#but shes still new to being free at this point

[0scarp1astr1]

 ˖ 𐔌 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬࿐ .

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Lando is loving his new life as a family man, making time and moments with them count. With his baby girl in the picture now, life couldn't be more perfect. Until, the media crosses a line it shouldn't. ||

Change it all ((Read First if you haven't))

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: Sad Sebastian, pissed off Lando, but nothing really major.

ᯓ★ Requested? Yes

Author Note: Here for you all! Maybe one day, I can make a fic where all the kids to the drivers spend time together. Feel free to request any time you want. Here is Lando being a dad again, and by far a good one.

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It was early morning in the Norris flat nestled in the hills of Monaco, where the sky glowed with a soft pastel light and the sea reflected gold from the slowly rising sun. The hush of dawn hadn’t yet been broken — the kind of peace that felt borrowed, fleeting, like the quiet before a favorite song starts. It was moments like these that made everything feel real. Lando’s arm was draped across your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder, the covers tangled between your legs.

What was once a sleek and stylish bachelor’s flat had transformed into something entirely different over the past few years — still elegant, still Monaco — but lived-in now, softened by crayon marks on walls that wouldn’t wash off, scattered Lego bricks in the corners, and the sound of little feet that never really stopped moving.

What remained just as surreal as the view outside was how completely Lando had embraced his role as a father — to both your children. He had stepped into Sebastian’s life when your son was only three, never once blinking at the challenge of loving a child that wasn’t biologically his. And now, with Lyla — his own daughter — nothing had changed. If anything, he seemed more determined to make sure Sebastian never felt a difference. He claimed him proudly, in every interview, every post, every loving gesture that quietly said: this boy is mine.

You felt his fingers flex sleepily around your waist, his face buried into your neck.

“I hear those feet…” you murmured with a tired grin.

Lando groaned in reply, eyes still shut, his curls tickling your shoulder as he shifted. “I’ll count down from five…”

You laughed softly. “No need. They’re moving at the speed of light.”

Before either of you could react, the door swung open with the force of a hurricane. Seven-year-old Sebastian shot into the room like a missile, socks skidding against hardwood before he leapt onto the bed with zero hesitation. The mattress bounced with the impact, jostling both of you as Lando let out a dramatic oof and you burst into giggles.

Trailing behind him, in a much gentler and wobblier fashion, was Lyla — her two-year-old curls still tousled from sleep, thumb halfway to her mouth, but her determination never wavering. She used the edge of the bed to hoist herself up, little knees clambering with practiced effort until she was nestled beside you.

Sebastian grinned wide, face already lit with excitement. “Do you know what today is?!” he asked, bouncing on his knees as if it were Christmas morning.

Lando blinked sleepily at him. “Hmm… let me guess, buddy… your birthday?”

Sebastian collapsed dramatically across Lando’s chest. “Nooo! Guess again!”

“My birthday?” Lando teased, pointing at himself.

Sebastian giggled, shaking his head. “No, Daddy! It’s practice day! For my race!”

Lando gasped with mock horror. “You’re right! How could I forget? That’s way more important than a birthday!”

You watched them with a smile, pulling Lyla into your arms as she giggled softly and tucked her head under your chin. You kissed the top of her curls and rocked gently.

“Well, you two boys have a busy day,” you said with a knowing smirk.

Lando shook his head, sitting up with Sebastian still draped across him like a backpack. “We all do! Come on, let’s go out afterward! Make a day of it.”

You raised a brow. “You know how Lyla does in public,” you said gently, voice full of motherly concern. “She gets overwhelmed, and—”

He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing soft circles across your palm. “I’ll be there. I’ve got her. I’ve got all of you. Always.” His voice was low but full of that quiet conviction that never failed to ground you.

You leaned in, kissing him softly. A moment shared — peaceful and full of promise.

“Ew!” Sebastian whined loudly, slapping his hands over his eyes. “Mommy, don’t! That’s so nasty!”

You and Lando burst out laughing, the kind that made your ribs hurt and your heart feel full.

“Okay, you two,” you said, wiping your eyes as you sat up straighter. “Time to get moving. I’m in charge of breakfast this morning. And Daddy…” you glanced at Lando with a smug smile, “…is on bath duty.”

Sebastian groaned. “Noooo! He takes forever! He sings and makes it a whole concert!”

Lando threw up his hands. “Hey, those bath-time concerts are award-winning, thank you very much!”

Lyla clapped her hands together and squealed, “Dada!” as she wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling as Sebastian squished himself into the cuddle pile, too.

You watched them — your people. Your chaotic, messy, absolutely perfect morning crew — and for the thousandth time, you felt that deep swell in your chest. Not just love. Not just gratitude.

You moved with ease around the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of cooking grounding you as the smell of cinnamon, scrambled eggs, and warm toast filled the air. The stovetop sizzled softly, and you balanced flipping pancakes with keeping an ear open for the usual chaos that trailed your mornings like a shadow.

Lyla was happily soaking in the tub just down the hall, her rubber duckies bobbing lazily across the sea of bubbles. You could hear her humming to herself, splashing now and then, her high-pitched giggles bouncing off the tiled walls. Meanwhile, from the adjacent bedroom, came the sound of father and son negotiations — or, more accurately, a fashion debate.

“All the girls are gonna want me looking this good!” Sebastian declared proudly, his voice echoing slightly through the open doors.

Lando laughed. “You're absolutely right, champ. It’s exactly how I won over your mom.”

You paused mid-stir, brow raised, lips twitching into a half-smile as you rolled your eyes toward the ceiling. “He’s really using that line this early in the morning?” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head with amusement.

“She fell hard for the curls,” Lando continued dramatically, fluffing Sebastian’s hair as if he were preparing him for a red carpet event.

“I knew it!” Sebastian said, puffing out his chest in front of the mirror. “Girls love cool hair.”

Back in the kitchen, you moved to plate breakfast with practiced grace, sliding fluffy pancakes onto warm dishes, eggs just the way Sebastian liked — slightly runny but not “gooey” as he insisted — and a few cut strawberries on the side for Lyla. You were used to this: multitasking like a magician with a wand in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Soon enough, the family made their way to the table — Lando drying his hands on a dish towel, Sebastian practically skipping with excitement, and Lyla toddling in behind them, curls still damp and cheeks pink from her bath. You had her sit in her booster seat at the end of the table and gently wrapped a towel around her tiny shoulders to catch any drips.

As she munched happily on her pancakes, you stood behind her, carefully sectioning her hair with nimble fingers, your voice low and soothing.

“Let’s try something cute today, hmm?” you murmured, twisting soft little curls into a half-up bun, securing it with a gentle clip that matched her tiny shirt — a pale blue one with little clouds on it.

“She looks like a doll,” Lando said with a grin, watching as Lyla turned to flash him a syrupy smile, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

“Dada,” she giggled, smearing her fingers on her tray.

“Okay, helmet?” Lando said, turning back to Sebastian and tapping into race dad mode. “Gloves? Shoes? Suit? Water?”

Sebastian nodded along confidently, his mouth full of toast. “Helmet, check. Gloves, check. Suit, double check. And I already put my water in the bag. See?” He held up a small bottle with cartoon lightning bolts on it, grinning as Lando gave him a mock salute.

“You’re on it, little champ,” Lando said, reaching out to tousle his hair again — carefully, of course, so as not to undo the masterpiece they had just created.

You finished pinning Lyla’s bun, stepping back to admire your handiwork before letting out a soft sigh. “You two go over that list every morning like you’re heading into space instead of a kart track,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you leaned on the back of Lyla’s chair.

Lando leaned back in his seat, throwing his arm casually around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Well, we could be astronauts. You never know what kind of traffic we’ll hit on the way.”

Sebastian laughed. “Space traffic!”

You shook your head, chuckling. “Mmm, sounds like someone’s been watching too much sci-fi with their dad.”

“Never too much,” Lando said with a wink. “Besides, if he’s going to be the youngest world champion in karting history, he’s got to be prepared for everything. Meteor showers. Tire punctures. Mid-race alien invasions.”

“You two are hopeless,” you said, brushing a crumb off Lyla’s bib before leaning down to kiss her cheek. She turned to smoosh her pancake against your chin in response.

“See?” Lando said, watching the sticky chaos unfold. “This is why you’re in charge of breakfast, and I’m in charge of bath-time concerts and emotional support.”

“You do bring the chaos and the comedy,” you said, laughing as you wiped your chin with a napkin.

Lando stood and stretched, his shirt rising just slightly over his stomach as he groaned like an old man. “Alright, team. Finish up, grab your things, and let’s get this show on the road!”

Sebastian hopped up with an enthusiastic, “Yes, sir!” and darted off to find his shoes.

Lando leaned in as you helped Lyla down from her seat, planting a kiss at your temple. “We make a good team, huh?”

You smiled, glancing down at your daughter’s syrup-stained curls. “The best.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Sebastian sat in the backseat with his head leaned gently against the window, his dark curls freshly brushed and bouncing slightly every time the car hit a bump in the road. He watched the trees blur by, his little face glowing with joy, occasionally pointing out passing birds or funny-shaped clouds. The soft hum of his humming, offbeat and sweet, filled the car like background music to a peaceful morning.

Beside him, Lyla sat in her car seat clutching her plush bunny in one hand, the other rubbing her tired eyes. Her lashes were still damp from her bath, and her tiny mouth hung open in a sleepy pout. You glanced back at her with a soft smile before turning your head toward Lando, your arm resting lazily on the center console as the morning sun spilled into the car.

"You know," you began, your voice quiet and careful, "about that upcoming race… are we gonna talk about it?"

Lando didn’t glance at you — his focus stayed on the road, jaw slightly tightening. His hands adjusted subtly on the wheel, knuckles tensing for just a second. "Not in front of the kids," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Would be nice to just… have a peaceful drive."

You hummed in understanding, nodding slowly. He wasn’t wrong. You’d learned by now that Sebastian didn’t handle his absence well — not even short trips. The kid was emotionally aware, always had been. And as much as Lando tried to explain race weekends and schedules, it always came back to one thing: Why can’t you just stay home with us?

You looked over your shoulder again at Lyla, who was still fighting sleep. Her thumb rested near her lips, and you could see the way her small frame stiffened every time the car rolled past more people on the sidewalks. You sighed.

“She’s already tired, poor thing,” you murmured.

"Yeah, she was that way after her breakfast." He pointed.

You nodded again. “She’s still not comfortable in crowds.”

The car grew quiet. You both hated that part — not because you minded adjusting for her, but because it hurt to see her so afraid of the world. Your arms were her hiding place, your scent the only thing that calmed her when strangers’ eyes overwhelmed her. There were times she'd sob, clinging to you like her life depended on it, and only Lando’s calm voice and protective arms could slowly settle her.

“I still don’t understand it,” you said softly, shaking your head. “We never pushed her. Never forced her into loud spaces or too many people…”

“Sometimes it’s just how they’re wired,” Lando offered, his voice calm but laced with concern. “It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with her. She’s sensitive. She feels things deeper than other kids. That’s not a flaw.”

You smiled faintly, reaching over to squeeze his hand on the gearshift. “Well, I want you to know… we’ll be expecting you to come home.”

He finally looked at you then, just for a second — his eyes warm and filled with love. “I love my family,” he said firmly. “I'd be a fool not to wanna be home with you guys.”

A peaceful silence fell over the car. You soaked in the moment — Sebastian's quiet joy, Lyla’s sleepy breathing, the comfort of Lando’s presence beside you. The kind of moment you wish you could bottle up forever.

Then your phone buzzed sharply in your bag, breaking the stillness. You glanced at it, saw the name light up on the screen, and tucked it back into your purse without a word.

Lando noticed. His eyes darted to you, then back to the road. “Who was that?” he asked, his tone casual — but just barely.

You exhaled. “You know who’s dad…”

His grip on the wheel tightened slightly. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared out ahead, jaw flexing. His shoulders tensed, the kind of reaction that told you he was fighting the urge to say something harsh — not in front of the kids.

“He has no reason to call,” Lando said at last, his voice low, controlled.

You nodded, your lips pressing together. “His excuse is he wants to build a bond with Sebastian.”

Lando scoffed, his laugh bitter and humorless. “Bullshit,” he spat. “Build something with him? Firstly, that’s my son.”

You stayed silent, listening — because you knew what was coming, and he had every right to say it.

“I don’t recall him claiming Sebastian when I came into his life at three years old,” Lando continued, eyes hard on the road. “Where was he then? Hm? When Sebastian was asking why his dad didn’t come to the school play? When he needed someone to tie his shoes or wipe his tears or sit through every damn dentist appointment?”

You reached across the console and laid a hand on his arm. His voice cracked slightly.

“He needs to find someone else to play parent with,” he said, a tremor of protectiveness in his throat. “Because it won’t be my son.”

You let the words linger for a moment, feeling the weight of them settle in the car like dust.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I didn’t answer. I won’t. Not until I know Sebastian is safe. Emotionally, mentally… he doesn’t get to mess with his heart just because he’s feeling guilty or left out now.”

Lando glanced at you again, softer now. “You always protect them.”

“So do you,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

From the backseat, Sebastian’s voice chimed in, unaware of the heaviness in the front.

“Are we almost there?” he asked, kicking his feet happily.

“Almost, champ,” Lando called back, voice instantly warmer. “You ready to win today?”

“Always!” Sebastian grinned.

Lyla blinked her eyes open, her gaze locking on you. You reached back and brushed a curl from her cheek, watching as her face relaxed at your touch.

“Oh! I like this song!” Sebastian piped up from the backseat, his little voice bubbling with excitement.

Lando glanced at the rearview mirror and smirked, reaching forward to turn the volume knob up just a little. “Classic,” he said with a grin, recognizing the tune.

Sebastian immediately started singing along — a little off-key, but enthusiastic nonetheless, his shoulders bouncing with every beat. Lando, unable to resist, joined in, throwing in a dramatic harmony that made Sebastian laugh.

You turned your head to watch the two of them for a moment — your son with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and the man who’d become his entire world, belting out lyrics like they were the headliners of a sold-out concert.

“You two are something else,” you murmured with a fond smile, shaking your head.

The front of the car erupted in playful chaos, with Lando drumming his hands on the wheel and Sebastian pretending to play air guitar. You pulled out your phone, instinctively hitting record. You captured it — the laughter, the music, the sunlight dancing across their faces — and posted it to your Instagram story with a simple caption: my boys 💛

There was something so peaceful about that moment. You didn’t need anything more. It was messy and loud and filled with love.

When you finally arrived, the hum of excitement still buzzed between all of you. Sebastian jumped out first, eyes wide and full of anticipation. Lando stepped out after him, grabbing the gear bag with one hand and Sebastian’s smaller one with the other. You moved to the back to get Lyla, who was still curled up in her car seat, her bunny clutched tightly to her chest.

You gently lifted her out, her body molding instantly to yours, her head tucking into your neck as her tiny hand gripped your hoodie.

“She’ll be okay,” you whispered softly, kissing her temple.

Lando came around to your side, brushing a hand down Lyla’s back as he looked at you. “It’s just a crowd,” he echoed quietly, as if saying it would make it true. “She’s gonna be okay...we’re here.”

You both nodded, but it was more for yourselves than anyone else.

Lyla whimpered a little as voices swelled in the distance, and you adjusted her in your arms, shushing her gently. You found a seat away from the crowd, tucked near the fence, giving her the space she needed to feel safe while still watching everything unfold.

Meanwhile, Lando led Sebastian toward check-in, walking side by side as if this were their own little pre-race ritual. He helped him unzip the duffle, pulling out the race suit and setting it down over the bench.

“Alright,” Lando said, kneeling down beside him as he began helping Sebastian into his suit. “You got this. I know you do. But remember, don’t push too hard. If someone’s being reckless, let them pass. We’re not here to crash. We’re here to finish.”

Sebastian nodded, his expression serious. “You always say that,” he muttered, pulling one arm through his sleeve.

Lando smirked. “Because it’s true. Some of these kids? They don’t play fair. But you do. You’ve got a good heart, and good instincts. That’ll take you farther than a shortcut ever will.”

Sebastian was quiet as he finished adjusting the suit around his waist, fiddling with the zipper. Lando’s brow furrowed slightly. He knew that silence — it wasn’t focus. It was doubt.

“Hey,” Lando said, crouching down again and lowering his voice. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kiddo?”

Sebastian looked up at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It’s just…” he hesitated. “The other kids… they say I’m only good because of you. That I don’t actually work hard. Some of the parents too. I didn’t mean to listen in but… they talk loud enough.”

Lando’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. He didn’t speak for a moment, processing it.

“They say it’s just handed to me,” Sebastian continued, looking down. “And when I win or do something good, no one really cheers for me… not like they do for the others.”

Lando blew out a slow breath through his nose, trying not to let his anger show too much. He knelt fully now, hands resting on Sebastian’s shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “You are good because you work for it. I don’t care what any of them say. I help you — I coach you, yeah — but I’m not the one on that track. You are. You’re the one who gets in the kart. You’re the one who focuses. You’re the one who takes what we practice and makes it happen.”

Sebastian’s eyes welled slightly, and he looked away, embarrassed. “But what if they’re right? What if I’m only good because you’re… you?”

Lando shook his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You think being my son guarantees anything? You’ve got no idea how hard you’ve worked to be here, how much discipline it takes for someone your age to handle this pressure.”

He smiled gently now, brushing a piece of hair out of Sebastian’s face.

“You’re doing amazing, Seb. And honestly? They’re just mad that you’ve got someone in your corner who believes in you. That’s what they’re really jealous of.”

Sebastian sniffled once, nodding slowly.

“And you know what?” Lando added with a mischievous grin. “When I have you as the face of McLaren in a few years, those same people? They’ll be the ones begging for your autograph.”

That got a smile.

“For real?” Sebastian whispered.

“For real,” Lando said. “Now, c’mon. Let’s show them exactly why you’re the one to watch.”

He offered his fist, and Sebastian bumped it with his own, a new fire in his eyes.

From the stands, you watched the whole thing unfold — Lando kneeling beside Sebastian, talking to him like he was the most important person in the world. And to both of you, he was.

You looked down at Lyla in your arms, her breathing even and her little fingers still clutching her bunny, and kissed her forehead.

You stood near the edge of the karting track, sunlight glinting off the safety barriers, the breeze carrying the smell of fresh rubber and excitement. Lyla sat comfortably on your hip, playing absently with your necklace, her curls a soft halo in the golden light. From your vantage point, you could see everything — the track, the other kids prepping, and most importantly: Sebastian.

His kart zoomed around the bend, hugging the corner with precision beyond his years, and Lando stood tall beside you, his arms folded, pride practically radiating from him.

“God, he looks good out there,” you said with a soft smile, not taking your eyes off Sebastian’s small figure in the kart. “He’s grown so much. His lines are cleaner than they’ve ever been.”

Lando nodded, his mouth twitching into a proud grin. “He’s smoother, more confident... and he’s reading the track. That’s not something you can force into a kid. He wants this.”

You glanced at him, your gaze lingering. “That’s because of you. You’ve been in his corner since the day you met him. He listens to you.”

He exhaled a breath, voice dropping a little. “It’s all him. I just gave him the tools. He did the rest.”

“No,” you said, wrapping your arm through his. “You gave him a dad. That’s what he needed most.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at you with something tender in his eyes — something unspoken but understood. Then, Sebastian flew by again, his kart perfectly balanced as he handled a tricky chicane without flinching.

“He’s killing it,” Lando muttered with pride.

“He’s so little, yet so fearless,” you said with a light laugh, adjusting Lyla who had begun to rest her head on your shoulder. “And he’s got your determination.”

Lando chuckled. “He’s got your heart.”

Sebastian finished another lap, slowing as he coasted into the pit area. His helmet tilted your way, and even behind the visor, you knew he was beaming.

Lando turned to you, taking Lyla gently from your arms and cradling her against his chest. “I’m going to go talk to him — he’ll want to review that last corner. I think he was pushing for a tighter exit.”

You watched him approach Sebastian with warmth in your chest, your boys side by side, your daughter tucked securely in Lando’s arms.

Sebastian pulled off his helmet, his face flushed and glowing with pride. “Did you see me?!” he asked excitedly as Lando crouched down beside him.

“I did,” Lando grinned, ruffling his hair. “You nailed the back corner. That’s the cleanest I’ve seen you take it. I’m seriously impressed.”

“Can we watch the footage later?” Sebastian asked. “I wanna see how I can make my line even better.”

“Of course,” Lando replied. “We’ll break it down, see where you can gain time. But today? You did everything right.”

From where you stood, you could hear their conversation, and it made your heart swell. Sebastian wasn’t just driving — he was growing, thriving, becoming someone with confidence and focus, and so much of that came from Lando’s gentle, steady guidance.

You walked over and knelt beside them. “We saw you out there, baby,” you said, brushing a hand through his curls. “You were incredible. Smooth, fast… and smart.”

Sebastian looked up at you, shy but proud. “Thanks, Mom. It felt really good today. I didn’t even get scared when I had to pass that older kid.”

“That’s because you’re brave,” you said, kissing the top of his head. “And you’ve got the best coach in the world.”

He turned to Lando, grinning. “Can we get ice cream? You said good laps mean good treats.”

Lando chuckled. “I believe I did say that. Alright, one scoop for a good lap... two scoops for a great one.”

“Then I get three,” Sebastian declared with a cheeky smile.

You all laughed as you took Lando’s free hand in yours, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. Lyla yawned in his arms, her tiny body curled into his chest like it was her safest place.

Looking at the three of them — Lando kneeling beside Sebastian, Lyla dozing in his arms, the proud look on his face as he juggled being a coach, a father, and your partner — you couldn’t help but feel full. Of love, of peace, of something that felt like forever.

After a successful day at the track, Sebastian chattered endlessly from the backseat, recounting every twist, turn, and overtake he had made during practice. His hands moved animatedly, mimicking his steering, his words tumbling out faster than his kart had gone. You and Lando exchanged soft glances as you sat in the front — it was one of those small, sweet moments that made parenthood feel so full.

“And then I passed him right before the curve, and I didn’t even have to brake that much! I just— vroom— took the inside and boom! Gone!” Sebastian beamed, eyes wide with excitement.

“Don’t have a sugar rush or a sugar crash, mate,” Lando chuckled, giving him a teasing glance in the rearview mirror.

“I won’t,” Sebastian promised quickly, though the giant scoop of chocolate ice cream in his hand said otherwise.

It only took a few more minutes and half a cone before the inevitable happened — Sebastian’s head lolled to the side, ice cream wiped away, his mouth slightly open as he slept soundly. Lyla, tucked in her car seat beside him with her thumb near her mouth and her little bunny plush clutched to her chest, was already out like a light, her soft breaths the only sound beside the hum of the car.

With both kids asleep and the city lights beginning to dim under the setting sun, you turned your gaze toward Lando. His hands rested calmly on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, the soft orange-pink hues from the sky reflecting gently off his face.

It was the perfect time to talk.

“So…” you began softly, careful not to disturb the peaceful air. “When do you head out for your race?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, barely noticeable, and then he let out a low sigh. “Next weekend,” he muttered.

You frowned slightly, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You’ll be back before Sebastian’s next race, right?” you asked, a little tentative, but hopeful.

He sighed again, deeper this time. “I hope so,” he said truthfully. “I really do. It just depends how the travel and schedule plays out. But I promise you, I’m trying.”

You could hear the frustration behind his voice, not directed at you — never at you — but toward the situation he was tangled in. Racing, family, responsibility... the weight of being in two places at once. You reached over and rested your hand on his thigh gently.

“I know,” you said softly. “We’re not mad, baby.”

Lando’s fingers gripped the wheel a little tighter. “I just…” he paused, searching for the words. “I’m upset. Upset that I’ve got this race and I know I can’t take you guys with me — not because I don’t want you there. But Lyla… she doesn’t like crowds. She gets overwhelmed and anxious, and I’d never forgive myself if she had a meltdown because I forced her into that kind of environment.”

You nodded, heart aching at how much he carried inside. “We know, Lando. You’re always doing what’s best for us. Lyla’s well-being comes first, and Sebastian understands. He might miss you when you're gone, but he knows how much you love him.”

“I just hate not being there,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “Putting Lyla down at night, handling Sebastian’s school, meals, practice — it all falls on you when I’m away, and I know that has to get exhausting.”

You turned your body slightly toward him, brushing your thumb over his hand where it rested between gears. “It gets hard, yeah. But I’d do it again and again because this is our life. I love our life, even the messy parts.”

Lando looked over at you briefly, the corners of his mouth lifting just a little.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured. “A real break. Just us. Somewhere warm, quiet, no press, no race schedule. I’ll book it after the next GP. Sebastian and Lyla can stay with my parents — they’ll be spoiled rotten and so happy to see their cousins.”

You laughed under your breath, brushing your hair out of your face as the breeze from the slightly open window caught it. “You’re too sweet for your own good sometimes, Norris.”

“I try,” he smiled, glancing over at you again. “But I mean it. You need rest too, babe. Not just sleep. Real rest. Sun. A slow morning. A long bath. No tiny humans yelling about cereal or needing their race suit zipped up.”

You laughed again, quieter this time, as you looked over your shoulder at the sleeping kids. Sebastian’s mouth was still open, Lyla clutching her bunny with a peaceful expression on her face.

“You’re an amazing dad, Lando,” you said, your voice warm, full of sincerity. “Even when you’re gone, we still feel your love around us. That’s something special.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Later that evening, the sky outside the windows had turned a rich, velvety navy. Inside the house, the atmosphere was warm but quietly heavy — a kind of stillness you felt more than heard. The television murmured in the background, but it barely registered over the small voices drifting from down the hall.

Lando was in the bedroom, packing slowly. His suitcase lay open on the bed, half-filled with race gear, socks, and shirts all folded with methodical care — but he wasn’t focused. Not really. Every few minutes, he paused, sighing softly to himself, glancing toward the hallway like he could feel time running too quickly.

“I can fit here,” Sebastian declared from beside the bed, pointing at the remaining space in the suitcase with a hopeful look on his face. “Right here, next to your shoes. I’ll be still.”

Lando managed a weak chuckle. “You can’t, bud. I’m sorry.”

“But if I curl up really small—”

“Seb…” Lando’s voice cracked just slightly, guilt tugging at his chest. “I wish I could take you, I do. But I can’t this time.”

Before the moment could settle, Lyla toddled over, latching herself around Lando’s leg and hugging tightly. “Dada,” she said in a tiny whimper. She didn’t quite understand what was happening — just that her father had a suitcase out again. And that was never a good sign.

You heard them from the living room and stood, walking toward the bedroom doorway quietly. The second you appeared, Lando looked up at you, and his eyes said everything: I can’t do this… please help.

“Alright, kiddos,” you said gently, crouching down to their level. “Daddy needs to pack. He’s not going for long, but he needs to be ready.”

“I wanna go with him!” Sebastian said again, louder this time, tears pricking at his eyes.

“I know you do,” you murmured, brushing some of his curls from his face. “But you’ve got school, remember? And karting, and Lyla—she doesn’t do well in big crowds, sweetie. So we’ll stay here, and when Daddy’s done with his race, he’ll come right back to us. Just like always.”

Sebastian stood still for a moment, eyes on the floor. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. “But… what if this time he doesn’t?”

The words landed like ice water to the chest. You exchanged a quiet glance with Lando before quickly crouching closer.

“What do you mean by that, baby?” you asked softly.

Sebastian shrugged, jaw trembling.

