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parfaitblogs · 3 days ago

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cedar ❀ s. reid x reader

in which compatible bodies does not always mean compatible minds, but spencer reid is all too kind when you're like this, so perhaps you're allowed to forget that for a night.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: fingering yay. soft dom! spencer. situationship. sooo much kissing oh my god. lowkey asshole spencer but only if you go stanislavski on reader. no foreplay and i won't hold your hand during this. lowkey brat tamer spencer… word count: 1.8k a/n: a toxic situationship with a man who only wants you for sex is good for the soul btw <33333

"even if i see you again, i will never see you again." (margaret atwood)

Your skin always tingles beneath his fingertips. His hands delicately map you out beneath him like you are a blank piece of parchment. Every single time. No matter how attentive to your every detail he is; how much of you he has committed to his unbeatable memory. He still starts all over again the second you're naked and in his bed.

Every fucking time.

There's a nerve on the side of your left knee that makes you shiver when he kisses it, and so he does, over and over again. Hands that slide up the backs of your legs to entwine with your own fingers. Thumbs rubbing circles onto the skin as he kisses his way up your body.

He murmurs the sweetest things as he reaches for your underwear. As he always does. Quiet whisperings of, "You're so pretty," and, "I know, sweet girl. There's no one else. Just you." Sentences you've always wanted to hear him say to you, and he says it with so much conviction you forget he is not actually yours. With so much verity, you believe him.

He is just so kind to you when he's sliding lacy fabric down your legs, shushing your mewls with his lips on your own, and comforting your need with fingers threaded through yours.

"What do you want tonight?" he asks you quietly, as he asks you every week.

You never have the courage to utter his name aloud in response.

"Fingers," you mumble, absentmindedly, as the mentioned limbs erupt goosebumps on your thighs as he skims them up.

He takes your lack of full attention as pleasure, and he smiles. You let him think so, because he's kissing you again, and you fear if you protest, this will all go away. Testament to your self confidence — or lack thereof — how little of him you're willing to take, because at least it is something.

He complies with your request, fingers lifting to the apex of your thighs, slipping beneath your folds and swallowing the whine that escapes your lips at the feeling with another kiss. Or maybe the same one bleeding into the last. You're barely there you don't know anymore.

"My beautiful girl," he mumbles, index finger circling around your clit. Teasing you until you nip his bottom lip in irritation, and his breath fanning your skin as he laughs.

You try not to focus on him putting my at the beginning of his sentence. You basically fail.

Your face contorts when he dips a finger into you, the intrusion as strange as it is familiar, and you hear him hiss from your unconscious biting of his lip.

"Sorry," you murmur ever so quietly, incredibly half heartedly. He knows you aren't sincere.

"It's okay," he whispers in response, watching you as he lets his finger push in as far as you'll let him. You imagine he's committing every single twitch of your facial muscles to memory; every breath hitch when he moves his hand.

He won't be. He'll focus on you all up until you leave, and he won't think about the way you look taking his fingers beneath him the way you think about his fingers inside of you. You'll receive a violent reminder how painful one sided attraction can get when he calls and asks when you can come over next week, and you'll tell him Friday night anyways.

But for now, he is touching you, and he is telling you all the kind things in the world, so you will choose to ignore the pit in your stomach that's hours away from coming back.

"Spence," you whine, breathlessly, as he pushes a second finger in, curling them.

"Hm?" he responds to your call of his name with the most annoying smug expression, probably thinking about how easy you are to tear apart. Probably not aware of just how many ways he is.

"Too fast."

"Ah," he pulls his fingers out, instead focussing his attention on your clit to soothe you. "Sorry. Got distracted."

"Distracted?" you question him, searching his face for the truth behind his words.

"By you," his voice is a gentle hum as he kisses the corner of your mouth, and your heart flutters.

"I have that effect."

He laughs, head dropping to the bridge between your shoulder and neck, lips pressing a gentle kiss there.

"You do," he agrees. "Can't get through a day without thinking about you."

Jesus, give you a gun.

"Yeah?" you opt for asking instead, hoping the one word answer will hide the screaming of your brain.

"Mhm," he nods. You think you're successful. "How are we doing?"

"Good. Better. You can... um... continue."

He returns a finger into you, and you moan again, and he swallows it with a kiss. Again. As if choreographed, he touches you with so much knowing. Too much awareness of how your body ticks to be a man you see weekly for nothing more.

He bruises your mouth with his fervent kisses in the way you wish he would bruise your neck. But there is that voice that screams at you to say he is not yours, no matter how many universes you beg, and so your skin will remain unmarked, and you will remain forced to settle.

After one too many minutes of just a singular finger inside of you, your hips lift to meet his hand in a silent beg for more.

"I know you have a mouth you can use," he tells you, and an exasperated huff leaves your lips.

You hate him.

"Want more," you say, hands dropping down to his wrist, pads of your fingertips running along the skin in a plea of their own.

"You want more?" he asks, gently prying your hands off of him with his free hand. "More of what, sweet girl?"

"Spencer," you grit.

"I want to help you, I do," he coos, too many words cutting into the time you want him to spend pleasuring you, "but I can't if you don't tell me what you want."

"You're mean," you say, petulantly, hips wriggling for friction against his now completely still hand, until he has enough mind to stop you. "Please."

"I'm hearing a lot of misplaced frustration with me, and not a lot of communicating what it is you want."

You give in, annoyed. "Another finger. God."

He nips your bottom lip. "Try again."

You catch his gaze when you choose to shoot him a glare, and he is — annoyingly — all too amused with the position he's gotten you into.

You really hate him.

"Can you please put another finger in me?"

"Yes, I can," he complies almost instantly, and you relax as he slips a second finger in again. "Thank you for communicating."

You're too focussed on the way he's working you open with his fingers to bite back, and maybe he knows that.

His thumb reaches up to attack your clit the second you start moaning again, thus stripping you of any normal vocal ability. Your voice turns breathless and your moans become whines, and you're all too overwhelmed with how good he feels to think about being quiet.

If your noise is a problem, he doesn't say anything. In fact, he's leaving kisses all over your skin as he pushes his fingers in and out of you even faster, as if it is not gently pulling you apart limb by limb.

"Spencer," your voice cracks as he twists his hand, and the heel of his palm meets your clit, over and over again. "Oh."

You writhe, and this time he makes no effort to keep you still. He doesn't really need to. He has almost full autonomy over how far away from him you can get, with legs on either side of your body. You couldn't escape him even if you tried to.

His eyebrows pinch together when you clench around his hand, and he's back to kissing you, swallowing your louder than normal moan.

"Gonna cum," you whimper, brokenly, into his mouth.

He responds by picking up the pace of his fingers. Again.

He stops kissing you when your hips lift off the mattress to meet his, watching as your face twists and your lips part in a soundless moan, your orgasm wracking through you and making you look so beautiful.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you even when you slump back on the mattress. Waiting for your conscious to return, and you to beg him to stop.

Which takes longer than normal, for he is watching you roll your hips against his hand, seeking more from him. He happily complies, really, and you can distantly hear him laugh as you crack beneath him, every vein in your body pouring out onto the soft sheets.

You run warm, and you twist, and finally jerk your body away from him, mumbling an incoherent string of, "No. Mm-mm. Spence... ah, stop it."

"One more?" he asks, but you're shaking your head and still trying to get away from him, whining. "Okay, okay. I'm stopping. Shh, it's okay."

Your eyes flutter open once it's been a few moments of regaining control of your mind, and you catch your favourite part of any of this; the way he looks at you. You are the most perfect thing in the world to him when you've just came, and it's so easy to forget how complicated this all is when he's staring at you like you are a piece of artwork.

Once you're fully back, he gives you another kiss, and you melt once more, chasing his lips when he pulls away.

"Spencer," you grumble, and you can hear him huff a short laugh from his bathroom he's disappeared into.

"I'm not disappearing forever. Relax," he says, cloth between his hands.

The bed dips beneath his weight again as he hovers back over you, the damp fabric sliding up your legs as he wipes down every surface of your skin.

Sometimes this is your least favourite part. Forced to watch him erase any proof that he ever put his hands on you; that he ever loved you. Even physically.

And it means it's over. And once he finishes cleaning you up, you will have to put your clothes back onto your body, and walk out of his apartment like it means nothing to you the same it does for him.

"I'll call you when I'm free next week," he says.

"Okay," you say, quietly, biting the bullet and sitting up once he stands again. "I'll see you then, I guess."

"Get home safe. Text when you do?"

You feel ridiculous when your heart stutters in your chest. He does not care the way you want him to, and his words are always common courtesy. Never interest.

You force a smile. "I will."

your reblogs and replies are always welcome ♡

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cuntyji · 2 days ago

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you were sure, without a doubt, that math had been invented by the devil himself—or at the very least, some ancient sadist who found joy in human suffering. and who else but the sumerians, the architects of civilization, to introduce numbers and wedge them into the very fabric of reality?

which brought you here, sprawled out on gojo satoru’s bed, textbooks and loose papers abandoned at the edge of the mattress, your laptop open but wholly ignored. your eyes were squeezed shut, thighs trembling, and brain struggling—desperately—to process the numbers being traced against your cunt with his tongue.

“you’re fidgeting too much,” he mumbled against your folds, the vibration of his voice sending another pulse of heat up your spine. he sounded amused, always so amused, as if he weren’t the one making this impossible.

“oh, i wonder why,” you bit back, and your sharp exhale turned into a shaky whimper when his tongue swirled again—slow, purposeful.

"mm, attitude," he teased, pulling back slightly. his glasses—he had insisted on keeping them on, of course, just to be extra insufferable—slipped an inch down his nose. he peered over them, a lazy grin on his lips, cerulean eyes twinkling with mischief. "you should be thanking me, you know. most people have to suffer through studying, but me? i’m making it fun for you, baby."

fun, he says. as if this wasn’t absolute torture.

"fun for you," you gritted out, propping yourself up on your elbows to glare down at him. it was hard to look menacing when your legs were thrown over his shoulders, his breath hot against your dripping cunt.

“fun for both of us,” he corrected, and before you could retort, he dove back in, tongue flat against your clit before spelling out a number with slow, languid strokes.

your back arched. fuck. that was—okay, that was definitely a six. or maybe a nine? shit.

he pulled back again, looking far too pleased with himself. “c’mon, princess. what’s the answer?”

you struggled to keep your voice even, mind still hazy. “si—sixty-nine?”

he huffed a laugh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. “mmm, close, but not quite.”

"what do you mean not quite—"

before you could argue, he started again, this time tracing a much longer sequence of numbers, each movement sending sparks of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into the sheets, jaw slack. it took you a second—two, three?—before you realized: oh. he was giving you the answer to the long equation from earlier.

bastard.

“satoru—!”

“concentrate,” he chided, pausing just long enough to smirk up at you before resuming, each flick of his tongue slow, deliberate.

"i—i can't!"

"yes, you can," he murmured against you, tracing another swirl, another long stroke that had your toes curling. "you want that A, don’t you?"

your head lolled back, a moan slipping out before you could stop it. god, you hated him. hated how smug he was, how good he was.

"better get the answer right, or you're getting a big fat D," he chuckled, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your sensitive clit. "literally."

your breath hitched. okay. fine. if this was how he wanted to play, you were going to win this damn game.

you swallowed, chest heaving, and forced your scattered thoughts into something coherent. focus. deep breath. think of the numbers, not the way he was staring at you over the rim of his glasses, lips shiny with your slick, eyes full of challenge.

“eight…three…seven…five…” your voice wavered, but you kept going, pushing past the pleasure clawing at your mind.

gojo’s grin widened, and his grip on your thighs tightened just slightly. “atta girl.”

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inkandapex · 2 days ago

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You're worth it

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando Norris and Y/N share an undeniable connection, but the pressures of F1 and personal hesitation have kept them in the "just friends" zone. Despite their close bond, an unspoken tension hangs between them, each moment charged with what-ifs. With a little nudge from fate, aka, their best friend Max, the two are pushed to give things another shot. Will Lando find the courage to make his move, or will Y/N slip through his fingers, forever just out of reach?

Words: 4.5k

Warnings: swearing, light angst, mentions of anxiety.

Lando’s season had been anything but smooth sailing. Sure, the car was leagues ahead of where it had been, delivering near-constant podiums and even his long-awaited first race win. He was sitting second in the championship, closer to the title than he’d ever been. On paper, it was a dream season. But pressure had a funny way of twisting even the sweetest moments into something suffocating.

Lando had always been good at managing the weight of the sport—keeping his mind sharp, his body stronger. But even the best-built machines showed signs of wear. His friends saw it in the way his laughter didn’t reach his eyes. His team noticed the uncharacteristic silence between debriefs. His fans, ever watchful, caught glimpses of something heavier behind the usual smiles.

Now, with a rare break in the chaos, it was clear that he didn’t just need rest. He needed reinforcements.

“The food I ordered half an hour ago? Yeah… they just told me the restaurant’s actually closed now,” Lando muttered

Max blinked, mouth slightly open. “So… they told you there’s no food, and you died on Tarkov? That’s a double fucking shitter, my jeez.�� He dragged a hand down his face, visibly pained for his best mate.

Lando let out a defeated laugh. “Hasn’t exactly been the best couple of months for me, really.”

Max exhaled. “Mate, you need a personal chef or something. You’ve got too much on your plate.”

“I actually have nothing on my plate right now, funnily enough.”

“Right, well—eating weeks-old frozen food from your fridge isn’t exactly the fix, is it?” Max sighed, already knowing that’s exactly what Lando was about to do.

"Don't really have much of a choice now don't I mate?"

"Chat's saying you need a girlfriend" Max states rather matter of factly

"You could say that again"

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A series of persistent knocks, followed by the sharp buzz of his phone vibrating against the nightstand, dragged Lando from the depths of sleep. He groaned, squinting against the soft morning light that seeped through the curtains, his brain sluggish as he reached for his phone.

A slight frown tugged at his face when he saw the caller—one of his closest friends. A couple of missed calls from both them and Max F. only deepened his confusion. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he pulled his hoodie over his head and shuffled toward the door, answering the call as he went.

“Y/N? I just woke up—sorry, could you give me a minute? I’ll call you back, someone’s at the—” He stopped mid-sentence, mid-step.

Because standing on the other side of the door, phone still pressed to their ear, was Y/N. Bags in hand.

"Hey… Max told me you knew I was coming. Him and P just dropped me off. They’re out running a couple of errands," Y/N said, ending the call and slipping her phone into her pocket.

Lando blinked at her, still processing. "No, actually, he didn't. I didn’t even know he was coming here. Did you just get here, or?"

"I landed about two hours ago," she said with a soft laugh. "Been standing here for the past twenty minutes, though."

"Shit, my bad, Y/N. I really didn’t know." Lando sighed, running a hand through his hair, his brain scrambling to recall any moment where Max might have maybe mentioned this.

"Hey, it’s all good! Sorry for dropping by all of a sudden—I really should’ve reached out beforehand anyway. I just thought you and Max had already sorted it out."

"What? No, Y/N, don’t apologize, silly." Lando finally snapped out of his trance and stepped aside. "Come in—fuck, I mean, the apartment’s a mess, but make yourself at home." He quickly reached for some of her bags, ushering her inside before shutting the door behind them.

"What exactly did Max say?" Lando finally asked, still scrambling to pick up the mess scattered across his living room. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you, but this is just so... out of the blue."

"Honestly? He was worried," Y/N admitted, grabbing a few stray items to help. "Said you didn’t seem to be doing too well. Thought maybe you could use some company during the break. Listen, Lando, I came here thinking you knew about this. I completely understand if you’d rather be alone right now—I know you’re busy and all—"

"No!" Lando cut in, pausing mid-cleanup. His expression softened, and for the first time since opening the door, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. "I'm… I'm really glad you're here. Max is right. It hasn’t been easy." He exhaled, offering her a small, tight-lipped smile. "Thank you. For being here. I really appreciate it."

Then, with a playful tilt of his head, he spread his arms. "You gonna hug me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

Y/N let out a small laugh, relief washing over her as she finally saw that familiar spark in his eyes. Taking a few steps forward, she let Lando wrap her in a tight hug, his hold warm, grounding. Exactly what he hadn’t realized he needed.

