, it’s neither of those stations. The pointer is at 162.4, the weather station.

You’d known you were in for it on the drive into work. Watch the weather and it’s real nasty out there airing from your parents lips on your way out of the house for your eight hour shift. The drive had been a gunmetal sort of gray, clouds streaked through the sky and spitting bullets of sleet at your windshield.

For a little bit, the weather had almost cleared up. You’d sworn you’d seen a splotch of sun when you’d tried to step out for break, just to be driven back in by your too-thin jacket and the cold as balls temperature.

Now, though? It’s fucking freezing, and the flurries that the weatherman mentioned are starting to fall. And as much as you’d told Keith that your shitty two-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, he’d insisted on scheduling you and Liz for close.

Which is where Mr. Miller comes in.

Joel Miller, your dad’s buddy. Joel Miller, the grumpiest secret-softie you’ve ever met. Joel Miller, a knight in shining armor with his 4x4 Ford F150 instead of a horse. Although, if your fantasies are correct – and you like to think they are – what’s between his thighs certainly makes up for the lack of a horse. But he isn’t bringing you for a ride on his cock. He just so happens to be the only man your dad knows with a four wheel drive vehicle, or at least the only one willing to spare you from spinning out by giving you a ride home. Just thinking about it has a knot pinching in the back of your throat. His hands, big and wide and stretching over the gear shift. One muscled arm dangling over the wheel. Looking over his goddamn shoulder to back out —

Liz hops up on the check-out counter where you’re counting up the last of the cash, a spread of Hamiltons, Grants, and Jacksons. You wouldn’t expect a girl like her to work at a hardware store, especially one in the backstreets of the seedy part of town. Some sort of family emergency had driven her back to Austin from NYU design school, which you’re thankful for. Mainly because you get out of cutting wood panels since she has the better eye for measurements, but also because after years of sulking in Keith’s, you finally have someone to talk shit with.

“Those heart eyes aren’t for fuckin’ Alexander Hamilton,” Liz says, tapping her acrylics on your ledger to get your attention. You cough, flipping her off with your pen still in-hand. Liz hums, pretending to think about it as you put down the last numbers. “Although I wouldn’t be too surprised. You do love a geriatric man.”

“Joel isn’t that old,” you scoff, arranging the bills into slim white envelopes and then licking them shut. “He’s just an… acquired taste.”

“Sure, his jizz probably tastes like prohibition-era booze–”

“What the fuck,” you wheeze, hands going out to brace yourself on the closest display case. Your head dips as your chest shakes with laughter.

Liz stays completely straight-faced as she continues, “You’ll have to have 911 on speed dial because if you clench, his heart’s giving out.”

“It is not,” you say, voice still strained with the laughs that won’t stop punching out of you.

She puts her hands up in defense and crosses her legs at the ankles. “Hey, it’s not my fault you like playing whac-a-mole with Great Depression dick.”

“Liz!” You playfully shove her off of the counter, thrusting the envelopes into her hands. “You’re nasty. Fucking nasty.”

She splays a wounded hand over her heart, fanning herself with the envelopes. “You know you love me.” She slips into the office behind the register. You hear the click of the safe before she calls over her shoulder, “Any particular reason you’re fantasizing on the clock?”

“Not fantasizing,” you refute. Liz pops out of the back with a uncertain look scrawled on her face. “My dad talked him into picking me up today so I don’t drive into a snowbank.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a shitty porno.”

“Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You can still come to mine. Only a five minute walk with zero chance of rejection.”

“You have such little faith in me.”

She purses her lips. “Mkay…. Pro-tip: Keith probably has some Viagra sitting around in his desk drawers.”

“Liiiiiiiz,” you say. You’re about to tune her out completely when familiar headlights light up the wet asphalt, beaming through the windows. The engine idles, a soft rumble through the linoleum floors. The truck lights dim, leaving Joel in the buttery shine of the streetlamp. His thick arms stretch across the wheel, and he rakes one large hand through his hair. “Shit, speak of the Devil.” You clip off your nametag, tossing it into your half-open bag. “Can you finish closing tonight? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“No problem, no favors necessary.” She closes the register. You fumble to get your bag over your shoulder, not wanting to keep Joel waiting. “Use protection!” she calls after you, and you make sure to flip her off one more time as the door clangs shut behind you.

A wall of cold hits you like a blade of lightning. Wind unfurls, mauling telephone lines and frosted treetops, rippling your jacket. Not even the worn scarf around your neck seems to be doing its job. Suddenly, every one of your limbs feels like an icicle. Joints almost freezing up, you half-jog, half-penguin strut your way to Joel’s passenger side. You wipe the ice off of the door handle with your sleeve. A few stray flurries dust you as you tug the door open, exhaling in relief as you haul yourself onto the side steps and into the toasty warmth of the Ford F150.

You cozy up in the seat, too preoccupied by thawing your hands with long, winded breaths to notice the affronted look Joel is throwing your way. “Are you tryin’ to catch your fuckin’ death, girl?”

“No death to catch. It’s not that cold.” The way you’re shivering says otherwise. Joel pins you with the raise of his brow.

Before you know what he’s doing, he’s groaning as he reaches over the center console into the backseat. You see a flash of his trucker jacket before it lands in your lap, flannel-lined and heavy. You use it like a blanket, draping it across your torso and wrestling your hands into the inside pockets. The canvas smells like car exhaust and off-brand Dollar General deodorant, two things that are so inextricably Joel. As much as you hate to admit it, the warmth is already inking its way across your skin – or maybe it’s just being next to Joel that’s heating you up. “Thanks,” you grumble.

When you adjust in your seat, the inside of your foot catches an empty Dr. Pepper can on the floor. It rattles when you accidentally kick it forward. You lean down and pick it up, going to place it down in the cupholder, only to find it overpopulated with random Home Depot and Whataburger receipts.

“Tax deductions,” he shrugs. “Gotta eat on the job.”

“And a…” You pick up the receipt and squint at the faded typography. “$3.29 strawberry milkshake is part of that, I figure?”

Joel grunts, “Tommy’s order.”

You smirk. “Sure it is.”

“Quit shit stirrin’ and put on your fuckin’ seatbelt.”

You reach back, fingers snagging it and tugging it down. Groping for the belt between the seats and the center console, it goes on for at least five seconds too long before Joel grabs the buckle and shoves it into the slot. His fingers brush your thigh as he pulls away from you and settles his foot over the gas pedal. The singular touch shouldn’t make butterflies beat at the walls of your stomach, but it does. Everything about him does.

Now that you’re all settled in, everything about him is also settling in. The fact that he’s only wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt now that his coat is off. His sleeves are constricting enough that his muscles bulge below the strip of fabric. Ample scruff dapples his jawline, and his hair is disheveled in the way that you’ve learned you like it. You trail your eyes down his body, his tummy, across the undone drawstrings of his dark gray sweatpants, and no, you move on quickly from there, because you refuse to get riled up in the passenger seat.

He’s slowly peeling out of Keith’s parking lot, arm thrown over the back of your seat. You’re starting to fail at your mission of not getting riled up when you see the flex of his bicep, the way his eyes meet yours as he turns to look through the back window. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the relatively barren, icy streets–

“What the hell are those?”

Joel side-eyes you, brows furrowed. He follows the line of your gaze to his feet, which you’re used to seeing in New Balances or steel-toed work boots, but are instead wearing… fur-lined crocs.

“These here? Yeah, got ‘em recently, good for my days off with all this nippy weather. Sarah told me they’re ‘all the rage’ with the youth–”

You can’t help it. You damn near double over with laughter, clutching at your stomach. Joel’s coat nearly slides off of you, but you hang onto it with your pinkie finger, quickly going dizzy from lack of air. “‘All the rage’? Oh my fucking God– Joel, she was pulling your leg. Those are fucking hideous.”

“Hey, now–” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge with the hand that isn’t dangling over the wheel. “Zip it, I don’t needa justify my shoe choices to ya.”

“Does she do anything other than give you shit these days?”

“You’re one to talk about givin’ shit, y’know,” Joel says. Unfailingly, he smiles. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips. The smile that he only ever gets when talking about Sarah. It doesn’t matter where – loading up his plate with barbecue, your dad asking him while he’s picking up junk mail in the morning, or on the job. If someone asks him about his daughter, Joel fucking beams.

He sucks on his teeth for a second, and then, “She’s picked up soccer. Goalkeeper. Damn good at it, too, all them other kids on her team can’t match her collapse dive.”

“Of course they can’t,” you say. “She’s got better reflexes than a house fly.”

Joel hunches over the wheel, effectively ending the conversation as he concentrates on the road. The only noise is the rumbling engine and the wagging of the windshield wipers as he attempts to navigate the black ice polka-dotted roads. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, seeing him in such a state of focus, his thighs tensed as he manipulates the gas and brakes to stop early, start slow. His arms thickening when he makes a right turn. Thumbs drumming drumming drumming on the wheel and maybe they’d do the same between your legs—

“So how’s work?” you blurt out.

Joel mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin’ ‘big shot’ gringos up my ass all day. Goddamn shitshow.” He shakes his head, his lips thinned. “I tell ‘em terraforming is gonna make it look like a Flinstone-owned-and-operated putt-putt course. They say do it anyway. I tell ‘em that orderin’ custom windows is gonna put us months behind. They say do it anyway, then come up jibber-jabberin’ all ‘bout how long it’s takin’. And it’s fuckin’... window madness, not one window in that hellhole matches another. Ain’t had so much trouble buildin’ a house since Sarah had me build her one from Hobby Lobby when she was little. Their architect musta been doin’ lines.”

You think you’ve seen Sarah’s dollhouse before when visiting, just in passing when the guest bedroom door was left open a smidge. You remember stalling in the hallway to look at it, with a fleece of dust growing on the tediously placed shingles and the oakwood front door left open like it’d been waiting for someone to come home. But Sarah outgrew it, and although Joel would never admit it, you know he’s too sentimental to leave it on the curb.

“How bad can building a dollhouse from a kit be?”

“With a five year old yellin’ like a drill sergeant in your ear? Worse than you think. She even made me rig the damn thing with electric so she could have her pink chandelier.”

You pout at him, “Wah wah, I’ll bet you loved it.”

“Was a nuisance at the time. But, uh, she was fiddlin’ with some ‘a the dolls I’d gotten her. Don’t think she knew I was watchin’, had gone to put ‘er to bed ‘cause it was a school night. She was readin’ this book I always read to her. Something about… a stuffed bear with a missin’ button and a girl that was tryna to buy him. I don’t fuckin’ know–” “Corduroy?”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, she was reading, usin’ the same tone I always used with her, tucked her dolls in for the night, and switched off the lights. I don’t think I loved it until then.” There’s a glistening in his eyes at the memory.

You smirk, “Sentimental bastard–”

The truck slides. Or maybe it coasts, skimming across the thin film of black ice. Joel eases down on the brakes, hauling to a stop next to a Minivan with its warning lights on. It’s a long stretch, and you can’t even see all the way down the highway with how thick the snow is. No two snowflakes are the same, but you find it difficult to believe when you’re looking at what must be millions of them. They pirouette, landing on window panes, rooftops, and wind-agonized tree branches. Everything is blotted with white. Red warning lights glare on the ice back at you.

“Shiiit,” Joel says as he squints at the road ahead of him. He scratches at his scruff.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive through that shit.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Then how the fuck are we getting home?”

“Chill it–” “That’s the last thing I need to do,” you huff.

“I’m takin’ the detour.”

With that, he jerks the wheel — a bit too recklessly considering the weather, in your opinion – and pulls off onto a slippery backroad. The snow seems to have clung to the trees more back here, a sort of incandescent saran wrap over the oaks. At a bend in the road, icicles hang from a yellow sign that says CURVE 30 MPH. Joel takes it at ten.

You’re not checking out his hands while he drives, no, of course not. You’re looking at the gazillion lights on his dashboard display. “You usually have that many lights on?”

“Ain’t your truck, ain’t your business.”

“I’m ridin’ in it, ain’t I?” you mock his accent. 

Joel sighs heavily. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall.” His hands clench briefly around the wheel. “Auto repair shop’s been price gouging, I’m tryin’ to get Tommy to hook me up with his buddy in San Anton–”

“Won’t be able to drive to San Antonio if your bumper falls off halfway there.”

Joel’s voice is dry as bone. “Ha ha. You get off on bein’ a smartass?”

It’s three words – that’s all it is. Just a throwaway phrase that he probably doesn’t even realize he said. If it were anything more, you’d know. But Joel, saying those words in that order? Damn him, because it turns your blood effervescent. You stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together underneath his coat. You’re about to make another quip that’ll not only distract you, but also surely drive Joel up the wall, one of your favorite activities.

His truck putters from ten miles per hour to eight.

Eight to six.

Six to four.

“Motherfuckin’.... shit,” Joel says again, this time much more urgent as he wrests the wheel to the side. The truck skims over the frosted roads and onto the shoulder, rolls for two seconds, and then falls to a complete, utter stop. The windshield wipers pause while they’re still up. Heat no longer spits out of the dusty air vents.

It’s the loudest silence you’ve ever been in.

“...So do you get off on letting your truck break down or–”

Joel sighs in the way that dogs do. “Thin ice, missy.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls out his phone. “I’ll give Tommy a call.” He stares at the screen for ten seconds. Taps it. Shakes it.

“No service?” you ask.

“No service.”

“Let me try mine,” you mumble, shifting in the car seat. Sure enough, zero bars. Even though you know it won’t work, you press your dad’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. “Well, shit.”

“Shit,” Joel echoes.

It’s unspoken, but you both know the harsh reality of this harsh wintry night: no phone service, no operational truck, and… no heater.

“Hang tight,” Joel says, reaching over the center console and hijacking his coat from your lap. He wrestles his arms through the sleeves and zips it up. He shoves the door open against the hoarse wind that keeps the trees at a slant, hops out, then slams it shut hard enough for the vehicle to rock. From how hard the wind was blowing, stray flurries dust the truck’s interior.

You can’t really see what he’s doing – the snow’s too heavy, the hood popped wide open for him to investigate the truck’s viscera. You run your hands up and down your thighs, already feeling cold. Without the heater, it won’t be much longer before you turn to an icicle in the passenger seat. The hood bangs back down.

Joel climbs in from the backseat, slams the door as hard as humanly possible, and then scoots to the middle seat. 

You crane your neck to see him as he shakes out his cold-reddened hands before puffing air into his cupped palms. “What’s wrong with it?” You ask. 

He lets out a frigid breath. “Don’t fuckin’ know, snowin’ too damn hard to tell.”

“Ten bucks it was one of the lights on your dash,” you say.

Joel glares at you, still huffing into his hands. His fingertips are bright red to match his ruddy cheeks. Snow is sprinkled through his hair like soot, quickly melting to beads of water on his windblown curls.

“Got some… hand warmers up in that glovebox. Grab the whole pack.”

You lean forward, kneeing it open and rifling through all of his shit. Insurance papers, more receipts, Miller Contracting business cards, a folded pocket knife, lens wipes, and –

“When’s the last time these saw daylight?” you huff out a laugh as you hold up a battered box of condoms. 

Turns out, snow isn’t the thing that makes Joel Miller redder than a tomato. It’s the fifteen year old, very expired condoms hiding in his glovebox.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Jesus. Forgot those were in there.”

You shake the box around and pluck a condom out of it. Looking for the expiration date, you turn it over and over in your hand. “August 31st, 2004. Really that long since you got some, Miller?”

“Put ‘em back,” he grumbles. “Pain in my ass.”

You snicker, replacing the condom box with the box of hand warmers. They’re unopened, still sealed. You snatch Joel’s keys out of the ignition and swipe them across the tape. “Happy?” you toss them over your shoulder.

“No.” He tears open the pack and rubs his hands together around the warmer, sighing when it begins to heat.

“Dick,” you grumble.

More tearing. “Brat.” Another warmer lands in your lap.

“Oughta get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Joel says.

“And whose fault is that?” You ask as you weigh the warmer in your palms. The front seat already feels cramped, and you’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt. Your legs and arms fold like pretzels as you climb into the backseat. The curse that leaves you when you hit your head on the roof has Joel rolling his eyes.

“Pipe down. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll make the walk out to that country club a mile out and use their phone. Just gotta ride out the night. You ain’t ever roughed it before?”

You fall on all fours on the backseat, finally pulling yourself upright next to him. “Never had a reason to. Like, what if I have to piss? What if I get hungry?”

Joel shrugs. “Tough.”

The cold is starting to settle into your bones. Even your tongue feels popsicle numb, and your fingers are stiff where they wrap around the warmer. It’s like you’ve been trapped in a snowglobe and shaken up by a handsy toddler with how the wind rattles the truck and the snow swishes outside. You suppress a shiver, leaning against the door. Condensation is already building on the windows. Absent-mindedly, you begin to trace a portrait of Joel in the moisture. Your fingertip squeaks against the glass. Your masterpiece wouldn’t be complete without his signature scowl, so you’re sure to paint a frown on his face and his forehead wrinkles on thick.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” Joel comments from the opposite side of the back. “Looks nothin’ like me, by the way.”

You smirk, “But you knew it was you.”

Because there’s nothing better to do than burn time, you spend the next ten minutes filling up the window with whatever nonsense doodles come to mind — hearts, stars, trees, and of course, the only one that Joel seems to be fond of: Sarah, smiling and curly-haired.

Reality only settles in when you’re done with the ephemeral illustrations, their outlines starting to dissolve back to regular droplets that streak down the windows. You’re stuck, for God knows how long, on this shady backroad that the Zodiac Killer would’ve loved during his heyday. With your dad’s best friend that you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on.