“Seb… talk to us. What’s going on in that big heart of yours?” you coaxed.

But his silence thickened, lips pressed into a tight line. He shook his head hard and took a step back, eyes starting to brim with tears.

“Sebastian…” Lando started gently, “Hey, look at me, buddy.”

But the boy turned suddenly, wiping at his cheeks and darting toward the door. “I don’t wanna talk about it!” he shouted, voice cracking as he ran down the hallway. His bedroom door slammed a moment later, muffled sobs barely audible behind it.

Lando stood frozen, his hand halfway out like he could reach for him. “Shit,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean for him to feel like this.”

You moved slowly toward him, Lyla still tucked into your arms as her big eyes watched you both. “He’s scared,” you whispered. “And he doesn’t know how to say it yet.”

“I would never leave him!” Lando said again, his voice strained, eyes shining as he tried to hold himself together. “Not on purpose. Not ever.”

You stepped closer, gently reaching for his hand. “Baby, we know that,” you murmured, voice soft. “He knows that too… deep down. But he’s just… going through a lot right now. He’s young, and this is all a lot to take in. He’s scared, but Lando…” you looked at him with all the tenderness in your heart, “he loves you so much.”

Lando let out a breathy laugh, but it didn’t hold much humor. “So much he thinks I’m trying to leave him on purpose,” he said bitterly, shaking his head.

You felt your chest ache, your heart twisting at the pain that passed across his face. It wasn’t fair — not to Lando, and not to Sebastian. You both tried so hard to give the kids a life full of love and security, and yet somehow, fear still crept in through the cracks.

“I don’t even know where this came from,” you admitted, your voice catching. “What made him say that? Is someone saying things to him? Did he overhear something? It’s bothering me, Lando. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Lando was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched. He hated the unknown of it too — hated that Sebastian was hurting in ways they couldn’t immediately fix.

“Go talk to him,” you finally said, gently nudging his hand. “Before bed. He needs to hear from you. He needs that reassurance. And tomorrow… please, while you’re away, think about how this even happened. Figure out what he’s feeling and why. Because this—” you shook your head, “—this isn’t something we can let fester.”

Lando nodded slowly, pulling you into a tight hug before stepping back with a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he said. “He shouldn’t have to carry this. Not at his age.”

His feet carried him quietly down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. When he reached Sebastian’s room, the soft hum of the nightlight cast little race cars in orange light against the walls. Sebastian was curled up in his race car bed, turned toward the wall, clutching his pillow tightly. His shoulders were trembling, the occasional hiccup giving away his tears.

“Sebastian…” Lando said gently from the doorway.

No answer.

He stepped inside, kneeling beside the bed slowly. “Listen to me, buddy,” Lando said, voice low but steady. “You are my son. Okay? Nothing about that is temporary. Nothing about that is going to change.”

Sebastian sniffled but didn’t respond, his small body tense under the covers.

“I don’t know why you’re feeling like this, or what made you think that I’d leave you. But I need you to hear me — I would never, ever leave you on purpose. This racing stuff… it’s part of what I do. But it’s not more important than you. Or your sister. Or your mom. You three are everything to me.”

Sebastian gave the faintest shake of his head, still not turning around.

“I came into your life when you were just three,” Lando continued, his voice softening even more. “You probably don’t remember all of it, but I do. I remember meeting you. I remember how loud and happy you were, how curious. I remember how your little hand fit in mine the first time we crossed the street together. And I remember thinking, I’m going to protect this kid. Always.”

There was a pause, then a sniff from Sebastian.

“You know… before I met you and your mom, my life was a lot faster than it is now,” Lando confessed. “I was partying, flying everywhere, being wild and selfish and not really thinking about anything long term. But then I met you two… and everything changed. You made me want to be different.”

Finally, Sebastian stirred. His little hand poked out from under the blanket, wiping at his eyes. Lando reached out and rested his hand gently on the bed.

“When I asked your mom to marry me, I didn’t just ask to be her husband. I asked to be your dad, too. Because by then… you weren’t just some kid I was helping raise. You were mine. You are mine. I love you, Sebastian, more than I can explain. You’re my first son. You’re my world.”

Sebastian finally turned over, his face blotchy and red-eyed. “Then why do you keep leaving?” he whispered, voice trembling. “Why do you have to go?”

Lando swallowed hard and reached for him, brushing his hair from his face. “Because that’s part of what I do right now. But it’s not forever. And I promise, I hate being away from you just as much as you hate it. I miss your voice, your jokes, your excitement over karting. I miss bedtime and hugging you goodnight. I don’t leave because I want to. I go because it’s my job — but I always come home. Always.”

Sebastian’s lower lip quivered. “You’re not like my other dad?”

“Not even close,” Lando said, shaking his head firmly. “Your other dad left when things got hard. I stay. I’ll always stay. I don’t care how far away I have to go, you’re my son, and I’m coming back to you. Every single time.”

Sebastian finally launched himself forward, wrapping his arms tight around Lando’s neck. “Okay,” he whispered against his shoulder. “I believe you.”

Lando held him just as tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, eyes stinging.

“I love you, little man,” he murmured. “More than words. And I’m always coming home to you.”

Outside the door, you wiped a tear from your cheek, quietly backing away to give them the moment they both needed. Inside that room, a little boy’s fears began to melt, just a little — warmed by the voice of the man who never once thought of him as anything less than his own.

The house was wrapped in stillness, the soft hum of the night filling the quiet as the children slept peacefully in their rooms. You lay tucked under the covers, curled close against Lando’s chest, his arm draped around you protectively. His warmth, his heartbeat, the calm of being next to him after such an emotionally draining day — it was everything you needed.

Your fingers gently traced circles on his chest, your voice soft as you murmured, “We’ll be expecting that win, you know.”

Lando let out a low chuckle, his lips brushing the top of your head. “I’ll win,” he promised, his tone full of tired certainty. “You have my word.”

You smiled faintly, but your heart was still heavy. “So…” you began, hesitating for a second, “Did he give in? Did he tell you where he heard it?”

Lando’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling slowly as he pulled you a little closer. “No,” he said quietly. “He never told me where he learned it from.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, his frustration evident even in the dim light. “But I’ll figure it out. Someone’s spreading bullshit about him not being my son. I don’t care if it’s some nosy gossip mom at the karting track or someone we actually know... Someone’s putting that idea in his head, and I won’t let it slide.”

You looked up at him, catching the slight furrow of his brow in the soft light from the hallway. He was trying to stay calm — for you, for the kids — but you knew him well enough to recognize the storm brewing behind his eyes.

You sighed, your hand slipping up to cup his jaw gently. “He’s still a kid, Lan. A sensitive one. All it takes is one sentence, one nasty comment… and it sticks. We just have to keep showing him what’s true. Every single day.”

Lando turned his face into your touch, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I know,” he murmured. “It just kills me that anyone could make him feel like that. Like he’s not wanted, or not mine. I’ve been there since he was three. I’ve changed nappies, made lunch boxes, sat by his bed when he was sick. That kid is mine.”

Your eyes softened. “I know, love. He knows it too. Deep down, he does. He just needed to hear it out loud tonight.”

Lando looked at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said it more. I should say it every day.”

“You say it in how you show up,” you whispered, laying your head back on his chest. “In how you coach him, how you pick him up from school, how you wrestle with him in the living room like an overgrown kid. That’s what he remembers, Lando. That’s what counts.”

He wrapped both arms around you now, tighter than before, and let the silence linger for a moment — the kind of silence that spoke love more deeply than words ever could.

“Let’s just get some sleep,” you said softly, a yawn escaping as you nestled further into his embrace.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The airport buzzed with travelers and rolling suitcases, but in the middle of it all, Lando stood still, a backpack slung over one shoulder and his race bag at his feet, watching his little family like he didn’t want to blink and miss a second of them. The sunlight streamed in through the massive windows, casting a warm golden glow on the polished floors and the group of you gathered just by the lounge entrance.

You shifted Lyla gently in your arms, her small arms wrapped around your neck and her cheek pressed against your shoulder, peeking every so often only to immediately hide again. Her curls tickled your chin as you smiled, rocking slightly on your feet to soothe her. “I swear, if this airport had a softer carpet, she’d be napping right now,” you muttered, causing Lando to snort.

Sebastian stood at Lando’s side, bouncing on the balls of his feet, full of energy and curiosity. “So you travel with Oscar?” he asked, eyes wide with fascination like the idea of teammates sharing an airport adventure was just the coolest thing ever.

“Yeah, buddy,” Lando nodded with a grin, ruffling Sebastian’s hair. “He’s my teammate. We fly together, practice together, complain about food together…”

“Do you sit together on the plane?” Sebastian cut in.

Lando blinked. “Only if he gets there on time. Otherwise, I claim the window seat and he sulks in the middle.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound bright and warm. “Classic Oscar,” you said with a smirk. “Lyla, you’ll end up liking Oscar. He’s quiet — not many words, very mellow — so he won’t scare you. You could honestly make him your emotional support adult.”

Lyla, predictably, burrowed her face deeper into your neck like you’d just told her Oscar was a walking jump scare. “Okay, okay,” you whispered into her curls, pressing a kiss to her head. “Take your time.”

As if the universe were on cue, Oscar Piastri strolled into view — calm, composed, holding his suitcase like it weighed nothing, dressed in comfy layers and holding a coffee like he absolutely woke up ten minutes before arriving.

“Look who finally made it!” Lando quipped, throwing his arms out. “Only mildly fashionably late.”

Oscar raised a brow, completely unbothered. “Lando, I was on time. You were just here twenty minutes early because you’re emotionally unstable without your family.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand. “He’s not wrong.”

“I am not emotionally unstable,” Lando protested. “I’m emotionally… organized.”

“Sure,” Oscar deadpanned. “Very organized meltdown last time your daughter FaceTimed you and then hung up mid-sentence.”

Lyla peeked up again, this time catching a glimpse of Oscar, only to retreat immediately. Oscar noticed, offering a small, kind smile and a little wave, like he’d read a guidebook on communicating with toddlers. “Hi, Lyla,” he said gently. “I won’t talk too much. Promise.”

“Uncle Oscar is learning,” you said proudly.

Sebastian, meanwhile, practically threw himself at Oscar, grabbing his hand. “I saw you win that one time and my dad was like, ‘Yeah, yeah, okay, good job’ but I was like ‘LET’S GOOO’ and then I made a drawing of you and I forgot to bring it.”

Oscar blinked. “That’s...very sweet. Also, you should be in PR.”

“Trying to be just like Dad,” Sebastian said proudly, making Lando grin ear to ear.

Lando then reached out, hands open like a kid about to ask for a puppy. “Can I just take Lyla?” he pleaded.

You gave him the most exaggerated look of faux-shock. “Oh sure, let me just hand over our clingy, sleep-fighting, tiny-anxiety-ball daughter to a man who doesn’t even remember to pack his own socks half the time.”

“I remember my socks... now,” he muttered.

You stepped closer, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “I know you miss her when you travel. I know you’d take us all in your suitcase if you could.”

Lando's eyes softened, that teasing glint replaced by something real and vulnerable. “I just hate the part where I leave,” he murmured. “Everything else is manageable, but walking away from you three? That’s the worst part of my job.”

You leaned up to kiss him softly, Lyla squirming slightly in your arms as if sensing the emotion. “Go win. Come home. That’s all we ask of you.”

He smiled, wrapping one arm around your waist, kissing Lyla’s cheek, and ruffling Sebastian’s hair one last time. “I’ll bring back souvenirs.”

“Better be food,” Sebastian said.

“Better be diamonds,” you added with a grin.

Oscar sighed beside you both, already done. “Can we please go before you all start crying and I have to stand here pretending not to care?”

Lando threw an arm around his teammate’s shoulder. “Admit it, you love us.”

Oscar shrugged. “You’re...tolerable.”

“Progress!” you cheered.

As Lando began to walk away, he turned back one last time, catching your eyes — a silent promise exchanged between the two of you in that fleeting glance. He mouthed I love you, and you whispered it right back.

And just like that, he was gone for now — but never really gone. Not in the ways that mattered.

Once the plane had taxied down the runway and lifted into the clouds, the familiar hum of the engines filled the cabin, creating that oddly peaceful quiet that only seemed to exist once wheels left the ground. Lando sat back in his seat, letting out a slow breath as he adjusted his cap and glanced out the window for a second — but all he could picture was Lyla’s sleepy little face nuzzled into your neck, and Sebastian’s teary eyes looking up at him just hours ago at home.

He turned toward Oscar, who was already halfway reclined and lazily sipping a ginger ale like they weren’t thirty thousand feet in the sky. “I miss them already,” Lando muttered, not really trying to hide it.

Oscar glanced sideways at him, his expression softening. “Sebastian’s growing up fast,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “Last time I saw him properly, he was just this tiny three-year-old clinging to your leg, trying to ‘help’ you clean your helmet with baby wipes.”

Lando chuckled, rubbing at his jaw. “Yeah… he’s seven now. Whole personality built in. Witty, quick on his feet, obsessed with racing. It’s like looking in a mirror — except better.” His eyes lingered out the window, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips before it slowly faded. “Y/n’s sad he’s getting older. I am too. He’s not my little guy forever. And then there’s Lyla… she just turned two, and she’s already more emotionally aware than half the grid.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh, but he could tell from the tension in Lando’s voice that something was weighing heavier than normal.

“What’s eating at you?” Oscar asked gently, setting his drink aside.

Lando hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. “Sebastian’s been… weird lately. About me leaving. He gets upset. He thinks… he thinks I won’t come back. That I’ll leave him like his biological dad did.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together in concern. “Shit,” he muttered. “That’s heavy for a seven-year-old.”

“Tell me about it.” Lando’s voice cracked slightly. “He won’t talk about it much either. Y/n says he’s scared. And I get it, I do. He’s trying to protect himself. But when he said it last night, when he asked if I was leaving like his other dad…” He trailed off, blinking rapidly. “It felt like someone punched a hole through my chest.”

Oscar didn’t interrupt. He just listened, giving Lando the space to vent.

“I’ve given him reassurance, every time,” Lando continued. “I tuck him in, I talk to him about my schedule, I FaceTime them from the paddock, I bring him souvenirs — hell, I’d tattoo his name on my forehead if I thought it’d help. And Y/n… she says I’m doing great. But it doesn’t make it hurt less. I’m not mad at him. I’m just… frustrated. Heartbroken.”

Oscar nodded slowly, choosing his words carefully. “You love that kid like he’s yours. And he is, Lando. You’ve raised him. Anyone with eyes can see that. But he’s old enough now to start feeling uncertainty. He probably overheard something. Or maybe it’s just all these changes, the travel, Lyla being little and needing more attention, growing up in general… it’s a lot for a kid.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling. “I hate that I have to filter everything I say or do. Not around him — around everyone else. I hold back online. I avoid talking about him sometimes in interviews. Because the moment people know the full story, they’ll twist it. Gossip about his real dad. Make up stories about me and Y/n. And he’ll hear it. And I can't shield him from all of it forever.”

Oscar gave a solemn hum. “People can hate on you, yeah. But your family’s different. It’s the soft spot. I get that.”

“I don’t care what they say about me,” Lando said, voice tight. “Call me overhyped, say I’ll never be a world champion, criticize everything — fine. But the second they talk about Y/n? About Sebastian? Lyla? That’s my red line.”

There was a silence that stretched for a moment, filled only by the low buzz of the plane.

Oscar broke it with a quiet, honest comment. “You’re a better dad than most, Lando. Hell, you’re a better man than most. Seb will figure that out — if he hasn’t already. Kids are smart, and he’s yours. In the ways that count.”

Lando let out a breath, one hand dragging down his face. “Yeah… thanks, mate.”

Oscar gave him a side glance. “Just don’t cry on me. I can’t handle that mid-flight.”

Lando scoffed and wiped his eye. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

“I’m crying from having to hear about feelings on an airplane,” Oscar muttered dryly.

That got a laugh out of Lando, finally. One that shook the tension loose in his shoulders.

He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and glancing down at the screen where he’d set a lock screen of the four of you at the beach — Sebastian covered in sand, Lyla curled up in your lap, you smiling toward the camera as Lando held it out with wind-tousled hair and a cheeky grin.

He stared at the picture for a long moment before nodding to himself.

“I’ll win this weekend,” he said, more to himself than to Oscar. “For them.”

The familiar winding roads of Monaco stretched before you, the sea glittering off in the distance and the sunlight casting a warm glow across the dashboard. You let out a soft sigh, one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently in your lap as the comforting hum of the car filled the silence. The air was calm, the kind that settled in only after a long morning of goodbyes — the kind that reminded you someone was missing from the seat beside you.

From the backseat, the soft sounds of Sebastian quietly humming drifted forward. He was mumbling the theme song to one of his favorite cartoons, his fingers rhythmically drumming on the armrest beside him. Lyla, tucked snugly into her car seat, swung her little legs gently back and forth, her favorite stuffed bunny cradled in her arms, as her eyes flicked between the sun-drenched buildings outside and her big brother beside her.

You glanced into the rearview mirror, watching them with a soft smile before speaking up. “Alright, kiddos,” you said, voice warm and teasing. “Since Daddy’s off flying through the skies to go race fast cars, how about we go do something fun of our own while he’s gone?”

Sebastian perked up, peeking his head up a little more in his booster seat. “Like what?”

You shrugged playfully. “I don’t know… what if we went skating?”

There was a short pause before Sebastian gave a thoughtful frown. “Mmm… I don’t think Lyla can skate. She’s too tiny. She’d probably fall.”

Lyla, catching on to her name, simply squeaked out, “Fall!” and then giggled, not even understanding but joining in the fun anyway.

You chuckled, glancing at them again in the mirror. “Fair point. Alright, no skating. What about…” You tapped your chin theatrically. “What about Lego shopping?”

The reaction was instant.

Sebastian gasped, eyes lighting up like someone flipped a switch. “Really? We can go today?!”

You grinned. “Of course. We’ll swing by that toy store you love — you know, the one where you always find the big sets hidden in the back.”

“Yes!” he beamed, practically bouncing in his seat. “And Lyla can get a toy too!”

Lyla kicked her legs a little more excitedly now. “Toy!”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “We’ll get you both something, then head home, order pizza — the kind with the stuffed crust that you love — and we’ll set up a movie marathon. I’m thinking popcorn, pillows on the floor, and one of those movies you’ve seen a hundred times but still laugh at anyway.”

“Movie night!!” Sebastian turned toward his sister with wide eyes. “Lyla, we’re gonna have a movie night!”

Lyla clapped her hands, though it was more like soft patting, her stuffed bunny flopping with each motion. “Moobee!”

You laughed, the warmth of their joy radiating through the car and straight into your heart. Moments like these — these tiny, quiet, ordinary ones — made everything else worth it. The tears, the tough conversations, the goodbyes at the airport.

As you slowed at a red light, your eyes caught them again in the mirror — Sebastian now holding his sister’s hand across their seats. It wasn’t perfect, she was barely reaching with her tiny fingers, but he had his arm stretched out, patient and gentle, as she grasped a few of his fingers in hers and smiled.

You felt your chest tighten with that familiar ache of love.

“Hey,” you said softly, eyes on the mirror. “I love you two so much.”

Sebastian gave a goofy grin. “We love you too, Mama.”

Lyla chimed in softly, her voice a little more clumsy but full of meaning. “Lub you.”

And in that moment, as you turned down the street toward the toy store, your heart — though missing one person who was flying far away — felt completely full.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The toy store buzzed with the low chatter of parents and the excited squeals of children, shelves stacked high with colorful boxes and glittering plastic, the occasional jingle of a motion-activated toy going off somewhere in the aisles. You stood beside your children, Sebastian inspecting a complicated LEGO Technic set while Lyla pointed curiously at a plush unicorn that blinked and sang when touched. Her little fingers barely reached the shelf, but she tried anyway.

You smiled, watching them, when a familiar voice interrupted your quiet moment.

“Y/n?”

You turned, blinking in surprise before your face lit up. “The one and only… Alexandra Saint Mleux.”

She laughed gently and stepped forward for a hug, her ever-elegant frame wrapped in a long cream coat, a small designer purse slung over her shoulder. “It’s been ages,” she smiled, her soft French accent still intact despite living in Monaco for so long.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you admitted as you stepped back. “I figured you’d be flying out to watch the race.”

Alexandra nodded and sighed. “That was the plan, but work got in the way. Some last-minute clients. I’m heartbroken to miss this one… but I’ll survive.” Her eyes wandered to the kids, warm and understanding. “So… how are they doing? You know, with Lando being away?”

Your smile faltered just a bit. “We’re managing,” you said, lowering your voice to a private hush. “Keeping them busy helps. I don’t know how bedtime will go — it never really gets easier, not when they’re used to him doing stories, doing his silly voices and games… but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Alexandra nodded solemnly. “You’re doing beautifully, Y/n. Truly.”

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed in your coat pocket. The name on the screen made your stomach knot.

Sebastian’s Father.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, masking the moment with a smile toward Alexandra. “Would you mind staying with them while they pick their toys? I’ll just be a moment.”

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “Take your time.”

You stepped away from the aisle, finding a quieter corner near a display of puzzles. The buzzing continued in your hand. With a deep breath, you hit accept.

You didn’t wait for a greeting. “Can you stop calling?” you said sharply, keeping your voice low but laced with steel.

A familiar voice crackled on the other end. “Y/n, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks. I want to speak to my son.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “Your son?” you spat, turning your back toward the toy aisle and gripping the phone tighter. “Since when?”

He sighed, as if he was the one carrying the burden. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to sit back and see pictures of him with some other guy? Videos of him calling someone else dad?”

“Oh, cry me a river,” you snapped, your voice sharp now, tempered only by the awareness you were still in public. “That other guy is my husband. The man who has raised Sebastian with love, patience, and every ounce of care you never had the courage to give.”

“Y/n…”

“Y/n Norris,” you corrected, your voice cold now. “You lost the right to say my name the day you walked out and left me with a baby and no fucking idea what to do. No help. No money. No check-ins. You abandoned us, and now you think you can just call and insert yourself into his life because he’s old enough to form memories now?”

Silence.

“I made every bottle. I held him through every night terror. I worked two jobs while praying I wouldn’t miss another milestone. And then I met Lando — who didn’t have to step in, but chose to. Who didn’t just love me, but loved him. Who tucks him into bed every night he’s home, who taught him how to ride a bike and how to read a clock, and who kisses him on the forehead even when he thinks no one’s watching.”

“You think I don’t regret what I did?” his voice cracked, but you didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t ready—”

“You think I was?” you whispered harshly, voice shaking now. “You think I had a manual for being a mom at twenty-five? You ran. I stayed. And now you have the audacity to ask me to just… hand him over for a chat, like it’s that easy?”

“I just want to talk—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice final. “He’s happy. He’s safe. And he doesn’t need you to confuse him now that he’s finally finding solid ground. Especially when all you want to do is soothe your own guilt, not actually be a father.”

“I’m his father whether you like it or not,” he hissed.

“No,” you said, eyes burning. “Lando is his father. He’s earned that title every single day, with love, not DNA.”

"I want to see him, speak to him. Sebastian is my son." he huffed.

"Take that up with his father if you feel so brave now, but I'm sure I know Lando's answer."

You didn’t give him the chance to respond. You hit end call, your hand trembling slightly as the call disconnected.

You stood there for a moment, collecting yourself, breathing through your nose as you tucked your phone back into your pocket. A soft noise caught your attention — a giggle from the kids.

You returned to the aisle to find Alexandra kneeling beside Lyla, who was now clutching a soft stuffed fox with velvety fur, her face glowing with delight. Sebastian held the LEGO box like it was made of gold.

“There’s my mama,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Is this one okay?”

You smiled, blinking back emotion. “That one’s perfect, bud.”

“Can we go home now and build it?” he asked.

You nodded, gathering them in close. “Yeah, let’s go home. We’ve got some pizza to order and movies to watch.”

Alexandra gave you a knowing look, a supportive warmth in her gaze.

You mouthed a soft thank you to her.

Time passed like a warm breeze, slow and golden, wrapping around the three of you with the kind of peace you hadn't felt in a while. After the toy store, you’d made a spontaneous day of it — a little ice cream, a detour to the duck pond where Lyla screamed “DUCKIES!” so loudly she startled a few of them into waddling chaos, and a stroll down the pier with the salty sea air brushing your cheeks. You snapped pictures constantly — Sebastian holding up his LEGO box triumphantly, Lyla wearing oversized sunglasses she found in a boutique and refusing to take them off, even a silly selfie with all three of your faces smushed together under the caption: “We miss you already, daddy 💛”

Even though Lando had only been gone since morning, the ache of his absence was already settled in your chest. You could feel it in the way you kept glancing at your phone, like you needed to send another photo, another text — partly for your reassurance, partly for his. Because if you missed him like this, you could only imagine how heavy his heart felt, knowing he left with Sebastian upset, Lyla too little to really understand goodbyes, and you… trying to hold it all together like you always did.

After the duck pond and walk, you stopped by a children’s boutique where Sebastian’s eyes lit up at the sight of a rack full of pajamas. “Can I get the race car ones?” he asked, already clutching them like treasure.

“Of course, baby,” you smiled.

Lyla chose a soft, cottony pink set with little teddy bears, hugging it to her chest with a proud little smile, even letting out a tiny squeal that melted your heart.

By the time the sky started darkening, you were all a little tired but happy — the kind of happy that made the silence in the car on the way home feel peaceful instead of awkward. You chuckled as you helped them out of the car, herding them into the flat.

“Alright, pajamas!” you called, clapping your hands. “Go get them on! I’m ordering the pizza and picking the movie. Then you two can come back in here and play with your toys.”

Sebastian darted to his room, practically airborne in excitement, clutching his pajama set. Lyla, however, clung to your leg like a little koala, dragging her pajamas on the floor behind her.

You gently ruffled her curls. “Come on, you too, missy. I’ll help you get dressed in a minute.”

Your phone rang, buzzing softly in your pocket. When you saw the name on the screen, your heart warmed.

Best Husband 💛

You answered with a smile already tugging at your lips. “My love.”

A tired sigh of relief echoed through the speaker. “God, I needed to hear your voice. Are the kids asleep?”

You glanced toward the hallway where Sebastian was noisily dragging open drawers. “Nope, we just got home. We’ve been out all day. You should see Lyla’s new sunglasses. I swear she thinks she’s a movie star.”

Lando chuckled, and you could practically hear the smile in his voice. “That sounds like her already. God, I miss you all so much… I want to speak to them, if that’s okay.”

But your smile faded slightly, the warmth in your chest twisting into something more uncertain.

“I actually need to speak with you first,” you murmured, tone quiet and serious.

Lando picked up on it immediately. “What’s going on?”

You stepped into the kitchen, glancing over your shoulder to make sure the kids were still occupied. You lowered your voice.

“His father called.”

The line went dead quiet for a few seconds, and then Lando exhaled sharply, almost like he had to physically calm himself. “He what?”

“Said he wants to talk. See him. And you know…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “Same guilt-tripping, same dramatics. He brought up the fact that we post pictures of you and Sebastian together, like it’s supposed to be some crime.”

“He’s an asshole,” Lando snapped without hesitation. “I would prefer he never sees Sebastian again. Period. I know you didn’t block him before — maybe part of you thought one day things could be different, or maybe for Sebastian’s sake… but now’s the time to block him. For good.”

You could feel the raw emotion behind his words — the frustration, the protectiveness, the love.

