#compare contract phones

[rbmkno4cookout]

Cancellation fees are some of the hardest bullshit imaginable. "Hey if our service sucks, fuck you pay us more to stop giving you a shitty service"

Unethical business practices only work because I'm not allowed to burn down your offices if you fuck me over. they won't fucking let me

[kurooh]

★ EPISODE 01. GREED

SUMMARY. nothing like new beginnings, right? UA studios is the luckiest second chance you’ve ever gotten! once you’ve met your new manager and signed the last legal papers, you’re supposed to head off to your very first shoot. there, you’ll film your debut and prove that you belong to UA.

WARNINGS. 18+ content, mdni. fem! reader, casting couch, panties used as a gag, dry humping, unprotected sex, blowjobs, dirty talk. wc / 7.3k

▸ RETURN TO THE MAIN MENU!

a document covered in legalese, clauses, and words you’ve never seen before is slid toward you, along with a pen for when you’re finished reading through it. 

“this is the last one,” your new manager gives you a half smile, unsurprised by the confusion that washes over your face. “it’s a form verifying that everything you’ve signed off on is true.”

your eyes drift further down the page, toward the neat signature of his name. shinsou hitoshi, printed beneath a scribble of what appears to be his initials. although you haven’t been with him for more than an hour, you’re already much happier than you were when you’d stepped foot in the building. naturally, as all people do, you compare shiketsu studios and UA side by side. it’s pretty unfair, because of your disdain for shiketsu and lack of experience at UA, but the latter comes out on top.

shinsou sips his coffee. you read through the contract, pausing to squint at some of the last few conditions referring to unprofessionalism in the workplace; here, it’s taken seriously. you were nervous at first, especially with the ball and chain of shiketsu’s scandal dragging behind you, but it never came up. not in the phone call, not in the conversations on the way up to the office, and not once since the paperwork began.

black ink glides across the paper, smooth and formal. with two fingers, shinsou tucks the paper into your file, along with the rest of your necessary personal information. he offers you a wider smile—exhausted at the edges—and easily extends his hand, as if he’s done it a million times before.

your palm presses against his in a firm handshake, and he fixes you with a meaningful look. 

“welcome to UA.”

“more than happy to be here,” you reply automatically, smile making its way through your voice as he leans back into his chair, folding his hands.

“we went over scheduling on the phone, and i set you up for a shoot today, just as requested. i know you’re not necessarily new to the industry, but i’m gonna tell you all of this as though you are, okay?”

you nod, raising your cup of complimentary coffee to your lips. creamer swirls in the middle of it like a whirlpool; each sip is slow and unhurried as you savor the flavor. it’s an ordinary cup of coffee, but it’s the most ordinary you’ve had in a long time.

“it typically depends, but you can expect to be on set for more than two hours today. filming can take a while, and we’ve had talent spend the whole day on one set, just to get everything right. because of this, actors are limited to filming a maximum of three times a week.”

your eyebrows shoot up, but you nod again. “that’s actually a great rule to have.”

“people need time to rest and recover, and plus, the studio’s huge! there’s no need to overwork the same actors. at UA, maintaining work-life balance is really important to us. our films and videos are kind of crazy, but management is everything but. anyway, let me give you my number.”

with his nice black pen, shinsou scribbles his phone number onto a light purple sticky note. it seems to match the color of his long, grown out hair, and you can’t help but wonder what came first. did he like the sticky note color so much that he dyed his hair to match it, or was his hair always purple and he just bought the stationary to match it?

“this is my personal number,” the square of paper is torn away from the stack with a sticky sound, “if something comes up and you can’t make a booking, you call me. if you’re adding people to your yes list and no list, which you’ll do over time, you let me know so i can take care of it and keep track. even if it’s something simple, like you get turned around when you’re walking through the studio, send me a text. i’m your manager. i’m here to help you and make your job easier. don’t hesitate to reach out if you’ve got something going on.”

.  .  . 

noon rolls around faster than you expect it to.

shinsou’s given you all of the details regarding where you need to be, who you’ll be with, and what you need to be wearing when you get there. the dress code is simple—you’re expected to wear a casual, slightly revealing outfit with a matching set beneath. 

you tug unsurely at your top, smoothing down the ruffles near your midsection for what’s probably the sixth time in ten minutes. it barely moves, looking the same as it did before. anxiety thrums in your chest, tangling itself intricately in your ribcage; the pressure to perform at your best is eating away at you, leaving you with an uncomfortable weight in your stomach and little to no air in your lungs.

again, you try to remind yourself that UA was the one pursuing you, not the other way around. the affirmation is supposed to put you at ease, but it has the opposite effect—if they were after you, they clearly expect the best from you. that thought doubles the weight upon your shoulders, nearly crushing you to the floor like a soda can.

before you can overthink any further, you’re already at the door, hand trembling just above the knob. you can hear the chatter of voices inside, the relaxed tones of conversation. you suck in a sharp breath, quickly running through the information about the shoot in your head; it’s some kind of run-of-the-mill casting couch video with one sero hanta. when he was reading you the details from a printed sheet of paper, shinsou didn’t seem worried in the slightest. he just wore a neutral expression, and reminded you to get there on time.

nausea swirls in your stomach. if you don’t just breathe and walk in, you’ll end up getting sick all over the floor and fired within the hour. you inhale shakily, plastering a smile onto your face as you twist the door open. this is fine.

all heads turn toward you. too many faces in such a small room, with so many cameras and microphones set up around a black couch. you can’t even choke out a greeting before someone’s on his feet, offering you a handshake and easy smile. “there’s the lady of the hour.” 

“that’s me,” you laugh nervously, grasping his hand. the carpet looks dull, the once colorful patterns faded by foot traffic and time. despite its worn appearance, it looks cleaner than one might have expected. you look up at the person standing in front of you, so dazed you hadn’t even noticed you were staring at the carpet. 

“the name’s hanta,” your co-star releases your hand, jerking a thumb at himself. he’s saying something about the camera crew, but you don’t really hear it—you’re more focused on how big he is. he’s a lot taller than you and full of energy, the corners of his lips tugging into disarming smiles that almost make you want to melt. “—this one’s mostly improv, y’know? kinda going for an all-natural video here, and your manager totally thought i was the right guy for the job.”

hanta’s standing in front of you, sounding all nice and friendly when he talks. he almost has the audacity to look a little clueless, like he’s completely unaware of how good he looks. you’ve seen him on camera, watched a few of his videos. at shiketsu, during breaks, you’d sometimes hear his name come up in conversations between the girls. some of them would watch UA’s videos before shooting, just to get themselves wet for their unsightly co-stars. once, you may not have seen the appeal. but now, standing as close as you are to him, you definitely understand it. something electric rushes through your stomach and leaves a sparking hot trail as it descends between your thighs. 

“sounds great,” you say, even though you blacked out at some point while he was talking and only regained consciousness just now. he probably knows a thing or two about you, but you officially introduce yourself nonetheless. “nice to meet you, hanta.”

the director comes over to shake your hand. “like he said, this is supposed to be a very low-key debut. i’ve prepared a small list of things you might want to say, but otherwise, this is mainly improv. if you’d like to take a seat on that couch right there, we can go ahead and get started.”

.  .  . 

you’re on the couch, sitting up straight with your hands folded in your lap. it’s already a few degrees warmer than when you’d first stepped into the room—the fan had to be unplugged, lest it become an annoying noise in the background during filming. a few camera people busy themselves with setting up and situating the microphones and such, while the director looks through the camera at you. 

“hmm. perhaps you could be a little more relaxed? maybe sit back and lean into the couch. we don’t want you to be too stiff, even if you are nervous.”

you’re in the middle of readjusting yourself when hanta clicks his tongue, holding a hand out to motion you to stop moving. “she looks good the way she is. you see nerves, i see confidence and attention.”

the faintest trace of tension curls through the air like dissipating smoke. the two men hold their ground, looking one another in the eye, before the director raises his hands in surrender, exhaling through his nose.

“i suppose i hadn’t thought of it that way.”

someone tells the director something about having set up all of the microphones, while another plugs in a hand-held camera to charge. hanta situates himself in a chair behind the camera, looking like he’s in command of everything, while the actual director sits beside him with a whiteboard and marker.

“you can call cut at any time, if you’re uncomfortable with something. i’ll hold up the whiteboard in case you need any additional guidance or help with lines if you draw a blank.”

“thank you,” you nod at the director and take a deep breath. he glances briefly at hanta, playing it off as though he was just looking toward the camera. “action!”

“so, how’d you hear about us? what brings you to our agency, babe?”

it’s easier to lie, or come up with an answer, when you’re focused on hanta, not the camera. “i’ve seen a few ads online, but i’ve also heard really great things from my friends.”

the girls at shiketsu talked about more than just sero hanta—many of them had little crushes on the UA stars, as well as personal interests in the studio. but with UA studios being a primary rival to shiketsu, conversations remained hushed and secretive. honestly, shiketsu’s downfall turned out to be a success more than anything else; some of the drug addicts could finally recieve help, and the sober talent could look into working elsewhere.

clear and effortless, hanta’s words roll right off his tongue, despite the absence of a script in his lap. he’s looking directly at you, as if the camera doesn’t exist. “i understand you’re looking to work as a model with our agency. could you tell me a little more about what you’re interested in?”

you introduce yourself by name again, face growing warm as you follow his lead. “i’ve done some modelling before, and i took a small break, but i’m ready to get back into it. oh, i’ve never modelled swimwear or underwear before, but i wouldn’t mind giving it a try.”

he smirks, eyes shamelessly raking down your clothed body, as if he’s daring you to strip. “someone isn’t shy. would you mind showing me what you’ve got to offer to our agency?”

it’s acting. it’s fake, and yet, his words make your thighs squeeze together.

you nod, smile wavering. for a moment, you think the director will call for a cut, but he holds up the whiteboard and its instructions: strip down to your underwear & bra.

the jeans are the first to go. denim slides down your thighs, barely catching on your heels, and soon, it’s on the floor. you take care not to move too quickly, too hurried, as you lift your shirt up and over your head. it lands beside your jeans in a pile on the dull carpet, and you’re left in a matching black set.

hanta’s grin only grows wider. “our producers are gonna love you. if you’re interested, i can pull some strings and set you up for a shoot as early as tomorrow. how does underwear sound?”

a genuine smile spreads across your face; you don’t realize how innocent it makes you look, or how much it turns hanta on. oh, and you even sound a little excited! your acting is spectacular, for a newbie. he’s seen your shiketsu videos—trashy, low quality clips of you getting ruined on camera, posted for millions of people to see—and was more than excited to accept this shoot with you. shinsou had let hanta know that he’d specifically requested him for the job because of hanta’s tendency to be easygoing and charismatic with new actresses; at the end of his email, shinsou wrote a note saying that this set-up was him paying off his debt to hanta.

“that sounds great! i wasn’t sure if i could find my groove again, after being out of the industry for so long. could you tell me a little more about the photoshoot or the brand it’s for?”

hanta leans forward, propping his chin up on his fist. “slowww down. i haven’t even told you what i want in return for giving you this job, sweetheart.”

you pout, playing along perfectly. you’re selling this nervous, virgin-turned-slut image really well; hanta’s rock hard, though his slacks do a good job of hiding it. he’d rather have you feel it than see it—the thought of your reaction makes his cock twitch against his thigh. what if he touched you in all the right places, spoke everything you’ve ever wanted to hear into your ear? would you fall apart and forget all about the plot of the video and its loose script in favor of him?

“oh. i didn’t know your offer came with strings attached.”

“it’s just apart of the industry,” hanta murmurs, his eyes hooded with barely restrained desire. he’s so open, displaying his emotions on his face; he looks at you like you’re some kind of dessert that he doesn’t want to keep his hands off of. “anyway, what i want is for you to sleep with me.”

part of your true persona shines through in your breathless response, “i . . okay. yeah. yes, i’ll do it. for the, um, photoshoot.”

hanta draws it out, just for the camera. just because he wants your debut video to do well. definitely not because he’s on the verge of creaming his boxers from excitement and arousal. no. never. (he needs to jerk off more often.)

“that easy, huh? you’re a model, not a pornstar.”

“i could be both,” you say, eyes meeting his in a heated glance.

the director calls for a cut and claps his hands, getting to his feet. he’s going back and forth with two members of the camera crew, and you don’t really realize that the camera’s no longer rolling until hanta’s standing in front of you. tall and broad, his body casts a shadow over you.

your eyes drag up from his waist to his face, where a small grin plays on his lips. “that was pretty good, babe. where’d you learn how to act so well? ooh, and that improv.” he playfully wiggles his eyebrows, and it makes you laugh.