And it’d be impossible to forget that it’s freezing fucking balls.

“Joel?” you say into the dark truck.

“Hm?”

Always one to speak your mind, you say, “It’s freezing fucking balls.”

A sound that might be a laugh leaves him. “Here,” Joel says, unzipping his jacket. He tosses it over to you, and you snuggle back up with it, nose burrowing into one of the creases in the fabric. His coat smells like him – like cheap body wash, chewing gum, and gasoline. 

You try putting your hands in the pockets, even going as far as to open up a new hand warmer for each one, but they’re full of loose change and, expectedly, more receipts. When you curl up against the corner between the door and the seat, the hard plastic bites into your oversensitive back. Sitting upright or cross-legged doesn’t work, and when you test drive sitting diagonally with your feet propped up on the console, Joel makes a disproving noise and swats gently at your shin. You prop your forehead up against the window, but it’s cold enough to give you a brain freeze. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snorts. “Get over ‘ere, you wuss.” He hauls you over, big hand splayed over your waist, and drags you across the bench to his side. You yelp in surprise, but only for a second before you’re crushed against Joel’s side. “Can’t have ya gettin’ hypothermia,” he jests.

You don’t know where to put your hands, but eventually, you settle on cupping his neck. Touching Joel, hell, even just being near him, is like being by an open furnace. Or maybe the heat is just your stomach doing somersaults at being this close to Joel after years of frivolous pining. His nape emanates warmth, the kind that flows down your arms and wraps comfortingly around your chest.

Joel exhales, the tendrils of his breath curling from the frigidity. He grabs his coat from the side and flattens it over the both of you, a piss poor replacement for a blanket, but all you’ve got.

Still, cold seeps in through the cracks in the doors, spoiling whatever lukewarm air remains. It doesn’t help that Joel had hopped in and out of the truck to play eye spy under the hood. The truck struggles to hold onto heat properly, especially when it isn’t producing more of it.

Joel sort of… flickers against your back. You think nothing of it until it happens again, this time in short bursts, and then turns into full on shivering.

“Who’s the wuss now, old man?”

Joel tenses up behind you. “Funny,” he says. With your hands cushioned against his neck, you feel the grate of his voice in his throat. “This is the best you’re gonna get unless you wanna be butt ass naked to share heat.”

It should be a joke. But the way he says it… doesn’t sound like a joke.

You go still, lifeless, not even sure if you’re shaking anymore. Because now, the only thought in your head is being pressed against Joel, his soft cock hardening against you, his palms splayed and rubbing over your stomach to keep you warm. And if his cock needed to get somewhere warmer, too…. Your clit twitches at the thought.

You smother the initial shock in your voice with your usual solution: sass. “So what, we’re gonna fuckin’ huddle for warmth?”

As much as you enjoy the idea, you're already dripping — and that’s just from your body being pressed against his, breathing the same air as him, closer now than you’ve ever been before. With no panties in the way, it’s not a stretch to say you’d be dripping down his thighs. You’d hate to have that conversation.

“Would you rather freeze to death?” Joel asks. You look up at him from where you’re curled into his side and find no gleam in his eyes. This isn’t just some knee-slapper for him. Joel Miller is being completely, irreversibly serious.

“I’d rather something less like Naked and Afraid, Joel!”

“It works,” he says, nose flaring. “They do it in those fuckin’... action movies all ‘a the time.”

“I didn’t know Hollywood was writing survival manuals for pervs–”

“God, you’re a piece ‘a work, ya know that?” His eyes flick down to you, and maybe it’s just the fact that this road is damn near pitch black, but his pupils seem larger than before. “Listen, I ain’t tryna perv on ya. I also ain’t tryna send you back to your old man with four fingers missin’ from frostbite.”

There’s no way you’re actually seriously considering this. You’ve heard of cold temperatures impairing thinking, but not like this. Your dad’ll go chasing after Joel with a pitchfork and a shovel if he finds out the man who was supposed to get you home safe and sound was cuddling naked with you. Cuddling naked with you in the backseat, no less. You’re certain Joel won’t try anything – he’s not like that. No matter how flustered you get in his lap, he’d never take advantage of you. What you aren’t certain of is your ability to stop yourself from asking him t0 take advantage of you.

This is practical. It’s only supposed to be practical. He wouldn’t be suggesting something this drastic if you both weren’t shaking like a rattlesnake’s rattler.

“Fine,” you say, already unwinding your scarf from around your neck. Determined to keep some semblance of boundaries up, you add, “No peeping, Miller.”

Joel makes an exasperated sound as you once again scoot out from his coat and across the bench, working yourself out of your shoes, your cotton zip-up, and then the stiff Keith’s uniform – a blue polo and jeans. Joel’s eyes are respectfully trained on the truck’s floor mats, which you’re only just now noticing has a sun-bleached Lisa Frank sticker tacked onto it. 

Down to your bra and panties, your heart rate picks up. Your fingers are so fucking cold that it’s hard to get your bra straps out of the way so you can unclasp the damned thing, and then it falls to the floor. Your nipples harden in the face of the cold. The only thing you keep is your scarf, which do you do your best to cover your tits with. Scooping up your discarded clothes and tossing them to the front seat, you let out a shaky breath.

Fuck it.

You shimmy out of your panties and get rid of them just as quickly. When you try telling Joel you’re decent, or rather indecent, nothing comes out. Instead, you have to clear your throat with a strained,  “All good.”

“Alright,” Joel says, rustling around. You hear his crocs scrape against the mat, and then his shirt swishing over his head.

He doesn’t tell you to look away, but since it’s implied, you look out of the window. The snowy trees tremble in the wind, and you almost wince when you see a small sliver of his tanned skin reflected in the glass. His crocs clunk on the ground when he kicks them off, and you watch his criminally tight t-shirt go flying over the passenger seat. You casually grip the Jesus handle, hoping that Joel doesn’t notice your fist tightening around it when you hear him untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants. When his sweats and boxers follow the path of his shirt, breathing gets a lot harder than you remember it being.

Just an hour ago, you’d been certain that this would be nothing more than a ten minute drive. Maybe, if you were lucky, he’d call you a casual pet name that would fuel the wriggling of your hand between your thighs that night. 

The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. Each breath you take is fragile.

“I’m ready when you are,” Joel says.

Since you’re already half-naked, and since chickening out is out of the question, you inch over to Joel’s side. The air tumbles out of your lungs in one fell swoop when your bicep meets his. With some fidgeting, you bring your legs up at an angle beneath you, wrapping around his side in a way that has you feeling a little bit like a koala. You talk yourself into keeping your eyes forward and then scrub your palms across your freezing arms.

Joel, more indifferent than you think anyone else in this situation could be, abruptly casts his coat back over the both of you.

And, fuck him, he’d been right. The engulfing canvas of his coat keeps warmth trapped where it can be passed easily between the two of you. Or maybe it’s just being confined and skin-to-skin with Joel that has you heating up.

The silence is cruel – it’s much harder to make conversation about work or dollhouses or whatever the hell else when you’re naked. Only the wind’s sibilance keeps you company.

You can get used to this, you think. Drift off into a somewhat sound sleep with your head on Joel’s shoulder and hope that you don’t drool all over him or moan his name in your sleep. More embarrassing things have happened to you.

But then, as if you’re the unluckiest person alive, the temperature drops even more, and suddenly, you’re shaking like a leaf all over again. Your teeth almost clack together as you try to stammer out to Joel, “C–cold, Jesus fucking… Christ that’s cold.”

Joel pouts down at you, but you don’t miss the way his lip quivers. “Should I call the wambulance?”

“Should I call the r–r–r–retirement home to pi…pick up a ru–runaway resident?” It sounded a lot better in your head than bouncing off of your frozen tongue, you have to admit.

“Drama queen,” Joel mutters into your ear. “Can’t do anythin’ more about it. Sorry–”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you blurt out so quickly that you don’t even have time to think about it. You grimace, partially covering your face with your hands. Shit.

Joel’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You’re already half doomed. Why not go all the way? “Listen, it’s just fucking… fucking freezing, Joel. Holy shit.”

“That bad?” he chokes out.

“You’d be warmer than the seats,” you defend. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Best behavior.”

Joel seems to ponder it for a moment, brows stitched together while he looks down at you from where you’re furled up against his side. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek before giving you a slight nod. “Alright.” You nod in return, heart in your throat. “–But you better mean it when you say best behavior. Can’t have any ‘a this shit gettin’ back to your dad.”

Another nod. You hold your breath as you shinny your way onto Joel’s lap, mounting him from the front so his chest hits your back. In your attempt to get comfortable, you bracket your legs around his. His soft cock fits at the small of your back, and even though he’s as flaccid as can be, he’s big. Apparently your imagination isn’t too far off. Joel’s sharp intake of breath forms a pit in your stomach, and you know when you’re warming up for an entirely different reason than close proximity, you also know that you need to calm yourself down. Fast.

Think of something awful. Like that time that you had to dissect cow eyes in sophomore year biology. Think about mold. How many murderers you’ll walk by in your lifetime. Expired leftovers. Anything–

You adjust yourself in an attempt to get away from Joel’s cock. Instead, your hips move just so his cock slips between your thighs and bobs against your slit.

You whine.

Your body immediately locks up once you realize what you’ve done. Crawling out of the truck to die a hypothermia-induced death seems like a much kinder fate than facing Joel, but no matter how much you scream at yourself to reach out and unlock the door, your hands refuse to move. You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d gotten, and you have no idea how. It’s smeared across your thighs, and now pressed up against your back after Joel’s dick had dragged through it all.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit–

Chancing a look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find the tips of Joel’s ears flushed, cheeks cherry ripe. His Adam’s apple bobs when you meet his eyes. Holy fuck.

You’ve flustered him.

For some reason, the thought makes your chest a lot lighter. You look away nonetheless, but this time, with a newfound gleam in your eye. There’s no such thing as a bad accident, right?

Maybe Liz was right about having to call 911, because when you ‘accidentally’ repeat the movement, Joel stops breathing all together. His cock, almost hard now, you’ve noticed, bumps against your clit. You almost swallow your tongue trying to keep your moan down.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he asks, his gruff voice scratching at your ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie straight through your teeth, a smug little grin spreading on your face. Something about his semi-hard cock between your bodies tells you he’s going to say no to your next suggestion. “Maybe you should put the coat between us, instea–”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind, girl?” Joel’s voice comes out raspy. He shakes his head, clears his throat. The vibrations rumble up your spine. “And take away the whole point of stayin’ warm? Now quit it. Ain’t that hard to sit still.”

You try your hand at listening – for all of two seconds.

You hike your hips up, fumbling with his coat as you slot his cock against your slit once more, pushing yourself forward. The coat slides right off of you, falling in a dark lump on the floor. Neither of you care — you’re both too heated for the lack of cover to make a damn difference. Joel hisses, a sound like water hitting an open flame. His hands fly down to your waist, anchoring you to his lap. A surprised noise squeaks out of you.

“What, you got rocks rattlin’ around in your brain?” Joel scowls. “You’re real impolite for a cocktease, sweetheart.”

Butterflies flap around in your stomach from his words. It’s enough to make your head tip against his chest so you can look up at him, lips shaped in a perfect pout. “I’m not,” you say.

“Not a cocktease, huh? Not even when you’re rubbin’ all over my lap?”

You gasp as your hands fly down to cover Joel’s, nails etching into where his fingers meet your bare skin. You tug at his wrist, trying desperately to guide him where you so desperately need him.

“Not happenin’,” Joel grunts, yanking your hands behind you and pinning them to your waist like you’re nothing more than a poseable doll. His large, work-worn hands make yours look damn near miniature as he holds you down. The sudden roughness douses your inner thighs with a new wave of wetness. “Jesus, girl. Poor thing, gettin’ all hot and bothered. Don’t blame ya for tryna get me to help out. Can feel ya dripping down my legs, gushin’ like a sprinkler.”

“S–sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry,” you whisper, words sticky with your arousal. Your clit twitches from his words, embarrassment and need doing all the work to keep you warm.

“Nahhh,” he says. “I don’t think you are, baby.” Maybe it’s the condescension he’s purring in your ear, maybe it’s the pet name; most likely, it’s a combination of both that has you convulsing in his lap. It’s like he’s found all of the right buttons to press to get you riled up, getting you back for all of your snide comments earlier. 

His fingers find the fabric of your scarf, luring it off of your neck so he can cord it around your wrists. You squirm when you realize what he’s doing, and a breathless huff of his laughter brushes your cheek. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be, though.” He draws it tight, tight enough for you to feel your pulses bumping into each other. Joel leaves a fair amount of your unreasonably long scarf loose.

“Joel, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Teachin’ you some sweet southern belle etiquette, darlin’. Such a goddamn troublemaker, grindin’ on me like I’m some kinda… frat boy.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Pullin’ that shit with your pops’ friend. Real fuckin’ classy.”

“Like you’re so different. Who’s the one that’s tying me up? Huh, Mil–”

You hear the hit well before you feel it, a firm whack to your cunt that makes your vision blacken and electricity scurrying up your spine. It takes you a second to come back to yourself before a ragged cry pulls its way out of your lips. You jolt in his lap, bound arms bobbing in front of you as your body instinctively lurches for control. You damn near kick your feet, accidentally ricocheting yourself into Joel’s chest. His forearms hold you there. 

“Guess I’ll make it crystal clear for ya, baby, since that dumb lil’ head ‘a yours is havin’ some trouble. My truck, my rules. You’re ridin’ in it, ain’t you?” You nod reluctantly as he turns your words from earlier in his favor. “That was a warnin’, you showoff. Think you can bat your slutty ‘fuck me’ eyes an’ get away with murder.” He fucking tsks at you.

He pulls his hand away from your pussy, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all to see it covered in your arousal, webbed between his calloused fingers. 

“Got a whole goddamn slip ‘n slide down here…” murmurs Joel. You whine, bucking your hips against him. “Oughta just…” he starts, nudging his cock towards your hole. The noise you make is pathetic. “Stop ya from ruinin’ my seats. Cork you right up.” You tense up, fully expecting the intrusion, but his dick passes your cunt right up, instead sliding up to meet your clit. It taps against your swollen nub, and if his goal was to stop you from ruining his seats, you’re certain he’s already failed with how quickly you gush all over the upholstery.

“But that’d be real nice, wouldn’t it? Givin’ ya what ya want so early on…” Instead of pulling away like you expect, Joel griiiinds the head of his cock against your clit. You moan helplessly, head falling back across his shoulder.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And agai–

“Joooooel,” you whine, knees jerking each time his tip meets your most sensitive spot. Heat spins in your stomach.

He backs his hips up “What? Thought you loved this with how much you were gettin’ at it earlier.”

You shake your head rapidly in the negative, chest rising and falling at a breakneck pace while he teases you.

“So you can deal, but you can’t play?”

“I think you’re just taking your sweet old time getting it up, old man,” you grit out, knowing damn well he’s stiffer than titanium behind you.

Joel hums. “Ah, she’s got jokes.” His cock slips back, quickly replaced by his hand engulfing your mound. Your clit twitches ever so slightly against his palm lines, and you’re almost convinced you could get off from that alone. His palm cracks against your cunt again, somehow even harder than the first time. You cry out, eyes burning from arousal and the slightest edge of pain.

With his thumbpad, he taps your clit like he’s just scrolling through the cable guide with a remote. Fleeting movements that have you wanting more more more. It heals the sting of his slap even if the echo of the hit still simmers in your stomach. Your cunt throbs so hard that it hurts, jumping up to meet Joel’s scarce ministrations.

When he retracts his hand, your hips chase the movement. “See this?” he taunts, fluttering his wet fingers in front of your face. You make a choked noise when his drenched middle finger breaches your lips. He doesn’t even need to tell you; you latch on and suck yourself off of his calloused skin. You’re mostly salty, but a little sweet, and tasting yourself on your own tongue by his insistence manages to make you even wetter.

Joel takes his spare fingers, just as soaked, and smears them all around your chin and lower cheeks. He presses down on your tongue as he does. You gag from the pressure, and you can’t hear his laugh over the roaring of your blood in your ears, but you feel it rattle his chest where it meets your spine. Your slick cools quickly against your burning skin, syrupy as it clings to your face. “Need a bib, baby?”

He pulls his finger from your mouth with a pop and your scarf-wrapped hands spring to wipe yourself from your lips, hoping to save yourself from the humiliation of having your own pussy juice anointing your face. You only scoop up a little before Joel lowers his forearm over yours, but for once, you’re faster than him. You swipe your wet hand over his mouth, smudging as much as you can along the scruff surrounding his mouth.

He wraps a burly hand in the scarf and yanks your hands back into place. All you can do in response is giggle, but the breath is swiftly knocked out of you when he drives his cock right into your clit. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?” He asks, and finally grunts as he rolls his hip into you. A break in his resolve, a sign that he wants this, or at least the discipline of this, as badly as you do.

You almost weep from the pressure, that rope of pleasure in your stomach that he keeps knotting tighter and tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock, his fingers. “Joel!” you cry out as he follows it up with another firm swat to your clit. His cock spreads your folds as he softens the bashing, nuzzling his tip against your spasming cunt.

“Really, oughta give standup a go one ‘a these days. Be a real hotshot.”

“Oh yeah?” you pant, light headed and woozy.

“Mhm. If the whole crowd’s drunk.” His cock nudges your nub with a new vigor.

“Assh–”

Right as you’re about to press down and follow the sensation, Joel senses it. His cock gives way through your cheeks, just in time for him to land a ruthless slap across your pussy. It’s harder than the others – makes your ears ring for a second, gives you a sort of visual snow that has you doubling over and gripping at the closest object for purchase, which just so happens to be the metal rods coming out of the headrest. 

