#but if he’s coming for mine i’m coming for his

[pucksandpower]

Car Trouble

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which it starts with Max insisting that you borrow one of his many cars while yours is in the shop and somehow turns into you being dragged away in handcuffs because (according to your jealous housemates) the only way you could ever afford a car like that is by having stolen it … suffice to say, your protective boyfriend is less than amused

Warnings: law enforcement abuse of power

The thing is, you know it’s a gamble the moment you put the key in the ignition. Your little car, a 2004 Fiat Panda with a chipped paint job and a suspiciously rattling exhaust, has been teetering on the edge for months. But it’s all you have, and it’s gotten you this far.

Except now, as you sit in Max’s driveway, the dashboard flickers ominously, a banner of orange warning lights. You groan, lean your head against the steering wheel, and curse under your breath. Maybe it’s the alternator. Or the battery. Or the car’s just finally decided it’s had enough.

Max is at his kitchen window, a mug of coffee in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. He steps out, still in his Red Bull Racing hoodie, hair a mess, and jogs over. You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth before he’s leaning down, peering through your open window.

“Car trouble?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Take a wild guess,” you mutter, throwing your hands up.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Let me have a look.”

He gestures for you to pop the hood, and you do, reluctantly. Max circles around, lifting it with a practiced ease, his brow furrowing as he inspects the engine. You know he’s not a mechanic, but he knows enough to recognize that it’s bad news.

“I think it’s, um, all of it,” he says, voice laced with amusement. He looks up at you. “You really drove all the way here like this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say defensively. “It was fine when I left. Mostly.”

Max gives you a pointed look but lets it slide. He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the house. “Come on. I’ll call someone to get it towed.”

You hesitate. “Max, I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking with yours. “But why should you?”

He has this way of cutting through your defenses with a single look, and it’s infuriating. You sigh, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut. Max winces, raising an eyebrow.

“Easy. I think she’s suffered enough,” he teases.

You glare at him, but he’s already dialing a number, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He’s so calm, so unbothered, like this is just another Friday, and your car isn’t smoking in his driveway. It makes you feel small, somehow, and a little embarrassed.

“Hey, mate. Got a Fiat here that needs towing. Yeah, looks pretty bad. Can you get someone here today?” Max pauses, glancing at you, then back to the ground. “Nah, it’s not mine. It’s my girlfriend’s.”

The word hangs in the air, filling the space between you. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but every time he does, it sends a little thrill through you. You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking at the gravel with the toe of your shoe as he finishes up the call.

“Right,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “They’ll be here in an hour or so. Want to come inside?”

You nod, following him up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. Max leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. He pours you a cup without asking, handing it to you as you sink into a chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan?”

You shrug. “Get it fixed, I guess. If it’s even worth fixing.”

“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “That thing’s a death trap.”

You know he’s right, but hearing it out loud stings. “I can’t just buy a new car, Max.”

“I’m not saying you should,” he replies, voice softening. “But you can’t keep driving that. It’s not safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes you feel like you should say something, but you don’t know what. Max watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. He always does that — wants to fix everything, make it all better. And it’s sweet, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

“Look, I have an idea,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. “You can use one of my cars until yours is sorted.”

You blink up at him. “Max, I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists, a determined edge to his voice. “And you will. You need a car, and I have plenty. It makes sense.”

“It’s too much,” you protest, shaking your head. “I can’t just borrow one of your cars like it’s no big deal.”

“It is no big deal,” he counters, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s a car. I have, like, a dozen of them. And I want you to be safe.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels wrong. You open your mouth to argue, but Max holds up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re here for the weekend, right? We’ll get your car towed to a shop, see what they say. In the meantime, you use one of mine. If they can’t fix it, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Max-”

“No arguments,” he interrupts again, smiling faintly. “Please. For me.”

You huff, staring down at your coffee like it might provide some kind of answer. When you look up, Max is still watching you, his expression soft and earnest. He’s not going to let this go, you realize. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Which one?” You ask, finally relenting.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “The DBS.”

Your eyes widen. “The Aston Martin?”

He nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yep.”

“You’re insane,” you say flatly. “I can’t drive that.”

“Sure, you can. I’ll teach you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He steps closer, dropping to a crouch in front of you so you’re eye to eye. “That you don’t want to accept help from your boyfriend? Because, if that’s it, we’re going to have a problem.”

His words catch you off guard, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want you to have it. Just until you’re sorted.”

You let out a long breath, your shoulders sagging as the fight leaves you. “Fine. But I’m not keeping it.”

“Deal,” he says instantly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

There’s a beat of quiet as he stands, pulling out his phone again. He’s about to dial when you speak up.

“Wait.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

You chew on your bottom lip, considering your next words carefully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scratch it or-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, voice gentle. “It’s a car not a piece of priceless china. It’ll be fine.”

His nonchalance is almost infuriating, but you can’t help the way your heart swells at his unwavering confidence in you. He believes in you, even when you don’t.

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. Max’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, squeezing your hand.

“Good. Now, let’s go get the keys.”

***

It’s raining, and the house smells like damp clothes and stale toast. Chloe stands by the living room window, holding her cup of tea, her gaze idly drifting over the dreary street. The drizzling rain matches her mood, which is sour on a good day and worse now that she’s been stuck inside with a mountain of uni work she has no interest in.

A sigh escapes her lips, louder than she means it to, but no one’s around to hear. Her housemates — well, most of them — are scattered across campus, probably doing something useful with their lives. And then there’s you. Always flitting in and out with your head held high, like you’re too good for this dump of a house.

Chloe rolls her eyes at the thought of you. She’s been harboring this quiet disdain ever since you moved in. It’s irrational, she knows that. You haven’t done anything to her, not really. But there’s something about the way you carry yourself, always so composed, so put together, that grates on her nerves. And lately, you’ve been acting … different. Happier, even. Chloe’s seen you, the way you disappear for the weekends, only to return with that smug smile. It’s not hard to guess why.

Chloe knows you have a boyfriend, though you’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped about it. She’s overheard snippets of conversation, seen the texts you try to hide when someone else walks into the room. But still, she can’t figure out why you’re with someone who clearly has money. A lot of money. The kind of money girls like you — girls like them — don’t get near unless there’s some major luck involved.

As she stares out the window, she suddenly sees something that makes her pause. Her tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug as her hand freezes. There, pulling into the lot, is an Aston Martin. Glossy, sleek, and roaring like a mechanical beast as it glides through the rain. The headlights cut through the fog, and the car comes to a slow, calculated stop directly in front of their house.

Chloe’s brow furrows, her pulse quickening. What in the world …

She watches, transfixed, as the driver’s door opens, and you step out, closing the door behind you like it’s no big deal. You glance around the street, pulling the collar of your jacket higher against the rain, completely oblivious to the fact that Chloe is practically burning a hole through the window with her gaze.

“What the hell?” Chloe breathes, her voice sharp in the stillness of the room.

Her eyes narrow as you cross the street, keys jingling in your hand, moving with an air of confidence that has no right to belong to someone pulling up in a car like that. Chloe watches every step, every casual flick of your wrist as you lock the car and walk toward the front door.

She should turn away, pretend she didn’t see anything, but her brain is spinning, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-pound car. You can barely afford rent, let alone something like that. Her mind races with the only plausible explanation — there’s no way in hell that car belongs to you.

Chloe slams her cup down on the coffee table, not caring that it splashes tea everywhere, and darts toward the stairs. She takes them two at a time, bursting into her flatmate Amelia’s room without knocking.

“Amelia! You won’t believe this.”

Amelia looks up from her laptop, startled. “Chloe, what the-”

“Come here. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on her heel and rushing back down the stairs, Amelia reluctantly trailing after her. Chloe pulls her toward the window, jabbing a finger in the direction of the car still parked outside.

“Look,” she says breathlessly, her words tumbling out too fast. “Look at that.”

Amelia leans closer to the window, blinking at the car through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that an Aston Martin?”

“Exactly.” Chloe’s voice is a mix of disbelief and something darker. “And guess who just stepped out of it?”

Amelia frowns, her brow creasing. “No way. You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. She just parked it like she owns the place. What the hell is going on?”

Amelia lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, that’s … that’s not normal.”

Chloe folds her arms, pacing the length of the room now. “She’s probably stolen it. I mean, there’s no way she could afford something like that. Do you know how much that car’s worth?”

Amelia shakes her head slowly, eyes still glued to the car outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s?”

“That’s what I thought,” Chloe snaps, “but come on, who does she know that has that kind of money? I don’t care who her boyfriend is, something’s off.”

They both fall silent for a moment, the only sound the rain tapping against the window. Chloe’s mind races, jumping to conclusions faster than she can keep up. Everything about this feels wrong. She’s always suspected there was something up with you, but this? This is something else entirely.

Amelia breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “Maybe she’s just lucky? I mean, maybe he’s, like, rich-rich. You know?”

Chloe scoffs. “No one gets that lucky. And she’s been acting so secretive lately. What if she’s involved in something shady? I mean, who just pulls up in a car like that?”

Amelia shrugs, clearly unsure how to respond. But Chloe’s not done. There’s a fire in her now, a burning need to know what’s going on. You’ve always been too quiet, too private, and now it’s all starting to make sense. There’s no way you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.

She whirls back around to Amelia, eyes blazing. “You know what? I’m going to call the police.”

“What?” Amelia’s eyes widen in shock. “Chloe, are you serious? You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can,” Chloe cuts her off, already reaching for her phone. “She’s clearly up to something, and I’m not going to sit here and let her get away with it.”

Amelia tries to protest, but Chloe’s mind is already made up. Her fingers fly across her phone screen, dialing the non-emergency number. Her heart pounds in her chest as the call connects, and she presses the phone to her ear, pacing as she waits for someone to pick up.

“Chloe, this is crazy,” Amelia says again, her voice laced with anxiety. “You don’t even know-”

“Shh!” Chloe hisses, waving a hand to silence her.

Finally, the line clicks, and a calm voice greets her. “Thames Valley Police, how can I help you?”

Chloe takes a deep breath, her voice steady as she launches into her story. “Hi, I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m pretty sure it’s been stolen.”

The operator asks for details, and Chloe rattles off the make and model of the car, her eyes never leaving the Aston Martin still parked outside. She glances at Amelia, who’s biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Chloe’s too far gone to care.

“I just … I know the girl who’s driving it, and there’s no way she could afford a car like that,” Chloe explains, her tone sharp. “I think she might have stolen it.”

The operator asks a few more questions, and Chloe answers each one with growing confidence. She can feel it in her bones — something’s off, and she’s not about to let it slide.

When the call ends, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her hands shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.

“Chloe, you didn’t have to do that,” Amelia says quietly, her voice full of worry. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” Chloe insists, her jaw clenched. “You’ll see. The police will sort it out.”

She turns back to the window, her eyes narrowing as she watches the car, half-expecting something to happen. But nothing does. The car sits there, pristine and out of place, mocking her with its sheer audacity.

And you? You have no idea what’s coming.

***

It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon — one of those rare breaks between classes when you can actually catch your breath. The rain’s let up, and a misty sun filters through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the pavement outside. You’re halfway up the stairs to your room, your backpack slung over one shoulder, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The sound is sharp, authoritative, and it echoes through the house, stopping you in your tracks. You glance down, frowning slightly. It’s not like you’re expecting anyone, and the others aren’t home yet. Maybe it’s just a delivery.

But then the knocking comes again — louder, more insistent. Your unease deepens as you drop your bag and head back down the stairs. By the time you reach the door, a faint prickle of anxiety is buzzing under your skin.

You pull the door open, and there they are — two uniformed officers standing on the doorstep. They look serious, their expressions neutral but firm, and you feel your heart sink. This isn’t a casual visit.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is steady, though confusion laces each word.

One of the officers, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense gaze, steps forward. “Are you the owner of the Aston Martin parked outside?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Um, no,” you say, blinking at them. “It’s not mine, but-”

“We’re going to have to ask you to step outside, please,” the other officer, a man with a stern jawline and dark eyes, interrupts. He glances over your shoulder, as if assessing whether you’re alone.

“What’s this about?” You can hear the uncertainty in your voice now, a sharp edge creeping in. “The car belongs to my boyfriend. I’m just borrowing it-”

“Step outside, miss,” the woman repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, you do as you’re told, stepping out onto the front stoop. The chill of the autumn air hits you, and you wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. This isn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand,” you say again, a little louder this time. “What’s going on?”

The officers exchange a look, and then the man speaks. “We received a report that the vehicle may have been stolen. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Stolen?” The word feels foreign on your tongue. “No, it’s not stolen! I told you, it belongs to my boyfriend-”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” the woman asks sharply, cutting you off. “Registration documents, anything like that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, frustration building. “The registration is in the glove compartment. If you just let me get it-”

“Stay where you are,” the man says firmly, holding up a hand to stop you. “We’ll check it ourselves.”

“Can’t you just let me show you?” You take a step forward, but both officers tense, their hands hovering near their belts. Your heart stutters in your chest, a cold trickle of fear sliding down your spine. “I’m telling the truth! I can unlock the car and show you. Please, just let me-”

“Miss, please calm down,” the woman says, her tone laced with a warning. “We’re following protocol here. If you cooperate, this will go much smoother.”

“But I am cooperating!” The words burst out, your voice rising despite yourself. “I’m not lying. It’s my boyfriend’s car, he let me borrow it while mine is in the shop-”

“Miss, we need you to step away from the vehicle,” the man says again, more forcefully this time. He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. “Max,” you say finally, your voice faltering slightly. “Max Verstappen.”

There’s a pause — one that stretches uncomfortably long. The officers exchange another look, something almost skeptical passing between them.

“Right,” the woman says slowly, like she’s testing the words in her mouth. “And you expect us to believe that Max Verstappen, the Formula 1 driver, lent you his Aston Martin?”

“Yes!” Your hands are shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing with fear in a volatile cocktail. “Why would I lie about that? Just let me-”

“Miss,” the man interrupts, his tone hardening. “We need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words hit you like a slap, knocking the breath from your lungs. “What? No, you can’t-”

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he repeats, each word clipped and precise.

You look from him to the woman, desperation clawing at your throat. “Please, just let me open the car. I can prove it’s not stolen. Please-”

But they’re not listening. Before you can say another word, the woman steps forward, reaching for your arm. You flinch back instinctively, panic flaring in your chest.

“Don’t-”

“Miss, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the woman says sharply, grabbing your wrist with practiced ease. She spins you around, her grip firm but not painful, and then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal as she snaps a pair of handcuffs around your wrists.

“No, wait-” You twist, struggling against her hold, but it’s useless. The cuffs dig into your skin, and you can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Please, I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!”

The man steps closer, his face impassive. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …”

His voice blurs, the words running together in a nauseating hum. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “No, no, please, I didn’t steal anything! Just call Max, he’ll explain-”

“Miss, we’re taking you down to the station,” the woman says, steering you away from the house and toward their patrol car parked at the curb. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“Wait!” You stumble, the cuffs biting into your wrists as they push you forward. “You’re not listening! The car isn’t stolen! If you just let me get the registration-”

But they ignore you, their grips unyielding. The street seems to tilt and blur as they guide you toward the back of the car, your shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. Everything feels surreal, like you’ve been dropped into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The woman opens the back door, and the man gives you a gentle but firm shove. You fall into the seat, the leather cold against your legs. They close the door with a solid thunk, the sound reverberating through your bones.

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “You’re making a mistake. I’m telling the truth …”

But they’re already walking away, their voices low as they talk to each other. You catch fragments of their conversation — words like “protocol” and “standard procedure” — but it all feels distant, unreal.

You slump back in the seat, staring blankly out the window as the patrol car starts up, the engine a low, steady hum. The world outside blurs into a swirl of gray and green as they pull away from the curb, and your mind races, panic and disbelief tangling together in a messy knot.

How did this happen? One minute you were heading to your room, and now you’re being carted off to a police station like some sort of criminal. It doesn’t make any sense.

You try to replay the last few minutes in your head, searching for something — anything — you could have said or done differently. But there’s nothing. They weren’t listening to you. They didn’t care about your explanation. They just saw a girl with an expensive car and decided you must be guilty of something.

Tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously. You can’t fall apart now. You have to think, to figure out what to do next.

Max. You need to call Max. He’ll sort this out. He’ll tell them the truth, and they’ll have to let you go. But how are you supposed to do that when they’ve got you locked up in the back of a patrol car?

The drive to the station feels like it takes forever, each second dragging out in painful clarity. You try to keep calm, to breathe through the panic tightening in your chest, but it’s hard when every bump in the road makes the cuffs dig deeper into your skin.

Finally, they pull up in front of the station, and the officers get out, coming around to your side. The door opens, and the woman leans down, her expression unreadable.

“Come on, miss. Let’s get this sorted out.”

You nod numbly, letting them help you out of the car. Your legs feel shaky, your whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. They lead you up the steps, through the front doors, and into a small, sterile room that smells faintly of disinfectant.

“Please,” you say one last time, your voice breaking. “Please, just call him. He’ll explain everything.”

But they only exchange another glance, and the woman shakes her head slightly. “Let’s get your statement first, miss.”

And then they’re sitting you down, the lights glaring down from above, the cuffs still biting into your wrists. And all you can do is sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, as the nightmare continues to unfold around you.

***

The fluorescent lights above hum softly, the cold, sterile environment of the police station pressing down on you from every angle. It feels like you’ve been here for hours, your wrists still red from the handcuffs, a dull ache in your joints from sitting on the hard chair. Every second stretches, torturing you with the weight of waiting.

You're trying to stay calm, but your thoughts keep spiraling — back to the car, back to the police showing up at your doorstep, back to the way they refused to listen. Your voice shakes every time you try to explain, but it’s like they can’t hear you. It’s suffocating.

Across the room, the officer — her name’s Thompson, you think — sits at her desk, flipping through some paperwork. The sound of pages turning feels louder than it should. Every time you shift in your seat, she gives you this look, like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Like she’s waiting for you to break.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I want to make a phone call,” you say, your voice cutting through the stillness. You sit up straighter, your hands balled into fists on your lap.

Thompson doesn’t even look up. “You’ll get your chance,” she says dismissively, still flipping through the file.

“No,” you say, firmer this time. “I want to make it now. I have the right to make a phone call.”

This time, she looks up, her expression flat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you snap, surprising yourself with the force in your voice. Your patience is gone, the fear of being trapped in this nightmare pushing you into desperation. “I know my rights. I’m allowed one phone call, and I want to make it.”

Thompson raises an eyebrow, like she’s weighing whether or not you’re serious. After a beat, she sighs, pushing the stack of papers aside and standing. “Fine,” she says curtly. “One phone call.”

She leads you to a small side room — bare, with only a table, a chair, and a landline phone sitting in the middle. You sit down, and Thompson places the phone in front of you like it’s some kind of offering.

“One call,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “Make it count.”

You don’t hesitate. You dial Max’s number, your fingers trembling slightly as you press the buttons. The ring tone fills the room, each ring stretching out the time between your breaths. You press the phone closer to your ear, your heart pounding.

It rings once. Twice. And then-

“Hello?”

Max’s voice comes through the line, smooth and steady, as if he’s just woken up from a nap and isn’t even remotely phased by the sudden call. But you know him better than that — there’s a sharp edge beneath the surface, a protective tension that’s always there when it comes to you.

You swallow hard, fighting back the lump in your throat. “Max …”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts — serious, focused. “What’s wrong?”

“They arrested me,” you say, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “The police — they think I stole your car.”

There’s silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous. “What?”

You feel the weight of his anger through the phone, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel a flicker of relief. He’s going to fix this. He’s not going to let them treat you like this.

“They showed up at the house,” you explain, your voice trembling slightly. “They wouldn’t let me get the registration. They didn’t believe me when I said the car was yours. They just-”

“Where are you?” His voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and commanding. “Which station?”

You glance around the room. “Bedfordshire Police Station. They won’t let me-”

“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Don’t talk to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, the dial tone ringing in your ears. You stare at the phone for a moment, your heart racing. You know Max is angry — no, furious — but that anger isn’t directed at you. It’s for them, the people who put you in this position.

Thompson steps back into the room, her expression unreadable. “Finished?”

You nod, handing the phone back. She doesn’t say anything as she leads you back to the main room, but you can feel her eyes on you, judging, assessing.

You sit down again, your legs shaky, but now there’s a quiet fire burning in your chest. Max is coming. He’s going to make this right.

The minutes tick by, painfully slow. Thompson goes back to her paperwork, the other officers moving around the station like it’s just another day. But for you, every second is excruciating, the tension building in your chest like a storm.

Then, finally, the door to the station swings open with a heavy thud, and you hear the low murmur of voices — followed by a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Max.

You can’t see him from where you’re sitting, but you can feel the shift in the room. There’s a sudden stillness, the officers glancing up from their desks, their postures stiffening. Even Thompson’s face changes, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she composes herself.

You strain to hear the conversation at the front desk, but it’s muffled. Still, you catch bits and pieces — his name, the car, your name. And then there’s the sharp, unmistakable edge of authority in Max’s voice as he says something that makes the desk officer sit up a little straighter.

Moments later, the door to the holding area swings open, and there he is. Max strides in, every movement purposeful, his eyes locking onto you immediately. There’s a fire in his gaze — controlled, but fierce — and the tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know.

He’s not just angry. He’s livid.