“I don’t care how selfish I sound, okay? Listen to me,” Lando continued, voice low and tight. “I love him. I love Sebastian like he’s my own. He is my own. And he’s clearly hurt and confused enough as it is right now. The last thing he needs is that man worming his way in and stirring up more shit.”

“I want to say the same thing, honey, I do,” you said softly. “But I think we need to be careful. This didn’t come out of nowhere. Someone planted this idea in Sebastian’s head — someone’s been talking behind our backs, and it’s eating at me. I don’t know if he overheard something or if it’s…”

“The media,” Lando muttered.

“I’ve been thinking that too,” you said. “He doesn’t have access to the internet, he’s seven. But… maybe something slipped through on the TV, or someone said something in public. It only takes one headline. And even if we limit comments, we can’t control everything.”

“I said the same thing,” Oscar piped up from the background, his voice distant but clear.

Lando groaned. “I mean come on — we’re careful. I hardly talk about the kids publicly. And when I do, it’s always vague or safe. I never name names or post anything personal.”

“I know, baby,” you said gently. “But not everyone cares about respecting boundaries. Some people just love digging where they don’t belong.”

There was a pause. You could hear the quiet buzz of the hotel room on the other end — the hum of a minibar, maybe the faint flicker of the TV in the background. You imagined Lando sitting on the edge of the bed, face in his hands, shoulders tight with worry.

“I hate this,” he finally said. “I hate that I’m away and you’re dealing with this. I hate that Sebastian’s even thinking about this. I hate that some faceless asshole behind a screen or a reporter with a notepad can get into my son’s head.”

“He’s just scared, Lan,” you murmured. “But he loves you. I see it every day. And you’re doing right by him — we both are. That’s what matters.”

You could hear him nodding, even if he didn’t speak.

“I ordered the pizza,” you added softly, trying to lighten the mood. “We’re watching Toy Story 2 tonight. Sebastian said it’s your favorite.”

Lando’s voice cracked with a small laugh. “It is my favorite. Tell him I said that’s a solid choice.”

“I will. After they’re in pajamas. Lyla’s currently pretending her leg doesn’t work because she doesn’t want to get changed.”

Lando laughed again, and this time it was lighter, like he was really smiling now. “She gets that from you.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said playfully, and for a second the weight lifted.

“Hey,” he added, voice gentle now. “Thanks for everything. For keeping them grounded… for being you. I know this isn’t easy.”

You closed your eyes. “It’s not. But we’re a team. Even miles away, we’ve still got this. And tomorrow, we figure out what the hell is actually going on.”

“Damn right,” he said. “And I’ll bring back a win, too. Just for you guys.”

You smiled, heart full.

“Then you better buckle in, Norris. Because Toy Story, pajamas, and pizza nights are hard to beat.”

“Impossible,” he replied. “But I’m coming home to try.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Lando being gone wasn’t new.

It was never easy, but it was familiar — a rhythm that ebbed and flowed like the tide. The early flights, the packed bags by the door, the quiet “I love you”s whispered over sleepy heads and soft kisses before the sun even broke the horizon. You’d grown used to the ache, the temporary emptiness of the house. What you never grew used to, though, was waking up and not having him there.

The bed felt far too big without him.

Sebastian had crawled into the middle during the night, tangled in the sheets like a little tornado of limbs and heat. His head rested on Lando’s pillow. Lyla, small and warm, was curled up in the crook of your arm like a kitten, her stuffed bunny pressed against her cheek.

You carefully untangled yourself, slipping out of bed with practiced ease. Neither of them stirred — a small blessing. These were the pockets of peace you counted on. The house was still, the morning light barely filtering through the curtains, and the silence was thick but comforting.

It was always like this on the first morning without him. Quiet. Empty, but full of purpose. You stood for a moment in the bathroom, hands braced on the sink, staring at your reflection. You could see the soft weariness around your eyes, the evidence of another night where you’d reached across the bed and found nothing but cool sheets.

“He’s not gone forever,” you murmured aloud, a mantra, not a reminder. Just a soft truth you whispered to yourself.

You showered slowly, letting the steam loosen your tense shoulders, letting your mind wander. There was always a to-do list playing quietly in the back of your head: school drop-offs, meals, cleaning, playtime, phone calls, maybe a grocery run, and somewhere in the middle of all that — time to feel his absence and push forward anyway.

By the time you wrapped yourself in your robe, hair damp, you were ready. You padded into the living room and curled into the couch with your phone, letting yourself fall into the mindless scroll for just a little while. Social media, messages from friends, a few missed texts from Lando sent at 2 a.m. his time.

Still up thinking about you. Tell Seb I love him. Kiss Lyla for me. I miss my girls.

You clutched the phone to your chest for a second, your breath catching. Then, quietly, you smiled.

After about an hour of peace, you placed the phone on the side table, stood up, and entered the kitchen. The hum of familiarity buzzed in your ears like a song you’d memorized long ago.

You didn’t need to think anymore — your hands just moved. You poured Lyla’s apple juice into her bunny sippy cup. It had a little bow drawn onto it with pink permanent marker — something she insisted on one afternoon when she decided all her toys needed to be “fancy.”

Sebastian’s orange juice went into his dinosaur cup — the same one he refused to drink out of unless it was “the dino one with the T-Rex not the triceratops.” You smirked a little at the thought as you set it on the table.

Then came the rest: pancakes for Lyla, perfectly golden and cut into tiny bite-sized hearts the way she liked them, with a side of blueberries she always pushed to the edge of her plate. For Sebastian, toast lightly browned, eggs just barely runny (any more and he would call them “slime eggs”), and two strips of crispy bacon he’d probably try and feed one to the cat even though you told him not to.

Everything was where it should be. Like muscle memory.

A sound behind you — groggy feet shuffling across the floor.

“Mama?” Sebastian mumbled, his curls sticking up in every direction, pajama pants slightly twisted around his legs.

You didn’t even turn around, just hummed as you flipped the final pancake. “Practice is going to happen soon,” you said softly, “you know they have to adjust, get themselves ready.”

He climbed onto the stool at the counter and rested his chin on the marble. “I miss him.”

You finally turned, wiping your hands and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Me too,” you said quietly. “But he misses us just as much. Maybe even more.”

Lyla padded out a moment later, dragging her blanket behind her, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you cooed, sweeping her up into your arms.

“Dada?” she mumbled against your shoulder, her thumb slipping into her mouth.

“Soon, sweet girl,” you whispered. “You’ll see him soon.”

As they settled at the table, Sebastian perked up, watching you with those curious brown eyes.

“Are we gonna talk to Grandma today?”

You nodded, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got time. After I drop you off at school, Lyla and I are going to call her. You know she misses you two terribly.”

He grinned a little, the kind of smile only grandmothers could pull out of children. “Can I send her a picture of my dinosaur cup?”

You laughed. “Absolutely.”

It was all clockwork. Predictable. But it still hurt sometimes — to do all of this without Lando, to smile through it even when your chest ached and your throat tightened unexpectedly.

But you managed.

You always did.

Because your kids were watching. Because their little hearts depended on you. Because Lando, miles away and probably staring at a calendar on his phone, counting down the days until he could be back, needed to know you could hold it all together.

And you would.

Just like every other morning.

Motherhood had a way of testing your limits and then rewarding you in small, quiet ways. After you dropped Sebastian off at school — his usual chatter about karting practice and Lego sets still echoing in your ears — the rest of your day unfolded like a long, busy stretch of survival mode. You managed a video call with Cisca, who filled your morning with soft smiles and much-needed comfort. Lyla’s meltdown over her empty bunny sippy cup had you on your knees, trying to calm her down while preparing breakfast and unloading the dishwasher at the same time. It was one of those mornings where time seemed to slip through your fingers.

The car got cleaned, though that required strategic maneuvering with a clingy toddler on your hip. You made a small grocery run, holding her hand tightly while she stared cautiously at every passing stranger. Then you walked her around the quiet park near your building, hoping the fresh air would calm her nerves. And it did — a little. She let go of your hand for all of five minutes before gluing herself to your leg again.

Eventually, you made it back to the flat. You swept and mopped floors, wiped down counters, and sorted laundry while Lyla played quietly with her toys in the living room. She had picked out a stuffed bunny, a wooden puzzle, and one of Sebastian’s smaller race cars — and all three were lined up next to her as she sprawled out on the floor.

And just like that… she was asleep.

Not in her bed, not on the couch — but flat on the playmat, one hand still resting on the toy bunny. Her tiny chest rose and fell slowly, lashes resting like feathers against her cheeks. You stood there for a moment, arms crossed, soft smile tugging at your lips. Then you carefully picked her up, mindful not to wake her, and tucked her into bed. You kissed her forehead, lingered there for a beat, then finally had a moment of peace to yourself.

And that’s when you called him.

The screen rang only once before Lando’s tired but joyful face filled your screen, his curls a little messy under a cap, eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

“My favorite girl,” he greeted, voice warm and smooth, as if it could wrap you up.

You let out a small, relieved breath, your shoulders finally dropping. “I was calling just to see if you’re surviving,” you teased lightly, your voice soft, your love clear even in the distance.

He let out a short laugh. “Yeah, just about. Got some practice coming up. You know how leading into a race weekend is — mind on a thousand things.”

You nodded. “I figured. Sebastian’s at school, and Lyla’s down for a nap… finally.” You leaned back on the couch, rubbing your temple.

“She’s sleeping a lot lately?” Lando asked gently, concern twitching at his brow.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your smile fading. “I think the anxiety’s wearing her out. I mean, it’s not dramatic all the time — she’s not screaming or crying. But she clings to me like I’m her anchor, and when she’s like that… I can tell her brain’s on overload.”

His jaw tensed slightly, the helplessness setting into his eyes. “I hate that I’m not there. I hate not being able to help her when she’s like that.”

You sighed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You help more than you know, even just by existing as her safe space. But I won’t lie… it’s getting hard, Lando. I don’t want this to feel normal for her.”

“I know, baby,” he said quietly. “Let’s talk more about getting her a child therapist when I get home. Someone trained in early social anxiety, someone who’ll take it slow. She doesn’t need to feel like the world’s too loud for her forever.”

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. “That’d help… thank you.”

There was a brief silence between you — not uncomfortable, just full of unspoken longing — until you finally exhaled again and shifted the conversation.

“Anyway,” you said, trying to lighten the mood, “Sebastian has more practices coming up. I’m hoping you’ll be home in time for his competition.”

Lando’s face softened with guilt. “Yeah. I know. I’m doing everything I can to make sure I’m there. Even if it means I have to sprint off the track and hop on a plane. I’ll deal with the team's reaction after. I won’t miss it.”

“You promise?” you asked, needing to hear it aloud.

He smiled. “Cross my heart. I’m his biggest fan. I wouldn’t miss watching our boy race for anything.”

You felt a swell of affection in your chest, unable to hide your smile. “Good. He’ll want you there — he already asked twice this morning if you’d make it.”

“Tell him yes,” Lando said firmly. “Tell him I’ll be there with bells on.”

You laughed softly, then glanced at the time. “So, um… your mom and I talked earlier. She wants to have Sebastian and Lyla for the summer. Says she misses the chaos.”

Lando’s eyes widened a bit. “I figured she’d bring that up.”

“She’s already planning beach days and movie nights, Lando. I think she’s ready for full grandma mode,” you joked.

“They’ll love being with her,” Lando said with a grin. “They’ll be with their cousins, run around outside, no cameras, no pressure. It’ll be good for them.”

You quirked a brow. “And what will we be doing?”

He leaned closer to the camera, eyes dancing. “Well, I was thinking… maybe I take you somewhere sunny, just us, no responsibilities…”

You laughed again. “You say that, but I know what’s going on in that head of yours. Keep it in your pants.”

Lando feigned innocence, wiggling his brows mischievously. “Mmm, I don’t know, love… baby number three doesn’t sound so bad.”

You gasped, half-joking, half-serious. “Lando Norris! Sebastian is seven and Lyla is two!”

“And?” he smirked. “That’s perfect spacing. You’d be glowing again, and we already know how good I am at naming kids.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm with laughter. “You're unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he added smoothly, gaze softening.

You fell quiet for a beat, letting his words settle in your chest.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

“I miss you more,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse. “But I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

And as the call continued, you found yourself feeling lighter — knowing that even when things felt heavy, you didn’t have to carry it all alone.

“You guys’ll be watching the race, huh?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “When do we ever miss your races? We watch every single one. Whether it’s on the couch, the tablet in the car, or Lyla yelling ‘Dada!’ at the screen in the middle of the grid walk.”

He laughed softly, his eyes glowing with that boyish charm that never seemed to fade. “You’re gonna be watching me win then?”

You smirked. “We’re going to be watching you win with snacks, and matching shirts, and banners Sebastian insists on hanging from the window like it’s a football match.”

Lando leaned his chin into his palm, clearly imagining it all. “God, I love that. I love you guys.”

“And when you come home…” you started.

“We’ll celebrate,” he said in unison, and your face lit up as you nodded. “All of us,” you added.

He raised a brow with a mischievous tilt of his lips. “So, no just you and me then? No little alone time?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Mr. Norris.”

He laughed at the way you said it, all mock-serious and slightly amused.

He countered with a grin, “Mrs. Norris.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Husband.”

He leaned closer to the camera, eyes soft, teasing, “Wife.”

Silence fell for a beat — the kind of silence wrapped in warmth and longing — before you both let out small, soft chuckles, laughing at nothing in particular, just the comfort of each other.

He sighed gently, his eyes darting away for a second, then back to you. “What is with you wanting another baby?” you asked, arching a curious brow. “Lyla is two. And she’s still in diapers!”

He shrugged, that knowing, cheeky smirk forming again. “I don’t know… I think I’m growing into this whole ‘loving family man’ thing.”

You tilted your head, amused but still listening.

“I mean, I still love going out, hanging with the guys, laughing till we cry — you know that. But something about you, and them…” His voice lowered a bit, softer now. “Something about our life together. I don’t know. It hits different. Like, I never knew coming home to sticky hands and toy cars on the couch would feel better than champagne and lights and music.”

You smiled, hand absentmindedly playing with the necklace around your neck. “You’ve changed. In a good way.”

“I am changing,” he agreed, “but I still love who I’ve always been. I’m just loving this part of me more. The part that watches you sing while folding laundry, or kisses Lyla’s curls when she falls asleep on my chest, or watches Sebastian explain why one dinosaur could totally beat another in a race.”

You chuckled, teary-eyed and full of love. “You’re soft.”

He smirked, “I’m a marshmallow for you. And them. Completely useless without you guys.”

You nodded slowly, eyes glinting with emotion. “We’re useless without you too.”

Then, of course, came the turn.

“And I think I do want another baby,” he added, more serious this time, eyes not leaving yours.

You let out a slow sigh. “Maybe one day, Lando. Maybe when you retire… When you’re actually home more than gone.”

He shrugged innocently. “Mmm, if I can just pull out enough—”

“Lando Norris!” you scolded sharply, eyes wide.

He burst into laughter, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding! I swear. Kind of. Half kidding.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to suppress your smile but failing.

“I just…” He leaned back slightly, his gaze softening. “I love what we’ve built. I love what we’re still building. And if I’m being honest, even the hard days — the tantrums, the late-night feedings, the exhausting travel — I’d do it all again with you.”

Your breath caught for a moment, a knot forming in your throat as his words settled.

“I’d do it all again with you too,” you whispered.

He exhaled, smiling.

"I have to go, but I love you and you have to watch the race" he said

"we wouldn't miss it for the world"

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The tension had built up for days.

In the quiet stillness of your Monaco flat, it was race day. You could feel it in the air, thick with excitement and nerves. The living room was decked out in your usual Norris-family race day tradition — soft throws on the couch, little flags in the corner, and three matching shirts that read “Team Norris” in bold navy lettering. Lyla had one much too big for her tiny frame, but she wore it anyway, content on your lap, her thumb in her mouth and her wide eyes fixed on the TV screen. Sebastian, meanwhile, was nearly bouncing in place, his eyes shining, his hair still a little mussed from sleep.

You hadn't heard much from Lando since the night before — just a quick "I love you" text with a photo of him on the grid in the early prep stages — but you understood. This was the one. The big one. And you knew where his mind had to be. It still didn’t stop you from missing him.

"He has to win!" Sebastian said again with conviction, this time louder, his feet tucked under the blanket and his eyes already locked on the pre-race footage.

You gave a soft smile, brushing your hand over Lyla’s curls before standing. “Just give it some time, sweetheart. I'll get your snacks — popcorn or goldfish?”

“Both!” Sebastian shouted after you as you headed into the kitchen.

Back in the living room, Sebastian leaned closer to his baby sister, a grin spreading across his face. “Daddy’s gonna win, I just know it,” he whispered like it was a sacred truth. “And I’ll prove my point to Matteo from school, who said Daddy’s only second-best. Hah! Wait till he sees this.”

Lyla blinked at him, offering a toothy grin and a little clumsy clap as she watched the colorful cars roll out onto the formation lap.

Meanwhile, across the world, on the grid.

Lando pulled on his gloves, taking one last breath as the helmet was lowered onto his head. The outside world dimmed.

The engineers around him buzzed with activity, last-minute data checks, and tire temps, but Lando was quiet, focused. One AirPod still in, playing the last voice note you had sent him — Lyla babbling in the background, Sebastian yelling "Bring home a trophy, Dad!" and you, soft and reassuring, saying, “No matter the result, we’re watching, and we’re proud.”

He closed his eyes. That was all he needed.

Oscar passed by with a thumbs up, and Lando nodded, his jaw tight but a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

He climbed into the cockpit, strapping in.

“Radio check,” his engineer’s voice buzzed.

“Radio check, loud and clear,” Lando replied.

“Alright, Lando. You know the target. Eyes forward.”

Back in Monaco…

You returned with two bowls, setting them on the coffee table as the lights on the screen counted down.

“Okay guys… here we go,” you said, dropping to the couch and wrapping one arm around Lyla, the other rubbing Sebastian’s back.

“Lights out and away we go!”

Lap 1-10:

Lando got off to a strong start, holding his position in P2, close behind Verstappen. The first few laps were all about rhythm, getting into the groove. You leaned forward as you watched him maneuver confidently, hugging apexes, defending perfectly from Leclerc who trailed behind in P3.

“He’s doing good, right?” Sebastian asked, clutching a little toy McLaren car in his hands.

“He’s doing amazing,” you smiled, heart pounding.

Lap 11-25:

The tension began to build. Lando was gaining time in Sector 2 — fast, precise, pushing the limits.

Then came the first big move: DRS open, Lando dove down the inside of Max at Turn 4 — bold, committed, clean. He took the lead.

You stood up instinctively, nearly knocking the popcorn bowl over. “Oh my God! He did it!” you gasped, hands over your mouth.

Sebastian jumped up and down on the couch. “HE’S IN FIRST! MAMA! HE’S IN FIRST!”

Lyla clapped again, amused by the yelling more than the race itself.

Lap 26-40:

Pit stops came and went. The team got Lando out just in time to cover an undercut from Carlos Sainz. It was tight, the kind of strategy that made your hands sweat and your heart ache, but it worked.

Lando stayed ahead.

You texted him a quick message even though you knew he wouldn’t see it till hours later: “We’re screaming. In the best way. Keep going, baby.”

Lap 41-55:

Fatigue started to show on track. Tire wear became an issue for nearly everyone — except Lando. He managed his tires like a master, something you knew he’d been working on.

Oscar came up on the radio: “Keep pushing, mate. Clean sectors. He’s not gaining.”

Back in Monaco, you were chewing on a nail, leaning forward, whispering, “Come on, come on, come on...”

Sebastian sat completely still, eyes locked, absorbing everything, while Lyla dozed slightly against your arm.

Lap 56-60:

A late Virtual Safety Car nearly ruined everything — a spin from Tsunoda meant Lando had to hold his nerve for a restart with just four laps to go.

“You got this, baby,” you whispered.

Lando held the restart beautifully.

Max tried to pressure him. Leclerc was still lurking. But it wasn’t enough.

You saw it coming — last lap, still leading, gap stable — and your heart rose into your throat.

Final Lap.

“He’s going to do it, he’s going to do it,” you repeated like a prayer, holding Lyla tighter as she shifted awake.

Sebastian stood tall on the couch, arms raised before the car even crossed the line.

Lando Norris takes the win!

The living room erupted.

You scooped Sebastian into your arms, both of you yelling, laughing. Lyla squealed at the noise, bouncing in your grip as you kissed her forehead.

“That’s your dad!” you said, tears pricking your eyes. “That’s our guy!”

Sebastian was fist-pumping, dancing around. “He did it! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD EVERYONE!”

The energy from the win still surged through Lando like electricity.

Champagne soaked his fire suit, the fizzy scent clinging to his skin, and the weight of the first-place trophy still tingled in his fingers. It had been a long, grueling season, but this moment—this victory—made every drop of sweat, every frustrating finish, every near miss worth it.

He had stood on the top step of the podium, the national anthem ringing in his ears, flanked by rivals who, in that moment, were just shadows in his periphery. He’d closed his eyes as the crowd roared, tilting his head back to the sky, arms raised—this one was for them. For you. For Sebastian. For Lyla.

The after-race buzz carried him into the media pen, where bright lights flashed and microphones lined up like waiting mouths.

He knew the drill. Praise, performance, statistics. But this time, it felt different. More personal.

The interviewer greeted him warmly, microphone in hand, and Lando offered her his usual winning grin, wiping a stray drop of champagne from his cheek.

"That race was amazing! You did good out there, congratulations on your win."

“Ah, thank you,” Lando said, voice steady but still glowing with pride. “We’ve been working hard as a team. McLaren has been putting in the effort. I think this is a result we absolutely deserve. We’ve come a long way and I’m proud of all of us.”

"You made some great overtakes, looked pretty smooth on the track out there,” she added.

He chuckled, brushing a hand through his damp curls. “Yeah, I agree. I did enjoy that. Smooth. Confident. Covered in champagne now,” he added playfully, gesturing to the soaked suit.

The interviewer laughed lightly. “So, onto a serious question—what pushed your focus today?”

Lando’s smile softened. “My family back home,” he said without hesitation. “My wife and our kids. Every time I race, I know they’re watching. That matters more than anything else. My son’s probably bouncing off the walls right now, and my daughter... well, she’s probably clapping and not really understanding why,” he laughed gently.

“Speaking of,” the interviewer said, voice shifting slightly, “Lyla has grown a lot, hasn’t she? She’s your first child, correct?”

Lando tilted his head, surprised. “Lyla’s my youngest. Sebastian’s the first,” he corrected with ease.

The interviewer’s expression stiffened slightly, a subtle shift in tone as she pressed forward. “Right, but... Sebastian isn’t biologically yours, is he? That’s been talked about online a lot. It’s everywhere on social media, so we were just wondering if you could confirm it. Are you... a bonus dad, then?”

There was a pause.

The sparkle in Lando’s eyes dimmed instantly. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he simply stared at her. The celebratory atmosphere turned cold.

“Where are you getting your information?” he asked, voice clipped, firm.

She blinked. “It’s all over the internet. Just speculation, and we’ve talked about it before in smaller settings—”

“You’ve talked about it,” Lando interrupted, his tone sharper now. “Without us. Without permission. Without context. That’s not speculation. That’s invasion.”

The camera continued rolling, capturing every twitch of his expression as it darkened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, more composed now but pointed. “What part of this interview gives you the right to belittle my son? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

The interviewer seemed to falter, caught off-guard.

“I don’t race for this,” Lando said, voice steady but seething. “I don’t climb into that car, risk my life, give my everything—just to sit here and hear you disrespect a little boy who’s probably wearing my name on his back right now.”

He took a deep breath, visibly trying to steady the anger that surged beneath the surface. “I’ve been in his life since he was three. I’ve tucked him in every night I’m home. I’ve been at his karting races, holding his helmet, tying his shoes, patching his scraped knees. I’ve wiped his tears and celebrated his victories. That is my son. Period.”

The interviewer tried to speak, “I was just—”

“Digging,” Lando cut her off coldly. “You were digging. For drama. For a soundbite. Let me make something clear. Your job is to ask me about this—” he gestured around the paddock, the track, the microphones—“not about my family. Not about my wife. Not about my children.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His words, low and calm, cut sharper than anything else could.

“I’m not a ‘bonus dad.’ I’m just his dad,” he continued, emotion cracking just slightly in his voice. “If you can’t understand that, then you’re not qualified to sit behind that microphone. And if any of you out there are scrolling through my wife’s social media trying to create stories out of our life, just know — it ends here. Her account will be private by tonight, and I’ll make damn sure of that.”

Lando stared her down, jaw tight. “I love my family. I protect my family. You don’t get to question that.”

And with that, he pushed the mic gently aside and turned, walking off, his soaked fire suit leaving damp footprints on the concrete. The cameras followed him, the silence of the interviewer deafening behind him.

At home, you had pulled Sebastian into your lap, shielding him from some of the awkward silence, but he had heard enough to understand that his dad had defended him.

Your heart swelled with love. You pressed your lips to Sebastian’s temple.

“He’s the best,” Sebastian whispered, resting his head against your shoulder.

“He really is,” you whispered back, eyes misty.

And as the screen faded to coverage of the next driver interview, the three of you sat there in silence — proud, warm, protected.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was well past midnight when the front door clicked open.

The Monaco flat was dimly lit, the soft hum of the city outside barely reaching through the thick windows. Lando stepped inside quietly, careful not to let the door slam behind him. He stood still for a moment, shoulders heavy with travel and the weight of the last few days, just breathing it all in.

Home.

It smelled like lavender and laundry detergent. Like calm. Like you.

He dropped his bag gently by the wall, toes sinking into the familiar rug. The place was quiet—so quiet it almost made him hesitate. But then—

“Lando?”

Your voice came softly from down the hall, thick with sleep but unmistakable. He turned toward it just in time to see you stepping out from the bedroom, wearing one of his hoodies, your hair messy, eyes puffy from sleep.

“You’re awake?” he asked, surprised but touched.

You didn’t answer right away. You just walked to him, arms wrapping around his torso as your head found his chest. He let out a long breath, holding you tightly, his hand smoothing over your back like he’d been aching to do it for weeks.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whispered. “Not till I knew you were home safe.”

He kissed the top of your head, quietly. “I’m here now.”

You looked up at him after a beat. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked gently, brow furrowing.

You swallowed, stepping back just enough to look into his eyes. “For defending Sebastian... in that interview after the race. I watched it live. I—I cried, Lando. You stood up for him like he was born yours. I think you gave him something that day that words can’t explain. Closure. Pride. Love.”

His face softened. “You don’t need to thank me for loving my own kid.”

You took his hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Come on, sit with me.”

You both moved to the living room, the silence between you filled only with the late-night hum of the world outside. Lando sank into the couch beside you and pulled something out of his backpack—a large envelope.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he said, handing it to you. “But during this trip... I finally did it.”

You opened the envelope slowly. Your breath caught when you saw the words printed at the top of the first page.

Petition for Adoption.

Your hand flew to your mouth as your eyes began to water. “Lando…”

“I want to adopt Sebastian,” he said firmly. “Not just emotionally. Not just in practice. I want him to know, for the rest of his life, that he’s mine. In every way. I want him to carry my name proudly, not just because it’s what he’s always known—but because I chose him. Because he’s my son.”

You blinked through your tears, heart aching in the most beautiful way.

“He is your son,” you whispered. “He always has been, but... yes. Yes, of course you can adopt him. His biological father gave up any rights years ago. This... it’ll just make it official.”