“i don’t know. i kinda picked it up over time, y’know? making porn isn’t that different from making movies.”

“gotcha. i gotta hand it to you, you’ve got—”

“places, everyone! we need to get ready for the next shot.” the director unintentionally interrupts him as he tries to get your attention and hanta’s. he turns around to look at the director, his face souring, but you don’t see it.

“couldn’t have waited until i was done talking?” “we’re on a tight timetable today,” the director replies, voice clipped. “places, please. i want both of you on the couch, so we can edit the last scene to fade into this one.”

you stand, and hanta lays back on the couch, propping his head up on the armrest. the rest of his body is stretched out over the cushions in a not-so-silent invitation for you to take a seat. heat rushes to your face, and you smile nervously, glancing at the director.

“should i take off my heels or leave them on?”

“leave them on for now,” hanta purrs, even though your question wasn’t directed at him. the director nods jerkily, likely put off by your co-star’s penchant for making filming decisions. “sit down and we can start rolling again.”

without kicking him, you swing a leg up and over his waist; now that you’re hovering above him, you slowly lower yourself onto his lap. the contact makes your eyes widen—he’s hard enough to cut diamonds, his cock pressing firmly against you through the few layers of clothing between your bodies.

he sort of grimaces, hands flying to your waist. “mind if i adjust you? your heel’s kinda digging into my leg.”

hanta barely lifts you more than an inch. he moves you forward and slowly drags you back, the ‘adjustment’ nothing more than a ruse to get some friction. the director either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t call it out; he gestures toward you instead, using his hands to motion forward and backwards.

“if you could get on all fours, that’d be great. we’re trying to transition the talking scene smoothly so that you’re already in the middle of it by the time it fades out,” your hips lift up and off of hanta’s lap as you position yourself according to the director’s instructions. “yes, that’s great! now all you’ve gotta do is arch your back and keep it that way until he moves you later.”

“sorry if my heels are poking you,” you tilt your head forward to whisper the apology into his ear, cheek brushing against his. 

his voice is breathy when he replies, “you’re good.”

“action!”

there is a split second where you aren’t sure what to do. but hanta’s hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, and he pulls you in for a kiss. it’s a smooth, fluid action, as if it’s been done a thousand times before. the stubble along his upper lip is rough in contrast with the softness of his lips, which slide hungrily against yours.

hanta tests the limits, running his tongue along the seam of your mouth. breathless, you let him in, moaning softly at the new contact. but as he kisses you, tongue moving with yours, it doesn’t take long for him to get greedy. large palms coast along the planes of your lower back before he starts to insistently push you down, his hips jerking up to meet yours.

“fuckkk,” hanta lets out a broken moan and tucks his face into your neck, breathing you in. then, more for you than the camera, he murmurs, “you have no idea what i wanna do to you.”

what does he want to do to you? would he fuck you with reckless abandon and keep going even when he has to hold your limp body up? what if he decided to sit you on his lap, play with your pussy with one hand, and choke you with the other? you want nothing more than to find out.

“show me what those hips can do, sweetheart.”

you’re already panting. you hadn’t quite realized how hot you’d gotten since the camera had started rolling, or how easily he’d stolen your breath away with those slick kisses. you sit back, aligning your pussy with his cock through all of the clothing, steadying yourself with your palms planted on his pecs. the lean muscle is solid beneath your splayed fingers.

“like this?” it’s a half-moan, half-plea for some praise. hanta answers you with a grind of his hips and a drawn-out groan. he likes it. he likes what you’re doing, even if he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to.

one of the camera people quietly steps toward the couch with a hand-held camera to capture different angles for the video. you’d nearly forgotten about the video, having gotten caught up with your co-star and everything you want to do to him. god, if there wasn’t a camera and a job to do, you’d sit on his face and see if his tongue was more than just silver.

“yeah, you got it,” hanta’s eyes squeeze shut against the indomitable arousal coursing through his body, hot and buzzing under his skin like a live wire.

“gonna give me that underwear shoot tomorrow, boss?”

you swear you feel his cock jump at your words, and that excites you. it’s only your first shoot, and you’re already making waves. how much could your reputation and popularity skyrocket if you were to get him to cum without even taking his clothes off? wicked delight floods your chest at the thought, and you bear down, pressing more firmly against him.

his throat bobs, and you can see the cogs in his head turning while he tries to think up a response. it must be difficult to do so when you’re batting your lashes innocently, acting as though you’re not riding him like a pony. 

hanta makes up a response by the skin of his teeth. even though the director is silently pointing at the whiteboard with instructions, his movements frantic, your co-star absolutely refuses to accept the help. is it pride? is it snootiness? is he just trying to keep up with your improv?

you expect him to show off his desperation, but he flips the script by scoffing at you, like you’ve just said something stupid. “if you think just this will get you a job, you’re sorely mistaken. put in some work, girl.”

the friction is almost too much to tolerate—each deliberate, aching drag of fabric against fabric makes your mind all the more hazy. wetness visibly soaks your panties, dampening the material enough for it to slide too much to one side now and again. hanta notices—of course he does—and it only winds him up tighter, gets him feeling more frustrated.

he smirks up at you, pleased by the concentrated pinch of your brows and the feverish expression taking over your face. this is you putting in work, and it is hot as hell.

“better. i’m slightly more convinced, babe. might put you down as a backup if the main gal cancels.”

your clit catches perfectly on the seam of your underwear and your jaw drops, a moan spilling out of your mouth. it’s louder than either of you expect it to be, and now that it’s out, you can’t seem to stop. one turns into two. two turns into three, and then the room is full of noise that you can’t hear. you can’t even hear anything past your own heartbeat as you chase the ultrahot ecstasy coiling in your gut, the pressure of it increasing with each rough pass of your hips.

hanta just watches you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything. past all of the flushed skin and sweat, there is a sort of reverence buried in his expression. he counts himself lucky to be the very first to see you like this—one could argue that you’re no virgin, and you’ve been in the industry for a couple years, but your experience means nothing. you’re a good actor both in unscripted conversation and on the set; in many of your shiketsu videos, you didn’t look like this. you did a good job of faking orgasms and taking weak dick, and now you’re finally enjoying yourself. only ten minutes in and you’re starting to gasp, mouth running too fast for your brain to keep up.

“oh, oh, i’m gonna cum,” hanta’s hands are still on your erratic hips, and he’s guiding you straight to heaven as you begin to lose your rhythm, “fuck, hanta, i-i’m cumming.”

you probably weren’t supposed to say his name, since he never actually introduced himself in the video. but when you’re saying it like that, who is he to give a damn about the plot of a porn video?

you look gorgeous when the euphoria shatters you, hitting you so hard you fall onto his chest, shuddering as the aftershocks rock your body like little earthquakes. hanta holds you close, and out of the corner of his eye, notices the director’s whiteboard and the black writing scrawled across its surface. 

it reads break?? and all hanta can derisively think is how kind the bastard must be.

there’s a beat of silence. no response from hanta, and you’re still slumped against his chest, trying to regulate your breathing. his hand strokes over your back, fingers slipping under your bra straps; you came all over him—he can feel something wet seeping through the front of his pants—and he barely had to lift a finger. it’s a major ego boost, of course. without saying much, he can tell you’re really interested in him . . good, he’s definitely making number one on your yes list.

“cut!”

the camera stops rolling in the nick of time. it doesn’t catch the way his face darkens, and neither do you. his eyes narrow at the director, but he doesn’t say anything aloud.

with a soft sound, you push yourself up and off of his chest until you’re sitting up straight again. your eyes have glazed over with a noticeable desire for more, but the director steps forward before either of you can do anything off-camera.

“are you both doing okay? i’ve got a few bottles of water if either of you need some.”

“thank you,” with a polite nod and dazed smile, you start to move off of your co-star’s lap. water sounds pretty good right about now, honestly. a sip of cold, right out of the fridge water might just give you another orgasm. 

hanta moves faster than you do, his hands securing you in place. his grip is solid, preventing you from moving any further. “we should finish the scene first.”

not standing far from you, the director eyes hanta and raises a brow. “it’ll take less than two minutes. a quick break would benefit both of you anyway.”

quite literally, you aren’t in much of a position to say anything. the refreshment can wait ten or fifteen minutes, right? it’s better to deal with it later, if it’s this much of an imposition.

hanta’s dark eyes narrow, “water’s not going anywhere, is it?”

the director almost frowns, but he backs off and gets behind the camera again. you watch as he drinks some of his own water, his eyebrows furrowing when the erased whiteboard is handed to him by a member of the camera crew.

“eyes on me, babe,” your co-star draws your attention back to himself with a gentle hand cupping your jaw. when you look at him, his face is devoid of any negativity; his expression is calm and curious, like he didn’t just butt heads with the director of the shoot. still, you find yourself leaning in close, skin prickling when his breath ghosts against the shell of your ear. “you ready for the next scene?”

heat floods your cheeks. are you ready for the next scene? you swallow, nodding. “yes. yeah, i’m ready. i’ve been ready.”

“action!”

you take the lead, and hanta follows suit. he grinds you down on the bulge straining through his clothes while your hands waste no time slipping under his shirt and hiking it up. the only time either of you pause is when he sits up to pull his shirt off of his head; it goes smoothly, giving you a great view of his upper body. 

lean musculature defines his entire torso. his chest looks like something you could take a bite out of, and his waist—god, his waist—is slender, shaped on either side with the sharp curves of a v-line. a dark smattering of hair trails along his lower abdomen and descends past the waistband of his pants. you’d be lying if you said your mouth wasn’t feeling particularly empty at the sight; he notices the hunger in the way that you’re looking at him and he chuckles, lips curving up in a half smile.

“like what you see, huh?”

you make quick work of his belt before hooking your fingers into his waistband and dragging his pants down his thighs. “shouldn’t i be asking you that?” you mutter in reply, buzzing with impatience. finally, his god damn boxers are off. you yank them right off his ankles and toss them to the floor, glad to be rid of them. 

hanta’s cock nearly looks as good as it felt. thick, long, and curving to his left, it looks like quite the mouthful. you’re staring at it with this bright look in your eyes, and he swells with pride. yes, he knows he has a great dick, but this just inflates him even more. but then, almost apprehensively, your hand wraps around the base of his cock, and he sits up straighter.

“i wanna – uh, is it okay if i just give it a try?”

it strokes his ego, literally. 

hanta nods, fighting back the instinct to push your head down. he really shouldn’t be this damn excited. it’s just a blowjob, something that he’s had plenty of during his time at UA studios. he’ll split his focus, so that he’s outwardly paying attention to you while he inwardly names cities in japan so that he doesn’t cum too quickly.

you’re nervous, at first. silky soft and pretty pink, your tongue experimentally laps at the head of his cock. his precum tastes salty, and the faintest tinge of smoke makes its way to your tastebuds before the flavor dissipates entirely. 

one of the crew members silently steps closer, holding onto a large camera. he tilts it in a way that gets the premier angles of this slow, unhurried act of sin. hanta drags in a breath when you wrap your lips around the tip and lightly suck before sliding further toward the base, little by little. the grip of your hand loosens as you take in more of him, letting his cock fill up your mouth.

sendai.

his palm cups the crown of your head, fingers making their way into your hair and curling tightly. you’ve begun bobbing along his cock, almost clumsy as you try to develop a rhythm that works for you. firmly, you start to stroke the lower half of his cock, compensating for the inches you can’t quite fit into your mouth.

yokohama.

thin and permeable, the fabric of your panties is completely soaked through. since you’re on all fours with your ass up as you suck him off, it’s safe to assume that the person holding the camera is zooming in on the wet spot between your thighs. hanta’s heavy on your tongue and sliding even deeper with each movement of your head; tears of both strain and delight gather in your eyes. 

nagoya.

hanta may be struggling. he might be finding it very difficult not to tremble against the sheer glory of your mouth, and the city counting method might actually be failing him. if you were to just sit up and ask him what city UA studios is located in, it’d take a minute for the answer to load in his brain. the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag; everything tightens deliciously around him, and he lets out a moan, fingers winding tighter in your hair.

osaka.

you’re struggling to breathe as the pace increases, growing a little sloppy. each stroke is fast and filthy, better than it has any right to be. you glance up, looking past the tears gathered on your lashes, to see his head tossed back over the armrest while he chews on his lip. the sight of him is a reward and motivation to push yourself a little harder—he doesn’t look that far off from letting out a whine or two. a particularly breathy moan spills out of him before he can muffle it with the back of his free hand, and the sound goes straight to your clit, making you moan in response.

toky—oh.

something salty gathers faintly in the back of your throat, and hanta drags you away, willing his eyes not to roll back when your front teeth graze along the length of his too-sensitive cock. he yanks you off of him with a sticky pop and his eyes meet yours. it’s a clash of lips and teeth and whatever in between when he pulls you into a kiss, releasing the tight grip he’d had on your hair.

you had him on the ropes there.

nobody gets him that close with just their mouth.

fuck, he’s really gotta start jerking off more. or film more scenes with you—but he doesn’t think he could ever get used to that mouth of yours.

operating based off of the director’s hand motions, the guy with the camera steps back to film from a different angle. hanta’s sitting up now, his eyes closed as he pulls you against him, all without breaking the kiss. breathing is close to impossible now, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest when he’s pulling your panties off you.

well, almost.

it’s more difficult than it should be to divest you of your panties, and hanta’s not in the mood to stop so you can properly slide them down your legs. so, he tugs until the fabric gives with an agonized rip, and then tears them right off you. because your bra is easier to work with, it doesn’t meet the same fate; your fingers bump into his as you hustle to get it off.