“Ain’t what you should be sayin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin’ what you want, sugar,” Joel tuts. He shakes his head at you. “Don’t wanna hear no lip from ya, girl.”

You open your mouth, argument on the tip of your drool-loaded tongue, but your halfhearted attempt at defiance doesn’t last long. Joel’s hand clamps around your chin, denting your skin into your teeth. He jerks your head to face him, knocking you down a peg with scathing eye contact. “You’re pushin’ it.” He loosens his grip.

“As if, Miller. If those pre-Cold War condoms are anything to go by, you’ve been dying for a chance to get your dick wet. Doesn’t matter how much lip I give you, you aren’t gonna blue ball yourself for much longer.” Satisfied, you raise your brows at him.

Turns out, he is going to blue ball himself for much longer, because he lands six slaps in rapid succession across your sopping cunt. The skin smarts, and you cry out. Your grip tightens around the headrest rod to the point of strangling it. Your eyes water, and you can’t tell if you’re crying. Too consumed by Joel, everything has melted into him – the smell of sawdust perpetually sewn into his skin, his cock sealed against your body.

“How many times are ya gonna poke the bear before you learn your lesson, you cheeky little shit?” Joel’s palm cups the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee. He traces circles with his thumb, and heat trails after him with everywhere he touches. “See, the thing about havin’ ‘pre-Cold War condoms’ is that I’ve had a helluva lot more time to learn self control than you. Can wait as loooooong as it takes for you to get your head on right. Don’t matter if you’re waterfallin’ down my seats or not, pretty girl. I’m giving you exactly what ya deserve.”

You whimper, trying (and failing) to get your magma hot core closer to Joel’s unfairly large hand, still splayed out on your inner thigh. You can’t stop how you squirm in his lap, smearing your arousal everywhere with each movement you make.

At a snail’s pace, his hand begins to inch up your leg. Joel pauses to grope at you as his hand travels upward. Handfuls of your skin, rubbing at your scalding hot thighs. Your patience is wearing thin by the time he gets midway there. You need him to touch you. And that’s just the tip of this impossibly destructive iceberg.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have let him go down this shitty backroad, shouldn’t have agreed to your dad’s ridiculous idea of Joel picking you up, shouldn’t have asked to be naked on his lap, shouldn’t have gotten naked on his lap, shouldn’t be leaking like a twenty-year-old pipe in a building he’d been hired to renovate. If your dad ever finds out–

“Joel, please, please – plea…” you trail off, dissolving into incoherent whimpers as his hand hovers over your cunt. You’re running hotter than a radiator now, and if you both wanted to be warm, then you’ve got your wish. Although mostly gibberish, Joel has to understand what you want from him. It’s just that the bastard is unwilling to provide.

Joel reaches down to pinch your clit, and your body can’t even discern from pleasure and pain anymore. You react the same to it all, back arching as you try desperately to plant yourself on his cock. “Shhh, shhh, quit runnin’ your filthy mouth. Only gonna get yourself into more trouble.”

You swear you hear angels singing, swear you see the pearly gates when he gives your clit a merciful rub. Melting into him, you exhale shakily.

“See? All nice ‘n quiet when she’s gettin’ what she wants.” You wouldn’t even dream of mouthing off to him now.

“I want – I need…” you gasp out, putty in his hands. Moldable to his liking. Everything you’d pretended not to want.

“Go on,” he coos. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You don’t even hear him say that word. You’re too hooked on begging, begging, begging. “Please – Joel, oh god, please – I need… I need… please please please, fuck, it hurts–”

Joel clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. Start over. Always such a chatterbox ‘cept for when I need ya to be.”

“Wha…?” you ask, admittedly dazed from the harsh treatment that you’ve come to crave more of.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he repeats, words molasses slow.

You clench, gushing even more all over him. Shit, your next paycheck might have to go to replacing the goddamn seats if you keep up like this.

“D–D… D-” you start stammering out, but you’ve lost autonomy over your body long ago, and apparently that goes for your tongue, too. “Da– Da… pl–”

“Any day now,” he scoffs.

“Daddy!” you spit out all at once. “Please, please, daddy, fuck – fuck me, daddy, please, I want your cock, daddy. Feels so fucking big. Need it daddy, it hurts… please, ngh– daddy!” Tears are burning the corners of your eyes, fueled almost entirely by arousal and partially by frustration. You squirm, cunt crying all over the place. 

“M’kay, baby,” he says. Running a hand down your chest and squeezing your nipple on the way down. He slides his hand down your stomach to cup your mound, giving your clit slow, gentle circles. Your hips jump forward, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. “Daddy’s got ya.”

At the first intrusion of his middle finger in your cunt, you jump. It’s a lot compared to what he’s been giving you, but nowhere near enough. A second finger slips inside. He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out — you’ve been seeping out of you since you first got on his lap. He’s all too quick thrusting them in and out of you – the messy squelch of your pussy filling the backseat has you burying your chin against your chest, averting your eyes. The heel of his palm bumps persistently at your clit with each shift of his fingers inside of you.

“I know you ain’t a virgin, but you’re soakin’ like one. Too damn cocksure to ain’t have had a cock in ya before. Prancin’ around like a glorified dick trap.” You inhale sharply when his fingers scrape that spongy spot inside of you that you can never reach yourself. A moan rips out of you. The combination of him talking down to you and rubbing your g-spot has you dangerously close to cumming. Your moan is quickly swallowed up by more of Joel’s condescension. 

He starts mumbling to himself then, obscenities that make you clench even tighter around his fingers. “Gonna get you all sore baby, make you regret beggin’ for this dick like a horny ‘lil bitch that ain’t ever been laid in her life. Fuck you so hard you’ll be cryin’ for daddy’s cock up your ass instead, turn you into an anal slut, too.” He’s too busy listening to himself talk, too absorbed in his own world to feel you balancing on that razor-thin edge.

The noise you make is inhuman. You pulse around him, doing your best to stave off your impending release. “Daddy–” you warn, but he cuts you off then, too. Joel grinds his cock between your ass cheeks, his precum dripping down your slit to meet your trembling cunt. 

“Ever been fucked here before baby?” He swipes his tip along your asshole, and the way you shudder is answer enough for him. “Don’t get all jumpy, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna fuck ya there right now. Be cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Still, he replaces his tip with his free hand’s thumb, simply rubbing at the ring of muscle. You fidget in his lap without an end-goal. You just want to be close to him, want to take everything he’s willing to give you. His fingers hook just right inside of you. “Would love to be the first to unlock this pretty backdoor. If this tight ‘lil pussy’s anything to go by… Christ. You’d look so pretty squirmin with my cock in your ass, baby–”

“Daddy!” You scream as your orgasm guts you. His fingers and his voice rip your climax right out of you and your cum streams down your inner thighs and Joel’s hand, still smacking against your clit with each thrust. Your cunt spasms around his flexing fingers. He has to fold an arm over your chest to keep you from sliding off his slippery lap entirely.

All the way through the aftershocks that make your limbs quake, Joel holds you upright against his body, still bumping his palm and fingertips against your clit and g-spot. You swear you can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“Didn’t tell ya you could cum, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, flicking his cum covered finger across your clit. You wince in overstimulation, a whine catching in your throat.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” you pant. His hands go up to 

“‘S okay, babygirl. Pretty pussy couldn’t help it when I was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ your ass, huh?” His hands rove up your stomach to play with your tits, palming and stroking, getting his hands all over every carnal part of you.

You hum into his bicep, “Mmmm.”

“That’s alright. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ away with a slap on the wrist though. C’mon, up,” he guides with a small slap to your thigh. You adjust, bringing yourself onto your knees so he can enter you from behind. You look down at his sturdy thighs, flexing as he adjusts himself between your legs. He gives you one more teasing thrust through your thighs, poking your oversensitive clit one more time before reaching down to spread your folds.

You moan as he presses against your entrance, and it’s not the best time to have a come to Jesus moment, but – Joel’s size was in no way over exaggerated between your legs. You stiffen in realization, and Joel, attentive as always, notices. He guides your chin to face him and nuzzles his nose up against yours, mouth tracing down to your lips. Your breath mingles, stagnant in the long-forgotten chill. A cushion of softness against all of his spiky edges that showed up tonight. “You’re on top, baby. Take it as slow or as fast as ya want.”

Nodding at the reminder, you find yourself that you don’t want to take it slow. You want to be as sore as he’d promised, want to feel him for days and be reminded of this every time you look at the winter morning’s frost on the shingles outside.

Sinking down over his throbbing length yanks the air out of your lungs as you seat yourself with him bottoming out and going balls deep in your cunt simultaneously. He grunts against you in surprise, softening the blow of your heady moan. “Attagirl,” he huffs into the crease between your neck and shoulder. It’s a stretch, searing up your thighs and to your lower back. You’re brought back to yourself when Joel rolls his hips into you, making the pain liquefy into mind-numbing pleasure. You spend thirty seconds waiting for him to fuck up into you in a way that changes your philosophy around the world, but instead, he’s still and solid inside of you.

“Go on,” Joel coaxes, placing a steady hand just shy of your mound. “Gotta prove you deserve to cum again.” He taps your thigh as if he’s telling you to giddy up, and the shame warms the back of your neck better than any heater ever could.

You whimper. His hands coast up your thighs, squeezing your hips tight before falling to grip the seats below. You’re still weak from your last orgasm, shaky legs struggling to hold yourself up as it is. “Daddy… I can’t…” 

“Ain’t no different than fuckin’ y’self on that vibrator or dildo or whatever the fuck’s in your nightstand. Girl like you, gotta have a wimpy ‘lil fucktoy somewhere.” His words make you clench around him, and he groans into your neck. Joel looks up at the front window, now covered in snowflakes. He smirks when he spots the rearview mirror. “Oughta make you watch yourself. Show a pathetic, cockstarved slut what happens when she bites off more than she can chew.” At that, you mewl, grinding yourself down. The chuckle he lets out is lined with cruelty.

Joel pins you to his chest with one burly arm and leans forward with a hash of grunts from effort. He reaches out towards the rearview mirror, lowering it to face the middle seat that you’re both braced on. He sinks back quickly, and it almost gives you whiplash before you make eye contact with yourself. You can see everything. Tremors travel up your legs and into your arms. Your body is getting freezer burn from how cold and hot you are at the same time. Pleasured tears threaten to spill over your waterline. Joel’s smug fucking face as he murmurs endlessly at you. 

Your mouth is parted as you take yourself in, truly a pathetic, pretty little picture as you pant. “C’mon,” Joel coaxes, squeezing your ass. “You can do it. Make daddy proud. I’ll even give you a boost.” Joel reaches to your tied hands and quickly undoes the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. You flex your fingers and then reach out for the chairs ahead to get a good grip.

You prop yourself up on your knees, anchoring yourself to the two chairs in front of you. Using a combination of your upper and lower body strength, you rise halfway off of Joel’s cock before your body gives out. His balls slap wetly against your clit. He laughs, still not touching you at all. Your head flops forward as you look down to where the two of you meet, and then at the mirror where his cock is buried deep inside of you. You whine in dismay.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to get you sore. You can only moan. It’s pleasure like you’ve never had it before – too much, not enough, painful, so good. “Please, Joel – I can’t… can’t handle it.”

“I’ll decide what you can handle,” he says.

“You’re– you’re so fucking mean,” you rasp.

“Gets you this soaked, baby. Don’t see your pussy complainin’. You love bein’ treated like a piece ‘a meat. Like a little fleshlight for men to fuck.”

You clench, tight. “Ah!” Joel fucking sniggers behind you, but a rush of confidence spills through you at the underlying moan in his throat.

Determined to get what you want, you tighten your grip on the front seats. Haul yourself up, almost so that the tip slips right out, and then collapse back onto Joel’s cock. And, shit, it’s a lot. You doubt you could handle his cock in missionary, but being made to ride him in such a compromising position, sprawled out across his shitty backseat? That’s an entirely different animal, one that you hadn’t expected to have to handle.

You focus on doing just enough to please him and just enough to keep yourself intact. You repeat your movements two or three times, rising and falling. Little moans and whimpers, some pained, some good when he nudges your g-spot just right, slip in and out of you.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it. Daddy’s ‘lil wannabe pocket pussy. Doin’ a ‘lil better baby. Keep doin’ that. Jus’ keep doin’ that.”

You’re shaking like a leaf on his cock as you somehow manage to lift yourself another time before fucking back on him. “Daaaddy.” Your lips quiver as you form the word. A single tear runs down your face from overexertion, and he’s quick to wipe it up with his thumb as if it was never there. You look truly whorish and pathetic, just like he’d wanted, bouncing on his cock with the last of the energy you have left in you.

His tip jabs against that goddamn spot again, and you double over on the center console. You take heaving breaths, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror, desperate to please as you attempt to keep humping him with the change in angle. You’re letting out strings of disoriented words, but barely can tell that you’re talking.

“I fuck you dumb already? Slutty little girl. Told ya you were in for it. Ain’t ever had much of a knack for listenin’. Gonna dick you down now, sweet girl.” He drags your legs into the crook of his elbows, holding you upright for him as he shifts to his knees between your legs. Braced on the center console with your pussy settled on his cock, the new angle makes you cry out. You hold yourself up on your elbows, giving shallow rolls of your hips in return as Joel gets settled inside of you.

The first thrust makes your eyes roll back so far that you see black. “Feel good?”

“So… so fu–fucking goo… good daddy,” you whimper into the console, gripping the sides of it just so you have something to hold onto.

“Swallowin’ daddy’s dick whole in this greedy cunt. Goddamn, drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. Such a masochistic slut, all after a poundin’ from an old man. All up in a tizzy for this cock.”

You moan your agreement, completely submissive to Joel’s wills. You move like a ragdoll for him, letting him yank you back on his cock while he meets you there, thrust for thrust. He pulls out, a small mercy, but when he sheathes himself back inside of you in full, it’s the beginning of a punishing pace.

You don’t even notice yourself drooling all over the console until Joel says something about it. “Droolin’ from two places. Yeah, baby, you needed this. Daddy’s pretty cockslut.” You whine especially loudly when Joel drags you back across the console, damn near fast enough to give your stomach rugburn. 

Hands framing your spread legs, Joel hooks them both around his torso, using the leverage to plow into you. You’re boneless beneath him, mouth frozen in silent moans. His hips meet your ass with each shove of his cock in your sloppy cunt, the obscene sound of slap after slap pealing out within the truck. “Damn lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Joel growls on another thrust. “Someone woulda been knockin’ on the window long time ago with how loud you’re bein’.”

“Mmph,” you gasp when Joel tosses one of your legs up and over the passenger seat. You hold yourself there as he digs his fingers into your other thigh, shifting his spare hand to your mound.

“Daddy please please please plea–” you start panting like a broken record, desperate to feel his hand on your clit, which throbs with inattention on the console. You grind frantically on the edge just in case he denies you again. 

Joel laughs above you, fully smudging two fingers across your clit in a blur of indescribable pleasure. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg this time. Can’t wait to feel ya creamin’ ‘round me… maybe I’ll make ya lick that up too. Nasty bitch.”

“Joooel, oh fuck, please…” you whine as he continues railing you, this time fiercely tweaking your clit in-time with his movements.

The new position has his thrusts meeting your cervix, and you scream, pleasure corkscrewing through your body. There’s nowhere for all of it to go with how viciously it burns in your stomach – all you can do is take it and whine for him. “Takin’ it real good. See what happens when ya behave? You get this fat cock splittin’ your whore cunt in two, jus’ like you were askin’ for.”

He grips your hip tight, clearly expecting an answer. You slur, “Mhm, daddy!”

Joel rubs faster circles around your clit, spouting filth while he drills your pussy. You can tell he’s chasing his own release, too, hips frantically fucking in and out of you, his cock twitching every single time you clench. You’re burning up as he jackhammers your pussy. Your second orgasm of the night brims low in your stomach, “Come on, baby, know you’re close. Feel this slutty pussy squeezin’ me. You gonna ask permission like a good girl this time, or are ya gonna go back to your defiant little slut self?”

“No, daddy,” you whimper, suspended in thin air over orgasmic bliss. He’s rubbing your clit erratically, doing everything he can to hold you in place. “P-please daddy, can I come?” You practically scream it out.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Come for daddy’s, come allll over daddy’s cock.”

The band snaps. Your back arches, and you feel time stop in the second before you fall slack on the console, spasming from the best orgasm of your fucking life. Your clit feels like there’s fucking pop rocks on it, something that not even your vibrator has ever achieved. “Thank you daddy!” you cry out, repeating it as you lose all feeling in your bones. You hardly have any control over your body anymore – it’s just Joel Joel Joel Joel. Sated and weary, you just lay there, letting Joel fuck into you.

And fuck into you he does – roughly, helping you ride out your orgasm as he pursues his. “That’s my girl,” he says, and you swear that alone could make you cum all over again. “Lettin’ your daddy use this juicy, well-fucked cunt to get his own.” He can’t hold back his moans, that’s how you know he’s close, grunting and gasping as he rocks his hips into yours. His hand lands on your ass in a sharp smack, and your pussy clenches in exactly the way that he expected. He lets out a particularly ragged noise, folding himself over you to nip at your neck and rest his forehead against your shoulder blade. “Daddy’s close, where do ya want me, baby?”

“Tits,” you whine. It’s a miracle you can even get that one word out, but somehow, you manage a few more. “Come on my tits, daddy.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, yanking himself over you. You help him roll yourself over and sit up on your elbows, and he jerks himself once, twice, before spraying his load all over your tits with the loudest groan yet. His brows fold together as he cums, eyes drooping and his mouth parted as he takes deep breaths.