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The first day of Y/N being there was more housekeeping than anything else. Between cleaning up Lando’s apartment, clearing out the fridge, and fixing up the guest room, the day passed in a blur of chores. By the time Max and P finally arrived, the boys volunteered to head out and pick up some late lunch—partly because there was absolutely nothing to eat at Lando’s place, and partly so Max could finally discuss the sly plan he had cooked up.

A heavy silence filled the car as Lando gripped the wheel, his knuckles tightening against the leather.

"You’re awfully quiet," Max finally said, side-eyeing his best friend from the passenger seat.

"Oh yeah? Wonder why," Lando bit back. "Maybe ‘cause my best friend decided to go behind my back and plan shit without telling me. The fuck were you thinking not mentioning she was coming over to stay?"

"Mate, it was all in good conscience," Max said with an exaggerated sigh. "Plus, what happened between you two… it was months ago—"

"Exactly!" Lando snapped. "I haven’t even been back home to talk about it since. Fuck’s sake, Max… it’s weird enough I haven’t seen her in ages, but springing this on me? That’s insane, even for you."

Max groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why can’t the two of you just admit you like each other like the grown, mature adults you supposedly are and get on with it? It’s honestly exhausting."

"You know why."

"I actually don’t. Please, do explain. I’d love to hear whatever shit excuse you’ve got lined up. Go on then."

Lando let out a slow, tired sigh. "I’m busy, she’s busy. I can’t just drag her along with me and make her leave everything behind so we can be together. And you know how the media is, Max. I don’t want her dealing with all that hate. You’ve seen how bad it gets."

Max scoffed. "And what do you think she just did? She dropped everything to be with you when you needed her, yeah? Her choice. She’s already doing work at Quadrant—her own volition, might I add—on top of her own career. And might I remind you, you were the one who didn’t want to go through with it. From what I heard, she was willing to make it work."

"Yeah?" Lando let out a dry laugh. "From what you heard?"

Max smirked. "Fine. P told me."

"Lando, mate. If it all goes to shit—not that I think it will—I’m sure you’ll sort it out. She cares about you. And I know you feel the same way about her."

Lando sighed, pulling into the parking lot and turning off the engine. He leaned back against the seat for a moment before finally looking over at Max.

"I know you have good intentions," he admitted. "And despite how insane this is, I do appreciate it. I’ll… see where it goes." Then, with a smirk, he nodded toward the door. "Now go pick up the food, ‘cause I’m fucking starving."

Max narrowed his eyes, pointing a finger at him as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "This conversation is not over, by the way."

Lando just laughed, shaking his head as Max climbed out of the car.

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Lando woke up to the unfamiliar yet oddly comforting sounds of pots clanking and the scent of food filling his apartment. It was so foreign that, for a second, he thought he was dreaming. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled out of his room, hair a complete mess, barely awake.

"Morning," Y/N greeted, smiling as she wiped her hands on a tea towel. "There’s breakfast on the counter. I’ve got meals sorted out for the rest of the week—followed your diet, so don’t worry."

Lando blinked at her, then at the kitchen, which now looked like a fully stocked catering service. "It’s 9 in the fucking morning, Y/N. What time did you get up for all this?"

"Like… 6:30?"

"Y/N"

"What? I have jet lag."

Lando squinted at her. "We’re in Monaco. London is one hour behind."

"Okay, fine," she sighed. "I wanted to make sure I had it ready for you. It’s nothing, really—it didn’t take me too long."

"Nothing?" Lando gestured at the sea of neatly packed containers. "My kitchen looks like McLaren hospitality right now."

"It’s not a big deal, Lan, really, I—"

Lando didn’t let her finish. He reached out, gently grabbing her hand and stopping her from cleaning. "Could you—please slow down for a sec?" His voice was softer now, his brows furrowing as he tilted her chin up so she’d look at him. "Y/N, you don’t have to do all this. You don’t have to take care of me."

Lando sighed deeply, his arms instinctively pulling Y/N into a tight hug. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his heart heavy. "I don't deserve you."

Y/N’s arms wrapped around him, her voice soft as she spoke, her thumbs tracing gentle circles on his back. "You have me, either way"

Lando pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression clouded. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the words. "Look, Y/N... we can't. I can't do this right now. What I said about us—about this, months ago... that's still how I feel. I like you... a lot, trust me, I do. But this is too much, and I can't possibly ask you to—"

He couldn’t keep eye contact, his gaze drifting as if the weight of everything was too much to bear.

Y/N took a step back but stayed close, her eyes searching his. She offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I get it, Lan. I’m here for you. As a friend." She took a deep breath. "What I said, about me wanting to be here... to do this with you... I meant that too. I still feel that way. I told you I can wait. You’re worth it."

"You two done being sappy, or should I give you a couple more minutes?" Max's voice echoed through the apartment, making both Lando and Y/N jump and scramble to step away from each other in a panic.

"You little shit, how long have you been stood there listening? You fucking weirdo." In a swift motion, Lando grabbed the nearest object, a spatula, and tossed it across the room. It flew past Max’s head, narrowly missing him as he stood frozen in the middle of the living room.

"So sorry, guys. I told him not to come in without knocking." P finally steps into the apartment, giving Max a pinch on his side. Max let out an exaggerated yelp, squirming away from her with a pained expression.

"Ow! Everyone’s so violent this morning," Max groaned, rubbing his side as P smirked, clearly satisfied with herself.

"You're ridiculous. Just gonna run to the bathroom real quick then we can have breakfast and plan the rest of our day" Lando shook his head with a groan, but a small, amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he leaves the room

Max took the chance to walk over to Y/N, who was quietly setting the table for breakfast. "You good?" he asked, his voice low, careful not to let Lando hear.

Y/N glanced up at him with a soft, knowing smile. "Take a wild guess, Max. Bet you heard enough to figure out how I'm doing right now." She let out a quiet laugh, but it was tinged with something he couldn’t quite place, defeat, maybe?

Max took a breath, his tone shifting to something gentler, more understanding. "Look, he... you know how he is. As much as I want this for the two of you, you don’t have to wait for him. He can’t just expect you to be there until he’s finally ready. No one’s gonna hold it against you." His voice dropped.

Y/N shook her head slightly, her smile softening. "You’re really sweet, Max, but I’m okay. I promise." She was careful, though, making sure her words felt sincere.

Max gave her a small, thoughtful nod. "Just trying to look out for the two of you is all."

"I know," Y/N replied. She didn’t need Max’s concern to know what was best for her, but it was comforting, knowing that someone understood.

------------------------------------------------------------

Several races had passed since Y/N was last at Lando's apartment. Despite the distance, they’d kept in close contact—calls, texts, little check-ins whenever they could steal a moment. Lando was clearly doing better, each conversation revealing just how much he’d grown over the past few weeks.

Now, it was the Singapore Grand Prix weekend, and Y/N had finally managed to take some time off work. She’d been counting down the days until she could see Lando again, her excitement mingled with the kind of nervous energy that had been building up ever since she booked her flight. The anticipation was almost unbearable, especially when she considered how much her feelings for him had grown since their last conversation.

Despite the distance, despite all the unsaid things, she found herself thinking about him more and more, how his laugh had sounded over the phone, how his presence felt like a comfort when they’d been together. But now, standing outside of Mclaren's hospitality, waiting for Lando to step out his driver room after finishing free practice, everything felt good.

"Y/N! Hey, haven’t seen you around in a while. How have you been?" Zach, a close friend of Oscar Piastri, and someone Y/N had become friends with, walked over with a smile.

"Zach, it’s good to see you. I’m great, just been busy with work is all. The car seems good, Lando and Oscar are driving really well too" Y/N replied with a warm smile, happy to see a familiar face in the paddock.

"Things are looking great. We’re doing really well in the constructors, too. You waiting for Lando?" Zach asked, leaning against the railing casually.

"Mhmm, I’m catching a ride with him back to the hotel. He texted me, he’d be out in a bit." Y/N explained, glancing down at her phone to check for any updates from Lando.

"Right... listen. Are you free any time this weekend? Maybe even after the race? I was thinking—"

"Ready to go?" Lando's voice cut in, and he walked over to the pair, bag slung over his shoulder and phone in hand. "Oh, hey man, sorry, we gotta go. Got some friends waiting for us."

Zach smiled, stepping back. "Oh, don’t let me hold you back. I’ll see you around, Y/N. You still got my number, right?"

"Yep, I’ll catch up with you next time," Y/N said, giving Zach a friendly nod.

"Perfect. Hope you enjoy the weekend. It’s great having you back in the paddock," Zach said with a grin, stepping in to give Y/N a quick hug before patting Lando’s arm as he walked past. "Great stuff today, man. See you around."

Lando raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with slight bitterness as they walked toward the parking lot. "Didn’t know you two were close like that."

Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yes, hello to you too, Lando. So great to see you after months, feels fantastic to finally be here with you."

Lando chuckled, though it was clear there was a hint of jealousy in his voice, "I didn’t mean it like that, just... you two seemed pretty chummy." He smirked at her, trying to play it off.

Y/N leaned back in the passenger seat, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Don't know, I actually think he's pretty cute."

Lando almost slammed the door shut in frustration, his face twisting into a scoff. "Cute? Right."

"What? You jealous?" Y/N teased, barely able to suppress the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I'm not," Lando grumbled, eyes focused on the road but his jaw clenched slightly.

"You so are. Your ears are red."

"I'm not" he repeated, his voice tinged with defensiveness.

"So you don't mind if I go out for dinner with him after the race then?" Y/N raised an eyebrow, her tone light but with a little edge, just to push his buttons. It was playful, but they both knew the boundaries—they weren’t together, not officially.

"No."

"No, you don't mind?" Y/N repeated, pressing him further.

"No, you can't" Lando snapped back, his hand gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

"Why?" she asked innocently, though a knowing smile played at her lips.

"Cause then you'll miss my victory party," Lando replied with a sly smirk, glancing over at her briefly.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, pretending to be unimpressed. "Oh wow, cocky now, are we?" She let out a laugh, though deep down, she couldn't ignore how his confidence was somehow making him all the more attractive.

"Wow" Lando gasped dramatically, glancing over at her with exaggerated disbelief. "You don't think I'll win this weekend? You're breaking my heart, darling."

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. "Don't get too cocky, Norris. The race isn't over until it's over."

"True," he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "But I like to think I’ve got this in the bag. You better be there to celebrate my win, Y/N."

She met his gaze, her playful teasing giving way to something softer, something more real. "We'll see," she replied, a small but genuine smile on her face. "But if you win, I'll begin to think I'm your lucky charm."

Lando nodded, a hint of satisfaction in his expression. "You just might be."

------------------------------------------------------------

"We’ve got this in the bag, Lando. Stick to Plan A, do what you do best, and we’ll take care of the rest. Focus on the drive, and if anything shifts, we’ll adjust. We’re counting on maximum points from you two tonight." Will, Lando's race engineer, pauses, his eyes locking with Lando's, waiting for confirmation after his brief but crucial words.

"Lando."

"Yeah yeah. Maximum points, drive fast, got it." Lando mutters, his response flat, his attention half there. As important as this race is, his mind keeps drifting back to Y/N. She’s in the garage, talking with Zach. His Y/N. The thought pulls at him in a way he can’t shake.

Will’s voice cuts through the haze. "I need 100% of your focus, Lando. The race starts in 30." He hands him his earplugs, but Lando’s gaze is distant.

"Yep, heard." Lando mutters again, his tone quieter, his mind still elsewhere as he turns to leave, the weight of his thoughts lingering like an anchor.

Y/N and Zach were in the middle of an easy, lighthearted conversation. Lando, across the garage, could only watch, his gaze sharpening as he noticed how comfortable Y/N and Zach looked together. The laughter between them, the way they stood too close, it ate at him.

"Y/N, can I talk to you for a minute?" Lando’s voice cut through the air, direct and intense, as he strode toward them.

Y/N looked up at him, surprised but giving him a warm smile. "Yeah, what’s up? You nervous?" She didn’t get up from her seat, still in that calm, relaxed mood.

"Alone" Lando said, his tone sharper now, as the urgency in his words broke through.

"Oh—yeah, of course." She rose to follow him, a furrow crossing her brow, concerned by the intensity in his eyes. They walked towards a quieter corner of the garage, far enough from prying eyes and cameras.

As soon as they were alone, she looked at him. "Is everything okay? Do you need me to call Max or—"

Lando didn’t give her a chance to finish. "I don’t like this. You and him, talking... being all flirty. I don’t like it." The words spilled out of him faster than he could stop them, relief and frustration flooding his chest. It was all coming out at once.

Y/N blinked, trying to keep her voice steady. "I’m not flirting, Lando. He’s just a friend."

Lando’s frustration reached its peak. "I’m just a friend, Y/N! Fuck’s sake... I can’t get in the car like this, not with this on my mind. Not like this." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated.

She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. "Hey, Lan. What’s going on? You wanted this—actually, no, you didn’t want anything right now, did you? You said so yourself. I’m not doing this to make you jealous or get back at you, He's just a friend. That’s it."

But Lando shook his head, his voice shaking with vulnerability. "I don’t know what I want, okay! But seeing you... with him? I don’t want to lose you, Y/N. I can’t lose you."

A soft laugh escaped her lips, though it held a touch of sadness. She gently took his hands in hers, stopping him from messing up his hair further. "You’re not gonna lose me, you silly boy."

Lando looked at her, searching her eyes for some sign that she understood, that she felt the same pull. "One kiss. Give me one kiss. Let’s pretend nothing else matters. Just right now, right here, with you. One kiss before I go." His voice was a whisper, full of longing and desperation.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as she met his gaze, her eyes softening. She cupped his face, her thumb brushing across his jawline as she spoke quietly, almost to herself. "Nothing else matters... I don’t have to pretend. You’re all I want, Lando. Why can’t you see that?"

Lando exhales quietly, his fingers grazing her cheek as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. They stand close, the world around them fading into the background, neither in a rush to break the moment. Their eyes meet, lingering, only flickering downward for the briefest second before finding each other again.

"You take corners faster than this—are you gonna kiss me, or should I send in a request for DRS?" Y/N teases, tilting her head with a smirk.

Lando leans in, closing the small space between them, his lips pressing firmly against hers. It’s not their first kiss, there had been fleeting moments before, small pecks here and there, brief touches exchanged in passing, but this is different. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. Their movements are unhurried, deliberate. It’s a kiss that speaks of everything unspoken, deep and certain, carrying the weight of something that had been waiting to happen.

She’s the first to pull away, though neither of them really want to. But reality tugs at Lando, he has somewhere to be.

Before stepping back, he presses a lingering kiss to her lips, another lighter one at the corner of her mouth. His lips brush her cheek, then her forehead, a quiet farewell without words. When he finally pulls away, he catches the flush creeping up her neck and smirks.

"I'm quick when it matters," he murmurs. "But some things are worth taking my time on."

-----------------------------------------------------------

It was the kind of weekend that felt almost predestined, Lando wins in Singapore, by a massive 20-second gap to Verstappen in P2. But even with the trophy in his hands and the roar of the crowd in his ears, his eyes searched for only one thing.

And there she was.

Among the sea of faces, hers stood out effortlessly, beaming with pride, hands clapping in celebration. The victory was unforgettable, but this moment, seeing her there, cheering for him, was the one he’d carry with him forever.

Lando could hardly sit still. He’d been rocking on the balls of his feet, barely paying attention to the post-race interviews with Oscar, his mind already somewhere else. The second the cameras cut off, he was up, grabbing his things in record time, making Oscar chuckle at his urgency.

"Word in my garage is you’ve got yourself a little lucky charm now," Oscar smirked, watching as Lando fumbled with his phone, already dialing Y/N.

"Word spreads fast, huh?"

"Finally made a move?"

"Yeah, took me long enough," Lando laughed, giving his teammate a quick pat on the back as he pressed his phone to his ear.

The call barely rang before her teasing voice filled his speaker. "Why hello there, champ. Miss me already?"