Lando smiled, relief and love rushing over his face like a wave.

“I want him to see his name on paper and know that he was never second choice. That I was never filling a space. That I am his dad.”

You reached for him, pulling him into another hug, both of you holding onto each other tightly.

“He’s going to love this,” you murmured against his shoulder. “He’ll be so proud.”

After a moment, he kissed the top of your head and leaned back, looking toward the dark hallway.

“Where are they?”

“In our bed,” you said with a sleepy laugh. “They didn’t know you’d be home tonight, so they both passed out in your spot.”

Lando chuckled quietly. “Of course they did. I should’ve guessed.”

He stood and stretched, running a hand through his messy curls, then glanced back at you with a tired but happy smile.

“I’ll crawl in beside them. I missed that.”

You nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll put the papers somewhere safe.”

As he disappeared down the hallway toward your shared bedroom, you lingered on the couch a little longer, fingers brushing over the envelope in your lap. The adoption papers felt like more than just forms. They were proof of love, of choice, of a bond deeper than blood.

Lando Norris wasn’t just a driver. He wasn’t just a husband.

He was a father—one who had chosen your son with his whole heart.

And soon, the world would know it, too.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was a bright, golden Saturday morning, the kind where the sun felt warmer just from the happiness in the air. The buzz of excitement surrounded the karting track as parents gathered along the fences, kids zipped around in anticipation, and the low hum of engines created a constant vibration in the atmosphere.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, gently rocking Lyla in your arms. Her little fists clung to your hoodie, her face buried against your neck as the loudness of the event overwhelmed her small, sensitive self. Her curls tickled your cheek as she whimpered softly, the noise too much, the people too many.

“I know, baby girl,” you murmured, swaying gently with her. “You’re okay. Mama’s got you. We’re just watching your big brother, and I promise you’re safe. Deep breaths, just like we practiced.”

You could feel her breathing start to match yours, still uneven, but getting there.

Not far away, Lando crouched in front of Sebastian, who stood in his racing boots, looking up at his stepdad with wide, focused eyes. Lando held out the fresh, custom McLaren-orange-and-black racing suit with his name stitched across the chest: Sebastian Norris.

“Here, champ. Get this on,” Lando said with a grin, his eyes gleaming with pride.

Sebastian’s smile was immediate—half excitement, half nerves—as he slipped into the suit with Lando’s help. Lando zipped it up and adjusted the collar, smoothing out the sleeves like he was dressing him for battle.

“Remember,” Lando began, placing a hand over Sebastian’s shoulder, “you’ve got this. You’re fast, you’re smart, and you’re brave. Everything I taught you in practice—that was just guidance. But today? This is your race. It’s your hands on the wheel. You own every second out there. Be proud of yourself no matter what.”

You stepped closer, giving Sebastian a warm smile. “And remember something else too, baby. Even if you don’t come first, we’re always proud of you. You’re our superstar no matter what place you get, okay?”

Sebastian, eyes big with emotion, suddenly launched himself forward and wrapped his arms around both of you, burying his face between you and Lando. It was tight and fast and full of love.

“Love you both,” he said into the hug.

“We love you more,” you both echoed at the same time, grinning.

Just then, a familiar voice called out beside you. “Am I missing anything?”

You turned to see Oscar Piastri, sunglasses pushed into his curls and a grin on his face. He was holding a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, like he’d rushed to get there just in time.

“You showed up at the right moment,” you said, nodding toward the track. “Taking the uncle role seriously?”

Oscar glanced at Lyla, who peeked up at him briefly before hiding again. “Trying,” he said, a little awkwardly, patting her gently on the back like he wasn’t quite sure how to comfort a toddler.

You chuckled. “She’ll warm up to you. She’s got anxiety, so she’s on edge right now, but... just wait. She’s going to adore you. You’re already one of her favorite people—we just haven’t told her yet.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow playfully. “Guess I better live up to it.”

Meanwhile, Sebastian climbed into his kart with Lando by his side. The helmet went on. Visor down. Gloves tightened. It was the kind of moment that made your heart swell—watching a boy take after the man who raised him, inspired by him.

Lando leaned in for one last word, tapping Sebastian’s helmet twice. “Have fun out there, alright? Do it for yourself.”

Then the engines roared.

The race began.

You, Lando, and Oscar stood at the rail, eyes locked on the track. The karts whizzed by, and you could barely keep up with how fast they were moving. Sebastian got a decent start but was caught behind a few karts early on, stuck in the middle pack. Lando’s hands clenched the fence, but his voice remained calm.

“You’re okay, son! You’ve got time. Stay smart, find your line,” he called out.

Sebastian, laser-focused, didn’t respond, but you knew he heard him. You could tell by the way he adjusted his line and began picking up pace. Lap after lap, he pushed harder, smoothly maneuvering the corners and creeping up on the front two.

“He’s holding steady,” Oscar muttered. “Smart kid.”

On the final lap, everything changed.

Sebastian saw the opening at the hairpin—a risky move, the kind Lando had pulled once years ago in Formula 1. With confidence far beyond his years, Sebastian went for it, cutting in sharply and overtaking both drivers with stunning precision. The crowd erupted.

You screamed. “THAT’S MY BABY!”

Lando pumped his fists into the air, grabbing Lyla out of your arms and lifting her up with joy.

“HE DID IT! That’s my boy!” Lando laughed, peppering kisses all over Lyla’s cheek as she giggled, her anxiety forgotten for a moment. “Your brother did it, little bug! This means we’re gonna celebrate!”

You felt your throat tighten with pride as the announcer echoed the final call over the speakers:

“Sebastian Norris takes the win! What an incredible overtake! What a finish!”

Sebastian pulled into the finish area, lifting his helmet off to reveal a glowing, flushed face and the biggest grin you’d ever seen. His eyes searched the crowd—he wasn’t looking for the trophy.

He was looking for his family.

And you were already running.

The day had been filled with celebration—post-race chatter with other parents, Sebastian glowing under the praise, Lyla surprisingly soothed by the familiar warmth of family even in the crowd. You all went out for lunch, somewhere simple and kid-friendly, where Sebastian insisted on ordering the “victory pancakes” and got whipped cream on his nose. Lando let him wear his medal around his neck the entire time.

Now, hours later, the sun hanging gently above the Monaco skyline, the flat was filled with a peace that only came after a day well-spent.

You sat curled up on the couch with Lando, your legs across his lap and his fingers lazily tracing circles on your ankle. The golden glow from the windows bathed the room in light, and across from you, in the display case that Lando had meticulously organized, sat Sebastian’s first-ever karting trophy. It gleamed under the soft light—placed proudly in the center, as if it belonged in a museum.

“We did it,” Lando said softly, breaking the silence with a small, awed chuckle. “He won.”

You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder, watching the way his eyes lingered on the trophy with that soft fatherly pride that never got old. “He did. And he earned it. You both did.”

Lando looked at you with a grin, then glanced toward the hallway. “He’s been jumping on his bed for the past ten minutes, I swear.”

“He’s seven,” you laughed. “He might still be jumping when he’s seventeen.”

“Honestly, he’s got something special,” Lando said. “Just at seven... imagine what kind of skill he’ll have when he’s older. He’s going to be unstoppable.”

Your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt. “I believe it. And Lyla… well, hopefully she picks something a little less... tire-screeching. Maybe something quiet. Like painting or reading books.”

Lando laughed. “Please. I am begging the universe for that.”

“She’s only two and already doesn’t like loud noises,” you reminded him, nodding toward her room where soft music was playing and little clinks of plastic toys could be heard as she played peacefully. “Let’s pray it sticks.”

Lando’s arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You still haven’t rewarded me,” he teased, voice low and cheeky.

You raised a brow with a smirk. “Rewarded you for what?”

He grinned. “For raising a champion, obviously. For all my hard work. The late nights. The endless pep talks. The helmet adjusting.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, pretending to consider. “So... what are you asking for exactly?”

His eyebrows wiggled, and you knew exactly where this was going. “Well,” he said, leaning in. “The kids will be asleep tonight... it’ll just be me and you... in our bed...”

You snorted, swatting his chest. “Lando!”

“I’m just saying!” he laughed. “It’s the perfect time to discuss a possible baby number three... maybe even a name list.”

You pulled back, eyes wide and playful. “We are not having another baby, Lando.”

He gasped in mock betrayal. “Mrs. Norris, how dare you deny your devoted husband more offspring!”

You burst out laughing. “You are being needy.”

“And you,” he leaned in to kiss you, “are being difficult.”

Just as you kissed him back, the sweet moment was interrupted by a voice yelling from down the hall: “MOM! DAD! Come look! I made a racetrack out of my LEGOs!”

You looked at Lando, who just gave a breathless chuckle, resting his forehead against yours. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

“Because I’m just... happy,” he said, voice soft. “He’s a Norris now. Really a Norris. Legally. Officially. My boy.”

Your heart swelled at the way his voice cracked ever so slightly at the word my. You reached up to kiss him again, fingers brushing his cheek.

“He always was,” you whispered. “Even before the papers. But now... it’s forever.”

Lando’s lips curved into a proud smile. “Yeah. Forever.”

Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he leaned back and added, “And baby three will be too—”

You grabbed the nearest couch pillow and chucked it at him, hitting him square in the chest.

“Your baby fever is at an all-time high,” you warned, grinning as he laughed and threw his hands up.

“Get it fixed, Norris.”

“Can’t help it!” he said, holding the pillow like a prize. “You made this life too good.”

And somewhere down the hall, a little boy was yelling about tires and turns, a little girl was humming with her toys, and in that living room—surrounded by trophies, laughter, and the soft kind of love that lasts—Lando Norris sat beside his forever family, more proud than he ever imagined he could be.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

TAG LIST: @aunslie

[emilys-bangs]

know that it isn't right (but you could be my one and only) | e.p

Tags: oblivious!reader, bau!reader, pining longing yearning, emily is the majorest loser in love, a date that precariously toes the line between platonic and romantic, reader is insecure for unmentioned reasons, bar scene but it's not mentioned whether or not reader drinks, tipsy emily, miscommunication?, though emily tries reallyyy hard to get her point across, alas, to (nearly) no avail, unrequited love—or is it, gunshot wound (no detailed scene or injury), reader has a surgery and is mildly high after, use of petnames (yes, before they get together because....simp emily), the slow has burned it’s just taking a while to sink in for a certain someone

Summary: Emily is tired of being your friend. It takes more than a few attempts, endless flirting, and a minor surgery before you fully get what she means. Or, 5 times Emily tries to tell you she wants something more and the one time you finally get it.

Word count: 8.2k

1.

Emily has a problem.

It’s by no means the biggest of her problems—she’s had worse, certainly, and compared to them this is child’s play—but these past months, especially, it has been the most pressing one. It eats at her, chews on her insides and chips away bits of her composure, crumbling her metal wall that keeps her and the outside world firmly separate. 

She’s deteriorating, for lack of a better word. And you don’t seem to notice. 

It’s not willful ignorance, it’s just…actually, she doesn’t know what the hell it is. You’re not this oblivious in other aspects of your life—certainly not in your job—but when it comes to this, she could kiss you flat on the mouth and you’d somehow think she meant it platonically.

She’d been less and less subtle by the day. Showering you in honey-sweet, superfluous compliments, skimming your exposed skin with unnecessary gestures, pressing unsolicited mugs of coffee and tea into your palms, sometimes with half of a treat she’d bought for herself. 

She flirts outright. Presses too close and gushes about the durability of your perfume, the sheen of your hair and did you curl it today? Looks pretty. But heavy handed as she is, none of it seems to register through your skull. It doesn’t matter much whether her words are stumbling, starstruck or assured and smooth with confidence; you brush both off as if they were pollen dusting your skin.

The latest recurrence is still fresh in her mind: two days ago, when you walked into the bullpen in a distinctly new shirt. Emily still remembers the way her mouth had gone dry, eyes practically glued to you as you joined her in the kitchenette, buttons popped, skin gleaming, shirt teasingly skimming your collarbones—a hair’s breadth shy of sinful, toeing the line between professional and scandalous. 

Your chirp of good morning went unanswered.

“Nice shirt,” she’d rasped, hands clenched deep in her pockets to stop herself from doing something stupid. Her eyes were free to roam, though—and Christ, did they roam.

“You think?” You beamed, smoothing a hand down the material where it lay at your waist. Emily hummed thickly. “It was on sale. I wasn’t too sure about the cut but I loved the color.”

The color was nothing short of glorious. It complimented your skin, brightening the vivid hues in your eyes. As for the cut…

Emily chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“It’s beautiful.” She said honestly, magnetized. Immediately, the next part slipped out—“You are”—and Emily wasn’t even ashamed that it did.

Your laugh bent the air. “Thanks. Woke up on the right side of the bed today, huh?” You playfully patted her cheek, your hand warm. “You’re not too—oh, this is gorgeous.” You cut yourself off, and she was briefly too dizzy to notice it’s because you were thumbing at her earring. It dangled, pulling gently when you probed at it with a careful fingernail.

Have it, she almost told you. Never mind that it’s 21 carat gold, dotted with milky pearls and worth half a month’s paycheck. Each. 

“Doesn’t compare to you.” She murmured instead. Her voice dipped lower, lined with a rasp that practically gave her away.

“Tease,” you rolled your eyes, swatting at her even though she meant it. It didn’t escape her attention how both compliments rolled off your back like water. Emily choked on your perfume as she breathed out a forced, half hearted laugh, already reaching for your usual mug of choice.

“Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.”

Her memory is brimming with similar encounters. Sifting through them is what gives her the push, she thinks. JJ and Garcia are all too aware of her ever-growing crush—she’s willing to bet everyone is, except for you—and while they had both pushed and prodded for her to make a damn move, claiming that you like her back just as much, she’d refrained. 

Now her composure is crumbling.

It could also be because of your head currently cushioned on her shoulder, numbing her arm and doing strange things to her pulse. You’re not asleep, just tired of holding your head up; a game plays on your phone, lights occasionally flashing in the corner of her eye. 

When we land, Emily decides. Dinner, somewhere warm, with good hearty food. God knows you all need it.

She mulls it over as she watches the sun cast its last rays across the clouds, its warmth long gone but replaced by the weight on her shoulder. She makes a speech and promptly discards it, and by the time she stands at the junction of your desk and hers, watching you pocket something from your drawer, her head is buzzing loudly.

You throw your coat over your arm and slide your drawer shut. Her time is running out. 

Emily steps around her desk, leaning over to bump your shoulder with hers.

“Hey.” She bites her tongue before she can call you something sweet. It’s baffling—she’s never been one for pet names or anything of the like, but when it comes to you, she wants to drown you in them. 

You look up with a hum, eyes expectant.

Heaven help her.

“Do you want to go out to dinner?”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she has to chew down on the urge to cringe. It’s all so clinical, she realizes, so wildly unromantic, but you’re chained to this place. Life hardly exists outside the BAU—at least, life with you—so she has to make do with this shitty bullpen bearing witness.

Emily braces herself for the impact.

But, miraculously, you nod, smiling like she’s offered you the world on a platter. “Oh, sure! I’ve been starving since we left the precinct. Morgan and Reid were complaining earlier, let’s tell them too.”

Emily frowns.

“What? No—”

“I’m starving,” Reid agrees. He pops up out of nowhere and sits himself on the corner of your desk, lanky figure cutting between you and her. “Morgan’s been talking about this new Mexican place nonstop—”

“Ooh, are we talking Mexican?” Morgan creeps in behind her, suddenly doubling the size of their party.

No, Emily glares at him. She knocks his shoulder with hers when he gets too close, widening her eyes to say stay the fuck away.

He raises his hands, brows furrowing.

“Butt out.” She hisses, but it all goes down the drain.

Garcia—sweet, traitorous Garcia—gambols over to them, helplessly out of the loop and always looking to fit herself in it. “Are we going to dinner?” She asks, unaware of the curdling acid in Emily’s gut.

It all slips from her hands then. You fill Garcia in, Morgan side eyes her then shrugs and launches into high praise of the restaurant, and before she knows it you’re being swept away, nestled in the midst of nosy, ironically clueless profilers.

Emily could kill them all just then.

She hangs a little behind as everyone heads to the elevator. Surely this could have been prevented, she thinks; maybe she should’ve dragged you aside somewhere, waited until it was just the both of you in the elevator. Could she have been more discreet? There was no one in the bullpen but her incessant, prying team. Maybe she should’ve been quieter.

Frustration balls up into a knot in her throat. Emily knows you need a heavy hand, a clear and unmistakable intonation of her meaning, and yet she still fumbled. The words slipped from her mouth like water, a stupid, casual, do you want to go out to dinner rather than something unmistakably amorous.

JJ pops up next to her as she wallows, grinning something more amused than she’d like. “You’ll get there one day.” She sympathetically pats her shoulder.

Emily flips her off.

2.

She’s still pissed at Reid. 

Naturally, the invitation had snowballed to include the entire team. Emily had had to spend dinner keeping her scowl to herself, seated across from you, right in the middle of Rossi and JJ as Reid rambled in your ear. You always listen to him, more interested than the rest of the team usually is, and while Emily usually loves you for it all she could think of was grabbing him by his scrawny neck and hauling him from his seat.

Any attempts at asking you again are thrown out the window; Garcia called with a case the next day, and now here she is, four days later, cross legged on a stiff motel bed with you across her knee. You left the precinct about an hour ago at Hotch’s order, the unsub in cuffs and case files boxed neatly away. The jet won’t leave until tomorrow morning—meaning, you’re stuck in nowhere city, Kansas. 

Takeout has been ordered and the money laid out; nothing occupies Emily’s thoughts other than the damp curl of your hair after your shower, the slightly jutted curve of your lips as you flip through the channels on the TV. She can smell every single one of the products you used in a heady concoction: light coconut from your shampoo; something faintly clinical from the antibacterial soap bar in the bathroom; the silky warmth of your cocoa butter lotion. It makes her relax, oddly enough, her tired muscles slumping onto the headboard next to your own.

The fact that you’re on her bed isn’t unusual. Emily draws from the comfort of your touching knees, hers bare and yours encased in cotton sweatpants.

“I’m pretty sure you’re looping back to where you started,” she drawls, though her eyes are more fixed on you than they are on the flashing TV.

You ignore her comment. It wasn’t particularly helpful, so she lets it slide, but it’s not long before her head works again. She’s desperate to talk to you; it’s an itch that can’t be scratched by your mere presence next to her. 

“Hey, how long did the restaurant say it’d take?”

Your hum is lazy, eyes narrowing at a cartoon channel. Skip. “…Twenty minutes?” You murmur. “Twenty five, maybe. Shouldn’t be long now.”

“Hm.”

You lapse into silence again, flipping through more channels. News, sitcom reruns, cooking tutorials. Her brain goes into overdrive.

The bell rings. Saved.

Food naturally opens up conversation. She lays it all out, and you find When Harry met Sally.

“Good choice. I saw it in the theater just before I left for Yale.”

A spark lights up your eyes. “Oh, so you’re old old.” You tease.

Emily bats her lashes, tongue honey-sweet. “It doesn’t show, does it, baby?”

“Now you’re just fishing.” You shove her shoulder, your laugh gracing her ears, light and easy. A smile of her own pulls at her mouth as she opens up boxes and distributes the food between you. Some part of her feels guilty for not involving JJ, but she doesn’t feel particularly forgiving after last time’s debacle.

She’s going to ask you out tonight, with no one to butt themselves in and extend the invitation.

“So,” Emily starts when you’ve both shoveled some food in your mouths, quieting the hunger in your bellies, “what’s your idea of a perfect date?”

You turn away from the movie, brows lifting slowly.

Emily rolls her eyes. “Indulge me.” She toys with her food and takes the opportunity to slide her gaze away for a moment. While used to openly flirting with you, she’s scared of you seeing the longing in her eyes—in the bow of her lips wanting to meet yours, the spaces between her fingers entirely empty without your own filling the gaps, unadulterated and all consuming.

She collects herself then looks up, a smile tugging at her mouth. Watching the thoughts race in your head delights her far more than it should. You hum through your mouthful of food, jaw sharpening as you chew, eyes darting from one spot to the other as if this shabby motel room holds the answer.

“Ice skating.” You say after a while.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been.” You shrug. Your eyes meet, and you smile sheepishly. “Bit childish, I know.”

“No, not at all.” Emily very nearly trips over her tongue and professes her love right then, her chest warm at the uncertain tilt of your lips. But she refrains. “Would you like to go with me?” She asks instead, head on and blunt and forward and nothing you could misunderstand. Nothing you should misunderstand.

A beam lights up your face. “I’d love to!” You grin, your voice rising several octaves.

Tentative hope curls in her stomach. Emily doesn’t return your smile just yet, not joining in on your laughing at her. “No Reid or Morgan or anyone.” She stresses, almost desperately. “Just us.”

“Duh,” you roll your eyes. “It’ll be fun!”

Emily can’t explain why her heart starts to sink.

“No, listen—” She can feel you slipping through her hands. She swallows, remembers last time’s mistake, reaffirms. “A date, me and you. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling. A relieved sigh climbs up Emily’s throat, drowned out by the sound of your voice when you speak again, “We’ve never been on a gals date before, have we?”

Emily blinks. “A gals date?” She echoes back, the words clumsy in her mouth.

Maybe this one’s on her lack of experience. She’d never exactly had friends enough to go on…gals dates. 

But that’s exactly what supposed friends do, isn’t it? It was never named as such when she went out with JJ and Garcia, but that’s no doubt what it was.

She can’t seem to shake off the sticky title of friends.

The press of your gaze is still on her, heavy and shimmering, even as Emily avoids it. Static rushes in her head, desolate black and white; she doesn’t even remember what your question was.

“Y-Yeah,” she says dumbly, a faint throbbing at her temples. Should she push it, drive her point home? Maybe you’re not looking to date right now. Maybe you’re just trying to let her down easy. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Gals date, huh?

Somehow she doubts it’d end the way she expects.

3.

You go on the “gals date”.

It takes a while, with work stealing away the weekends, but it happens, and Emily is entirely helpless when it does. Her hand twitches at her side when she picks you up, empty of romances she wanted to shower you with. But she can’t very well buy you flowers without risking looking like a sorry idiot. She can’t take your hand and hold it in her own, slowly filling the spaces between your fingers with hers. 

But she can open the car door for you. She can sing praises about your outfit and the way your hair frames your face. However this goes, she tells herself, she’ll be spending time with you, and that’s enough no matter her unrequited, carnal desires.

It has to be.

It is and it isn’t, she eventually finds out, when your cheeks are numb with the cold and your feet have gone sore from the tightly done laces on your skates. It’s enough for you to hang on to the back of her coat with a squeak, the sound nearly drowned out by metal cutting across ice as she slowly circles the rink. It’s not enough to feel the contour of your hand in hers, your fingers tightly clenched around her knuckles as she gently glides the both of you around. Not enough to feel your hand without warming it. Enough to see the delight spark in your eyes, brighter than the winter lights strung above the rink.

She’s at war with herself, and you’re entirely the reason.

“See, you’re a natural!” The stupid grin hasn’t left her voice since she met you at your door. “Sure you’ve never been before? You’re lucky there aren’t any talent scouts watching.”

For once, her silver tongue seems to hit the mark. Your skates, gliding smoothly on the ice, twist and screech beneath your wobbly legs.

“Shut up, Emily.” You yelp, crashing into her ready arms.

“No need to be shy, beautiful.” She laughs softly, turning the tumble into a graceful spin, your clenched fists loosening in her coat. It takes all of her self control not to tilt her head and kiss your sigh from your lips.

The rink entertains you for a good while. By the time you’re taking your skates off, you no longer need to hold Emily’s hand or the railing, your smile joyful as you speed atop the ice. But both your stomachs have started rumbling. Emily has to hold herself back from grabbing your hand as you walk through the surrounding market, stalls brimmed with food, vendors moving fast to battle the long queues lined in front of them.

When you’re cold, she wraps her scarf around your neck and splits half her hot chocolate with you. Cream smears on your nose, she laughs as she wipes it off, and the sickening realization that she’s practically living a Hallmark movie date doesn’t even bother her. You loop your arm through hers and muffle a laugh into her coat; Emily knows she’s too far gone.

It’s so wonderful her chest aches. Her heart physically hurts, throbbing under her sweater, and she knows the remedy is bumping shoulders with her, right here and yet completely out of reach. 

But she lives with it. She pushes it down and pretends this is just another outing, another dinner as you sit down across from her and press your knees into hers. You could be JJ. You could be Garcia.

But Emily doesn’t feel physically sick with holding herself back from them.

Giddy and intoxicated and tortured all at once, she feels like a fumbling teenager. As you’re walking back to the car, arm in arm, Emily is cleaved with the reluctance to let go. Of your arm, of the night. Of the fleeting hope that yes, you could agree if she asked—again, properly. 

After all, surely that all wasn’t nothing. She’d seen your eyes dip down to her mouth when she talked, your own tongue dragging across your lip as you nodded in agreement. She’d seen the way you flustered the first few times she caught you on the ice, inches between your noses, the white cloud of your breath staggering as she caught on to your waist. You’d mouthed a sticky-sweet kiss to her cheek after she wiped whipped cream from the tip of your nose—surely unnecessary and not entirely meaningless, right?

Maybe one more push wouldn’t hurt.

“I love you,” Emily tries, her heart in her throat.

But you don’t even blink. “Aw, Em.” You beam star-bright, looping an arm around her shoulder and dropping yet another devastatingly careless kiss on her cheek. “I love you too. I had the best time tonight.” You murmur, heat soaking into her skin where your voice touches. “Let’s do it again, yeah?” 

Emily swallows a sigh. Her cheek burns.

“Yeah, sure.”

She can’t delude herself anymore. Emily Prentiss has been friendzoned. Brutally, undeniably friendzoned. If that’s not a hint for her to take her love and go fuck herself, she doesn’t know what is.

It’s safe to say she begins to spiral after that. All of your interactions are run under a magnifying lens, all the clues she thought you were giving her balling up into a wad of delusion. She sourly ignores any more of JJ’s advice and Garcia’s prodding. She backs off, cuts down entirely on the flirting, firmly fits herself back into the box of coworker and nothing more. Her stomach turns to acid when she hears you talking about a date the next week, your voice lazy in her ear as you ponder what to wear.

Cashmere or wool, do you think? We’ll be indoors, so maybe not something too warm.

Emily stays silent. Garcia chimes in with an outfit choice, though she’s less enthusiastic about it than she usually is about things like these, her nose scrunching the slightest bit when she hears you go on about your date. Even JJ seems confused about it, but she smiles nonetheless and wishes you a good time.

Emily can’t say she does the same. No, she’s very much wallowing the night of your dinner, sulking at home and cuddling a moodier-than-usual Sergio as she waits for her takeout. The bath she’d taken doesn’t ease you from her thoughts; every so often her eyes would dart to the clock, spinning baseless assumptions as the hands move and drag her further into the night.

7:22; you must be getting ready now. Curling your hair maybe, sorting between wool and cashmere.

7:47; has your date picked you up yet?

8:14; surely you’re at your restaurant by now. Nights like these get busy.

8:36; appetizers? Drinks? God, she needs to get a life.

8:43—

Her ringing phone shatters the silence. Emily starts, she and Sergio both jumping at the noise. But her surprise doubles when she picks up her phone, her eyes tracing the letters of your name before her brain catches up.

Trouble, she thinks immediately. No other reason you’d be calling her on your date.

She picks up before the first ring dies out.