You sit there for a handful of heavy minutes, listening to each other’s jagged breathing and the sawtoothed wind outside. You’re both so fucked. Literally, and figuratively. Stuck in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, you with your dad’s proclaimed bestie’s cum drying on your tits, and said bestie staring at you with post-coital puppy dog eyes and your cum all over his balls.

You’re the first to speak up, still winded. “That was… that was good.”

Joel nods mindlessly, tongue swiping out to lick his lips. He beckons you closer, and on trembling legs, you bring yourself to the backseat. You return to your previous position, huddled up and curled next to the door. Joel fumbles around under the back bench for a little until he comes up with a small, sunbleached pack of princess-themed pocket tissues that have to be as old as Sarah is. He dabs at your chest before stuffing them into the closest empty cupholder, and then brings you closer to his chest.

You don’t notice yourself falling asleep when all you can feel is Joel.

There’s better ways to wake up than a furious rapping on the window, but that isn’t the first thing you notice. You blink your eyes open groggily, only to face an egg yolk sun cracking wide open over the treeline and snowmelt bleeding out from every given surface. Joel’s behind you, nose in your neck, snoring softly with his arms wrapped around your middle. You take a moment to admire him – his sun kissed skin and his peaceful expression. It takes you a moment to remember you slept with him. You slept with Joel, and it was the best fuck of your life.

You’re stretching, on the verge of a yawn, when you see the familiar head of black hair over the window. “Shit!” you shout. Joel jerks to life behind you, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘what?’. 

You scramble to pull the coat over the both of you from where it fell off of you in the middle of the night, covering your naked bodies. “Get dressed!” you hiss to Joel, searching for wherever the fuck your panties ended up last night.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya–” he starts, and you feel the exact moment that he realizes Tommy Miller is outside of the truck. “Motherfucker,” he curses, swaying towards the front seat to snag his clothes. You see him almost put his head through his T-shirt armhole three times before he gets it right. His sweatpants are next, which he tugs up his bare legs without even searching for his boxers.

“Joel?” Tommy shouts outside. “Wake up, sleepin’ beauty!” He knocks on the door again, the windows blurry from melting snow. You have that to thank, at least. It buys you enough time to tug your polo over your head, but not enough time to button it all the way up.

“Fuckin’... dumbass,” Joel huffs as he clips the lock on the door and kicks it open, looking at least somewhat composed. You take deep breaths, looking between the two of them. “How’d you find us?”

Tommy looks Joel up and down, scrutinizing him. “What happened to southern gentleman manners? I came out here to save ya from Mt. Everest, brother! Least you could say is ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” you fill in for Joel, even if the last thing you’re feeling is grateful.

“Her daddy threw a hissy fit, y’know? Told him you were fine and we’d go lookin’ for ya in the mornin’. We saw all that backup on the highway, I went this way, he went that way, turns out my gut was right. ‘Course my dumbass brother would take this route… hey, you’re truck’s a fuckin’ mess.” Tommy sinks his hand into the closest cupholder, pulling out a wad of tissues that have been soaked in his cum. You hiss as if you’ve been scalded with boiling hot water.

Joel starts, “Tommy–”

“What the fuck is this shit?” The realization seems to dawn on poor Tommy when he’s peeling apart the tissues, and he drops them like they’re a thousand pounds. You can’t even bring yourself to scold him for littering as the wind carries them away. “Joel. You dirty dog!” He says, eyes flitting between the two of you like it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

Your heart picks up to a speed that can rival most NASCAR drivers and your face burns like hot asphalt. You look pointedly down at the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel seethes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get outta here, you little shit.”

Tommy’s hands go up. “Hey now, I ain’t doin’ anything. That is not a conversation I wanna have with her daddy.” He clears his throat, effectively clearing the air along with it. “So, uh, truck break down?” Joel grunts in affirmation.

“Been tellin’ ya you need to make a stop at the auto shop… C’mon, I’ll get y'all home,” Tommy says, jingling the keys to his own truck. “Call a tow on the way.”

Joel drags his feet all the way to Tommy’s passenger side. You get your wallet and jacket together, winding the latter around your waist. The sun almost blinds you on your way out, and Tommy stops you.

“I hope you didn’t let ‘im stick it to ya with them prehistoric condoms. You’re smarter ‘n that.”

“God, no,” you huff out.

“I dunno what’s stupider, lettin’ my asshole brother hit it raw or gettin’ a UTI–”

“Okay!” you announce, hands going up as you round the back of Tommy’s truck. “Conversation over.” You’re still smiling playfully at Tommy as you clamber into the back of the truck, sighing when the air conditioner hits.

Just like that, back to the same old same old sunny, shithole state of Texas. Joel looks at you in the rearview mirror and winks at you. You guess not everything has to stay the same these days.

[5ummit]

AO3 Ship Stats: Year In Bad Data

You may have seen this AO3 Year In Review.

It hasn’t crossed my tumblr dash but it sure is circulating on twitter with 3.5M views, 10K likes, 17K retweets and counting. Normally this would be great! I love data and charts and comparisons!

Except this data is GARBAGE and belongs in the TRASH.

I first noticed something fishy when I realized that Steve/Bucky – the 5th largest ship on AO3 by total fic count – wasn’t on this Top 100 list anywhere. I know Marvel’s popularity has fallen in recent years, but not that much. Especially considering some of the other ships that made it on the list. You mean to tell me a femslash HP ship (Mary MacDonald/Lily Potter) in which one half of the pairing was so minor I had to look up her name because she was only mentioned once in a single flashback scene beat fandom juggernaut Stucky? I call bullshit.

Now obviously jumping to conclusions based on gut instinct alone is horrible practice... but it is a good place to start. So let’s look at the actual numbers and discover why this entire dataset sits on a throne of lies.

Here are the results of filtering the Steve/Bucky tag for all works created between Jan 1, 2023 and Dec 31, 2023:

Not only would that place Steve/Bucky at #23 on this list, if the other counts are correct (hint: they're not), it’s also well above the 1520-new-work cutoff of the #100 spot. So how the fuck is it not on the list? Let’s check out the author’s FAQ to see if there’s some important factor we’re missing.

The first thing you’ll probably notice in the FAQ is that the data is being scraped from publicly available works. That means anything privated and only accessible to logged-in users isn’t counted. This is Sin #1. Already the data is inaccurate because we’re not actually counting all of the published fics, but the bots needed to do data collection on this scale can't easily scrape privated fics so I kinda get it. We’ll roll with this for now and see if it at least makes the numbers make more sense:

Nope. Logging out only reduced the total by a couple hundred. Even if one were to choose the most restrictive possible definition of "new works" and filter out all crossovers and incomplete fics, Steve/Bucky would still have a yearly total of 2,305. Yet the list claims their total is somewhere below 1,500? What the fuck is going on here?

Let’s look at another ship for comparison. This time one that’s very recent and popular enough to make it on the list so we have an actual reference value for comparison: Nick/Charlie (Heartstopper). According to the list, this ship sits at #34 this year with a total of 2630 new works. But what’s AO3 say?

Off by a hundred or so but the values are much closer at least!

If we dig further into the FAQ though we discover Sin #2 (and the most egregious): the counting method. The yearly fic counts are NOT determined by filtering for a certain time period, they’re determined by simply taking a snapshot of the total number of fics in a ship tag at the end of the year and subtracting the previous end-of-year total. For example, if you check a ship tag on Jan 1, 2023 and it has 10,000 fics and check it again on Jan 1, 2024 and it now has 12,000 fics, the difference (2,000) would be the number of "new works" on this chart.

At first glance this subtraction method might seem like a perfectly valid way to count fics, and it’s certainly the easiest way, but it can and did have major consequences to the point of making the entire dataset functionally meaningless. Why? If any older works are deleted or privated, every single one of those will be subtracted from the current year fic count. And to make the problem even worse, beginning at the end of last year there was a big scare about AI scraping fics from AO3, which caused hundreds, if not thousands, of users to lock down their fics or delete them.

The magnitude of this fuck up may not be immediately obvious so let’s look at an example to see how this works in practice.

Say we have two ships. Ship A is more than a decade old with a large fanbase. Ship B is only a couple years old but gaining traction. On Jan 1, 2023, Ship A had a catalog of 50,000 fics and ship B had 5,000. Both ships have 3,000 new works published in 2023. However, 4% of the older works in each fandom were either privated or deleted during that same time (this percentage is was just chosen to make the math easy but it’s close to reality).

Ship A: 50,000 x 4% = 2,000 removed works Ship B: 5,000 x 4% = 200 removed works

Ship A: 3,000 - 2,000 = 1,000 "new" works Ship B: 3,000 - 200 = 2,800 "new" works

This gives Ship A a net gain of 1,000 and Ship B a net gain of 2,800 despite both fandoms producing the exact same number of new works that year. And neither one of these reported counts are the actual new works count (3,000). THIS explains the drastic difference in ranking between a ship like Steve/Bucky and Nick/Charlie.

How is this a useful measure of anything? You can't draw any conclusions about the current size and popularity of a fandom based on this data.

With this system, not only is the reported "new works" count incorrect, the older, larger fandom will always be punished and it’s count disproportionately reduced simply for the sin of being an older, larger fandom. This example doesn’t even take into account that people are going to be way more likely to delete an old fic they're no longer proud of in a fandom they no longer care about than a fic that was just written, so the deletion percentage for the older fandom should theoretically be even larger in comparison.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the author of this "study" KNEW the data was tainted and chose to present it as meaningful anyway. You will only find this if you click through to the FAQ and read about the author’s methodology, something 99.99% of people will NOT do (and even those who do may not understand the true significance of this problem):

The author may try to argue their post states that the tags "which had the greatest gain in total public fanworks” are shown on the chart, which makes it not a lie, but a error on the viewer’s part in not interpreting their data correctly. This is bullshit. Their chart CLEARLY titles the fic count column “New Works” which it explicitly is NOT, by their own admission! It should be titled “Net Gain in Works” or something similar.

Even if it were correctly titled though, the general public would not understand the difference, would interpret the numbers as new works anyway (because net gain is functionally meaningless as we've just discovered), and would base conclusions on their incorrect assumptions. There’s no getting around that… other than doing the counts correctly in the first place. This would be a much larger task but I strongly believe you shouldn’t take on a project like this if you can’t do it right.

To sum up, just because someone put a lot of work into gathering data and making a nice color-coded chart, doesn’t mean the data is GOOD or VALUABLE.

[foxy-eva]

Damaged Goods

Summary: The belief that they were both undeserving of love led Spencer and Reader into each other's arms. If they can’t find love, they can at least soothe their need for physical affection, right?

“You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.” - Anita Ofokansi

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut, Angst with a hopeful ending

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) negative self-talk and self-deprecation (both Reader and Spencer, also in the context of sex!), implied past trauma (nothing explicit), some dark/cynical humor, loneliness, crying (also during sex), showering together, oral (fem receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

Author’s Note: I hope you guys are ready for some smangst! This is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Friends with Benefits challenge! 

Word count: 4.3k

Masterlist

It was as if Spencer had expected you when he opened his door, a sympathetic smile spread over his face and the first buttons of his shirt already undone. As if he had known that you weren’t planning on wasting any time to get him undressed once you stepped inside his apartment. 

“He stood you up, huh?” Spencer concluded after reading your expression. 

A defeated sigh escaped your lips. “I don't even know why I still try with those stupid dating apps.”

“Probably because you don't want to end up old and alone like me,” he chuckled, his tone laced with cynicism. 

“You're not old,” you countered as you stepped closer to him. “And right now you’re not alone either.”

“Technically correct.”

You came to a halt not even an arm’s length away from him. His sight wandered over your face, obviously trying to interpret your current state of mind. It was rare that Spencer made the first step in your encounters. It was important to him to make sure you were the one in control. 

“I need you, Spencer,” you finally confessed. 

There was a certain desperation audible in your voice but it was nothing Spencer hadn’t heard before. He stepped towards you to close the distance between your bodies. 

“Come here,” he whispered as he placed his hands on your waist. 

What Spencer had to offer was the next best thing to love you could get. So you didn’t hesitate to give into the temptation of feeling his body pressed against yours for the umpteenth time in those past few weeks. 

Unlike the men before him, Spencer was not scared to get close to you even after telling him the secrets from your past. He didn't budge when you tried to push him away, well aware of the darkness he’d face once he stepped closer. He wasn’t afraid that you could suck him into the void that captured the place in your chest where your heart once was. 

What he saw when he looked into the abyss that was your soul felt familiar, almost comforting. It reminded him of the demons that possessed his own soul. It broke his heart to see you hurting. However, as morbid as it was, it also made him feel less lonely in his own suffering. 

One particularly lonely night a few weeks ago led you into his arms for the first time – and subsequently into his bed – to at least soothe the yearning for physical affection.

There was no romantic attraction to be found between the two of you. You came to an agreement that you were both too marred to even speak of romance hypothetically. Too large was the risk of  potential self-destruction that could follow a union of two such damaged hearts. 

This was a purely physical thing – a way to pretend that your love lives weren’t completely doomed. Sleeping with Spencer was like committing to a symbiosis, a mutual agreement to use the other’s body to appease this pain that wouldn’t go away. 

You reminded yourself of that when his lips made contact with yours that night. He kissed you like a starving man, never quite able to satiate the burning hunger of his soul. What you had to offer was good enough for now, though. 

As he walked you into his bedroom, it almost felt like following a routine the two of you had adopted. Just a few skilled movements were enough to stand completely bare in front of each other, greedy hands groping whatever flesh was in reach. 

When you finally lay down on the mattress, Spencer’s lips chased every curve and dip of your body, almost as if he was determined to find the secret remedy to finally end your suffering. 

Only there was none. 

The inner turmoil never went away but during those hours you were able to tune it out. It was nothing but a distant memory once Spencer laid down between your legs. He collected your honeyed wetness on his tongue until you were squirming underneath him, desperate to find relief. 

“Not yet,” he breathed as he sat up between your legs. 

He leaned over you, sharing your own taste with you as he kissed you again. At the same moment his tongue entered your mouth, you could feel his hardness pressing into your entrance. There was no need to be reluctant, no moment of questioning if what you were doing would taint the other one. His mouth left your lips to bite into your neck instead, unafraid that his venom could ever hurt you. 

Everything I touch starts rotting, Spencer once chuckled when you tried to save one of his house plants. Cynical as ever, he had said it with a grin on his face but you knew that there was more meaning behind his words than he would ever admit.

It was different with you, though. The damage had already been done by the hands of other people. There was no innocence that could have been defiled. There was nothing Spencer could do to wound you worse than them, no matter how little he thought of himself. 

Maybe that was the real reason it was so easy for him to lose himself inside your embrace. You could see it in his eyes as he entered you. He was allowed to be himself with you, to feel lust and affection despite his hardship, despite the lack of true love. 

Those sensations were a mutual experience, too. With Spencer you were never worried about being rejected. Together you had created your own safe space, a bright pink bubble within the darkness where you could truly be yourselves with one another. 

In perfect unity you began moving with each other, each thrust of hips answered by your body grinding against him. Together you chased the feeling of sweet release, the moment of pure bliss. 

“Fuck,” Spencer muttered against your lips, announcing that it wouldn’t be much longer now. 

You slowed down your movements, desperately trying to prolong this moment, to indulge some more in this short reprieve of the mess that was your life. 

“Please, hold on,” you begged him as you felt tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. 

Suddenly and without a warning Spencer stopped moving to kiss away the tears from your cheeks instead. He tasted the saline on your skin and imagined that it had been kissed by the ocean instead of the cruel reality.

“Are you okay?” He cooed when he found your eyes.

“No,” you breathed. “But when am I ever?” 

“Do you want to stop?” He offered, obviously concerned with you. 

You shook your head as you pushed against his shoulders to urge him to lie down beside you. Climbing into his lap, you found your place on top of him while Spencer’s hands grabbed your hips. 

“Is that okay?” You wanted to make sure before continuing. 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “You know very well that I need this just as much as you do.” 

With your hand wrapped around his length you guided him into your body once more. Spencer threw his head back into the pillow as you started moving at a slow, almost torturous pace. Not much time passed until the both of you danced along the edge of euphoria again. 

It only took a few skilled motions until you finally fell over the edge, taking Spencer right with you. The high subsided a lot quicker than you would have liked and with that the bright pink bubble you had created burst again.

Spencer held you for the rest of the night, even after the both of you had long fallen asleep. Only when morning came did he dare to let go of your body as he got out of bed. When you heard him turn on the shower, your entire body began tingling as the longing to bask in the warmth his skin radiated became overwhelming. 

With quiet steps you approached the bathroom and opened the door. 

“Do you need something?” You heard Spencer’s voice from behind the shower curtain. 

You stepped closer to the shower before asking, “Can I join you?” 

“Of course.” He pulled back the curtain to let you step in, offering a hand so you wouldn’t slip. 

It was only a little awkward to stand in front of Spencer completely naked in bright daylight. He didn’t hesitate to pull you into his arms, sharing both the warm water and the heat his body provided with you. You weren’t sure what it was exactly that you were looking for when you joined him in his morning shower, but it was nice to just be close to him. 

You stepped back to find his eyes and he noticed your ambivalence. Before he had a chance to ask, you giggled, “I’m trying to decide whether I want to get clean or dirty.”

Spencer joined you with his own laughter. “Well,” he chuckled as he grabbed the shampoo bottle, “let’s start by getting you clean.” 