“Max …” Your voice is small, a mixture of relief and shame. You hadn’t wanted to drag him into this mess, but you also know that no one else could’ve handled it the way he can.

He crosses the room in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for yours. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the tightness underneath it.

You nod, but tears prick at your eyes. “I-I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen to me …”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got it from here.” His tone is resolute, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, without another word to you, Max turns to face the officers. His entire demeanor shifts, his posture straightening, his presence filling the room with an air of control that demands respect.

“Who’s in charge here?” He asks, his voice calm but unmistakably authoritative.

Thompson steps forward, though there’s a flicker of hesitation in her movements. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Officer Thompson.”

Max doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You arrested my girlfriend under suspicion of theft. I’d like to see the evidence you have for that.”

Thompson falters, her eyes flicking over to the other officers. “We … we received a report of a stolen vehicle, and-”

“And instead of verifying the ownership, you decided to arrest her?” Max’s voice is cold, each word measured. “Did you even check the registration in the glove compartment?”

Thompson’s jaw tightens. “We were following standard procedure. She became agitated and-”

“She was agitated because you were treating her like a criminal,” Max cuts in, his tone sharp. “You had no reason to arrest her. If you had checked the registration, you would’ve seen my name on it.”

He takes a step closer, his presence towering over Thompson, making her shift uneasily on her feet. “Do you know who I am?”

There’s a beat of silence. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Thompson nods slowly. “Yes. Mr. Verstappen, we-”

“Then you know how much trouble you’re in,” Max says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. “You’re going to release her. Now. And then you’re going to issue a formal apology.”

Thompson blinks, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. “Mr. Verstappen, I understand your frustration, but we were simply-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Max interrupts, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “You’ve already made a mess of this situation. Don’t make it worse by pretending this was some kind of mistake. You arrested her because you assumed she didn’t belong in that car. Because you didn’t bother to listen.”

Thompson opens her mouth to argue, but Max doesn’t give her the chance. “I’ll be contacting my legal team,” he says, his tone firm. “And if you don’t release her immediately, I’ll make sure this becomes a very public issue.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thompson hesitates for a moment longer, and then — finally — she nods.

“Release her,” she says quietly, signaling to one of the other officers.

The relief that washes over you is immediate, your heart pounding in your chest as the handcuffs are removed. Max’s hand is on your shoulder in an instant, grounding you, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he looks down at you. “We’re getting out of here.”

You nod, letting him guide you out of the station. But before you step through the door, you glance back at Thompson, who’s still standing there, her expression strained.

Max pauses, following your gaze. He meets Thompson’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Don’t ever treat her like that again,” he says quietly, the words carrying more weight than any threat could.

And with that, he leads you out into the cool night air, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you step outside.

***

Max’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, as he guides you toward his car in the station’s dimly lit parking lot. It’s quieter out here, the cool air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and something sharper — the lingering smell of petrol. The night is still, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of chaos you’ve just been dragged through.

But Max’s silence is unnerving. He’s holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

He stops in front of a sleek, black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, the kind of car that turns heads and raises eyebrows. It’s an aggressive machine, all sharp edges and raw power — just like Max right now.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low and controlled, as if he’s holding back a storm. He opens the passenger side door for you, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

You hesitate for a second, looking up at him, trying to gauge his mood. “Max-”

“Get. In,” he repeats, enunciating each word with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You slip into the passenger seat without another word, the leather cool against your skin. The car’s interior is immaculate, everything in its place, the faint smell of new leather lingering in the air. Max rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, his movements tight and controlled. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the engine, the car roaring to life with a low, throaty growl.

He peels out of the parking lot with a precision that feels almost surgical, his eyes locked on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence between you is heavy, charged with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Max-”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and accusing. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Tell you what?”

“That they arrested you,” he says, each word bitten off like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “That they-” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I-I didn’t want to worry you. You were probably busy, and-”

“Busy?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his eyes flashing as he glances at you. “You think I care about being busy when something like this happens? When you’re involved?”

“Max, I didn’t want you to-”

“To what? Be pissed off? Too late for that,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. He takes a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. “What happened, exactly?”

You tell him, your voice halting at first but gaining strength as you recount every detail — the officers showing up, the handcuffs, the questions, the disbelief when you tried to explain the car belonged to him. Max’s expression darkens with each word, his jaw set in a hard line.

“They just … wouldn’t listen,” you finish softly, staring down at your hands. “I told them it was yours. I even tried to show them the registration, but they didn’t care.”

“They didn’t care because they had already made up their minds,” Max growls, his voice a dangerous rumble. “They saw you and assumed you didn’t belong in that car.”

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to keep his temper in check.

“Why would they think the car was stolen in the first place?” He mutters, more to himself than to you. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, his mind clearly racing.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Someone must have reported it,” you say slowly, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “Someone must have seen me with it and assumed …”

Max’s gaze snaps to you, sharp and focused. “Who would do that?”

“I-I don’t know.” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “It could’ve been anyone. The car … it stands out. Maybe someone thought it looked out of place at the house.”

Max’s frown deepens. “No,” he says firmly, his eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone who knows you. Someone who knew that wasn’t your car.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and damning. Someone who knew you. Someone who saw you with the Aston Martin. Someone who-

“One of your housemates,” Max says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

You open your mouth to protest, but then you stop, the pieces falling into place in your mind. One of your housemates. One of the people who knows you can’t afford a car like that, who might have thought — wrongly, jealously — that you had gotten your hands on it through some shady means.

Max’s eyes are hard, unyielding. “It has to be,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone saw you with the car and called the police. There’s no other explanation.”

You take a deep breath, the realization settling in your chest like a lead weight. “But … why would they do that? Why would they assume I stole it?”

“Because people are idiots,” Max mutters, his gaze flicking back to the road. “Because people are jealous. And because they didn’t like seeing you with something they thought you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it makes your heart ache. Max has dealt with his share of jealousy, of people looking at him like he doesn’t deserve what he’s earned. He knows what it’s like to be judged, to have assumptions made about him based on nothing but surface impressions.

But this is different. This is personal.

“Whoever did this,” Max says, his voice low and controlled, “is going to regret it.”

Your eyes widen, a pang of fear and something else — something almost like excitement — flaring in your chest. “Max, wait-”

“We’re going to your house,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re going to find out who made that call, and I’m going to make sure they understand exactly what kind of trouble they’ve caused.”

“Max, no,” you protest, your voice rising. “You don’t have to do that. I-I can handle it. I’ll talk to them, I’ll-”

“No, you won’t.” He glances at you, his eyes blazing. “You’ve been through enough tonight. I’m handling this.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops you cold. There’s a steely determination in his eyes, an unshakeable resolve that tells you there’s no point in fighting him on this.

He’s already made up his mind.

“Max, please-”

“Enough,” he says softly, but there’s no gentleness in his tone. “I’m not letting them get away with this.”

You fall silent, your heart racing as the car speeds down the quiet, empty streets. The tension in the car is suffocating, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. Relief that he’s here, that he’s taking control, that he’s going to make this right.

You know you should feel bad, should feel guilty for dragging him into this mess. But right now, all you feel is a fierce, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Max’s hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m going to take care of it.”

You nod, swallowing back the words you want to say — the apologies, the pleas for him not to do anything reckless. Because you know it won’t make a difference. Max is stubborn, determined, protective to a fault. And when it comes to you, he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

The drive to your house feels both too long and too short, every second charged with anticipation. When Max finally pulls up outside your shared house, he cuts the engine and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car,” he says firmly.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“Stay. In. The. Car.” He enunciates each word with that same controlled intensity, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m going inside.”

“Max, you can’t-”

“I can and I will,” he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting you go in there and face them after everything that’s happened tonight.”

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing gesture. “Just stay here, okay? Let me handle it.”

You want to argue, to tell him it’s not necessary, but the look in his eyes stops you. There’s a fierce protectiveness there, a determination that makes your chest tighten.

“Max …”

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “Just this once. Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay.”

He leans forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “Good.”

And with that, he steps out of the car, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. You watch as he strides toward the front door of your house, his shoulders squared, his posture radiating confidence and control.

But the second he disappears from view, you find yourself reaching for the door handle. You know he told you to stay in the car. You know he wants to protect you.

But you can’t just sit here and let him fight your battles for you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open and step out into the cool night air, following him up the path toward the house.

***

The door swings open with a resounding bang, ricocheting with enough force to make the picture frames on the adjacent wall rattle. Every head in the common room snaps up, eyes wide and startled as they turn toward the unexpected intrusion.

Max stands in the doorway, the very picture of barely restrained fury, his presence so commanding it seems to suck the air out of the room. His gaze sweeps over the small group of people lounging on the mismatched sofas, taking in their shocked expressions and slack-jawed stares with a level of disdain that’s almost palpable.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl that reverberates through the room.

No one answers immediately. They’re all too stunned, too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger radiating aggression. It’s Chloe who finally finds her voice, pushing herself up from her seat on the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.

“Um, excuse me, but who are you?” Her voice wavers slightly, but she lifts her chin defiantly, trying to project an air of authority. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

Max’s eyes lock onto her, and something in his gaze makes her flinch back, the confidence in her stance faltering. He doesn’t bother answering her question. Instead, he turns his head slightly, calling out over his shoulder.

“Come in here,” he says, his tone softer but no less commanding.

You step into the doorway behind him, hesitant and unsure, your gaze flicking nervously between Max and your housemates. You don’t miss the way their expressions shift when they see you — surprise, confusion, and something darker, more judgmental, flickering across their faces.

“Y/N?” It’s Amelia who speaks this time, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

Max’s jaw tightens, his gaze still fixed on Chloe. “I’m Max,” he says curtly, as if the name alone should explain everything.

It clearly doesn’t. The blank stares from around the room make that abundantly clear.

“Max Verstappen,” he adds, impatience lacing his tone. Still no recognition. “Formula 1 driver? Y/N’s boyfriend?” He tries again, a hint of disbelief in his voice now.

A flicker of something like realization crosses a few faces, but Chloe just scoffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And I’m Lewis Hamilton.”

Max’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Trust me, I would never want to be him.”

The comment flies over Chloe’s head, but it’s enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. Max’s smile fades as quickly as it came, his expression hardening once more.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says again flatly, jerking his head in your direction. “And I’m here to find out which one of you decided it was a good idea to call the police and have her arrested.”

The laughter dies instantly. The air in the room thickens with tension, eyes darting from Max to you and back again.

“Arrested?” Amelia repeats, her voice rising in pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Max snaps, his gaze still boring into Chloe, like he can see straight through her. “One of you called the cops and reported her for driving a stolen car. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A murmur of confusion ripples through the group, genuine bewilderment on most faces. But Chloe’s eyes dart away, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression before she schools it back into one of indifference.

“What — no, that’s ridiculous!” She says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. “Why would any of us do that?”

Max’s gaze narrows, his eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Chloe shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the others as if searching for support. But no one says anything. No one moves.

“Look,” Chloe finally says, trying for a breezy tone that falls flat. “If she got arrested, that’s … that’s not our fault, okay? Maybe there was a misunderstanding or something.”

Max’s eyes flash, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“A misunderstanding?” He repeats, his voice deceptively calm. “Yeah, I’d say there was a huge misunderstanding. Like the fact that you assumed she couldn’t possibly be driving that car legitimately. Like the fact that you assumed she’d have to steal it to have something that nice.”

He takes a step closer to Chloe, and she instinctively steps back, her expression faltering. “Whoever made that call didn’t just cause a ‘misunderstanding.’ They caused a whole lot of trouble for no reason other than pettiness and jealousy.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” One of the other housemates tries to interject, but Max doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you know what it’s like to get a phone call telling you the person you love is sitting in a cell?” He asks, his gaze never leaving Chloe’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that they were treated like a criminal just because someone here,” — he practically spits the word — “decided to be a self-righteous, vindictive bitch?”

The room goes deathly silent. Chloe’s face has gone pale, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words forthcoming.

“Max, maybe we should-” you start, reaching out to touch his arm.

He cuts you off with a quick shake of his head, his eyes still locked on Chloe. “No. She needs to hear this.”

You shrink back slightly, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and something else — something like relief. Because as harsh as Max is being, there’s a part of you that’s grateful. Grateful that he’s standing up for you, that he’s putting words to all the anger and frustration you’ve been bottling up since this whole nightmare began.

“You don’t get to treat people like that,” Max continues, his voice low and cold. “You don’t get to make snap judgments about someone based on what you think they deserve. And you sure as hell don’t get to sic the cops on them just because you’re too insecure to handle seeing someone else with something you want.”

Chloe’s lips tremble, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I … I didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?” Max demands, his voice rising. “Didn’t think it would matter? Didn’t think about the consequences? Or didn’t think you’d get caught?”

The accusation hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one breathes.

“I didn’t think-” Chloe starts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just — I thought …”

Max lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, you thought. That’s the problem.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, steadier, but no less cutting.

“You know what? I don’t even care what your excuse is,” he says quietly. “Because there is no excuse. Nothing you say is going to change what you did. Nothing is going to make up for the fact that you had her dragged off in handcuffs for no reason other than your own messed-up assumptions.”

Chloe flinches at the words, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for her — almost. But then you remember the cold metal of the handcuffs around your wrists, the humiliating feeling of being treated like a criminal, and the sympathy evaporates.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Max says, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to apologize. Right now. To her.”

He steps back slightly, giving Chloe a clear line of sight to you. She hesitates, her gaze flicking up to yours, and for a moment, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I … I’m sorry,” she finally mutters, the words barely audible.

Max’s gaze hardens. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe repeats, her voice trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I just … I thought the car was … that it wasn’t …”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish. But she trails off, her face crumpling with guilt and shame. It’s not much of an apology, but it’s more than you expected.

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now, if I ever hear about you pulling something like this again,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Chloe nods frantically, her face ashen. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

“Great.” Max turns away from her, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Porsche purrs along the quiet stretch of motorway, the engine’s deep growl a steady undercurrent to the conversation hanging in the air. It’s late — well past midnight — but neither of you seem in any hurry to get home. There’s a lingering tension, a heaviness that neither of you know quite how to disperse.

Max’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stark against the leather. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the faint glow of the dashboard casting shadows across his face. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that betrays the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He hasn’t said much since leaving your house. Just a few clipped sentences, terse reassurances that he’s not mad at you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. But the words feel hollow, inadequate against the weight of what happened tonight.

After a few more minutes of silence, Max finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. “I talked to the mechanics earlier today.”

You blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. “The mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “About your car.”

Oh. You feel a pang of anxiety, your stomach twisting unpleasantly. You’d almost forgotten about your poor, beat-up little car, abandoned at some garage in Milton Keynes. “What did they say?”

Max hesitates, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “It’s … not good.”

You swallow hard, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“They think it’s beyond saving.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying to break the news gently. “There’s too much damage. The engine’s shot, the transmission’s on its last legs … basically, it’d cost more to repair it than it’s worth.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending. “But … but I just had it serviced a few months ago,” you protest weakly. “It shouldn’t be that bad-”

“It’s not your fault,” Max interrupts gently. “That car’s been through hell. It’s a miracle it’s lasted as long as it has.”

“But I can’t just … give up on it,” you say, a note of desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s my car, Max. I need it.”

“You need a car,” Max corrects softly. “Not that car. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I can’t afford a new one right now. I still have to pay for-”

“Hey, hey.” Max’s hand leaves the steering wheel to rest on your knee, squeezing gently. “I’m not saying you have to buy a new car.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying,” Max begins, his tone careful, measured, “that I’ll get you a new one.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s suggesting.

“No,” you say finally, shaking your head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

Max’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to yours. “Why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” You sputter. “I’m not letting you buy me a car. That’s way too much.”

“It’s not too much if you need it,” he argues calmly.

“Yes, it is!” You insist, your voice rising. “It’s too much, and it’s not your responsibility. I’ll figure something out-”

“Like what?” Max challenges, his voice sharpening. “What are you going to do, keep borrowing cars you’re hesitant to actually use? Take public transport everywhere? What happens when you need to get somewhere and you don’t have a ride?”

“I’ll manage,” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I always have.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to anymore,” Max snaps, his frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“Because it’s not your problem to solve!” You shout back, the words bursting out before you can stop them.

Max goes silent, his gaze turning stony. For a few long moments, the only sound in the car is the steady thrum of the engine and your own harsh breathing.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist. “You’re my girlfriend. That means if you have a problem, it is my problem to solve.”

The certainty in his tone makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the determination blazing in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Max …” you begin softly, but he cuts you off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, listen to me.” He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening on your knee. “I know you’re independent. I know you’re used to handling things on your own. But this isn’t about money, or pride, or any of that. It’s about making sure you’re safe, that you have what you need to get around. And right now, that means getting you a new car.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he presses on, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Let me do this for you,” he says quietly, almost pleadingly. “Please.”

His sincerity takes the wind out of your sails, your protests dying on your lips. You stare at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders.

“But … it’s just … too much,” you say weakly, your resolve crumbling.

Max’s expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. And even if it is, I don’t care. You’re worth it.”

The simple, earnest declaration sends a rush of warmth flooding through you, your heart swelling in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“Why do you have to be so damn convincing?” You mutter, half exasperated, half amused.

Max’s smile widens slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your knee. “It’s a gift.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says dryly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “So … you’ll let me do this?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. It still feels like too much, like accepting would be crossing some invisible line. But there’s a part of you that knows he’s right — that trying to handle this on your own would be stubborn and impractical and would probably end up causing more problems than it’s worth.

And more than that, you can see how much it means to him. How much he wants to do this for you.

“Fine,” you say finally, letting out a long sigh. “But only because you’re so damn insistent.”

Max’s grin is dazzling, the relief and joy in his eyes almost overwhelming. “Good. I’ll start looking for something first thing tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind the gesture. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening at your soft, exasperated laugh.

“Cheesy,” you accuse, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Maybe,” he concedes with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “I’m still not letting you get me something ridiculously expensive,” you warn, trying to sound stern.

“We’ll see,” Max says noncommittally, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Max-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get something practical, okay? Something that’s safe and reliable and not … ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

Max’s smile softens, and he nods, his gaze holding yours steadily. “Promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a sense of peace settling over you. Maybe it’s not ideal, accepting something so big from him, but … maybe it’s okay to let him take care of you, just this once.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Max’s smile is soft and warm and full of so much affection it makes your chest ache. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. “No, thank you.”

[wondergirlsthings]

Beachside Boundaries

Lando Norris x Reader

The sun was blazing, the waves crashing gently onto the shore as you settled into your spot on the beach. It was the perfect day for relaxation—a break from the hustle and chaos of the F1 season. You were with Lando and a group of friends on a private stretch of beach, enjoying some well-earned downtime.

You smoothed down your bikini, a vibrant blue two-piece you’d been saving for a day like this. It fit perfectly and brought out the color of your eyes, which Lando had already complimented earlier in the day. As you made your way toward the shoreline to dip your toes in the water, you heard laughter behind you.

“Y/N, you’re turning heads today,” one of the guys in your group called out teasingly. You glanced back and grinned, brushing it off as lighthearted fun.

But when your eyes met Lando’s, his usual playful demeanor was replaced by something else—his brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tense. He was watching you intently from his spot under the beach umbrella, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair.

You shrugged it off at first, thinking he was just tired. But as the day went on, his mood seemed to sour more and more. By the time you walked back up from the water, drying your hair with a towel, he was already on his feet.

“Hey, can we talk for a second?” he asked, his voice calm but tinged with tension.

You raised an eyebrow, confused. “Sure. What’s up?”

He gestured for you to follow him a few steps away from the group. Once you were alone, he crossed his arms over his chest, avoiding your eyes for a moment before speaking.

“Do you have to wear that bikini?”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Excuse me? What’s wrong with my bikini?”

“It’s… nothing’s wrong with it,” he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. “You look amazing, Y/N. You always do. But…” He trailed off, glancing back toward the group. “You’ve seen the way they’re looking at you.”

You tilted your head, trying to process his words. “Lando, are you seriously upset because people are looking at me?”

He sighed, his hands dropping to his sides. “I’m not upset, I’m just… I don’t like it. You’re mine, Y/N, and I hate the idea of anyone else thinking they can…” He gestured vaguely, unable to find the right words.

“Lando,” you said softly, stepping closer to him. “I’m yours. You don’t have to worry about anyone else. I only care about what you think.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but he still looked unconvinced. “I know that, but it’s hard not to feel protective. You’re gorgeous, and I can’t stand the idea of someone else staring at you like that.”

You placed your hands on his chest, looking up at him with a reassuring smile. “You don’t need to be jealous, Lando. I love you, and nothing’s going to change that. Besides, it’s just a bikini. It doesn’t mean anything more than me enjoying the sunshine.”

He let out a small laugh, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re right. I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“A little,” you teased, standing on your toes to kiss his cheek. “But I kind of like it when you’re protective. Just don’t go overboard, okay?”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. “I’ll try. But if anyone gets too close, I’m not above reminding them you’re taken.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Fair enough. Now, come back to the group and stop sulking. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

With a sheepish grin, Lando followed you back to the beach chairs. His jealousy might have been a bit over the top, but you knew it came from a place of love. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

[trickbxbes]

This request didn’t come through as an ask so I couldn’t edit it! OP if you see this, this is for you!!

𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐞-𝐇𝐨 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐠 (18+)

[𝐃𝐚𝐞-𝐇𝐨 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

Warnings: SMUT, Bigger tiddy reader, tit fucking, tiddy fixation, Dae-Ho being submissive as usual, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie,

You don’t even remember what you were arguing about. It might’ve started from you not getting home until super late without keeping touch. Or maybe it was because he ate the last of your cake you had saved. Whatever it was, you really couldn’t care that much. You just wanted the fighting to stop.

“(Y,n). (Y,n), are you even listening?”

And so, you knew you had to do what was right for the greater good. Use your God given powers to save the night, and your sanity. You lift up your shirt and bra and let your tits hang. Dae-Ho immediately stops his ranting, staring in disbelief. His brain must’ve short circuited the way his jaw was agape. “I— you…”

You stare blankly at him, gesturing towards your breasts again expectantly.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

He complied immediately after. You got him on the couch with you in between his legs. Your tits around his throbbing hard member, massaging them as you kissed the tip. Dae-Ho was a whining mess, his eyes half lidded as he pants.

“Nnn… fuck.. (Y,n)…”

You lower your mouth further on his cock, increasing your motions with your breasts. It was enough to drive him crazy. His head arched back to the ceiling as his mouth opened wider. “Oh fuck, I’m close, (Y,n), close…!”

In response, you suck back on his tip again, giving it special attention before you look him in the eyes. Dae-Ho met your gaze, and melted. He shakily sighs, content with you for just a second. But his orgasm catches up and he’s back to gritting his teeth and gripping the couch. “Fuck!” He comes undone in your mouth, with you swallowing it all.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Oh, he wasn’t done with you yet. Your tits bounced in his face as he had you in the Lotus position. Your legs wrapped around as you’re sat on his thrusting cock. Dae-Ho’s hands keeping you there with his grip on your waist. He pounded into you mercilessly. His line of vision trailed from your bouncing tits, back to your eyes. You moaned rhythmically with each thrust, his dick hitting a spot deep within you.

“Fuck, fuck, Dae-Ho…!” 

“(Y,n)… (Y,n)…”

He murmured your name in response, muttering it like some sort of prayer. With every thrust, your body was forced to jerk up, and the physics made your breasts take their time to follow. Dae-Ho presses his face into your chest, feeling the skin slap against him just as his thighs slapped yours.

“Mm..fuck… mine.”

You gasp out, the claiming making you closer to your orgasm than intended. “Yours…! All yours…”

Dae-Ho groaned in reply and went even faster. You knew he was close too. His hips stutter as he nipped at your tits, leaving his own markings.

The two of you finish together as Dae-Ho finishes inside you. Feeling his hot seed fill you up was more than enough to make you come undone next. He held you tight, your boobs muffling his moans since his face was still trapped there. You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders firmly. You’re both left panting, processing what exactly happened. Your man lifts you up, still inside you, and walks to your bed.

Dae-Ho laid you down, his cock still in you, but not moving. He had his chest pressed against your back, his arms holding you close to him. You smirk secretly but tiredly, knowing you had won. He found his way into your neck, mumbling,

“Not fair… you always do that..”

[puck-luck]

I would like to make a request 🗣️🗣️ luke and a meet cute at a club or party and luke takes her back to his place 🕶️

thank you for your consideration

warnings: use of Y/N, consumption of alcohol, dancing without leaving room for jesus, public sex, rough!luke, oral sex m!receiving (facefucking), praise, dirty talk, consumption of cum, hair pulling, probably missed some stuff but. oh well.

pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader

wc: 3,717

“Y/N, he’s been looking over here all night. If you don’t go up to him, I will,” your friend threatens. 

You know who she’s talking about– the tall brunet with the curls near the dartboard in the quiet corner of the bar. He’s been with his group of friends the whole night, nursing beer bottle after beer bottle, and you keep making eye contact with him. You’ve actually turned from him so that you can focus on your friends, determined to not make the first move on this guy.

However, the jig is up. Your friends are tired of waiting. They want to see something happen.

“Look, he’s going to the bar now,” another friend says. “Go get a new drink and talk to him!”

They urge you to finish your current drink quickly and shoo you along, physically pushing you from the group towards the bar.

“Alright, alright, fine,” you concede, leaving your empty glass on the table and walking towards the bar. You make your way to the bar, sidling up next to the man. He seems taller when you stand next to him, so you throw a look over your shoulder towards your friends, mouth gaping and eyebrows curved to convey how impressed you are. You tap your fingers on the bar while you wait for the bartender, bouncing on your tiptoes slightly. 

The bartender goes to the man first, who asks for a Bud bottle. It’s easy enough, so the bartender points to you. 

“A vodka soda with a lime, please!” You lean forward over the bar and raise your voice so the bartender can hear you over the chatter in the bar. Another easy order. You never really know what to order at bars, despite being over the legal drinking age for a little while now. 

You and the man next to you wait in silence as the bartender makes your drinks– or grabs the beer bottle, in the case of your neighbor. He promptly hands over his card, which the bartender sticks into the side of his hat so that he can use both of his hands to make your drink. 

Your eyes go wide– your purse is at the table with your friends. You could just use ApplePay, but you really don’t want to hand your entire phone to the bartender to pay. “Oh, shit,” you mumble to yourself, looking over at the table where your friends sit. You can see your purse from here, like there’s a spotlight on it.

The bartender places a new glass in front of you and waits.

“I– my wallet is in my purse, I need to go grab it,” you say, pointing over towards the table. “I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back–”

“You can put it on mine,” the man next to you interrupts, talking directly to the bartender. “I’ll pay.”

The bartender nods and types around on the computer for a minute, while you turn to the guy next to you– your savior. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but you really do appreciate the small act of kindness.

“Thank you so much,” you tell the man, looking up at him and smiling softly. “I can Venmo you, if you want?”

He chuckles. “Nah, that’s okay,” he says. He sticks a hand out for you to shake, which is comical in a setting like this. You take his hand anyway, feeling his fingers curl around your palm. “I’m Luke.”

“Y/N. You’re sure I can’t pay you back?” you ask, shaking his hand.

Luke turns back to the bar, taking his card from the bartender and signing the receipt. You take your drink, waiting for him to say something else. He looks at you when he’s done and shakes his head. “I’m sure.”

Ugh– you can feel your chance slipping away. You’ve never been the bravest when it comes to making a move, but you know your friends won’t take pleasure in this story if you return now. They’ll just send you back over to Luke. “How about a dance?”

Luke’s eyebrows quirk. “A dance?”

“To pay you back. We dance for a song, we go our separate ways, and all is fair,” you say. It’s a silly proposal, but you’re hoping it works. Even if it doesn’t, you can tell your friends that you asked him to dance and he declined. You reach for your drink and sip from the straw, pinching the plastic to keep it in place. You look up at Luke through your eyelashes, blinking innocently.

Luke seems to consider the invitation, taking a swig from his beer bottle and sliding his card back into his wallet, before sliding his wallet back into his pocket. He licks his bottom lip and his eyes flicker over the top half of your figure. “Sure,” Luke decides after a minute. “Let’s dance.”

You smile. “Okay,” you say sweetly. “Let me go put my drink on my table. Wait right here.” You touch his arm lightly, lingering for a moment. “I’ll be right back.”

You head back to your table, depositing your drink on the table and telling your friends that you’ll be dancing with Luke if they need you. They cheer and gas you up, making you swear that you’ll tell them everything. They promise to watch your stuff and, should you want to go home with Luke, they’ll call an Uber for you. 

Your friends don’t do that kind of stuff normally, so you’re starting to wonder… do they think you’ve been in a dry spell? Or are they just really excited about the prospect of you hooking up with Luke?

Luke’s face transforms when he smirks, watching you make your way back over to him. He laughs when you pop your hips a bit with each step, introducing the dance before you even make your way to the middle of the bar. Once you’re in range, Luke slides his big hand over your hip possessively and a thrill passes through you. It’s the simplest of touches. 

You lead him to the dance floor, twining your fingers between the lengthy digits of his free hand. You twirl under his arm before plastering your back to his front and, well, getting down to business. 

The music is upbeat, but you can’t place your finger on the genre. You like this bar because dancing isn’t a huge part of the vibe. There are still a number of couples out on the dance floor, plus a few groups of friends. It’s not crowded, but there’s no way that your friends are able to watch and analyze each move that you make. 

It might be disco, actually. Some sort of weird EDM-disco-reggae-poppy-retro song that you’ll never remember the name of, but you’ll remember the feeling you had while it played. You’ll remember the feeling of Luke’s body behind yours, so present that you have to close your eyes and memorize it. 

The movements are easy enough, although Luke is letting you lead the dance. His hips sway with yours, hands on your waist. You can feel his breath on your neck and your cheekbone and you lean into the touch, laying the back of your head against his shoulder. One of your hands comes up to find his neck, curling around the back of it and playing with his curls. You know he can see down the front of your going-out top like this, cleavage on full display, and that’s just how you want it. 

His movements grow more sure over the duration of the song. By the end of it, Luke’s hips are pressed securely against your backside and his hands are keeping you in place. At the end of the first song, you wait for Luke to step away, but he doesn’t. You just keep dancing– through a second, a third, and a fourth song.

Halfway through the fourth, Luke starts to kiss over your neck. It’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for. You hum and press into his touch, baring your neck for him and sighing. The fourth song ends and fades into a fifth. Luke keeps kissing. You keep rolling your hips. Luke pulls you back when you get too far away. You curl your fingers into his hair when his mouth parts from your pulsepoint for too long.

You turn into Luke’s body finally, unable to play this game for a moment more. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself into his orbit until your hips are flush and your tits are pressed against his front. 

There’s a lull momentarily, just a flash of hesitation in Luke’s eyes, but it’s gone in a second. That look is replaced with a dark, affected flicker deep in Luke’s pupils. He leans down, you tilt your head up, and you’re kissing each other frantically, bodies still moving in time with the beat of the sixth song. 

Your hands tug on Luke’s hair and one of his rises up the line of your back to tangle in yours. The other hand slides lower and you, for one, are very happy that Luke has such a big wingspan. You saw it when he reached a hand out to throw a dart and again when he was celebrating with his friend, another brunet in a backwards hat. His hand goes all the way to your behind and squeezes, which has you swooning.

You’re sure that you look sloppy and desperate on the dance floor, but with the way Luke’s dick is straining against his pants and pressing against your hip, you can’t be bothered to care. Luke’s mouth is insistent against yours and you feel positively feral.

It’s warm in the club all of a sudden. You feel like you’re sweating and you want to get out of these clothes– and you want to get Luke out of his. 

Luke kisses you until you’re gasping for air and you have to break away. Even then, he starts to kiss down your neck again, which has you arching into his touch. 

“Go home with me?” Luke asks between the open-mouthed marks he leaves on your neck. 

And you will, but you also don’t want to sit through a car ride. Your apartment is about twenty minutes from here and you don’t know how far Luke’s is… hell, he could live above the bar for all you care, and that would be too far.

“Too far,” you reply before tracing a line over the strong column of his throat. “I want you now.”

Luke chuckles, amused by your chagrin. “We can’t just–”

“Come on.” You take Luke’s hand and drag him towards the bathrooms. There’s a single stall employee bathroom that you know the code for– only because one of your friends used to date one of the bartenders at this bar. He gave her the code and she’d shared it with your group of friends, then you’d continued using it after they’d broken up. Part of that is revenge for the bartender turning out to be evil, as ex-boyfriends often are, but the other part is that you prefer having a bathroom that is constantly stocked with toilet paper, soap, and paper towels. 

In this case… you prefer having a bathroom that is locked and very private.

You punch in the code, waiting for the keypad to light up green, and let yourself in. You pull Luke into the room behind you, leaning back against the door as it swings shut. 

Luke crowds into your space, cupping your cheeks and pushing your hair back until it’s a tangled mess. All the while, he’s mouthing against your lips. You take his enthusiasm as a sign that he’s on board with your idea– that you can hook up right here and there’s no need to wait. The doorknob is digging into your side, but you don’t mind all that much. 

He’s so strong. You can feel it in the way his fingertips dig into your sides and how his body covers yours. 

You both move with ferver, hands roaming and touching every inch that you can. Luke tastes like the beer he was drinking and smells of faint cologne. His tongue licks at your mouth like a flame and the sounds of your lips meeting and retracting fills your ears. You can hear how he’s starting to pant into your mouth, and one of his hands comes up to squeeze your boob. You return the favor, fitting your hand around his length over the front of his pants. He moans into your mouth and you swoon, knees buckling slightly.

They buckle until you find your way to the ground. “Can I?” you ask, petting over the tent in front of your face. You look up at Luke, leaning forward to smooth an inviting kiss to his bulge. 

“Fuck, yes,” Luke replies. One of his hands stays flat against the back of the door, while the other gathers your hair at the back of your head.

You let a smirk crawl over your face, maintaining eye contact with Luke and hoping that it looks sexy. Then, you’re quick to unbutton his pants and pull the zipper down, working to free Luke’s cock. You can practically feel your mouth watering, filling with spit and craving his taste. 

When you pull his pants and boxers down, Luke’s cock springs free and bounces back towards his stomach. He’s got a big cock, lengthier than you’ve seen in any of your previous hookups. He’s girthy, too, and you’re happy to see that he’s circumcised. Not that you’d complain if he wasn’t, but… whatever. It’s not important. What’s important is that he’s right here and your mouth isn’t around him yet.

You dive in, tongue first. At the first union of Luke’s precum with your tastebuds, you moan and allow your eyelids to flutter shut. You bob your head, taking inch after inch of Luke until there’s hardly any space remaining– at least, you hope not. He’s big and you’d like to look accomplished, able to deepthroat him. It’s a pride thing. After pushing your head down just the tiniest bit further, just enough so you gag around his tip and your mouth constricts around his cock, you pull back.

You pump his cock while you breathe, shaking away the lightheadedness that came with his girth filling your windpipe and cutting off your airway. You lick from his base to his tip with the flat of your tongue, gazing up at Luke with wide eyes to catch his reaction.

He’s breathing hard, his stomach tensing and hand twitching against the back of the door, like he wants to grab something. “That’s so good,” Luke gasps out, his other hand tightening in your hair. He stares down at you, pupils dark and all-consuming. 

You open your mouth and slide his length over your tongue, taking him deep.

“So good,” Luke repeats. His hips push forward, encouraging you to do more.

So that’s how it’s going to be, you think. Well, you certainly don’t mind if Luke wants to take control.

You bring your hand to the back of your head, covering his fingers. Luke stares at you, but he doesn’t move. If his cock wasn’t in your mouth, tip poking at the back of your throat, you’d giggle at the dumbfounded look on his face. Instead, you just push your head forward with that hand over Luke’s, then pull back, and then push forward again. You drop Luke’s hand and thumb over his thigh, tracing the light hair that adorns it.

“You– do you want me to fuck your mouth?” Luke asks, stammering over the first word. His cheeks flush as he questions you. You can’t tell if it’s from being turned on or if it’s because he’s embarrassed that he even has to ask.

You nod, eyes half-hooded and bottom teeth accidentally scraping against the underside of his cock. You drop your mouth open wider, and your jaw is starting to ache, but what does it matter? Luke’s grip has grown even tighter on your hair.

“Are you sure?” he checks again, although his hips are already starting to work back, giving him room to push forward when you confirm.

You nod again, flexing your tongue against the vein that pulses along his shaft. 

“Fuck, that’s hot. Okay, um, if it’s too much,” Luke says, scrambling a bit. “Just, uh, hit me. Hit my thigh if it’s too much and you need a break, okay?”

You let a breath of laughter leave your nose and you pat his thigh firmly to show that you understand. You bring that hand around the back of his thigh and encourage him forward, eyes never breaking from his.

Luke starts slow at first, using his grip on your hair to drag you closer to his base and then back to his tip. He sees how much you can take and how far he can go before his tip falls off of your tongue and leaves your mouth completely. He directs your head like a marionette on a string, recapturing his cock and filling your mouth with it. 

You pinch his thigh and whine, the sound muffled around Luke’s length, but he gets the message. 

“Okay, fuck,” Luke curses. He starts to pull your hair harder, then push down on your scalp itself more harshly. “Letting me fuck your mouth in the bar bathroom, that’s so dirty, Y/N.”

You moan at that, eyes rolling back.

“Oh, you like being dirty, huh?” Luke asks. “You like it when I talk to you? Or do you just like the idea of me ruining you?”

That. You moan again, the vibration from the noise reverberating around his length. 

Luke gains more confidence, bringing his hand down from the door and rearranging your hair into a ponytail of sorts. Both hands are on the sides of your head, holding your skull like they would hold your hips if he was fucking into you from behind. 

“So good at gagging on my cock, babe,” Luke continues. His eyes are flashing with ideas, a new light glinting through them. His hips are moving steadily, methoidcally. Forward, backward, forward, backward. His tip nudges the back of your throat with each thrust. You do actually gag when his cockhead drags over your uvula, but it makes Luke moan and increase his pace.

You like watching him come closer and closer to the edge, using your mouth. You claw at his thighs, trying to keep him as close as you can. You continue to moan, choke, and splutter around his cock, making as much noise as you can. Luke is returning the favor, groaning and grunting and heaving out harsh breaths while his pace grows more and more frenzied.

“Never even met me before, but here you are, on your knees in a bar bathroom,” Luke grits out, a twisted smirk on his face. “So willing to be used.”

Yes. You can feel a trail of drool carve a path down your chin. Luke fucks it out of you. His balls knock against your chin as he starts to lose control of himself, thrusting into your mouth as far as the hole will allow. 

“You’re gonna swallow my cum,” Luke says lowly, his jaw clenched. He holds your head down, your jaw unhinged and deepthroating his cock. “Then I’m going to take you home and finish the job.”

You nod as best you can with his hands still holding your head in place.

Luke nods in return, then the pads of his thumbs dig into the thin skin of your temple and he snaps his hips forward.

His thrusts are precise and rough, which has you gagging like you’ll reject his cock, but you won’t. You want his cum. You want it in your mouth, sliding down your throat, and settling in your stomach. Your next moan is more of a gurgle around Luke’s shaft, tongue pressing into his skin.

“Good girl, I’m close,” Luke says. “Keep your mouth open for me.”

You can’t open your mouth any more than you already have, but you try your best. Your eyes sting a bit as Luke continues to abuse your throat, but you keep your watery gaze locked on him. 

Luke groans and shudders, taking one of his hands from your head and returning it to the door. He forms a fist this time, knocking his forearm against the door and then leaning his head against it. He braces himself, staring down at you with his lips parted, clearly affected and transfixed by the look on your face. 

His entire body rolls forward when his cum bursts from his slit and shoots down your throat. Luke moans loud, the sound seeming to echo off the walls of the spacious room. 

His hips stop moving, but you bob your head for an extra minute, making slurping noises around his cock and swallowing as best you can. Some of his cum joins the drool leaking from your mouth when Luke pulls away, unable to take any further stimulation. 

You swallow a final time, your throat aching with a sharp pain from overuse. You wipe under your bottom lip with the pads of your first three fingers, then lick the remaining fluids from them. 

“Shit…” Luke drawls, his chest rising and falling with ample effort. His eyes look far away, although they’re fixed on the way your mouth circles your fingers. “Baby, I gotta get you home.”

“Oh, yeah?” You tease, your voice rough. Your words even break a bit, catching on the dry surface of your tongue. “Are you going to let me sit on your face and ruin you?”

Luke’s eyes widen and his pupils dilate, his tongue licking over his bottom lip. He reaches for your elbow and helps you stand, capturing your mouth in a long kiss. “Among other things,” he breathes out when you part. “Yeah, let’s get your cum on my chin too. You can see how good it looks.”

“My friends said they’d pay for the Uber,” you tell him, patting his chest. You reach for his underpants, then his jeans, and make sure they’re snug, zipped, and buttoned around his hips. You kiss him softly. “Let’s go get my purse.”

notes: been in a Lu mood lately :) not much writing has come from it, but i have been in a Lu mood.

[prettyfastcars]

All you need | Dark!Mob!Lewis

Summary: Lewis’ protectiveness can get out of hand sometimes… 

Themes: mob!lewis, possessive!lewis, dark!lewis, smut, explicit language, mentions of death and violence, p with v little plot

“Do you not like my gift, baby?” 

When Lewis left early this morning, he didn’t even tell you where he was going. Meetings, you figured, judging by the way he dressed in an all black suit. The kind that looked like it was made only for him. The kind that made him look majestic. And before he left, he gave you a kiss as usual and said that he’d bring you something later. 

You kept asking what, but he refused to elaborate. And here he was now, holding up the ‘gift’ so you could see. It was a necklace. A familiar one. One your friend from your running club always wore. 

“Lewis…” You blinked a few times. “You didn’t need to do that. He’s just my friend.” 

“Was.” He corrected you. Lewis shrugged, taking off layers of his clothes until he was left in his white shirt. He folded his sleeves up, exposing his tattooed forearms as he so casually said, “And yes, I know. He kept repeating the same thing while he was begging for his life.” 

“Lewis, I–,” 

He cut you off, walking up to you slowly. You took just one step back and found yourself pressed against the nearest wall. Lewis smirked. “Oh, don’t tell me you cared about him? Besides, he shouldn’t have touched what’s mine.” 

“But he’s–,” 

“Gone, now.” He cut you off again. 

Maybe it was instincts, but something told you that you should get away from him for now. But as you tried to move, he grabbed you. His reflexes were insane. 