“Y/N?” She all but demands. “What’s up?”

Your sigh may as well be a whisper. “Hey, Emily.” The wilt is obvious in your voice, drooping like warm taffy. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this, but—can you…can you come get me? My date is a no show and my phone’s about to die, I don’t wanna grab a cab in case it—”

“Text me the location.” She’s already moving, Sergio meowing low when she stands and he tumbles from her lap, her muscles already wired to action. “Stay put, alright? I’m coming.” 

“Thanks.” You mumble. The silence hardly registers when you hang up with a quiet beep, the phone pinging seconds later with a link to an Italian restaurant. Emily scrolls through the map as she absently throws her coat on, her fingers grabbing for keys, switching off lights and opening doors. She forgets being your coworker then, forgets all the distance that struggles to take up space between you.

Emily does what she always does when you need her. 

She shows up.

____

It’s easy to spot you. You sit on a bench in front of the restaurant, backlit by the glow of lights, your spine wilting into something dejected. You look beautiful, dressed to the nines, clothes neatly pressed and face drawn in self-pity. 

Emily smiles lamentingly as she approaches, though a hidden fury boils in her blood. Your lips stretch into a flat line, just pulling up at the corners.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She murmurs, taking a seat next to you.

You wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, I already did that once tonight, didn’t I?” A half groan leaves your lips, drawn out with self-deprecation as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “God, I don’t even know why I agreed to it.”

Because you deserve something good. Something better than her.

Emily shoves it all down—her own wretched heart, the bitter taste of anger at the asshole that left you hanging. She pushes it all away and focuses on the one thing that matters. 

She takes your arm and tugs gently. “You haven’t had dinner.” She says. “C’mon, you must be starving.”

You’re not usually the type to sulk, but your frown is firmly planted as you shake your head.

“I don’t think I have much of an appetite left, Em.”

The anger flares again. She swallows the thick heat of it in her throat, feeling it curl in her belly as you look at her dejectedly. The streetlights reflect particularly well in your eyes; her heart clenches, fury and torment waging war against each other.

Her hand slides down to yours. She chooses you. She always chooses you.

“Hey, c’mon. You can’t let an asshole like that do this to you. Look at you! You’re gorgeous. You’re smart. You’re—you’re a total catch.” Her voice goes traitorously soft. Your brows lift, a sardonic curl dragging your mouth, as if to say, really? Emily aches all over. “Don’t give me that look.” She says quietly. “I mean it. And you deserve more than that.” 

And she can give it to you. God, can she give it to you. She’d never let you sit out in the cold. She wouldn’t stand you up if the sky was collapsing in on itself. 

But you’ve made your stance clear. Romance isn’t welcome from her, so she keeps her mouth shut, love trapped sticky between her teeth, and tries to keep it spilling from everywhere else.

“You deserve more than that.” Emily says again. “That asshole doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.” Gravel seeps into the words, turning them jagged. 

Her eyes drag back up to yours again, traveling over every curve and every line, cataloguing the shadows where blues pool. In the depths of your iris, the corner of your mouth and the wrinkles between your brows. Her chest constricts, ribs pressing tight against her heart. Emily almost swears bone pierces muscle; the blood pools out and smears on her sternum, protector turned aggressor.

You smile, lovelorn and entirely unconvinced with what she’s saying. Emily’s mouth opens, but the words dissolve on her tongue when your fingers thread through hers. You squeeze and her mouth snaps shut. “Thanks, Emily.” You murmur, your chilled fingertips on her knuckles. “You’re a good friend.”

God, this could just kill her. 

But Emily just swallows and stands, your arms stretching as she tugs. “Come on, I know a place.” She forces a smile.

“As long as it’s not Italian.” You say dryly, glancing back at the glowing restaurant behind you.

“Definitely not.” Emily theatrically scrunches her nose. “What would Dave say if he knew we were eating Italian out and not at la villa di Rossi?” She lays on the accent thick and grins when it hits the mark, your chest collapsing in a laugh. It’s small and real and music to her ears, a pocket of warmth enveloping her more effectively than her coat ever could.

This time when she tugs, you follow. The tension loosens in your arms as you stand and lean in closer to her side, fingers slotting out of place and letting the frigid air take their place. Emily tries not to wallow, because your smile is more genuine now, softer at the edges. You loop your arm through hers and let her lead you back to her car.

Emily’s glad you called her, she is. But the thought lingers in the back of her head: why you called her of all people.

4.

Emily’s in a sour mood. She perched herself on a bar stool half an hour ago to block out the sight of you in yet another stranger’s arms, dancing and catching the light like a shimmering diamond in a pool of rocks. Her knuckles had almost split through her skin when you got approached by the smiling, pearly-toothed brunette with a willowy figure, all lean lines and charming one-liners. Now she sits with her back to the dance floor, glaring down at her drink as the ice in it melts and waters it down. 

She can’t make head or tail of you. It’s a weird feeling, one she decides she doesn’t like. 

She doesn’t stumble around when it comes to things like this. Well, usually there’s never anyone to chase for longer than a night. But ever since she started pulling back, you’ve been lessening the distance she’s actively trying to keep—kissing her cheeks goodbye every day, pairing up with her before anyone else gets the chance to, sweeping touches and borderline flirtations in the space between your lashes. The whole length of your thigh had been pressed to hers at the booth, warmth pooling between you before the brunette came and swept you away. 

Emily knows she’s too far gone to make any sound decisions, but all of it feels intentional. Whether you’re laughing at her or trying to tell her what she’s stopped believing a few weeks ago, she doesn’t know.

Maybe she should just go home.

“Em.” Your voice in her ear briefly makes her tense. Your warm hands find her shoulders, squeezing lightly. “You haven’t danced with me. C’mon, we always dance.”

She turns as you step next to her shoulder, her eyes dipping to the undone buttons of your shirt. Hungry, lecherous, her pupils eat away at the skin bared to her, faintly glimmering with sweat and the lights above. Electricity crackles along her spine, wild, untamable.

Emily doesn’t want to dance. She wants to get things straight with you.

“Do you like me?”

“What kind of a question is that?” You laugh.

Emily doesn’t find it funny. “Do you like me?” She presses.

“Yes.” You say, easy albeit confused.

The answer doesn’t appease her. God, this is so high school, she thinks. This floundering and flustering isn’t her, but you’re scrambling her brain. Making her lose her footing.

Emily shifts on the stool until she fully faces you, chest to chest. The bar lights kiss your skin, illuminating it with warmth. Her heart picks up its pace. 

“If I were to kiss you,” she murmurs slowly, loud enough to be heard above the music, “would you kiss me back?”

Your eyes widen.

Now you’re on the same page, she thinks grimly.

Your lovely mouth hangs open. You close it only to let your jaw drop again, a wordless stammer working the bob of your throat. In probably the nicest way, you’re a fish out of water. If Emily weren’t so nauseatingly in love with you, she’d have laughed.

“Emily.” You finally stammer out, the tone of your voice faintly chiding. “You’re drunk.”

“I want to kiss you,” she mumbles. Longing is threaded into every syllable.

You give a small shake of your head, brows furrowing above your eyes. “I don’t think you do.” Your lips press into something like a smile; the corners are tilted downward. They sink like hooks into her flesh.

“Why?” Emily breathes. “Why’s it so hard to believe?” 

Your eyes flit away from her. 

She immediately misses them. Emily stands, the space between your bodies kissed away by hers. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Tell me.” She tilts her head, voice velvet soft. “Why wouldn’t I want to kiss you?”

“Stop it, Emily. You’re—” you shake your head, a heaving breath inflating your chest as you press back against the bar, “you won’t want to tomorrow.”

“I will.” She insists. “Tomorrow and every tomorrow after that.”

She should back off. Instead she cradles your soft cheek in her palm, inhaling a rush of sticky air when your lashes flutter. That’s not nothing. She knows it’s not.

Emily just needs a reason. To back off, to lean in.

“Would you kiss me back?” Her voice is frayed now, desperate. It cracks with the weight of her longing—too much to bear, too heavy to keep on carrying for much longer.

She can’t read the look on your face. Your eyes are dark, your hand veering into too hot as you place it on top of hers. For a moment her breath catches, but it quickly releases in a huff as you take both hands down from your cheek and let them drop listlessly to your sides.

“How about you call it a night?” You smile, tight and strange and everything you’re usually not. 

Emily backs away. Her body flushes hot and cold all at once, wanting for your heat yet crawling at your dismissal. 

The sound that escapes the back of her throat is bitter as she reaches into an oft forgotten pocket—muscle memory—pulling out a pack of Marlboros and sticking one between her lips. It’s funny, she hadn’t carried a pack in ages; her subconscious must’ve known. Her teeth close around the dry, papery cigarette, relief just on the tip of her tongue. Emily rolls it to the side of her cheek.

“Don’t concern yourself with me, sweetheart. Your date’s waiting.” She neatly steps past you, without even a brush of your elbows, and makes her way to the door, already reaching for her lighter. It’s in the same pocket, warmed from sitting so close to her body, a familiar weight in her hand. Not even the flicker of the flame loosens her spine.

The cigarette smoke is acrid, the chill biting and vengeful when she presses her shoulders against the wall and inhales a deep, damning lungful. The nicotine doesn’t come close to warming her up the way you had. 

Emily supposes both are wearing her down similarly enough.

5. 

Emily walks into the break room and immediately pivots when she sees you, grimacing as her heels sound on the floor. As if she’s got two eyes glued to the back of her head, she can feel it when you turn, the sticky heat of your gaze latching onto her back.

“There’s coffee for two.” You say after a too-long pause, your voice quiet and a little uncertain. She tilts her head just enough to see your forced smile. “And enough Splenda to make your teeth rot.”

Emily hates this. She hates herself and, if she’s being honest with herself, she kind of hates you, too.

She still remembers the night at the bar; she wasn’t totally wasted. It’s almost worse that she wasn’t.

The sting of embarrassment, of rejection, of her own stupidity—it all stacked up to form one giant bruise, tender and spread over the entirety of her skin. Anywhere you touched hurt. The briefest thought of you is a prick through her flesh, blood pooling steadily out of her veins until she drained. She’d apologized to you the next day, stiff with formality—and, miraculously, you accepted it—but she can’t get herself to close the distance, completely swerving past any room that might hold you in it. You’re not trying to maintain it, almost forcibly undeterred as you, for some reason unbeknownst to her, bridge the gap with your usual jokes and closeness, going on as if nothing had happened.

But it had, and she can’t get over it. Last time was more bearable, an internal shame that was entirely hidden from you, but now? Now it’s written in the air between you, weaved into every stiff exchange where her eyes struggle to meet yours—Emily Prentiss wants you and made a fool of herself trying to convince herself that you’d want her back.

Your endless olive branches hurt more than reciprocal silence. Emily would just prefer it if you didn’t. She embarrassed herself, she embarrassed you, put you on the spot and ruined both your nights. But you’re still here, offering her coffee and Splenda, the edges of your smile dragging down the longer her silence stretches out.

She can never have anything without ruining it, can she? 

“Thanks,” she says crisply, her words stilted. “But I already had my cup. I shouldn’t be—”

“Prentiss, L/N.” Hotch materializes next to her. Emily has to hold herself tight against wilting in relief. “Garcia got him.”

Routine stiffens her bones. Emily is already stepping in his shadow as he turns, her forefoot to his heel, her ear cocked to the clink of your mug down on the counter. She doesn’t turn—not as you follow behind, a distinct presence at her back, and not as she trades her blazer for a bomber jacket and grabs the vest JJ is holding out for her. Emily fastens it walking, dragging velcro to velcro as she bursts through the door Hotch flings open and out into the parking lot.

Your footsteps get lost behind her. Emily climbs into the passenger seat. Reid clambers in the back, and the door shuts behind him with a distinct finality. She exhales a rickety breath, her focus narrowing down to the words Hotch is barking.

This is easy. Focusing on the unsub is easy. You’re hardly anywhere in her head as Hotch races between cars like a maniac, adrenaline pressing ruthlessly on her heart rather than your presence. When she gets out of the car, gun already sliding into her hand, impractical heels making no sound on the floor, Emily hardly thinks to look for you.

Then a shot rings, and your voice is unmistakable as you cry out.

____

Emily crumples up the cheap plastic cup in her hand. 

The worst is over now, she supposes, but the aftershocks still linger. Her hands don’t smell like your blood anymore. But her eyes are tricking her into seeing red between her fingers, slotted and cracked around her knuckles. 

It had gushed at first—a warm, metallic, dark red geyser, soaking your sleeve and her palms and dripping fast enough for you to stumble into her. The color drained from your face as she clamped pressure on your arm, shouldering your weight with Morgan and absently murmuring reassurances while everyone else apprehended the unsub. She’d been reluctant to let go when the paramedics came; Emily had sat next to you on the back of the rig, hands sticky with blood, lightheaded as if it were her own, all but holding you upright as the EMT worked on stopping the bleeding. 

Your head was heavy on her shoulder. Warm breaths fanned over her jaw, uneven with exertion. “Don’t go,” you’d murmured, your hand flexing around hers as the EMT pulled the bandage tighter. “Please.” 

Emily had swallowed. “I won’t.”

And she didn’t. When the bleeding had slowed and everyone had been checked over, she’d shared half your weight with the EMT and eased you into the ambulance, each of your ragged breaths white-hot in her chest. She was warm all over with the adrenaline, the hair escaping her ponytail curled with sweat, jacket pushed up her forearms as you sunk into her side with a grimace.

“Is it cold?” You panted, slurry and dazed. 

No, she was burning. Sweat dampened her skin and it beaded on yours. She shoved her jacket off and draped it over your own, tucking the sleeves into your sides and rubbing her palms over your back because it did jack shit. 

“A little.” Emily murmured. “Better now?”

“Mm. Y’smell good.” You mumbled, the words fading out in a hiss as the ambulance jolted. You cursed, your voice cracking, and Emily muffled frantic shushes into your hair.

Her hands are scrubbed clean now. Knuckles, nail beds—she got most of it, exempting the thin red crescents lodged too deep beneath her nails. 

There was plenty of time while she waited for you to get out of surgery; her skin reeks of cheap lemon scented soap.

She breathes in. Grabs another cup. Fills it, for you this time, alternating between cold and hot water to turn it tepid. The moment she steps into your room, the weight of your gaze settles familiarly on her shoulders.

There you are.

For the first time in weeks, Emily relishes it. 

“Hey,” she sits on the chair next to your bed, feels the sticky trail of your eyes down her face. “How are you feeling?”

She tracks the bob of your throat with your swallow. Your gaze drags up, your eyes meeting hers. Emily doesn’t shy away from them now, keenly observing the wet shine of your irises. She recognizes your sluggish haze, molasses-thick, everything sticky with morphine and anesthesia.

“I got shot.” You say slowly.

She gnaws on her lip, nodding. “Yeah. They had to take the bullet out. Are you in any pain?” You think about it for a beat then shake your head. “Want some water?” She suggests.

An owlish, faraway blink. Then you nod. Emily stands and adjusts your bed so you’re sitting up. She brings the cup to your lips, her hand settling on the nape of your neck. 

A small frown creases your forehead. Even half drugged, you recognize her hot and cold. 

“What?”

“Did I get shot in both my arms?”

Emily’s brows furrow. “...No?”

Your blink drags. “I can drink.” You mumble. “On m’own.”

Emily knows that. She knows that. She doesn’t know why she wants do to this for you. (Or, rather, she knows but can’t make herself look further into it).

“I know you can. Just,” she licks her lips, “just let me, please.”

Her pinky rests on your shoulder, just past your hospital gown. You tilt your chin after a few blinks; Emily slots the rim of the cup between your lips with an internal sigh. Something in her quiets, dies down into still placidity. The bandage wrapped all the way to your elbow is stark, but it’s better than a freely bleeding wound, blood seeping between her fingers.

You drain the cup. Emily contemplates filling it again as you wipe your mouth, lips hydrated back to their usual color. The thought doesn’t linger in her head before you chase it away.

“You look mad.” You say, voice clearer now.

Emily shakes her head, frowning. “I’m not mad.” She says softly. “I was worried.”

“’M okay, though.”

“I know you are.” That doesn’t make it any easier. “It was just…sudden. And you’re important to me.” She cups your cheek. It’s all done unthinkingly, on autopilot. Her tongue slips, her hand moves, her fingers part on your jaw. Emily is used to loving you, and used to letting it slip.

She freezes in her place a little, spine stiffening when she remembers, belatedly, that you don’t want any of that. Her hand just about drops but is held in place by your cheek; you nuzzle into her palm, lashes fluttering under the harsh light.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that,” you sigh. A pout curves your mouth, pulls it into a sulk. “’S mean.” You mumble, lips brushing the base of her thumb.

Emily’s heart is in her throat. Her fingers twitch on the shell of your ear, too scared to move. “M-Mean? How—why is it mean?” 

“’Cause.” Your brows pinch. “You sound all…sweet and romantic when you say that. Like…like you’re sayin’ like you mean it.” You say accusingly.

Emily inhales sharply, air rushing to her lungs. Your small voice stings, but not more than the disbelief that sticks to it. “Baby, I do.” She says quietly, adamantly, her thumb pressed to your jaw. “I do mean it, all of it. I’ve been trying to tell you for so long now.”

You shake your head haltingly. “You haven’t.”

“Swear I have.” She murmurs. “I—I tried to ask you out on dates. I tried to flirt with you. Fuck, honey, I told you I wanted to kiss you. I don’t—” a shaky laugh tumbles from her lips, “I don’t think you like listening to me.” 

You’re in disbelief—eyes wide, mouth parted, brown drawn. It pinches at her insides, sharp pinpricks lining her skin. Emily wants to massage away the scrunch of your frown, smooth your confusion away until what she’s saying is unmistakably clear. 

“No, but—you were drunk.” You stammer.

“I still meant it.” Her thumb smooths over your jaw. “I wasn’t wasted. I knew what I was saying.”

She just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

You look doubly dazed. “So, you…you like me?” You reaffirm quietly, your mouth barely moving around the words.

Emily nods. “I do.” She says.

“That doesn’t make sense, though. You’re you,” you stress the word like it means something, “and I’m me. It just doesn’t…We don’t fit together like that.”

Emily’s stomach turns. She leans back to put a little distance, the weight of your jaw lifting from her hand.

“Wait, what? Says who?”

“C’mon, Emily.” You mumble. You’re not looking at her anymore. “You could…y’could never like me, not like that. Our date…I haven’t been treated like that in years. Haven’t felt like that in years. But I couldn’t start to hope. You were going to break my heart if I let you.” You fiddle with the blanket at your hips, eyes shuttered away. “I couldn’t let you.” You say quietly.

Emily can’t breathe.

“Y/N—”

“I went out with that guy to make myself face reality. I couldn’t have someone like you, there was no use just wallowing over it.” You shrug.

Her mouth is dry. All at once she’s nauseous, acid churning in her gut. Surely you don’t believe that. Surely you can see, even somewhat, the way she bends to your will, kneels at your feet—even under the guise of friendship. 

Surely you don’t think that about yourself.

“You’re wrong.”

You flash her a small, bitter smile. “I never am about things like these.”

Emily shakes her head firmly. “No, you are. And I’m gonna prove it to you—I swear I will, but—” But now’s not the time. You’re hazy around the edges, and she’s not sure which words stick. She needs you totally here for this, though Emily would repeat it again and again and again until it clung and fused with your bones, as unmistakable as your heartbeat. 

You still look doubtful. But she’s gonna fix that. She’s gonna fix it. 

Emily licks her lips, “Listen, you need to rest up now, okay? But we’ll talk about this. I promise.” She hesitates for a beat, then it slips out: “I love you.”

Your lashes droop with your blink. “You’re adamant about it.” You mumble.

Emily swallows her heart, her hand twitching at her side.

“I always have been.”

+1

Emily carries groceries into your kitchen, a Pyrex of casserole in one hand and plastic bags clenched in another, striding through your apartment like she owns it. 

To be fair, she has been here a few times.

“You really didn’t have to do this.” You say again, fiddling with your sling as you follow in after her.

Emily sets the casserole down with an eye roll. “For the last time, Y/N, I wanted to. Your dominant arm is incapacitated—I can’t have you starve on my account.”

“Whether I starve or not is not really on your account,” you argue, reaching over to take some of the bags in her hand. She doesn’t let you, moving them from your reach and settling them down on the counter. You peer behind her; Emily swats at your free hand, tilting her body to shield them from you.

“Honey, get used to it. Soon enough I’m gonna be doing a lot more than just getting you groceries and casserole.”

She doesn’t exactly mean for the words to slip, but Emily is not too torn up about it either. Ever since the hospital, the two of you have been testing the stability of the line between you—toeing it, going a little past crossing it, all too aware of the gentle rounded curves of the elephant in the midst of your every conversation. The way you get her meaning now, flushing a little with a dazed look on your face when she murmurs something undeniably flirty, is a high she can’t get over.

It happens now. You briefly get this startled, deer-in-headlights look; she half expects you to point to your own chest and mouth, me? despite there being only the two of you in your kitchen. You’re getting better at composing yourself quicker, but Emily secretly relishes the tiny moments she gets to catch you off guard.

“Oh?” You clear your throat, leaning against the counter and tilting your head to better catch her eyes. “Like what?”

Emily knows you’re not thinking about the groceries now. 

“Like taking you out on a date.” She murmurs softly, voice like velvet as she straightens, turns so you’re nearly chest to chest. “Doing some…really not platonic things with you.” Her hands settle on the cool countertop behind you.

You inhale sharply, your chest briefly touching hers. Heat blooms across her skin. 

“What kind of things?” You ask. Your back presses against the granite. A small shiver goes through you; Emily doesn’t know if it’s from her or the cool tiles against your back.

“I can show you.” She says. Your pupils go wide, and she smiles against her beating heart. “It’s a bit more effective. Uh, gets my point across more…clearly.” Her fingers absently drum against the counter, itching to get closer and smooth over the soft material of your sleeve where it lays over your arm.

“Silver tongue finally failing you, Emily?” You whisper, lips dragging, your weight tentatively leaning into hers.

“No.” Emily smiles. “I just think you might like it better somewhere else.”

There it is again. Your eyes widen, a sharp breath inflating your chest. Her palm cushions the line of your jaw, fingers hooking behind your ear and tilting your dipping chin toward hers. “Can I? Can I kiss you?” Her thumb traces over your bottom lip, your exhale fogging warm on her nail, “Can I take you out?”

Her heart pounds so loud she barely hears your whisper. “Yeah.” You swallow; her eyes spy a similar pulse in your throat. “Yeah, yes. All of it.”

“Thank you.” She says politely, careful and entirely tender even as she—finally—devours you with her kiss.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes@yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers @chestnutninny

[a-griffin-in-the-sky]

If you can't see how the music industry grooms, exploits, and chews up young women then spits them out for sport then you were never saying “Free Kesha” or “Free Britney” from a place of understanding.

Sabrina Carpenter is a former Disney kid. Just like Britney. Just like Miley. Just like Demi. Just like dozens of girls who were handed a brand before they were handed autonomy.

The fact that people still can’t fathom how external forces,managers, producers, labels, entire corporate machines shape these women's public personas, music, and even personal decisions shows a total lack of basic media literacy and empathy.

You can’t cheer for girls breaking their chains if you mock the ones still wearing them.

Sabrina’s new album is drenched in male gaze but if you look at it and think, “Yep, this was 100% her choice,” while ignoring the industry machine behind her, then you’re being willfully naive.

First rule of misogyny: women are always responsible for what men do.

The album art is bad. Like vintage domestic abuse PSA bad. It's unsettling, and not in an intentional or subversive way just exploitative and hollow. But if your first instinct is to blame her, like she did this all alone with a selfie stick and Photoshop, you’re missing the entire point.

Who was the photographer? The stylist? The makeup artist? The set designer? Who was the man in the photo with her and more importantly, who were the men in the boardroom who signed off on this?

You think a 25-year-old ex-Disney girl walks into a label meeting and gets full creative control? Come on. These images and songs go through layers of executives and marketers before we ever see them. And they almost always cater to a male gaze because men run the machine.

You don’t have to like the art. You can find it tasteless. But blaming her in isolation is just playing into the very system you claim to critique.

feminism is about criticizing the system, not the women who fell victim to it.

sabrina carpenter is not a fucking victim omg. she writes her music and decided to cosplay as a dog. her whole image is being a sexy baby…… why tf are we trying to blame anyone else but her 😭? a lot of women don’t care about feminism. the ultimate goal is to be as sexy as possible to men. sex sells yes, but at some point you have to stop being delusional and realize she’s the one willingly getting on the floor letting a male grab her by the hair. she doesn’t have to do this. but she cares more about money & playing the sexy tradwife role than she does about her impact on women and girls.

once some of u accept that u can’t change other women or continue to accept their bad behavior under the guise of feminism, ur life & approach to feminism will improve i swear

[love-bucky-3000]

Been Forever (Bucky Barnes x Reader) 18+

Summary: Bucky can't last after not being touched for so long

WC= ~5.5K

Warnings: smut, needy!bucky (though i dont think i portrayed it well but hopefully you like it), reference to assault but not graphic

a.n: hii second fic in forever. i wanted to write needy bucky so hopefully i did him justice! share and like:)

Bucky shuffled his way into the kitchen area early that morning, cursing his internal clock for waking him up early after a week-long mission. It was an easy mission, but a week-long stay with Walker would drive anyone crazy. Bucky huffed as he went to pour a cup of coffee before realizing the pot was empty. 

“Sorry, I emptied already.” Bucky jumped out of his skin at the sound of Yelena’s voice. She was sitting on top of the dining table, watching him. Widows seem to be the only people that could still scare the soldier. 

“And you didn’t fill it up.. Why?..”

Yelena shrugged and took a drink from a mug that probably fit the whole pot of coffee in it, “Didn’t feel like it.” Bucky shot her a glare before reaching up and grabbing the coffee grounds from the cabinet. Stark had put in automatic coffee makers before leaving the tower but those pods cost an arm and a leg and Bucky just can’t get behind using their budget on something as small as an espresso pod, no matter how much Walker nags him. 

As the coffee brews, Bucky turns and rests his lower back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing Yelena. They sit in silence, comfortable silence, listening to the coffee pot do its thing. Yelena is staring off into the New York skyline, Bucky’s sure she’s thinking of all the paperwork still needed to be filled out from last week’s mission. 

“Ya kno-” Yelena’s voice is cut off by the beep on the coffee machine. Bucky raises his eyebrow in a way that says "continue” as he turns to pour himself coffee.

“You hang out here a lot is all I was going to say.”

Bucky filled his mug as he contemplated her statement.

“Where else am I supposed to go?” He used to hang out with Sam between therapy appointments and missions, but he hasn’t heard from Sam in a while now that he’s thinking about it.

“No, nowhere. I’m just saying I don’t see you get out very often.” Yelena’s voice breaks his thoughts before they start to spiral. Maybe he should call Sam. 

“I do supply runs.”

“The grocery store doesn’t count. When was the last time you, I don’t know” she waved her free hand in the air, thinking of what she wanted to say, “.. had sexual relations?”  

The mug slipped out of Bucky’s hand, thankfully not breaking and only spilling a couple drops of coffee onto the counter top. “Huh? Since when do the Avengers care about other Avengers sex life?” 

“I’m sure Tony did.”