A grin stretched across Lando’s face, warmth creeping up his chest. "Always, baby. Where are you? Need my post-race kiss, like, now."

"On your left."

Lando spun around, immediately spotting her seated outside the motorhome with Max and P. He didn’t even bother ending the call properly, just stuffed his phone in his pocket and made a beeline for her.

"There he is! Mr. 20-second lead. Mate, you were proper flying—"

Max didn’t even get to finish before Lando stopped behind Y/N’s chair, tilting her chin up and leaning down to kiss her. This one deeper, lingering, completely unbothered by the fact that they had company.

"Shit—when did this happen?" Max gaped, his arm tightening around P as if he needed something to ground him.

"Just before the race. Can’t believe you’re only finding out now, thought the whole paddock knew by now," Lando chuckled, hands rubbing Y/N’s shoulders as she sat there, visibly flustered, still adjusting to the attention.

"Well, damn. About time."

Y/N glanced up at Lando, still a little dazed, but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, made her forget about everything else. He pressed one last kiss to the top of her head before leaning down, voice just for her.

“You’re my good luck charm.”

She laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “Guess that means I have to stick around then, huh?”

Lando grinned, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Oh, baby, you’re not going anywhere.”

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ariaste · 1 day ago

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So I was nodding along almost the whole way through, I was saying "Yeah!" and "Oof, I feel that, I can relate," until I got to:

"be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-denial" and "you must insist upon her [...] because she may still not yet know how".

And... yeah, no, kinda lost me there. Now, don't get me wrong! It is perfectly valid if you're doing those things essentially as kink (or not-really-kink-but-kinda-uses-the-same-tools-and-skillset) -- that is, you and your beloved have sat down and talked about her discomfort and her difficulties, and the difference between actual discomfort and cognitive dissonance at the concept of having nice things for herself, and how SHE wants you to recognize the distinction (and what signals SHE can give to provide cues in cases of ambiguity), and she's given you express permission to do the Being Forceful thing in pursuit of doing nice things for her and insisting or persuading her into accepting them -- AND y'all have talked about how she can communicate effectively when your insistence and persuasion isn't just not landing right for some reason or when it's actually starting to cross a line. If you've done all that: great, godspeed, I love your love. Make her accept all the compliments and adoration and the nice things she deserves! Your crusade to love her properly is righteous and just!

However. The vast majority of us across the spectrum of transness have experienced people crossing our boundaries, infantilizing and condescending to us, assuming that they know better than us about what we want, and ignoring our quiet, hesitant attempts to push back in small ways as we try to establish a foothold and figure out how much space we're allowed to take up. So... idk, putting "be forceful" and "insist because she may not yet know how" right next to solid, sound advice for all situations like "be patient, be generous" as if they are equivalent in meaning and impact and importance just... rubs me the wrong way. I think OP is absolutely speaking coming from a place of love and positivity, but... this needs caveats.

Because man-oh-man I have personally experienced this kind of thing from both sides: Just because you know that something is going to be good for someone doesn't mean they're going to appreciate having it forced on them. Just because you're absolutely sure that someone will be delighted by something doesn't mean that you're always going to be right.

Suppose the nice thing that someone (let's call them Tye) is doing for their partner (let's call her Mia) is... taking her out to her favorite Italian restaurant. Suppose Tye does this every week without fail, and they feel great about it because Mia loves this restaurant and she deserves to be treated like a princess. But what happens if one week she's bored of it, or not in the mood for Italian food? What happens if she says, "Hey, maybe we don't have to go today... I don't really need all this, what if we just eat toast and eggs--" and Tye says, "NO NO. NO, I LOVE YOU AND WE'RE GOING! YOU DESERVE IT!!!" Y'know what I'm saying??? That's not actually about loving Mia anymore, that's more about Tye getting off on their own heroism. And Mia is once again having to shut up and make herself small.

If the goal is to love your person and give her space to grow confident enough to accept and embrace all the love and wonderful things she deserves, the strategy of forcefulness and insistence COULD actually end up being counter-intuitively DISempowering if it is not explicitly consensual: It is removing opportunities for her to practice communicating her own needs, choosing happiness, and valuing herself where other people can see. It is reinforcing the lesson she has already learned from the rest of society, which is that her self-knowledge and boundaries are inferior to the wants and goals of the people around her.

Having a partner who is so passionate about loving us that they INSIST on giving us the things we secretly long for even when we're scared and shy of accepting them ourselves (and that they always telepathically know exactly what is going to be the perfect thing even before we know it ourselves, and they never once make a mistake in reading our mood when we come home tired from work, and they're always able to seamlessly adjust their plans to accommodate our whim)... It is a lovely fantasy. I will not deny that it is a very lovely fantasy and that I too would like to go to there. That sounds FANTASTIC.

But at the end of the day you are loving an adult human being and "no means no" must remain true even if you think you perceive a glint of longing in her eye (unless modified rules of consent have been established and ratified between you prior to this). Absolutely be patient, be generous, be loving, be attentive and proactive. But also you also gotta be okay with backing the hell off sometimes. You gotta be humble enough to acknowledge that sometimes you might be projecting your own past self's longings, rather than looking at the person in front of you with clear eyes. Create a space where it's safe for her to come out of her protective shell instead of dragging her out of it before she's ready. Encourage her to set her own boundaries, and express appreciation when she does so, especially when the boundaries are ones you disagree with or are personally inconvenienced by.

You cannot force a person to move faster along their journey of loving themself. Having someone insist on giving you love (and I'm once again speaking from experience here, as someone who has been on both sides) can sometimes end up making the beloved feel more guilty, more self-conscious, and more aware of their own "failures" and "deficiencies". To the person trying to do that style of love, it probably IS purely in good faith, but to the person receiving it, it can sometimes come across as a constant implicit reminder of, "I'm not doing it right, I'm still not doing it right, and everyone can tell. No matter how hard I try I still can't do it right, I hate myself even more now."

OP absolutely hit the nail on the head with everything about, "I had to stop [negative self-thoughts], I had to start [taking care of myself], I had to learn [those skills], but more than that I had to learn to ask[...]. it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train." 100% cosigned. That is exactly it -- training muscles. You can be someone's spotter and cheerleader, but you can't lift the weights for them, and forcing them to lift more than they're ready for often hurts more than it helps. Communicate! Establish a culture of consent even outside the bedroom! And continue to be patient even when it turns out that progress is not a straight line without any stumbles!

so many of the transfems i know spent their time pre-transition performing a kind of lifelong exercise in self-deprivation, the goal of which was to find out exactly how little a person needed to live. they starved themselves, dressed carelessly, shunned friends, and hollowed themselves out so as not to be burdens on anyone but themselves.

i see it now, too, in the girls around me. i'll ask if they want care – a home-cooked meal, relaxed company, sex without the expectation of reciprocation – and they say no, no, thank you, i don't need it; what would you like, what do you want, because in their head they're still doing that awful calculus, still training themselves to disappear in the eyes of the people around them.

i don't think i'd have died without transition – not in the conventional sense, at least – but to take that leap, i had to stop thinking of myself as a human experiment in fuel-efficient living and start nurturing the anemic, atrophied flame of desire in my heart. i had to learn to eat well, to exercise, to style myself beautiful, but harder than that, i had to learn to ask the people around me to work on my behalf in order to enrich my life and give me the things i wanted.

and i did it; i learned. and it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train, and every day i get better at accepting gifts with the hungry gratitude i never learned in my years and years as a sad, scared, lonely boy.

so be patient with the trans girls in your life. better than that: be proactive, attentive, generous; be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-denial that so many of us once learned to rely on.

and if you are so lucky as to love a trans girl, you must insist upon her. you must insist upon her happiness, her comfort, her pleasure, and her rest, because she may still not yet know how to make those demands for herself. if you can devote any amount of energy to becoming an engine that nurtures the flame of even a single tgirl then there is a place for you in trans heaven, which as far as i'm concerned is the only one worth going to

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moshuka · 2 days ago

Text

after dark-- p. bueckers.

CW!! scissoring, dombottom paige, established relationship, fingering, overstim, cliffhanger

WC!! 1.8k

“I think this piece goes here?"

You’re laying in the living room of the student athlete dorms, putting together the legos you had gotten while shopping downtown. KK is live on TikTok while she builds with you. It’s almost midnight.

You’re all talking about how it’s late at night when Paige comes in from your shared room. KK asks Paige if she wants to help, but she shakes her head.

“I got my pimple patches on.” She tells the phone camera, pointing at the few star shaped pimple patches on her face.

“Is Paige helping?” Ice asks as she walks in from the kitchen area.

Paige shakes her head again, standing behind you and putting her hands on your waist. “Nope, Paige is going night-night.” She says, pressing a kiss to your head. “Paige took melatonin.” She tells the live. Paige takes melatonin every night to help her sleep.

Her sleepy mannerisms show in her standing behind you. Paige starts playing with the string of your hoodie, wrapping it around her fingers and letting it unravel.

You continue to talk and build legos, but Paige rests her chin on your shoulder and watches your hands as you build. You can tell she’s tired because she stays silent behind you, playing with your hoodie strings.

It’s been a few minutes and Paige is still playing with your hoodie strings as you build. She starts to get a little more brave, and starts playing with the drawstrings of your sweatpants. After a moment, you feel her slip her hand into the waist of your pants, and she plays with your bare skin.

“Can we go to bed now?” She asks.

“You were the one who said you had to put on your star patches.” You tell her, knowing she’s tired.

She groans in your ear, resting her head on your shoulder. “Yeah, but I’m tireddddd.” She says, giving a exaggerated whine.

“You can go to bed now.” You laughs softly, keeping an eye on KK’s phone.

Paige hums low in your ear, squeezing you. “Nah, I’ll wait. Want you there next to me, nice and warm.” She says. And then, you feel it. The way her hips ever so subtly push against your ass.

You try to hide the way it makes you shiver.

You glance at the phone, knowing that KK knows exactly what you’re going through. She’s probably got a good camera angle of Paige pressed against you.

“You have no patience.” You tell her, trying to focus on the legos in front of you.

“You make me impatient.” She murmurs into your ear, her warm breath against your skin. “Especially in those nice little sweatpants.”

Her hand that’s in your pants moves up under your shirt, her warm hand against your bare stomach.

You inhale quickly, trying to keep your breathing under control. But it’s hard when she’s pressed against you so closely. You feel her hand slowly moving upwards, her fingertips grazing across your skin.

You can feel her smirk against your neck, her hand stopping right above your belly button. “So soft…” she murmurs. “Come to bed?”

You find yourself nodding, immediately starting to put away your Lego pieces. “Yeah, get the blankets set up and stuff.” You say.

KK side eyes you as Paige goes back down the hallway to your room. “Suspicious..” She says audibly.

You nod, knowing how suspicious you and Paige probably looked. You give KK a shrug, not wanting to say much about it. She gives you a smirk before her attention is back towards her phone and viewers.

You finish putting your legos away and go towards the room. You see Paige standing in front of her side of the bed, holding the blanket open.

She’s wearing boxers and a Nike sports bra, and you find yourself trying not to start salivating on the spot.

“Come here.” She murmurs, and you can’t resist her.

You’re in front of her in an instant. She wraps her hand around your wrist and tugs you closer, bringing you to her. Her arms go around you, and she pulls you tightly against her strong body.

She nuzzles her face into your neck, her lips trailing along your skin, leaving gentle kisses behind. “Mm… my pretty girl.” She murmurs. “Let me make you feel good.”

Her words are like honey to your ears, and you melt into her touch. Her hands run up and down your body, her touch setting your skin on fire.

She guides you towards the bed, a gentle push guiding you onto the mattress. She crawls in after you, immediately going back to kissing your neck. She slides her hand under the hem of your shirt, running her fingers along your waist.

Her kisses trail down your neck, and then move to your collarbone. Her lips are warm and soft, and you feel yourself sighing softly in pleasure.

“You smell so good,” She murmurs into your skin.

Her hand slides further up under your shirt, her hand splaying across your stomach. She moves her leg up, hooking it over your thigh.

“Off.” You hum, tugging at her boxers.

She shakes her head. “Not until you’re naked, too.” She mutters, pulling your shirt over your head, her quick fingers deftly unclasping your bra hooks and pulling the straps down your arms.

She has the bra off in an instant, discarding it on the floor. She presses her chest flush against your bare back. You can feel her warm skin against yours, and her hands move down to your sweatpants.

She pulls them off, her hands trailing down your legs as the fabric is discarded with the shirt and bra. She has you completely bare in front of her, and you shiver at the coolness of the room. Paige is quick to put you under the covers, her body pressing flush against yours as she pulls the blankets up.

“Patience.” She murmurs, grabbing your wrist to keep you from tugging.

She leans in further, her lips pressing against yours. She kisses you softly, her tongue licking at your lips, seeking entry into your mouth.

You part your lips for her, and her tongue pushes into your mouth. It’s hot and wet, and it makes you whine softly into her mouth. Her hand moves down to the underside of your thigh, gripping the soft skin there.

Her body is flush against you, her skin warm against yours. You can feel the heat radiating off of her, and the way her abs press against your stomach has you practically melting. Her hand on your thigh squeezes lightly, her fingers digging into the soft flesh.

“Paige. Boxers off, now. If you don’t fuck me—“

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Paiges says firmly, her fingers digging into your thighs.

You shiver under her, and your eyes watch her as she pulls away, sitting up on the bed. She leans over and shuts the door to the room, locking it behind her.

“Now no one will interrupt us.” She says, sitting back down on the bed next to you.

She looks down at you, her eyes drinking in the sight of your naked body. Her gaze is sharp and hungry, and you know she likes what she sees.

“My girl,” she murmurs, her hand moving to your waist again. “Let me take care of you.”

This time her boxers do come off, joining the pile of clothing gathered at the foot of the bed.

You don’t even notice she flipped the positions until she’s holding you up with her large hands on your waist, the fingers of her left hand lacing with your right. She slots her legs between yours, slowly lowering you down onto her.

Her large hands on your waist feel like they could lift you without difficulty, and her grip on your hand is strong.

She’s strong in every sense of the word, and this has been one of the things that you’ve come to love most about her. You love her strong arms, her strong hands, her strong fingers, and most of all, her strong thighs.

Her thighs are like concrete beneath you, and you feel the way her legs are keeping your thighs spread.

She’s so much stronger than you, and you know how she loves having this kind of power over you. She’s going to make you shiver and squirm beneath her, and she knows it.

You haven’t even been touched yet, but you can feel slick drip down your thighs, creating lubricant that makes the pleasure even more delicious when you finally feel her clit against yours.

Her breath hitches at the feel of you against her, and her body shivers slightly. She’s trembling with need beneath you, and you can feel it in the way her thighs twitch. She’s desperate for this, desperate to feel you against her and to make you feel good.

Her hands flex against your waist as she adjusts her body to get a better angle. “Good girl…” she murmurs, her voice a little hoarser than usual.

She starts moving her hips slowly, rocking against you in a way that makes you moan. She takes your free hand and laces her fingers with yours, gripping your hand tightly.

Her other hand is still on your waist, holding you steady. She’s in total control, and you’re just along for the ride— literally.

You moan out as her clit catches yours, humping against it a few times before losing it again. Your combined arousal produces a wetness that even the neighbors can probably hear, if the thumping of the bedframe wasn’t already giving everything away.

“F-fuck, P, so good.” You whine, bracing your hands on her shoulders as you hump her cunt desperately.

“I know, ma, keep usin’ me. Fuck, you close?” She grunts out, guiding your hips, rubbing your clits together frantically. She brings a hand up to pinch at your peaked nipples.

“Gonna cum, Paige—“

“Cum— cum with me, fuck—!”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a car crashing into a wall, so intense you swear you stop breathing. Paige doesn’t relent, flipping you over and stuffing two fingers in your leaky pussy.

“No, Paige, too much—“

She huffs, sucking a hickey into your neck. “Stop complaining, mama, I know you can take it. Just one more for me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod along, “one more.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #wlw #lesbian #paige bueckers x you #uconn wbb #wbb smut #wcbb smut #smut

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yanderedrabbles · 1 day ago

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Yandere Seasons of the Year

Autumn is the nerdy girl in your book club. Pigtails, pleated skirts, too thick glasses. Whenever she's forced to speak up in class, she almost always stutters. Getting softer with each word until the teacher finally has mercy on her and let's her trail off. She has few friends, mostly other slightly dorky kids who band together because otherwise they'd all be stuck eating alone. You don't really notice her at first.