“There now, babygirl.” He leaned closer to you, kissing your face like nothing happened, “Where do you think you’re going, hmm?” 

You gasped when he pressed his warm, muscular body against yours. “You… you’re insane sometimes.” You spoke in a shaky voice, trying so damn hard not to focus on how his warm hands touched you everywhere through your clothes. 

Lewis chuckled. “Insane? And who do you think made me like this?” His hand, given your short nightdress, slid so easily in between your legs. The metal from his rings cool against your inner thighs. “Don’t act like you don’t like me crazy. Look at how wet that got you.” 

You wanted to hide your face in embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let you. With one of his hands around your throat, making sure you kept your eyes on his, his other hand slid down your underwear, shamelessly touching you, smearing your wetness around before pulling his fingers away and shoving them into your open mouth. 

“You taste that?” He asked, cocky as always, “That’s all for me. You like me like this. You like being reminded I’m crazy for you. Don’t you, baby?” A deranged chuckle, then, “I mean, just look at how you’re dripping for me. Now I gotta take care of that, don’t I?” He whispered. 

Then his mouth was on yours. Kissing, biting, tugging on your lower lip. There was nothing gentle about him or the kiss. His stubble scratched your skin. He was heady. Then his mouth found its way down your neck, until he wrapped his mouth around your clothed nipple and sucked until you cried out. 

You couldn’t help but gasp and moan as his warm mouth wrapped around your flesh, wetting the fabric of your thin nightdress. Then he shifted to the other one, making you whine and squirm against him.

And then he was kneeling, eagerly bunching up your nightdress so he could taste what he wanted the most, that wetness in between your legs. 

You groaned, “Lewis…” You tried to protest again, but doing absolutely nothing to stop him.

Instead, you let him. You let him taste you until he had his fill. You let him take one of your legs and put it over his broad shoulder which opened you up even more to his warm, eager mouth. To his tongue which slid in and out and up and down until you were almost crying in pleasure. 

He ate you out until you were trembling, until your arousal was dripping down his chin. And only after making you come more than once did he pull away. He looked up at you with a satisfied, lust-drunk look on his handsome face. His lips and chin were all wet and shiny even in the dimmed room. He looked proud of himself. He always did whenever he made you come. 

“You always taste even better whenever you’re pretending to be angry at me, baby.” 

You were gasping for air, but Lewis was already unbuckling his trousers. And you’d be lying if you said the sight of his tattooed hands pulling his hard cock out wasn’t driving you insane with lust. 

You made a weak attempt at getting away again. But he grabbed you again. 

“Don’t be difficult.” He chided. 

“I don’t wanna look at you right now.” You argued. 

He laughed in that smug way of his and said, “Aww poor baby, you think you can get away from me? Hmm? You think someone’s coming to save you?” He smirked. “No one’s coming, baby. I’m all you’ve got. All you need. Look at me,” He grabbed you by the chin and forced you to look at his face. “Say it, tell me I’m all you need.” 

He had that look in his eyes. That determined, ambitious look. 

“You… you’re all I need.” You repeated. 

“Good girl.” 

Soon, he had you pressed up against the cold wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed you and muffled your moans while he pushed inside of you. You were moaning against his mouth as he filled you up, making you squirm and whine in his arms. 

“Shh, it’s okay, baby.” He murmured, fucking you slowly, savouring the moment while whispering his promises against your lips, “I’ve got you. You’re all mine, you hear me? Mine alone.” He spread your legs further apart, holding you up against the wall by the curve of your ass, and pushed deeper inside you. “Fuck,” He swore, “You feel that? Feel how good it is? You were made for me, babygirl. No one, just me.” 

Your mind was a foggy mess at that point so you could barely focus on anything other than how he moved in and out of your wet, tight hole. His words, his warm mouth, his scent, the feeling of his body moving in between your legs. 

“Lewis…” You whined, breathing heavily as you rested your forehead against his shoulder and holding onto him for dear life as he fucked you faster and deeper. “Slow down,” You whispered, gasping for air. 

He let out a chuckle. “Oh? Is that how it is now?,” He slowed down a little, “You’ll tell me how to fuck you? You’ll give the orders now?” He kissed the side of your face, “Think I’ll make an exception then.” He slowed down even more and asked, “Is this okay? Hmm? Or is my babygirl too sore for my cock, huh? You want me to stop?” 

“No!” You whined. 

He laughed with pure male arrogance. “Yeah that’s what I fucking thought,” He sped up again. “Come for me,” he said, grunting and moaning, feeling your walls clenching around him and gripping his cock. “Be a good girl and come.” 

“Fuck…” You came around him with a quiet cry. 

He leaned in to kiss you roughly as he came right after you. 

For a moment or two, neither of you spoke. You just held onto each other and caught your breaths. 

Then he said, “Any other friends of yours I need to know about?”

[strnilolover]

dealer!chris takes care of soft!reader after she accidentally takes an edible

warnings : edible. weed. reader is high for the first time. little bit of a freak out. and more?

“chris,” you murmured, your voice shaky as your body leaned up against the wooden frame of his bedroom door. your wide eyes darted around the room, not quite focusing on anything. “i don’t feel right.”

he was on his feet instantly, crossing the room to you. “what do you mean? what happened?”

your bottom lip quivered as you clutched the edge of the doorframe for balance. “i… i ate something. from the kitchen.” you paused, trying to collect your thoughts, though your words came out slow and slurred. “it was a brownie… in a bag… and now i feel weird.”

chris froze. he didn’t need to ask which brownie you meant. he’d left them on the counter for a friend to pick up later—edibles that were definitely not meant for you. his stomach dropped.

“angel,” he said cautiously, running a hand through his hair. “that wasn’t a normal brownie.” your brows furrowed in confusion. “what do you mean? it tasted normal.”

“it had weed in it,” he explained, his tone gentle. “a lot of weed. those are for people who’ve, y’know, built up a tolerance. not for someone who’s never smoked in their life.”

you blinked at him, the information processing in slow motion. then, your hands flew to your face. “oh my god. am i gonna die?”

chris bit back a laugh, his worry softening into affection. “no, babe. you’re not gonna die. you’re just really, really high right now.”

your shoulders sagged in relief, but only for a moment before panic set in again. “i don’t like it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “i feel like my body’s not mine, and my thoughts won’t stop racing.”

his heart ached at the fear in your eyes. “okay, come here,” he said softly, guiding you to the bed. “sit down. i’ve got you.”

you leaned away from the door fran, your feet dragging against the floor as you made your way to the bed. you sat obediently, but your hands fidgeted in your lap. “chris, everything feels… big. like my hands, my feet, my head.”

he crouched in front of you, his hands gently covering yours to still them. “hey, look at me,” he said, his voice steady. “you’re okay. i promise. you’re just feeling things more intensely right now, but it’s all in your head. i’m here, and i won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

tears welled up in your eyes, and you nodded, clinging to his words. “promise?”

“i promise,” he said, brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “i’m gonna help you through this, alright?” you nodded again, leaning into his touch. “okay.”

“good. now, first things first—water.” he stood, turning and walking out of his door—disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water, a cold washcloth.

“drink this,” he said, handing you the water. “and take small sips, okay? don’t chug it.” you followed his instructions, the cool water soothing your dry throat. chris sat beside you, his arm draped over your shoulders, grounding you with his presence.

bringing the glass away from your lips, you hand it to chris. he takes it gently, setting it on his bedside table before returning his attention to you.

you managed a weak laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “i don’t get how people like this. my brain won’t shut up. i keep thinking about… about how time feels stretchy. Is that normal?” you ask, your words coming out slowly.

“yeah, that’s normal,” he said reassuringly. “it’s just the weed messing with your perception. it’ll pass. you’re safe.” you let out a shaky breath, sinking further into his side. “you’re really good at this,” you mumbled.

chris smiled, his fingers tracing gentle circles on your back. “i’ve been around enough people to know what to do. next time, ask me before you eat random stuff, yeah?” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “this is so embarrassing.”

he laughed, pulling your hands away to press a kiss to your forehead. “nah. it’s kinda cute, honestly. no need to be embarrassed baby.” his hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “now lay down. rest a bit. i’ll be right here if you need me.”

you did as he said, turning out of his hold to crawl up in the bed—chris following as you curled up on his bed. his body slotted next to yours, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. the water started to help, and his steady presence calmed the storm in your mind.

“chris?” you murmured after a while, your voice drowsy. he looked down at you, tugging you closer. “yeah?”

“thanks for taking care of me,” you said softly, your eyes fluttering closed as your body shifted—laying on your side as your own arms wrapped around his middle. your face snuggling into his chest.

he smiled, brushing his fingers over your cheek. “always, baby. always.”

[mywritersmind]

JUST FRIENDS - LN4

summary : just friends…? in which lando and his best friend have a night out like any other, until a spicy song starts and lando can’t take it any more.

or: they make out to the song sports car

listen up : kissing! talk abt sex! tate mcraes new song sports car was on repeat so enjoy.

words : 1507

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I pull down the visor, the mirror greeting me as I swipe on my lipstick. I’ve gotten oddly good at doing my lipstick in fast cars, specifically, my best friend's fast car.

Lando shifts gears as I finish my last touch up and slap the visor shut, “Red’s a little bold, no?” He glances at me, his eyes hot against my skin as he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

“When have I been anything but bold?” I blink, shutting my lipstick and handing it to him. I don’t miss the slight smirk at our routine.

He pockets it, shaking his head as we pull up to the club. Lando gets out first as I check out my nails, knowing damn well he’ll be at my door in seconds.

He opens it, looking at the people staring with a blank look. Then he looks at me, my skirt short and my heels high. I walk past him and straight into the club.

He follows me, his head down, probably an excuse to look at my ass. He slips his hand in mine as the crowd gets tighter, people screaming and saying hi to us left and right.

Our group is easy to find, all cheering as we arrive and immediately pushing drinks into us. The club is small and pretty private, but loud as fuck and filled with the smell of smoke, alcohol, and lust.

The dance floor is packed, the Dj raised along with little glowing stands which bottle girls and randos dance on.

I tug on Lando’s shirt, a white button up that’s already halfway undone, and offer him a drink. “Who’s gonna drive you home if i’m fucked?” He says plainly.

“Oh you’re driving me home, now? I thought you’d piss off with your new supermodel of the week.” I raise a brow and such on a lime.

His eyes flick to my lips, “I could say the same for you, love.”

“I am the supermodel, darling.” I wink, getting dragged away by my friend who’s laughing at the interaction and landing myself on the dance floor.

I’m two drinks down when I see him again, a girl flushed in his lap and his hat backwards on his head.

He’s talking and she looks absolutely fucking absolved in his words, probably drooling over his accent or his lips. Yet as he rattles off, probably talking about his new car or training, his eyes are set on me.

They practically burn my already hot skin, my arms going up as I dance with the music. It’s funny, really.

My best friend is Lando Norris. We get looks everywhere we go, yet the one look I can’t get over is how his eyes track me.

He’s got a girl in his lap and I've got a guy grinding behind me, yet I can’t seem to shake him. I watch his tongue sweep against his teeth, his eyes moving to my legs smoothly.

The girl puts her hand on the back of his neck, getting him to look at her. She’s not smart, if she were, she’d bother with a guy who’s actually looking at her.

He’s looking at me again, his gaze now flicking back and forth between me and the man behind me. I have a slight smirk on my face as I turn around to look at him.

He’s hot. Dark skin and eyes to match, I bite my lip before moving my hands to his shoulders and bring him in. He’s sweaty but the kiss is hot, I just hate that it’s so hot because my best friend is watching all of it.

Once the guy goes in for another kiss, I dodge it and make my way over to the bar, leaning up against the cold surface and wiggling my fingers at the bartender.

Lando is at my side seconds after I take my first sip of the icy drink. I pretend to not see him. “Lemme try.” He goes to take a drink but I swiftly pull my hand away, shaking my head.

“No way, Mr. Sober.” I grin as he leans against the bar, his head tilted slightly back and making his hair look godly. “Who’s gonna drive me home?”

“So you’re coming with me?” He stands up a bit straighter, “Not gonna find that guy?”

‘That guy’ in question is probably already fucking a girl in the bathroom. I laugh, “No. My best friend has separation anxiety, so.” I shrug as he grins and pushes off the bar.

“Dance with me.”

“Not a chance, Norris.”

His teeth catch his lips, making me look down at them. Fuck him and his fuck boy tactics.

“You’re Lando Norris!” a guy stumbles up to us, clearly pissed and far too excited to see Lan.

He mumbles about getting a picture and just as I walk away I hear Lando say, “Yeah, mate…”

I hand my drink off to someone, my hands in my hair as I groan and shake the feeling of Lando teasing me.

A few girls scream near me and I don’t realize it’s because of the song change until I hear the lyrics.

Hey, cute jeans

Take mine off of me

I laugh as someone pushes into me, not everyone knows the song, but almost everyone knows her voice. I find my friend, her hand tightening on mine as she pulls me to the center of the dance floor.

Before I know it, I'm screaming the lyrics that Tate leaked to me on top of the raised glass. My friend is messing with her hair and shaking ass as she sings along.

In the alley in the back

In the center of this room

With the windows rolled down

Boy, don’t make me choose

I laugh, throwing my head back and swinging my hips. I barely realize my friend is gone until her figure is replaced by Lando in front of me.

“You like this song?”

I raise a brow, “Yes?” I keep dancing, pretending that every part of me is aware of how close he stands.

I think you know what this is

I think you wanna, uh

I sing along still, until it gets to the next lyric, my mouth shutting as Lando watches me.

Oh, but you got a sports car

A grin takes over his face, cocky and completely evil. “I like it too.”

“Oh? You like Tate now?”

“I fuck with fucking and I fuck with cars… seems like enough to me.” His hand finds itself on my waist, pulling me tighter.

This is dangerously close to crossing our lines.

We could go again like three, four times

“Am I your type, Y/n?” He’s speaking into my ear now as butterflies hit my stomach, “Want me to fuck you in my sports car?”

I hold his arm in an attempt to not fall off this fucking stand. He looks way too good, his hat gone and his hair messy.

“Don’t get cocky now, Lan.”

“Oh, like you’ve been in other sports cars?” The quirk of his brow makes my heart beat faster.

I think you know what this is

I think you want a ride

I shake my head, “We’re just friends.”

“Friends who kiss other people in front of each other for fun?” He pulls me closer, staring down at me, “Try again, Y/n.”

While you drive it real far

“So what are we, Norris.” I stand him up, still not taller but my confidence building, “I dare you to tell me.”

He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing as his face leans closer, “How ‘bout I show you?” At this moment, I know i’m completely fucked.

Oh my guy-uy

You don’t wanna waste my time-ime

His hands are gripping me tighter as his head dips and his lips crash against mine.

Let’s go ride-ide

Let’s go ride-ide-ide

Oh, my guy-uh

My arms snake around his neck as his tongue parts my lips and slips into my mouth. It’s too hot, especially for the public to witness but I'm too kiss drunk to care.

He kisses me harder, his hands at my hips and dipping below my waist band so his fingers press against my bare skin. I bite his lip a bit and pull him in tighter against me.

Lando bites me right back. I whisper it against his lips, not holding myself back from the lyrics, “I think you wanna, wanna.” He kisses me again, his hand at my ass and his breath hot against me, “But you got a sports car.”

I feel his lips morph into a smile against mine, his kiss deepening as if he’s hungry for me. I move my hands to his hair, his groan vibrating against me.

“Let’s go.” He says over the sound of the music and people below us.

“Where?” I ask, still breathless and too close to him to pay attention to anything else.

That damn smirk is back as he tugs at my hand, “My sports car.”

[freshl6ve]

𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒.𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

⭑.ᐟ : 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬’ 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧, and he finds himself tangled in the sheets next to me. The early morning sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a warm glow on my peaceful face. He glances at his phone on the nightstand, checking the time before turning back to me, his lips drawn to the soft curve of my neck.

“Wake up, baby,” he murmurs, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. “Happy birthday.”

I murmured sleepy sounds of protest as Chris starts peppering kisses on my neck, his warm lips trailing along my sensitive skin. I stir awake slightly, “Mmm” and “Hmmm” of pleasure escaping my lips. He smiles against my skin, enjoying the effect he's having on me.

Finally, his kisses find their way to my lips, capturing them in a slow, lazy kiss. “Morning,” he whispers between kisses.

I return the kiss, my lips still sleep-soft against his. “Mmm, good morning,” I mumble, my voice still heavy with sleep. His hands start to wander, drawing lazy patterns on my bare skin, and I can feel the heat building as his touch ignites a familiar need within me.

As our kiss breaks, Chris pulls back slightly, his gaze fixed on me with a tenderness that sends a shiver down my spine. “Did you sleep well, birthday girl?” he whispers against my lips, his voice low and hoarse with desire. His thumb brushes away a strand of hair from my face, caressing my cheek with a gentle touch as he waits for my response.

I smile, feeling a warm flutter in my chest at the nickname. “I slept well,” I reply, my voice still husky with sleep. “But it’s even better now that I’m awake with you.” My hands slide up his bare chest, feeling his warm skin under my fingertips. I press a soft kiss to his chin, my eyes meeting his with a playful glimmer.

Chris grins, his eyes darkening with desire at the feel of my hands on his chest. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your birthday all week,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “And I have something special planned for you.”

My heart quickens at his words, and I let out a soft laugh. “Oh yeah?” I ask, my fingers tracing the muscles of his back. “Care to give me a hint?”

Chris smirks, his lips lingering near my ear as he whispers, “Well, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?” His breath is warm against my skin, sending tiny shivers down my spine. His hand glides down my side, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he teases, his fingers tracing along the edge of my sleep shorts.

I let out a soft moan as his fingers tease at the edge of my shorts, my body responding to his touch. “Come on,” I grumble, my voice still raspy with sleep. “Just give me a tiny hint.”

Chris laughs, his hand stilling on my hip. “You’re not going to get me to crack that easily, birthday girl,” he says, his eyes glinting with amusement. He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Patience, baby. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Chris lets out a reluctant sigh, his hands pausing in their exploration of my skin. “The dressers will be here soon, though,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with disappointment at the interruption. “We should get up.”

I pout slightly, not quite ready to leave the comfort of his arms. I press my face into his chest, whining softly. “Can’t we just stay in bed a bit longer?”

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He responds by leaning down, his lips capturing mine in a deep, gentle kiss. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him in closer as I let myself melt into the kiss. For a few moments, everything else fades away, and it's just the two of us, lost in each other.

Chris breaks the kiss, his lips moving slowly down to my neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. I tilt my head back, my breath coming in quick gasps as he finds the spot just below my ear that drives me wild. His hands roam over my body, caressing my curves with a possessive touch that makes my head spin.

Chris murmurs against my neck, his breath tickling my skin as he speaks. “It’s so hard to decide if I should give you your surprise now,” he whispers, his hands still roaming over my body, tracing the lines of my curves. “Or later.” He pulls back slightly, his gaze locking with mine, his eyes darkened with desire. “What do you think?”

I try to focus, my mind slightly hazy as his touch sends sparks of pleasure fluttering through me. “I thought you said the dressers were coming,” I manage to choke out, my breath catching in my throat.

Chris laughs softly, his expression filled with a mix of desire and amusement. “They can wait,” he replies, his fingers slowly tracing patterns on my bare skin. “We have time.”

Without warning, he crashes his lips onto mine again, the kiss hard and insistent, full of need and desire. My heart races as I cling to him, my hands tangling in his hair as I kiss him back, desperate for more. His tongue teases at the seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and I moan softly against his mouth as I surrender to him completely.

The kiss deepens, growing more intense as his hands roam over my body, leaving a trail of fire wherever they touch. I arch into him, my body pressing against his as the need for more, for closer, washes over me. As the kiss threatens to consume me, he pulls back, breaking it with a gasp. “God, you drive me crazy,” he breathes, his voice hoarse with desire.

Chris grips my waist, lifting me easily onto his lap, positioning me so I’m straddling him, my knees bracketing his hips. He leans back against the headboard, pulling me closer, his hands resting on the curves of my hips. I can feel the heat of his skin against me through the thin fabric of my shorts, my bare skin pressed against his bare chest. He pulls me closer, his hands sliding up my back as his lips find mine again in a fierce kiss.

The kiss is frenzied, desperate, as if he can't get enough. His tongue dances with mine, his hands pulling my hips down, pressing me against him in a way that makes my mind go blank. I can feel the heat and hardness of him through the thin barrier of our clothes, and my body responds with a need that borders on desperation.

I slowly raise my hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscles and the quickened beat of his heart under my fingertips. They come to rest on either side of his neck, holding him close as I lean down to deepen the kiss. My body molds against his as I slant my lips over his, my tongue delving into his mouth, matching the fierce tenderness of his touch.

Our noses touch as our mouths slant over each other, our kisses growing hungrier with each passing moment. We break apart briefly, our breath mingling, before coming together again, this time peppering soft, gentle kisses on each other's lips. He lets out a low moan, the sound sending a shiver down my spine as his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer.

Chris breaks the kiss, his lips moving to my jaw as he slowly trails down my neck, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses in their wake. I arch my neck, giving him better access, a soft moan escaping my lips. His hands glide over my bare skin, igniting little sparks of pleasure wherever he touches.