“god, fuck,” hanta lets out a sigh once you’re finally just as naked as him. his hand finds its way to your bare chest, where he lightly squeezes you. not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp. “tits like yours are my favorite, sweetheart. can’t wait to see ‘em when you’re modelling.”

he sees the confusion pass over your face. “just fuck me,” you say, hips swinging toward his cock. part of him wants to make some stupid quip about the whole modelling script, but it’s time for him to do what he intended to do since the very moment he saw the news about shiketsu studios’ shutdown.

with a short and out of breath laugh, hanta lifts you up. this time, he moves you, turning you around so that your back is facing him. instead of being face to face with your attractive co-star, you’re now looking at the director, who’s quietly doodling on the whiteboard to give you at least a shred of privacy. also, the camera is positioned directly in front of you and capturing your every movement, along with the hand-held being moved around the room for closeups.

“lift your hips, baby. i want you on your knees for a sec,” hanta’s voice is in your ear, guiding you in the right direction. your bare pussy sideswipes his cock on the way up, and the anticipation bubbles up in your chest like carbonation in a shaken soda can. there was so much foreplay, so much buildup, that every second now feels like it’s dragging past much slower than it actually is.

his hand is wrapped around his spit-slick cock, keeping it straight and steady for you. he doesn’t even have to say anything and you’re already sinking down, arching your back as his cock slides into you. it’s a tight fit and an even tighter stretch—each inch punches a gasp out of your lungs and leaves you breathless, shaking against him.

“mhm, y-you got it,” hanta tries his best to keep the stutter out of his voice and fails, but you’re too caught up to notice. for some reason, you’re torturing yourself by sitting down as slowly as you are. he supposes it’s something to be thankful for, though. if you were to just drop yourself down on him when he’s still not over the sensitivity from your mouth, he might end up cumming and ruining the entire scene. but would it really be a bad thing if he had to re-shoot this with you?

maybe there’s a wire or two crossed in your brain, because you start pulling up. yes, up, and away from his cock. he thinks you’re going to pull off when you barely have the tip left inside you, but then you do the very opposite—you sit back, dropping yourself all the way down.

“holy shit,” hanta half exclaims, half groans. he wraps an arm around your middle and feels your heart pounding out of your chest as you struggle for breath. incoherent mumbles and whines slip out of your mouth, nothing that he can understand, but he just presses a kiss to the nape of your neck and looks to his left, then right. he reaches for your now tattered panties and offers them up to your mouth. he’s planning to make you scream, and this might prevent your sounds from being picked up as background noise on the videos of anyone that may be filming nearby.

you bite down on the panties, hips twisting impatiently on his cock. he’s both filling you up and stretching you out, but neither sensation is enough. you won’t be satisfied until he fucks you so hard you forget this is being filmed.

hanta’s hands come up under your thighs, and he holds you firmly, slightly pushing you up. the muscles in his arms pull taut, stretching with the effort, and he looks good. slick with sweat and flushed all the way down to his chest, with the cherry on top being that divine look on his face when he’s really enjoying himself.

you want to see him so badly. you almost want to call cut so someone can move a mirror in front of you, but you’d be lost in your own world and fucking by the time they came back with it.

“keep looking into the lens, babe. i want all of this on camera, and i’m pretty sure you will too.”

low and quiet, his words make their way to your ears. what he’s saying isn’t loud enough for the microphones to pick up, but it’s clear that something’s going on, with the way you nod feverishly in response.

it isn’t slow, and it isn’t controlled.

with about as much grace as that of a wild animal ready to mate, sero hanta begins fucking up into you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to have you. his cock bullies itself deep against your cervix and stretches out your cunt in a way that renders you speechless. a graceless sob tears out of your throat, just barely muffled by your wet panties, and it only inspires him to go beyond.

clap, clap, clap.

your ass is bouncing off of him with each and every vigorous thrust. because you’re facing forward, you have no choice but to look into the camera as he fucks away any coherent thought you could possibly have. embarrassment over having sex in a room with people you don’t know watching and filming you? gone. nervousness about your raunchy debut at UA studios? nowhere to be found. all of it vanishes into thin air, until the only thing left in your empty head is the echo of his name trembling on your tongue.

stars shoot across your vision, glowing and golden as he fucks you into oblivion. hanta’s panting, his ragged breaths hot and balmy against your back. his heart is pounding out of his chest like he’s running on the treadmill at the gym, but he grits his teeth against the exhaustion setting in and shifts his hips.

“oh, shit,” your mouth falls open in a sob, back arching hard in his grasp, and he smiles. “right there—oh my god, d-don’t you dare stop.”

“looks like i found it, huh?” the cockiness makes its way through his voice, and if you weren’t falling apart right now, you’d roll your eyes before retorting something back.

wetness pours from your soaked cunt and makes the slide of skin against skin all the more filthy. there’s enough to dampen the couch, but neither of you can bring yourselves to care about it. thick and curved, his cock is lodged in all of the places you could possibly want it; each nudge of the tip against your cervix is controlled, just barely, but you can feel the strain of restraint behind it.

god, just the thought of him destroying you this much while also still holding back is enough to push the tears over your lashline. they run down your cheeks in crystalline trails, and you must be audibly crying now, because hanta chokes out a groan, tipping his forehead against your shoulder.

“i’m gonna—fuck, i can’t, i’m so close,” your head is falling back, teeth clenching around the ruined panties, and impending euphoria surges through you like a cresting wave. at this point, teetering on the very precipice of something big, you’ve stopped making sense. hanta can almost make out what you’re babbling through the panties; each word is broken and choked thanks to the change in his rhythm. instead of holding you up and fucking into you that way, he’s decided to drive his hips up and pull you down onto his cock; each thrust hits much harder than it did before. “p-please, hanta, you’re gonna make me cum—!”

that’s right. 

he’s going to make you cum, and he’s going to make you cum hard.

he yanks the panties out of your mouth and drops his hand from your chest. hot with intent and moving quickly, his fingers make their way down toward your clit, where he begins to rub it. twisting and arching—a little like you’re possessed—you gasp as it all starts to become too much.

“go ahead, sweetheart,” hanta murmurs into your ear, no longer caring if it’s picked up on the video or not, “tell them. tell everyone that’ll see this who’s fucking you this good.”

your breath escapes you when you sob out his name again.

teeth sink into the slope of your shoulder, but you’re too lost to feel the sting. this time, when he speaks, his voice is husky with conviction and acidic desire. “i want to hear you cum all over me, okay? ugh, fuck, if this wasn’t your first goddamn shoot, i’d—”

you cum all over him with a noisy keen of his name, and it’s the only thing on your tongue as you ride it out, slumping back against his chest. he follows shortly afterwards, spilling hot and thick inside your pussy. 

hanta wishes he could just lay here with you on him, but his eyes open and he ends up looking straight into the camera. standing behind it is the director, holding up the whiteboard and some directions that he couldn’t care less about. instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, almost smiling at the way your body twitches in response.

he has definitely made number one on your yes list. 

good. he hasn’t gotten his fill of you yet.

hanta smirks as his eyes run over your exhausted, spent body. then, he looks into the camera, holding you close and spreading your thighs to showcase the mess between them. 

“looks like someone’s officially secured her first photoshoot.”

[stellar-haikyuu]

hear you out ☆ iwaizumi hajime x reader

synopsis: you deserve to have someone listen to you nerd out about your interests. unexpectedly, you meet the person who's more than happy to listen (and perhaps learn more about you in the future). details: fluff | first meeting | strangers to lovers | ~1.3k words | speech-language pathologist gn! reader | timeskip! iwaizumi (a little flirty too lol) | dedicated to @sahrberrii

“Iwaizumi-san, your vocal cords are muscles,” you explain, showing him a video of the anatomical structure. “They contract and slam against each other whenever you shout or use a harsh tone.”

The athletic trainer nods, eyebrows drawn together as he observes the laryngoscopy video you use as an example for your clients.

“But I think you, out of all people, know what happens when you overuse muscles.”

“They get injured,” Iwaizumi whispers in response. He chuckles a little, but the action makes him wince.

“Take it easy,” you smile, almost reaching out to pat his back before stopping yourself.

“Thankfully, you don’t have any nodules, like this person.” You swipe through a few videos before landing on the one you’re looking for. “Nodules are a result of repeated trauma between the vocal cords. Kinda like the finger calluses guitar players get from pressing down on the strings all the time.”

He nods, grimacing as he listens to the person with vocal nodules attempting to produce higher pitches. You understand it perfectly; even after all the voice clients you’ve seen, you never get used to how painful it sounds.

“So, if you continue to overuse your voice, especially in this state, you can get nodules. Or, something worse that would require surgery. Think of a strain or a sprain, compared to a complete tear.”

The video ends, but a part of you still wants to show him more—just enough to keep him around a little longer. However, you still need to be mindful of your time, so you close the tablet and place it on your desk. “So, it-”

When you look at Iwaizumi again, he meets your gaze. Your face grows hot at his attention, and you can’t help but dart your eyes to the side.

“Uh, I meant to say that you should focus on resting your voice for the next week. And I mean full vocal rest. No whispering. You can write on a whiteboard, type, use text-to-speech, gestures, whatever you want.”

He gives you an eager thumbs-up. Cute.

“Okay,” you giggle. “That tells me you understand. I’ll give you a list of other exercises you can do to help with vocal strain. But for now, let’s focus on getting rid of the inflammation. Whenever you feel like your throat is tense or a little painful, you can massage it…”

You gesture at his Adam’s apple, but you happen to glance at it just as he swallows. 

“Uh.” You blank out for a moment, your hands freezing midair. 

Oh, man. Get a grip.

Snapping yourself out of it, you reach for your throat with your middle finger and thumb, demonstrating what you were talking about. “Just go in circular motions, up and down the neck. It’s up to you for how long.”

Suddenly, Iwaizumi raises his hand a little. He unlocks his phone, typing something on the notes app before showing it to you.

“Ah…” You hand his phone back to him. “That’s also up to you.”

“Oh. Me? Uh…” 

Does this mean I’ll have to touch him?

“Usually, I apply this much pressure…” Your fingers hesitantly hover near his throat. “Can I, uh-”

You don’t even complete your question before he consents with a nod. 

“Okay, um.” Your gloved fingers make contact with his skin, and you pray that he doesn’t feel your hand shaking.

Holding your breath, you press down. “This much, usually. Does it hurt?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head and gestures at you to continue.

“Okay, so you just keep doing this. How does-” You glance at his face, which no longer holds any tension. Relief floods over you at the immediate effect.

“How does it feel?”

You grin at the little smiley he leaves. “You’re welcome, Iwaizumi-san. Why don't you give it a try in the meantime?"

As Iwaizumi attempts to replicate what you’ve done, you grab a notepad from your desk, jotting down a few reminders.

“Anyway, I’ll send an evaluation report later for occupational or medical purposes. I know some insane bosses who seem hell-bent on making my clients’ lives harder. Hopefully that’s not the case for you?”

“Oh, goodness, poor you.” You can’t help but laugh as you imagine it. “Well, if you need someone to talk some sense into them, I’m here.”

A quick exhale leaves his mouth in amusement. You remind yourself to look up his team later.

“Okay, if you’re free next week, you can come back here so we can check on your progress. A call would be alright too, if that’s more convenient.”