But then you read Jane Eyre and for once she isn't shy at all. She tells your whole book club all about the symbolism, the themes, how she doesn't fully consider it a gothic novel but that it definitely has gothic elements. Her cheeks are just a little flushed, her hands darting around when she talks. She's pretty, you realise slowly. When she isn't folded over herself or scurrying through the hall like she doesn't want to be caught.

Afterwards, you strike up a conversation with her. She's all shy again, not really meeting your eyes.

"My dad's got a whole collection of classics. Special edition prints, with these hand painted edges," you tell her. "Why don't you stop by and you can borrow some?"

She narrows her eyes at you like she thinks you're making fun of her. "Maybe. If I have time."

She doesn't drop by. When you see her in the halls after that, you always stop to greet her. But she looks so uncomfortable that you never get to have a conversation. Always running off with her head bent so far down that you wonder how she sees anything past the tips of her shoes.

After a few weeks of half finished sentences and always keeping her books clutched to her chest, you're about ready to give up. To take the hint that she doesn't want to be your friend.

But then... she starts seeking you out. Tentative at first. Waiting outside your class and only saying hello if you're alone. Changing her route so that it takes her past your locker. Sitting just a little closer to you at lunch, almost always two tables away so you're in her line of sight.

Maybe she realises you aren't setting up some elaborate prank by talking to her. Your hurried hellos become actual conversations. She starts walking you to class every morning. When you again invite her over to borrow some books, she actually shows up.

Standing on your doorstep with the trees flaring yellow and orange behind her, her hair pushed out of her face with a red Alice band.

"Hi."

You lead her up to your room and she perches on the edge of your bed like she's scared to touch it. Scared to be in your space.

You were in the middle of sorting through your makeup before she showed up and now you look over at her with a twinkle in your eye.

"Will you let me do your makeup? Please?"

Her eyes go all wide behind her glasses. "Uh I don't know...I don't really wear that stuff..."

You sit in front of her, your kit spread on your lap. "Come on! You'll look so good. You've got such a great bone structure, it's practically a crime to not try some bronzer."

"I guess..."

You carefully reach up and take off her glasses. She flinches. "Shh, relax. It doesn't hurt."

You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and tilt her chin up with your finger. When you smooth primer over her skin, she subconsciously tilts her face into your palm.

"That feels nice..."

Her eye makeup is the trickiest part. She flinches every time you bring the eyeliner even close to her. Eventually, you slip your free hand around the nape of her neck. She freezes just long enough for you to add some wings. Her ears turn a bright red and she ducks away from you, stuttering.

"Ah sorry. Were my hands too cold?"

"N-no. No, your hands are...perfect."

You end up so close to her face that when she finally opens her eyes after mascara and lashes, she gasps. You run your thumb across her cheekbone to clear away a little spilled eye shadow.

"All done."

Even after you step away, it's takes her a few seconds to move.

"Do you like it?"

"I look so different."

You stand behind her in front of the mirror and rest your chin on her shoulder. "That's the magic of makeup! It's a good different. And besides, we're matching."

"Oh." She touches her fingers to her lips and looks down at the lipstick smeared on her fingertips. "I didn't notice. I...I really like it."

You pull away and grin at her. "Aren't you glad you let me do it?"

"Yeah," she says, still staring at her fingers. "Really glad."

When your lipstick and then your lip balm go missing, you don't even notice. What was it the kids used to say back in elementary? That if your lips touch where someone else's did, it counts as a kiss?

Autumn walks home through the falling leaves and wonders if you realise you're her first kiss.

Winter is the student council president. Confident, clever, a guy everyone says is going to be a great leader someday.

Oh, but he's cold too. Doesn't have any real friends, only achievements. Everyone knows him. Everyone respects him. But being respected and being liked are not at all the same thing.

You wonder if he ever gets lonely. You walk past the student council office during lunch one day and see him at his computer, a half eaten apple forgotten at his elbow. You shouldn't feel sorry for him. He's on the fast track to an ivy league and a career in finance. In a few years, he's going to be richer than you could ever hope to be. He takes home every performance award in every subject.

You shouldn't feel sorry for him. But you do.

"Hey, you got a minute?" You lightly rap on the doorframe and he turns to face you, not at all ruffled by your sudden appearance.

"Sure. You're y/n, right? I think we had algebra together a few years ago."

"Yep. Before you started taking AP classes and leaving all us peasants in the dust."

You're not surprised he knows you, despite never being introduced or even having a conversation before.

You grin at him. "Is an apple really the only lunch you're having? You've got to keep your energy up if you want to protect your title as smartest guy in school."

He frowns at his apple. The parts he's bitten are already starting to brown.

"I'm not that hungry."

You lean in the door frame and cross your arms. "I'm supposed to let our student present starve? If I let that happen, who's going to be around to defend our debate title? Stand up to the tyranny of the chess club?"

He scoffs and uses the tip of his pen to nudge the apple into the waste paper basket.

"Come eat lunch with me. I've been wanting to join some clubs and you can tell me what looks best on a college application. You can call it community service if you want," you offer.

That gets you a slightly raised brow. The most expressive you've seen him yet.

"What are they even offering today? I don't really stop at the cafeteria."

"Oh, you're in luck," you say. "Mashed potatoes and gravy. And it's only slightly congealed this time."

"Yum." Still, he stands up to follow you. He's much taller than you realised, and when he picks up his backpack his muscles flex in a way that tells you he isn't afraid of hitting the gym. Again, unsurprising. Except for his lunch, he seems the type to have his life in perfect balance.

When you finally sit down in the cafeteria, it isn't long before the other kids notice him. You're scarcely two bites into your lunch when the student magazine editor starts asking him about the budget for next semester. When that's settled, the chess team are next in line to complain about the state of their boards and to ask pretty please for some new pieces. It's only when the bell rings that they finally leave him alone. His lunch sits untouched in front of him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise."

He shrugs and shoots you a half smile. "Thanks anyway. This was...nice."

It's only when he's gone that you start to wonder if anyone else has ever seen him smile.

You start taking him lunch in the office a few days a week. Mostly sandwiches and chocolate milk. Not exactly the pinnacle of good eating, but anything is better than nothing, right?

You always end up on his desk, ankles crossed while he reclines in his computer chair, chin tilted up slightly to meet your eyes. It's casual, easy. He's funny, in a deadpan kind of way. You end up learning a ton about college admissions, about extra credit, about Ivy League rankings.

When applications open, he's the first person you go to when you need help. Eventually, he just sighs and plucks your half finished essay from your backpack.

"Just let me handle it, jeez."

"Really? Oh my god, thank you!" You stand on your toes and pull him into a hug. "You have no idea how stressed I've been."

He freezes. And then slowly wraps his arms around your waist.

" 'Course," he mutters into the crown of your head. "I'd be happy to."

The thing about Winter as a season is that it can be so insidiously misleading. You assume the greatest danger is the ice, the cold. You don't realise that most deaths are from broken gas lines, from excess alcohol, from persistent coughs. You prepare yourself for all the wrong dangers.

You assume that if Winter wants something, he'll pursue it outright. You don't notice that your college applications are only being sent to places he's applied to as well. You don't notice the way he sneaks your name into the records for the debate team, the chess club, volunteering hours - a blatant forgery just so you have a better chance of being accepted at the institutions where he wants you.

You don't notice the way he always comes up to you when other guys are talking to you, dragging you away with a tight smile and an excuse about scheduling issues or needing your help with the budget.

You don't notice him falling for you until it's far, far too late.

Spring is the ultra cool, earthy girl in your art class. Always sporting a full afro or long goddess braids. Effortlessly chic, with gold jewellery in her hair no matter how busy school seems to get.

She moves through everything at her own pace. Not part of a clique but never alone either.

You've always known each other a little. Had a few classes together over the years, shared lunch once or twice. But life is hectic and your paths don't always cross as much as you'd like. So when you end up in art class hoping for extra credits, you're more than a little glad to see her.

She's talented. Her portfolio has art schools all across the country drooling, practically on their knees to offer her a full ride.

It would be easy to get jealous, and you have no doubt that more than a few of your classmates are. But you? You're just glad to see talent being appreciated.

It's a beautiful spring day when she comes up behind you and offers to give you some private lessons. Your hands are covered in charcoal, there's streaks of black on your cheeks and despite your efforts, your canvas is an unartistic mess.

You smile at her like she's heaven sent.

"Would you really? I know art is subjective and all, but I'm afraid everyone thinks I'm objectively bad."

She tilts your head at your canvas, beads in her braids clinking.

"Not as bad you think. I can see what you're trying to do. You just don't have enough technique yet."

When you meet her after school, the classroom is gold and hazy with the late afternoon sun. She makes you sit at her easel and leans on the back of your chair.

"Draw some perspective lines for me."

You try to, but by the third line her hands are already coming up to guide yours.

"No. Always try and stick to your vanishing point. Like this."

Her voice is low in your ear and you can smell her perfume, something sweet and flowery that makes you want to bury your face in her hair.

"See?"

"Mm-hmm. Easier when it's so direct."

"Good."

She stays right by your chair for the rest of the lesson, occasionally leaning down to adjust your grip. When the day is done, your hair smells like her perfume and your fingers ache from work well done.

She doesn't seem like the type to have a boyfriend. Maybe you're being unfair, but you just can't see it. She's so nonchalant, so very much herself, that the antics of teenage boys seem so very beneath her. She must like someone though, because a few weeks after she starts tutoring you, you get a glimpse of her latest piece. A sketch of her leaning down to kiss someone, their face obscured by the fall of her hair.

If it were anyone else, you would tease them relentlessly about it. Who do you got a crush on so bad that you want to draw them?

Not her though. You respect her art too much to make light of it like that. And when her portfolio starts filling up with love poems, with tributes, with re-interpretations of Le Printemps and Le Sommeil... Well, you pretend not to notice.

It's only at the very end of the year that you start to really wonder who it's all about. When you finish your final piece - the best canvas to date, the one you and her poured hours of work into - she leans down and presses her lips against your signature. It leaves behind a lipstick print in a deep, gorgeous red. Somehow brings the whole piece together.

"I love it," you tell her, eyes on your art.

"So do I," she says, eyes on you.

Summer is the tanned, laughing jock who's always filling up the hall with his voice. Friendly, likeable. Just about everyone has a crush on him.

Not a bully, though he has the size and strength for it. Helpful, in his big, well meaning way.

His future is clear for everyone to see. Working in his dad's construction company until its time to take over, marrying a girl just as pretty and golden as him, becoming the kind of father that other kids look at and long for. It's a good life. It suits him. Days filled with sunshine and love and laughter. He deserves it.

So when he asks you to tutor him, you assume he doesn't want anything more than a better grade. Books and calculators spread out on the bleachers after practice, the smell of fresh cut grass in the air, summer sun warm and gold over the football field. If you were more his type, you'd call it romantic.

As it is, you just appreciate the good weather and the good company. When his teammates joke that he's tanking his grades on purpose just to spend time with you, you laugh and say you're sure he's got better things to do with his time that that.

It takes a few months, but his grades do improve. And when you go through the homework together, it's clear that he understands what he's doing.

"Well champ, seems my work here is done. You're ahead of the class, you understand the methods and your papers have all come back with Bs and above."

You shrug, smile at him. "You're free to go. Have your afternoons back."

"What?" He frowns at you, water bottle halfway to his mouth. "No. The year isn't over yet."

You laugh, a little flattered that he seems so upset to see you go. "I know. But you don't need me anymore. Just practice the problems I marked out for you and you'll be just fine."

For once, he seems at a loss for words. You stand, sling your backpack over your shoulder. It's just you and him left on the bleachers, the empty football field a behemoth between you and the school building.

When you're halfway across, he catches up with you. Grabs your backpack and stops you in your tracks.

"What about English? I really need some help with the novel. And my chemistry is a mess. Seriously, we can't stop now. You can't just...leave me like that."

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he sounded almost panicked.

"I think Jackson from homeroom is your best bet with chemistry. Oh, and I'll send you my English notes. I did a whole section on themes and stuff."

He frowns again. "No. No. I don't want any of that. I want you."

The skin at the nape of your neck prickles, despite the late afternoon sun being full on your back. Was he always so much bigger than you? How didn't you notice it before?

"Hey, listen. I know you're worried. But we've put in tons of effort. You know your stuff. When exam season rolls around, you'll be just fine."

You try and walk away but he's still holding onto your bag.

"I can pay you."

"I don't want money," you say, irritated and offended both. "I never wanted to be paid for any of this. You're a great guy. I'm happy to help you out."

"Then stay."

Why is he being so persistent? His hold on your backpack tightens when you don't immediately answer.

"Please."

That decides you. How can you say no when a nice guy is practically begging? You're not a monster.

You sigh. "Fine. But only until after homecoming, 'kay?"

"Sure," he says. "I'll let you go when I'm done. Promise."

In the last light of a long summer day, you make the mistake of believing him.

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #reader insert #x reader #yandere oc #Oc x reader #tw yandere #male reader #Fem yandere #yanblr

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strawberry-nugget · 3 days ago

Text

Based on this little post about you and Katsuki accidentally letting it slip out that you're pregnant during the events of chapter 431

The atmosphere in the izakaya is lively, filled with laughter and chatter as everyone gathered to celebrate a rare moment of relaxation and happiness; Shoto has finally reached his place as the 2nd Hero of Japan at the HBJ and that is an excuse that’s good enough to have your former classmates gather all together.

You enter the place— late and out of breath. The paperwork you had to fill out had been too much, so damn much that you had to beg Katsuki not to pick you up from the agency, to which he begrudgingly said yes, opting to actually pick up Izuku instead to at least try and show off his new car.

‘Leave the fucking paperwork to me and come have dinner babe’ he had texted you, but you were stubborn enough as to not burden him with any more paperwork than he already has on his own.

‘Won’t be late’ you had replied and truthfully you hadn’t meant to lie to him.

Yet here you are now, thirty minutes late.

Your fiancé is eyeing you like a menace. Up and down, from your panting face to your loose sundress and grunts the second you twist the engagement ring on your finger so that the diamond faces your palm. You only manage to shoot him back with an apologetic look before you get swamped by your friends.

Tonight is supposed to be for Todoroki and you curse yourself for not taking off the ring before you left the agency.

“I'm sorry I'm so late you guys!” You announce, hurriedly shoving a gift bag in Todoroki’s hands. “Bakugo and I got this for you Shoto” you say, handing him the gift card you so meticulously crafted the night before.

“Thank you! It means so much” Todoroki comments something that reaches Bakugo’s side, yet, you’re still so out of breath you don’t quite catch it. Especially not with the girls pulling you to them.

“Oh my gooood here she is!” Yaoyorozu exclaims im surprise. “I loooove your dress”

immediately you’re greeted with Izuku sitting next to Bakugo.

“Wait, why didn’t you greet Bakugo! Are you guys in a fight?”

“Whaaat? No!” You giggle, trying to ruffle your hand through his hair when he growls at you “you guys just swamped me with affection that’s all, i'm a little dizzy from being so hungry!”

You whine, partially from your angry, rumbling belly and the anxiety of trying to cover the bump of your belly. It’s hard to escape the hugs the girls are trying to pull you in.

Katsuki, ever the hero, stands up and pushes everyone away from you, ready to yell at the girls for trying to suffocate you with how tight all of them are trying to hug you.

You sigh in relief as Katsuki clears some space around you, his hand wiggling around your waist before resting firm on the small of your back as he glares at the girls. “Oi, let her breathe, damn it.”

Mina pouts, crossing her arms. “We missed her, okay?”

“You’re crushing her,” Katsuki bites back, and though his tone is sharp, there’s an unmistakable layer of concern underneath.

“We never see her with you taking up all her time!” Jirou remarks and you ease an awkward smile at her.