He began shampooing your hair as if it was the most natural thing in the world to him. This act of innocent affection shocked your entire system. Suddenly you were unable to form a coherent sentence, the only thing that mattered in that moment was the sensation of Spencer running his fingertips over your scalp. A part of you wanted to fight this experience of being taken care of but a much bigger, much more desperate part simply indulged in the sensation. 

When you couldn’t get much cleaner, you reciprocated this pure act. Spencer didn’t resist, instead his body became pliable under your touch as you helped him wash his hair and skin. It almost felt like a sacred act to rid him of the remaining soap. Your sight followed the bubbles as they ran down his legs and disappeared in the drain. 

You couldn’t quite explain it but somehow this shower felt more intimate than any sexual act you had shared in the past. It wasn’t your intention but it felt like something between the two of you had shifted as you stepped out of the bathroom and got dressed. 

It felt like the safest option to lighten the mood with your usual playful banter. 

“My therapist said something stupid the other day,” you finally broke the silence. 

“Did she say that you should stop sleeping with me? Because then I might need to have a serious conversation with her,” Spencer joked. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Reid. I never mention you in therapy,” you lied. 

He saw right through you but let it go anyway. “Right,” he said instead. 

Spencer walked right behind you as you made your way over to his kitchen to make some coffee. 

“She said that I need to start learning to love myself before someone else can fall in love with me.” The coffee maker made a hissing noise right as the last word left your lips. 

“Yikes,” Spencer deadpanned. “Good luck with that.”

“I know, right? I’ll probably end up old and alone like you,” you snickered.  

Spencer laughed at your words. “I was talking about the coffee maker but I deserved that.” 

The ringing of your phone distracted you from your mission to make coffee. When you got it out of your purse, you saw a message from the guy who stood you up last night. 

“The guy from last night is asking for another date. Apparently he didn’t show up because of some work emergency,” you explained with your eyes still glued to the screen. 

Spencer huffed in response. “You're not seriously considering it?” 

“What choice do I have? It’s not like people are lining up to finally date me.”

He rolled his eyes as he poured some coffee in a mug. “He’s not the right person for you. You should say no,” was his final advice. 

“That's the thing with damaged goods though, isn’t it? People can sense that we are not worthy of their time, that they can do better. So we have no choice than to settle for something, or rather someone not quite perfect.”

Months ago you had come to an agreement to stop cheering each other up when it came to your love lives. There was a mutual understanding that telling the other one they would for sure get their happily-ever-after soon didn't help at all. It was sort of comforting to be able to talk about the unadorned truth with one another. 

“There's a difference between not quite perfect and absolute dipshit though,” Spencer retorted.

His choice of words made you laugh. It was rare that Spencer used crude language but he never minced matters when talking about your Tinder chronicles.  

He found your eyes and added, “You deserve better than that.”

Half jokingly, half seriously you asked, “Do I really?” 

A smirk formed on his face when he teased, “Well…” 

You playfully punched his arm and laughed, “Don't be a dick, Spencer! Now I’m going to go on this date out of spite!”

Spencer had seen the worst of you and he was aware that you’d probably fall back into old habits quickly, even if that guy was decent. That poor man didn't stand a chance to fight through all those walls you had so carefully built to protect your heart.

There was another, unspoken reason why the two of you had stopped cheering each other up so long ago. In the unlikely case that you would actually finally find your soulmate, what would that mean for Spencer? That he had been more broken than you all along?

It’s not that he didn't want you to find happiness. But the thought that he might be left behind was devastating. Ending up old and alone was only a tolerable thought if he could have you by his side. 

So Spencer did what he knew best and started pushing you away.

Several days passed without hearing a word from him. It wasn’t the first time this had happened and it was nothing you could hold against him – you had done the same thing before. It couldn't have been a coincidence that right when you were supposed to leave for your date, you found yourself standing in front of Spencer’s apartment door instead. 

Three firm knocks announced your presence. You heard some shuffling on the other side of the door but he didn't open. It was to be expected. You got his spare key out from your purse to enter his place uninvited. 

It was the couch where you found him, his arms wrapped around his knees, making him appear so much smaller than he really was. He was wearing an old Caltech shirt and sweatpants and his hair looked even more unruly than usual. The redness around his eyes revealed that he had been crying.

Instead of greeting you, he groaned, “I shouldn't have given you my key.”

“Well,” you shrugged as you sat down beside him. “Too late.”

“I mean it, you shouldn't be here.”

“Nice try,” you quipped. “You should know by now that you can't scare me off that easily.” 

The truth was that he didn't want you to leave, even when the words that left his mouth claimed the opposite. You had proven to him over and over again that no matter how many of his scars he let you see, you stayed.

Old habits die hard, though. So he still tried walking away, even if he wouldn't get far. You watched as he disappeared in the bedroom and threw the door shut behind him. The sound didn't even make you flinch. 

Slowly you counted to ten before you got up to follow him. He knew you better than that but he still had a surprised expression on his face when he saw you walking through his bedroom door. A part of him still believed that there would come a point where all this darkness became too overwhelming even for you. 

“I won’t leave,” you reminded him, a loving softness laced over your voice. 

You sat down beside him on the bed when he started crying again. To your surprise he didn’t wince when you reached for his hand. 

“Talk to me,” you finally offered.

“You don't understand,” Spencer whimpered. “I feel so alone.”

Right as the words left his lips, he looked up at you, tears still running down his cheeks. He looked at you and remembered that what he said was wrong. 

Because you did understand. 

And he knew that very well. 

That was when he remembered that it wasn’t his apartment you should be at right now. He took a deep breath before wiping away his tears. 

“You're gonna be late for your date,” he stated, his eyes glued to the floor. 

Your words were genuine when you countered, “You're so much more important than a stupid date, Spencer.”

After hearing those words, he leaned over to catch your lips with his without a warning. The fervor he displayed knocked the air out of your lungs. He kissed you greedily, his hands grabbing your waist to push you against his body. 

His tongue begged for entrance and you granted it, melting into him with this kiss that tasted more salty than you would have liked. How easy it would have been to fall back into your old routine, to lose yourself inside his arms as you both chased a quick solution to a problem that couldn't be fixed. 

His hands started searching for the softness your body had to offer, calloused fingertips brushing over the velvet of the skin he found underneath your shirt. It was not like you didn't yearn for it too, for this make-believe game you liked to play. More than anything did you crave the sensation of his touch, this moment that briefly let you forget all the marks past lovers had left on your body. 

It didn't feel right, though. Not anymore. 

Spencer instantly sensed your hesitance and pulled back to find your eyes. Never before had he looked more vulnerable than in that moment. 

“I don't think it’s a good idea,” you breathed as your hands found his face to wipe his tears away. 

Spencer pulled away from you, denying you the access to his skin. 

“So it's okay if you cry during sex, but when I do it, that's where you draw the line?” He huffed. 

The harshness of his words shocked you but you could see the regret in his eyes instantly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

You reached for his hand as you softly spoke, “It’s okay. You're upset, I get it.” 

Several moments of silence passed. Seconds of contemplating how to proceed until you decided to offer him the comfort he craved anyway. 

You leaned in for another kiss. It was a lot softer and slower than before but Spencer took what he could get. When you got ahold of the hem of his shirt to take it off, he pulled back. 

“Wait, I’m not sure about this,” he stuttered. “I don't want you to feel like–”

“Spencer,” you interrupted him. “Do you trust me?”

A quiet breath fell from his lips before he nodded. “More than I ever thought possible.”

With that there was no more resistance to be found when you continued undressing him. He moved with you until only underwear was covering your bodies. 

“Lie down,” you cooed and he did as you said. 

Unlike your previous encounters, it was apparent that what the both of you craved was not sex this time. You laid down beside him to pull him into your arms, no distance allowed between the two of you. His skin was pressed against yours, so much so that it became impossible to tell where your body ended and his began. 

He left featherlight kisses on your neck before resting his head against your shoulder. You held him as close as you could, not daring to loosen the grip you had around his body. 

With his arms and legs all bent and folded to fit inside your embrace, there was no more trace of the tall man he usually was. He seemed small, almost fragile. Even more so when another fit of sobs shot through his body. 

Spencer trembled inside your arms and you held him. You held him until he had successfully cried himself to sleep.

At least that was what you thought. The harbingers of your own slumber had already begun numbing your senses when you suddenly felt his lips brushing over your cheek. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” he whispered almost inaudibly. 

I know, you thought but were already too far gone to answer him. 

When you opened your eyes the next morning, you found Spencer already awake, looking at you. His eyes were still a bit swollen but his facial features looked soft, almost content. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whined as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Like what?” He mumbled. 

“Like a lovesick fool!” 

Spencer didn't seem surprised at your words. It seemed like he was aware that you had heard what he said to you last night. 

“What if I am?” He asked, a smirk spread over his face. 

Now was not the time for your usual sarcastic banter. Not when everything you had with him was about to implode. 

You sat up in the bed and warned him, “Stop it, Spencer.”

He shook his head, “I can’t keep pretending. It’s the truth.”

You got up to get dressed while you huffed, “How can it be true after you have seen the worst of me.”

“I have seen the worst of you and I still love you.”

You started pacing up and down his bedroom, trying to come up with something to say to that. Spencer got up too and put his clothes on. You came to a halt about an arm’s length away from him before you said, “This is not what love should feel like.”

“How would you know?” He countered. 

His words seemed cruel but they were true. You didn't know what love actually felt like. There was this image you had in your head of an innocent, saccharine kind of love that probably only existed in fiction.  

Spencer didn't let it go just yet. There was a certain insecurity audible in his voice when he practically begged you, “Look at me and tell me that you don’t feel the same way ” 

Instead of looking at him, your sight fell to the floor. “What I feel is the urge to leave.”

It was to be expected that this would be your reaction. Spencer knew you well enough to be aware of the risk he took by confessing his feelings. He suspected that you reciprocated them but were still too afraid to admit it. 

He stepped out of your way and gestured towards the door. “I’m not gonna stop you.”

To your own surprise, you hesitated.  

“What are we doing, Spencer?”

A very timid smile appeared on his face when he realized that you didn't follow your instincts to leave. Maybe there was hope after all. 

“I’m not sure,” Spencer answered. “…but I’m willing to find out.”

It wasn’t like this thought had never crossed your mind. In fact, there was a part of your brain that sometimes overpowered anything else and let you fantasize about a potential future with him. 

However, you were very familiar with the demons Spencer had to fight every day. And you were even more aware of your own darkness. You were afraid that the combination of those things might become a poisonous mixture that had the potential to destroy the both of you. 

So it was only logical to voice your concerns. “I don’t think I can make you happy.” 

“It’s not your job to make me happy,” he sighed. “But maybe there is a chance that we could find happiness together. In little those moments, just like before, when we woke up together. Or when we took a shower the other day. Maybe those little things add up one day to something bigger. To something better. Something worth taking the risk.” 

You looked at the door once more but decided to sit down at his bedside instead of leaving. 

You found his eyes and breathed, “Okay.” 

Spencer sat down beside you. “Okay?”

What you had with him was imperfect and not at all what you had imagined. Some might think what you were about to do was stupid, maybe even reckless. It was only a matter of time until one of you got hurt, got caught in the crossfire of the intensity of your emotions. But maybe it was worth giving it a chance. 

Yes, some might call it reckless. But in that moment you thought of it as bravery. 

“Yes.” You confirmed. “Let’s give it a try.” 

A split second after you said those words, you felt Spencer’s lips on yours. The kiss felt different than the ones before. There was no desperation or insatiable hunger noticeable in his actions. This kiss was sweet, almost innocent. It was a way to melt into one another with no hurry, no need to compensate for something you’d never truly experience. 

Soon you were both shedding each layer of clothing before lying down on the bed to continue the kiss without any barrier between you. His chest was firmly pressed against yours and you could feel his heart thumping against your skin, almost as if it was looking for its counterpart inside your ribcage. 

You could feel your heart calling out to him. For the first time you didn't want to be with him to shield your heart from the rest of the world, no. This time you wanted to open up, to give Spencer a chance to feel your affection.

“I love you,” you whispered between kisses. 

He leaned back to smile at you and you could feel how his love entered your body, how it was on a mission to bring light to even the darkest corners of your soul.

“I love you, too.”

Please like, reblog and leave a comment! I need your lovely words to stay motivated to write more stories.

Taglist: @nomajdetective @reidsbookclub @gspenc @samuel-de-champagne-problems @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @malindacath @luredwithpretzels @reidselle @alexxavicry @frickin-bats @spencersprettyslut @sebs-oxygen @happymangospot @cynbx @hotchandspencearedilfs @kobaltdragon @castiels-majestic-wings @emiliaserpe @velvetthunder93 @saturnstringz @missabsey @spencerslove @guacam011y @hugyourlungs @reiderwriter @hales-17 @loaksulluyswife @ecneremili @xserenax-13 @grumpyy-bearr @super-nerd22 @pleasantwitchgarden @r-3dlips @evvy96 @torigorie @meyaareads @luvdella @bunnylovesani @spenciesslut @billie-lover8 @indyvelazquez @evrmorets

[lulu-4-u]

TOUCH IT

ship: gojo x fem!empath!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (p in v, fingering); overstimulation word count: 7.0k (omg, i forgot to post this; it was originally supposed to be 2-parts but i just let it all stay together 🥹long fic again, i promise kast time jajaja... )

The strongest sorcerer to ever live, in all the heavens and the earth, feared by cursed spirits alike, was… bored.

Lounging in his seat, Gojo Satoru let out a low hum, his head tipped back lazily as the council droned on and on about his newest mission.

The weight of the room was thick with tension, but none of it seemed to touch him. His fingers tapped a careless rhythm on the armrest, legs spread out in front of him, exuding a carelessness that bordered on irreverence.

"…growing threat…potentially catastrophic…dangerous sorcerer…" The words buzzed around his head like an annoying fly he had no intention of swatting away.

He exhaled through his nose, continuing his little hum as the head councilman's voice grew more insistent. The man's brows were knitted together, speaking with all the gravity that someone in his position ought to muster.

But it was all white noise to Satoru—at least, until—

"Gojo."

A beat.

"Gojo, this is serious. Pay attention..." The councilman's voice sliced through the monotony, sharp enough to make him lazily shift his head to the side.

Slowly, Satoru turned his head, letting his neck roll as he turned his attention to the source of the command. His eyes, usually hidden behind his shades, seemed to sharpen with the motion, focusing like a hawk about to strike.

Even through the dark lenses, the icy intensity of his gaze bore down on the man. His smile stayed in place—easy, almost playful—but his stare was dead.

Empty.

It was a predator's look, concealed beneath the mask of casual indifference.

A tremor rippled through the room. The councilmen around him shifted in their seats, unease crawling up their spines as they suddenly remembered exactly who they were addressing.

The strongest. The untouchable. The one who smiled but never truly revealed his hand.

"So..." Satoru's voice was deceptively light, a mocking tilt to his words as he spoke. "You want me to take out this 'big bad' or whatever, yeah? Because they're, like, super dangerous and might cause some, I dunno, world-ending chaos?" He let the sentence drag, his smile never faltering, but his eyes remained locked on the councilman like a wolf sizing up its prey. "That about sum it up?"

The councilman, clearly rattled, swallowed hard. His voice faltered as he stammered out a weak, "Y-yes, correct."

Satoru sighed, long and exaggerated, before standing up in one smooth motion. His towering frame unfolded effortlessly, drawing every eye in the room.

Stretching his arms above his head, he dragged a hand through his snowy hair, letting out a groan as though this entire affair was just a mild inconvenience to him. "Alright, alright," he drawled, adjusting his shades as he flashed them another easy grin. "Let's just get this over with."

You were carefully decorating the last of the cupcakes, smoothing the frosting into perfect swirls, when the familiar ding of the bakery bell rang through the back. "Just a minute!" you called out, wiping your hands on the apron tied snugly around your waist.

It was just you on the morning shift today—your coworker had called out last minute, promising to take your afternoon shift so you wouldn't have to pull a double.

Not something you were unfamiliar with, but still, it left you scrambling to deal with the shop alone.

Your fingers were still a little sticky with frosting, and you knew there were probably a few smudges on your face, but you couldn’t keep a customer waiting.

Quickly, you smoothed your apron down, pushing through the swinging door that led to the front of the shop.

As you stepped behind the counter, the first thing you noticed was a figure crouched down, examining the glass display case where rows of colorful cupcakes, cakes, and pastries were lined up neatly.

From your angle, you could only see their side profile—a tall, lean figure, slightly hunched as they squatted low, eyes fixed on the sugary treats.

You scurried behind the register, hastily plastering on your customer service smile. "Hi! How can I help you—?" Your sentence trailed off, the words drying up in your throat as the figure slowly rose to full height, straightening out.

Your hand froze mid-motion as you adjusted your glasses, your face warming with an instant, involuntary blush. Standing before you was quite possibly the most striking person you'd ever seen.

His hair was the first thing to catch your eye—white as freshly fallen snow, a stark contrast against the black suit that clung to his lithe, muscled frame. He wore it effortlessly: black business pants, a sleek turtleneck, and a long jacket draped over his shoulders in a way that screamed confidence.

But it was his eyes that left you breathless. The brightest, most piercing shade of blue you had ever seen, framed by delicate, pale lashes.

They gleamed behind a pair of circular glasses that sat low on the bridge of his nose, as if he’d forgotten they were even there. His head tilted slightly, curiously, like he was taking you in just as you were gawking at him.

There was something both playful and intimidating in the way he smiled—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but made your heart race all the same.