Normally, you don’t even think twice when giving your clients your contact details; sometimes they keep in touch, sometimes they don't. But secretly, you hope Iwaizumi worms his way into your schedule.

“Anyway, sorry if most of this felt like a one-sided conversation. I hope I didn’t bore you too much or make it too technical-”

Iwaizumi shakes his head frantically, waving his hand. Then, he fumbles a little as he tries to enter his phone’s password.

Ah. He wants to say something?

“I…” You feel your heart swell at his sincerity. “Thanks, Iwaizumi-san. That means a lot.”

And for the first time in the last hour, you get a glimpse of the crow’s feet around his eyes as he grins.

Oh, dear.

Truthfully, you were a little nervous when he entered your office an hour ago. Nervous is an understatement—you were intimidated. He looked like he could just knock you out with a punch if you managed to upset him.

(Okay, he probably wouldn’t punch you, but you've had your fair share of dismissive, aggressive, and moody clients before.)

But now, Iwaizumi’s expression is washed over with a gentleness you didn’t think was possible with his sharp features.

You can’t find it in you to end the interaction, even though you have to.

As you muster the courage to finally send him off, he sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. He takes out his device again, typing something down. It takes a much longer time; he presses the backspace button repeatedly.

“Um, Iwaizumi-san, do you have a concern?” You fiddle with the hem of your scrub shirt. The silence was starting to have more weight to it.

He meets your eyes for a moment before he resumes writing his message.

What is it that has him hesitating so much?

When he shows you his phone screen, you almost gasp.

"Oh!" You don't need a mirror to tell that your face is flushed. "I- That means a lot. Thanks. Um..."

You scramble for a response as he prepares to type something again.

"But, uh, sure! Just let me know if there's something you want me to talk about. Hopefully, you don't get sick of my voice, Iwaizumi-san."

Then and there, you're pretty sure you short-circuit.

"Oh? No one's ever told me that before." You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. However, when you catch the earnest smile on his face, you feel your heart set alight.

"Anyway, thank you for giving me your time today, Iwaizumi-san."

A/N (or Iwaizumi's case history):

Hey, it's Stellar, your soon-to-be speech-language pathologist. I wanted to share my love for the profession through my fics, and decided to start with dear Iwa-chan.

To explain what's happening here, Iwa has a case of traumatic laryngitis, caused by vocal overuse and abuse (constantly screaming at the JNT to stop fooling around during training). Thus, his voice is very hoarse and breathy (sometimes, he can't even make a sound), and speaking hurts. Iwa would have tried remedies like throat sprays and hot tea, but they're not the key to recovery. Vocal rest is!

However, with how busy he is, he still needs to talk to multiple people and resorts to whispering. But, I must emphasize that whispering does NOT aid recovery, because you are still putting stress on the vocal folds.

In these cases, most people will wait for the problem to go away. If it's taking too long, they'll go to an ENT (ears, nose, and throat doctor; otorhinolaryngologist is the fancy word). Sometimes, it stops there, and patients are sent home; but in more severe cases, patients are referred to a speech-language pathologist (reader).

Anyway, since Iwa's case is caused by unhealthy vocal habits, it would help to have the voice specialist handle the case, especially during the recovery phase (dealing with any potential problems in pitch, loudness, and quality). This would increase the chances of a better prognosis/outcome! :)

The laryngeal massage that reader did on Iwa is recommended to most voice patients, especially if their vocal complaints are pain and tension. However, other things can be recommended to promote vocal relaxation, such as straw-blowing exercises (I'm not kidding! They're called semi-occluded vocal tract exercises). I just didn't talk about them in the scene because it felt like info overload, hahaha!

But Iwa's case is relatively mild (assuming he follows home instructions). There are other situations where vocal cords can be paralyzed, weakened, or spastic. Besides nodules, polyps and other growths can form and require surgical removal. Sometimes, one's voice may not be able to return to normal, so the focus of rehabilitation is to restore the most functional voice possible.

[Sidenote: Since this fic leans in a romantic direction, I should clarify that reader will follow professional ethics/rules. They both wait until Iwa is no longer a client at the reader's clinic/hospital before getting together.]

I hope you guys found the fic and A/N interesting in some way! :) Please take care of your voice; don't take it for granted! If you happen to have any questions about the voice, feel free to leave a reply, come to my inbox, or send a dm! <3

This video does a good job explaining AND showing stuff about vocal nodules (I like to think that this is what the reader shows Iwaizumi, hahaha). A fair bit of warning if you're sensitive to internal body imaging, but it's not that gross or graphic.

masterlist

[pha55ed]

All I Want For Christmas || F1/F2

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: sexual jokes

contains :: carlos, charles, lando, oscar, ollie, paul, pepe

summary :: they hard launch you on insta! yay!

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

Carlos Sainz | 55

carlossainz55 : my most expensive gift to myself! love you forever @.yourusername

→ user 01: Con😭grad😭u😭lations

⎯→ user 02: we never had a chance... 😭😭

→ yourusername: mwah <3 love you forever

⎯→ user 03: what about me :(

⎯→ user 04: let her go bro... she's gone 😭

→ alexandrasaintmleux: so cute! 🩷

⎯→ yourusername: not as cute as you 😉

⎯→ user 05: the prettiest wags ever

Charles Leclerc | 16

charles_leclerc : my biggest win yet @.yourusername

→ user 01: GAWWDAAAMNN how does he find the most gorgeous women ever

⎯→ yn_hater: she doesn't compare to alex tho :/

⎯→ yn_biggest_fan: 43°44′5″N 7°25′14″E and you still live with ur mom 🤣

→ yourusername: no need to lie in ur caption but thank you love

⎯→ user 02: i would never lie to u, just saying. (I'm 6'3)

→ oscarpiastri: welcome to the fam 👏

⎯→ yourusername: gonna be an evil step mom to u >:D

⎯→ oscarpiastri: but you're my real mom

⎯→ yourusername: andddd now i feel bad 😭

Lando Norris | 04

landonorris : how i sleep knowing @.yourusername is protecting me

→ user 01: once again a beautiful girl with an ugly man

⎯→ user 02: a beautiful girl with a funny* rich* talented* and hot* man

→ maxfewtrell: so this is how i find out i'm being cheated on

⎯→ yourusername: 🫵🤣 LOL

⎯→ user 03: the girls are fightinggggg

→ user 04: lando is confirmed a pillow princess???

⎯→ yourusername: only the best for him

Oscar Piastri | 81

oscarpiastri: just a chill guy with a not very chill girl @.yourusername

→ user 01: why would u post the 3rd photo 😭😭

⎯→ user 02: i think thats her crying after he won in baku??

⎯→ user 03: but why is the photo taken in her house then???

⎯→ yourusername: can't a girl be proud (i was crying for 3 hours still)

→ user 04: literally the nonchalant x chalant trope

→ charles_leclerc: congrats to you both! ❤️

⎯→ user 05: AWW OMG this is so cute

→ yourusername: when i come home i want u oiled up on my bed

⎯→ user 06: OH...!

⎯→ user 07: no one will match her freak

Oliver Bearman | 87

olliebearman: yes the pizza is armed... jk love you @.yourusername

→ user 01: Ollie if you hurt her....

⎯→ user 02: I think we should be worried FOR him

→ yourusername: who are you...

⎯→ user 03: ikrrrrr hes sooo weirddddd, come home to me instead!!!!

→ kimi.antonelli: congrats mate! blink twice for help!

⎯→ yourusername: I know where you live.

→ user 04: I love beautiful crazy girls <3 she's so valid

Paul Aron | 17

paularon_: my biggest inspiration and supporter @.yourusername

→ yourusername: can't wait to boost the estonian population with you <3

⎯→ user 01: mind you, it's 8am when i opened my phone

→ user 02: they're so fucking beautiful, i can't even blame (y/n) for being horny

⎯→ user 03: their kids will be the prettiest ever

→ user 04: I KNEW THEY WERE DATING OMFGGGG I KNEW IT

→ dinobeganovic: GET A ROOM U FREAKS!!! (happy for you both!)

⎯→ pepemartiofficial: AGREED! (congrats mate!)

⎯→ yourusername: FUCK YOU GUYS!!!! (thanks guys)

Pepe Marti | 21

pepemartiofficial: BREAKING: proud to anounce that i will be with extending my contract with (y/n) for another year @.yourusername

→ yourusername: only a one year extension??? fake asf

⎯→ chirstian.mansell: cause he's transferring to me after one year

⎯→ yourusername: enjoy my sloppy seconds

⎯→ gabyprentice_: its okay bby u can come with me

→ user 01: praying on their downfall purely so i can have a shot with (y/n)

→ user 02: yet another tall lanky awkward man with a beautiful girlfriend

⎯→ user 03: (y/n) has always been into awkward men, not a surprise

→ user 04: Can't wait to see her face in the paddock, her face card is LETHAL

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐭.𝟐

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: as requested, part 2 :) not sure if this is what you had in mind, but i think i like how this turned out

summary: masc rich lawyer!reader, (former) bartender-turned-trophy-wife!nat

warnings: smut (fingering, oral, penetration/strap in v), alcohol/being drunk, reckless driving (is that a warning? idk), angst

word count: 11.7k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— NEW YORK, USA —

Dinner's been ready for almost three hours, yet you're still in the office.

It's not entirely your fault. You're currently working on a big case — some corporate war between two giants. Your client got sued for billions because of a fraud scandal, and since you're known for handling high-stakes cases, you got the job.

Losing this could mean either bankruptcy or a stock market crash — both, probably —, so you've been working overtime for weeks. No missteps allowed for you. All eyes are on you, always, but especially when handling things that others deem to be out of your league.

The problem? You promised Natasha to be on time. Just tonight, since it's Friday, and Fridays are date nights. You're not allowed to spend them in the office. You're supposed to spend them at home, with your wife, and not with a ton of contracts and emails you still need to comb through.

Outside, the sky is dark. No stars are visible. The glittering city beneath it, alive with lights and vibrant neon signs, makes up for that. Everything looks small from up here. Manageable. The mess on your desk, however, seems to only be getting bigger.

You squint your eyes when your vision goes blurry. Too focused on the email you're reading, you don't notice how your phone vibrates again.

When you don't pick up, Natasha slams her phone down on the table and crosses her arms. The lobster in front of her: cold. The mashed potatoes: having formed a crust. The asparagus: soaking up lemon juice and oil and turning limp.

The big penthouse, once so appealing, is nothing but a big empty shell. It's silent, lifeless, lonely. So much so that Linda, your private chef and maid, even offered to stay and keep her company. Of course, Natasha had turned down the offer. It's not that she doesn't enjoy the woman's company, but come on — having an employee stay overtime just because her own wife won't come home from work is just embarrassing.

She exhales, slowly, twisting the wedding ring on her finger. One leg crossed over the other, she stares into the adjacent kitchen. She's still hoping you'll show up soon, but it doesn't seem likely. Eventually, she gets up. Bare feet pad over the woolen rug and carry her all the way into the hallway.

She pauses, but only to slip into a coat. She picks out a pair of high heels and takes the elevator downstairs.

You're immersed in a thick financial contract when the door opens. Any normal human being would jump up immediately — but Natasha's found you have the survival skills of a rock, at least compared to her, so you keep your head in your hand and your eyes on the paper you're holding.

Natasha pauses for a second, just taking you in. Messy, tousled hair, soft to the touch and smelling like the guava shampoo you love. A suit, ironed and fitted. Shoes you got in Italy.

It's the little things she notices about the idiot sitting in front of her. Because that's what you are — an idiot. An idiot she loves, though. Her idiot.

She's already decided you're done working. You shoot out of your chair when the contract is suddenly plucked from your fingers.

"Jesus fucking- oh, it's you!"

Natasha slams the contract down on the desk, glaring at you. You feel your insides shrivel up with shame.

"Yes, it's me", she says, keeping her hand pressed on the stack of papers. "And, oh!, it's you. Still not at home."

You rub the back of your neck, shifting. You're tired. You're overworked. And now, you're also feeling guilty.

"Sorry", you start, cringing at yourself. "The case, it just...it's a big deal. There's a lot to go through. It's important, and-"

"And I'm not?"

Your eyes widen and you nearly start sputtering. Admittedly not the smartest move, but again: you're tired. Overworked, in fact. Hopefully she'll forgive you for being a bit of a dumbass at the moment.

"Come on", she challenges. "Say it. Say it's more important."