“That’s still not an excuse to crush her” He scowls, eyes flickering over you, and you know exactly what he’s thinking before he even says it. “You look exhausted. You pushed yourself too hard. Should’ve just let me pick you up.”

“And let you fill out my paperwork? Never.”

The pads of his fingers linger on the side of your swelling stomach, firmly. It’s barely enough for anyone to notice but you know exactly what he means. The two of you share a look that’s too tense; you, because you’re trying to tell him to be discreet, while he is trying to get you to finally let your tired body rest. Anybody that looks at him will just know that it’s only just a look of concern, nothing more.

“Sit down already,” He says, tugging you toward his empty seat, far away from your pouting girl friends, before shooting a sharp glare at Izuku.

“Move it nerd”

Izuku is shoved to the side, only ever just a little. Katsuki knows you’ll be all over and up his ass at home if he gets too violent out of his frustration. It’s just that he can’t help it but want you sitting right next to him. It’s his fault for not saving that seat for you in the first place anyways.

“Man” Kirishima whines “you’re with her all day, damn, don’t push Midoriya like that”

Bakugo scoffs. “Tch. Like I give a damn. Get your own woman and have her sit away from you then. Let’s see if you like that”

Mina gasps. “Oh my god, whipped behavior.”

“Shut the hell up,” Katsuki mutters, but his hand still lingers on your back, his fingers tracing small, absentminded circles over your dress.

You stick your tongue out at Mina before finally sitting down, feeling Katsuki’s warmth beside you as he pulls you impossibly close. The room is still loud, still buzzing with excitement, but the moment he slides a plate of chicken skewers in front of you—without even asking—you swear the knot of tension in your chest finally loosens.

Pheeewfff! Your tense shoulders can finally, finally rest.

“Eat,” Katsuki mutters, like it’s a demand, but the way he does it—low, just for you to hear—makes your heart swell. If he wasn’t so embarrassed of pda, you would be shoving your tongue down his throat now. Instead, you let your stomach talk.

“Babe, i want a starter first, what do we have?”

“Oh there’s sashimi!” Shoto remarks, sitting down next to Izuku on the other side of the table. “Want some?”

You light up immediately– its almost cartoony, the way your mouth starts watering at the mention of the dish. Your eyes, heart and stomach flutter at the thought that this is a far better choice than the skewers! “Sashimi?” You yelp, lower lip trembling. “They serve it at this place?”

“Well yeah, and its soooo good” Kaminari remarks from the other side of the room

“Gimme Gimme, im craving it so hard right now”

You throw grabby hands at Shoto, ready to take the serving plate of sashimi in front of you and dive into it. Oh how you’ve longed for this– the simple, delicious taste, paired with some soy sauce, ohhh you can barely keep your drool inside your mouth.

“Like hell you’re having this” Katsuki whisper-yells at you, shooting you a deadly stare while he’s holding his skewer to the side of his mouth, making you pause midair–Todoroki too. “We’ve been over this, no raw fish”

“Shut your pie hole so hard right now Katsuki, just one won’t do me any harm”

“It absolutely can if the fish isn’t well prepared”

“So you didn't have any? You ask, still whispering at him, still keeping Todoroki on the wait. He doesn’t respond, only looks away, too embarrassed to admit that he broke his promise of not eating food you’re not supposed to eat too while you’re pregnant.

Quirking an eyebrow at Katsuki, you shove your tongue out at him “No answer huh? I knew it… I'm gone for thirty minutes and you eat sashimi behind my back! When you know I'm craving it so hard.”

“Uh guys? Everything alright?” Todoroki asks, brows furrowed in your direction. Both you and Katsuki snap your heads in his direction.

“Yes” You trail off “Katsuki and I are having a disagreement. He says i shouldn’t mix fish with chicken”

“Oh it's fine Kacchan! She’ll be alright, we all had it” Izuku smiles– horrible choice, really, because Katsuki shoots him too with a murderous glare. So much for trying to keep this pregnancy a secret.

“Shut your damn mouth, Deku” Katsuki hisses, shooting him the kind of glare that could actually kill him. Izuku physically recoils, pressing his lips together awkwardly like they might actually betray him again.

In the meanwhile, you take advantage of Katsuki’s distraction. You reach for the sashimi with the speed of someone who has trained for this moment their entire life, you’re faster than Iida himself with your two own chopsticks.

Only for Katsuki to slap your hand away.

You gasp, cradling your wrist like he just committed an unforgivable crime “Katsuki.”

“The hell you tryna pull? I said no.”

“You’re literally the worst person I’ve ever met, let me have my sashimi” you whisper-yell, shaking your hand out dramatically before making another grab for the plate.

He’s faster. He yanks it away from you entirely, holding it just out of reach like you’re some sort of toddler throwing a fit.

“Give me the fish, Katsuki.” you pout, trying to sport your best puppy eyes at him, hoping, praying that this would get him. You need your sushi and you need it now!

“No.”

Of-fucking-course it doesn’t work.

“Shoto, pass me the soy sauce real quick.”

Todoroki, as puzzled as anyone in the room right now, smiles at you and nods in agreement. He doesn’t realise that Katsuki and you aren't just playfully bickering, and actually reaches for the soy sauce to give it to you.

With quick, slick movements, you manage to grab onto a piece of sashimi before Katsuki growls—an actual animalistic noise that makes everyone pause.

Everyone stops and stares.

Todoroki sighs, retracting his hand. “I’m staying out of this.”

“You better!” Bakugo says, still trying to shove your wiggling hand away from the plate. It’s turned into a full commotion right now, so much that Iida feels the need to step in.

“Ahem! My dear friends, let us not forget that we are here to celebrate Todoroki’s accomplishment, not engage in uncivilized acts. Bakugo stop teasing your girlfriend and give her the—”

“Shut up Four eyes!” Katsuki yells, still locked in trying to soothe the tantrum that you're throwing over a piece of fucking fish right now.

Iida gasps, scandalized, before returning to his seat, as if reasoning with the two of you is impossible. “Such disrespect!”

Truthfully Iida is right. You shouldn’t be acting like this but no one in this room is in a position to understand you. You know you shouldn’t be causing a commotion but… It's all because Katsuki doesn't let you eat your goddamn sushi. Had he allowed you to eat just one bite, you wouldn’t be acting like this.

"Don’t fucking eat sashimi” he yells and pokes the food away from your chopsticks. The piece falls shattered into your plate and for a second, you mourn that loss of a good bite.

Finally, he smiles in victory!

"But I'm craving it!” You’re practically vibrating with desperation now –please someone make this menace of a man that you’re engaged to, pity you and give you the one bite you so desperately want. Even if its ruined.

“I don't care, it's dangerous”

You pout as you look at him, stubbornly trying to pick up the disheveled pierce of sashimi so you could bring it to your lips again

“I said don’t!” He growls and you bring the piece right under your nose.

"At least let me smell it im craving it so hard right now”

“Kacchan” Izuku speaks again, shyly, and mentions your name right after your fiances “you guys stop acting like this! It’s not nice— or polite”

"Not my fault!” Katsuki says, chest swelling as you lower your shoulders, already defeated in the battle to retake your sushi piece. You begrudgingly reach for a skewer, much to everyone’s pleasure and he looks at you with a million yen smile.

Oh if only you could wipe that smirk from his face right now, you would.

"But it is your fault” you whine barely above a whisper, while only looking at him "you knocked me up remember? Now I have cravings and it's your. Damn. Fault”

Katsuki scowls, jabbing his chopsticks in your direction like they’re a damn weapon. “Oh, so now it’s my fault?” He laughs, careful not to speak too loud.

“Yes, obviously!” You huff, still pouting. “You did this to me, and now I have cravings, and now I need sashimi! Katsuki, baby please! Just one bite!”

“Like hell!” he barks, smacking your chopsticks away again. “I don’t want you risking anything”

“But it’s calling me!” You press a hand to your heart as if you can hear the fish whispering to you.

Kaminari, stuffing his face with grilled meat, watches the two of you with lazy amusement. “Man, this is better than TV.”

“They’re made for each other, I swear” Sero says, shutting his eyes just so he can avoid looking at the ridiculous scene of you and Bakugo having a food war in front of him.

Mina is elbowing Kirishima violently. “You seeing this?! He’s not even letting her smell it! That’s some next-level possessiveness—” Kirishima winces as he rubs his side. “Ow, yeah, yeah, I see it! You don’t have to break my ribs, jeez.”

“Okay but, like—why is he so hellbent on keeping it away from her?” Jirou mutters, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

And then, finally, Izuku, whose brain has been in overdrive for the past three minutes, snaps.

“Wait.” His hands fidget on his drink, his pupils are huge, his expression a mixture of shock and absolute horror.

“You… you can’t have raw fish…” he whispers.

You blink, momentarily distracted from your food war just to shoot him a casual “Uh. Yeah?” like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“Oi, shut it, nerd—” Katsuki grits his teeth, muscles tense, like he already knows Izuku has figured you out.

Of course he has.

Izuku Midoriya is a smart man.

He’s spent his entire life analyzing quirks, movements, and battle strategies. He can read people like an open book. He notices the smallest changes in behavior, the subtle shifts in tone, the micro-expressions that most wouldn’t even think twice about.

But right now? Right now, as he watches you and Katsuki bicker like absolute lunatics over a single piece of sashimi? His brain is short-circuiting.

Something isn’t adding up.

And the way you were twisting that ring on your left hand so awkwardly when you arrived… The way Katsuki’s fingers lingered on the side of your stomach? Your very out of character- too loose- sundress?

“Don’t fucking eat the sashimi!” Katsuki growls, practically smacking the chopsticks out of your hands.

“But I’m craving it!” you whine, reaching for another piece like some tragic protagonist in a dramatic food war anime.

“I don’t care! It’s dangerous!”

Izuku’s brows furrow. Dangerous?

It’s not like you’ve got some extreme fish allergy. You eat sushi all the time. Izuku has seen you shove an ungodly amount of salmon rolls into your mouth during class reunions. So why would it suddenly be dangerous now?

You huff, glaring at Katsuki as you very stubbornly pick up the poor, disheveled slice of sashimi again. “I said—” you lift it toward your lips, determination burning in your eyes, “—at least let me smell it! I’m craving it so bad right now.”

Katsuki leans in close, his voice a threatening whisper. “Not. My. Fault.”

You gasp, smacking a hand against your chest like he just betrayed you in a courtroom drama. “But it is your fault!” You whine dramatically. “You knocked me up, remember? Now I have cravings and it’s your. Damn. Fault.”

Izuku freezes.

His brain screeches to a violent halt.

Knocked up?

Cravings?

No raw fish?

His mind suddenly goes into overdrive, running a thousand miles per second like he’s just been thrown into a high-stakes investigation. He blinks rapidly, green eyes darting between the two of you.

Wait… wait, wait, wait. No way. There’s no way. Right?

He thinks back. The exhaustion on your face. The way you came in, out of breath. The way Katsuki practically forced you into his seat. The subtle tension in the way he watches you. The way he ripped you away from the girls’ group hug, claiming they’re suffocating you?

Now you’re craving food you literally cannot have? And you’re blaming Kacchan for it?

A bead of sweat forms on Izuku’s forehead.

Oh my god.

He can hear the puzzle pieces clicking together in his brain. The metaphorical red strings connecting at lightning speed. The sheer weight of realization slamming into him like a United States of Smash.

He grips his chopsticks, trembling. He calls out your name like its a cry for help! “Kacchan knocked y-you up? Are you pregnant?”

You freeze.

The chopsticks in your hand hover over the plate of sashimi. Your breath catches in your throat. It’s like someone pressed pause on the entire universe, and all that’s left is the deafening silence of impending doom.

Next to you, Katsuki's whole body tenses like a bomb about to go off. His eye twitches. His fingers twitch. His entire soul twitches.

Fuck– There’s no getting out of this now.

You can feel every single pair of eyes locking onto you.

Your heart pounds. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You feel like a criminal caught red-handed by the world's greatest detective. Get your only crime has ever been very hot and unprotected sex with Katsuki. And the impending doom of a breeding kink!?

You glance at Katsuki. He looks like he’s trying to telepathically tell you to lie, gaslight, deflect, anything to get Izuku to shut the fuck up. You are not supposed to announce this at someone else’s major milestone celebration.

But how were you supposed to recover from this?! He said it out loud! There was no coming back from this! Even if Katsuki grabs at your waist to urge you to so something.

You try. You really do. You force a casual laugh, waving your chopsticks. “Pffft—what? Nooo, what? Pregnant? Who, me? That’s crazy! I just— I mean, haha, I just—”

You glance at Katsuki again, desperate for some backup, but he looks about five seconds away from flipping the entire table over.

Izuku leans in, eyes practically burning through your soul, his eyebrow raised to practically his hairline. “You just what?”

You panic. Your eyes dart to Todoroki, who is watching the scene unfold with genuine curiosity, as if this is some kind of high-stakes soap opera. Mina’s jaw is already on the floor. Kaminari is shaking in anticipation.

You do the only thing you can think of.

You launch on the sashimi and try to shove it into your mouth. Katsuki’s eyes snap back to you, and he immediately stops your hand by grabbing your wrist.

“NO FUCKING RAW FISH.”

“DAMN IT, KATSUKI!”

The entire room erupts. Everything descends into pure chaos; Mina screeches, Kaminari bursts into laughter, Jirou’s hand flies to her mouth. Amidst it all, Katsuki just slams his forehead against the table, letting out the deepest, most suffering-filled sigh of his life. “Deku, I fucking hate you.”

Todoroki just nods, with a stank face at it “Yes. That confirms it.”

And Izuku… looks like he’s about to pass out.

Kirishima slaps his hands on the table, eyes gleaming with realization. “holy shit dude, you’re having a baby!?!” Mina follows his lead and jumps out of her chair. “Oh myyy goooood, we’re gonna be aunts and uncles!”

You groan in response too, shoving your face into your hands. You’re too embarrassed to say anything. No one was supposed to find out just yet. “Oh my god. We were not supposed to tell you guys yet— I’m so sorry for ruining your big night Shoto!”

“Oh it’s fine” he says “I think i figured this has been going on for a while!”

“A while?” Ochako yelps from her seat. “How far along are you?”

“Five months” you reply and the girls all swoon at you— all the while Todoroki deadpans his answer while shooting it to your fiance”

“I uhm, saw the ring for starters, and also I noticed the way Bakugo has been acting. It reminded me of my father when—”

“Don’t you dare fucking finish that sentence. Don’t compare me to him. I’m never gonna be that type of father” Katsuki roars, turning murderous eyes on him. Though at this point, all of Katsuki’s threats are falling on deaf ears because everyone is already going absolutely feral.

“So you are really pregnant!” Jirou gasps, pointing an accusing finger at you. “That wasn’t just a joke, was it?!”

“I knew something was off! You haven't complained about your periods for so long!” Mina howls, shaking you by the shoulders like a woman possessed.

Kirishima slams his hands on the table, beaming so wide it’s almost blinding. “Dude! This is huge! You’re gonna be a dad, bro!”

“If you don't shut up right now, Shitty Hair!” Katsuki barks, looking this close to launching him through the ceiling. “We didn’t wanna tell you tonight” he adds, hands finally wrapping around you supportively “Deku had to go and fucking ruin it!”

Izuku, who still looks like he’s trying to restart his entire operating system, squeaks, “I— I was just— I connected the dots!”

“You didn’t have to connect the dots, you dumbass!” Katsuki explodes, veins practically popping.

“Oh, oh, but it’s okay for you to connect the dots when we were sixteen, huh?” Izuku fires back. “When you figured out my quirk and wouldn’t let me breathe for a whole year?!”

“Oh, don’t even start—”

“Wait, wait, wait—” Kaminari waves his arms, trying to stop the growing chaos. “This is so not the point right now! The point is—” he pauses, grinning, before turning back to you with stars in his eyes. “Holy fucking shit, you and Kacchan of the Bakugos are having a baby.”

Everyone pounces to congratulate you, hug you, swamp you with a thousand questions before returning back to their seats for a toast.

You take a moment to breathe, but the flurry of emotions swirling around you feels overwhelming. Your heart races, and anxiety grips your chest like a vice. It’s one thing to share your pregnancy with Katsuki; it’s another entirely to do it in front of all your friends–on a night where you’re definitely not supposed to–having them buzz with excitement and questions.