My hands find their way to his hair, my fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands as I draw him closer, wanting more of his kisses, more of his touch. My heart races, and I shiver as his lips find a particularly sensitive spot just below my ear. I tug at his hair, pulling his head back slightly, desperate for another deep, frantic kiss.

Chris looks up at me, his gaze filled with yearning and hunger. His lips are pink and swollen from our aggressive kisses, and his expression is almost feral, like a man possessed. I meet his gaze, my own eyes dark with desire, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I feel overwhelmed, yet at the same time, completely consumed by need for him.

I trace my thumb over his lips, and he lets out a small, shuddering breath as he looks at me. His gaze locks onto mine, his eyes a deep, dark blue, filled with a mixture of yearning and desire. “Let me worship you, baby,” he whispers, his voice husky and rough. “It’s your day.”

His hands slide under the hem of my tank top, pushing it up, exposing my stomach to the cool air. He mouths kisses along my neck, his lips moving lower, his touch almost reverent. He slowly rises the fabric higher, his hands guiding it over my head, casting it aside, leaving me in only my shorts.

His lips trail down to my shoulders, gently kissing and biting the sensitive skin there. My head tilts to the side, my eyes closing as I revel in the feel of his touch. He moves on to my collarbone, his tongue tracing the curve before he sucks lightly on the skin, leaving behind a small mark.

A soft moan escapes my lips, his name slipping from my mouth like a whisper. “Chris...” I breathe out, my body arching against his. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him close, desperate for more of his touch.

The friction between us, our bodies separated by only the thin fabric of our lower clothes, sends a wave of heat through me. I shift slightly, adjusting my position on his lap, and a low moan escapes his lips as I press against him, feeling his reaction to me.

Chris's lips trail lower, leaving a scorching path from my collarbone down to the swell of my breasts. He pauses briefly, his breath hot against my sensitive skin, before capturing one of my nipples into his mouth.

He sucks gently at first, his tongue swirling around the hard peak, making me arch my back and let out a soft whimper. As he nurses from my breast, his other hand reaches up to play with the other one, rolling and pinching the sensitive bud.

A breathy moan escapes my lips as Chris’s talented mouth and hands work in tandem to drive me wild with desire. I bury my fingers in his hair, holding him close to my chest as I grind my hips against his, seeking more friction.

Chris looks up at me with heavy-lidded eyes, his pupils dilated with arousal. As he continues to suck and tease my breasts, his free hand slowly slides down my body, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my shorts and slipping beneath the fabric.

He finds my slick heat and groans in approval, his fingers diving right in without hesitation. I gasp as he starts to rub my clit with his thumb, the other fingers curling inside me, stretching and preparing me for what's to come.

Lost in the haze of pleasure, I rock my hips against his hand, chasing the building tension. Chris’s mouth leaves my breast, and he looks up at me with a hungry gaze, his lips shiny with saliva. “Fuck, you’re so wet,”

He growls possessively, his fingers pumping faster inside me. He curls his fingers upwards, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. “Chris,” I whimper, my nails digging into his scalp.

Chris kisses and nuzzles the sensitive skin under my chin, his lips trailing up to my neck as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of me. “You like that, don’t you, baby?” he murmurs against my skin, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine.

His fingers increase its speed and depth, hitting that magical spot inside me with every thrust. “God, yes,” I moan softly, throwing my head back to give him better access to my neck. His lips find that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, sucking gently.

He sucks and nibbles at my neck, marking me as his own as his fingers work their magic inside me. “Chris, please,” I beg, my body tensing as I get closer to the edge. He can feel it, his fingers curling even more, hitting that spot perfectly.

His fingers go even deeper, hitting that spot that makes my legs shake. I try to grab his wrist, to make him stop the overstimulation. “Shit, Chris,” I curse, trying to buck away from his fingers. But he's having none of that.

My body convulses as I reach my climax, a loud scream escaping my lips. Stars burst behind my eyes, and my inner walls clench tightly around Chris's fingers. He quickly removes his hand, bringing it up to his mouth and licking my juices off his fingers.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers against my lips before claiming my mouth in a passionate kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue, which only serves to turn me on even more. His free hand tangles in my hair, angling my head for a deeper kiss as he continues to praise me.

Chris slowly slides down the headboard until he’s lying completely flat on the bed, with me still straddling him. His hands reach for the waistband of my shorts, tugging gently. “Lift up, baby,” he murmurs, helping me slip them off and tossing them aside.

I reach down and grab the waistband of Chris's sweats, pulling them down his legs and off his feet. He kicks them aside, leaving him completely naked beneath me. I settle my weight back down on him, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine.

Chris sucks in a sharp breath as he feels my slick heat grinding against his now fully erect cock. His hands grab my hips, guiding my movements as I rub myself along his length. “Fuck, that feels incredible,” he groans, tilting his head back against the pillow.

His stomach clench beneath my fingers as I run them down his body, feeling every ridge and muscle. His hips buck up to meet my downward grinding, his length sliding between my slick folds but not quite entering me yet.

I lift myself up slightly, wrapping my hand around his thick length and positioning him at my entrance. I rub the head against my wet folds, making him hiss. “Fuck,” he mutters, watching my body through half-lidded eyes.

“Take me,” he rasps, his voice lower than usual. “I’m your surprise gift.” His body relaxes beneath me, giving himself over completely. He looks almost innocent like this, vulnerable. I love seeing this side of him. I line him up again, slowly lowering myself down.

“It’s all yours,” Chris breathes out, his hands gripping my hips tighter. I smirk at his words, lowering myself even deeper. “Oh yeah?” I teased. Chris lets out a strangled whimper, his head pressing back into the pillow.

“Use me baby,” Chris murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. His body trembles beneath mine as I move my hands up his chiseled chest, up to his neck. He tilts his chin up, his lips parting as I lean down closer, hovering just above his mouth.

I tease him for a moment longer, kissing his lips softly before moving to his jaw and then his neck, sucking on his pulse point. “Please, baby,” Chris begs, his voice desperate. “I can’t take it anymore. Move, please.” I chuckle against his skin, continuing to torment him.

Chris whimpers as I continue teasing him, my lips and tongue tracing patterns on his neck while I refuse to move. “Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groans, his hips twitching beneath me, desperately seeking friction.

I ignore his pleas, kissing and leaving marks on his collarbone instead. “Baby, please,” he begs, his voice cracking. I whisper in his ear, “Make me.” Chris’s patience snaps, and he grabs my hips with a desperate strength, forcefully grinding my hips down onto his.

“Mhmm~” I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Like that?” Chris growls, his fingers tightening possessively on my hips. He knows exactly what he’s doing, hitting that perfect spot inside me. “Yes,” I hiss out, tossing my hair back.

I lift my body up, then drop myself back down on his length. “Holy shit,” Chris hisses, watching my body move. I do it again, bouncing harder this time, taking him deep. His hands fly to my thighs, spreading them wider. “Goddamn, baby,”

I bounce up and down on him harder, my hair flying around my face. Chris’s hands grip my thighs, his fingers digging in as he tries to control my movements. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” he chants, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

I reach for his hand, bringing it to my breast. “Fuck, touch me Chris. I need your hands on me,” I whimper, my pace never faltering. Chris eagerly obliges, squeezing and kneading my breast, his thumb flicking over my hardening nipple.

“Your pussy is fucking perfect,” he groans deeply, his other hand sliding between our bodies to find my clit. I cry out as he works me in tandem—thrusting up to meet my movements while rubbing tight circles. “Ride me deeper baby. Harder,”

I arch my back, throwing my head back in ecstasy as I continue to ride him hard. I bring my hands back to his thighs, gripping them tightly as I bounce up and down on his cock. The bed creaks and groans beneath us, the sound mingling with our panting and moans.

“Mhmmm~” I moan loudly, taking him deep. “Fuck yes,” Chris growls. “You take my dick so good baby.” “Mmm~” I arch my back again, bouncing faster. “Right there,”

I lean forward, hands pressing against his chest. Chris’s eyes darken at the sight of me completely taking him. “Look at you,” he grits out, “Taking that cock so fucking perfectly.” Chris hisses, his hands flying to my waist. “Fuck, just like that baby.” He asks, thrusting upward slightly. His voice drops to a sexier tone, “You’re stretched so tight around my cock...”

I start riding him faster, my hips slamming down onto his with each thrust. Chris meets me halfway, lifting his hips off the bed to bury himself deeper inside me. Our skin slaps together loudly, mixing with our ragged breaths and moans. “Oh fuck, Chris! Yes, yes, YES!”

I arch my back sharply, gripping Chris’s chest as I ride him relentlessly. The cool Italian breeze wafts in from the open window beside us, fluttering the sheer white curtains and dancing across our fevered skin. It’s a stark contrast to the intense heat building between our bodies with each thrust.

“You feel so good wrapped around me,” Chris growls, his fingers digging into my waist possessively. He lifts his hips higher to meet mine, filling me to the brim with each thrust. The headboard starts to bang against the wall rhythmically as we lose ourselves in passion.

I turn around abruptly, facing away from Chris and impaling myself back onto him. He wraps his strong arms around my waist, pulling me down onto him harder and faster. The bed creaks and groans beneath us, the headboard slamming into the wall with each thrust.

My ass slapped against his thighs loudly as I bounce up and down on his length. He spreads my cheeks apart slightly, getting an unobstructed view of himself disappearing inside me. His fingers tighten possessively on my hips, guiding my movements.

Chris slaps my ass decisively, the sharp sound ringing out alongside our moans. “Fuck, love the way this ass bounces,” he grunts, delivering another stinging slap. The sting mingles pleasurably with the intense sensations already flooding my body.

Chris palms my ass roughly, kneading them as he pulls me back harder onto his cock. The new angle has him hitting impossibly deep spots inside me, and I cry out sharply. “Oh god Chris, right there!” He obliges, thrusting up powerfully to grind against that perfect spot.

Without warning, my inner muscles clamp down tightly around Chris’s length. He must feel it because he mutters, “Shit,” just as I throw my head back and scream. My orgasm rips through me unexpectedly, my body convulsing and gushing all over his length and the bedsheets beneath us.

Chris quickly pulls out and lifts me up effortlessly. He places me gently on the edge of the bed, spreading my thighs wide apart. He lines up and enters me in one swift thrust, making me yelp. He grabs my legs and throws them over his shoulders, going deeper.

He starts to pound into me mercilessly, the new position allowing him to go even deeper. The head of his cock keeps hitting my cervix, sending delicious shivers down my spine. He leans down to capture my mouth in a searing kiss, our tongues dancing and twirling together.

I moan deeply into Chris's mouth as he kisses me fervently, each thrust pushing the air from my lungs. Our tongues slide together sensually, the kiss turning sloppy and desperate. Wet sounds fill the air—the lewd slipping of skin on skin and our muffled moans melding into one.

Chris breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. Our noses brush, our hot breaths mingling between our slightly parted lips. He gazes into my eyes intensely as he continues to move inside me, the slow burn of pleasure building once more.

For a moment, we both freeze. Chris's eyes widen with a mix of amusement and annoyance. “Fuck,” he breathes out, not stopping his steady pace inside me. The knocking persists, Matt's voice calling out again. “Chris? Dude, you there?”

Chris calls out, “Yeah, Matt! One sec!” He increases his pace slightly, hitting that delicious spot deep inside me. He covers my mouth with one hand to muffle my moans. Matt continues talking outside. “You decent?”

Chris panics, looking down at me urgently. “Shh, baby, stay silent for me, okay?” He whispers quickly, his eyes wide with worry. He removes his hand from my mouth just long enough to call out, “No, um, just got out of the shower.”

“Okay, thanks Matt,” Chris responds, picking up his pace again. He knows his best friend is just outside the door, oblivious to the fact that he's balls deep inside me. Matt continues, “Alright man, see you later. They'll be there soon.”

Chris calls out to Matt through clenched teeth, trying hard to maintain his composure, “Yeah, got it. Thanks, man.” Then he whispers down to me, “Fuck, baby, you're doing so good keeping quiet...” He increases his pace slightly, hitting that sensitive spot inside me.

Chris leans down and kisses me deeply, his lips moving urgently against mine. He tries to distract me from the conversation outside and the impending arrival of the dressers. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth, tasting me greedily.

I reach up and grab onto Chris's biceps tightly, my nails digging into his skin. I pull away from the kiss, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. “I can’t take it anymore,” I whimper softly, my eyes pleading with him for release.

“You can take it,” Chris growls softly, his hips snapping forward. He grips my thighs tightly, pulling me down onto his length harder and faster. He swallows my soft moans with his mouth, kissing me hungrily.

I throw my head back, moaning loudly as Chris slams into me. I can feel the pleasure building inside me, my body tensing up. Chris whispers against my lips, “Atta girl, take it like the good girl you are.” His words send me over the edge.

I tangled my fingers into Chris's messy hair, pulling him down for a sloppy, messy kiss. Our bodies are pressed tightly together, his chest against my heaving breasts. Chris grips the sheets tightly, his arms shaking with the effort of holding back his own release as I come undone beneath him.

“Fuck, Chris,” I whimper against his lips, my voice trembling with need. I can feel another climax building fast, my inner walls clenching around him tightly. Chris groans into the kiss, his hips stuttering as he feels my body tensing up again.

Chris pounds into me relentlessly, his cock hammering against that sweet spot deep inside. He presses firmly on my stomach, angling his hips to hit just the right angle with every powerful thrust. “Shit, I can feel myself in you,” he grunts, his voice husky with lust.

Chris's lips find their way to my neck again, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin. I wrap my arms tightly around his back, holding on for dear life as he fucks me brutally. My moans become louder, more urgent, “Chris... oh god, Chris!”

“Cum for me, baby...” Chris moans against my neck, his hips moving at a punishing pace. Every thrust press my body deeper into the sheets, causing friction against my sensitive clit. My fingernails dig into his back as he hits the perfect spot inside me, making me see stars.

“FUCK” I moan loudly, throwing my head back. He takes advantage of my exposed neck, sucking hard on the pulse point. He knows it drives me crazy. His hips snap forward harder, deeper. He hits my womb, sending waves of pleasure mixed with slight pain. “God... your big...” I moan softly, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist. He growls, “Too deep?”

“God no,” I gasp out, “Feels... so good... So deep... Like you're touching my womb.” Chris swallows hard, his hips moving like a jackhammer.

“You like this?” Chris growls, his hands sliding under my back to lift my hips higher, allowing him to slam into me even deeper. “You like being filled up like this?” He asks through gritted teeth, his hips stuttering as he feels my inner walls convulse around him.

“Yes! fuck yes!” I scream out, my back arching off the bed. Chris groans deep in his throat, “You're such a fucking dream. Taking my cock so well...” He grips my hips harder, “Cum with me baby... fuck!”

Chris thrusts deep and hits my cervix, making me scream loudly. “CHRIS!” My inner walls spasm around him tightly, milking his length. He swells inside me, his body stiffening. He lets out a deep growl, “Shit baby...” he throws his head back, his mouth wide open as he finally releases inside of me. My inner walls milk him for every last drop, my body convulsing uncontrollably.

As we come down from our high, I can feel the liquid pouring out of me, soaking the bedsheets beneath us. Chris tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving as he looks down at me, his body still hovering above mine, his arms shaking slightly. “Damn...”

Our bodies are slick with sweat, both of us breathing heavily. The cool breeze from the open window does little to relieve the heat between us—instead, it just creates goosebumps on our exposed skin. Chris stays positioned between my legs, not wanting to pull out just yet.

Chris looks down at me, his blue eyes hazy with post-orgasmic bliss. His messy hair sticks to his forehead, a few strands falling into his eyes. He licks his swollen lips, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck, you look so good,” I whisper, my gaze drinking in the sight of him. I reach up to tangle my fingers in his messy hair. My other hand slowly running down his arm, feeling the bracelet he would always wear. God that bracelet. I always felt a certain way when I saw it. It makes me go feral every time he would wear it. I came to realize that I’m so horny for him that even what he wears makes me go crazy.

Chris chuckles, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leans closer, “How about a round four?” He murmurs teasingly. I let out an incredulous laugh, pushing weakly at his chest.

“Boy bye, you’re crazy,” I reply with a breathless giggle, my body still trembling slightly from our intense lovemaking session. “I can barely move, let alone go another round.” Despite my words, I can't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the thought.

Chris chuckles softly, his warm breath fanning over my face before he leans down to press a soft and passionate kiss to my lips. The kiss is slow and gentle, a stark contrast to the rough and intense way he just fucked me. His tongue slowly slides against mine, tasting me deeply.

“Mmm...” he breaks the kiss slowly, whispering against my lips in that irresistible southern drawl of his, “Happy birthday, baby...” he ran his fingers through my hair. “Even though I just fucked you senseless, wanted to make sure I said it once more.” his lips placing soft kisses along my jawline.

He continues to pepper kisses along my jawline, his warm breath tickling my ear as he whispers, “Hope you love your surprise...don’t worry this isn’t all you’re getting.” His voice is low and conspiratorial, making me curious about what else he has planned for my birthday besides the intense physical activity we just engaged in.

A/N: BIRTHDAY POST!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME 🥳

TAGS: @st6rify ✮⋆˙ @jetaimevous ✮⋆˙ @certifiedstarrr ✮⋆˙ @slvtf0rchr1s ✮⋆˙ @l3sbiancvnt ✮⋆˙ @wh0remikasas ✮⋆˙ @r0s3luvr ✮⋆˙ @emely9274 ✮⋆˙ @mimiluvzpicklez ✮⋆˙ @courta13

── .✦ MASTER—LIST ⭑𓂃

[insidekatmind]

Mine-Erik Killmonger

Wearning: +18,smut

Request: yes!

The arena of Wakanda is a whirlwind of voices and tension. You’re in the front row, watching the fight that could change the fate of the nation. Erik Killmonger, with his powerful physique and the scars of his battles, stands tall like a titan against T’Challa, the Black Panther, a man you’ve always admired.

Your heart is pounding. The tension in the air is almost suffocating.

And then it happens. With a decisive move, Erik lifts T’Challa and hurls him off the waterfall. The king falls, his body swallowed by the waters below, and a chilling silence descends upon the arena.

Killmonger turns to face you, the people of Wakanda. His eyes burn with determination and defiance. He moves like a lion that has just claimed its territory. He points at the void left by T’Challa, the king’s body now out of sight.

“Is this your king? Huh? Is this your king?” he shouts, his voice echoing through the mountains. Every word strikes like a blow, every pause weighs heavily on your chest.

Your eyes fill with tears, but you don’t look away. You can’t. You’re frozen, your loyalty torn between the grief of loss and the fear of what’s to come.

“The Black Panther, who’s supposed to lead you into the future! He’s supposed to protect you!” he continues, his voice as sharp as a blade. You feel exposed under his gaze, as if he’s speaking directly to you.

Then he pounds his chest with his fist, his eyes locked onto each of you. “Nah, I’m your king.”

As the crowd remains divided between silence and murmurs, you clench your fists.

After the fight, Erik was sitting on the throne of the kingdom and you voices inside the room where he was. M'Baku tries to stop you but you ignore him. Erik looks at you with a smirk. He leans back on the throne, his smirk still in place, his eyes locking onto yours. M'Baku stands nearby, trying to hold you back.

“What’s this?” Eric says, amusement in his voice. “I have visitors already.”

M’Baku shoots you a warning look, but your eyes stay fixed on Erik as you approach.

“You killed T’Challa,” you blurt out angrily, moving closer to him. M'Baku's eyes widen and he tries to pull you back but you glare at him.Eric’s smirk deepens, almost as if your anger pleases him. He leans forward on the throne, his gaze intense.

“Killed T’Challa?” he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery. “That’s a strong way to put it. I defeated him. Fairly.”M’Baku clenches his jaw, but stays silent, his hand still on your arm, trying to keep you from getting too close.

You glare at Erik as you try to pull away from M'Baku. Eric watches you struggle against M'Baku’s grip, the smirk never leaving his face. He stands up from the throne and slowly approaches you, each step deliberate and filled with authority.

"Seems like you have something to say," he says, his voice taunting yet commanding. "Go on. Speak your mind."You glare at him and were about to speak but M'Baku interrupts you.

“I'm sorry my king, but Y/n is just upset, she doesn't know what she's talking about” he says putting his hand over your mouth warning you not to do anything stupid.You, M'Baku and T'Challa have always been great friends.

Erik smirks, his gaze flicking between you and M'Baku. He moves closer, towering over both of you.

“Upset, huh? I don’t blame her,” he says, his tone slightly mocking, but with a hint of understanding. He turns to M’Baku. “And you think you need to silence her? That’s not very friendly of you, M’Baku.”

M'Baku stiffens, his eyes narrowing at Eric. "I'm not trying to silence her, my king. I'm just trying to prevent her from doing something foolish." You squirm trying to get his hand away from your mouth.

Erik’s smirk broadens as he watches you struggle against M’Baku’s grip. He raises an eyebrow at M’Baku. "Looks like she’s quite feisty. I like my woman feisty."

You look at him in disgust. You were betrothed to T'Challa and since she is now dead and Erik is the king, you were betrothed to him. Erik chuckles at your look of disgust, clearly amused by your reaction. He knows full well the implications of being betrothed to a king.

"Ah, I see you've already realized the situation you're in," he says, his voice filled with a hint of mockery. "As a future queen, you should show me a bit more respect, don’t you think?"