"What?? Of course it's not! But it- it's a case, you know, and I'm a lawyer, so I kinda sorta gotta..." You gesture awkwardly and she rolls her eyes. "I'm sorry, love. You know how it is."

"One night, Y/N", she says, stepping closer. "One night. I don't ask for anything else."

"I know, baby", you quickly say, voice desperate. God, you really fucked up. "I'll make it up to you."

Natasha sighs. She lifts her hands and runs them through your hair, ruffling it up further. You crack a hesitant smile and wrap your arms around her waist. The look on her face is pointed, but she keeps combing her fingers through the unruly strands she loves so much, so you know she can't be too mad.

She grabs your tie and yanks you closer. You let out a wheeze, but she's unfazed.

"Listen, honey", she says, tugging at the tie a few times. "We'll go home. We'll have dinner. Tomorrow, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Deal", you immediately say.

"No more nights at the office."

Your mouth opens, but she presses her index finger against your lips.

"Don't even try to argue", she says firmly.

If she lets loose now, this will never end. You've already spent a few nights too many asleep at your desk. Your bottom lip pokes out, just barely, and she pinches it.

"Sorry", you mumble, looking like a kicked puppy.

Gone is the lawyer-level damage control, the confidence with which you carry yourself. You've spent hundreds of hours standing in front of judges and other lawyers, yelling at people, repeating your points and finding new arguments and letting others yell back at you as well.

But this is your wife. When you're with Natasha, that facade you built so meticulously just crumbles. Which, despite the fact that she's bossing you around, is actually a good thing.

Her thumb brushes over your bottom lip, then she lets go of your tie and smoothens it out. You exhale, leaning in and catching her mouth in a kiss. She makes a soft noise, but then wraps her arms around your neck.

Hands run up and down her sides, around to her back. You pull away and study her. Green eyes, plush lips, a face so pretty it hurts.

The case you're working on may be out of your league, but Natasha definitely is. You have no idea how you got her to marry you.

"I'm sorry", you repeat, massaging her back through the fabric of her coat. "Let's go home."

Natasha softens. She squeezes the back of your neck and leads you out into the hallway. The rest of the building is dead silent, except for the soft hum of the a/c's. All your employees have gone home.

You blink, a little disoriented, and run your hand through your hair. Spending nearly 16 hours at your desk, even having lunch there, took a toll on your brain.

You enter the elevator and lean against the wall. Natasha notices your tired eyes and tuts. You look at her, see her smile, see the worry in her gaze, and recover enough to grab her and spin her around. A soft thud, and she ends up pinned against the wall.

"Oh, now you're awake?"

"No matter how much energy I may spend on work", you mumble, undoing the front of her coat, "I always make sure there's enough left for you."

She hums and sighs, hips buckling forward. You let the coat slide off her shoulders and bite back a grunt, then press your lips to her neck. Your hands roam and squeeze skin, soft as butter and smelling heavenly.

Natasha wore nothing but a tiny piece of lingerie underneath when coming to pick you up from your office. It makes you wonder what she had planned originally. It's not like you haven't made use of your reclinable office chair before.

The elevator dings. You whine softly, trying to stay attached to her, but she's already slipped away and out into the lobby.

"Wait, wait, wait-" You grab her coat and hurry. She's too close to getting outside, into the streets, where anyone could see her. "Fuck!"

You reach her just in time, throwing the coat around her like a shield and pulling her back against you. She stumbles backwards, but you've already got your arms wrapped around her. Before she knows what's happening, the world tilts and you've got her dipped down.

"We've talked about this."

"I like seeing you freak out."

"Obviously", you murmur, kissing her. You kiss her like you don't have time, like you're in a hurry, which is far from the truth. This is your law firm. If you wanted, you could drag her behind the reception desk and let her have her way with you there.

She runs her hands into your hair, slowly tousling it up more and more. She loves the messy look. Adores it. If it was up to her, you wouldn't have access to a hairbrush.

Slick mouths slide against each other, lips kiss bitten and swelling up. You straighten up, still clutching, still kissing her, and walk her backwards until the summer night air envelops you.

Her back against the wall. Her back against the front of your car. It takes all of your strength to let go and get into the driver's seat.

"Fuck", you mutter, glancing at her. Lips red and still slick, cheeks flushed. A dream to kiss, a nightmare to sit next to while driving. "Pray we don't get in a car crash."

"You'll do fine", she says.

You won't.

You're driving down the street when she suddenly turns around. She leans in, one hand playing with the hair at the back of your head and the other slowly loosening your tie.

You gulp, and your throat bobs. Natasha smirks faintly and brushes her fingertips over the little hollow base of your throat.

"I have to focus", you say, voice strained, and shift in your seat. You were already worked up, and she's not making it easier on you.

"Focus, then. Focus on me", she mumbles, dragging her finger down to the part where your shirt is buttoned up. "A good driver could do it, you know."

"Nat, baby, I-"

"Come on, hotshot", she whispers, unbuttoning the first button. The car swerves slightly, and she laughs. Laughs. Right in your ear. "We got five more minutes, then we'll be home. Can you last that long?"

Can you? With the way heat is flooding your body, making wetness gather between your thighs? With her lips against your earlobe, her fingers continuing to slowly undo button after button?

No. Not without crashing the car, at least.

You shake your head, gripping the steering wheel desperately. "I'm pulling over", you say, begging. "Please."

"No", she says, hooking her finger into your sports bra. "You made me wait three hours, and you're telling me you can't do five minutes?"

You let out a quiet, frustrated wheeze. That's why she's doing this. To get back at you for working overtime.

"A normal wife would-" You squirm in your seat, her hand sliding down your stomach, "would just make me sleep on the couch."

"Should've married one, then."

"Nat", you whine. "Come on. Get in the back."

She makes a disapproving noise, her fingers trailing back up your chest. Suddenly, she cups your jaw and makes you look at her. The car swerves again, this time so badly it makes your eyes widen.

"Four more minutes", she taunts.

You glance at the road, blinking a few times. Your hands are white-knuckled, your pupils blown. Arousal and panic are flooding your veins and soaking your underwear.

Natasha lets go of your jaw. You turn your head. You hear the rustling of clothes. Dumb as you tend to be when it comes to your wife, you glance at her.

Gone is the coat. She's back to being in just lingerie. Red lace adorning creamy supple skin, showing off every inch of her body. If you could, you’d get on your fucking knees and worship her, but that’s not an option right now. Instead, your brain gets fried by the inability to act on your urges.

Tires screech on asphalt. You curse under your breath.

"Eyes on the road, love."

"Put that back on."

She tilts her head at you. "Put what back on?"

You exhale and grit your teeth, stubbornly staring at the road. So far so good. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe ignoring her will work.

Then, she reaches into your lap and starts fumbling with the zipper of your slacks.

You jump on the gas pedal and make the car accelerate way too rapidly. You slam backwards into the seats, but that's not what you're worried about. Natasha's fingers, deftly undoing the button now, is.

"Do you want us to get into a car crash?!"

"Hush, baby. Focus on the road", she coos, tugging at the waistband of your boxers. "These are my favorites."

You keep going faster and faster until you're well over the speed limit. A bad idea — the faster a car goes, the harder it is to keep it under control. But you're not exactly able to think rationally.

Two minutes, you think, silently begging you'll make it out alive.

You let out a frustrated noise and slow down the car just enough. One hand on the steering wheel, you grab her hand with your free one. She clicks her tongue.

"Awfully feisty tonight. I thought you were tired?"

"Nat", you whine. You recognize one of the stores nearby the building of your penthouse and speed up again. "Give me a minute. Please."

She hums, cupping the side of your head. Suddenly, her lips are all over you. Your neck, your jaw, your ear. You squirm and curse and grip the steering wheel.

The car rockets into the parking lot at such an insane speed you can't slow it down fast enough. It bumps against the wall, but at that point, you don't care. You jump out of the car and hurry to the other side, only to basically throw her over your shoulder.

"You're so dead."

Her arms wrap around your neck, body still half-naked. Grumbling, you grab the coat and kick the car door shut behind you.

"Well done", she says, cupping your face and making you look up as you carry her into the building. Almost midnight, so hopefully you won't run into any neighbors. Your reputation hasn't been exactly flawless since Natasha moved in.

What can you say? You're noisy and shameless.

"I crashed the fucking car", you mutter, lips attaching to her chest before the elevator doors have even closed.

"We made it home, though", she says, her voice shifting into a sigh. You pepper kisses all over her chest, resisting the urge to just slam your fist on the button next to you and make the elevator stop. "My, you're eager."

You don't say anything. You're too distracted by the feeling of her body against yours, soft and warm. Humming against smooth skin, your face nuzzles the spot between her breasts.

The elevator stops and the doors slide open, revealing your living. It was once so cold here, so lifeless. It wasn't a space you lived in; merely one where you existed. Then Natasha moved in, and everything changed.

It's the small things. Her reading glasses on the coffee table, the stack of magazines next to it. Her abandoned cup of coffee. The painting she picked out and hung above the fireplace.

Not that you're paying much attention to it right now. You move to the couch and drop her down on her back. Straightening up, you pull down your pants and boxers and reveal the strap you've got attached to a harness. For the first time that evening, Natasha's speechless.

"You..."

"Date night", you say, kicking off your slacks and unbuttoning your shirt. It falls to the floor. "Wanted to be prepared."

"God", she moans. You crawl on top of her. "You can't just do that."

"No?" You run your hands up her body and hook your thumbs into the sides of her lingerie. You pull it down right as you kiss her neck. "Did it, anyway."

You lean up to kiss her. Your hands slowly part her thighs. You settle between them, but right as the tip pushes in, you nuzzle her cheek.

"Love?"

Natasha bites back a soft sound of frustration. This isn't the right moment to start talking, but you'll do it anyway.

You push in deeper, fingers gripping her skin for stability. You feel her body tremble. Her hips rock against yours, searching for more — more friction, more depth, more you.

You kiss her ear and bottom out. She moans, her head dropping back into the cushion.

"You, me, London. Next week."

"Again?"

You hum, rolling your hips. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, thighs squeezing your middle. You're aware you've been traveling a lot, but most of the time, it's necessary.

"Yeah", you grunt, simultaneously thrusting into her and pulling at her hips. You're fucking her into the couch, you're leaving her head devoid of thoughts, you're literally mid-stroke — yet you're talking to her like this is a completely normal situation. "Got a meeting with an investor. We'll stay in a suite. Have some fun."

"Baby, you..." She makes a useless noise, her hand gripping your tie. "Don't talk."

"Why?", you ask, breathless, and keep pounding into her. She lets out a choked moan. "It's important."

"Sure, but...oh..." Her lips part and her chest heaves. Her hips meet every thrust, and you smile against her neck. "Fuck."

"Close already? I haven't even told you about the new private jet I bought."

Natasha shakes her head, refusing to talk. She's writhing and moaning beneath you, stomachs slick with sweat as they rub together, back arching and thighs clenching. And you're trying to talk business trips with her? Absolutely not.

You decide to have a little mercy on her. You kiss her, deeply, taste her moans as she comes apart and shudders. Every moan is taken like a win.

It takes a moment for her to recover. You smile at her, your fingers brushing sweaty strands of hair away from her forehead. She stares up at you, panting and eyes unfocused, then tilts her head.

"Another jet?"

"New model."

"Dear god", she mutters, wrapping her arms around your neck. "You've got to calm down a little."

"Why?" You lean in, nibbling her earlobe. "You said you liked the seats."

Natasha pauses and lifts her head. You raise your eyebrows.

"That's why we went looking at jets?", she asks, the disbelief written all over her face. "You said it was a gift!"

"For you."

"Well, that wasn't clear."

You snort and kiss her cheek before sitting up. Natasha follows, grabbing the shirt you discarded on the coffee table and putting it on. You pad into the kitchen, her hand in yours.

You turn on the lights and make your way to the fridge. Natasha sits on the counter, bare legs crossed, and accepts the plate you hand her.

"Warm it up?"

"No", she says, grabbing a piece of asparagus and biting into it. "You're returning the jet."

You look up from your own plate. The first thing that Natasha can think is that you should probably get a haircut — the strands in the front are long enough to partially block your vision. But she can't voice that thought. She adores this look a little too much.

"Why?", you ask through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Because it's insane."

"The interior was custom made, though."

"So?"

"Well, I can't return that, can I?"

She frowns, then sighs. You have a point. Returning a multi million dollar aircraft? With a custom made interior? Not happening.

"Okay", she says, thinking. "Donate it."

You give her a deadpan look and set your plate aside. "Love. Baby. You can't be serious."