She probably had a point. Bucky rolled his shoulders back and looked out into the skyline. Between therapy, missions, and learning to function as a human again, it’s been a while to say the least. He tried to flirt with Sam’s sister, Sarah, but that only earned him a slap to the head and stern talking to from Sam. He tried to start something with the cashier down at the local bodega where the team gets their after-mission meals from, but the owner, the cashier’s dad, said he would take away their Avengers discount if he tried anything. He was tempted to push it, but the cashier said she was dating someone already anyway and slipped him an extra bag of M&Ms into his bag with a smile. Oh well, Bucky hopes they’re happy.

“So..” Oh right, there was a spider demanding his attention right now. 

“I don’t know, Yelena, you know I don’t remember much from Hydra.” Bucky hoped that bringing up the sensitive topic would be enough to deter the conversation but he forgot who he was talking to.

“I’m talking about since then, James.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at the use of his first name and spun around to look at her. She tried to act uninterested in his answer by picking the polish off her nails, but he knew she wouldn’t let it go. Bucky let out a sigh and tried to rack his brain for the partners he has had. Dot, back in 1930ish, let him touch her breast once before being shipped off to war. Then, well, nothing he could remember. He used to be very familiar with his right hand but even that relationship has fizzled. 

Yelena was watching him again, her nail polish forgotten for the time being. He shrugged and looked out over the kitchen. She gasped and her eyes widened, “you really haven’t been with someone since you’ve been back?” Bucky gave her a “duh” look and finished off the rest of his coffee. “Why do you care?”

“Because, as leader of this team, I vow to make sure everyone is taken care of! You’re tense, I could see it last week!” The New Avengers really didn’t have a leader but Yelena claims to be when she wants something. “I was tense because Walker is a dumbass.”

It was Yelena’s turn to roll her eyes. She hopped off the table and came to stand next to Bucky. They would be shoulder to shoulder if Bucky wasn’t almost a foot taller. “Come out with us tonight, you never do.” The team goes down to the local bar almost every Saturday night. Bucky never went, claiming alcohol doesn’t affect him anymore, which isn’t a lie, but he knew sooner or later they would convince him to come anyway. He guessed now was that time. 

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye to find her staring directly at him. He sighed and reached a hand up to push his long hair back. He is about due for a cut. 

Finally, he nodded and Yelena hissed out a “Yess!!” then scurried away. Bucky looked at the time on the microwave clock and mentality counted the hours left until he had to face hell. He had about 10 hours to wallow about his decision.

10 hours came and went quickly. Before he knew it, he was showered, his hair was blowdried and shiny thanks to the products Yelena gifted him for his birthday and now he was staring at his all black closet, hoping an outfit would jump out and kill him. 

His eyes scanned the dark garments before settling on dark jeans, a black shirt and his leather jacket. It’s what he wears everyday but this time, he’ll spray cologne on himself to make it a fancy outfit. He grabbed his boots and set out to meet the rest of the crew who left over an hour ago, yelling at him to hurry his ass up.

The streets of New York felt like home to Bucky, but he knew how dangerous the dark alleyways could be. He cleaned Steve off too many dirty gravel grounds to think they were safe. And he wasn’t foolish to think that just because he lived in Stark Tower that the roads were safe outside his front door. 

Bucky made his way down the lit street, checking over his shoulder and down alleyways for any disturbances. The bar was about 5 blocks away, he could make it before having a panic attack. Surely. Therapy tried to fix that part of him but he believes the anxiety was born with him.

Bucky made it about 2 blocks before a scream and some shuffling reached his ears. He was now on high alert, looking for the cause of the commotion. The knife he kept up his sleeve slipped down into his hand as his eyes tracked up and down the street. It was empty of people. “Stop it!! Help me!!” came from just up ahead. It was a woman, Bucky could tell that much. He cautiously stepped towards the alleyway to his right. Bless the serum for sharpening his eyesight in darkness because he could easily see a man push the woman to the ground and cock a gun in her face. 

“Shut up, bitch, before you get us caught.” The man snarled and shook the gun in your face. He stumbled, clearly drunk. Being drunk and waving a gun around isn’t usually a good combo. Bucky strutted forward and grabbed the man’s arm as it swung backwards. Bucky twisted it and the man let out a sharp yelp of pain. Bucky grabbed the gun from the twisted hand and threw it somewhere behind him and pushed the guy to the ground.

He struggled to stand up but Bucky’s boot to the chest stopped him. 

“Come on, man. Nothing going on here, just let us be.” The man was struggling to catch his breath and talk at the same time. Bucky looked over to you who had pushed your back against the dirty wall. 

‘She shouldn’t be dirtying that pretty dress.’ Bucky thought to himself. The short blue dress fits you perfectly. His eyes reached your face and made eye contact with yours. His heart thumped against his chest, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a while. 

Bucky gave a slight uplift to his mouth, a sorry excuse for a smile but that’s all he could manage looking at a pretty girl. Damn, he used to be a charmer. He was about to ask you if you were hurt but the dumbass on the ground let out a groan then threw up. Bucky grimaced and lifted his foot off his chest so nothing got on himself. He looked back at you, who stood up and dusted yourself off, feeling confident that the drunk mess of a man wasn’t going to hurt you anymore, not while Bucky was around. 

He offered you his hand and you took it gently. Bucky could feel you shaking, but he thought better of squeezing your hand. He didn’t wanna scare you off. He led you towards the street light at the end of the alley. People were starting to emerge from the restaurants and bars that lined the streets, dinner time reaching an end. Bucky guided you to a bench outside a closed flower shop and sat you down. He sat down too, not wanting to hover. He watched as your eyes traced over the flower pots sitting next to the bench while you gathered your thoughts.

“Um, thank you for saving me..” your voice was timid and a little shaky but Bucky could see the color coming back to your face, so he wasn’t worried about you passing out on him. He smiled, a genuine smile this time, and shook his head. “It was really no problem, doll. Do you need someone to walk you home?” He internally cringed because of course you wouldn’t want a stranger to know where you lived. He back tracked, “I’m meeting a few friends at a bar down the street. I can get Yelena or Ava to walk you home.” He was a little selfish, but he wanted the extra few minutes with you by walking you to the bar. 

He saw a small smile pass across your lips, seemingly grateful that he offered to send you home with his female friends. You looked up at him and your eyes caught the light of the street lamp above and Bucky’s heart jumped again. What is going on?

“I would like that if you don’t care.” you said. You both stood up and Bucky pointed you to the right, leading you towards the bar. A breeze caught your hair and a waft of vanilla hit his senses and, well, other places. He paused and took a deep breath. No one has ever affected him this much. You noticed him pause and turned back towards him looking at him questionably. He smiled again, this time it probably looked more like a grimace, as he resumed his steps. 

The wind picked up again and Bucky noticed you shiver. One thing he remembered from the 30s is to offer your coat to a freezing gal. He didn’t forget everything. He shrugged off his coat and tapped you on the shoulder. You spun around and looked at him again. Bucky watched as your eyes traveled from his face, down his arm, then rested on the jacket in his hand. “Here, the wind is picking up and I run hot.” He doesn’t know why he told you that, but it made you smile and his heart pick up again. “Thank you..” She put her arms through the jacket and looked at him. Oh, you wanted a name. “You can call me, Bucky.”

 They continued walking and Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you from the corner of his eye. He kept telling himself to stop being a creep but you just looked so damn good in his jacket. It fits you well. You weren't swimming in it. It looked like you owned it and Bucky liked the thought of her owning his clothes more than having them swallow her up. Though he would like to swallow her.

They reached the bar before Bucky could fully form the thought of you wearing more of his clothes. He nodded at the guard at the front and stepped in. The music was low enough to talk over, but loud enough for silence to not be awkward. He found Yelena, Ava, Walker and Bob sitting towards the back. As he was making his way towards them, a large hand clasped his shoulder. “Bucky! You join us tonight! And with such a pretty lady, who is this!” Alexei’s voice boomed in Bucky’s ear. He winced from the sound and at the realization that he forgot to ask your name. Bucky’s wide eyes took in your expression. You looked happy, she was laughing. You reached out a hand to Alexei and introduced yourself.

“Hi, my name is Y/N. Bucky found me in an alleyway a few minutes ago,” you joked.

Alexei’s eyes pinballed between yours and Bucky’s and then busted out laughing. Alexei brought you two to the table and conversation halted at the sight of her. “Bucky made a friend!” The table erupted into cheers and Yelena scooted over to allow you to take a seat. “Join us!” She demanded. 

“Yelena, no, I was just coming to ask if you would take Y/N home.” He didn’t spare any details, but the hard look in Bucky’s eyes made Yelena pause. But you shocked him. He was shocked to see you sit down next to Yelena and introduce yourself to everyone, looking so at home in his jacket. Alexei pulled him down beside him and passed out the drinks he obtained from the bar.

 He kept his gaze on you for the rest of the time, though the bar closed only about an hour after you both arrived. You were cutting up and passing around jokes with his team. In his jacket. And sometimes, your foot would catch his and you would look up at him through your lashes and your lips would curl around the straw in your drink and Bucky’s thoughts would spiral again. He thought of you on your knees, looking up at him just like you are now. Your lips wrapped around something much bigger than that straw. Bucky was currently jealous of that straw.

The bartender signaled for last call and the team groaned. Everyone but Bucky. Bucky has been trying not to cream his pants since you sat down. His zipper is pressed in the perfect spot to rub against his cock every time he was moved and Alexei loved to push him when something was extra funny. Bucky felt guilty. He didn’t know you and you didn’t know him, but he couldn’t help how he felt. 

The team made their way out of the bar so the staff could close, and you hung around Bucky, closely. “Y/N, we can take you home now.” Ava said, gesturing to her and Yelena. Yelena smiled and nodded. Bucky watched as you bit your lip and looked up at him. Good god, he’s not going to make it home. 

“Actually, I was hoping Bucky’s offer of him taking me home was still on the table..” Walker whistled and Bucky shot him a go to hell look before turning his attention back to you. You looked uncertain, scared he was going to turn you down. “Of course, whatever you want.” And he meant whatever you wanted. You could walk him like a dog and all he would do was bark. Your face lit up and you thanked the rest of the team for letting you crash their night. You were met with a chorus of  “anytime!” and a “let me get your number” from Yelena. 

After some goodbyes, you led Bucky down the street, informing him your apartment wasn’t too far away. Bucky gave you a tight lipped smile, mumbling a quick “not a problem, doll” but it was a problem. Because every step he took rubbed his zipper into his hard cock. He attempted to adjust himself after you turned around but he didn’t want to grope himself in public so he just had to deal with it. 

The walk to your apartment was over quicker than Bucky would have liked. You two spoke the entire walk which took his mind off his throbbing erection, thankfully. Bucky walked you up the steps to your apartment door. Bucky was glad to see the security measures in place here, but he knew they were expensive. He hoped you weren't struggling to afford it. The thought of moving you to the tower crossed his mind but he pushed it back. ‘Take her out for dinner first, geez,’ he thought to himself.

“Would you like a cookie? I baked them this morning…” Your voice trailed off and you were looking at him through your lashes again. ‘Fuck me, she bakes too’ he thought. 

Not one to disappoint you, he said yes and his heart thumped at the smile you gave. You led him into your apartment, the entryway opened straight into your living room. It was small but clean and filled with plants. ‘I guess the flowers from earlier calmed her down��� Bucky thought. 

“Take a seat, get comfy, I’ll be back!” You said as you kicked your shoes off. You didn’t take off his jacket and his cock twitched at the thought of taking it off himself. Bucky followed suit and toed his boots off, not wanting to get any mud on the fluffy rug you had underneath the coffee table. Bucky sat towards one side of the couch, leaving you space to sit. He took deep breaths to try and calm his racing heart but all he could smell was vanilla. He couldn’t get enough of it. 

You practically skipped back into the living room with a tray of cookies and settled into the couch, much closer to Bucky than he thought you would. You flipped on the TV to a random channel then turned to Bucky. You offered the tray and he took one. You followed suit, picking one up and taking a bite. You moaned slightly at the taste and the cookie paused halfway between Bucky’s mouth and the tray at the sound. It went straight to his cock. 

You laughed at yourself. “Sorry, I haven’t made these in so long, I forgot how good they were.” You were distracted by the TV and didn’t see how Bucky almost crushed the cookie in his fist. Bucky quickly ate the cookie to avoid any disasters and he’ll admit, it was the best damn cookie he ever had. Bucky mindlessly watched the TV, thoughts of you naked swirling in his head, not helping his boner problem. 

“So..” you startled Bucky out of his racing thoughts. He hummed and turned towards you. You were sitting with your legs tucked under you, the length of the dress showing off your thick thighs. Bucky wanted to die between those thighs. “Eyes up here, soldier.” You giggled and Bucky’s face turned beet red. “S-sorry” he coughed to clear his throat and looked you in the eyes. Your eyes traced his body. The black shirt doing nothing to hide the muscles bulging beneath it. You followed the dip of his abs down to the buckle of his pants, then followed the seam of his jeans to see his trapped cock straining against the fabric. You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth as you took in the sight. He was so hard, yet, he wasn’t going to touch you without permission. That warmed your heart and your core.

You watched his cock twitch as you released your lip from your teeth and you glanced back up at him. Bucky had his eyes locked on to you. A bomb could go off and it wouldn’t take his eyes off of you. You could see the longing and desperation in his eyes. You knew who he was. The soldier. You watch the news. When he saved you earlier, the heat prickled at your core just seeing him break that guy’s arm. You didn’t know the guy and thankfully he didn’t hurt you, but you did appreciate Bucky breaking his arm. You were going to take him home to screw after a long week at work, but he couldn’t keep his hands to himself in public and that gave you the ick. Flash forward to now, and you hoped Bucky would be into filling the emptiness of your bed.

“I’ll be honest with you, Bucky. I was going to bring that guy home and fuck him,” Bucky tensed at the mention of the guy who almost hurt you but you settled him with a hand to his chest. Heat spread through Bucky at the contact. Has it really been that long that a simple touch was making him crazy? You continued, “but thanks to you, I won’t be messing around with a boy.” You smirked as you felt his heart rate kick up under your hand. You rubbed his chest and snaked your hand up and around his neck, playing with the strands at the base of his skull. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, but opened quickly, not wanting to miss a second of what you’re doing. You scooted closer on the couch, your body now pushing against the side of him and your vanilla shampoo filled his brain. 

“I’ve been really lonely these past few weeks, Bucky, and I reallyyy need someone to take care of me, are you the man for that?” You purred against his ear and gently tugged on the strands of hair, testing the waters. Bucky moaned at the sting and you felt his body relax back into the couch, his head falling back into your hand. “I can try..” he grunted out, “but…” he cleared his throat and looked down at you, “it’s been awhile…”. You grinned and cooed at him, “It’s okay, baby, you’ll try your best right?” 

You don’t know where this dominance is coming from, but seeing Bucky almost losing it already to the lightest of touches was enough to turn you to goo. Bucky whimpered and his cock twitched again, “I’ll make you feel good, please.” You rewarded him with a scratch to the back of his neck and climbed onto his lap, your legs on each side of his thighs. Bucky let out a loud moan and gripped your hips, helping you settle. You found his lips, kissing him gently, giving him space to pull away. He didn’t want that. His hand flew to the back of your head, pinning you to him, deepening the kiss. 

His other hand made its way under his jacket you were still wearing and rested on your back. Your hands found their way back to his hair, pulling groans from his mouth with every tug. The kiss only broke because of your need for air and you both were huffing. His hand kept you close and he nosed along your neck, spreading burning kisses across your collarbone and up to your ear where he groaned, “do you know what seeing you in my jacket did to me?” You did, but you shook your head, wanting him to answer. “I’ve been hard for hours, doll. I could blow right fucking now.” 

“Really?” you faked innocence, choosing now as the perfect time to lower your core to his, grinding slowly across his cock. “Fuck!” he groaned out, sounding like you just knocked the breath out of him. You giggled, and trailed kisses of your own across his neck. He let you, leaning his head back to give you more room. You kept your hips moving slowly, his hands now squeezing your hips hard, not stopping you from moving. He was whimpering and moaning, letting out a little “ah ah ah!” and “fuck baby”s as you moved your hips. At some point, he removed your jacket and he took turns biting and sucking on your exposed shoulder. 

You were lost in your own world, listening to his moans and whines about how fucking good your pussy feels on him. You were soaked and you wouldn’t be surprised if his jeans were wet. You were about to lean up and recommend this continue upstairs when a sharp whine reached your ears. It shocked you, thinking you hurt him. Strong arms locked around your waist and you felt Bucky thrust up into hard. Heat spread below you and his cock twitched endlessly. You thought you heard pleas of “I’m sorry, fuck, so sorry” through his moans that were being direced into your neck. You gently brushed your fingers through his hair and told him how good he was making you feel, which just prolonged his orgasm. His hips kept thrusting up into you, rubbing your clit through your panties. ‘Shit, this might make me cum too’ you thought.

Finally, he came back to you. He brought his face out of your neck, he looked embarrassed and upset. He avoided eye contact with you and attempted to set you on the couch beside him. You wouldn’t let him. You locked your legs around his waist and gently tilted his head up to meet your eyes. “Bucky..” 

You watched as his Adam's apple bobbled as he swallowed and looked at you. You couldn’t tell if the red on his face was embarrassment or from his orgasm. “Feel better?” You couldn’t help but tease him but you settled the sting with a hard kiss to his lips. When you pulled back, he spoke, “I’m really sorry, doll. I just haven’t been touched in so long.” You didn’t like how ashamed he looked. That was hot as fuck. You brushed the stray strands of his hair out of his face and cupped his cheeks. You gave him a wide smile and kissed him again. Slowly this time. Wanting him to feel how much you liked him.

“Don’t apologise for that, honey. It was hot getting a guy off without lifting a finger.”

He chuckled at that and looked over your face, taking it in. “I guess it’s time I return the favor.” The world spun around as he flipped you on your back flat on the couch. He knelt between your spread thighs and took in your red face, your chest rising and falling with each breath you took and the damp spot on your underwear- which he was honored to find out was the same shade of blue as your dress. He smiled at that. 

Bucky ran his hands up and down your thighs before they came to rest at the apex, right next to where you wanted him the most. You whined out a “Bucky, please” and pushed your hips up towards his touch. Bucky hid a smile by biting his lip and hummed. “What do you want?” Now, he wanted to tease. You whined again and reached down and moved your own panties to the side, using two fingers to spread your pussy open, exposing how wet and ready you were for him to his own eyes. 

Bucky groaned at the sight. “Look at that, baby. You spreading yourself so I can see?” He husked out and removed your hand from your pussy before you could touch yourself more. You whined at the loss of contact but he quickly replaced your fingers with his own. Two of his thick fingers found your entrance, and scooped up some slick, spreading it up to your clit. You blushed as your legs fell impossibly wider. He chuckled at your eagerness and continued to put pressure on your clit. “How’s that feel, baby? Is that better?” You nodded, throwing your head back with a moan. He trailed his fingers back down to your entrance, inserting his middle finger inside. You arch your back into his hand. It’s been months since someone else has touched you there. You tell him such in a moan, and you see his eyes grow impossibly darker. “Good, because I wanna be the only person you’re thinking of right now. I want you to think of me every time you go to touch this little pussy.” 

You moaned and arched your back again, his finger speeding up inside of you. You beg him for more, which he gives with a “only the best for my girl” and inserts his middle finger into the mix and pushes them back in together. The fingers pause once they’re all the way in and you don’t have the time to voice your disappointment as a warm mouth makes contact with your clit. Your hips go to jolt off the couch but his metal hand keeps you in place. 

Bucky starts the suction on your clit at the same time he resumes fucking your pussy with his fingers. You’re moaning, whining and squirming, he’s brought you to the edge so fucking fast that you can’t breath. His fingers nor mouth ease in their actions, forcing you into one of the best orgasms of your life. 

Bucky feels you clinch around his fingers and he moans around your clit in your mouth, fueling the fire in your gut. Your legs are shaking around his head and your hands are attempting to push his mouth away but he only lets up when your whines turn a little pained. 

He sits up and wipes his mouth with the bottom of his shirt, exposing his abs and vline to you. If you weren’t so fucked out, you would admire it more. “You okay, baby? Where’s the bathroom?” You nod and lazily point down the hall. Bucky laughs and gets up. He shushes you when you whine and he comes back quickly with a warm wash cloth. He cleans you up and sets you up against him, rubbing his hands up and down your legs to encourage the feeling to come back to them. You yawn.

“Where’s your bed, doll?” You manage a smirk and point upstairs. He rolls his eyes at your smirk and picks you up bridal style. His smile softens at the way you curl up into him. He finds your bedroom and places you down on the ground after you whine about needing to find clothes. He would rather you be naked but it’s your home, your rules. He watches as you pick out underwear and a big t-shirt and backs up towards the door. You look at him and knit your eyebrows together, “you leaving? You can stay here.” You nod towards the bed. He wants to, but he kinda still has a mess in his pants. You see his hesitation. Then remember. You laugh and grab a pair of boxers from another drawer and throw it at him. His eyebrows shoot up and you explain, “my brother left them here years ago, they’re clean.” 

He looks at the boxers in disgust but he realises that it’s his way of being able to stay. You gesture to the ensuite bathroom and pull the covers back on the bed and get in. Bucky changes and comes back to find you on your side, facing away from the empty side of the bed. He gets in and gently puts his arm around your waist. He relaxes once you mold yourself into his body. Bucky hasn’t slept this well since the war.

[witchbitchlovesdilfs]

Would you write a platonic daryl x reader fic? Daryl finding reader alive (barely) near alexandria after thinking they’d died in atlanta.

I Found You

Daryl Dixon x platonic! reader

synopsis: when the outbreak happened, daryl thought he lost his best friend forever. but when he's out with aaron looking for new recruits, he finds them again.

warnings: minor season 6 spoilers, language, injury

words: 950

notes: my first request! i hope you like it!

Daryl didn’t know how Aaron roped him into collecting people. He ain’t some cattle wrangler. But if it meant he got out of the walls of Alexandria, he would take it. 

So here he was, out in the woods for a third day in a row, accompanied by nothing but Aaron’s poor jokes and even poorer attempts at starting a conversation.

“All she talks about is getting a pasta maker,” Aaron huffs. “Eric and I had her over for dinner a few days ago and made the mistake of cooking pasta. She didn’t shut up about it until we called it a night.”

Daryl grunts in acknowledgement, kicking a rock.

“You should come over sometime,” Aaron continues.

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

Aaron gives up for now, following Daryl towards an old pharmacy. “There’s a bunch of walkers in there,” he tells him. “We haven’t had the manpower to check it yet.

Daryl scoffs and moves his crossbow from his back into his arms. “Yeah, well now you got it.”

Aaron gives in, but he moves with hesitancy as he pulls his gun out of its holster. They approach the pharmacy, and when Daryl reaches for the door handle, Aaron points his gun, ready to fire. On the count of three, Daryl pushes the door open…nothing. He peeks his head in. Still nothing. He taps his bow against the doorframe, and they wait a few seconds for the herd of zombies to come running…or, walking. Still nothing.

“Maybe someone cleared it out,” Aaron suggests, looking over Daryl’s shoulder.

Daryl nods, but something doesn’t feel right. He keeps a tight grip on his bow as he steps inside. Aaron follows, carefully to watch his steps and keep from making any noise.

Shelves are knocked over; bottles of vitamins and stacks of birthday cards litter the floor. They step over them cautiously. 

Daryl reaches the end of a shelf when he hears it. A moan. Quiet, but there. Daryl shifts the crossbow in his arms and approaches the sound.

“Shit,” he grunts, and then he drops the crossbow. It clangs to the floor as Daryl dashes from Aaron’s view. 

Aaron was in shock. The crossbow Daryl treated with such care, like his own baby, and he threw it to the floor. That meant something more important was on the other side of the shelf. 

“I can’t believe it,” Daryl was rambling softly. You, his best friend. You’re alive. “I found you. I can’t believe I found you.”

“I thought you were dead,” Daryl continues. He studies your injuries; you’re pretty beat up from your travels, the worst being a stab wound to your stomach. Daryl lifts your shirt to check it out and takes off the handmade bandage you applied. “Merle grabbed me ‘fore I could call. You were in the thick of it, I-”

Another man crossed the shelf, and your grip tightened on the revolver you had across your lap, but you dropped when Daryl didn’t spare him a glance. He trusted him, which means you will too.

You shift my weight and hiss. “I got caught in traffic before I made it to worth. Somehow a holdover saved my life.”

Daryl drops your shirt and studies your face. This gives you the opportunity to study his. He’s older, more mature. He looks like he’s found himself, like he’s free from the fear his father instilled into him. You knew his father; he was a terrifying man. But Daryl was strong; he proved this by being here, in front of you. 

You also noticed the tears at the corners of his eyes, likely mirroring your own. 

“How’s the old bastard doing?” You choke out through the pain. “I’m sure Merle’s driving you up the wall.”

Daryl’s silent for a minute. Oh. “He’s dead,” he says softly, carefully. “Has been for a while.”

“Oh.” Weakly, you take his hand in your own. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs it off, shaking his head. His bangs fall into his eyes, just like they always did. “It’s okay.”

“I’m Aaron,” you hear the man behind him say. 

You smile weakly. “Y/n.”

He nods at you in greeting, and you turn back to Daryl. “I got stabbed a few days ago,” you wheeze. “I’ve been on the road since looking for something to treat it.”

Daryl takes this in. “It’s infected, but we should be able to calm it down. There’s gotta be somethin’ here to help.”

You laugh weakly. “We are in a pharmacy after all.”

“I’ll look for some antibiotics,” Aaron says, then disappears.

Daryl settles down across from you. “When’s the last time you ate? Drank?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“You look pale.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been stabbed, and I’m probably dying from malnourishment, so…” You shrug. 

Aaron appears again. “I found some.” He hands the medical supplies to Daryl and turns to you. “Did you kill all those walkers?”

Daryl freezes. “What?”

“There’s six walkers in the back, man,” Aaron says in admiration.

You grin, super proud of yourself. “What can I say? I’m a badass.”

Daryl scoffs, but there’s a glint in his eyes. He begins to dab at your wound.

By the time he’s done, you’re lightheaded but relieved. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper.

Daryl puts everything down and leans in, resting his forehead against your own. “Always.”

You sit there for a moment before Aaron clears his throat. “Are you good to move?”

“I’ll carry them,” Daryl says.

You laugh. “Always the gentleman.”

He scoffs. “Shuddup.” He pauses and studies you again. “We’ll find a car and take you back.”

You halt at that. “Back where?”

He grins. “Back to civilization.”

[shiny-jr]

THE CREATOR: chapter two

– Summary: In the Land of Rune, an emperor is unmatched in magic. In a world where one's survival and standing were dependent on magic, you had gotten accustomed to being at the very bottom of the food chain. For being a magicless servant, you could not expect change.

That is, until you discover you are a creator. The rarest type of witch that was previously hunted to near-extinction. The power comes with the ability to create life itself, but it comes at a great cost.

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Female reader.

– Note: New feature for this series: the taglist. Hopefully it works?

– Pages: 7

chapter i | chapter ii | chapter iii

TWO BLOODIED HANDS

Mondays were for bedrotting. Instead of the sound of sizzling eggs and the aroma of bacon wafting through the air in the humble little two-story abode where (Y/n) and her parents lived, there was the scent of freshly picked blossoms and clicking of clear glass vials. Which is why (Y/n) openly preferred the small yet private lodgings she claimed as a privilege of being the personal servant to Emperor Desire’s student. 