You manage to lift M'baku's hand. "Respect? You are a murderer and I will not be your queen" you blurt out glaring at him. Erik's smirk vanishes. His eyes flash with annoyance as he steps closer to you, his presence suddenly menacing.

"Watch your tongue, princess." His voice is low and dangerous, a clear warning not to push his buttons. "I am your king now whether you like it or not. You would do well to show me some respect."

M'Baku's grip tightens on your arm as he tries to pull you back again, but you stand your ground, your defiance clear in your eyes. "I will never show you respect," you retort, a mix of anger and sadness in your voice. "You killed T'Challa. You betrayed Wakanda. I will never bow to you, you monster!"

Erik's face hardens at your words, his eyes narrowing. He takes a step closer, towering over you. "Monster?" he repeats, his voice laced with irritation. "You think you can lecture me on morality? You have no idea what I've been through. No idea what I've had to do in order to survive. To fight for my people." He takes another step, getting right in your face. "You've lived a privileged life in this golden city. I've lived a life of struggle and pain. Don’t judge me unless you know what I've endured."

You look at him without saying anything. Erik watches you the whole time. “Leave me alone with my future queen,” Erik says to M'Baku without stopping to look at you. M'Baku looks between you and Erik, hesitating for a moment, then he reluctantly lets go of you and leaves the throne room, closing the door behind him.

Now you're alone with Erik, the tension in the room palpable. He studies you intently. He circles you like a predator, his gaze locked onto yours. For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes roaming over your face, your body. Finally, he breaks the silence. "You have a lot of fire in you," he says, his voice low and quiet. "I find that... intriguing."

He stops directly in front of you, his presence overwhelming. "But you need to learn your place. You are mine now. My future queen, like it or not." He reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch surprising in its tenderness.

"You can fight it all you want, but it won’t change a damn thing," he continues, his hand now cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You will be my queen. And you will bow to me. Whether you do it out of love or fear, it doesn’t matter. You will bow." He leans even closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. "And I have every intention of earning your submission," he purrs, his eyes flickering down to your lips. "One way or another."

As he leans even closer, his face mere inches from yours, your heart begins to race. You're both angry and flustered by his presence, his words, his touch. His face is so close that you can feel his warm breath on your skin. He’s so tall that you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

"You're a very beautiful woman, you know that?" he whispers, his thumb gently caressing your chin. "I can understand why T'Challa valued you so highly." He leans in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear. "But he's gone," he murmurs. "And I’m here. You’re mine now." His words send a strange shiver down your spine, a confusing mix of fear and something else, harder to define.

He pulls away slightly, his eyes searching yours. "You may hate me. You may despise me. But you will be my queen. And you will serve Wakanda as my partner."Erik runs his fingers down your arm, his touch sending another shiver coursing through your body. "And if you don’t... I have ways of making you cooperate."

His words hang in the air, a clear warning. His eyes soften for a brief moment, and a hint of vulnerability sneaks into his gaze. “You’re strong,” he says, his voice almost… sincere? “I respect that. But you can’t win this. You might as well accept it and make the best of it.”

You look at him vulnerable. Erik notices your softening expression, your vulnerability. It throws him off for a moment, he wasn't expecting that reaction. He studies you intently, his eyes searching yours, trying to decipher your thoughts. He can feel a change in you, a chink in your armor of anger and defiance. Erik steps closer, his hand moving to your cheek, his touch gentle.

"You're still angry," he says softly, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheekbone. "I can see it in your eyes. But there's something else. A hint of... resignation?" Erik watches you closely, waiting for a response, the room silent except for his heavy breathing.

You close your eyes for a moment holding back the tears of anger and losing T'Challa. “You killed T’challa,” you whisper weakly. Erik’s eyes soften even more, noticing the pain and weakness in your voice. He takes another step closer, his body now almost pressing against yours.

He places his other hand on your other cheek, gently cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. “Yes,” he whispers back, his voice almost tender. “I did. I had to.”

Tears fall from your eyes and Erik pulls you closer as you try to hit his chest and he lets you do it as he strokes your hair. He lets you push and shove against him, silently taking the blows without resisting. He just holds you closer, his hand soothingly caressing the back of your head as you hit his chest. A strange gentleness is in his eyes, a hint of empathy. He understands your pain and your anger, he sympathizes with you.

"Shh," he whispers quietly, holding you close, letting you cry. "I know it's hard. I understand your pain." Erik rests his chin on the top of your head, his hands rubbing your back in slow, gentle circles. He stays like that for a moment, holding you, letting you cry against his chest, the sound of your sobs filling the room. As your tears slowly subside, he pulls back slightly, tilting your face up to look at him again.

"I know you hate me," he says, his voice filled with more vulnerability than you've ever heard from him. "But I'm not the heartless monster you think I am. I do have a heart, though it's been buried deep for a long time." His eyes roam over your face, taking in your tear-streaked cheeks, your quivering lips. "I didn’t want to take T'Challa from you, but I had no choice. The throne belongs to me. And you..." he pauses, his hand gently tracing your chin. "... You belong to me now too."

He leans closer, his lips hovering just millimeters from yours, so close you can feel his warm breath on your skin. "And maybe, in time, you'll learn to accept that. Maybe even more..." His face is so close to yours that you can barely think straight. His body is almost pressed against yours, the heat of his skin radiating through his clothes.

He's waiting for a reaction, but you don't know what to do. You're still angry, you're still grieving, but there's something else there too, something he's awakening within you... His lips find yours in a surprisingly gentle, almost tentative kiss. It's a stark contrast to his usual rough demeanor. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer to him.The kiss deepens, his tongue demanding access to your mouth. He kisses you with a hunger and desperation, as if he's been waiting for this moment for a long time.

You kiss him back, holding on to him. He responds to your kiss enthusiastically, his hands roaming over your body, his tongue exploring your mouth with a primal lust. Erik backs you up against the nearest wall, pressing his body against yours, trapping you in his grasp. His hands move from your waist to your hips, pulling you even closer, his fingers digging into your skin. His mouth leaves yours, moving along your jawline, down to your neck, where he nips and kisses the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. He presses his body into you, his hard muscles rubbing against your soft curves, the heat between you building with every second.

Erik kisses you again and walks back up to his throne, sitting on it making you straddle him as the two of you continue kissing. He sits down on the throne, pulling you onto his lap, your legs on either side of him. He captures your lips in another intense kiss, his hands roaming up and down your body. Erik lifts you slightly, positioning you better on his lap, his body pressed closely against yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the desire coursing through his veins, matching your own.

Erik unbuttons your dress, taking it off you without ever taking his lips away from yours. He kisses your chin, your neck, your collarbone, his lips blazing a trail down your body, his fingers roaming across your skin as if he can't get enough of you. His mouth is hot and insistent, his hands desperate as they explore your body. He lifts you again, bringing your chest level with his face, his lips trailing down your neck to your chest, his breath hot on your skin.

You moan softly and cling to him as you move on his lap to be closer. You moan a little louder feeling his erection between your legs. He growls at the sound of your moans, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. As you grind against him, feeling the hardness between your legs, he grips your hips tightly, holding you in place. Erik looks into your eyes, a dangerous mixture of desire and possessiveness gleaming in his gaze. "You're mine now," he whispers, his voice deep and hoarse. "All mine."

He captures your lips again, silencing you with a deep, urgent kiss. His hands roam over your body, fingers digging into your flesh, leaving behind a trail of fire where they touch. He nips and kisses your neck, your collarbone, his hot breath sending waves of pleasure through you.

“Erik” you groan.

He responds to the sound of his name, his hands gripping you tighter. He leans forward, his mouth moving towards your ear. "I love the sound of you saying my name," he whispers huskily. "Say it again."

“Erik” you repeat. He growls again at the sound of his name on your lips, a low, primal sound. He pulls you closer, his body molding against yours, every inch of him pressed against you.

"Good girl," he purrs, his voice a deep rumble. "Moan my name again. Let me hear how much you want me." You moan as you move your hips making you grind on his erection.

He groans loudly at the feeling of your hips grinding against his erection. He tightens his grip on your hips, almost to the point of pain, trying to control himself. Erik lifts his head from your neck, his eyes dark with desire. “Do you feel what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. “You're driving me crazy."

You moan feeling Erik slap your ass and move your hips onto him. “Erik” you moan again resting your head in the crook of his neck as he continues to move your hips. He loves the way you moan his name, the way you surrender to the pleasure. Your head in the crook of his neck, your body willingly allowing him to control your move your hips, it’s more than he ever dreamed. Each time you say his name, it spurs him on, his desire burning hotter and hotter with each passing second.

With his left hand he plays with your little thong that you are still wearing while with his right hand he continues to move making you ride him. His left hand slides over you, his fingers slipping beneath the thin material of your thong, caressing your skin. It's so intimate, so possessive, it makes your head spin. Erik continues to control your movements with his hands, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, the friction and heat between you increasing with every motion.

With your head still on his shoulder, he moves his lips to your ear, his breath hot and uneven as he whispers. "You like that don't you? You like how I make you feel. You like being controlled by me."

“Yes,” you moan, moving your hips with the help of his hand. He grins darkly, loving the way you respond to his touch, his control. His hand on your hip tightens, guiding you in the motions.

Erik moves his lips from your ear, down to your neck, his tongue tracing a path across your skin, the heat between you building to almost unbearable heights. He bites down gently on your collarbone, his teeth leaving behind a mark on your skin. A mark that proclaims you as his. He pulls back to admire the mark, a look of satisfaction in his eyes.

“I'm going to come” you whisper as Erik moves his hips again. You had made his jeans wet with your arousal. He groans as you say you're close, the sound sending a shiver through him. He picks up the pace, moving with you, his breath ragged in your ear.

"I can feel you," he growls, his fingers digging into your hip. "You're so close. I can feel it." He adjusts his movements slightly, applying more pressure to your core, his own body clenching in anticipation.

“Erik” you moan feeling close. He smiled looking at you with lust as he slapped your ass. "Who is your king?" he whispers to you with authority. Your eyes meet his, the demand in his voice sending a shiver through you. You reply, your voice breathless. "Y-you are, my king."

His smile widens as you call him your king, a possessive gleam in his eyes. He pulls you closer, his chest against yours, his lips right next to your ear. "And who do you belong to?" He asks, his tone dark and commanding.

"You," you breathe, "I belong to you, my king." You surrender entirely, willingly giving yourself to him, body and soul. He growls again, the sound filled with approval and satisfaction. He kisses you fiercely, his tongue invading your mouth as the two of you continue to move against each other.

"Good girl," he murmurs between kisses, "You'll be a perfect queen."

You moan and come on his jeans. He feels you come on his jeans, the wetness seeping through the fabric and onto his skin. He groans, the primal sound reverberating through his chest. Erik slaps your ass, stopping your movements and then gently caresses your ass while he holds you against him as you bury your face in his neck, his hands now gentler, caressing your ass and soothing you. The moment is intense, intimate, and it solidifies your connection even further.

After a moment, he lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are dark with desire, but there's a hint of softness there too, a vulnerability that he usually hides. "You're mine now," he says, his voice firm, but also tender. "No one else will have you. You understand that, don't you?"

You nod, your gaze locked with his. You understand what he's demanding of you, the commitment he's asking for. It's not a small thing, but it's what he wants, and deep down, it's what you want too. "I understand," you whisper, your voice a soft admission. "I'm yours."

A satisfied smile plays on his lips as you speak the words he's wanted to hear. "Good," he murmurs, his hand still on your chin, keeping you close. "You're mine, and I'll do anything to protect what's mine."

[shiningjustforreid]

stains

glimpses through fem!reader and Spencer’s relationship, through four instances of spills.

word count: 3.5k ish

a/n: i love the idea that for some of us, our personalities are made up all the things we like about the people we know and see. the idea that we’re all little bits and pieces of the things we love, and our experiences. this sort of explores that. (also this was mildly self indulgent because much like reader i’m a klutz!) <3

warnings/tags: 18+ for implied intimacy and canon typical violence for cm, pet names up the wazoo, reader is lowkey clumsy, Derek Morgan being himself, reader gets injured but she’s fine, who’s Maeve?, anxious love confession, Spencer adores reader so so much, S1 and S6 (ish) Spencer, Spencer in and post prison, love letters, marriage, kids, and briefly mentioned pregnancy, girl dad!Spencer Reid my beloved

- ✩ -

coffee - the first stain

To be honest, at first, he’s appalled.

The mug you set down on his desk isn’t his, so God knows whose mouth was on it last. You - somewhat carelessly - plopped it down on the file he’s working on, grinning that thousand watt smile he’s secretly become fond of. You’re wearing a sweater he noticed that brings out your eyes - a berry colored wool garment that he wishes you’d wear more.

“Hey! Morgan said you were exhausted. Thought I’d make you coffee.”

You pick it up, and set it down again, for emphasis, and a few drops make their way down the side and onto his case file, surely creating a cinnamon toned half circle that Hotch will not love. You don’t notice, watching his face.

“I made it with a bunch of sugar. Just how you like it, right?”

Suddenly, he realizes he’s been staring up at you, and then his mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Yeah, I uh, I am pretty tired, now that you say it. Didn’t sleep well, long night, you know?”

You nod, sipping your own coffee, fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

“I get that. Goes with the job, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, yeah, I- wait, Morgan said that? Did he— what else did he tell you?”

You grin, coffee mug to lips again.

Stop staring, Reid.

“Nothing, really. Just said you needed a boost. Thought I’d provide.”

Titling your head a tad, you look down, a mild panic crossing your face when you see you’ve stained his file.

“Oh my God - Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

He’s quick to shake his head, hands coming up to reassure, his eyes wide.

“No no no, it’s okay, truly, I-I made a mistake on that one anyways. I’ll need to have a new copy printed, honest.”

Frowning, you look him over, searching for a tell, something to let you know whether he’s lying or not.

“Are you sure? I can do it, I’m not that behind on mine, I could—“

Before he thinks - you’d assume, with all his brains, he would - his hand grabs your arm, that gorgeous sweater under his finger tips, his eyes locked with yours. He says your name, once, his tone more serious than he’d like.

“It’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.”

You blink, and then a slow grin takes over your face.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

For a moment, neither of you move, the heat of his hand burning through the wool on your arm, until he lets go like you’re the one scorching his skin, like he’s just realized that he’s touching you. You laugh a little, awkwardly, and he grins with the same level of unpracticed nerves, and you head back to your desk.

He picks up the mug, and sips slowly, closing his eyes for a moment - it does have a mountain of sweetness, the saccharine liquid coating his mouth but soothing his senses. When he sets it down again, it’s on a part of his workspace not occupied by case work. Just as predicted, the file that once housed the beverage now bears a semi circle of dried java. His pointer finger traces the stain, clockwise and then counter, for a moment, before he glances up in horror to see Morgan, of all people, signature smirk in place.

“‘Thanks for the coffee’. I don’t what’s sweeter, that coffee you just got or-“

“Shut up.”

He mumbles, face flushed, small smile on his face despite the teasing. He traces the coffee stain one last time before he hastily tucks the soiled paper away in a drawer.

blood - the second stain

“What do you mean you aren’t getting a response from her on comms?”

He’s so scared, he can’t even stop to think just how breathless and afraid he sounds, as he turns to Hotch, who fixes him with a look that clearly says, Calm down, Reid.

“It could just be non-functional, or got knocked off, or caught.”

Hotch says calmly, almost maddeningly so. Spencer swallows back the protests, the arguments that swell up in his throat like bile.

They’d created, and given the profile, and once Penelope had narrowed down the couple possible properties their potential unsub owned, you, Morgan, and Prentiss had headed into an abandoned storage facility, silent and careful.

Perhaps not careful enough.

The voice in his head reminds him, almost sadly, and he grits his teeth inside tightly drawn and chapped lips. Shaky hands smooth over his slacks, again and again, as his eyes stay fixed on Hotch.

“Ask-ask Morgan again. If she’ll respond.”

He’s given a frown, dark brows pulling together in a very typical Hotch-like manner.

“Is there a specific reason you’re asking about her, Reid?”

Is there? God, he doesn’t know. You bring him coffee nearly every morning, but perhaps that’s just kindness. Then there’s the chocolate sprinkled donuts that start his work day from time to time - maybe you just enjoy pastry treats, and think of him, when you buy one. Oh, and heaven forbid he forget the way you’ll come by his desk, and ask for clarification on a piece of paperwork or a procedure - that you probably could’ve asked Hotch or Prentiss about. You listen, active listening too, eye contact, body still - when his explanations turn into rambles about statistics about this type of criminal, your eyes watching his face, your own voice quiet.

Is he deluding himself? Seeing phantom romance where there’s maybe merely nothing but platonic affection? Blinking, once, he shakes his head in response to his Unit Chief’s question.

“No Hotch. I’m just worried, she-well, she hasn’t responded, and Morgan has, and Prentiss has, and I—“

Speak of the devil, Morgan’s voice comes through, demanding and tense.

“I need a medic. Prentiss and I secured the unsub, but, not before—“

Oh God. Not before that bastard got to you with a baseball bat, to the back of the head, you unaware before your face met the concrete below. Spencer’s not even asking for permission, snatching the keys to an SUV off the desk nearby and flooring the gas pedal.

You can’t die. Not before I—

Driving there is like hell - his lungs burn like there’s smoke and ash polluting them, and fear feels like too tame a word to describe the overwhelming panic that seizes his heart the more he drives.

I’m a fool, he thinks wildly, as his knuckles grip the steering wheel like a vice. A damn fool if I don’t tell her-

He’s barely got the thing in park before he’s scrambling out the driver’s side door, Converse immediately coated from the dusty ground outside the facility.

When he finds Morgan, and you, head lolled to the side, eyes closed, face pale as his must be, he falls to his knees with little regard for his own pain or discomfort. Morgan watches, careful, his voice gentle when he speaks, trying to calm his terrified friend.

“She’s still out, Reid. Just a nasty whack to the back of her head, okay? Easy.”

Trembling thumbs trace and hold your face, like it’s made of paper, as he swallows hard to keep the ache behind his eyes from becoming tear tracks down his face. He spots the gash, trickling crimson down your ashy skin, onto his shaking hand, but doesn’t move from holding your face. A deep contusion, furious and violet-toned, on the back of your head, makes the air leave his chest like he’s been choked.

Beautiful girl, I couldn’t stop this.

He could sob, and he nearly does, until you make some sort of confused noise and force open your eyes. Light rushes through his heart, rekindled warmth as he meets your eyes, and yet, he finds himself almost frozen.

“Spencer? What, I thought-“

“Listen to me.”

He forces himself to speak - he has too. What if he doesn’t get the chance, and all he ever gets to associate you with is caffeine, sprinkles, and a listening ear? No, that won’t do. Not in the slightest.

You meet his eyes, hazy, but listening. Morgan’s brows furrow, as he protests,

“God, man, she just woke up, let her-“

Ignored, as Spencer often finds himself doing when there’s more pressing matters than banter, than propriety.

“You need to know. That I-care about you.”

Blinking, you swallow, and suddenly, the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is slightly dimmed.

“That I can’t let another sunrise or sunset go by where you don’t know that I’d give you the stars if you’d let me. Where I can’t touch you, where I can’t make sure you understand that I’ll protect the light you have inside you until I’m burnt from it. You absolute angel, I-“

He shudders, almost afraid of his own earnest, and says your name like it’s a prayer.

“I love you. Even if you don’t return it, my heart is yours.”

Morgan’s grin is wide, and he shakes his head, almost in amazement. Your own face is flushed, as you hear sirens and medics, your voice crackly and rough from pain, but still, that smile he’s grown to associate with his heart fluttering graces your face.

“My heart is yours, Spencer. Glad you’re finally realizing how absolutely in love I am with you, you goose, even if it took all this.”

He laughs a little, almost deliriously, and smooths his trembling hand over your face.

“Guess the doughnuts weren’t enough, huh?”

You manage, and he shakes his head, quick to push back.

“They were. You’re always enough for me, no matter what you do.”

Could he sound any more smitten?

Procedure says he can’t go in the ambulance with you - there’s no need, you’re just getting stitches and some ice and he can visit you at the hospital, okay? But as he heads back to the - oh dear, still running, he really was in a hurry, wasn’t he? - car, Morgan glances sideways at him, signature smirk in place.

“Pretty boy, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Spencer stares down at his hands in his lap. They’re stained, and a grimace floods his face when he realizes it’s not dirt, but your blood, coating his fingertips. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back a nastier retort than his friend deserves.

“I guess I did. I can’t believe it took-“

Morgan sighs, stopping Spencer’s inevitable incoming guilt filled rambles.

“Hush. You told her. That’s what matters.”

Glancing down at Spencer’s fidgeting hands in his lap, he presses on the gas.

“Let’s get there, so you can get that off you. I’m shocked you got all dirty, with your germ thing.”

Spencer shrugs, looking out the window.

“For her? I’d-I think I’d do anything. No matter what it stained.”

Soap finds his hands at the hospital, but he finds you soon after, unable to stop the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, or the soft murmurs that follow as he tries to remind himself that much more of your blood didn’t spill.

ink - the third stain

Emily has to physically hold you back in the court room, when they take him out, his eyes fixed on you, and the team, almost hopeless.

“Then your client is a flight risk.”

You’re quite literally fighting her, suddenly terrified in a whole new way for your boyfriend, tears staining your face.

“Bail is denied.”

She’s got both arms wrapped around you, her soft, ‘I know’s, and ‘I’m sorry’s barely heard over your own pleas for her to let you go.

“Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

You hear someone sobbing - angry, fear-filled wailing - and until Emily has you turned around, your face in her shoulder, comes the realization that it’s you.

“He’s-Emily, what are we going to do, he’s not going to be okay, I-I can’t—“

The days that follow are dark. Going to the BAU without Spencer, let alone waking up without him beside you, is enough to send you into a spiral. You try to remind yourself that he’s worse off, that whatever hell he’s experiencing is ten times worse than your quiet fear and loneliness. So, to try to combat the weight that squashes your heart, you write him letters. Daily letters.

Spencer -

We have a case in Florida. Emily says it’ll be quick, but the Florida ones never are. We’d solve it ten times faster with you, you know? Geographical profiles are much harder alone, that’s for sure. The plane ride is quieter without you, and no one’s saying anything - you’d be saying something if you were here. Maybe that’s why we’re quiet. ♡

Every day. You don’t relent. If you can’t mail them in whatever town you get stuck in for work, you mail them in one big envelope when you get back home.

Spencer -

That case was rough. I cried twice - once when I spent over two hours staring at the map at the precinct and couldn’t find anything new, and once when Rossi accidentally snapped at me. He said he was sorry, that he’s ‘on edge’ right now - but aren’t we all? Emily’s working really hard to try to get you home. I wish I could come see you. I hope you’re safe. I love you. ♡

When you learn that he didn’t put you on the list of people who can visit him in that concrete hell, you almost lose what’s left your nerve, breaking down in Emily’s office, shaking. You don’t know whether you’re furious, in despair, or numb to it all.

“Emily, why? Why doesn’t he want me to come see him? If it was me, I’d want to see him every day, I wouldn’t want him to leave!”

She sighs, her face tight. Twisting your hands in your lap, you search her face for answers. Nausea claws at your throat.

“Honestly, my guess is it’s just that. He knows that if you come, he won’t want you to leave. It’ll hurt too much.”

“But Tara, and you, and his mother, and-

Spencer -

I think I understand. Sort of. I feel like there’s this pressure in my chest, and I can’t ever fully breathe. Not since you’ve been away. The weight on my heart never goes away. Missing you more every hour. ♡

Despite the slew of handwritten letters that reach him, you only get one back, after you and the team search his apartment - you keep it in your purse pocket, folded safe, and read it whenever your throat feels tight and your eyes burn. His untidy scrawl is enough to make you feel like a part of him is actually inside this letter - like he’s reading it himself to you, interwoven in the fibers of the paper.

Angel -

I wanted you to know I’m in solitary now - I made sure of it. I know you want me safe, almost more than I do. I love you beyond what I can say, my beautiful girl.

Yours, Spencer.

One night, you’re curled up in Spencer’s apartment, writing him a letter, as is your nightly routine. The ink stains the side of your hand now - an ever-present reminder of the fact that your heart constantly feels ripped out of your body. After addressing the letter to him, your phone buzzes - Emily.

Oh God.

“Hey. We figured out that- oh, you don’t care about all that. He’s coming home.”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. Paper and ink pen tumble to the floor as you shove your feet in shoes and snatch your jacket off the coat tree. Tension is coiled in your body the entire way there. Ink still stains the side of your hand, a permanent reminder that every time you needed to just tell him something - you had to pick up pen and paper.

Heart in your throat, you push open the door with shaking hand. There he stands, your Spencer. He’s still him, you think, although his face is tight, and sleep clearly hasn’t been something he’s seen much of.

Three months.

You walk in slowly, body trembling. One hand reaches up, runs through the curls that have grown so long.

“Your hair.”

You breathe out, voice barely audible. He nods, his face almost impassive. Tentativel fingers trail down his cheek, make a path to hold his face. He nods, and then, you notice his eyes are misty.

“My angel.” He murmurs, almost in awe, and takes you in his arms with a fervor. Crushed against him, face buried in the cool fabric of his shirt, you bite back a sob, arms threaded around him.

“No. Cry, my darling girl, I’m— I’m tired of doing it alone.”

How could you refuse him? Just hearing his voice, let alone the relief you feel at being touched by him again, is enough to satisfy you for days, you think. For a bit, all that’s heard is uneven breaths, until he speaks, his voice rough and shaky.

“I need to see your face.”

He pulls back, face shining with tears, and you swallow back the lump that just won’t leave your throat.

Calloused hands - less soft than you remember - take yours, and then he frowns.

“Your hand.”

Your right hand is held up, inspected, like the blue on the inner side of it is red instead. You smile, laughing a little, still breathless.

“Ink, baby. Just ink. I was writing you a letter.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at the navy stain with his thumb, as if that will remove it.

“I would’ve kept writing. Never given up. You’d be sick of letters from me.”

“Never, sweet girl. There is no part of me who could ever find himself sick of you.”

After you’ve home, he wastes no time in pressing less than tender kisses to your mouth and jawline and the column of your throat. It’s not until he’s reacquainted himself with your contours and the dip of your hipbones and the soft way you gasp out his name when he does that, that has you next to him, so he can see your face.

He needs to see your face.

Hand in his, still faintly stained from ink, he examines it, and then, softly, hesitantly, he meets your eyes.

“You know ink poisoning is actually rare? Pens we use are designed with non-toxic ink, to decrease any chances of fatal ingestion.”

You never mind his information sharing, but your eyebrows furrow tiredly at his timing.

“Spence, I’m not saying I don’t care, but we just— you just—”

“Please. Let me look at the woman I love and pretend for a few moments that my damn eidetic memory won’t play back the last three months of my life like some wretched tape.”

You let him, as he holds your cobalt-colored hand and your eyes droop, his soft voice telling you that rubbing alcohol will probably get that stain out. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

paint - the final stain

“Spence! Can you get paint water out of carpet with any amount of ease?”

You call your husband, turning back to your mildly sheepish five year old, whose water color adventure on the coffee table has quickly done south.

In walks Spencer, not even noticing the overturned hard plastic cup or purpley-blue spill, eyes going straight to his daughter’s nearly finished picture.

“Beautiful, Penny. Looks incredible.”

He murmurs, bending to be eye level with a beaming Penelope, hand on her arm, before turning to you, mild tension and stress lining your face. His smile is gentle. It’ll wash out.

“Rubbling alcohol, angel.”

You nod, tension easing from your shoulders.

“We’ll go get it - we always clean our messes up, right lovely?”

He asks your daughter, lifting her with practiced care. She giggles, nodding, as they head from the room, letting you take a breath and set up the paints and picture in a new location - the kitchen table, with some newspaper tucked underneath because she’s five, and you of all people know spills happen.

Once she’s set up again - she really is so quiet when she’s engrossed in something - you find yourself curled up with Spencer on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching her paint and sing-song to herself.

“Think she’s lonely?”

Spencer asks, turning to you, his grin wide.

Troublemaker.

“Hmm. I think you just like me pregnant.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t want Penny to be sad, ever.”

Silence, then, for a bit.

“She’s so much like you.”

Spencer muses, his fingers drawing patterns on the side of your sweater. You smile, fondly.

“You say that because I’m clumsy. She was dancing around with that paintbrush, that cup of paint water stood no chance.”

“No, I say that because she shines like you. No matter what tries to dim her.”

That night, when you peek in your daughter’s door to see Spencer reading her A Little Princess, she’s propped up against him, hazel eyes barely open. Affection swells in your chest as his voice carries on, even though she’s clearly almost in dreamland. In you walk, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then Spencer’s. He smiles gentle up at you - this is his favorite time of the day - and keeps reading.

“Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it.”

Once you’re back in the living room, you check on the earlier spill from today. All that’s left is a barely visible blue spot, no bigger than a quarter.

“No one will see it but you.”

Steadying, warm arms wrap around your ribs, and soft lips press against the side of your neck, washing away any insecurity about the state of your carpet.

“Besides, stains aren’t bad, sweet girl. They’re little reminders that things happened, good things, or bad things that brought us together. Memories, attached to splotches, attached to wounds, to paper, to skin. How convenient, to carry our most impactful moments like heaven-sent tattoos.”

[journeytothewestresearch]

To recap, Journey to the West casts the Tang Monk Tripitaka as the last incarnation of Master Golden Cicada (Jin Chanzi, 金蟬子), the second disciple of the Buddha who is exiled from paradise for falling asleep during his master's sermon. Chapter 81 adds a second crime: kicking something in his slumber and making a single grain of rice fall to the ground.

This leads me to the point of this post. A reader contacted me the other day asking if Sariputra (Sk: शारिपुत्र; Pali: Sariputta; Ch. Shelifu, 舍利弗), a historical disciple of the Buddha, was the basis for Master Golden Cicada since he was known for having a golden glow about him. A cursory search didn’t turn up anything connecting them, but thanks to the reader’s prompt, I kept digging and was interested to learn that another disciple of Tathagata, Aniruddha (Sk: अनुरुद्ध; Pali: Anuruddha; Ch: Analu, 阿那律) (fig. 1), was known to have fallen asleep during his master’s sermon.

According to monk Jiaoguang’s (交光, fl. 1600) Dafo Dingshou Lengyan Jing Zhengmai Shuxu (大佛頂首楞嚴經正脉疏序, T. 275): 

Analu [Aniruddha] then stood up, bowed at the Buddha’s feet, and said to him respectfully … [->-> Commentary:] Changshui [1] says: Nalu, namely Anouloutuo, which means “free of poverty,” was a Rice Prince. He gave a meal to a Solitary Buddha in a past life and enjoyed happiness for 91 Kalpas. … “When I first entered the monastic life, I was too fond of sleep. The Thus-Come-One admonished me, saying that I was no better than an animal. After the Buddha scolded me, I rebuked myself and wept. For seven days I did not sleep, and as a result I went blind in both eyes.” [->-> Commentary:] Gushan [2] says: According to the Ekottara Agama, the Buddha was preaching the Law in Jetavana when Nalu fell asleep. The Buddha spoke in verse: “Tut-tut … Why are you sleeping? River snails, mussels, clams and the like sleep for a thousand years, never hearing the names of Buddhas.” Thereupon, Nalu made it known that he would never sleep again, and he soon lost his sight. [3] 阿那律陀即從座起，頂禮佛足而白佛言： 長水曰：那律即阿㝹樓䭾，此云無貧，亦云如意，乃白飯王子也。過去世以一食施辟支，感九十一劫受如意樂。 我初出家，常樂睡眠，如來訶我為畜生類。我聞佛訶，啼泣自責，七日不眠，失其雙目。 孤山曰：增一阿含云：佛在給孤園為眾說法，那律於中眼睡，佛說偈訶云：咄咄何為睡？螺螄蚌蛤類，一睡一千年，不聞佛名字。那律於是達曉不眠，眼根便失。 (source)

The term “Rice Prince” (Bifan wangzi, 白飯王子) refers to the fact that Aniruddha was the cousin of the Buddha and fellow grandson of King Sihahanu, whose sons, including the Buddha’s father (as mentioned above), all had the suffix odana (“rice”) as part of their names. Aniruddha’s father was Amitodana (“Unmeasured Rice”) (Nakamura, 2000, vol. 1, p. 46; Harvey, 2013, p. 117; Thomas, 1931/2013, p. 24).

Therefore, we have a Buddhist disciple who dozes off during the Buddha’s sermon and has an association with rice. This makes Aniruddha the best possible influence for Master Golden Cicada that I’ve seen. The story goes back to at least the 4th-century Zengyi ahan jingxu (增壹阿含經序, T. 125), so it would have been around long enough to eventually influence Journey to the West. 

I need to point out, however, that I’m not the first person to write about this. While I was finishing typing this update, I came across this article, which mentions Aniruddha in passing. But to my credit, I actually cited the historical Buddhist literature involved.

Fig. 1 – A colored relief of the Buddha helping his blind disciple sew a new robe (larger version). Image found here.

Notes:

1) The monk Changshui (長水), a.k.a. Zixuan (子璿; 965-1038), was the compiler of the Shou lengyan yanyi shu zhu jing (首楞嚴義疏注經, T. 1799) (Sorenson, 2011, p. 39).

2) Gushan (孤山), a.k.a. Zhiyuan (智圓; 976-1022), wrote a commentary for the Shou lengyan jing shu (首楞嚴經疏) (McBride, 2016, pp. 144-145 n. 238).

3) The non-commentary sections come from Buddhist Text Translation Society & Hsuan (2012, p. 210). The translation of the commentary is mine.

Sources: Buddhist Text Translation Society & Hsuan, H. (2012). The Surangama Sutra: A New Translation with Excerpts from the Commentary by the Venerable Master Hsuan Hua. (n.p.): Buddhist Text Translation Society.

Harvey, P. (2013). Buddha, Family Of. In C. S. Prebish & D. Keown (Eds.), Encyclopedia of Buddhism (pp. 117-121). United Kingdom: Taylor & Francis.

McBride, R. D. (2016). Doctrine and Practice in Medieval Korean Buddhism: The Collected Works of Ŭich’ŏn. Germany: University of Hawaii Press.

Nakamura, H. (2000). Gotama Buddha: A Biography Based on the Most Reliable Texts (G. Sekimori, Trans.) (Vols. 1-2). Tokyo: Kosei Publishing Co.

Sorenson, H. H. (2011). Textual Material Relating to Esoteric Buddhism in China Outside the Taisho, vol. 18-21. In C. D. Orzech, H. H. Sorensen, & R. K. Payne (Eds.), Esoteric Buddhism and the Tantras in East Asia (pp. 37-70). Netherlands: Brill.

Thomas, E. J. (2013). The Life of Buddha. United Kingdom: Taylor & Francis. (Original work published 1931)

The Reason Why Golden Cicada was Banished from Heaven

Someone asked me a question about this fairly recently, but my answer appears to have been deleted. Anyway, I thought I would answer it again. In short, Master Golden Cicada (Jin chanzi, 金蟬子) fell asleep during the Buddha's sermon. But chapter 81 adds to the reason: accidentally kicking something and causing a single grain of rice to fall. This is explained while Tripitaka is deathly ill for a few days:

“You don’t realize that Master was the second disciple of our Buddha Tathagata, and originally he was called Elder Gold Cicada. Because he slighted the Law, he was fated to experience this great ordeal.” “Elder Brother,” said Eight Rules, […] “Why must he endure sickness [for two days] as well?” “You wouldn’t know about this,” replied Pilgrim. “Our old master fell asleep while listening to Buddha expounding the Law. As he slumped to one side, his left foot kicked down one grain of rice. That is why he is fated to suffer three days’ illness after he has arrived at the Region Below.” Horrified, Eight Rules said, “The way old Hog sprays and splatters things all over when he eats, I wonder how many years of illness I’d have to go through!” “Brother,” said Pilgrim, “you have no idea either that the Buddha is not that concerned with you and other creatures. But as people say: Rice stalks planted in noonday sun Take root as perspiration runs. Who knows of this food from the soil Each grain requires most bitter toil? Master still has one more day to go, but he’ll be better by tomorrow” (Wu & Yu, 2012, vol. 4, p. 82). 行者道：「獃子又胡說了，你不知道。師父是我佛如來第二個徒弟，原叫做金蟬長老，只因他輕慢佛法，該有這場大難。」八戒道：「哥啊，師父既是輕慢佛法，貶回東土，在是非海內，口舌場中，託化做人身，發願往西天拜佛求經，遇妖精就捆，逢魔頭就吊，受諸苦惱，也夠了，怎麼又叫他害病？」行者道：「你那裡曉得。老師父不曾聽佛講法，打了一個盹，往下一試，左腳屣了一粒米，下界來，該有這三日病。」八戒驚道：「像老豬吃東西潑潑撒撒的，也不知害多少年代病是。」行者道：「兄弟，佛不與你眾生為念，你又不知。人云：『鋤禾日當午，汗滴禾下土。誰知盤中餐，粒粒皆辛苦。』師父只今日一日，明日就好了。」

This points to the supreme importance of rice in an agrarian society like ancient China.

For more on Master Golden Cicada, see my previous article:

[darkcitiesnluv]

Dry Humping Taesan Short Smut

Minors are not allowed to read this!

Taesan x Female Reader

Warnings: smut, reader riding him, dry humping, kissing, clothes on.

Enjoy ;)

༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉💕‧₊˚. ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚. ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉💕 ༉‧₊˚

You push him against the back of the couch. You sat on his lap while grabbing his neck with both of your small hands and kissed him passionately as if he was going to leave you and never come back to you. You were so desperate you didn’t know what to do next. Should you quickly take your clothes off or should you take it slow and enjoy every touch? You needed him so bad especially how good he looked sitting down and looking up at you with almost pink bruised lips. You want it to eat him up. Tear him up. But why you felt so horny today?? You don’t know but here you are grinding on him, on his lap, on his stomach, and his crotch. You were dry humping with your skirt and undies on. You felt the bulge on his pants hitting your clit. Both of your breaths hit each other's faces creating sweat. Bodies are hot and sweaty creating a hot atmosphere in the living room. Sounds of hardcore wet kisses were loud and echoing in the air.

Taesan softly runs his big hands up and down your thighs. His lender's fingers tickle every spot of your warm skin. His hands reach down to pat your butt. He smacks your ass lightly hard and grips both cheeks helping your pussy have more access for pleasure as your clit hits his zipper. “This ass and pussy is mine…” he grins between the kisses, biting down your bottom lip. You moan. “Mmm yes everything of me is yours and everything of you is mine,” you said breathlessly as your hips slammed against him feeling close to your climax. You had your silky pink crop top with no bra so your soft perky breast was smack him on his face and chest depending on how you were riding your pussy almost getting on top of him. Don’t worry you are not suffocating him. Taesan was enjoying it and was shocked at how crazy you were acting. He was enjoying the view right in front of him and couldn’t help but smirk and laugh. This wild side of you turns him on so much.

“ shit baby I’m about to cum….” You said out loud looking up at the ceiling. You grasped the back of his brownish beautiful hair and pulled it down so he could look up at you. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes traveled down to your breast and down to your skirt. “ you look so sexy….” He whispers, a hand reaching to play with your right breast sending pleasure waves on your body. “ let me help you cum…” he rubs his fingers on your clit underneath your skirt. “ Fuck!! Shit Taesan!!ahhh~~” you cried loudly as now you looked like a complete mess in front of him. Your legs were now spread open for him as he play with your pussy as if he was a master at it. “ Fuck…..you already came…..you look like a slut right now” he smirk at you looking at you with his dark brown intense eyes. You wanted to melt again right there. Damm this man drives you crazy. You loved him so much.

“Baby….” You whisper as you pull him close by the collar of his white hoodie. You kissed him passionately almost eating him. Your hands wrapped around his neck. Taesan’s hands rested on your hips and ass. “ I love you….” You hug him. You truly truly love this man and you want to give him everything and anything he wants. Not only is he amazing in the bed but just the person he is and the way he treats you just makes you want to love him forever.

“And I love you too….more than you think….my beautiful girl….” He wraps his left arm around your waist and his other arm across your back and the back of your head. He kisses your temple.

“ hey but uh….” He pouts cutely and coolly and he points a twirling finger down his crotch. “ you have to fix something….it is really hard by the way…” he smirks. You bit your bottom lip feeling your cheeks blush. “ alright baby….let me give you a good suck…” you laughed pulling him for another kiss.

༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉💕‧₊˚. ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚. ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉💕 ༉‧₊˚

@riqomi @starrihan @1129ism @bonedors @jeongmie04 @amarecerasus @taesancult @taesanstudios @thefriuttenwonteat @shirl377 @dobbiesvvorld @yujinxue @boynextdoorr @taesanrot

[newtonsheffield]

Ohhh, the Tharman & Anthony bonding (the father figure he needs...) oh the potential, Molly!!

Oh Tharman hates to admit it but he’s bloody fond of the kid actually. Anthony’s a nice boy. He’s clearly going through a lot right now but he’s always very polite, he brings Mary a gift every time he comes round “for her hospitality”. Even when he just sat on the living room floor next to Kate and they shared a bag of crisps and some tins of pop which he brought with him while they watched a few episodes of TV. It doesn’t take long for Tharman to realise that Mary’s of course right. Anthony looks a Kate like she’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He clearly wants to do what’s best for his family. Even though it’s draining him. Tharman can see that. Anthony’s a good guy. There’s plenty of worse guys that Kate could be dating. He hates to admit it but it’s actually really sweet when he comes home and finds Kate tucked into Anthony’s side on the sofa, both of them asleep.

There are limits to this though. There are fucking awkward moments. Like when Tharman sees Anthony in Sainsbury’s one afternoon.

“Headed round ours Anthony?”

For some reason the boy flushed. Right to the roots of his hair “Ah… yeah. Yeah. Kate and I are um… maybe going out.”

“Just pop your things on with mine.” Tharman shrugged, moving the divider aside.

“Oh.” Anthony shifted the purchases in his arms. “No thank you.”

“It’s fine, mate.”

Anthony seemed to take a deep breath as he laid out his purchases on the conveyer belt, “I actually… no. I’ll just pay. Thanks.”

“It’s fine!” Tharman chuckled, scooting the crisps closer.

“No! No!” Anthony fumbled desperately, his cheeks bright red as something fell to the floor.

Both of them stared at the box of condoms in horror for a second before Anthony stooped and picked them up.

“They’re not ah…”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this but the next words out of your mouth better not be They’re not for Kate!”