Your breath caught, and you fumbled with the edge of your apron, trying desperately to calm the heat that was crawling up your neck. You quickly shook yourself out of your stupor, blinking rapidly as if to reset your brain. "Y-yes! W-we have plenty to choose from," you stammered, forcing your voice to steady itself.

Your heart raced, the thumping in your chest almost deafening as your eyes darted anywhere but at him, unable to hold his gaze for too long without feeling your cheeks heat up all over again. "Is there... um, anything in particular you're looking for?"

The man didn’t respond right away, and you half wondered if he hadn’t noticed your nervousness—or maybe he was just too polite to say anything about it. But the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips said otherwise.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

He hummed thoughtfully, the sound deep and drawn out, leaning casually against the glass display case. His hand came up to prop his head up as he tilted it slightly, his lips forming a small pout. "Hmm... I'm not sure. I'm looking for something... sweet." His voice dipped on the last word, and there was no mistaking the suggestion behind it, as if he wasn't just talking about pastries.

Your breath hitched, and you could feel the flush of embarrassment crawl up your neck again. You scrambled to maintain your composure, glancing down at the cupcakes and cookies like they held the answers to his cryptic request.

From his Satoru's perspective, you barely reached his chest. He couldn't help but notice how tiny you looked in comparison, especially with your hair tied up into a neat, tight bun, a silk scarf wrapped around your head as if to keep stray strands in check.

You wore a baking apron that was thoroughly covered in flour, smudges of icing trailing from your hands to your face, and a couple of spots dabbed on your cheeks.

The glasses perched on your nose kept slipping down, and you pushed them up in a quick, nervous motion every time they fell.

Your wide, inquisitive eyes blinked up at him, and he noted the light freckles dusted across the bridge of your nose.

Cute.

Everything about you—from the shy glances to the nervous fidgeting—made him want to toy with you, just a little.

"Well, if you're looking for sweet, we have a variety of cupcakes that are really popular," you offered, your voice wavering slightly as you gestured towards the rows of neatly frosted confections. "Or, um, cookies... cakes..." Your words trailed off as his gaze lingered on you, and it felt as though the temperature in the room had gone up a few degrees.

He didn't seem particularly interested in the pastries, though. His eyes remained on you, as if you were far more interesting than anything in the display case.

"Hmm, that's tempting," he murmured, his smirk growing just a little wider. His eyes flickered to the cupcakes, but only for a brief moment before they returned to you. "But I think I'm in the mood for something... softer."

Your heart did a somersault at the way he emphasized the last word words, and you couldn't help but wonder just what exactly this man was getting at.

"O-oh, softer?" You fumbled, trying desperately to keep your brain from melting. You forced yourself to focus, tapping your fingers nervously against the counter. "W-we have some cream-filled pastries, if that's more to your taste?" you managed to choke out, trying to keep your voice steady.

Whatever it was, you weren't sure how much longer you could handle it without combusting on the spot.

"Maybe..." He dragged the word out, enjoying the way you squirmed under his attention. "But what would you recommend?" His voice dipped again, lower, almost teasing, like he wasn't just asking about pastries anymore.

"I-I'll just choose something!" you stammered, turning quickly before you could embarrass yourself further.

Your pulse raced as you headed to the back, reaching for the dessert you had made earlier—a strawberry cheesecake, heavily decorated and sweet. It was indulgent, something you'd crafted for yourself during a quiet moment, filled with all the sugary indulgence you allowed yourself on rare occasions.

You pulled out a small slice, plating it carefully, your fingers trembling slightly as you arranged it perfectly. When you returned to the counter, you placed a small sample in front of him, offering it with shaky hands. "Here, try this," you said, your voice softer than you’d intended.

He didn't need any further prompting. With a smooth, almost languid motion, he picked up the small fork you offered and took a bite.

You watched as the dessert disappeared into his mouth, his lips curling upward in a satisfied hum. The moment his eyes brightened, a wave of pride hit you. A low, pleased hum escaped him, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine.

He savored it, his gaze flickering back to you with delighted approval, as though the simple dessert had been crafted by the hands of gods.

"This is fantastic," he murmured, the praise making your chest tighten. "Where do you get this from? Who made it?"

You glanced away, feeling your face flush under his stare. "I, um... I made it."

"You did?"

With a small nod, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to focus on the task at hand. "Y-yes, I made it this morning."

His lips twitched into an amused grin, but this time, his eyes didn’t stay on your face. "Well, that explains why it's so perfect..." His gaze, deliberate and slow, trailed downwards, lingering for a long moment on your chest. It wasn't subtle—he wanted you to notice. You felt the heat creeping up your neck as his eyes lingered on your name tag.

"...Y/N," he read aloud, his voice low and teasing, drawing out each letter. He let the name hang in the air for a moment, before lifting his gaze back to your flushed face.

The intensity of his gaze, combined with the deliberate way he said your name, sent a jolt of awareness through you. You tried to keep your composure, your hands trembled slightly as you packed up the rest of the cheesecake, placing the box on the counter.

"Here you are, Mr...." You trailed off, realizing you didn’t know his name. Your eyes flickered up to meet his again, a silent question hanging in the air.

He caught your hesitation, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Satoru," he said smoothly, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret only he was sharing with you.

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly as you cleared your throat. "R-right. Mr. Satoru." You glanced at the register, trying to refocus as you gave him the total softly.

He blinked in mild surprise, his smirk widening. "That's practically half off from the price on the card," he remarked, amusement evident in his voice.

You could feel your face grow impossibly warmer. "O-oh, um..." Your lips fell into a small pout as you avoided his gaze, your hand twitching up to adjust your glasses again in a nervous habit. "I-it's no big deal. I mean, I like to, uh, give stuff to new customers... in hopes that they return, yeah..."

Your voice trailed off, and you immediately wanted to kick yourself for the weak excuse. But it was too late now. You shrugged your shoulders, trying to act nonchalant, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Satoru's chuckle made your heart skip a beat. Even his laughter sounded handsome, deep and melodic, sending your pulse racing. "Is that so?" he mused, his voice holding a playful edge. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the cheesecake, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Well, I'll definitely be back... Y/N."

He winked, and you nearly melted on the spot as he turned toward the door. With a casual wave, he added, "See you soon, Sweets," leaving you standing there, flustered and wide-eyed, barely able to process what had just happened.

The bell above the door rang as he left, and only then did you release the breath you had been holding. You stood there, staring after him, your heart still pounding in your chest.

Sweets?

A few hours later, the warmth of the late afternoon sun filtered through the bakery’s front windows, casting long shadows across the floor as you wiped down the counters.

It had been a relatively quiet shift after he left, though your heart was still recovering from the encounter. As you finished up, the front door swung open with a familiar jingle, and you turned to see your coworker rushing in.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry I'm late!" The boy practically stumbled through the door, one hand frantically adjusting the tie of his high school uniform, the other pushing his hair back in a desperate attempt to look more presentable. "I got caught up in something!"

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his flustered state. Itadori Yuji, always full of energy and apologies, was like a golden retriever in human form—warm, friendly, and almost comically eager to please. His messy pink hair and wide, bright eyes gave him an air of youthful enthusiasm, and his genuine smile could light up a room.

"It's fine, Yuji," you said with a laugh, waving him off as you headed to the back to grab your things. "You're not that late."

He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he finally finished fixing his uniform. "Still, I hate being late. Promise it won't happen again, if it does, I owe you lunch!"

"Deal," you replied, opening your locker and pulling out your bag. As you walked back toward him, you noticed his name tag was crooked, dangling off one pin. With a quick flick of your hand, you reached out to fix it, adjusting it until it sat neatly on his chest.

"There," you said, looking up at him with a soft smile. "Much better." His warm grin mirrored your own as he stood there, slightly flustered but grateful. "Have a good shift, Yuji. Oh, and the manager should be stopping by later to check in on you."

"Thanks!" he said, already grabbing an apron and getting ready to dive into work. "I’ll handle it. You get out of here and enjoy your break!"

You gave him a small wave and turned to leave, but just as you reached the door, you heard him call out behind you. "Y/N!" Yuji's voice was filled with enthusiasm, and you turned to see him waving both hands energetically, grinning from ear to ear. "Goodbye! See you tomorrow!"

You waved back, shaking your head with a fond smile as you stepped outside, the cool afternoon air brushing against your skin.

You allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm of your steps as you strolled home, your mind wandering as you took in the sights and sounds around you—the rustling of leaves, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional chatter of people passing by.

It was a rare moment of peace after the hectic shift, a brief escape from the buzz of daily life.

As you rounded the corner, something unexpected caught your eye—a small form, huddled on the edge of the sidewalk.

Your pace slowed as you approached, your brow furrowing in concern.

It was a cat, lying awkwardly on its side, its fur matted and dirty. A quick glance told you it had been hit by something, maybe a car or someone careless.

Normally, you would have continued walking, not wanting to get too involved. But just beyond the cat, two tiny kittens sat mewling helplessly, their cries piercing the quiet air.

Your heart clenched at the sight.

With a soft sigh, you crouched down, inching closer to the injured cat. It hissed at you, its eyes wild with pain and fear, its body tense as it tried to protect its young. But you ignored the warning sounds, reaching out slowly, gently, until your fingers brushed under its chin.

"Hey, it’s okay," you whispered, your voice soft and soothing.

At your touch, the cat stiffened for a moment before going completely lax, its body relaxing against the ground. You stroked it tenderly, watching in quiet as the distended paw began to shift, the bones cracking softly back into place.

You could almost feel the snap of pain yourself, a sharp ache spreading through your own wrist as the cat's injury healed before your eyes.

After a few seconds, the paw was as good as new. The cat stood, shaking itself off, and without a second glance at you, it gathered its kittens and disappeared into the safety of the alleyway.

You remained crouched there for a moment, watching the small family as they vanished from sight, the ache in your wrist growing stronger.

Slowly, you straightened up, flexing your fingers as the pain began to dull. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but it didn't make it any easier to bear.

Feelings.

That's all you'd ever known. Whether you wanted to or not.

All your life, you'd felt things—things you shouldn't be able to feel.

Anger from your neighbors down the hall as they argued about their personal issues, envy from classmates who resented your successes, and worst of all, the fear radiating from your parents as they stood helpless, unable to comfort you through your relentless sobs.

You could feel their confusion, their frustration.

But at the end of it all, they couldn't fix something they couldn't see.

Over time, it grew—your ability to feel. At first, it was just emotions. You could sense a slight shift in someone’s mood, a flicker of sadness or anger, just an inkling of what they were going through. But soon, it became more than that.

You began to feel their thoughts, whispers that echoed faintly in your mind, giving you glimpses of what lay beneath their surface emotions.

And then... it escalated. Suddenly, you could feel everything.

Whatever someone was going through—physically or emotionally—washed over you like a wave. Their pain became your pain. Their joy became your joy. It all found its way to you. No matter how far you distanced yourself, it clung to you like a shadow.

It was overwhelming, relentless, like you were drowning in the feelings of others with no way to claw your way to the surface.

As the years went by, your condition worsened. What started as a manageable, if confusing, ability turned into a burden too heavy to bear.

The world became unbearable. Every day was agony, the constant onslaught of emotions and sensations from those around you leaving you raw, exhausted, and desperate for relief.

The cacophony of the city—the anger, the fear, the pain—was like a living entity, clawing at your skin, leaving you shaking and fragile.

Your parents were at a loss. They didn't understand what was happening to you, couldn't see the invisible weight pressing down on your soul. They could only watch as you withdrew further, your silence growing more suffocating by the day.

When your father finally made a call to a buddy—a man who had a cousin that owned a small apartment complex on the edge of the city—it was an act of desperation. They didn't know what else to do.

So, at fifteen, they sent you away. The cousin gave your parents a deal, allowing them to pay for three years of rent upfront for the ‘penthouse’—a small, one-bedroom apartment that was anything but luxurious. It was decrepit, cheap, and hidden away in an area most people avoided. The walls were stained with years of neglect, the air thick with the smell of dust and mold.

But it was quiet. Isolated.

And for the first time, you were alone with your thoughts.

Alone with the pain.

But that wasn't the only thing you had to deal with. Upon leaving home, you unknowingly stepped into a new world—a world of curses and sorcerers.

It happened by accident, of course. During one of your bad days, when the weight of others' emotions became too much to bear, you found yourself overwhelmed, losing control, but this time was different.

This time, it happened in public.

You don't remember exactly how you ended up on that street, or why you couldn’t move your legs when you wanted to run. All you knew was that your chest was heaving, your heart pounding, and everything was too loud, too bright.

The emotions pouring out of you were anything but silent. They radiated outward like a tidal wave, flooding the space around you. People nearby started to feel it—your pain, your panic. The air grew heavy with the thick, chaotic energy you couldn't control.

You didn't know it at the time, but there had been sorcerers nearby. They had been in the middle of an exorcism, dealing with a high-grade curse just down the block. But your outburst—your instability—had thrown everything into disarray.

By the time you calmed down, the sorcerers had won their battle, but the damage was done.

You were on their radar.

At first, the solitude was a relief. The absence of people meant an absence of feelings—no more sadness seeping through the walls, no more anger gracing your vision from out of nowhere, no more envy creeping in with every inhale of breath, rattling you to the bone. But as the years passed, the silence became suffocating in a different way.

You found yourself missing the world outside, the life you had once known slipping further and further away. And yet... somehow, you survived.

As the years passed, you learned to cope with your abilities. Instead of rejecting the constant barrage of feelings, you began to embrace them, to accept the pain and emotion as part of you.

It was hard, terrifying even, at first.

There were times when the spasms would hit, your body wracked with the pain of others, and you'd think you were slipping back into the endless agony of your youth. But you learned to shake it off, to focus, and slowly, everything would melt into the background.

Now, at twenty-three, you've managed to regain some semblance of normalcy. You work part-time at a small bakery just a block away from the apartment, a quiet job that doesn't demand too much interaction with people.

And as you've grown more confident in yourself, so too have your powers.

Now, not only can you feel and change others' emotions, but you've learned to take away their pain as well—absorbing it into yourself, inadvertently healing them.

You glanced down at your wrist, the ache in your wrist from earlier was a reminder of that, the subtle way your body absorbs and dissipates pain.

You didn't know when it started exactly, but the more you leaned into your ability, the more you realized how much power you had over others' emotions—and their suffering.

Arriving home, you expected to be a typical Friday night of you sitting comfortably on your worn-out couch, book in hand, ready to lose yourself in another evening of quiet solitude.

But the buzz of your phone said otherwise.

Your best friend, Sumi, didn't give you a second before launching into an excited explanation about some classmates going out to celebrate the end of exam season and begged you to join them. She pointed out how you never went out anymore, and that you'd been practically living as a hermit

You tried to resist, your first instinct to decline and stick to your quiet night in, but Sumi;s persistence wore you down. She had a way of making even the simplest invitation sound like a grand adventure, and after a bit of internal back-and-forth, you finally relented.

After ending the call, you stood up, looking around your small apartment. It had been a while since you'd gone out, and a part of you felt nervous, but another part—one you hadn't acknowledged in some time—was starting to feel a flicker of anticipation.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to step outside your comfort zone for once.

The music was loud, vibrating through the floor and up into your bones as you sat squeezed into a booth, surrounded by people on all sides.

You hadn't expected the party to be this big—Sumi had said it would be a small celebration, but it turned out to be anything but. The entire club was packed, and the crowd seemed to pulse with energy, the lights flashing erratically in rhythm with the heavy bass.

It was... overwhelming, to say the least, and you'd already considered slipping out the back more than once.

But every time you thought about leaving, someone—whether it was Sumi or one of her classmates—would pull you back into the booth, keeping you tethered to the chaos.

After a while, you accepted your fate, sighing softly as you forced yourself to take a sip of the drink in your hand. The alcohol was meant to distract you, to keep your mind from spiraling into overstimulation.

The lights, the smells, the music, the press of bodies around you—it was all too much. But if you focused on the cool burn of the drink sliding down your throat, maybe you could hold yourself together a little longer.

A few drinks later, your muscles loosened, and the tightness in your chest began to melt away. The alcohol took the edge off, softening the sharpness of your senses, and you finally started to feel relaxed.

When Sumi eagerly dragged you onto the dance floor, you didn't resist, allowing yourself to get swept up in the moment.

The music pounded through the air, and soon you were caught in the rhythm. You let yourself get lost in it, swaying with the crowd, Sumi's infectious energy keeping you in the moment.

"You're finally having fun, aren't you?" Sumi laughed, spinning around you, her blonde hair whipping in the flashing lights.

You smiled faintly, your body relaxing into the music. "Yeah, it's... not so bad."

But as the alcohol worked through your system, the familiar buzz started beneath your skin. The sensations around you grew sharper—eagerness, excitement, arousal.

You could feel it all.

As you danced, it became harder to focus, every emotion from the people packed around you began to seep into your mind, their energy flooding your senses.

It was too much, and yet you couldn't seem to pull yourself out of it.

You wanted to scream, to escape, but the crowd held you tight, the sensations enveloping you like a suffocating blanket.

The music blurred with the flashes of emotion that weren't your own. It was like you were taking in everyone's feelings, all at once. A wave of drunken joy hit you, followed by a sharp stab of lust from a couple nearby.

And then, you felt two hands grip your waist from behind, steady and firm, tethering you to the moment.

A more coherent version of yourself might have jumped away from the unknown touch, startled by the sudden intrusion. But instead, you found yourself leaning into it, falling backward into whoever dared wrap you in their embrace.

The sensation of strong arms circling your waist held you in place, and the firmness of the chest against your back was like a solid wall anchoring you amidst the chaos.

You blinked slowly, your mind swimming as you squinted your eyes open. The faint tickle of soft hair brushed against your neck, and you could tell the person behind you was tall—taller than you by far. They had to slouch and bend over slightly to reach your ear.