"I am."

You shake your head and kiss her. She tastes like lobster and lemon juice, but when it's the right person, the fishy taste doesn't throw you off much.

"You're sweet", you mumble, squeezing her waist. Natasha places a dollop of mashed potatoes on your nose, and you scrunch up your face. "Play nice."

"I'm serious", she says, kissing the mashed potatoes off your nose. You grimace and grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Donate it. Someone might need it."

"I think we're both too tired to think straight", you mumble, pecking her lips one last time. You step away and put the half-full plate back into the fridge.

Natasha slides off the counter. Her arms wrap around your middle, her chin comes to rest on your shoulder.

"Finish your dinner", she says, watching you grab a bottle of sparkling water. "You had a long day."

"At this point, all I want is to go to sleep."

"Fair. We're still not keeping the jet."

You turn around, a little disgruntled, and wrap your arm around her. You start your two and a half minute journey into the bedroom.

She pulls you over the threshold, making you stumble right onto the bed with her. Guilt nags at you as you realize it's been a while since you didn't get here only after she'd fallen asleep.

"I love you", you murmur, kissing her. Your fingers brush over clothed and bare skin, the feeling enough to make your heart beat a little faster.

No reply. Natasha deepens the kiss, fingers gripping your face and keeping you close. No way to leave, at least for tonight.

Good. You don't want to leave, either. Because you're right where you want to be, where you're supposed to be. You'd buy her the moon and the stars, fulfill every last one of her wishes.

(You're still not returning the jet, though.)

. . .

— LONDON, UK —

"One more hour", you mumble, typing away on your laptop. Natasha hums, her legs stretched out on the leather sofa.

You're 50 thousand miles in the air. Clouds surround the private jet you're in. You're in slacks and a shirt, the top button undone, your hair damp after you washed it in the bathroom onboard.

There's a platter of fruit on the table you're sitting at. Cubed mangoes, papayas, strawberries. Two champagne flutes, empty now.

You let out a frustrated noise, the click-clack of the keyboard becoming more pronounced. Natasha turns her head, but you don't notice. What a shame — she's wearing that one red dress that'd normally leave you drooling. But you're focused on work, again, so you're not becoming part of the mile high club yet another time.

She watches you for a moment. Her teeth sink into her lip, chewing slowly. You're focused, which is as attractive as it is annoying. Why did you even get her a jet with a hot tub if you don't plan on using it? What's the huge couch for, then?

It's not even sex that she wants. Just a tiny bit of attention would be nice.

Natasha gets up and approaches you. She grabs your arm, ignoring your noise of protest and gently peeling your hand off the keyboard, then slides right into your lap. You adjust her so you can see the screen again and continue working.

The audacity makes her roll her eyes. Subtly, she reaches for the laptop and shuts it. You grunt in surprise.

"Hey, that-"

"You can finish later", she says, turning around enough to undo more buttons, "but first, you let me finish."

Heat shoots into your cheeks. You squirm beneath her and grab the laptop, opening it again. You let out a silent sigh of relief when you see the email you were working on isn't lost.

Natasha frowns, her fingers loosening. She's used to your attention wavering quickly, but this quickly? For god's sake, she's literally in your lap. She's undoing your shirt and offering herself to you like a buffet.

"Love", she mumbles, tracing your jaw. You hum absently, still staring at your screen. Then, the dreaded click-clack continues.

Click-clack, click-clack. Your moans should be filling the air instead of this annoying noise. Your hands should be on her, not on the keyboard.

Maybe Natasha is being selfish. Given the fact that this is one of the rare occasions where you're able to spend a couple hours together, though, she seriously doubts that.

She swallows, trying to ignore the feeling of hurt that's settling in her stomach. Don't take it personally, she tries reminding herself. She works a lot. You knew that when you married her.

It still hurts. It's been hurting for a while.

Finally, she finds her voice again. Her fingers are tugging at the top button of your shirt, tentatively, but the only sign of you noticing is the subtle raise of your eyebrows. The light from the screen in front of you is making your face glow.

"Is it always going to be like this?"

Your head whips around, mouth opening in shock. Now you heard her.

"What do you mean?", you ask, cupping her cheek. She takes your hand and peels it off her face.

"You know what I mean."

"Nat, you..." You exhale slowly, your stomach turning with guilt and mild nausea. The words 'you knew' are on the tip of your tongue.

Because she did. She knew what your life is like when she married you. She knew how much you work. She knew you only spend about a quarter of your week at home. Most of the time even less.

It wouldn't be fair bringing that up, though. Nobody expects the negative things to stay negative when getting married. That little flame of hope usually dies way after.

"I'm sorry", you say quietly. "I'll make it up to you."

This time, it's Natasha's turn to swallow down something she'd regret saying. She just nods, lip balm-soft lips pressing against your temple and slender fingers tousling your hair, then she gets off your lap. You watch her sit back down, staring out the window, her manicured hands twisting in her lap.

Do you get up? Do you continue working?

You exhale, slowly, then quickly finish the email you'd been writing. Just one more email, then you'll hop into the hot tub together. You'll have just enough time to relax a little before arriving in London.

One email turns into four. Four emails turn into you reading through a contract. As you're reading, you conclude that you may as well take notes now.

The click-clack doesn't stop. Natasha sits there, staying silent as to not disturb you.

You're still typing when you reach London.

The silence is suffocating when you enter your suite. You've barely even closed the door, and Natasha has already disappeared in the bathroom. You stand there, suitcase in hand and hair slicked back, a little stunned.

You're aware of where you went wrong. Right in the damn jet, when you couldn't take a ten minute break from your stupid job for once. You should've closed the laptop. It's not like you're behind on anything, anyway.

It's too late now, though. You hear the water run, which probably means she's running herself a bath. You hesitate — is it even worth trying? — but then you go and knock.

Silence. Nothing but the muffled sound of water lapping.

"Nat?", you call. You knock again, then rest your ear against the door. Your hand is flat against the cool surface. "Nat, baby-"

The door opens so suddenly that you nearly tumble over. Natasha crosses her arms, not making a move to steady you.

"What?"

"Uh", you say stupidly, rubbing your neck. "What you doing?"

Her expression doesn't waver. What happened in the jet was enough to make that last string of patience snap. And now? Not yelling, no. Not trying to start a fight. Just giving you that detached coldness.

"The water's running", she says. "I thought you had work to do?"

"Yeah, but-"

The door slams shut. You stare at it, baffled, then the panic sinks in.

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Sweat starts gathering at the back of your neck, your heart begins to race, you blink in disbelief. During your entire relationship, you've never had Natasha slam the door shut on you. Not even during your worst fight.

This, however, has been building up for weeks now. The pot has been bubbling — it was only a question of when it'd boil over. It hasn't boiled over yet, though, not fully at least. Are you going to let it boil over? Oh hell no.

You shake your head and reach for your phone. Meeting? Canceled, done, over. (Actually, postponed. Cancelling a meeting with a potential investor, especially one who's this powerful, wouldn't be the smartest move.)

Then, you start reaching out to a few contracts.

Contact one. Book a castle (the entire thing, of course) for the night. Make sure they have those silk bedsheets Natasha loves. In her favorite color, obviously. Don't forget the little chocolates — she loves those.

Contact two. Find a horse-drawn carriage. White horses too, while you're at it.

Contact three. Private chef, please. Specialized in Italian cuisine.

Contact four. A new dress, tailored if possible so it'll hug her curves perfectly. Of course, you have all her measurements on hand.

Contact five. Jewelry. Necklace, rings, earrings, all matching and all of them with a price tag that'd get the average couple through an entire year.

By the time Natasha's done with her bubble bath, you've got everything planned. She exits the bathroom to find you on one knee, a bouquet of  baby's breaths in your hand. The way you tilt your head is nervous, and she almost feels bad for slamming the door shut on you like that.

"What's that?", she asks, nudging one of the flowers.

"Flowers", you say dumbly, then shake your head. "An apology. A question. Let me take you on a date."

She gives you a wary look, but accepts the bouquet anyway. She takes a tentative whiff of the white flowers. Light, fresh, slightly sweet, but so subtle she can barely smell them.

"You have a meeting tonight", she says.

"I do. No, did. I, uh, I postponed it", you explain, straightening up. "You, me. Tonight at 7. I just...I've been acting like an idiot, and you don't deserve that."

Natasha smiles faintly. She looks at the flowers again, her nose buried in them. They tickle her face. Just watching her like this is enough to make your heartbeat stumble.

"Good thing you're self-aware", she says. "I was close to booking a flight on my own jet and go back home."

You stare at her, doubting both her statement and your interpretation of it. Is she being serious?

She shakes her head at the look on your face. Suddenly, she's on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to yours. Minty and sugary, the bouquet against your chest and the petals brushing your neck.

"Good thing you always know what to do", she mumbles, stepping closer. You let out a breath of relief and wrap your arms around her. "You promise we'll have time for us?"

"Promise", you immediately say, kissing her again. Your hands smooth down her back, the robe she's wearing fluffy beneath your palms. "Just us two."

And this time, you do.

The dress looks stunning on her (obviously — not like you ever doubted that). The carriage makes her laugh (now you're doubting something, though, and that'd be your ability to choose the right form of transportation). The castle leaves her speechless.

You're not sure whether her red dress is giving queen or vampire bride, but either way: it gives you a few dangerous ideas.

"You like the castle?", you ask, leading her up a stone staircase. "How much?"

Natasha pauses, her hand on the railing. "No."

"I wasn't-"

"You were."

Maybe you were. You bring her hand to your mouth and kiss her knuckles.

The dining room is all set when you arrive. A roaring fireplace to your right, a domed ceiling, crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors. Food served on fine bone china, brought to you by staff in uniforms.

Much to your relief, the night has been going well. Good food will always better her mood — that's something you learned a while ago. And not many people can stay mad while getting a taste of carpaccio and handmade black truffle tagliatelle. You're right at dolce when things seem to take a turn for the worse, though.

You're holding her hand over the table. You're talking, laughing quietly, pressing kisses to fingers and sharing a tiramisu al limoncello that's sitting between you.

Then, your phone rings. You pause but ignore it, squeezing her hand. Natasha raises her eyebrows.

It stops. You keep talking. It starts ringing again.

You shift, clearly conflicted. Being called twice in a row when you told your assistant to cancel all meetings and appointments for the night usually means it's important.

Natasha knows that, too. She glances at the table, chewing her lip, her thumb rubbing your fingers like she's bracing herself.

You reach into your pocket and accept the call.

Ten seconds. It's fine. Natasha clears her throat, eats another bite of the tiramisu.

Twenty seconds. She sighs, and you pinch the bridge of your nose. The guy on the phone is still talking rapidly.

Thirty seconds. She puts her fork aside and crosses her arms. You shoot her an apologetic look.

A minute. She exhales, eyes closing, and drums her fingers on the table.

After five more minutes, you finally hang up. The silence between you is far too awkward, far too heavy. You rub your neck and adjust your tie, then get up from your chair. Natasha gives you a look that's both wary and warning — if you leave, you're done for.

But no. You grab her hand and give her a shy nod. She tilts her head but gets up, letting you pull her close.

"That wasn't about work", you start, wrapping your arms around her. She loops her hands around your neck, and you begin swaying slowly. No need for music.

"No?", she mumbles, frowning.

"No", you confirm, lowering your head to press kisses to her jaw. She closes her eyes. "I booked something. Just us two. That was the confirmation."

Natasha sighs. The last time you went on vacation together, you spent 90% of it working. She's grateful, yes, but she'd rather spend time with you at home than watch you overwork yourself in some tropical paradise.

You overwork yourself at home already. You'll step into the living room, spent and exhausted, barely able to talk. She rarely witnesses it, but when she does, it kills her.

"Y/N..."

"Just hear me out", you say, one hand slipping under the fabric of her low back dress. Smooth, warm skin, soft and familiar under your palm. You trace her spine with your thumb. "I know you, baby, and I know London isn't going to cut it. Let me take you to Bora Bora."

She shakes her head, but you shush her with a kiss.

"It'll be different", you assure her. "Just us."

Believing you is hard. Just us — two words she's heard too many times. You rarely ended up keeping that promise.

Natasha tilts her head. You kiss her, again and again, the wind outside howling and the leaves rustling. Candles flicker, the fire in the fireplace bathing you in a slow, lazy heat.

Summer is ending, but the sun is coming up anyway.

. . .

— BORA BORA, FRENCH POLYNESIA —

A white bikini and strawberry lip balm.