Anthony closed his mouth staring at the ceiling. “I’d just like to pay for my condoms Mr Sharma.”

Tharman quietly put the divider back “Go ahead I suppose.” He stared straight ahead for a moment himself before he sighed. “Thank you for being safe and responsible.”

“You’re… welcome?”

“Let’s pretend this never happened.”

[wroetominter]

Overwhelm - George Clarke

Pairing: George Clarke X FemReader

Warnings: none

Fluff - my fav.

I turned on my side in bed, feeling the relief of the cold side of my pillow against my cheek. Next to me in bed George slept peacefully. There was nothing romantic happening here, simply two good friends who enjoyed each others company. I can’t say that there weren’t feelings there, at least on my end there definitely were.

I peered my eyes at my phone on the nightstand, seeing it was only five thirty in the morning. I tried falling back asleep but couldn’t get my mind to shut off. The last few month had been a whirlwind of emotions.

Deciding since sleep was not happening, I may as well get up. I slowly slid out of bed, careful not to wake George. I grabbed his hoodie on his chair and pulled it over myself, smelling his cologne still lingering in the fabric. A scent I had come to find comforting.

I walked out to the living room, seeing the sun starting to creep over the horizon through the city view. I stepped outside and sat on one of the lounge chairs, pulling my legs up and hugging into them for some extra warmth and comfort.

As I sat there thinking, I began to feel filled with emotions. It wasn’t sad emotion, more so happy and overwhelmed all rolled into one. Tears freely flowed down my cheeks as my thoughts kept racing.

Torn from my thoughts by the door creaking open beside me, my head turned to the side to see who was coming outside. George stood there, his face immediately filled with concern when he took in my appearance.

“What’s wrong?” He came to sit beside me, wiping the tears from my face.

“Nothings wrong Geo, I’m sorry if I woke you.” I apologized. He shook his head.

“No no, well, kinda. I guess.” He scratched his head. “Bed felt empty and when I didn’t feel you beside me I knew something had to be wrong. Too early for you to be up.”

I sighed, looking back at him. His hand lightly rubbed my back in a soothing manner. He was too good to me sometimes. “What’s really wrong?” He pressed. He could read me like a book.

“Well, I was just sort of overwhelmed I guess. Everything I’ve ever wanted happened so quickly and I’m just really grateful I suppose. I have a job that doesn’t feel like work, I live in my favorite city in the world, I have the money to do whatever I want…” I trailed off, unsure if I wanted to break down the barriers further and admit to him that I had feelings for him and that also overwhelmed me.

Plucking up the courage as he stared at me, spilling my guts to him. “And I get to wake up next to the man of my dreams any time I want.” My hands fiddled together, trying to distract myself from the awkward tension I had unintentionally built.

“Man of your dreams?” George asked softly, placing his hand on mine.

I nodded, meeting his gaze. He had a soft smile on his lips and an almost unreadable expression.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that.” He admitted. I stared back at him dumbfounded. “You know I’m not good with the whole admitting feelings thing, I barely even told my friends I loved them until years into our friendship.” I giggled at his all too true comment.

“Well, I guess we’re both at fault for that then huh?” I asked. He nodded, pulling me in for a hug. I embraced his warmth and felt more comfortable than I had in a long time.

“Let’s go back to bed love, we’ll talk about this more when we’ve slept.” He grabbed my hand and led me back to his room.

I slid back to my side of the bed, cozying into the blankets.

“I reckon we’re up to the point you can sleep closer to me yeah?” George reached his arms out, pulling me over to him. I rested my head on his chest, intertwining our legs in a way that was comfortable for both of us.

“Get some sleep love.” He placed a soft kiss on my forehead.

[starogeorgina]

𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭, 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

Pairing: Aegon ii x reader, Daemyra x reader, Aemond x reader

Warnings: Smut, cheating, swearing, incest

The golden hairbrush engraved with dragon scales falls from your hand when you jump, startled by the sound of a heavy thud. Chewing on your bottom lip, you slowly make your way from the bedchamber to the main room of your royal husband’s apartment.

Your eyes land on the stack of books scattered across the floor, then land on Aegon, who’s leaning against the wall and laughing to himself.

“My love, what are you doing?”

“Ahhh,” he waves for you to come closer. “My beautiful wife, where are our spoilt little babes tonight?”

“Don’t call them spoilt.”

He chuckles, “They are well behaved; I just love to see you pout. Are they still here?”

“No, they are exhausted from playing in the gardens all day and are sleeping in their nursery.”

Although you yourself weren’t a Targaryen, both your son and daughter had their father’s features, thick silver hair and lilac eyes. Betha, named after your mother, was five, and your son Aegor was three. Both of them were blessings. You were content in your marriage to the prince, although you wished for him to drink less.

“You’re a good mother.”

Bending down, you start to pick up the fallen books; Aegon shamelessly stares at your breasts. “Perhaps the gods will give us another child to adore.”

He smooths his finger over the velvet fabric of your nightdress. “I’m sure they will if you ask nicely.”

“I will pray for it in the sept on the morrow.”

“Always the good girl,” he smirks. “Perfect in every way. Perhaps we can come to a compromise. If you put on a show for me, I’ll give you my seed every night until it takes.”

You push straggly strands of hair out of his face. “You flatter me, my prince, but what do you mean by show?”

“Sit on the chair behind you.” Doing as he says, you sit down on the chair that’s facing directly where he’s slumped on the ground. “Good, now pull your dress up and touch yourself.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Aegon always knew how to keep things exciting; pulling the fabric up to your waist, your cunt is completely exposed, and you start touching yourself.

Watching, Aegon groans and strokes his cock until it’s completely hard. “Come to me, wife.”

Standing, you feel the sticky wetness from your cunt drip down your thighs. Aegon lowers his trousers down to his knees; gripping your waist, he pulls you down onto his lap. In one move he thrusts inside of you.

“Ohh gods.”

Nipping at your neck, he growls, “You don’t need a god, just me.”

“Just you!” You repeat while bouncing up and down on his lap, the burning sensation of his cock stretching you becoming more pleasurable.

His hands tighten in your hair the closer he gets, his once toned stomach, which is now soft from all the wine he drinks, pressing against you. “Ñ uha vok ābrazȳrys. Ñuhon, mirre ñuhon.” (My perfect wife. Mine, all mine.)

You hold him tightly as you come together; you stay wrapped up in each other's arms until the night's chill becomes too much, and you retire to the bed.

—

“Aegon, Aegon!”

He stirs in the bed and rolls onto his front, ignoring the obvious distress in your voice. You rip the covers off him; he groans but still doesn’t get up. Frustrated, you pick up the full jug of water that you brought in only moments before and pour it over his head.

“Fucking—what is the matter with you women?” Sitting up, Aegon shakes the water from his hair. “Can’t a prince enjoy a long lie-in in the morning?”

“It’s midday, although I suspect you are exhausted from spending most of your night in a brothel!”

He groans loudly like a child having a tantrum, “It was only a bit of fun. You wouldn’t be so uptight if you had more of it.”

Your lips tremble. While breaking fast, Aemond let slip how Aegon would no doubt still be smelling of the street of silk; confused, you questioned him, and the answer you received was not only humiliating but heartbreaking as well. “I’ve been nothing but an utter fool these past years; I truly believed you cared for me.”

Rolling his eyes, he says, “Whores and wives are different.”

Infuriated, you toss the jug at the wall, shattering it into small pieces. “Are they? Because only last night you gave someone money in exchange for sex, then fucked me after saying you’d give me another child.”

Getting to his feet Aegon tries to take your hand, but you push him away. “It’s not the same!”

“I know it’s common for a prince to stray from his wife…” you sob. “But did you ever once think about how filthy it would make me feel knowing you touched them and me in the same night?”

He says nothing.

“It shows how little you think of me. I’ve had desires as well, but I never gave in to them because I respected you. I was proud to be your wife.” You shove him in the chest hard enough he takes a few steps back. “But you do not care! I have been nothing but devoted to you, and you just do not care.”

Aegon calls after you when you turn to leave, “Where are you going?”

“To have fun, isn’t that what you suggest I do?”

He looks hurt by your words. You slam the door behind you before Aegon can say anything else.

—

You spend most of the day crying into a pillow in a separate bedchamber. You felt humiliated; coming from a proud house in the Riverlands, you knew better than to accept being treated anything other than like a lady, yet that’s exactly what happened.

What would your lord father have to say if he knew?

Aside from your children, you don’t speak to anyone else for the remainder of the day.

By nightfall you’ve overthought the situation so much that you’ve given yourself a headache and decide to leave the bedchamber. This was the first time you truly felt hurt and disrespected by your husband, and you weren’t sure how to feel. How often did Aegon lay with whores, then you? Did he view you the same as you? Did he respect you at all?

You’re so lost in thought that you almost walk directly into someone. “My apologies, princess; I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.”

Rhaenyra offers you a kind smile. “It’s not often I meet someone during my nightly walks in the castle.”

The princess had come to King's Landing to celebrate the king's name day with her husband and children. You knew of the Hightowers' dislike for the princess, but there was no denying her beauty, and from the little interactions you had in the past, Rhaenyra was always kind to you.

“You seem troubled; care to join me on my walk?”

Realising she’s alone, you ask, “Shouldn’t you have a guard with you, princess? You are the king's heir.”

She grins and links her arm with yours. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

—

Your moans are muffled by Daemon kissing you, his hands roaming over his wife’s breasts as she continues to press her wet cunt against your own. You hold onto her hips, keeping her in place when the spot she grinds on brings you both pleasure.

You weren’t entirely sure how you ended up between them both; it felt like a dream. One moment the princess was offering you a sympathetic ear, and after a while, you whined about your husband; the next you were kissing her.

You pull back from the searing kiss. “Fuck, this feels so good.”

Rhaenyra's lips part slightly, her sweat-coated breast swaying with each movement. You reach your peak seconds apart, and before you have a chance to catch your breath, you're flat on your back, and Rhaenyra places a knee on either side of your head. She brings your hand to her mouth and sucks on two of your fingers, and once they are coated in her saliva, she lowers herself onto them. The prince slowly rubs at your clit, giving you the chance to somewhat recover.

It felt sickly satisfying knowing that you were getting revenge by being intimate with someone your husband was so jealous of.

“What a spoiled little thing you are.” Daemon rubs his cock between your folds. “I’ve never seen someone look cock drunk before getting fucked.”

After a few more seconds, you tilt your head back and start devouring Rhaenyra’s cunt with your tongue. Daemon thrusts into you, making it harder to concentrate on pleasing the princess with your mouth. It was clear they had done this before, not that you judged them for it, especially when one of them starts squeezing your sensitive breasts.

It doesn’t take Rhaenyra long to come again, and when Daemon's thrusts become sloppy, Rhaenyra rubs at your clit. Tears pour from the corner of your eyes when you come apart on the prince's cock just as he spills his seed.

Daemon pulls out and collapses down on the bed. Rhaenyra gently gets off you, then lays down beside you. She kisses you softly, “You can stay here until you’re rested.”

It’s not until they both fall asleep that the reality of what you’ve just done hits you.

—

Four days have passed since your argument with Aegon, and you’ve not spoken since; any attempts you made were greeted with silence. Mindlessly you walk into your brother-in-law's apartment with knocking.

“What is it?”

“I know it’s late—forgive me, my prince.”

Embarrassed, you spin quickly to face the wall. You expect to find Aemond pacing furiously in his apartments, reading a book, or even sulking; you did not expect to find him bathing.

“Tis alright, good sister; you can turn around.”

Slowly you turn back to see Aemond has placed a cloth over his lap to keep his modesty. “Forgive the intrusion… I heard how Aegon berated and mocked you for telling me the truth. I’m sorry.”

He snorts, “For what? You did nothing wrong.”

“I don’t like the idea of anyone else getting caught in the crossfire of our marriage.

“Sit with me; I can tell you are troubled.”

You pull one of the chairs closer and sit close to him. You have always been close to the one-eyed prince; he was always polite, and since you shared the same interests, you were never short of things to talk about.

“I…I’m a fool, I know. I know who Aegon is, but I just thought after giving him two children, I would be enough.”

“You’re not a fool,” Aemond smooths hair out of your face. “I’d cherish you; it’s my brother who’s the fool for not appreciating what he has.”

A dark laugh leaves your mouth when you can no longer keep the tears at bay. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He looks unsure but nods.

“My father begged me not to marry him; he always said Aegon would take advantage of my kindness. I left my home, my family, to be with him, and he just… doesn’t understand the sacrifices I made.”

“I regret telling you,” he sighs. “I did not intend for the truth to hurt you so deeply.”

“I’m glad you did, so I can see things clearly. I’d have followed him anywhere, but when I returned to the riverlands, he made no effort to come with me, and I made excuses for him. I think he’s embarrassed to be married to someone of lower status.”

“You are worth ten of my brother,” Aemond says sternly.

“Stop—”

He sits up in the bath, causing water to spill onto the floor. Aemond runs his thumb across your cheek. “I’ve been watching you for years; I’ve seen how kind you are to others. Know how intelligent you are; you’ve made more of an effort to learn my family’s mother tongue more than Aegon has. You’re beautiful.”

Looking at him through teary eyes, you ask, “Do you really think so?”

“Yes.”

Closing your eyes, you mentally try to prepare for the awkwardness that would take place when you returned to your chambers. The anger was fading away, and now all you wanted was to feel wanted and loved; it was pathetic, really.

You’re taken aback when you feel Aemond’s soft lips against yours. He mumbles something you don’t quite understand. “My Valyrian isn’t that good; I don’t know what that means.”

He chuckles softly, “If the gods were kinder, you would have been married to me and not him.”

Those were the last words you expected to hear. “Aemond—”

He cuts you off by kissing you again; his lips soon move to your mouth, and he whispers nothing but compliments, everything you wanted to hear. He nuzzles his face over your breasts, but the fabric of your dress is in the way.

Aemond watches nervously when you pull back and stand up. In one swift moment you discard the green dresses; now completely bare, you join him in the tub.

His mouth is on your breast, his fingers slip inside you, and it feels so good and wrong. It was wicked, but this wasn’t revenge. You just wanted to feel loved, and the more Aemond whispers how perfect he thinks you are, the more you want him.

More water spills onto the floor when you reposition yourself in the tub; you both gasp when you sink onto Aemond’s length.

“So perfect and tight.”

You brush the prince's damp hair to the side and bury your face into the crook of his neck; the faint smell of dragon, along with bath oils, fills your nostrils.

Aemond wraps his arms around you tightly while slowly thrusting into you. The younger prince has an innocence to him that Aegon didn’t; perhaps it’s why you felt so safe with him.

“I’m close.”

“I know I can feel it,” he hums.

Aemond tilts his hips in a way that causes his cock to go deeper, and his skin to brush against your clit. Soft noises fall from your mouth when you come, and the feeling of you tightening around him makes the prince groan.

Instead of moving you off him after he comes, Aemond kisses the crown of your head. “We both love you, just in different ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s true what I said: if you were my wife, I’d cherish you, but Aegon is not me. He’s selfish and a fool who thinks with his cock, but he is a man who loves his wife, no matter how poorly he shows it.”

You wanted to believe him, but it was hard. This was a mistake. You’d let your pain cloud your judgement once more: “I should go; the hour is late, and I’ll need to be up early for the children.”

“A few more minutes, please. I know after tonight this can never happen again.”

—

Feeling guilt and shame wasn’t something you were familiar with, but now it's plagued you for the last two moons, which is why you often avoided your husband. While studying Aegon’s sleeping form, your eyes gloss over; you hated him. You loved him but wanted to scream until your voice was raw and he felt the same humiliation and pain you did. Deep down you knew confessing wasn’t an option; Aegon would probably get over the sin itself, but knowing who you committed it with would break him.

You didn’t want that.

But soon what you did would be impossible to hide; you hadn’t bled twice now, and the maester suspects you are pregnant once more.

“Mama!”

Aegor burst into the room, his new favourite toy in hand. He runs away from the handmaid, holding his arms up. You wipe away the fallen tears with your sleeve and smile while picking him up.

“Hello, my sweet.” You cuddle the boy closer while he pays more attention to his wooden dragon that’s been painted over in a golden colour to resemble Sunfyre. Looking up, you met Aegon’s bloodshot eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you, husband.”

“Avy jorrāelan.”

You didn’t know much High Valyrian, but you knew what those words meant. “I love you too.”

—

Despite your third pregnancy being the most difficult, it was now worth the suffering when the midwife placed the babe onto your chest, another son. The remorse for not being completely sure your husband fathered the babe had kept you awake most nights, and when you did sleep, only nightmares would come.

It was normal for the men to wait outside the birthing chamber, so when Aegon appears, the various midwives and other servants subtly disappear, leaving the three of you alone.

“They said it’s a healthy boy.”

Nodding, you readjust the top of your nightgown so the newborn can feed from your breast. “Yes, another boy.”

“I know why you have been visiting the sept every day, why you’ve been seeking forgiveness.”

You start to sob.

“I don’t mean to upset you. I don’t care; I deserved it. I have done wrong to you many times in different ways, and you always forgave me.”

“Aegon…”

“You wanted another child to adore, and now you have one, and he’s perfect.” He sits on the bed beside you, although a tear rolls down his cheek. Aegon smiles. “The boy has his mother's beauty, and for that I am glad. I’ve always wanted one to look like you.”

“I love them all the same.”

“As do I,” he kisses your forehead. “Our family is complete; let us think no more of the foolishness of the past.”

In the weeks that follow Aegon’s night ventures to the street of silk stop, Aemond remains an overprotective uncle, especially when Daemon and Rhaenyra fly over from Dragonstone to congratulate you and Aegon on the birth of your son.

If Aegon notices how his brother's and uncle's gaze lingers on the boy you named Willem a little too long, he says nothing.

“I’m afraid you may struggle to find a comfortable space.”

A wild smile spreads across your face, lying on the bed. Aegon was holding Willem against his bare chest while your eldest two were sound asleep and sprawled out in awkward positions across the bed. Somehow you managed to climb into bed and rest your head against Aegon’s shoulder.

You had felt the various stages of being hurt and wanting revenge, and perhaps this is what forgiveness was. Finally being truly happy together.

[chloeangelbaby]

“I’m not your caddy”

Bsf! Reader x Rafe Cameron

————————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊———————————

Rafe Cameron’s golf game had gone from bad to worse in the last half hour, though he didn’t entirely blame himself. It was hard to focus on his swing when you, his best friend, were sitting in the golf cart looking like you were about five seconds away from having a full-on meltdown.

It was hot—so hot the breeze felt like someone had just opened an oven. You sat in the shade of the cart, arms crossed, acrylic nails tapping against your skin as you huffed. You’d already finished your iced drink an hour ago, and Rafe’s reassurance that you’d be “done soon” had turned into a lie when “soon” stretched past two hours.

You had tried, you really had. Earlier, when Rafe offered to let you take a swing, you’d reluctantly stepped out of the cart, taken his oversized club in your perfectly manicured hands, and given it your best shot. When the ball rolled a grand total of three feet, you’d declared, “This is the stupidest game I’ve ever played,” and stomped back to the cart. That was your first—and last—attempt at joining in.

You’d agreed to come along because, in your words, “I just want to wear a cute outfit and vibe.” And cute you looked—tiny tennis skirt, snug polo, and matching visor to keep the sun out of your eyes. But vibes? Those were gone. Instead, you were bored out of your mind, the hum of golf carts and faint clinking of clubs grating on your nerves.

“Baby, hand me my wedge,” Rafe called from a few feet away, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked at you expectantly.

With an overly dramatic sigh, you leaned over and grabbed a random club from his bag. You didn’t check to see if it was the right one before tossing it toward him with a bit too much force.

“That’s not my wedge, baby,” Rafe said, voice even but edged with amusement. He walked over, shaking his head when he saw the pout forming on your glossed lips.

“Then get it yourself,” you grumbled, your doe eyes glassy from a mix of heat, overstimulation, and frustration. “I’m not your caddy. And I’m hot. And bored. And my drink is gone. And this sucks.”

Rafe crouched down by the cart, resting one hand on the seat beside you and the other on the back of your neck to anchor you as you twisted your lips into a frown.

“You’re really in your feelings, huh?” he teased, his grin making your irritation flare.

“Don’t laugh at me, Rafe,” you snapped, your tone breaking slightly as a frustrated tear slipped down your cheek. “You said it’d be over soon, but it’s been forever. And your beer’s warm and gross.”

“You drank my beer?” he asked, amused.

“Yeah, because I finished mine an hour ago,” you shot back, sticking your tongue out like you could still taste the bitterness. “You owe me a Starbucks after this. Actually, two.”

Rafe chuckled softly, leaning in closer. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to the corner of your lips, ignoring the way you tried to pull back just enough to stay mad.

“Relax, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing as his thumb traced gentle circles on your neck. “Just a few more holes, and we’ll leave. I’ll get you whatever you want after. Promise.”

Your sniffle broke into a begrudging laugh, and you finally looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Cameron.”

“And you’re lucky I like your little attitude,” he shot back with a smirk.

His teasing made you roll your eyes, but you didn’t fight him when he pulled you into another kiss, this one quick but sweet enough to melt some of your frustration.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting back in your seat and crossing your arms. “But if it’s not done in twenty minutes, I’m driving this cart straight into the lake.”

Rafe just laughed, grabbing the right club himself before heading back to the green, knowing full well you meant it.

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