It was only when you caught a glimpse of white, snowy hair out of the corner of your eye that you froze. A familiar shiver ran down your spine, and the sharp sensation of lust and arousal hit you like a wave, pouring off the figure behind you in an overwhelming rush.

It was intoxicating, and for the first time tonight, you felt your own emotions cut through the fog of everyone else's. Your heart raced, and the heat rising in your cheeks wasn't from the alcohol anymore.

You didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. But any doubt you had vanished when a smooth voice purred into your ear, "Hello, Sweets~"

The words sent a shiver through you, and before you could fully process the situation, you were whisked off the dance floor. One second you were drowning in the crowd, and the next, you were being led—no, practically carried—through the bustling club.

Satoru, with an ease that belied the chaos around him, guided you up the steps to the VIP section, his hand never leaving your waist.

In what felt like no time at all, you were settled in a more secluded booth at the top balcony, away from prying eyes. The noise of the club felt distant here, muted by the heavy drapes surrounding the area.

Satoru moved with purpose, easily sliding into the booth beside you, his presence commanding and all-encompassing.

You glanced at him, your breath catching in your throat as his bright blue eyes locked onto yours. There was a teasing glint in them as he took in your flushed face, a smirk curling at his lips.

Without warning, he cupped your cheek, his large hand warm against your skin, and pinched your face lightly.

"You're a lightweight, huh?" he teased, his tone light but dripping with amusement.

You swatted his hand away with a roll of your eyes, trying to steady yourself. "'m not drunk. 'm tipsy," you muttered, trying to maintain some semblance of control, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Satoru chuckled, leaning in closer. His arm draped casually over the back of the booth, but the movement subtly caged you in, his broad back shielding you from view. He didn't seem concerned with the world beyond your little corner, his attention entirely on you.

"Tipsy, huh?" he drawled, his voice lowering as he leaned even closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You're definitely something."

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as his finger gently lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You're a pretty girl, you know that?" His words were soft but carried a weight that made your heart race.

Your mouth went dry as his finger trailed along the edge of your chin before brushing the underside of your lip. The touch was light, teasing, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you. His eyes darkened slightly, the pupils dilating as his gaze lingered on your lips, a light flush dusting his own cheeks.

"I could get used to this," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his thumb stroked your bottom lip. "The way you look at me... I wonder how much better it would feel to have you under me."

The suggestiveness of his words hit you like a punch, your entire body flushing with heat.

You could feel the intensity of his desire, the raw lust pouring off him in waves, and for once, you weren't overwhelmed by it. Instead, it mixed with your own growing attraction, the tension between you crackling like static in the air.

Your breath hitched, and though you were flustered, you couldn't deny the pull between you.

Every part of you screamed to push back, to regain control, but the way Satoru's fingers lingered on your skin, the way his eyes drank you in like you were the only person in the world, made it hard to focus on anything but him.

Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. "I do too..." The words were barely a whisper, slipping out between the pounding of your heart and the electric charge that hummed between you.

That was all it took.

In an instant, Satoru closed the space between you, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that made your head spin. You could feel the desperation in the way he kissed you, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, exploring, tasting. He licked into you with fervor, groaning low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest.

It was as if he couldn't get enough, like he was drinking in every little sound you made, savoring it.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hands were on you—gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and leaving no space between your bodies.

The plush cushions of the sofa gave way beneath you as you felt your back press into them, Satoru already pushing you down. His body hovered over yours, his weight pinning you in place as his hands roamed freely, one sliding up your side, fingers brushing your skin under your shirt.

Every touch sent sparks through your veins, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips when his palm finally slid under your skirt, pressing against the warmth of your skin.

His hand moved higher, fingers brushing over your upper thigh as his other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place beneath him. You squirmed under his touch, your body responding to every movement as if on instinct.

The sensation of his fingers ghosting over your skin was enough to drive you crazy, and you arched into his touch, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if to anchor yourself to the moment.

Satoru groaned again, this time louder, the sound muffled by the kiss. His body pressed closer, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the solid strength of his chest against yours.

It was dizzying—the way he seemed to consume you with every touch, every kiss, as if he was starved for you. His lips left yours for only a second, moving to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"Satoru..." you breathed, barely able to think as his lips found yours again. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you deeper, more possessively, like he never wanted to let you go.

Before you could catch your breath, Satoru moved again, flipping you both upright with ease. He pulled you on top of his lap, his hands gripping your waist firmly as he settled you onto him.

You both sat there, panting from the intensity of the makeout session, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you stared down at him.

His eyes were dark, hooded with desire, the usual playfulness in his expression replaced by something more intense. His face was flushed, and a light sheen of sweat dotted his forehead. His hands, strong and confident, kneaded your exposed thighs, your skirt having ridden up from all the movement.

The warmth of his touch against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but feel your mind race as you took in his features—the sharpness of his jaw, the way his pale lashes framed those piercing blue eyes, his lips swollen from kissing.

Satoru licked his lips slowly, and you could feel the heat between you grow as he scooted you even closer on his lap. A shiver ran through you when you felt him hard beneath you, the sensation making your body tingle. He tilted his head to the side, a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched you.

"Hey, Sweets," he purred, his voice low and teasing. "Wanna feel how bad I wanna fuck you?"

If you weren't already lost in the feeling of him against you, you might've recoiled in embarrassment at his bluntness. But instead, your body reacted instinctively, pressing down onto him, sending a jolt of electricity through both of you.

The low groan that escaped his lips, paired with the small jump of his hips in response, had your heart racing even faster.

It was your turn to lick your lips, and you noticed the way Satoru's eyes snapped down to watch, darkening even further as his gaze locked onto your mouth.

You leaned in slightly, your lips hovering near his ear as you whispered, "Only if I get to make you beg for it first."

Satoru's breath hitched, and his eyes flickered with surprise and excitement at your boldness. His grip on your thighs tightened, and his cocky smirk grew wider, clearly pleased with your response. "Oh, Sweets," he murmured, his voice dripping with playful challenge. "I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun tonight."

Satoru wasted no time, his hand sliding between your thighs with practiced ease, his eyes focused solely on your face. You could only bite your lip in response as he easily slipped his fingers beneath your underwear, his breath growing heavier with each passing second.

"Shit… you're soaked," he breathed out, voice rough with desire.

You can feel your cheeks burning in embarrassment, heat flooding your body as his touch sent sparks through you. It was almost too easy for him to slip a single finger inside you, sinking in to the knuckle with no resistance.

His thumb began working in small, slow circles, rubbing against your clit, and your hips twitch involuntarily in response. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel your body reacting without thought.

Your hips moved on their own, instinctively jutting forward in small circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers as he skillfully worked you over. You barely had time to catch your breath before he added another finger, pressing deeper, massaging your walls with a deliberate, teasing pressure.

A sharp, breathy squeak left you when he found your G-spot. "There she goes…" he murmurs with a low moan, his own hips twitching slightly beneath you, as if the sight of your reaction was enough to affect him too.

Before you know it, the tension inside you snapped. You gasp, feeling yourself reach the peak as your body shudders and tightens around his fingers, your mind reeling from the pleasure coursing through you.

While you were still clenching and twitching from your release, Satoru didn't hesitate. He pulled your underwear to the side and swiftly guided you down onto him, bullying his dick into your small hole.

A low hiss escaped his lips, followed by a growl as his entire body tensed beneath you, almost as if he was in pain.

It felt like all the air had been knocked out of you when he bottomed out in one stroke, your hips pressed flush against his. The fullness in your lower stomach was overwhelming, your thighs burning as they settled around his waist.

Your body reacted instinctively, twitching and clenching down as another orgasm washed over you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Satoru groaned, his voice thick and slurred as he lifted you up and down slowly, your whole clenching tight like a vice.

A low moan escaped his lips as he stared up with dazed and half-lidded eyes, as if he were completely drunk off the feel of you. His hands gripped your waist tightly, his head lolling back against the cushion.

You could only cling helplessly to his broad shoulders, your body trembling like a ragdoll as his hips picked up speed, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room with each deep thrust.

You were lost in the feel of him, lost in the way his lust matched yours, the heat between you nearly unbearable.

Satoru's hand found its way to your neck, fingers wrapping around it like a collar as he tilted your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. You could feel his breath, hot and ragged, as his other hand trailed up slowly, his thumb brushing against your lips before slipping into your mouth.

A moan escaped you, muffled around his digit, your thighs twitching in response to the growing pressure building deep inside you.

Satoru's hips snapped up harder as if he could feel how close you were. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, and just as you felt yourself about to tip over, his voice broke through the haze, panting and breathless in your ear.

"Y'know…" he rasped, punctuating each word with a rough thrust, "…I was sent here… to kill you…" His grip tightened on your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he groaned into your ear. "But how… can I get… rid of something… this… perfect?"

His voice was filthy, dripping with lust, and his words came out between gasping breaths. "My perfect… little cock-sleeve…" He smirked against your neck, his voice growing lower and more ragged with each thrust. "… And I'm never letting you go."

You couldn't stop the shudder that ran through you as his words sank in. Just as you tipped over the edge into one last, mind-numbing release, you couldn’t help but wonder what your future held next.

A/N: not me screeching into my pillows while editing like i didnt write this 😭😭

[riordanness]

lover — [w.wonka]

wordcount: 1K

warnings: none

requested: yes!! anon <3

You’d think that working for the greatest chocolate maker in the world would be awesome, right?

You’d be correct. However… some parts were not quite so awesome. Especially when you’re head over heels in love with said chocolate maker.

“Noodle!” I scold, laughing as she tosses yet another chocolate in her mouth, rather than stacking them as we’re supposed to be doing.

She shrugs, and gives me a wicked grin. “Sorry, not sorry.”

I roll my eyes, taking a bite out of my own selected piece of chocolate. Willy always says that we should eat whatever and whenever we like. He just cares that much for us.

“What do you want to do when you’re older, y/n?” Noodle asks me suddenly.

I frown at the question. “I am older.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re like eighteen. I mean older, older.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m pretty content just working at this shop right now. But I’d like to fall in love, get married, and have a family. That would be nice, I guess. It’s not likely, though.”

“Why not? That’s totally likely.”

I smile a little. “Because, Noodle-dee, I’m not that kind of girl. Guys don’t just go and fall in love with me.”

She smirks a little, and pops another chocolate in her mouth. “You never know, y/n-doo.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” There’s a smile in my voice.

Noodle doesn’t reply, so I let it go, going back to stacking Willy’s gorgeous chocolates in their pretty display cases for the shop. This is honestly probably my favourite job in the entire store. Making it look pretty.

It’s the end of the day, all the customers are gone, and just Noodle, Willy, and I are left, all doing our individual closing duties.

Noodle cleans the floors, I count the till money, and Willy, well, I’m still not exactly sure what he does, but he walks through every single room in the entire building, checking something.

Probably some big important, owner-of-the-chocolate-factory job I don’t know about.

Noodle and her bucket of soapy water makes it way over to me. “Hey y/n,” she sing-songs.

“Mm?” I glance up from counting silver sovereigns.

“You know how you were saying you wanted to fall in love?”

“Someday, yeah.”

Noodle looks amused about something. “Are you already in love? Do you at least have someone in mind?”

My brain immediately, unhelpfully, offers up an image of Willy, with his smiling face and unruly dark curls. I suddenly get very flustered. “Uh—no. Of course not, Noodle.”

“Really.” She raises an eyebrow, deadpanning at me.

I shake my head. “I don’t have anyone, uh, in mind, no. I’m not in love. That’s ridiculous.”

At that moment, without either me or Noodle noticing, Willy reenters the main shop room where we both are. But I’m so engrossed in trying to convince Noodle to drop this topic that I don’t even see him.

“What about Willy?” Noodle suddenly asks.

I drop my stack of sovereigns. “What do you mean?”

Noodle has her hands on her hips. “You like him. It’s so obvious.”

I fumble with the coins, trying desperately to keep my hands from shaking. “No—? I don’t—um. No. I don’t like him. I mean I do, like him. But not, uh, like, like him.”

“Are you sure? You don’t seem sure.”

I groan, slamming the sovereigns onto the counter. “Fine. You win, Noodle-dee. I like Willy. A lot. In fact, I’m desperately in love with him and I think about him almost constantly. Now can you please drop it?” I don’t even realise I have tears in my eyes, but my emotions suddenly come to a swirling head, and I hiccup, and brush a tear away.

“I’m sorry,” Noodle whispers, but she sounds more triumphant than sorry. “I won’t ask you about it again.”

She grabs up her bucket and leaves abruptly.

I blink a few times, let out a sigh, and finish up with the till money. Then I flick off all the lights, lock up the inner doors, and get ready to leave for the day.

Noodle has already signed out, so I guess it’s only Willy left in the shop somewhere. “Willy?” I call, “I’m heading off now!”

Willy appears, hurrying over to me. “Thanks, y/n.” He has a weird look on his face, and he won’t look at me.

“Everything okay?” I ask uncertainly. “You look strange.”

He shakes his head. “Fine, fine. I’m okay.”

“Alright.” I shrug. “I’m heading home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say this every day. It’s like clockwork.

Willy usually echoes it back, tells me to get home safely, and gives me a smile. But today, it’s different.

“Y/n, wait,” he says, just as my fingers are on the doorknob.

I glance at him. “Yeah?”

He licks his lips, glancing everywhere but me. “I heard you and Noodle earlier.”

I freeze, unsure of what to say or do. “You did?”

He nods. “Is it true? You’re in love with me?”

I don’t answer right away. I look at him for a moment, breathe, and then nod my head once. “Ever since I met you,” I say, and try to laugh. But it’s not really that funny. It’s kind of pathetic, actually. Because I am just y/n, and he is Willy Wonka.

“Me too, you know.”

It takes me way too many heartbeats to understand what he means. “What?”

“I’m in love with you, too, silly.” He chuckles, playing with his fingers.

I stare at him. “You… you, what?”

He laughs again, more forcefully this time. “Y/n, just come here.” He reaches for me, hands cupping my face, and when he pulls me into him, and kisses me, I can’t even breathe. It’s surreal, like a dream, but it’s real, and it’s happening, and it’s him, and it’s everything.

[lnlightning81]

All American

Summary: An all American team on the grid.

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x reader, Max Verstappen x reader (breifly), Carlos Sainz x reader (breifly), Oscar Piastri x reader (briefly)

Word Count: 1.6k

Masterlist

Logan Sargeant Masterlist

Tag List

Logan’s year in formula one hadn’t ended the best, but neither had yours. Logan was dropped by Williams Formula One Racing whereas you had been dropped by Arrow Mclaren due to an injury at the end of the indycar season that meant you’d missed too many races and it was in your contract that you couldn’t miss more than four races.

However, for you, being dropped by Arrow was probably the best thing that had ever happened because Andretti was allowed into Formula One. Offering you a place within formula one after your ‘Great work in Indycar’ you couldn’t help but accept the offer. Working with an American company also helped you decide. 

Your first meeting in the Andretti office allowed you to meet your new team, your mechanics, your race engineer, your performance engineer, PR manager and everyone else who’d be surrounding you for most of the year. Your teammate wasn’t decided at this point, though. 

However, when you went back for simulation testing, your new race engineer and performance engineer were waiting for you. Except your new teammate was also doing some simulation testing. Logan Sargeant. 

You smiled over to him as you sat in the simulator. You were glad to see that he also got a second chance at racing. You knew he was a good driver. Just Williams didn’t have any trust in him, and the car wasn’t showing enough performance for him. 

However, your simulation testing was a little different. Andretti knew you could reach the times they were looking for; they just wanted to ensure that after your injury you’d be ready to race by the time the new season started. Once both yours, and logan's teams had left, you walked over to him to see him practising 

“Hey there” You smiled, leaning on the back of his seat 

“Hey” He looked up with a smile 

“So were teammates now huh” You smiled, and he nodded 

“Yeah I guess so. What happened with Mclaren?” He asked. Motorsports in America wasn’t a big thing, so most drivers knew yeah other 

“Broke my wrist and took longer than four races to heal, so they terminated my contract. I was mad at first. Fans were more than mad, but it’s in my contract. Getting injured isn’t on anyone’s agenda” You shrugged, looking at his data. 

“Anyway keep testing” You hummed watching as he raced around Melbourne. 

“I hate Melbourne” He mumbled, and you nodded 

“Change your racing line a little. Turn two try to come off the brakes a little later. How’s your stats been racing here before?” You asked 

“Twenty-three. I DNFed and twenty-four I got my car taken off me” He explained, and you nodded 

“When was the last time you raced here?” He asked 

“I did some testing for Mclaren two years ago? When I was their reserve driver but that was ages ago. Sim work every day almost though” You shrugged, and he nodded. 

“I guess that makes sense” He shrugged, and you nodded. 

“Oh look at that. See my tips work” You joked, walking over to grab your bag from your sim 

“Thanks. Any more tips?” He asked, and you shook your head

“Not for Melbourne. When we move on, give me a shout” You hummed. Walking out of the simulator, you walked down to the cafeteria. The best thing about joining an American company is that although you were on diets to keep your body correct while racing, they still make the best typical American food even if it’s diet themed. 

Thanking the woman behind the counter, you took a plate sitting down at one of the tables. Scrolling on your phone as you ate the chicken and rice. You hadn’t been announced for Andretti yet, but neither had Logan. They were waiting for the right time, apparently. 

Although speaking to your race engineer, they wanted to wait until pre-season testing, but the FIA wasn’t allowing that. It had to be announced at least a month before pre-season testing. Posting a picture of the simulator on instagram, you closed the app, opening up the group chat where you streamed with a few friends, including Max Verstappen. 