Usually Monday was the one single day she had free of duties, however, today she held herself in attendance. It was the first Monday of the month, just after Final Sunday. The halls were filled with palace staff running about their errands. As she walked at a brisk pace, through the long vertical windows she could spot a number of nobles still lingering about since yesterday. Although they really should’ve gone home by now. 

The chatter floating throughout the halls was exactly what every conversation was on the first Monday of the month. The main event of every Final Sunday, but it wasn’t like just any other Final Sunday, the latest one had the magic prodigy that dwelled in this very palace. 

“I don’t know what they were thinking putting him up against Cenra of all people!” A maid with a familiar face but a name she couldn’t be bothered to remember, sniffed in disdain as she carried about a basket filled with sheets to be washed. “If he had been against any other, he would’ve won and been an excellent knight.” 

(Y/n) paused, stopping behind a corner beside servants quarters where she was out of sight. On the shelves were various ointments and gauze. Carefully she rummaged through the bottles, checking the printed labels and ingredients to pinpoint the most useful one. The tips of her pointed ears were perked, listening to the uninterrupted conversation. 

There was the rustle of blankets being folded, and curtains being brushed by feather dusters. “Well, she was merciful and let the boy live. So he has another chance. Although it will take him at least a year just to get back on the roster. He did deserve a spot, I can picture him as a Black Knight…” 

“Hm, well, if the invocationer boy was trained by Emperor Desire himself, he would’ve no doubt been last night's victor, not the human.” 

The human. They said it as if it were a derogatory insult, and in their mind it likely was. It was easy to pick on the outliers, the magicless servant who aided the only human in the realm. “Cenra deserved that spot more than anyone else, and would’ve defeated anyone they threw at her. Not like you useless bunch would ever understand.” (Y/n) muttered underneath her breath. 

When she walked past the corner with the supplies in arm, the gossiping bunch had stopped to stare at her. They heard her, hadn’t they? Their fists clenched, and the magicless servant merely held the bottles tighter to her chest. It dawned on all of them, what they could do when the hallways were vacant of any witnesses. It had been years since any palace staff or other personnel could get within reach of her. Maybe a few bruises would remind her of old times, when she had no one to protect her and anyone could get away with tormenting her.

(Y/n) leaned her head back, hoping to avoid any marks that would mar her flesh where it was visible. No one would notice if the blemishes could be hidden by the collar of a shirt or the sleeves over her arms. After a few knicks and scratches, they’ll get bored and leave her alone. Really, she should’ve known better by now. The last time this happened was two years ago, and she got a burn for not keeping her mouth shut. 

“Loitering about during shifts?” A familiar voice scoffed. Their gazes traveled over, spotting the one who dared to encroach. Cenra must’ve seen them from across the hall and silently teleported to them in an instant, or she could’ve been lurking about nearby listening closely. Any of those appeared plausible. “The Emperor doesn’t take kindly to those wasting his resources. He doesn’t pay you to gossip all day long and intimidate staff members who are actually pulling their own weight.” 

The two maids backed away, eyes wide and mouths open as they fumble for excuses or apologies. It wasn’t entirely clear upon hearing the incoherencies tumbling from their tongues. While she was used to her liege’s appearance, it was entirely possible that this was the first time either of them had ever been in the presence of a creator witch. Considering the fact that the witch was last publicly seen nearly killing a powerful invocationer wizard and in her training uniform, she would come across as extra terrifying. 

Cenra promptly ignored your presence, scrutinizing the two unfortunate maids who now looked rather pathetic and no longer so intimidating. In all black from neck to toe with a vest of sable dragon scales, the knives strapped to her hips ready for disposal seemed to gleam just a little brighter. Irked by their sad excuse for words strung together to form attempts at a sentence or two, she interrupted, “You’re getting on my nerves. Drop your tasks, leave them for someone else to complete, unless you want to become the next moving targets in my training.” 

“Y-Yes, young Uza.” 

“Right away, ma’am…!” 

The two scattered like flustered fowl flying away in a panic. The last time someone had attempted such intimidation on her was roughly two years ago around the time she was promoted to the position of personal servant of Emperor Desire’s sole pupil. The incidents were common, until the head of staff was torn down and demoted to the very bottom rank. Why? She had no idea, but she always suspected that it was due to the very person currently less than five feet away. 

When Cenra’s gaze traveled over to her servant and friend, instantly she brightened up. That cold piercing gaze became a warm delighted one as her lips curved up into a grin. In a sing-song voice, she greeted, “Hiii. I’ve been looking for you all morning!” 

“That was almost enough to scare me.” (Y/n) admitted with awkward laughter. The interaction she just witnessed would be further proof as to why the human was most deserving of the title of knight, perhaps even as a Black Knight. “Almost as scary as a Black Knight.” 

Raising an amused eyebrow at your words, she actually managed to laugh in turn while her shoulders slumped with her lowered guard. “Those uptight losers? Please. You are looking at the newest knight of the guard! I’m a creator! I’ll be much more important than them.” 

Black Knights were some of the most feared figures in the entire land, directly behind the Advisor, the General, and the Emperor himself. These particular knights were distinct by their black armor and robes that mirrored the appearance of Desire. They were something of a myth, only spotted in the throne room. Even if they were not visible, they were always lingering in the shadows around the Emperor. It’s said that to be one, candidates are trained from childhood and picked off one by one. Their order has been around for longer than anyone can remember. It’s said that a team of Black Knights can take on an entire army and win, although that’s only hearsay. Not that Emperor Desire required special protection anyways. Everyone knew that. 

Cenra would eventually move past that. Yesterday she was a witch in-training, but today she was officially a knight of the royal guard. It was only a short matter of time before she ascended once again, and where did that leave (Y/n)? Continuously stagnant. Destined to remain at the bottom as a servant for all time. If she were lucky, Cenra would bring her along for the journey. People would travel far and wide to see the creator witch at work. (Y/n) would fetch the tools and ingredients along with any other necessary supplies, but her liege would be the one making the real magic happen. Cenra will bring about a new wave of creations for the Land of Rune. 

(Y/n) readjusted the vials and jars in her arms as she resumed her walk, this time with Cenra beside her. The duo kept pace, matching each other’s steps. The magicless with lengthy strides to keep up and the human taking care to do short steps. 

“You really should stop letting them walk all over you.” The witch said, disrupting the peaceful silence they had. Occasionally they bumped shoulders, or rather, (Y/n)’s shoulder bumped the center of her bicep. The black leather boots that matched her training uniform only added to her height. “As much as I’d like to be around you all the time to protect you, it’s just not possible. You know that, right?” 

Pursing her lips, (Y/n) was desperate for a change of topic. Not this, anything but this, because she knew she would just get scolded once again for something that was beyond her control. A glimmer caught her eye, the light reflected off an extra ear piercing she must’ve added recently. The human trait of round ears allowed her to easily wear more rings piercing the shell. Silver curled around her ear like a swirling dragon, each metallic bit shaped with the intricate scales and wings. “You have a new piercing. That’s cool! Let’s try to get matching ones next time––” 

“I’m serious, (Y/n).” Sliding one of the heavier jars out of her arm, she freed up the space so their arms could intertwine as both carried a bit of the burden. Their steps continued, matching pace as they approached the chambers where the new knight dwelled. 

(Y/n) nodded slowly, managing a small smile while she murmured, “I just didn’t want to make a scene. It’s not exactly like I could do much anyways.” 

The sore subject, her lack of abilities. The witch knew this and instantly her expression softened with remorse, the hand of her intertwined arm gently tapped the servant girl’s forearm. “No, no, that’s not what I meant, you know that. I’d never mean it like that! It’s just…” 

“I’m okay, really.” Somehow, (Y/n) managed to keep the smile plastered over her face. The lack of skill was something she normally didn’t discuss often, for obvious reasons. Even in conversations with her parents, the topic was a sore subject. However, with Cenra, it wasn’t as bad. The witch never poked and prodded like she was attempting to find the cause of such a fatal flaw. She could just be content to listen to pointless hour long rants, and be entirely attentive and understanding the entire time. That was the best part. “Besides, it’s not like it matters right now. I’m sure you’ve scared them off, so I won’t have to worry for at least another few years.”

Cenra barely gave anyone the time of day. Their unexpected friendship might’ve begun back when (Y/n) was first assigned to serve her needs. It was a reluctant relationship, and the witch was cold to just about everyone. It took months before the icy exterior began to melt. Every time they met, her eyes looked just a bit brighter and her tone a bit louder. Everyone else did not warrant her attention unless they were her superior. 

Briskly entering her private chambers, she set the jar down on the counter after pushing aside books and scrolls scattered across the hardwood table-top. A sigh escaped her lips. “Fine.” When she stood up, she placed her hands on her hips. “Next time, as in tomorrow, you should definitely come to my training session. You don’t even have to do anything! Just hand me some water every time I sit down or something. I don’t really care what you do, honestly. But it would be nice if you were there. So, want to come?” 

When (Y/n) set all the items on the table, she reached over to place a hand on the witch’s shoulder. Cenra tensed up, going still as she was steadily pushed back into a seat while her friend took the one directly across from her. Their knees were nearly touching. She scowled, “You smell like sweat and dirt.” 

“Duh, I just got back from training! What did you expect?” With a roll of her eyes she grinned in amusement, not moving an inch and letting her do whatever she pleased with her body. “You’re avoiding the question though.”

“No, I’m not…!” With one glance at the array of tools and glass containers, she rolled up the witch’s black sleeves. Deciding to put off changing the gauze from yesterday’s battle for now until after she bathed, it seemed wise to check for extra damage. The dirt smeared on parts of her uniform was a sign as to what her day’s training must’ve looked like. There was a high likelihood she obtained additional injuries, bruises and scratches and the like. Yet somehow her hair and makeup were always impeccable afterwards. The magic of incredible sorcery. “Will the Emperor be there teaching you?” 

Purposefully avoiding eye contact, her eyes honed in on apparently something very interesting like the wallpaper above her bed. “... Yeah.” 

That was all the answer needed. Shaking her head, (Y/n) applied a damp towel, wiping off the dirt and speckles of dried blood from her brown flesh. “Mm, hard pass then.” 

That was one of the very few things they disagreed on: Emperor Desire. Cenra looked to him as if he were her own father, her only teacher, and a god walking among simple mortals. To most, he was just that, like a god. Those heavenly powers he was gifted with defied the very laws of nature, for he was the same just as Cenra Uza, a creator. However, the Emperor had no desire to forge new life. Desire proclaimed that creators were dangerous, which was why there were only four remaining. In the history books, Desire was said to have overthrown the tyrannical empress a century ago, and ordered a mass execution of his own kind, an event merely referred to as Lethiferous. Creators had grown wild, selfish, and cruel to the point they thought themselves as the superior with only their precious creations deserving of life. At least, that’s what the textbooks preached, but (Y/n) wasn’t convinced. It was why the magicless servant was never too keen on seeing him. Not that he was around much to actually be seen by her anyways. 

“But (Y/n)...!” Cenra complained, pouting as she groaned in utter disappointment. Neither mentioned the Emperor. 

“But nothing. I’d rather be doing your laundry and sorting out your spell books than watch you get hurt.” Upon turning over her hands to wipe her palms clean, (Y/n) furrowed her eyebrows at the sight of multiple gashes from her thumb to her pinky in shaky lines. These cuts looked intentional, not caused by training and definitely not by Final Sunday. She had been wearing gloves yesterday. 

Snatching her hands away, Cenra’s eyes were wide as she realized that she was caught. Tightly she clutched her fists, holding them against her chest. 

“... What was that?” 

“Nothing!” 

“No, that was something.” Outstretching her own hand, demanding to see her palms. (Y/n) watched as the witch quickly looked away, the most obvious sign that she was lying. “Liar! You’re hiding something. Let me see. You’re hurt. I’m the only one that can treat it because we both know you’re trash at first-aid and too stubborn to let anyone else help.” When there was no movement from her, no sign she was willing to give in yet, she sighed. “You can tell me about it? I won’t tell. Or don’t. But just give me your hand so I can treat your wounds. It’ll be quick, I promise. I always saved my mom’s specialty elixir here in case you ever needed it.” 

A few seconds passed before Cenra begrudgingly gave in, slowly uncurling her fingers from her fist as the back of her hand lowered onto the outstretched palm in front of her. Her palm faced up, revealing deep red cuts that stretched across the flat surface. Her eyes were glued to the ground, and her voice was like a fleeting whisper, “I can’t…” 

Pausing with the towel and elixir in hand, (Y/n) echoed in confusion, “You can’t…? What?” 

The entrance of her chambers were thick wooden doors sealed shut, the windows were locked. Carpeting over the floors saved the glass bottle containing the elixir, cushioning its fall when the magicless one dropped it upon hearing the witch’s next words. 

“I can’t do it! My blood was supposed to guarantee the ritual worked, but it didn’t! I can’t create!”

Taglist: @spiderfly-tree-rat

[renee-minkowskis-therapist]

Minkowski and Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus"

So I think a *lot* about how along with musicals, Minkowski also loves poetry: in episode 8 when she hosts the talent show, she does end up putting on "Pirates of Penzance", but Eiffel is expecting her to do a "dramatic poetry reading", SPECIFICALLY Sylvia Plath's Lady Lazarus, and I think her being into Sylvia Plath is really interesting, BECAUSE:

Plath's poetry toes the line between order and chaos: while she writes free verse, she tends to write stanzas with the same amount of lines each and some form of rhyme scheme. One would expect Minkowski to be more into, say, Emily Dickinson, a poet who used such strict meter that you can sing every single line she's ever written to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas". To me, her love of Sylvia Plath shows that while Minkowski does love order and balance, it's not all she is: her desire for order is an offshoot of her longing for control, which in turn is an offshoot of her longing to *matter* and to be *capable*.

Liking poetry in general is interesting for Minkowski, because she's deeply, deeply repressed: while she's slightly better at recognizing her emotions than, say, Eiffel, or Jacobi, that really isn't saying much. I think she considers poetry, specifically confessional poetry like Sylvia Plath's, to be a safe outlet for her emotions: she can read a poem and relate to it without thinking too hard as to why, especially since unlike with showtunes, she doesn't write her *own* poetry.

Plath's stuff is also horribly depressing. Minkowski, girl, are you okay. Do we need to get you a therapist. But on a more serious note, I think it's interesting how Lady Lazarus is about suicide, yes, but it's also about *rebirth*, and becoming a new person through the death of the old one. At the point of episode 8, she's already made the decision to go to space and become Commander Minkowski at the cost of her old life back home: she is referred to as having gained a new identity in space multiple times. The old Minkowski is also *literally* dead, at least according to records back on Earth. So, at that point, she IS Lady Lazarus, and she's likely coping with the loss of that old identity: she's gained exactly what she wanted her whole life, leading her to see her rebirth as positive as it is in the poem, but she's still having feelings about it.

HOWEVER: it's also really interesting foreshadowing for her later arcs. After the events of season 3, she goes through another identity crisis. She's lost control of the events on her ship and of herself, and in fact is starting to realize she never had it, causing the death of the "Commander Minkowski" identity. (side note: it's absolutely FASCINATING that she tells Jacobi "we pulled one trigger, but we killed two people" in episode 53. While she could just mean the basics of "Maxwell and Hilbert died, but only Maxwell was shot with a gun", that's BORING and I'm not interpreting it that way: I choose to interpret it as "we EACH pulled one trigger and killed two people", as in, Minkowski killed Maxwell and Minkowski, while Jacobi killed Hilbert and Jacobi (or the other way around... drat, I'm having too many thoughts, this is gonna need to be its own post). Her rebirth is asserted in episode 61- "I am Renee Minkowski, and that is more than enough to kick your ass". She isn't the Minkowski who left Earth, because she's dead, and she isn't the Minkowski she tried to be when she got to space, because she never existed: she has been reborn as a new Minkowski, one composed of her experiences before coming to Wolf 359 and her experiences afterward, and who has the necessary skills and security in her identity to kill Cutter. Someone made a post a while back, I want to say @commsroom, saying that "Eiffel is form without memory, Hera is memory without form, Lovelace is both but without continuity, and Minkowski is both with continuity but still undoubtedly a different person than she was before", and I couldn't agree more: Minkowski is a really interesting example of the evolution of identity, and how even if you are *physically* the same person as you've always been beyond a doubt, your identity is still a dynamic thing. She's a Ship of Theseus of a woman and I love her for it.

Lastly, Sylvia Plath is German and uses a lot of WWII imagery in her poems: while Minkowski isn't German, she is Polish, and Plath's stuff may serve as a connection to her culture and to the hardships that her ancestors went through, which Minkowski had to pull herself up from and which impact her current Deal greatly. (gonna need to make yet another post tomorrow about Minkowski as an immigrant and how that affects who she is today because I DO NOT see enough people talking about it, but for now I'll leave it here.)

Anyway, this is a REALLY small detail, but I am insane, so I hope you all enjoy my overanalysis of it. Peace and love on planet Minkowski.

[sapphiresaphics]

“Vi is in a vulnerable state where she never seeks any sort of apology for Caitlyn's actions despite her crimes against both her and Zaun.”

1. Yes she does. She specifically calls out Caitlyn for her actions with Ambessa and Caitlyn acknowledges what she did was wrong.

2. Both Vi and Caitlyn committed crimes against Zaun together. It’s really weird that you guys feel the desperate need for Caitlyn to apologize to Vi when Vi is the one who helped propose the strike force team in the first place.

3. Caitlyn DOES apologize. I’m so fucking SICK of you guys complaining that she doesn’t when she DOES. Just because she doesn’t do so verbally doesn’t mean she doesn’t apologize. This is a visual medium. Actions speak louder than words. Caitlyn’s ACTIONS of letting Vi free her sister proves to Vi that her love for Vi is more important than getting revenge on Jinx. It shows her she trusts Vi to make the right decision and cares about her wants and needs.

ADDITIONALLY, during their make-out session Caitlyn SPECIFICALLY stops to look at where she hurt Vi, tenderly puts a hand on the spot and looks sad and remorseful. That is Caitlyn preparing to apologize for what she did… when Vi CUTS HER OFF AND KISSES HER BECAUSE SHE ACCEPTS THE APOLOGY BEFORE CAITLYN CAN VOCALIZE IT.

When we say you guys have no media literacy it’s because of shit like this. The show gives you all the information you need to put these pieces together yourself, but you either ignore them, misrepresent them, or complain that characters need to express every facet of their being vocally.

I’m so incredibly exhausted that after 8 months people are STILL repeating the same nonsense talking points of “Caitlyn never apologizes and that’s why it’s a bad ship because there’s a power imbalance!” Fuck you. You’re offering nothing new to the conversation, you’re just keeping us in the same limbo mode of worthless complaints and arguments that have been debunked months ago.

And additionally, because I’m so tired of this too, I hate how you idiots think Arcane was about revolution and complain that the series “ignores its politics.” It didn’t ignore SHIT. The point of the series is the cycle of violence that Piltover and Zaun are. Regardless of who’s actually in the wrong (Piltover obviously) the point of the show is how this cycle will CONTINUE. The show was never going to end with the liberation of Zaun. It’s using the conflict between the two cities to show how the cycle works, how it hurts people on both sides, how you can get blinded by “othering” each other, how you can overcome it, and how you can break free of it. They do this so that when the show ends with Piltover STILL in a position of power and Zaun only starting to get a tiny bit of recognition you’re supposed to be smart enough to grasp that the cycle of violence is going to happen again. Caitlyn’s voice over LITERALLY spells this out for you in case you missed it. That’s not “abandoning its politics” at all, it’s literally broadcasting its political message in bright fucking neon lights at you.

Can you guys PLEASE learn what themes are??? This is not a show where it thinks Piltover did no wrong and wants you to side with them. That ending is a CONDEMNATION of Piltover for not growing and learning the lesson the show has been trying to teach the entire time. It’s a sad ending because Piltover has an opportunity to do better… and they CHOOSE not to. The cycle will continue. For fuck’s sake, the show is LITERALLY a tragedy. Do you guys not understand w tragedies work?

I need people to understand that liking a ship doesn't always mean that there is agreement with how it was played out. IMO Arcane is one of those shows that has infinite amounts of potential but was sadly squandered and the writers never even realized a fraction of that with the way they handled resolving the story and characters. For instance, CaitVi as it ended in S2 left things between them with a massive, unhealthy power imbalance (Vi having literally nothing and no one else except Ekko with whom for some reason the writers never mention their relationship again?? Meanwhile Caitlyn still has all her wealth and her father at least), and Vi is in a vulnerable state where she never seeks any sort of apology for Caitlyn's actions despite her crimes against both her and Zaun.

That said, it's abundantly clear that the writers' intentions were to end with showing CaitVi as a relationship between two people who have overcome adversity and healed from trauma together (despite their god-awful failed attempts at demonstrating that by just... never addressing Vi's trauma with Enforcers or Caitlyn's police brutality again so that everything "conveniently" ends up okay), which is what a lot of people choose to interpret the relationship as, and I think that's okay because frankly it's not their fault that the writing became so messed up that CaitVi actually turned from an incredibly popular ship into a controversial one through tone-deaf character arc "development" and how there was absolutely no conviction whatsoever behind the politics that Arcane loves to show off for aesthetics but never actually follow through on with ANY of the characters you know... actively engaging in revolution or political change (and if they DO *cough cough Ekko* *cough cough MEL* then they're whisked away to isekai timeout while the rest of the characters get oh-so-cleverly manipulated by the Big Bad Ambessa, an outside threat there to conveniently unify Zaun and Piltover together without any sort of internal revolution or ANY of the issues with how Piltover treated Zaun addressed at all!!!).

Anyways, I think CaitVi as it stands still had the potential to be one of the best sapphic ships in media, it's just sad that it was never fully realized due to shitty writing.

But that's what fanfiction and headcanons are for, amirite?

[puhpandas]

emotional 3 star fam + m.x.e.s arc where after they steal them they learn more about them and find out that they're a lot more sentient than they thought an antivirus from the late 70s would be and that m.x.e.s was built for one purpose to fight against the mimic, but it hasnt been able to fulfill that purpose in a long time after being left to rot all alone in that factory. 3 star took them to use them to be the mimics warden and everything already so theyre able to help m.x.e.s feel fulfilled again by it realizing its purpose again, and updating them so their outdated programming is new and shiny and the cobwebs are dusted off :)

[claitea]

wait oh my god the new anni lillie is just a palette swap of the old one? this actually sucks why did they do that

[nataliedecorsair]

I wanted to give you some of Pticenoga's Borderlands AU backstory, how she was raised by Shade and before starting her shenanigans with Vaughn.

Plus a bonus comic about how she decided to set up a meeting for Vaughn and Shade, but didn't tell Vaughn who is supposed to be there x) Mostly because Vaughn has met Shade before in his macabre World of Curiosities museum and thought that Shade is too weird for him. Well, that's the kind of person that would raise a feral harpy siren, gotta deal with it!

When she was very young, nothing bothered her much as she was just a wild baby exploring the world x) And Shade was a good father figure to her. However, as she grew older, she realized that she doesn't really "fit in": yeah, Pandora is a crazy planet, but not every person there is crazy. There are plenty of "regular folk" like Shade or other people from their town - and many others. And she was frequently called a monster, a mutant and many other things by the regular kids and even adults. She was wild though, could bite them or fight with them in a pretty feral manner, and, even though she protected herself, it didn't help the situation much. She wasn't crazy enough (and too small) to fit in with the psychos or bandits, was "too human" for actual monsters living on Pandora, and for a long time she had no idea she was a Siren, as even for Sirens she looked too different. Only when she hit her teens, she was able to confirm that she is one, started using her powers, and in her human form she could see the full extension of the glowing pattern she had on her skin. She still, however, didn't know why she wasn't born "normal", and there were no older Sirens around.

At some point, she decided to become independent and live on her own. Her "wild" upbringing was helping that a lot, and she felt fine being away from people. She'd still visit Shade frequently, of course, and at some point she'd even met Zer0 and could hang out with him for some time. As Zer0 is a mystery himself, they had some common ground between them (though constantly listening to his haiku were exhausting xD). Sadly, Vault Hunters attract attention, not always positive, and that was the reason why she got spotted by a big bandit gang (could be the beginning of Vallory's gang, but before she took over). And local scientists like Tannis already declared that there may be some connection between Sirens and the Vaults. And they noticed that she's a Siren, but also pretty young (and dumb). After the first Vault on Pandora was opened, there was plenty of weird and valuable stuff around, but it wasn't so easy to get it when you're just regular bandits. And when Eridians, the aliens that are guarding the Vault, are everywhere. The Sirens like Lilith were too strong for them, and hiring a Vault Hunter is expensive, so they decided to wriggle into her favor and use her to gain access to the area. She didn't know she was dealing with bandits first, she naively thought it's a rare case of nice fellows just wanting to be friends and such, plus the Vault could have answers about her origin, and the new "friends" confirmed it.

At some point, she realized she was being used, and got into a fight with the bandits - and lost, as there were too many of them, and she had too little experience, and they knew about Shade. She got kidnapped and told that she'd do everything they told her to do, or they'd kill Shade, so she had to obey. She helped them to fight the way to the Vault and get some of the riches, and during the process she felt that she really does have a connection with Eridians - they boosted her powers and helped her to get free, and kill every presenting member of the gang. She was worried about Shade though, so she left immediately to find him before the remaining members found out what happened and could harm him. But she was too late - the water source in their town of Oasis was poisoned, and every single person there died. Except Shade though - he lasted longer, but dehydration made him insane, and he turned corpses into the stuffed dummies he could talk to (though she didn't have much of a problem with this part). As she was gone for at least several months, he didn't believe she's real, and she had to adapt to the new reality.

She never got back to the Vault after that as she felt it was a source of more trouble than anything good (in her view, the price was too much for a bunch of physical stuff).

That lasted for years, and became a bit easier as her powers, enhanced by the Eridians, wasn't only serving the destruction,  but could eventually "heal" some part of Shade's mind, so the moments of clarity became more frequent (she didn't know it's the reason, though). And you still need money, whether you like it or not, so, when Shade decided to use his World of Curiosities as a spot of illegal deals and smuggling, she didn't resist, but would watch over him in the shadows in case something goes wrong.

Eventually, she calmed down and just embraced herself. And, after some time, she met Vaughn, whose personal struggles she could sense right away, as she had to experience "being different" herself.

[ambrosiagourmet]

Every time I revisit chapter 86 and the events right after the group talks Marcille down, I'm always struck by this bit here:

In particular, how similar it is to this:

The Winged Lion ate the same desire in both of them, more or less (I'm sure there are some nuances in both flavor and intent, but they are clearly similar things here). The Lion basically used this technique to kill Thistle, and for Marcille it was... not insignificant, but something she and her friends overcame without even fully realizing it was an obstacle.

I feel like this is another small piece of the story that shows how important support and love are - in navigating mental illness, in dealing with abuse or addiction, or in working through any other similar struggle that can be read into the Lion and his eating of desires.

It almost feels like Marcille was able to borrow the desires of her friends. She loves them and she trusts them, so even when she didn't have a desire to free herself from the Lion, the care they had for her well being still mattered to her.

It's the same thing later, with her hair.

She isn't able to notice the way her messy hair is making things harder, let alone do anything about it. But when Chilchuck points it out and then braids it back for her...

It's better. She likes it, things are easier now. Even though it isn't a desire she can feel for herself, it's not something that doesn't effect her. And because her friends care - because they know her well enough to notice the difference - she is given the chance to have a preference and to ask for their help.