Amidst the chaos, you can feel the tightening in your chest growing, and you instinctively lean closer to Katsuki, gripping onto his bicep, seeking his warmth and reassurance. The moment you press against him, his arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you against him tenderly. It’s as if he’s creating a barrier between you and the whirlwind of noise around you, a protective shield against the intensity of the moment.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Breathe. You’re okay.”

You look up at him, and his vermillion eyes lock onto yours. His thumb starts to rub soothing circles on your shoulder, grounding you as he leans in just a bit closer. “Forget them for a second. Just focus on me.”

You nod, though your heart is still racing, and you swallow hard, trying to shake off the anxiety that makes you feel so small. The excited chatter from your friends feels distant, muffled, as you concentrate on Katsuki’s presence next to you.

“I can’t believe everyone knows,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “I just didn’t want them to find out like this”

“I know baby, i know”

“Kacchan if you need any help you can just ask i’ll be so glad to–”

“Deku, can you shut your damn mouth for two seconds?” Katsuki groans, way too loud for your own sanity and tries to help you get up, just to get some air. You can’t look at him. You can’t look at anyone. You stare down at the table, where your heart sinks lower and lower. You’re embarrassed. You’re overwhelmed.

And luckily, your man, your hero, pulls you out of the izakaya right on time.

The night air is hot as you and Bakugo slip out the entrance of the pub, the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses fading behind you. The street is quiet, dimly lit by flickering street lamps, and for a moment, you stand there, tucked tightly in his broad chest as he pulls you right into him.

“Finally,” Bakugo mutters, running a hand through his hair, his other hand pulling you closer, as if shielding you from the rest of the world. “I'm so sorry baby, I shouldn’t have pushed too much about the sashimi.”

You let out a small laugh, your heart racing from the excitement and the anxiety of everyone finding out you’re pregnant—even that the two of you are engaged— due to that previous back and forth. “It’s okay, it was fun. I just didn’t expect all this that’s all”

“Well, we did just drop a huge bomb on everyone.”

Silently, you playfully punch his chest “you’re so funny when you make puns like this”

“Look at me baby” He says, fingers gently lifting your chin to make you look up at him. When you do, hesitantly, he smiles at you like a dork “Hey there, you doin’ okay?”

You nod, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt.

Bakugo exhales sharply, his other hand gripping your waist. “You know I love you, right? And I love you pregnant. You look fucking amazing and we shouldn’t hide it.”

“But I kinda liked that it was our secret, it was just for us, just you and me you know”

Katsuki kisses your forehead in response, muttering something about how beautiful you look like this, that he doesn’t care if this isn’t something you could keep to yourselves anymore. “I dint give a fuck, they’d find out eventually. Just want you attached to my hip al the time, fuck you’re so fucking hot.”

The way he gazes at you– eyes filled with admiration and desire, sends a thrill through your body. “Really?” you whisper, feeling your insides melt already.

“Damn right,” he growls, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re swollen with my baby, and it drives me absolutely insane.”

Heat pools in your belly at his words, and suddenly it’s overwhelming in the best way possible; all the anxiety you’ve previously felt fades away into nothing.

Before you can respond, he crushes his lips against yours in a heated kiss. It’s electric, desperate, as if he’s trying to convey everything he feels in that one moment. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he presses you back against the wall, his hands firm on your hips.

“God, you’re driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your lips, his voice rough with need. “You know that, right?”

You barely have time to reply before he kisses you again, hunger igniting between you. He pulls you closer, and the kiss deepens, his teeth grazing your lower lip, coaxing a small moan from you. His grip tightens, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, setting your entire body on fire.

Every worry you had dissipates and you lose yourself in him. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more of him. He slides his hands along your waist, his touch as soft as feather before landing his palms over the curve of your hips.

“Oh my GOD!”

Damn. Fucking hell, you can’t even have a moment to yourselves with those idiots around.

Both of you freeze, hearts racing as you turn to see Mina standing just a few feet away, eyes wide with shock. “You two are so cute! But seriously, why are you making out in an alleyway? This is scandalous! Bakugo do you wanna fall lower into the charts?”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, though a grin threatens to break free. “What the hell?! Get lost Racoon eyes”

“Sorry, sorry! I just wanted to make sure you’re okay!” Mina giggles, her voice too loud in the still night air. “But, I mean, I can’t blame you! Look at you two!”

You bury your face in Bakugo’s shoulder, mortified, while he huffs out a frustrated breath. Bakugo grumbles curses under his breath as Mina hauls you both back toward the izakaya, but before you can step through the door a faint voice, almost hesitant, speaks from nearby.

“…Are they done making out yet?”

Everyone turns in your direction.

Just how much more embarrassment can you endure tonight?

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x female reader #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #bakugo #mha bakugou #bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki

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slvttyplum · 2 days ago

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“who’s the cute guy with the wide blue eyes and big bad mmm like…”

𐙚⋆.˚ cw : nervous and kinda loser gojo, thought it was cute.

satoru was handsome, funny, sweet, patient, and caring—all the things you could ask for in a man.

who knew the nerdy guy in your lecture who stared at you throughout it and drew pictures of you in his notebook would be your boyfriend?

“so, uh… w-what’s your major?”

that was the first thing he ever asked you, pushing up his glasses with a grin on his face, leaning against the table, trying to look cool.

it worked because you already thought he was cool; you adored him.

even your friends thought he was the perfect match for you, yet you always kept your crush on him private.

you never really spoke to him, not wanting to be a nervous wreck, so you kept to yourself, occasionally watching him from afar.

the crush went both ways for a pretty long time until satoru finally caved in and asked you out, with confidence, i might add; it was the cutest thing.

“i just really like you. i haven’t felt this way in a long time. no, no, wait, i’ve never felt this way.”

that was that; he took you on a date right after, and it’s been history ever since. of course satoru had his flaws, and so did you; who didn’t? but being with him was so refreshing.

satoru was understanding about everything, even when he was a little prick about it, just so you could see it from his perspective.

he loved you, and he couldn’t have you doubting yourself or beating yourself up about things.

“stop saying that; it’s annoying. you’re great, amazing, phenomenal, spectacular, perfect.”

he would go on and on reassuring you that what you were doing and going in life was good enough. satoru wasn’t going to have you talking bad about yourself or even hinting at it; it pissed him off.

“okay, okay, i get it, thank you.”

snuggling into his neck while he was at his desk just scribbling away on his paper, even when he was busy, he still made time for you to show that he loves and supports you through and through.

“there we go.”

sometimes days would go by, especially when satoru had an upcoming test where he was too into whatever he was doing to see you, so he would get you and bring you back to his dorm just to have you in his lap the entire time.

god, he loves you on his lap. it became an ongoing thing that whenever you weren’t on his lap, he found himself fidgeting or bouncing his leg.

sometimes that even led to… well, you know.

starting with you slowly kissing his cheeks, then going down to his jaw, then going down even slower to his neck that was on display like some freshly baked cookies.

once you started, satoru couldn’t focus on a damn thing, even writing gibberish on his paper while his arm tightened around you, taking off his glasses and smirking.

“don’t start something you can’t finish.”

leaning his head back so you could get to where you needed to be easier, a smile now on his face when he could feel you getting lower.

“control yourself, gojo,” mumbling into his neck as you kept going.

he got turned on so easily it was pathetic but also cute, telling you that he wanted to show you something in his bed just to flip you over like a pancake.

see? he could do both. that’s why you love him so damn much, a very versatile man.

one thing he learned while being with you is that while yes, school and classes and making sure his grades were where they needed to be was important, so were you.

you started being a priority for him along with his work and he had to balance them, and he did well with that.

did well with you; he loves you, but he'll never tell you; he would probably fall into a heart attack.

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satoruness · 3 days ago

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The first thing you register upon waking is the absence of your daughter's usual early-morning babbling.

Your eyes snap open, heart hammering against your ribs as the lingering haze of sleep dissipates in an instant. You sit up so fast the blankets pool around your waist, cold air rushing over your skin as you frantically turn to the other side of the bed—only to find it empty.

The sheets where Satoru sleeps are rumpled, but cool to the touch. He’s probably gone to work early, something he usually does. And, more importantly, your daughter is no where to be seen.

Panic claws up your throat. You had let her sleep with you last night—like always—because she insisted there was a monster under her bed. Satoru, ever the indulgent father, had only grinned and whispered conspiratorially that he sleeps better with her snuggled up beside him anyway. You had drifted off with their soft breaths keeping you warm, lulled by the comfort of their presence.

You throw off the blankets and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your body still caught in the fight-or-flight response of a mother whose child has inexplicably vanished. Barefoot, you pad across the floor, pushing open the bedroom door with more force than necessary, only to be met with the distant sound of… clattering? A faint, rhythmic hum drifts through the hallway, accompanied by something softer—something sweet and familiar. Babbling.

Your breath catches, the knot of tension in your chest loosening slightly, though your body remains primed for action as you follow the sound. The scent of something warm and sugary fills the air as you descend the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen—and freezing in place.

There, standing by the counter, is Satoru.

Shirtless. Clad only in low-slung grey sweatpants that hang dangerously on his hips, revealing the deep V-lines cutting into his lower abdomen. His torso is all lean muscle and smooth, pale skin, marred only by faint scars from battles long past. His shoulders are broad, his chest well-defined, accompanied with a slim waist, and his muscular arms—one curled securely around your daughter, the other expertly flipping something on the stove—flex with effortless strength. His hair is a disheveled mess of white strands, falling boyishly over his forehead, but his expression is nothing short of pure, unabashed delight.

And then there’s your daughter. Perched on his hip like she belongs there, her tiny fingers gripping onto his shoulder for balance as she babbles away, utterly enraptured by whatever her father is saying. She has his snow-white hair and gleaming, cerulean eyes, the wispy strands of white hair sticking out in soft tufts, but her smile—it is all yours, bright and expressive. Her button nose, too, is unmistakably yours, scrunched up in concentration as she tries to mimic whatever absurd sounds Satoru is making at her.

You blink, trying to process the sight before you.

Your husband, half-naked, cooking breakfast with your daughter attached to him like a little koala.

“What the hell is going on?” The words leave you before you can stop them, still caught between confusion, awe, and the residual adrenaline of waking up to an empty bed.

Satoru turns at the sound of your voice, and the grin that spreads across his face is nothing short of devastating. “Good morning, birthday girl,” he coos, stepping toward you effortlessly, despite the toddler hanging off him. Before you can react, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips lingers, chasing away the last vestiges of your panic.

You blink up at him, still trying to recalibrate. “You—what—where was she?”

“Shhh, no need to stress, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing a soothing hand down your arm. “I wanted to let you sleep in for once, so we decided to make you a surprise breakfast.” He gestures proudly to the stove, where a stack of pancakes sits on a plate, alongside fresh fruit and a mug of coffee that you just know he made exactly the way you like it.

Your daughter, seemingly remembering her important role in this grand surprise, suddenly claps her tiny hands and chirps, “Hap-buh!”

You blink, eyes widening.

Satoru practically beams, his entire face lighting up as he nuzzles his nose against hers. “That’s right, princess! Say it again for Mama.”

She grins, delighted by the attention, and tries again. “Hap-buh-day!”

Your hands fly to your mouth, the last of your sleepiness vanishing as your heart swells to the point of bursting. “Did she—?”

“She did,” Satoru confirms smugly, bouncing her slightly on his hip. “I’ve been working on it all morning. She’s a genius, obviously. Takes after me.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the way your lips curve into a smile, the warmth of your little family wrapping around you like a cocoon.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Satoru murmurs, pressing another kiss—this time, to your lips. As your daughter babbles excitedly between you, white hair gleaming under the morning light, you think to yourself that maybe, just maybe, this is the best birthday gift you could ever ask for.

As you reach for your coffee, Satoru’s hand catches yours, tugging you closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know,” he muses, voice dropping to a low murmur, “I was thinking we should make this a birthday tradition. I take care of breakfast, and you—” his lips graze the shell of your ear, “—take care of dessert. Get what I mean? It’s early in the morning but we can make time–”

You swat at his chest, but he only chuckles, thoroughly unrepentant. “Satoru—”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, grinning. “C’mon. It’ll be a really good birthday present. My head between your thighs, as usual, honestly it’d be a birthday treat for both of us–.”

“Keep talking, and you’ll be the one sleeping with the monster under the bed tonight.”

Satoru only laughs, bright and carefree, as your daughter babbles something incoherent, small hands trying to reach down from Satoru's hip to grab at the coloured assortment of fruit. And as you sip your coffee, shaking your head at your ridiculous husband, you can’t help but stop the warm feeling unfurling in your chest, that you love the family you two have both created.

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu satoru #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo fluff #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut

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natsaffection · 22 hours ago

Text

Redline. Pt 3 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), reflecting trauma, kinda sexual tension

Word count: 7,5k

A/N: part three!!! In the next one, we’ll focus more on the chemistry between Natasha and you. 🫢

Part 2

The rhythmic thud of a punching bag filled the space, the only sound aside from your controlled breathing as you threw another strike, then another. Your muscles ached, fire burning beneath your skin, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. This was the only thing that made sense anymore, pushing yourself past the limits, past the doubt, past the thoughts you didn’t want to deal with.

Until the doors slammed open. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. There was no controlled amusement this time. No smirk, no teasing remarks. Just pure, simmering rage. The kind that made the air feel too heavy, like the walls were closing in.

Natasha.

Yelena had followed behind her, though she kept a safer distance, arms crossed as she watched the impending execution unfold. Natasha’s gaze locked onto you, sharp as a blade against your throat.

“You missed the meeting.” she said, her voice quiet, far too calm for how angry she was. You rolled your shoulders, wiping sweat from your brow. “I was training.” Wrong answer. Natasha’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening as she took two slow, measured steps forward.

“And?” The single word was sharp, cutting, as if she was daring you to keep going.

You clenched your fists, keeping your ground. “And I thought it was more important than sitting in a room while PR tells me how to smile for a camera.”Natasha inhaled through her nose, slow, controlled, like she was restraining herself from snapping you in half.

“You thought?” Her voice was too smooth, too dangerous. “Let me make something very clear, because it seems you’ve already forgotten. You don’t get to think. You don’t get to decide what matters. I do. And when I say you show up, you show up. Do you understand me?”

You held her stare, the defiance still there, but your body tensed. Natasha saw it. Felt it. The resistance. The fight to not give in and she wouldn’t allow it.

“You think training gives you a free pass? That you can just ignore my orders and do whatever the fuck you want?” Natasha stepped closer, crowding into your space, forcing you to either hold your ground or back down. “Let me tell you something, dorogoy (sweetheart). You work for me. Not the other way around. I don’t care what you used to be, who you were before, or how good you think you are. In my world, you either fall in line or you get the fuck out.”

Your breath hitched. The air between you was suffocating. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way Natasha said them. The control in her voice, the absolute certainty that she meant every single thing. There was no bluff, no space to argue, no ground left to stand on.

You swallowed, your muscles still coiled with the need to fight back. But Natasha saw it..the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers curled slightly, the way you were still resisting. And Natasha smirked. Slow. Cruel.

“You don’t like being told what to do, do you?” she murmured, tilting her head slightly, voice dipping into something almost amused. “I can see it..right there. You’re dying to argue. To push back. To prove something.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough that it sent a shiver down your spine. “But you won’t. Not this time.”

Natasha studied you for a second longer, watching the way your body still fought not to react, still fought not to break.

“Now..” Natasha exhaled, her voice slow, taunting, the smirk still lingering. “Be a good girl and go shower.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to argue, wanted to throw back a response, wanted to not let her win. But you had already lost. You knew it. Natasha knew it. And she wasn’t going to let you forget it.

You swallowed hard, your jaw still clenched, body still trembling with frustration, exhaustion, and something else you didn’t want to name. You didn’t say a word, and you ou just grabbed your towel and walked away. Natasha smirked, watching you go. She had won. And you both knew it.

Yelena let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. “You know, she’s still adjusting, right?”