They were planning on streaming, but due to your training for going into Formula One. Looking up, Logan was sitting in front of you with his own plate of rice and chicken. 

“This is so much better than Williams” He chuckled, and you laughed 

“Yeah well first of all they’re British. Second of all it’s rice and chicken” You tilted your head to look at him. 

“What’s your plan for this afternoon?” He asked 

“Meeting with my performance engineer. She wants me to start my neck training” You huffed, and he laughed. 

“Neck training isn’t that bad” He shrugged 

“Yeah I know. I don’t mind neck training it’s just my friends have plans, and I’m missing it to torture my neck” You shrugged, and he nodded 

“Fair enough. How are you feeling about coming on the grid?” He asked, and you looked at him. It’s something you’d never thought about 

“Well. I’ve never actually thought about it, to be honest with you. I know Lando, Daniel, Carlos, Oscar, and Max, so I guess knowing some people helps? I obviously know Pato as well” You shrugged 

“Yeah, getting to know people really does help. It’s my biggest regret hiding in the Williams garage and not getting to know new people” You nodded with a small smile

“Well let’s make a deal. This year. You and I make as many friends as possible. I know Max and Daniel are troublemakers, so they’ll make sure I get to know people, so you’ll just have to follow me about” You shrugged with a smile, and he chuckled 

“That’s a deal L/N” 

A month later and you were now on the grid for pre-season testing sat in the Andretti garage just minding your own business as you watched Logan doing the testing, obviously sandbagging because the bosses didn’t want to show off what the car was able to do just yet. 

A flash of colour caught the corner of your eye as you looked over spotting a couple other drivers looking into Logan’s part of the garage which was open for all to see unlike your side which was blocked off due to the floor of your car was off. 

Pushing the headphones so they rested around your neck,, you walked over to the group of drivers who were being nosey about the garage. 

“Hello boys” You hummed tilting your head as you stood trying to figure out what they were looking at. 

“Y/N” Max smiled, giving you a quick hug 

“What are you all looking at?” You asked confused, causing Max and Daniel to shrug 

“No idea. Lando and Carlos just started staring at something” You looked back into the garage to see mechanics just sitting about. You shrugged, putting the headphones back on your head, shoving one side off so you could listen to them talk. 

“How’s your wrist?” Daniel asked 

“How's yours?” You asked, and he chuckled 

“Fair enough, but honestly, how is it?” He asked again 

“Physio is going well. Simulator work is going okay, and I guess we’ll see how actually driving goes when I get out there tomorrow” You shrugged 

“You’re not going out today?” Max asked, and you shook your head 

“Logan does today, I do tomorrow, and we both do the third day” You explained 

“Ferrari’s doing that as well” Carlos nodded with a shrug as you quickly jogged into the garage, hearing Logan’s panicked voice through the radio. 

“Jesus” You mumbled while watching the TV. Someone stopped on track right as Logan was doing a flying lap, causing him to go into the gravel trap. His panicked radio broke your heart, hearing him ask if he had done something wrong and the fact he had hurt himself trying to save himself from crashing into someone else. Biting your lip as the rest of the drivers stood next to you watching the TV. 

“What happened?” Oscar asked with a frown 

“Someone stopped on track during his flying trap” You explained, watching their facial expressions change as you were called over to the pit wall. Jogging over and standing behind Logan’s race engineer and your team principal 

“Change of schedule. Logan’s floor is damaged so you’re going out this afternoon” You nodded slightly walking back into the garage knowing that you’re going to have to get changed out of the nice comfortable uniform Andretti had provided. 

Having changed into your fireproofs, you walked out to the garage to see the drivers talking to Logan. Walking over to him, you wrapped your arms around him from the side

“Hey, it’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up for it” You smiled up at him. Over the past month, you had become very close with Logan. Maybe a little closer than teammates should probably be, but you both had a lot in common, including being American. 

“You’re going to do great though” He shrugged, and you looked him in the eyes 

“Is your tongue okay? I heard you bit it” You frowned, and he nodded

“Yeah, it was bleeding a little, but by the time I got back here, it had stopped” He shrugged, and you nodded 

“Okay” You nodded, accepting your equipment from your performance engineer. Most of the other drivers went back to their own garage. 

As you put your earphones in and pulled the balaclava on your race engineer went over the plan for the afternoon. With a nod, you pulled your helmet on, ensuring it was tight before getting in the car. Pulling your gloves in as a mechanic placed your wheel in the car 

“Radio check Y/N” They nodded 

“Loud and clear” You smiled

Tag list

@bearryyy

@lozzamen3

@barcelonaloverf1life

@hiireadstuff

@f1kenzzz

@evie-119

@ahgase99

@velocesainz

@callsignwidow

[vettelsvee]

DON'T BELIEVE WHAT THEY SAY | Oscar Piastri

f1 masterlist | wattpad | ao3 | instagram

oscar piastri x gf!reader

summary: reader is quite insecure about herself due to fans and paps comments, and oscar tries to comfort her

word count: 1206

warning: wait till the end and tell me if you'd like a part 2 *kiss kiss*. reader feeling insecure about herself and thinking she's not good enough (remember: you are good enough, don't hear what others say!). use of y/n. corrected the translation at almost 1am so i apologize if there are mistakes

you can send your one shots requests here! feedback as well as comments and reblogs are truly appreciated! <3

After a long day in the paddock, and after a race that was supposed to be the highlight of the season but ended in a DNF for Oscar, your boyfriend decided to cheer both of you up by inviting you to have dinner in a fancy restaurant. You have been in a relationship for several years since you both were high school sweethearts, so sometimes the romance wore thin. Today, he wanted to give his best after a day worth to forget.

Lately, he had noticed that your behavior was a bit strange. You seemed uncomfortable with yourself, and your self-esteem was at an all-time low, judging by the unpleasant comments you had been making lately about herself. Moreover, the media and "fans" criticism didn't help either, as paparazzi and journalists had been harassing and spreading rumors about Oscar cheating on you, or that you have been gaining too much weight for Piastri’s liking. All of them, among others, were damaging your relationship slowly. 

For those two reasons, and because he felt like changing the scenery after the weekly training stress, Oscar told you that you would go out to enjoy a peaceful dinner. He was conscious of all of those criticism, and he was going to remind you how special you were to him and most of it, how perfect you were for him. Also, that you shouldn’t give a damn shit about others opinions, specially when Oscar was the one dating and loving you.

Although you initially resisted to go because you didn’t want to be the center of attention once again, you finally accepted because you knew it hadn’t been an easy day for your boyfriend. You dressed in a beautiful electric blue dress he had gifted you for you birthday las year, and decided not to wear makeup and jewelry. However, you still felt nervous. It was the presence of paparazzi, who followed you wherever you went, made you feel increasingly insecure about yourself and your relationship once again.

In those moments, you thought that Oscar deserved a girl better than you.

"Love," you addressed you boyfriend, a bit hesitant. "Do I look fine like this?"

"My God, Y/N… You're perfect. You always are."

You looked at yourself in the mirror once again. You tried to fake a smile, but you didn't like what you saw in front of you.

"I don't know… I feel a bit ridiculous in this dress," you explained. "Do I look too fat? I don’t think this color suits me very well either..."

"Don't say that," Oscar scolded, approaching you. "It looks amazing on you. Do you remember when I gave it to you? You loved it! You have been wanting it, for months actually, and even though you didn't say it, your face said it all."

"Yes, I remember perfectly, but the problem is that I don't feel comfortable with myself," you continued. "I'm tired of everything that's being said about us and the opinions people seem to have about us. To be honest with you, every day I feel more like… well, that I don’t deserve to be in your life. At least, not as your girlfriend.”  

Oscar sighed. He knew you were right. He was pretty conscious about the media and obsessive fans’ behaviour towards you, and he didn’t like that part of fame either, especially when it was for no reason, and because they had no right to comment on your relationship, which was definitely private, but not secret.

You started to cry shily. He did nothing but hesitate to hug you and make your head rest on his chest. He immediately starting to stroke your hair while gently rocking you from side to side, trying his best to calm you down.

"That shouldn't worry you because you're the most important person to me," he assured you. "I love you just the way you are, for the worst and the better, and I’ll keep doing so every day for the rest of my life, ok?."

"Yeah, I know," you said, pulling away from him quite angrily, "The thing here is that I don't care about what you think, but what other people think. I hate that there are people who are spending their free time, or not so free, making theories about us as if we were a Marvel movie!t”

"Darling..."

"Don’t," you exclaimed, interrupting him, "I understand, and I respect, that you're a public figure, but that doesn't mean I can't be tired of the treatment I receive from girls that are in love with you! Aren't they such big fans of yours, and do they admire and love you so much, that they can't have a minimum of respect for the person you share your life with?"

Oscar knew you were right.

"Don't let that worry you," he explained. "What matters is that you and I love each other, and it's not a fake relationship like many out there, so don't let the negative comments affect you. Remember: those people don't deserve even a second of your thoughts."

"Well..." you replied simply. "It's difficult, Osc… I feel like people are analyzing and judging me all the time, no matter what I do."

Your boyfriend sighed again. He didn't know what to do to calm you down. Seeing you hurt made him feel really bad. Although he was familiar with the daily attention and hate comments, it didn't mean you, his girlfriend, had to get used to them. He felt frustrated and worried for you because, even though he knew you were aware that negative attention was part of the deal you signed when you started dating back in high school, it didn't mean you weren't bothered by seeing the love of your life being constantly mocked.

Oscar started thinking what to do. He wanted to make you happy, but if going out to have dinner isn’t what you desired that night… 

"What do you think if, instead of going out, we stay here, at the hotel?" he proposed to you. Immediately, you seemed a bit cheered up by the suggestion. "We can order something and have dinner in bed while watching a movie or a series you fancy."

"Really? You don't mind? I'm sure you already had the reservation made, and I really feel so bad..."

"Of course I don't mind," he explained, giving you a kiss on the forehead. "You are the most important thing in my life, so I will do whatever it takes to make you feel better."

Your eyes were still red, but you tried to feel better and fake you were ok. You hugged Oscar and thanked him again for what he just did.

Immediately, you both snuggled up in bed while watching a movie you chose, while Oscar phoned to the hotel’s reception so you could have room service for dinner. Pizza, most specifically, as you wanted it and told your boyfriend.

You didn’t know, but that moment made Oscar the happiest man on earth. He made you smile, even amidst the sadness. However, it was time to start thinking how he could propose to you in a different way because your insecurity, sadly, ruined his plans to kneel and pull the question.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Final Girl.

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader (HxH).

Word Count: 1.4k.

TW: 'Girl' Is In The Title But Reader Is Gender Neutral, Death and Blood, Mentions of Guns, Manipulation, Implied Kidnapping, and Spoilers for the Ninteenth-Century Novel Dracula.

The night you met him was, by no coincidence, also the night you learned what it meant to feel your blood run cold.

‘Met’ might’ve been an exaggeration. You didn’t meet him so much as you stood still and stared at him – lumbering down the hallway, clutching a gore-splattered butcher's knife, his suit disheveled and stained with a dark, blotting substance you couldn’t bring yourself to put a name to, in your fear-induced paralysis. With the manor's high ceilings and dim lighting, he seemed impossibly tall, his black eyes blank and terrible, his smile manic in a way that sent a chill up your spine, that left you frozen where you stood and unable to run as he came to stand in front of you, as he raised a hand and—

And pointed to the book tucked under your arm, a yellowed paperback beaten to hell and back from weeks of loving abuse. You’d spent hours wondering if you should bring it with you, if there was anyone else on the face of the planet who’d be stupid enough to bring a book to a mascarade ball, but you figured you’d have to step out for a breath of fresh air at some point, tonight, and phones weren’t really an option at this kind of thing. Looking back on it, you struggled to remember why you’d spent so much time agonizing over something so inconsequential, especially when whoever found your body likely wouldn’t pay it a second glance. “Is that—” He started, pausing to wet his lips before correcting himself. “Is that Bram Stoker’s Dracula?”

You blinked several times, shifting your weight. “It is,” you managed, eventually, just before the point of no return. “I… I’m only a few chapters in, though. They’re only on the second blood transfusion.”

His smile widened. “I’m reading it for the second time, now. That’s one of the best passages - you can practically feel the dread mounting in the prose.” While he spoke, you stole another glance at his attire. With your shock beginning to fade and your nerves given a few seconds to cool, you could see that he clearly hadn’t just walked out of a crime scene. His clothes were wrinkled, but not torn, not displaced the way they would’ve been if he’d been in a real fight, and he was covered in a cartoonish amount of (presumably fake) blood. He couldn’t have meant for it to be realistic, not unless you were supposed to believe he’d bled twenty people dry on his own.

He must’ve noticed you staring. His rambling trailed off into an airy chuckle, his free hand drifting to his blood-soaked shirt. “I’m afraid I might’ve misread my invitation,” he admitted, with a slight shrug. You were almost in awe of his nonchalance. Showing up to a masquerade ball in a costume fit for a b-rated haunted house would’ve left you catatonic for… god, the rest of the year, at least. “That’s how I found my way back here, actually. You can understand why I wouldn’t want to stay in the ballroom for very long, considering I’m dressed for a very different party.”

“No, no, that makes a lot of sense! I mean, a costume party would be more in-season.” You felt like an idiot. You could only hope you hadn’t looked as scared as you felt. “Honestly, I’m just surprised they let you in with a prop.”

He glanced to his ‘knife’, too, as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Oh, this little thing?” He took the blade in his free hand, bending it downward. Unceremoniously, it snapped into two pieces as easily as if it’d been made of little more than tin foil and plastic - which, to be fair, it probably was. “Most people struggle to see me as a threat, for whatever reason.”

“The doormen probably just felt bad for the strange man who showed up to a charity gala covered in blood.” You spared a small smile, then genuinely brightened, taking up your novel and fishing out the spare mask you’d shoved between the pages while you were getting ready. He should’ve counted himself lucky that you could never be bothered to find a real bookmark. “Mine came in a set of two,” you explained, signaling for him to bend down. A little too easily, he obeyed, stooping just low enough for you to work your spare mask over his head. It was cheaper than anything you would usually like to show off – the base simple black cloth, the embroidery meaninglessly gaudy, the main body kept in place by little more than a simple white ribbon that never seemed to sit just right, but he accepted your offering with a grateful hum. “It’s not much, but—” You paused, buttoning his suit jacket, doing your best to make it look a little less like he’d just walked out of a bad slasher movie and a little more like a tragically color-blind, but ultimately well-dressed party-goer. “It should get you through the door.”

He straightened his back, and you thought you might’ve seen something spark in his dark eyes. Then again, it could’ve just been the moonlight. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

Oh, right – that was something most people did before offering to fix a stranger’s clothes, wasn’t it? You rushed to introduce yourself, and he did the same. “Chrollo Lucilfer.” And then, offering you his hand, “Perhaps I’d be more warmly received with a plus one?”

As hesitant as you were to slip back into the ballroom on the arm of a disheveled stranger who’d already made an impression of his own, it would’ve broken your heart to turn him down. That, and you might’ve had a weakness for disheveled strangers who fell on the more handsome side of the spectrum.

You laughed as you threaded your arm through his, letting Chrollo guide you back to the main event. A second passed with only the sound of your footsteps and distance music to fill the quiet, then another. Eventually, you broke the silence. “It’s very well-written,” you started, trying to fight the urge to fidget. “But… I don’t think I’m the right audience. I care too much about Lucy. Seeing her go through so much and knowing she’s not going to make it is just—” You sighed, shook your head. “It’s agony. Especially when the villain is literally in the title. I mean, I know the characters don’t know that, but still.”

“The benefit of a voyeur's perspective.” For all his glowing praise, he didn’t seem very offended. “I think the dramatic irony is part of the appeal. By the time the tension breaks, it’s nearly too painful to keep going.”

“Which is exactly why it hurts to read,” you groaned, slumping into his side. “I get why it’s happening, but I just can’t stand spending so long on the build-up knowing how it’s going to end. It probably doesn’t help that Lucy’s one of my favorites, either. Well, aside from Mina, but it wouldn’t be fair to compare her to the author’s self-insert.”

The two of you came to a pair of rounded oak doors. There’d been a pair of attendants stationed outside when you left, but Chrollo didn’t seem to mind shouldering it open himself, ushering you inside with a smile and an idle gesture. You took a second to steel your nerves, still not entirely prepared to throw yourself into a very crowded room filled with very loud music and very eager socialites, then crossed the threshold, coming face to face with—

Carnage. Pure, unadulterated carnage.

There were bodies everywhere, each corpse mangled and bruised and broken in every possible way. Dark blood and broken glass covered the formerly pristine ivory floor, and the walls were painted with the remnants of gunfire. A few people were still standing – the murderers, you figured, judging by the blood on their outlandish clothes, the weapons in their hands, the indifferent agitation written across their expressions as you stared at them in horror, as your heart threatened to give out for the second time that night. The tallest man you’d ever seen pointed a hand-held machine gun in your direction, but Chrollo found his way back to your side, resting a hand on your shoulder as he spoke. “Hold your fire,” he said, casually, as if you weren’t standing at the edge of a bloodbath. As if he’d known what he was leading you into. “I think I’m going to keep this one.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. The air hitched in your throat as he brought a hand up to your chin, tilting your head back and forcing you to meet his unblinking stare. You’d been right the first time. There was never anything his eyes could’ve been but terrible. “I always did like Mina.”

There was never anything he could’ve been but a monster, prowling for his next kill.

“I guess I just have a soft spot for survivors.”