We can obviously see some parallel ideas here with Mithrun and Kabru as well, but I'd also like to point out that Thistle gets this grace, too. Thistle, who had no one to help him up once he lost his will to resist, or to encourage him to find new desires once the Lion ate them all.

Thistle says he doesn't need anything, anymore...

But he is given an apology anyways.

It is not a kindness he desires. It is not a kindness he is able to ask for.

But it is a kindness that helps. It is a kindness that matters.

[severepink]

Observing Adam

Where I go way too deep into something that probably isn't that deep. It's long, it's long as hell.

Okay, so you'd think with how Adam talks he's just a typical misogynist, right?

This man worships pussy. So much so, he's named a whole ass angel, one of his best, Vagina. You'd say that he objectifies them and thinks of them as being lesser, but I don't think that's the whole story. In fact, I think he might be the original simp.

All of these exorcists so far have been women. All of them. He refers to them as ladies or bitches interchangeably, he sees them as being completely capable of absolutely decimating leagues of some of the most vile beings who have ever existed, and they have, to the point it was only after thousands of years that there's been a risk to this hierarchy.

He's a self-centered, egotistical, loud-mouthed, arrogant asshole, no doubt about it, but I'm beginning to suspect something now.

If Adam and Lilith were created from the same dust, if they were created as equals, I am more than willing to bet... Lilith is also a self-centered, egotistical, arrogant asshole. But, she's likely far more intelligent, composed, and duplicitous.

Lilith was allowed to refuse Adam and leave of her own free will and garnered her own independence. A new wife was created for Adam, she was replaced. My guess, is she thought Adam wouldn't be able to live without her, to come back and find herself replaced entirely, she was enraged.

I believe both Adam and Lilith were both incredibly dominant individuals who fought over ideas, thoughts, and ultimately in the bedroom as well, if we take into account the creationist stories.

I'm willing to bet she likely manipulated Lucifer into twisting humanity against its original concept. What if Lucifer's intention truly was to just spark something within Eve, like independence and thought and creation, but it was Lilith's poison within the fruit that tainted her, then subsequently Adam, with sin.

Lilith thrived in hell, while Lucifer's dreams of creation were dashed. She didn't suffer as he did, instead the power of her voice grew with hell. Her voice grew so powerful that heaven found it to be a threat, her actions instigated the beginning of exterminations.

Charlie said that when she was a little girl, she didn't know Lucifer at all. I don't think this was because of Lucifer, he's seen here, picking her up, inviting her to share in his thoughts and dreams, showing her something wonderful. Something she could see within herself.

Charlie says that it's this moment that sparked her will to fight for her dreams. Which is strange, because at the very beginning of the story, Charlie says it was her mother's dream that was passed down to her.

Lilith took Charlie away. In this scene, Lucifer wasn't done showing Charlie his thoughts and dreams, he's still yearning to show his daughter these things at this point.

Lucifer loves his daughter. He loves Charlie so, so, so much. So why wasn't he allowed to build a relationship with his daughter for the longest time? He was waiting for the opportunity to get to know her, but with how much he adores her why didn't he do it sooner? He didn't comment on 'It took you a while-' he just said he missed her smile. They don't want to be pulled apart, again.

Now, we know Vivziepop has said that Lucifer and Lilith love each other, but Lilith 'wears the pants' in the relationship. We see all of the pictures all over the walls of a supposedly happy family. I don't think the relationship was as loving as originally portrayed and Lilith is a woman who desires control above all else. She likely tried to mitigate what influence Lucifer had over their daughter when she thought his angelic thoughts and behaviors became more than what she approved of.

Lets take it back to Adam and Lute for a moment. Again, Adam is a loud mouthed idiot, he's a jerk. The moment he realizes there are demons in heaven, he's ready to go on the attack. It's only because of Lute that he didn't end up doing something absolutely idiotic.

I gotta say, Lute and Adam's relationship is an absolutely fascinating one. He's a disrespectful dick head in how he talks, but how he acts is a different story. He allows Lute to man-handle him. He does listen to her, even if he's a whiny bitch about it.

Look at him, this is the face of a man listening, a dumb one, but a dude listening all the same. He doesn't manhandle her back, he doesn't even pull away until she lets go of his collar. Of all the shit he complained about, between being grabbed and being told what to do, his biggest complaint is that she's telling him to shush.

We know that Adam is the one who suggested the exterminations to begin with, so Sera says, and this was because of the power that Lilith was amassing. To him, Lilith is a threat. Even when he was willing to move on, to go to another wife when Lilith didn't want him or want to submit to him (fair babe, he's a bit of an idiot), she came back with an angel and proceeded to manipulate his new wife Eve. This is the supposed progenitor of man-kind, the original dick (hilariously enough), the reason civilization even exists at all. He and Eve had to fight for their lives after being tempted with the fruit. They had immortality, they had no ideas of shame, they were supposedly 'innocent' creatures before Lilith and Lucifer came along. He and Eve had to fight tooth and nail to survive after being cast from Eden. I think it shows in how willing and ready he is to take lead and do what he believes needs to be done, now out of a need for entertainment rather than a need to defend or protect. But, he still stopped to listen to Lute's advice. In the mythological story of Adam and Eve, Adam is the one who has to tell Eve that god said don't eat the fruit. Eve never heard god speak to her, so she was vulnerable to the snake's manipulations. She will now die because she ate it, and because she did not want Adam to take another wife, convinced him to eat it unknowingly. Funnily enough, Adam tried to explain to god that 'she lied to me and gave me the fruit' and in this actual mythology, Adam was punished for listening to his wife. Even without mentioning Lilith in the original mythology, Eve didn't want Adam to take another wife, so when we consider it within the context of Hazbin Hotel, it may be likely that's how it went down. Eve knew of Lilith, knew that she could be replaced, and decided that she would take Adam with her.

I believe that Adam does and did rely on the women in his life to help him with direction. I think Adam knows he can be an idiot and is willing to listen, even if he doesn't agree with what he's hearing. He did listen to Charlie in the beginning, he just didn't believe in her, like everyone else and he, out of anyone there, probably had the most reason not to. Cain and Abel were his and Eve's sons, his own child became the first murderer. Out of jealousy, the same kind of jealousy that no doubt has caused Lilith to act how she did. Adam isn't going to have empathy for sinners. His family, his legacy, were filled with the original sinners. He probably had to kill his son Cain in hell during the first exterminations. What do you think he would have had to feel, if it came to be a fact that sinners could be redeemed? That maybe his son, could've been redeemed? Or any of his progeny for that matter? How did it feel when his sons, his progeny, weren't given the same mercy as the Hellborn that Lucifer managed to keep protected through some deal with the angels or god? Not to mention that Charlie could've been his daughter. Charlie is the product of the people who completely and totally destroyed the paradise he'd been born into. She's the daughter who is protected and immune from the slaughter while all of his sons and daughters are judged and killed. I believe, even though he was a dickish prankster to Charlie, he was surprisingly patient and even somewhat amicable, willing to even ask her how her weekend was like he was just trying to get to know her.

Adam could just see all of the angels under his employ as being disposable. He doesn't have to name them, or think about them in any individual fashion. But, he knows Vaggie, recognized her instantly. Thought she was badass. Lute's the one who saw her, tore her wings off, and walked away. I'm surprised they even let her live, because this just goes against everything they're doing. They're an army and they saw one of their own showing empathy to the enemy.

Look at this dumb ass. He's being a shit-head, a dick, a bastard. But, he admires Vaggie's ability to pull Charlie, congratulates her, this dude isn't even judging her for being a lesbian. I don't think it's because he objectifies women, this dude loves women, he just does. He respects fellow vagina lovers. I don't think he respects liars in the slightest though. He's being underhanded, he's trying to be manipulative (he's not very good at it). I think he's brutally open and honest about everything and that's probably one of the reasons he's such a bastard anyways, because sometimes you just need to shut-up and he's not good at that.

I don't think he respects Sera for that either, he's more than willing to let others know what the hell he's doing, but under Sera's lead, he can't be open about it. I don't think it's his jam to act this way, it's why he sucks so bad at it and I think that's why Lilith is so antithetical to him. I also think that's why he's possibly even being manipulated.

It's kind of crazy that Adam is the only one who tries to come up with what allows someone to get into heaven. So here's his list: 1. Act Selfless: Maybe at one point he was! He had to have been, to be one of the progenitors of mankind, he would have had to work, sacrifice, and give to his wife and children for them all to survive. Eve would have had to do the same, no doubt. He may not seem selfless, due to his raunchy behavior, but he's served heaven since he's been there. He's served humanity in some kind of facet. 2. Don't Steal: Considering the only other humans are his spawn, he likely had to try and get them to not steal from one another for them all to have an equal opportunity of survival. He and Eve likely both knew they would need to work together to survive.

3. Stick it to the man: This, however, is interesting. Who is 'The Man' he speaks of? God? The only other people over him or were equal to him were women. He speaks like a rocker, and I think in this case he's using the term 'The Man' in a gender neutral way. I think he allowed some amount of Authority to Lilith when they were supposed to be seen as equals, it comes so naturally to him as a character when it comes to the other women he's been interacting with. I think she is the 'man' that he's been sticking it to- Pun somewhat intended. ((This third one may also simply be a tongue in cheek reference to when Alex Brightman played Dewey in School of Rock on Broadway! Thank you to the user who brought this to my attention!))

Adam is a bit of a hypocrite, isn't he? He likes to fuck, he's made that abundantly clear. Full of lust you could say. It was his original purpose after all, and he is judging Angel Dust for something he probably would've done himself at one point or has considered doing (maybe not the having sex with men part). Angel Dust does all of these things, Adam doesn't even deny it. He even looks nervous. He's angry, but doesn't deny that Angel has done those things. He doesn't explain it away or try to lie or move the goal posts, he's just asking what is an actually very valid question.

Why isn't Angel Dust there if he can do things equal to what Adam himself hasn't done? Serenity continues that line of thought. It isn't until Charlie is realizing no one knows what it takes to get into heaven.

Adam is more than willing to let Lute take the lead here, he's willing to give her the stage to clap back, he's giving her back-up antics. By all means, they could be pushing and fighting one another, there could easily be body language expressing something other than their general comfort around one another. They aren't fighting for a spotlight like you'd expect Adam to try and do considering his egotistical attitude.

Adam fucking sucks at keeping his mouth shut and he sucks at lying. He nearly blew the secret out of the bag once, this time, Sera is the only one who tries to stop him and to be honest? Lute looks a bit too thrilled at it. He knows he fucked up, but he doesn't think it's a big deal that anyone would know. For fucks sake, they've already condemned souls, his progeny, to suffer. What's the big deal if he kills them?

I have to re-iterate what's happening here. Charlie is proud she caused this chaos, that she caused these angels to fight amongst themselves, even if in this case it's a good thing. But, this is like history repeating itself to Adam, the reflection of his ex-wife, entering his domain, causing strife among his people, being happy about it.

And the venom he expresses when it comes to the 'liar' portion, god Alex Brightman destroyed when he got to this portion specifically. There is some vehement disgust in his tone when he says liar.

Adam isn't a good person now. But, I think he used to be a good person. By all means, Adam himself could've been the first murderer when his wife made her mistake. He, at one point in time, had to have been good enough to foster civilization itself with Eve. Both good and bad. Adam's original purpose was to be fruitful and multiply. Ordained by god (or maybe just angels) himself, divine power directed and created him to fuck. He didn't chase his ex-wife down, he was given a new one, Lilith was allowed to leave. When he left things alone, when he tried to move on, his ex-wife and a scorned angel destroyed the paradise he was in with Eve. He had to struggle and toil, he had to feel shame in his own body. He had to find out his first born son was the first murderer. His second son killed. We don't know if this is going to be canon in the story, a lot has changed, and if Adam is the first soul who reached heaven, then what did happen to Abel? Was Abel considered a sinner? Or did Cain kill Abel after Adam had passed? Either way, he had to witness his children kill, he had to watch his descendants behave in a range from saints and monsters. He's seen genocides, he's seen famine, war. Adam is desensitized to the plights of his descendants. Maybe he even saw it as a duty to cleanse the universe of their existence at one point, because they were his responsibility.

At the end of this episode, he is properly scolded by Sera and does seem ashamed of himself. He isn't huffy, he is reminded that he should be ashamed of acting that way.

I love Lute's enthusiasm, she's absolutely brutal when talking about Vaggie and with how she handled Vaggie. I think it's funny that Lute is so brutal she's even made Adam uncomfortable. It's cute that he's made uncomfortable by the excitement and all he does is tell Lute, the premier hype woman over here, to chill. She's so proud of herself too, look at her.

He fully expects these exorcist bad bitches to go in there and fuck shit up. But, you know it's hilarious that he's throwing horns? This dude, this angel. First human soul in heaven, loving rock n' roll, the devil's music, and throwing motherfucking horns. It's poetic really. I think we can probably assume where things are going.

Now, this is the first point we've seen Adam being a real piece of shit to Lute. I don't think Adam likes it when people think he's too dumb to notice something, especially something so damn obvious. This is such a drastic moment of vitriolic, uncontrolled anger directed towards Lute. Adam knows he isn't the brightest tool in the shed. He likely knows he's obtuse and misses shit. It's why he sucks at lying, he knows he's not smart. That is why I think he's afforded women opportunities to direct him without fighting back against their advice and their choices. I'm sure Lilith made it obvious how dumb she thinks Adam is. I'm wondering if this might be where their ground breaking fight might've come from. Who's to say he didn't allow Lilith to take the lead, or listen to her like he's done with Lute here and now? Perhaps to an even greater point? He listened to Eve and ate from the fruit of knowledge and he was punished for it. Being seen as so dumb he can't formulate a simple fact is a sore spot for him.

Adam is incredibly powerful. It took a bit out of him to exercise that power, probably because he's out of practice just like Lucifer said. At one point, he probably wasn't so sloppy and weak willed. He's gotten lazy. Sloth like.

I think it got real personal here. How viscerally and personally he attacked Charlie. No one but Charlie truly thought sinners could be redeemed, or that they were even worth it. Not even one of the original sinners. Maybe he never considered the possibility, maybe what happened really did make him see the world as black and white to cope with that happened to him, his wife, his children. Charlie's desire to fight this idea would destroy the foundation for all of his coping through the years. He stopped seeing them as family, even though he's grandiose about his founding role in humanity. Does that itch the guilt that may lurk under the surface?

I don't think Adam thought much of Charlie at all. I don't think he had any intention of coming to kill her in the beginning, despite seeing her, despite who her parents were. But, I think with the constant push, with how eager she was to disrupt the pre-conceived idea of order, it reminded Adam and reflected her parents so much, he was eager to kill her for revenge against them. I think this electrical interference on the mask is a direct reflection of sin. Namely, wrath, in this moment.

Now, this. THIS. Is something that made me want to write this whole fucking essay. Is Lucifer implying that he not only gave Eve the Fruit from the tree of knowledge, but FUCKED HER TOO? Homies, I'm sorry but holy shit. That is some hydrating tea. I'd be pretty pissed too, fucked over twice by women who were supposed to be literal soul mates, who you were made for, who were made for you?

I knew he would have a goatee, I could almost hear it. I gotta say, I'm a sucker for how he looks. I think he's hot. He is a bastard, but so are a lot of the hot dudes in this show. It's just a theme.

This exact series of lines prompted so many of the thoughts that I had about Adam and why he thinks or acts the way he does. At one point, Adam did have to work himself to the bone and learn to survive from scratch alongside Eve. He isn't entirely without cause to not think that he deserves some respect or recognition from his descendants.

But, that doesn't give him the right to act like god himself. It's... well... Blasphemous. Isn't it? One of the worst sins is to think yourself to be worthy of worship, as if you're a god.

This is the moment that gave me empathy for them both. You could probably see the kind of loving person Adam could have been at one point with how he looks at Lute, even as he's laying there, dying. He's not crying like a bitch, just looking at Lute softly. Lute screaming for him, screaming his name. They cared for each other deeply.

And this... and this.... and this. WHAT DEAL DID YOU MAKE, LILITH? Did you make it with Sera? Did you make it with Adam? Did you make it with Lute? Did you really just want a little 'vacay' away from the hell you helped create? Left her husband, depressed and lonely. Left her daughter without any care or guidance. Maybe Alastor was sent in her place, perhaps? Seven years since he was seen after all, but why wouldn't he show up sooner if Lilith did care? Did she make a deal with Lute and Adam? Did she let Adam smash it so she could stay in heaven? Did Lute let her stay in exchange for getting Adam out of a position of power? Or was it maybe Sera who commissioned Lilith with a deal? Either way, I'm in full belief that it wasn't Adam's idea to move the extermination day up. I think he's a patsy, a scapegoat. I think Lute may have been manipulated, potentially, into manipulating Adam into this position. Was it even really Adam who came up with the idea to do the exterminations? Or was he the one who simply decided to fight originally because he was told heaven was at risk due to Lilith's rising power? The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions. I think it could be any number of these. Either way, Lute certainly does think she had authority over Lilith. Is it Lute just having hubris? Or is Lilith truly bound, just like Alastor, Husk, and Angel Dust?

Of course, now that we know a soul can be redeemed... and we certainly know that angels can fall. I don't think this will be the last we see of Adam.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Ok so i saw a tweet that made me feral, so here i am with a request

It was based on a still from Thunderbolts* with Bucky in the kitchen wearing the tank top, the person said he looked like a dad waiting for the baby bottles to sterilise,,,, so true

I was thinking about #that bucky joining reader in the kitchen after dinner and doing it for the first time after having their baby 😵‍💫

so sorry it’s taken me way longer to get to than planned. thanks for requesting 💌

EIGHT WEEKS. 18+

bucky barnes x fem!reader

wc. 1407 warnings. 18+ only! quickie in the kitchen, pinv (but not much smut, my apologies. ive written so much porn lately i fear my brain may explode) mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

For the last near eight weeks, shitty diapers, vomit and fatigue had been all you and Bucky had known. The excessively late nights and nipple pain all being traced back to the sweet, beautiful tyrant of a daughter that you recently welcomed into the world.

And while you were both worse for wear and stretched incredibly thin with the new change of dynamics in the household, you wouldn’t have it any other way — motherhood a great look on you and fatherhood just as good a look on your lover. 

Like anything, it all took some getting used to: the stress, running on minimal sleep, intense blinding irritation, but it was all made easier with the great support system you call a husband. All of his attention and time being divided between his two girls. And with time, you began to feel like your old self again.

By now, it was late and it was like you were each too tired to sleep, each of you barely functioning as you work through the household jobs. 

Bucky’s at the kitchen counter, his time split between bottle sterilisation and the dishes, while you’re at the sofa’s, organising and piling the excessive amounts of baby grows and other laundry. Each of you doing jobs to lighten the giant load.

You stack the clean laundry in the basket and set it on your hip, using your free hand to drag the laundry hamper with you as you walk. You set it in your shared bedroom and meet Bucky back in the kitchen.

You stand beside him and rest your head on his shoulder, eyes closing as if to soak up the calm quiet. He presses a kiss to your temple and lays the side of his head atop yours, giving you a moment of attention while he focuses on the tasks at hand: carefully attaching bottles with lids so as not to contaminate the sterile vessel.

You wrap your arm around his back, snuggling into his side as you watch him. Whoever would have thought that the hands that were made for death and destruction could now be preparing bottles for your baby in a few rooms over. 

“Good news about the doctors today, huh?” 

He pauses and lifts his head from yours. So you turn and see his expression confused, brows furrowing.

“What news?” he asks, utterly perplexed.

“I texted you this morning,” you match his befuddled tone and reach into your robe pocket for your phone. “The doctor gave me the all clear. I told you about it as soon as I found out…” you mindlessly reiterate, eyes then beginning to narrow as you look at your screen. “Oh my god,” you whisper, and shake your head. “I never send it.”

“Is it bad news?” he questions, eyes softening slightly as they meet yours.

“God no, well… depends how you look at it,” you smile and turn your phone, showing him the screen.

He stills as he reads your unsent text, brows continuing to furrow. “What is that? Is that an eggplant?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why is it there?”

“It’s supposed to be sexy,” you playfully frown.

“Sexy?”

“Yeah,” you nod, pointing to the emoji beside the eggplant one. “See, the peach.”

“I don’t understand,” his head shakes, eyes flickering between you and your phone.

You inhale and close your eyes. “Okay, alright,” you focus on him. “I saw my doctor today, and she gave me the all clear…” you pause, watching the connections slowly being made in his tired blue eyes.

“So we can have sex?”

“So we can have sex,” you repeat, mirroring his tone and expression. 

Part of you questioned whether you should wait until the weekend, wait until you’ve dropped your daughter off with your family. It had been a long time since you’ve been properly fulfilled by your husband, everything but full penetrative sex to suffice during your weeks of healing. 

So this was quite the confliction.

You give it a moment's thought and meet his eyes again.  “Are you tired?” you ask.

“Are you?” he deflects and returns the question, wanting to hear what you have to say before he answers for himself.

“I mean…” you shrug your shoulders. “Yeah, very. But… a quickie can’t hurt, right?”

“Who doesn’t love a quickie?” 

“Exactly,” you smile and turn so your back is against the counter. You lift yourself up onto it, sitting on the edge with your feet dangling down.

He moves to stand between your knees and settles his hands beside yours. “And then this weekend…” he pauses and itches forward, lips ghosting yours briefly. “I can take you up to the lake…” he presses a slow lengthy kiss to your lips.

“Yeah…” you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him again. “What else?”

He pretends to give it some thought but the plan was already extensively created in his head. “I can make us some dinner,” he begins to list and reaches for the bow of your robe, tugging on it gently. “We can go for a walk around the woods, maybe collect some firewood. Sit on the deck and watch the sun go down.”

You drop your hands from around his neck and move to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, fingers mindlessly slipping into the top. You reach down the front and begin palming over his cock, eyes focused on his as you listen.

“Mhm-hm,” you prompt, eager to hear more.

“Well,” he pauses and reaches into the elastic of your underwear. “We can sit in the cabin, maybe have some wine by the fire…” he starts, voice drawing to a whisper, speech halting when he leans in to kiss you again. But he doesn’t continue on with his plan. Instead he grows quiet, quite like he was wanting to reserve the more intimate moments for a surprise. 

And so he slips your underwear down your thighs, the lifting of your ass from the counter aiding the removal. He watches the fabric drag across your skin, the material grazing flesh until it gets caught between your knees. You feel the resistance and lift a knee, letting the underwear fall from one leg and down the length of the other.

The hand you had tucked down the front of his boxers moves back up to the waistband, fingers resuming their prior finnicking into the elastic. You drop your hand from around his neck and join the one at the top of his pyjama bottoms — both of them hastily yanking on the fabric. 

Bucky helps, moving his hands from your underwear to his own. He gives both garments a heavy tug, each catching around the swell of his thighs — revealing just enough of himself as required.

He spits into his palm and smears it messily over his dick. You both watch the lewd display between you, eyes transfixed on the slight twitching of him, cock growing hard under his touch. 

Guiding himself closer he smacks his head against your cunt. The little slaps an attempt to speeden up his erection. 

He holds himself within his left, metal hand and spits once again into the palm of his other, only this time he smears it over your pussy — a makeshift lube saving you both a trip to the bedroom. 

Lining up with you, he teases at your entrance briefly, quite like he was refamiliarising you with the contact of his cock and himself with your cunt once again. He sinks into you slowly and both of your faces contort, the feeling of sheer, unadulterated, lustrous bliss growing with each passing inch.

Your arms wrap around him as if you’re in dire need of his touch, your hands squeezing tightly around his bank. And with the close contact, his forehead falls to press against yours, bodies close as you both delve into the bliss of what got you your daughter in the first place. 

Although this brief, fatigued session was about to reopen a massive can of worms for your sex life, it was clear that this time it may have to be cut short — the long awaited sensations could not quite be replicated by one to the other meant things tonight were bound to end prematurely. 

And so this little session might just have to serve as an appetiser, a taster for the weekend to come when you both finally get around to rekindling things properly in the bedroom.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[misstycloud]

Isekai’d yandere x f.reader

We’ve all heard about reader getting isekai’d into another universe and bonding with the characters, but what if it was the opposite and the yandere was isekai’d while reader’s just a background character.

————-

You were the mere daughter of a baron. You were pretty, yes, but nothing to gape in awe at. To summarise, you were nothing special. Then how come the heir of a grand duchy followed you around like a puppy seeking its masters attention? Especially since it was only the day earlier that he smitten with another young miss, who he’d declared with his actions was to become his future fiancée.

Yandere! Noble who suddenly approached you out of nowhere one day. You weren’t friends and had hardly ever spoken; to ask directions or work in pairs, perhaps. He was way too cheery speaking to you. It was completely out of character for him. Where did the normally stoic and unphased young man go? He was certainly not to be found here. No, this man chatted your ear off and did not understand that you wished to be left alone. It didn’t feel very safe anymore when all his admirers glared daggers your way. There was one you were especially afraid of. He was head over heels in love with her before. What has changed? You always saw them together and she was the only one he’d smiled at genuinely. Now he didn’t even spare her a glance.

Yandere! Noble who sought you out whenever he had free time. He wanted to accompany you in breaks between your classes at the academy, he wished to escort you to town and he even showed up outside your estate. His change in behaviour was puzzling, but not as much as the shift in his speech. What were these ‘bruh’, ‘sigma’ and ‘I’m cooked’? You didn’t understand any of it, no matter how much he used it around you. You suppose you were thankful he did turn it down a notch when in others company. You already had a hard time with it, you didn’t think it was necessary for others to suffer as well.

Yandere! Noble who had been shocked when they died and woken up in the world of their favourite romance game. They had read a lot of isekai novels but never once thought the thing was actually real. Wait, if this was their favourite game, then wouldn’t that mean that you were there too? Yes! Maybe they should thank Truck-kun for hitting them on their way to work. This was much better than any ordinary life a citizen could have. At first they thought they’d be stuck in the body of a villain or a side character, but they were pleasantly surprised to find themselves being the male lead of the game. He was rich, noble, influential and devilishly handsome. He had everything.

Yandere! Noble who immediately went to the academy to find you. When playing the game, they never found themselves attracted to the female lead, despite the fact she was modelled after the general population’s preferences. It just didn’t work for them. No, they liked you. Loved you even! It didn’t matter that you were nothing more than a simple background character. You were way better and cuter than any other love interest! You kept to yourself and didn’t have many friends, however you were still very kind and modest. On top of that, you were also an animal lover- exactly like them! The two of you also shared one other interest. They wanted to know if you shared more, but unfortunately the information on you was limited(not created because you’re not important).

Yandere! Noble who wrote an email to the game developers about how they should make extra content that should only feature new information and updates on you. They insist it would sell well(no one except them would buy). Sadly they never got a reply back. Rude ass company. Maybe they should’ve claimed mental health damage because the love interests were bad, so they could sue.

Yandere! Noble who couldn’t care less about the female lead. Unfortunately they got isekaid to at the point of the game where you’d have to enter a relationship with the female lead, that you could break off eventually if you wanted to chase after someone else. And sadly for her, you were the only option. The look on her face was laughable as they told her they could give rats ass about her and how they’ve found someone much better than her in all ways.

Yandere! Noble who then realised they were not bound by any rules. In a lot of isekai the person would have to follow some original rules at least in the beginning, but there was no system or points you needed to collect. They could do whatever they wanted. They had the power, the looks, the wealth and what they wanted was you.

There is no way you’d ever say no to a future grand duke, right?

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”