Natasha didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Yelena tilted her head. “And you could’ve gone easier on her.”

Natasha finally turned, meeting her gaze with a look that was pure Romanoff steel. “And what would that teach her?”

Yelena sighed, pushing off the doorframe. “You’re impossible.”

Natasha smirked. “And yet, she’ll be in the meeting on time now, won’t she?”

Yelena shook her head, muttering under her breath as she walked away. Natasha glanced back at the empty space where you had stood, where you had fought back, where you had finally..finally realized what it meant to work for Romanoff Racing. This wasn’t a team. This was Natasha’s empire. And you? You were learning exactly where you stood in it.

You arrived at the meeting on time. Not a second early. Not a second late. Exactly when you were supposed to. You weren’t about to give Natasha another excuse to put you through.

The tension in the room was thick, even before you stepped inside. Conversations were already in motion, staff members talking in low voices as data flashed across the massive LED screens. The polished glass table was covered with neatly arranged folders, stacks of reports, and the ever-present presence of Romanoff Racing’s insignia stamped on everything.

You took your seat near the middle of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight, resisting the urge to sink into your chair. The moment you settled, the meeting continued.

A PR executive stood, clicking through slides on the massive screen. Media coverage. Headlines. Reactions from the unveiling event. You already knew this would be bad. But fuck. Hearing it all at once was worse than you expected.

“Public reception has been…mixed.” the PR rep started carefully.The first slide displayed headlines from the biggest news outlets:

“Your Comeback: Redemption or Desperation?”

“Natasha Romanoff Bets Big on Fallen Driver, Will It Pay Off?”

“Dreykov Laughs Off Romanoff’s Signing: ‘She’s Damaged Goods.’”

You cringed. There it was. Right there. Every reason you had avoided coming back. The PR rep continued, voice calm, practiced, as if they weren’t presenting a full breakdown of your entire existence. “Online engagement has been high. Social media discussions are up 230%, and you’re currently the fourth most searched name in the industry.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, not sure if that was a good thing or not. The slide changed again, screenshots of tweets, live TV commentary clips. Some were supportive. Some were brutal.

“She should’ve stayed gone. She’s never gonna be the same.”

“Romanoff must be insane. There were better drivers available.”

“This is a PR stunt, right? No way she’s actually racing again.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. You had heard worse. You had survived worse. But it still felt like a goddamn gut punch.

A press clip played on screen, Dreykov himself, sitting in front of flashing cameras, reporters hanging onto his every word.

“Romanoff’s choice? Interesting. Bold, I suppose. It’s always nice to see an old name come back, even if it’s… well. I just hope she finishes a full season this time.”

The words hit harder than they should have. A slow, mocking grin stretched across Dreykov’s face in the video, and you had to force yourself not to react. Because that? That was a very public, very intentional slap in the face. The clip ended, and the PR rep hesitated before clicking to the next slide—Walker. Because of course, they shoved a mic in his face the second the event ended.

You didn’t even need to see it. You already knew what kind of bullshit was about to come out of his mouth. “Am I surprised? A little. But hey, I wish her the best. I mean, she was great..once. Let’s see if she still has it, huh?”

The clip cut out. Silence settled over the room. You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs to keep yourself from curling your fingers into fists. You weren’t surprised. You should’ve expected all of this. But it was one thing to think about it. And another thing to hear it out loud.

The PR rep cleared their throat. “Obviously, their strategy is to undermine the credibility of your return. They’re not outright attacking, but they’re implying doubt, planting the idea that you’re a risk.”

You almost laughed. Implying? They weren’t implying shit. They were saying it straight to your fucking face.

Natasha had been silent this entire time. But when she finally moved, it was just a shift in posture. One smooth, measured movement. Enough to make the entire room go still.

“Let them talk.”

Your eyes snapped toward her, but Natasha didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at anyone. She just watched the screen, unimpressed, unaffected.

“Let them doubt her.” Natasha continued, her voice almost lazy. “Let them laugh, let them underestimate her. It makes our job easier.”

The way she said it, like she had already won. Like none of this mattered. You wanted to believe that. You really did. But then—the conversation shifted. One of the PR executives sat forward, folding their hands. “That brings us to the next point. The press conference is in three days. We’ll need to start preparing her for it immediately.”

Your entire body tensed. You had been expecting it. You knew it had to happen eventually. But still, fuck. The PR rep continued, completely unaware of the way your stomach had just twisted itself into knots. “We’ll go through standard media training, responses to common questions, body language adjustments, phrasing techniques to redirect the narrative in your favor-”

You barely heard the rest. Because you already knew what the hottest topic was going to be. Your crash. It didn’t matter what they rehearsed, what Natasha’s team prepared for. The moment you stepped in front of the cameras, someone was going to ask. Someone was going to force you to talk about it.

And you didn’t know if you could. Natasha must have noticed the way you stiffened, because her eyes flickered toward you, studying you. You kept your gaze straight ahead. Didn’t react. Didn’t let yourself flinch. You weren’t going to give Natasha the satisfaction.

The meeting ended with a sharp nod from Natasha. No unnecessary closing remarks, no wasted words. Just business as usual.

Chairs scraped against the polished floor as people stood, gathering their notes and murmuring amongst themselves. You moved on instinct, standing as well, ready to get the hell out of there before anyone could expect you to give some kind of reaction to the media storm they had just dissected.

You were already halfway to the door when, “Sit down.”

Natasha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. You froze. Slowly, you turned, your fingers twitching at your sides as you met Natasha’s gaze.

Everyone else was still filing out, but the room suddenly felt too big. Too quiet. You hesitated for only a second before forcing yourself to sit back down, your posture stiff, tense as hell. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask why. Because you already knew.

Natasha was still seated at the head of the table, watching you. Then, in one slow, calculated movement, she stood. She walked toward you, not with purpose, not in a rush, just pure control in every step.

You barely kept yourself from shifting under her gaze. Natasha reached the table, but instead of sitting in her chair, she pushed herself up onto it, one hand resting against the polished surface as she settled onto the edge, directly in front of you. Close. Too fucking close.

Green eyes studied you, not rushed, not impatient..just watching. You clenched your jaw. You hated that stare. The way Natasha could see things you didn’t say. The way she could strip you down to nothing without even opening her mouth.

The room was so silent now that you swore you could hear your own heartbeat. “You’re afraid of the press conference.”

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m not afraid.”

Natasha’s smirk was slow, cruel. “Liar.”

Your fingers twitched against the table. You didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Because what was the point? Natasha already knew. And she was going to make damn sure you knew it too. She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking over you like she was studying something fragile, something on the edge of breaking. “What are you afraid of?” Natasha asked, voice quieter now. Softer.

You swallowed. Where the fuck did you start? The press? The questions you knew they were going to ask? The fact that you didn’t have an answer for them? The fact that no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you still weren’t sure you belonged here? Or worse, what if they were right? What if you had come back for nothing? You inhaled slowly, voice tight when you finally spoke. “I already know what the questions will be.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Do you?”

You scoffed bitterly. “You do too. Everyone does. The crash. What happened that day. What went wrong. How I felt when I woke up in the hospital. How it felt to lose everything.” Your jaw tightened. “How it felt to…fight to get back here. If I even deserve to be back here.”

You stopped yourself before your voice shook. But Natasha caught it. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your pants, gripping hard enough that you felt your nails pressing into your skin. “And then there’s them.” you muttered, voice lower now. “What my parents will think when they see me sitting in front of cameras again. What they’ll say when they hear the same questions, when they have to relive the same goddamn day all over again.”

The words came out faster than you intended. You hated yourself for admitting it. But Natasha didn’t look smug. Didn’t look satisfied. She was just listening. And somehow, that made it worse. Because if Natasha wanted to, she could take every single thing you just admitted and use it against you.

A long, slow silence stretched between you. Then, Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes locked onto you like a challenge. “You survived all of it.” she murmured, voice smooth, even. “And you’re telling me a few cameras are what’s going to break you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because it wasn’t that simple. Natasha made it sound so easy. Like she hadn’t spent years avoiding this moment. Like the weight of the past wasn’t crawling up your spine every second you thought about stepping in front of the press.

“You..don’t get it..” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha hummed, the sound almost amused. “You think I don’t?” She tilted her head slightly, her voice dipping into something darker. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be picked apart by the world? To have people who don’t know a damn thing about you decide who you are, what you’re worth?”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. Because fuck. Natasha wasn’t wrong.

“You survived the fire.” Natasha continued, her voice almost too soft now, too careful. “You survived the months of rehab, of rebuilding yourself. And now, you’re sitting here, trying to tell me that a couple of journalists with microphones are the real problem?”

You hated how your throat felt tight. How your nails pressed harder into your palm. How Natasha was right. Again. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet Natasha’s steady, unyielding gaze. “And what if I don’t have an answer for them?”

Natasha smirked. And for the first time, it wasn’t cruel. It was patient. Amused. Like you had just asked a stupid fucking question. “Then you do what I do.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head slightly.

You frowned. “And what’s that?”

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, her smirk widening just enough to make something in your stomach twist. “You give them the answer you want them to hear.”

You exhaled slowly. Because fuck. That was probably the most Romanoff answer possible. Natasha straightened, finally standing, stretching her arms slightly before glancing down at you. “You’ll be fine.” she said, voice effortless, confident. Like it was already decided. And in a way..maybe it was.

You weren’t sure you believed her. But something about the way Natasha said it, so sure, so steady, made it feel a little less impossible.

You didn’t say anything after Natasha’s last remark. You just nodded, slow, measured, your jaw still tight like you were holding something back. Natasha took it for what it was, the closest thing to acceptance she was going to get. She let the silence stretch for another second before leaning back, tilting her head slightly. “You can go.”

You didn’t hesitate. You stood, pushing the chair back, muscles still tense from the entire conversation, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Natasha watched you leave, the faint trace of a smirk still playing at the edge of her lips. Because you could fight it all you wanted, but you were getting closer. Whether you realized it or not.

The garage was usually a place of noise. Machines humming, tools clinking against steel, mechanics shouting orders across the floor. The sound of progress, power, precision. But tonight? Tonight, it was silent.

Except for one person. Natasha had been walking through the complex when she noticed it, a figure near the car. She stopped just outside the garage entrance, leaning against the wall, keeping to the shadows as her eyes locked onto the scene in front of her.

You. Standing next to the GT car you would be driving soon. The car was sleek, lethal, polished under the dim lights of the garage. It was a machine that belonged to champions. A machine that demanded control.

And you were just standing there. Not touching it. Not inspecting it. Just watching it. You had headphones in, music spilling softly from them, blocking out the world. Your face was unreadable.

But your posture? Tense. Stiff. Natasha could read it like a book. This wasn’t excitement. This wasn’t confidence. This was doubt. Natasha didn’t move. Didn’t call out to you. She just watched.

Because this was the truth, wasn’t it? Not the version of you that stood in meetings, that threw sharp words back at her, that pretended like you weren’t thinking about every single thing that could go wrong. This was real. This was you, standing in the garage at midnight, alone, staring at the one thing that could either save you or destroy you.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. This was a crucial moment. And you didn’t even know you were being watched.

The next days came too fast. You barely slept. You had tried, laid in bed, stared at the ceiling, told yourself you were ready. But the truth? Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The press room was a sea of flashing lights, cameras, journalists packed together, waiting, ready. The air was thick with the low murmur of voices, the tension palpable even before the conference had begun. At the center of it all was a long, immaculate table with microphones set up, the Romanoff Racing logo flashing behind them on a massive LED screen.

And sitting at the head of it: Natasha. She was dressed perfectly, as always. Not a single detail out of place, her tailored suit sleek, her expression cold and unreadable. And beside her? You.

You had barely spoken since arriving. Barely breathed. Because the second you sat down in that chair, facing the crowd, you felt it. The weight. The expectation. The waiting.

The journalists wanted blood. And you were the easiest target in the room. Natasha shifted slightly beside you, adjusting her mic, and you could feel the glance she gave you. You didn’t look. Didn’t let yourself move. Because if you did, you might crack.

A moderator spoke into the microphone, giving the usual formalities. “Welcome, everyone, to the official Romanoff Racing press conference. We’ll start with pre-approved questions before opening the floor.”

You barely processed the first few questions. They were for Natasha-business-related, team-focused. She answered smoothly, effortlessly, as if she had already predicted every single thing they would ask.

Then..the shift. A journalist leaned forward, their voice cutting through the room. “A lot of fans were shocked to see your return to racing. What made you decide to come back?”

Your throat tightened. You expected this. You knew it was coming. But fuck, hearing it out loud…The microphone was too close, the lights too bright. You could feel the hundreds of eyes staring at you, waiting. You forced yourself to inhale.

“I never stopped thinking about racing.” you said, keeping your voice calm, steady. “It’s a part of me. It always has been.”

The journalist nodded, but their expression sharpened. “And yet, after your accident, you disappeared. No press, no interviews, nothing. Why now?”

Your fingers curled slightly under the table. Before you could answer, Natasha spoke. “She’s here because she’s a racer.” Natasha said smoothly, cutting through the noise like a blade. “And racers belong on the track. Next question.”

The journalist hesitated, like they wanted to push back, but they didn’t dare. Another question came, and another. Some were easy. Some were loaded.

And then..the moment you had been dreading. A woman in the second row leaned forward, microphone raised. “Y/n, after your accident, there was a lot of doubt about your ability to return to racing. Some experts believe you’re not the same driver you once were. Do you think you’re still capable of competing at the highest level?”

Silence. Your breath hitched. There it was. The one question you didn’t want to answer. The one moment that had haunted you for years, now laid bare in front of the world. You swore you could feel the room lean in. Waiting.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The flashes of cameras, the expectant looks, the fucking memory of it- The way the car had flipped. The fire. The medics pulling you out. The moment you stopped breathing.

Everything crashed down all at once.

Your hands pressed against your lap, digging into the fabric of your pants, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe. But Natasha saw it. Of course, she saw it. She shifted slightly beside you, not visibly, not obviously, just enough that you could feel it. A reminder. A warning.

“She doesn’t-”

“No, wait.” you said, your voice firm. The room went dead silent. Natasha turned her head slightly, her sharp green eyes snapping to you. It wasn’t a warning. Not quite. It was more like..curiosity. Like she was waiting to see what the hell you thought you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, turning your gaze back to the journalist. You forced your voice to stay steady. “You want to know what happened after the crash?” you asked, leveling your stare at him.

“You think I lost something in that crash?”

Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked rapidly, someone shifting in their seat, but no one spoke. You could feel Natasha watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You kept your focus straight ahead.

“I lost the ability to move my legs for two months.”

A murmur rippled through the room. But you didn’t stop.

“I lost thirty pounds of muscle in eight weeks. I lost my ability to walk without help. I lost my grip strength. I lost my reaction time. I lost everything that made me a driver.”

Your fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into your palm, but your voice never wavered.

“I spent half a year relearning how to do basic human functions. And then another half a year relearning how sit properly in a car. And every single day, someone told me I couldn’t.”

You scanned the room, taking in the faces of the journalists who had written the headlines, the ones who had picked apart your downfall like vultures.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to wake up and have your own body feel like a prison?”

The air was thick, suffocating. Natasha, the woman who always had something to say? Was silent.You let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of the hell you had to survive.

“I built myself from the fucking ground up. And now? Now I’m here.”

You sat back, jaw set, gaze unwavering.

“So if you’re asking me if I think I’m still capable?Watch me.”

A few journalists shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. But you weren’t done. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your expression unreadable. “They were wrong. And now? I’m here.”

You let that hang in the air. You let them absorb it. Then, you leaned back, perfectly composed. “That answer your question?”

The journalist swallowed hard. “I- yes.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Because what else was there to say?

Another beat of silence. Then, Natasha smirked. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just slightly impressed. She turned back to the room, one eyebrow raised. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, next question.”

And just like that, the press conference moved on. The press conference wrapped up soon after, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air. You had taken control of the narrative. You had spoken for yourself. And for the first time since stepping into Romanoff Racing, you hadn’t let Natasha speak for you.