The netted hammock swings in the warm breeze, the sun warming your skin and the cocktails your throat. She's draped over you, hands on your sides, lips trailing down your neck.

You turn your head and catch her mouth in a languid kiss. Coconut, salt, expensive perfume. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her bikini bottoms. She hums, sucking your tongue into her mouth.

It's quiet. It's secluded. It's everything you needed and more.

Natasha shifts a little, the hammock swaying in the wind. You smile against her lips and tighten your grip. She's not going to slip away, but you'd rather be safe than sorry.

"What are we doing tonight?", she mumbles, raking her fingers through your short hair and tugging on it. You got a haircut just before you left.

"Dinner", you say, nose nudging hers. You press another kiss to her mouth. "Swim." You tug on her bikini. "No clothes necessary."

Natasha smiles against your mouth, her soft laugh slipping straight to your heart. It's intimacy in its rawest form, and even though you've been married for nearly two years, you feel like you haven't had enough of it so far.

More of this. Less of everything else.

Forget getting up at 5 in the morning. Forget working until a regular teen's bedtime. Forget emails, and contracts, and having to wake her up to kiss her goodnight. Forget the press, who's been after your relationship ever since the public caught wind of it. Forget not being able to want kids because you work so much. Forget it all.

Natasha sits up and straddles your waist, her knees sinking deep into the hammock's net. Fingers trail over skin, find the clasp of her bra, let it pop open. She shrugs the delicate piece of fabric off and you make a noise of appreciation.

You're not sure why you put on clothes in the first place. You're alone out here — when booking this overwater villa, you made sure no one could see you. All the other villas and guests are far away. It's you and the ocean, fishes and other sea creatures included, and nobody else.

Unfortunately, you didn't consider two things: the existence of boats and the fucking audacity of the media.

You slowly pull away, staring in disbelief. An entire boatful of photographers, slowly getting closer to the house. Natasha, confused, turns to look at them, but you quickly pull her down against your chest. She's literally not wearing anything on the top half of her body.

"What the fuck?", she asks, voice muffled against your neck.

You curse quietly and grab your phone. She made you turn it off the night you got here, to avoid distractions. Now, as you're scrolling through messages by your assistant (most of them written in all caps), you realize that may have been a bad idea. Headline after headline, speculating about why you'd go on vacation when your high-profile case isn't finished yet.

You toss your phone aside and grab a towel, wrapping her up in it. You nod at the door.

"Inside. Now."

She doesn't argue. Your wife doesn't want topless pictures of her going viral, and neither do you. You shield her as best as you can, shooing her into the house and locking all the doors and windows. Once the curtains are closed as well, you sit down on the counter to call a few people.

Natasha doesn't need to be told what to do. Unfortunately, she's used to this. It's even worse than that time where paparazzi chased her around the city.

"This is unacceptable", you bark, sliding off the counter. You're too pent up. You need to pace, otherwise you'll explode. "This is a private villa. Nobody should be able to approach it... No, I want you to fucking go outside and get rid of them!"

You scrub a face down your hand as they continue to find excuses.

"No", you say firmly. "Complete privacy was guaranteed, yet you failed to provide it. I can take legal action against you."

Natasha, leaning against the wall in one of your shirts, gives you a tired look. She's not mad at you. She's mad at the fact that, recently, everything seems to be going wrong.

You bite your lip as you look at her, guilt churning in your stomach. Your time here had started well. Ice cream, late night swims, sex in the hammock and privacy. No distractions, no worries. Too good to be true, apparently.

The resort manager apologizes once more, promising to take care of the issue immediately, then hangs up. You're not done there — your PR team and some of the employees at your law firm follow. About half a dozen calls later, you exhale shakily and put your phone aside.

Your eyes meet. It's eerily silent in the way too big villa.

It's just the two of you. Suddenly, you don't get why you had to book this real estate-monster. A nice hotel room would've done the trick. Actually, your penthouse would've done the trick as well.

Natasha doesn't say anything, just clenches her jaw. You rub your neck.

"What do you want?", you ask quietly. She tilts her head. "I've called the shots way too many times. It's not fair."

"I want you."

"You have me."

"Do I?"

You frown, blinking. "Of course you do. You always do."

She bites the insides of her cheeks. You step closer, tentatively. She lets you.

"Tell me", you mumble, grabbing her hand. She glances down at your entwined fingers. "Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

Natasha sighs. She squeezes your fingers.

She knows you're being sincere. Whatever she asks for — she gets it. Vacations, expensive rings, perfumes specifically designed for her. You treat her like royalty, but your time together is limited.

"I told you", she says carefully. "If that's something you can even do."

Your free hand comes up to straighten the collar of the shirt she's wearing. She swallows when your fingertips brush against her neck.

"I can do anything."

"I'll believe it when I see it", she teases, her heart heavy. "Let's just stay here."

You hum, looking up, and take that last step that brings your bodies flush together.

"And the photographers? The paps?"

"Screw them", she says. Her fingers hook into the pockets of your swim trunks, keeping you pressed against her. "Actually, sue them. They'll probably leave us alone."

You hesitate. Now that your location is known, there's the possibility that this will keep happening. The resort manager assured you it wouldn't, that they'd take the necessary steps and guarantee complete privacy and safety everywhere. But they failed to provide it once, and you don't gamble — especially not when it comes to your wife.

"I don't know", you say quietly.

Natasha studies you. Way too many words lie on the tip of her tongue, way too many fears and doubts. She wouldn't be this intent on staying if she didn't think you'll go straight back to work as soon as you arrive home.

You know her, though. You know what she's thinking. You kiss her.

"Okay", you mumble, pecking her lips again. "We'll stay. The full week."

A breath of relief. Arms wrap around your neck. Outside, the photographers find a curtain that's nudged aside just enough to provide a glimpse of you.

. . .

— VIENNA, AUSTRIA —

Your fingers ghost over her arms. You adjust the straps of her dress, then push her hair aside to kiss her shoulder. Perfumed skin, warm and soft to the touch. You look at her in the mirror and press another kiss to her ear.

"You're beautiful."

Natasha turns and brings her hands up to your hair. It's messy, but in a nice way. She brushes her fingers through the gelled strands. "I like this on you."

"I know."

"Mhm?"

"You're not exactly subtle", you reply and quickly kiss her cheek. "I noticed years ago."

Natasha hums, studying you. She smoothes her hands down your front and makes sure everything sits right. The tie, the shirt, the rings on your hands. They match her own jewelry. A small detail, but it's enough. Enough for her to kiss you.

Dark chocolate and vanilla. You deepen the kiss and pull her closer. Your hands toy with the silky fabric of her dress.

"So", she mumbles, briefly pulling away, "business dinner, huh."

"Not exactly." You nuzzle her cheek with your nose, then step away. "Just...dinner. But an exclusive one. I don't know, a bunch of CEO's will be there and I feel like it can't hurt to charm a few of them."

"You?", she teases, turning around to slip her heels on. You watch her, the adoration in your eyes unconcealed and simple. "In your suit and with your short hair? Charm old men?"

A crooked grin tugs at your lips. She has a point. For obvious reasons, you don't seem to check the boxes of what straight old men are attracted to. Not just that — they seem to actually resent you. Probably because, despite it all, you married someone they can only fantasize about.

"Fair", you say. You can't help yourself. You take a few steps closer and wrap your arms around her, feeling her rounded backside press against your crotch. "Good thing I got you."

"I see. I'm the eye candy, huh?"

"Mhm." You kiss her shoulder. Your fingers sneakily nudge aside the strap of her dress. "Eye candy for them."

Natasha laughs quietly. "And you? What about you, hotshot?"

You go quiet, lips lingering on her shoulder. Your hands rest on her stomach, squeezing and rubbing gently.

"Too many words", you mumble, "and not enough time. We gotta leave."

The Palais Coburg. Massive wrought-iron gates, a red carpet rolled over the stairs, marble steps and a white-stone facade. High society and wealth, packed into one restaurant.

You get out of the limousine and round it to get to Natasha's side. You open the door and she puts her hand in yours. Around you, camera lights flash. The smile on her lips is polite and practiced. She's used to this.

You aren't, though. You should be — you're the one with the famous parents, the one who grew up surrounded by cameras, the one who knew how to dodge paparazzi before you knew how to long divide. Yet you're still the one who looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

You fight your way into the restaurant. By the time you get inside, you feel like you're sweating through your suit. Natasha watches you tug at the collar of your shirt a few times, then she leans in and loosens your tie.

"Are you sweaty? I'm sweaty."

"I'm good", she replies, brushing her thumb over the lapel of your suit. She's close, so close you can smell her perfume. It's that special blend you had a luxury perfumer create just for her. "You're good, too."

"I'm not good", you mumble, scanning the room. The people walking past you are exactly the kind you usually surround yourself with — mostly out of obligation —, but you feel like someone who randomly ended up here. "What am I even doing?"

"Hey", she says, tugging you closer by your tie. "None of that, hotshot. You're not alone, are you? So stop acting like you are. Anything goes wrong, I'm getting you out of here."

"But-"

"But no." She presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. She smiles when she sees the smudged lipstick on your skin. "Come on. I'm starving."

There's no point in arguing. You trail after her, grasping her hand, looking a little like a lost puppy that's clinging to the only source of comfort it knows.

Nothing should be able to go wrong in a place like this one. Vaulted ceilings and massive chandeliers, mirrors that reflect suits and form-hugging dresses, arched windows and candlelight. A pianist, not unlike the one who played at your wedding, is sitting in the corner.

Nobody's loud here. The voices are soft, hushed, exchanging secrets that aren't nearly as precious as it's pretended they are. You stare at a group of people, zoning out. Natasha brings you back to reality.

You give her an apologetic look. She nods at the table.

Everything is fine at first. You're served caviar, figs prosciutto, wine. You talk to a few people, introduce Natasha, hold her hand and twist her wedding ring whenever everyone else becomes too much.

You're not sure where you go wrong.

Maybe it's when you let go of her hand. When the closeness, once comforting, suddenly becomes as overwhelming as the dozens of conversations happening around you. When you close your eyes, rub your temple.

No. That's not it. Natasha knows what's going on, and she doesn't blame you. You may be a lawyer, a businesswoman. You may deal with insufferable clients and judges and opponents and employees all the time — but you're used to being on your own. You're used to the silence of your office, to the soft hum and her slow breaths in the darkness of your bedroom. But big events? They still freak you out.

Steak is served next, accompanied by aligot and an array of colorful vegetables. More wine. You down it like it's water.

Once you're right between tipsy and drunk, you're doing better. Much better. It's almost over the top, considering how you were too close to spiraling just moments ago.

A CEO turns to you, introducing himself. He's polite at first. He seems interested, and competent. Everything about him is typical — old-money, rich, well-respected. You should want his approval and, at first, you do.

Then, he starts pointing out things that aren't his to point out. He asks about Natasha — which is good. You like talking about her, being able to introduce her. She's that one part of your life that makes every other part worth it. You once used to do this without her. You're not sure if you could anymore.

Most of his questions are expected. 'You're married?' 'For how long?' 'Where?'

People like him tend to be nosy, though. They thrive on watching others feel uncomfortable, inferior. From the moment he saw you, he recognized you. Best believe he's not a fan.

He takes a long sip of wine, studying Natasha with that kind of look that always makes you wary. Most rich people have no shame. They can buy their way out of almost everything.

"So", he says, swirling the dark red liquid around, "married a bartender, huh?"

Your grip on her hand tightens. He saw the headlines — the ones being released right after your marriage. To this day, you don't know who leaked Natasha's former profession. You don't know why it should be important, either. You do know that everyone expected you to follow in your parents' footsteps and marry someone who's in a similar social class as you (which would already cancel out over 99% of people). Ideally, a man. Ideally, you'd have swapped the suit for a dress and let your hair grow out.

"I did", you reply. Your thumb rubs her knuckles, firmly. A desperate attempt at reigning in your composure. You're too drunk to start arguing. "She makes a mean martini."

"Oh, really?" He nods, looking at her again. Really looking. From head to toe, from her high heels to her makeup. She averts her eyes. "Well, maybe it'll work out."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He raises his eyebrows. You give him a challenging look and ignore Natasha squeezing your hand. Drinking this much wasn't a good idea. You're a little too loose-lipped.

"I'm just saying", he says, leaning back in his chair. His beer belly makes his shirt strain. "When two people — especially with such different life experiences — jump into marriage like that? It doesn't end well. You should've looked for someone who's in your league."