The journalists left in a flurry of movement, camera crews packing up, murmurs spreading across the room as headlines were already being written. You didn’t move right away. Your hands were still pressed against your lap, knuckles faintly white. You weren’t shaking. But you weren’t steady, either.

Natasha stood slowly, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored suit, her every movement calm, practiced. She didn’t turn to you right away. Instead, she let the tension settle, let the weight of the moment hang between you. Yelena was the first to break the silence.

“Well. That was unexpected.” she muttered, throwing a grape from the snack tray into her mouth. She glanced between you and Natasha, one eyebrow raised. “And you’re still alive. That’s a miracle.”

You finally looked at Natasha. She was already watching you. There was something in her eyes, sharp, calculating. And yet, she wasn’t mad. She tilted her head slightly, stepping closer, lowering her voice just enough that only you could hear.

“You surprised me.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment. You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat. “I wasn’t trying to.”

Natasha hummed, amused. “You’re learning how to play the game.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not playing a game.”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, and fuck, that was a dangerous look.

“Sure you’re not.” she murmured, her voice too smooth, too knowing. You hated how your stomach twisted at the way Natasha looked at you, like you were more interesting than before. Like you had just stepped into a new level of control, and Natasha was enjoying it.

Yelena cleared her throat, clearly done with the tension. “Alright, before one of you murders the other or something worse happens, what’s next?”

Natasha finally looked away from you, as if she had decided this conversation was over.

“We keep control of the media. We don’t react to Dreykov’s team. We move forward.”

She turned back to you, her green eyes flashing with something unreadable. “And you? You prepare for your first race.”

Your breath hitched. Because fuck. That was next. No more press. No more talk. It was time to get back into the car. For real.

——

The racetrack buzzed with energy- a chaotic storm of activity. Mechanics shouted instructions over roaring engines, and the stands were already packed, a mass of color and noise. It felt familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

You took a deep breath as you approached the Romanoff Racing GT car waiting for you in the garage. It gleamed under the bright lights, looking sleek and dangerous, built for speed, built to win. Your heartbeat picked up, nerves mixing with adrenaline as you stepped toward it.

Natasha was already there, headset on, posture straight, her presence radiating authority. She didn’t speak immediately, just observed as you settled yourself into the racing seat, pulling the harness tight over your shoulders.

Then, her voice came through clearly over the team radio. “Radio check, Y/n. Do you copy?”

You adjusted your helmet slightly, pressing the comm button on your steering wheel. “Loud and clear.”

There was a slight pause. “Good. Systems check?”

Your eyes flicked over the dash, scanning the familiar indicators. The lights blinked back at you, everything perfect, everything waiting. “Systems all green.” you responded evenly.

“Copy that.” Natasha replied smoothly. You could hear the background noise behind her, the engineers confirming fuel, tire pressure, engine temperature, and everything else that mattered. But Natasha’s voice remained steady, almost reassuring in its calm authority. “Standby for track clearance.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the vibration of the engine beneath you, your grip tightening around the wheel as your pulse quickened. Your heart was hammering now, anticipation building.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said, voice lowering just enough to feel like she was speaking directly into your ear alone. “It’s just you and the car now. Focus. Trust yourself. Let’s show them what you can do.”

Those words settled something inside your chest. You felt steadier, more certain, as you flipped the ignition switch. The engine roared to life, raw power vibrating through the cockpit, through your bones, filling your veins with fire.

Mechanics cleared away, giving you space as you slowly guided the car from the garage toward the track entrance. Your breathing steadied with each passing second, your world narrowing until it was nothing but the track stretching ahead.

The final instructions came through your headset. “Track is clear. Take it out.”

You didn’t hesitate. You pressed the throttle, and the car surged forward, cutting through the air with a precision and power you hadn’t felt in years. And just like that, everything else fell away.

It was just you, the car, and the track. The car hummed beneath you like a living thing, every shift of the throttle sending a pulse of raw energy through your bones. It had been a while since you’d driven something this powerful. And fuck..you felt it.

You eased into the first few turns, warming up the tires, testing the brakes, feeling out the balance of the machine you had just been handed. The steering was sensitive, the throttle was brutal, and the sheer speed of it all?

You let out a slow breath as you took another corner, muttering under your breath. “Goddamn, you’re fast.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, rolling your shoulders as you pushed just a little harder into the next straight. The car responded immediately, roaring under your hands, begging to be let loose.

You smirked slightly. “I hear you.”

The radio crackled in your ear. Natasha’s voice, smooth and controlled. “How’s it feeling?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you took another turn, still feeling out the car’s behavior. “Like a wild animal.” you muttered. “One wrong move, and I think it’ll kill me.”

You heard a chuckle from the radio. “Good.”

Of course, Natasha fucking Romanoff would say that. You rolled your eyes, shifting your weight as you lined up for the last sector, pushing just a little more. The car gripped beautifully, the back end barely twitching as you found the perfect exit.

The lap wasn’t fast, but it wasn’t supposed to be. You were getting used to it. Letting the car tell you what it wanted. Listening. You reached the final straight and slowed, bringing yourself to a stop at the grid, right before the traffic lights.

The engine rumbled beneath you, waiting. You flexed your fingers against the wheel, inhaling deeply.

The first light flickered on. Then the second. Then the third. You tightened your grip. Everything in your body coiled, ready to launch.

The fourth. The fifth.

And then- green.

You slammed the throttle down. The first few laps had been clean. You had found your rhythm, felt the car beneath you, learned its language. You had danced with the machine, not fought it. Every turn, every straight, every shift..perfect.

The moment you pulled out of the pit lane, Natasha’s voice was in your ear.

“We’ll start simple. Build heat in the tires. Weave down the straight.”

Your hands moved before she finished speaking, the car already shifting left and right, smooth, controlled. You could hear the faint sound of engineers in the background, data being recorded, but your focus was on the car, on the way it responded, on how the weight transferred with each movement. Natasha didn’t react. She simply continued.

“Turn 3, keep the throttle steady before braking. No coasting.”

You followed the instruction exactly, the front tires gripping as you carried speed into the corner, braking later than your instincts wanted, but exactly how she would have demanded.

“Better.” she murmured, voice clipped, all business. You kept going, each sector executed with precision, every command from Natasha met with immediate response. She was directing, you were following.

And then, you did it before she could say it. The upcoming chicane was tight, demanding a quick flick of the wheel, a perfectly timed shift in weight. Before Natasha could give the instruction, before her voice could even breathe into your ear.

It lasted less than a second, but it was there. A pause. A hesitation. Then the radio crackled. “Good.”

No approval, no compliment. Just that single sound, laced with something unreadable. She picked up again, her voice neutral. “Don’t get cocky. Turn 9, brake harder or you’ll compromise the exit.” And just like that, the rhythm returned.

You didn’t push. You didn’t acknowledge what had happened. You just followed orders again, steady and controlled, as if nothing had changed.

But then, the car twitched. Just a little. A fraction of instability. The back tires twitched in a high-speed section, and for a second, your body reacted before your mind could. You barely even had to correct it, the car settled almost immediately, but it was already too late.

The sound in your head, metal screaming, tires screeching, the gut-wrenching silence that had come before the crash..It slammed into you, full force.

Your chest locked up. Your breathing hitched, and before you knew it… You were slowing down. Your hands gripped the wheel too tight. Your heart was hammering. The track around you warped, the air too thick, the inside of the cockpit too fucking small.

Natasha’s voice cut in, sharp, controlled, but tinged with something harder. “What are you doing? Keep pushing.”

Your fingers twitched over the radio switch. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Natasha’s voice came again, this time lower, firmer. “Y/n, talk to me.”

No. Your stomach twisted. The sounds in your head were too loud, too consuming, too goddamn real. So you did the only thing you could think of… You cut the radio. A sharp click, and silence filled the cockpit. Natasha was gone.

In the control room, the moment the radio went dead, Natasha stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled over. Her team froze. The tension in the room turned suffocating. She whipped her head toward one of the engineers. “Tell me she did not just cut me off.”

The man stammered, eyes flicking to the radio log. “…She cut you off.”

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her fingers curled into fists. The cameras showed your car stopped dead on the track. Not stalled. Not damaged. Just stopped. Natasha’s chest burned with rage. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She had calculated everything… pushed you just enough.

Had she miscalculated? Had she pushed too fucking far? She turned sharply, already storming for the exit. “Unbelievable.”

Yelena grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

Natasha spun on her, fury in her eyes. “She just stopped on the fucking track, Yelena! I’m going down there!”

Yelena, for once, didn’t smirk. She looked at the monitors, at you. “She’s panicking, Nat…”

Then, she got an idea. She pulled out her phone, scrolling fast. “She always has headphones in before a race, right?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Yelena didn’t answer. Instead, she connected her phone to the main speaker system. The engineers looked confused, but Yelena smirked as she hit play.

And suddenly, music flooded the track. The second the music blasted through your headset, your mind snapped back into reality. The engine was still roaring beneath you, the car vibrating with power, but the sound, the fucking sound..didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong in the cockpit, in the race, in your head. It was your playlist, your music, your ritual before a race, and now it was bleeding through your carefully controlled silence like a blade.

Your breath caught. Then it hit. Yelena. Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your pulse pounded, heat climbing up your spine, something sharp and furious breaking through the fog that had been suffocating you just moments before. You flicked the radio back on, voice ice-cold, clipped.

“Turn that off.”

The pit crew was silent for a moment before Yelena’s voice came through, casual as ever, utterly unfazed. “Oh hey, there you are. Took you long enough.”

Your jaw locked. Your body was still in overdrive, still burning, still balancing on the razor-thin edge between control and complete fucking chaos. “I said turn it off!”

Before Yelena could respond, before you could breathe, another voice crashed into your headset like a gunshot. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Her voice hit like whiplash, slicing through the cockpit, leaving no space for you to breathe. “You shut me out? On my track? In my car?”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Do you have any idea how many people would kill for this opportunity? How many drivers I could’ve picked instead of wasting my time on you?”

Your stomach twisted, your chest tight with frustration, with rage, with the need to fight back, but you couldn’t.

“You’re wasting my time.” Every word was sharp, biting, dragging through you like a blade. “You’re driving like you’re afraid, like you don’t belong here. And maybe you don’t.”

Your jaw locked. “You don’t get to turn me off when things get uncomfortable. That’s not how this works. That’s not how I work. You either keep up, or you get the fuck out of my car.”

The rage in your chest boiled over. Your breath came hot and sharp, your heart hammering against your ribs as the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Fuck you.”

And the radio went silent again.

"S-She turned you off again."

Natasha's head snapped toward the screen, her eyes wild and boiling. She shoved back from the desk, her chair nearly toppling over as she pushed to her feet. A girl? A fucking girl was giving her this much trouble? On her track? In her car? A slow, low growl rumbled from deep in her chest, her nails digging into her palms. "Fix. It."

One of the engineers hesitated. "We, uh- we can override the headset, but she can shut it down again.."

Natasha's nostrils flared, her breathing coming short, clipped. "Then override it again. And again. And again! I don't give a shit how many times it takes! Get me back in her head!!"

The static crackled back into your headset, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Her voice was razor-sharp, dripping with controlled rage. “You’re in my car, on my track, acting like a fucking brat?”

You knew the trick, it wasn’t without reason that you had been one of the best mechanics for years. So, you turned the radio off again.

The engineers in the control room flinched as Natasha ripped the headset off, her movements violent, lethal, uncontrollable. “Done. I’m fucking done.”

Her chest heaved, eyes burning with something between rage and disappointment. Yelena, watching from the side, chewing on a protein bar like she wasn’t witnessing an absolute meltdown, tilted her head. “You sure?”

Natasha shot her a look that could’ve set the entire control room on fire. “I don’t repeat myself.” She grabbed her phone, already dialing management. “Get the contract ready. I want it on my desk. Now.”

No hesitation. She turned, already storming toward the exit. She was done. Done with the attitude. Done with the defiance. Done with you. Then, A beep. A new sector time update. An engineer swallowed hard, staring at the screen. “Uh..boss-”

Natasha didn’t stop. Didn’t care. Then—Another beep. The numbers changed. “She just broke Walker’s lap record.” Natasha stopped. Yelena smirked. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

Natasha turned, slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she just heard. Another update. “She just broke the second record.” Her heartbeat roared. The control room was silent. Everyone watching. Waiting. The third sector. Another record.

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her hand clenched around the phone, the unfinished call abandoned. Because now? Now she wasn’t leaving. Now? She was watching.

You were going faster. Faster. Faster than anyone had gone before on this track. Your hands flexed over the wheel, your body moving on pure instinct. Every turn, every shift, flawless. You weren’t driving to prove something anymore. You were driving because fuck her. Fuck Natasha’s doubt. Fuck Walker’s legacy. Fuck every single person who thought you were done.

Lap after lap, the speed increased. Natasha barely had time to react. You were coming in too fast. Way too fast. Her breath hitched. Her instincts kicked in. Her hand shot toward the console, her finger hovering over the radio switch, ready to step in, to stop you from making a mistake that would end this entire session in a wreck. She had seen this before. This was the moment where drivers panicked. Where their talent collapsed under pressure.

“Y/n-”

You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You owned it. The weight transferred seamlessly, the balance perfect, the tires gripping the apex at the last possible second—And Natasha watched as you took the smoothest, most precise fucking corner she had ever seen.

Her breath hitched. Yelena, beside her, let out a low whistle. “That was kinda sexy.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she had just created a monster. Or if she had finally found the driver she had been looking for.

The tires screeched as you pulled into the pit lane, the scent of burning rubber and overheated brakes clinging to the air. Your pulse was still racing, every inch of your body vibrating with adrenaline, sweat sticking to your skin beneath the fireproof suit.

The cockpit ripped open. Natasha. Storming. Fuming. Burning. Before you could even move—before you could even reach for the harness, she grabbed you. Yanked you out of the car like you weighed nothing. Your boots hit the pavement hard, but you barely had time to react before..

Her hands fisting into your fire suit, dragging you closer, shoving you up against the side of the car. Her grip was tight, possessive, unforgiving. And when she spoke? She was livid.

“You do not turn me off!”

Your breath hitched. “You do not shut me out!”

Her voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained rage. Your chest tightened. You tried to speak. “Natasha, I-”

“Shut up!!”

Her fingers tightened, her nails digging into the fabric of your suit. “I don’t give a fuck what’s going through that reckless little brain of yours. I don’t care what you think you’re proving. You work for me.”

Her breath was hot, her lips barely inches from yours, her eyes a dark, consuming fire. “And you do what the fuck I tell you to do!”

You clenched your jaw, your stomach twisting in something between anger and the unshakable feeling that she was enjoying this. And then, her smirk. It was barely there, just the faintest tilt of her lips, but you felt it.

“You wanna prove something?” Her voice dipped lower, smoother..too smooth. “Then do it on my terms. Not by acting like a brat who can’t handle being told what to do.”

Your body tensed. Your fingers twitched, fighting every goddamn instinct to shove her away, to push back, to match her fire with your own. You opened your mouth. “I-”

But her grip yanked you forward before the words could come out. “No!”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You don’t get to speak right now!”

Her voice was a whisper now. Sharp. Slow. Dangerous. The heat between you was suffocating. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just her hands on your suit. Her body, pressing you back against the car. The anger crackling between you like a live wire.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. “Y/n?”

Your body froze. Your head snapped to the side. And there he was. Your father. Standing at the edge of the pit. Watching everything. Your stomach plummeted. Natasha didn’t let go immediately. No. She let her fingers linger for just a second longer, her eyes flicking over to your father with a slow, lazy amusement.

But instead of stepping away, she straightened your fire suit. Her touch slower than necessary, smoothing down the fabric, fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your collarbone. Her hands brushed down the front of your torso, flattening the creases with a touch so deliberate, so calculated, it made your entire body go rigid.

And when she finally spoke? It was for your ears only. “If I knew Daddy was coming to watch, I would’ve made you struggle a little more.”

Your pulse spiked. Natasha hummed, smirking like she had just won something. She took a step back. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. She pulled out her phone as she passed Yelena, not even breaking stride as she spoke into it, her voice bored, detached. “Take the contract off my table.”

Then she hung up. And just like that, she was gone.

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