Your hand slips away from hers before she can do anything. Thankfully, she manages to catch your wrists just before your hands twitch toward his collar.

"You take that back now."

The older man stares at you, stunned. "Why are you young people so sensitive these days? Child, I've seen way too many marriages break up over absurd things. There are differences that love just can't overcome."

You try to pull free from her grasp, but Natasha's relentless. "Get yourself together", she whispers.

"You're saying an awful lot for someone who's here without a wife", you snap, still wiggling your wrists. "Nobody could stand being married to you, huh? Have fun dying and leaving that shit ton of money behind for nobody."

"That is unacceptable-"

"It is?" You laugh bitterly and give pulling free one last attempt. Natasha keeps hissing at you to stop, to shut up and go outside with her, but you're drunk and furious and this entitled shit-bag is the perfect target for your anger. "You don't know anything about my marriage. Anything. We're doing perfectly fine! We're happy! Are you happy? You don't seem happy!"

By now, the entire room is staring. Conversations have turned into whispers that are both scandalized and amused. You're still glaring daggers at the man.

"Someone who's happy wouldn't spend this much time defending their happiness", he says, voice curt and cold.

He's right. You know it, and Natasha knows it. That's why you finally break free and grab your wine glass, dumping it right into his face.

Gasps and chairs screeching on marble floors. Natasha jumps up and grabs your arm, pulling you straight toward the exit. You try resisting — you're leaving, which means you'll be alone, which means a conversation you're not ready for.

Natasha? On the verge of tears. On the verge of starting the worst fight you've had so far.

Because it isn't about you defending your marriage. It's about how you did it. About how it seemed like you're trying to prove something. Like overcompensation. Like fearing the truth being said out loud. You were too desperate, too terrified of what he was saying.

If you were confident in what you and her have, you would've laughed it off. But you didn't. You did something that was even worse than what she was fearing.

The car ride is silent. Natasha's behind the wheel this time. If you're drunk enough to cause a scene like that, then you're definitely too drunk to drive.

The hotel appears in front of you. Natasha stops the car, but neither of you get out.

"You want to tell me something?", she finally says.

"No", you mutter, slumped into the seat. You screwed up, and now you'll have to pay for it. "I'm good. We're good."

"Stop lying."

You turn your head, frowning. "Don't tell me you believe what that old bastard said. He's old and unhappy. Probably just pissed he'll have to plan a funeral no one important will attend."

"That's not what this is about!"

"Oh, no?" You sit up and hit your head against the roof of the car. You glower and rub the spot. "What's the issue, then? The whole 'bartender'-thing? 'Cause you know I don't care about that!"

"Can you stop deflecting for just one goddamn minute!", she says, turning in her seat to face you entirely. "Why were you so afraid? Why did you lose it back there?"

You stare at her, breathing heavily. You can't take it. You're drunk, defensive, spiraling. You don't know how to handle this. So you do the only thing you know how to do.

You grab her face and slam your lips against hers. Natasha moans in surprise, her hands flying to your neck. You start tugging her into your lap, and she resists at first. But one soft 'please' is enough for her to break and straddle you.

Clothes barely come off. There's no need to get undressed. You're still in the car, still in front of the hotel. Being caught would be bad enough already — it'd be all over the news, just like those stupid pictures from Bora Bora. So all you can do is bunch up her dress a little and dip your hand underneath it.

She squirms and grinds against your palm. Breathless sounds escape her, her breathing heavy. You trail kisses down her neck and mouth at her shoulder. Your lips brush against the necklace she's wearing. It's the one you got her as an apology for having to work on a holiday.

Your fingers nudge the fabric of her underwear to the side. You rub circles on her clit, then pump your fingers into her. Natasha's back arches.

No 'I love you'. No kisses. No softness. You feel too much to express it.

You thrust your fingers into her, pressing your knuckles in deep. She buries her face in your hair, smelling guava and hair gel. Her fingers toy with your earring.

Tingles shoot up and down her spine. She shivers against you, hips jerking forward and thighs shaking with the effort of keeping herself upright. She comes around your fingers, pulsing and throbbing hotly, and you pull out.

Outside, a car pulls up. You adjust Natasha's dress before getting out of the car with her. You sneak into the hotel using the side entrance that the staff gave you a key for. You're still not talking. Silence fills the vast space between you as you hush through hallways and find the staff-only elevator.

She looks at you. You've got her pushed up against the wall before she can say a word, her butt pressing random buttons on the control panel.

No talking. Gasping into each other's mouths is easier.

It's a game of guessing. You stop at random floors, but don't pay much attention to them. When you hear your floor get announced, you briefly break the kiss only to dive back in.

The elevator door opens and you step out into the hallway, still lost in each other. You fumble with the zipper of her dress before you're even halfway to your suite. Ragged breaths and lips against skin, her fingers unbuttoning your shirt.

Your back is against the door to your suite. You slide the straps of her dress off her shoulders, and the piece of fabric pools at her feet. She steps out of it, one leg between yours. Gripping her thigh and hoisting it up, you pepper kisses along her collarbone.

Her scent is literally just hers. A mix of her special perfume and the scent that always envelops her early in the morning, the one that makes you bury your face in her neck sleepily. You've done that not nearly enough times. You wish you'd set the alarm an hour later more often.

Natasha's hand sneaks past your hip. She unlocks the door and opens it, making you both stumble into the room. You don't even care that you left her expensive dress in the hallway.

More clothes come off. Your tie, shirt, slacks. Her bra and underwear. You make a pleading sound against her neck and press her down into the mattress. Her hand in your hair, you trail kisses all over her body, worship every inch, before parting her thighs and burying your face between them.

She tastes familiar. You spent your first night together doing exactly this. Something cold wraps around your stomach, twisting and squeezing, when an unbidden thought hits you. What if you spend your last night together doing that same thing, too?

Your train of thought is interrupted. It's hard to think straight when you've got her thighs wrapped around your head. Your nose nudges her clit in silent reassurance, then you continue eating her out.

Manicured nails dig into your scalp, massaging lightly. You drink her down, grip her hips, pin them in place. A raw moan, sweet and wrecked. Her thighs are slick with sweat, and she comes for a second time that night.

You swallow and look up, cheeks slick. Natasha's staring at the ceiling, still trying to catch her breath. You hesitate before pressing a kiss to her thigh. She looks at you when you crawl up to face her.

Your index finger tips her chin in your direction. Lips still swollen and tasting like her, you kiss her.

She pulls away after a moment. You lay down and let her curl into you, head on your chest and one leg thrown over yours. You rub her thigh, staring into nothingness, feeling everything hang between you. Her fingers draw circles on your side. The room smells like perfume, candles, faintly like sex.

The memories from earlier sober you right up.

You should feel at peace. Neither of you do. Words tumble out of you, sharp and stabbing at what's left of you.

"You think we rushed it? Marriage, I mean?"

Natasha's hand stills, her entire body seeming to pause. Slowly, she continues tracing your ribcage.

"Where's that coming from?", she asks, turning her head so her nose is pressed against your chest.

"What do you think?", you mumble. "We're a fucking mess."

Natasha exhales, her breath shaky. Her fingers curl into your skin, grasping for something. She's not sure what she's holding onto, but she knows letting go isn't an option.

"You're saying you want a divorce?"

"What?" You almost shoot up and out of bed. Natasha lets out a surprised noise and you quickly wrap your arms around her. "God, no! No. Not a divorce. Just...I don't know. I feel like if we keep going like this, it...it might become an option."

She closes her eyes. The necklace she's wearing doesn't feel as suffocating anymore.

"You want to change something."

Not a question. A statement. You kiss her hair.

"Yeah." You take a breath, smelling her shampoo. "Not just 'something.' More like everything."

"Oh yeah?" She looks up, chin on your chest, eyes both lazy and wary. "Think you can do that, hotshot?"

You hum, studying her. You brush your fingers along her jaw. You're tipsy, but you're genuine.

"For you, I think I can do anything."

Natasha scoffs but smiles. Her hand comes up to your face, squishing your cheeks and making you roll your eyes. You tilt your head and awkwardly kiss her thumb.

"You mean that."

"I do."

"And that thing at dinner?"

You feel your cheeks heat up, a rosy flush creeping into your face. That's what she does to you — she managed to make you forget about the fact that you threw a glass of wine into some CEO's face.

"About that", you mumble, resting your forehead against hers, "what was the guy's name?"

"Gerard Ash-something."

"Ashford??"

"Yeah, that", she says, kissing your chest. You sigh. "You don't sound too happy."

"His business is a fucking empire, babe", you say tiredly. You really screwed up. "He's one of the most successful people of the century. He has connections to literally everyone. How did I not recognize him?"

Natasha shrugs, her hand sliding up and down your side. "Face blindness?"

"You're hilarious", you mutter. You pull her closer until she's basically on top of you. "I think he shaved his beard."

"Well, he should've kept it. Maybe it would've helped with that gush of wine he nearly choked on."

You pinch her side and she flinches. Her hand slaps your arm, lightly, and you laugh into her hair.

"It's fine", you say, then let out a sigh. You embarrassed yourself and your wife. You also probably ruined your career. "At least it'll make selling the company easier for me."

"The company that's lost a bunch of its worth?"

Silence. You exhale.

"That one, yes."

Natasha looks up, and you give her a guilty look. It's out in the open now. You're not sure why you've been hiding it from her. She's your wife, your partner. You should've told her. But how could you? It's not like anyone ever told you wealth or success aren't the keys to love and happiness. Quite the contrary.

Besides, you met her when you were at your peak. When your business was thriving, and your career as a lawyer. When everything seemed perfect. Now, you have to disappoint her. Your business has been failing, and all your attempts at saving it were in vain.

"You should've told me", she says.

"I didn't want to scare you." You pause, closing your eyes. "You noticed?"

"No", she says. "It seems obvious now, though. You were overworking yourself all the time, and there was no real reason for you to do that."

You let out a short, bitter laugh. "Thought I could fix the unfixable."

Natasha smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. You've been keeping secrets from her. She understands why, but does it sting? Does it wound her pride? Yes. In a way, yes.

She stays quiet for a few seconds, her fingers drumming against your side. She's not sure she wants to know the details. She asks, anyway.

"How bad is it?"

"It's still fine", you say vaguely. "Even if I stop working, we're financially sorted for the rest of our lives. It still sucks, though. My family..."

"Honestly, fuck your family."

You crack a smile and kiss her temple. "So charming."

She sits up enough to make you look at her. "I'm serious. Y/N, even if you have to sell the company, we'll do okay. I'll find a job, you can work as a lawyer in some law firm."

"I'll go from CEO to employee. Lovely."

She grasps your chin, eyebrows raised. "Hey."

You lift your hands. "Okay, okay. I get it."

"I'm just saying. As long as you're telling the truth, we'll be alright."

You nod, your throat suddenly feeling tighter. You should've had more faith in her, should've known she'd react like this. You pull her in and kiss her, one hand resting on her lower back.

"I picked the right girl, you know."

"Mhm?"

"Yeah." You smile softly, brushing your thumb over her cheek. She's leans in again, lips grazing yours, hand resting over your heart.

Maybe you will be alright.

. . .

— ŠIBENIK, CROATIA —

The ocean glitters in the sunlight. Birds chirp, cars drive by. A beach, concealed by a bunch of trees and basically empty. It's noon, which means that, at least according to locals, the sun is at its most aggressive — best to stay indoors for the next few hours.

It's not like Natasha cares about that, though. She's perched on the wooden table on the porch, a bowl of figs next to her, hair damp and tousled from the breeze. You join her outside and kiss her forehead.

"Hungry?"

"Filled up on figs", she says, hooking her index finger into the pocket of your shorts and tugging you closer. "What did you have in mind?"

"There's this restaurant in one of the surrounding areas", you say, leaning against the table. "A tiny one, but apparently really good. Freshest fish you'll ever eat."

"I think I've filled up on fish, too", she teases. "But sounds good."

"We don't have to. We can grab a bite at the bakery, if you want. The heat's kinda killing my appetite."

"Sounds even better." She puts her hand on your nape and pulls you into a kiss. Her fingers toy with the short hairs at the back of your neck.

Definitely figs. Their taste is all over her tongue. You step closer, put your hands on her waist, feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her tank top. Gone are the dresses and expensive blouses.

You deepen the kiss. Natasha tugs at you so you're standing between her legs. Her thighs are snug around your hips.

When she pulls away, the redness of your cheeks results from something that definitely isn't a sunburn. You exhale, lips twitching, and steal another kiss before she can notice.

You break the second kiss and cup her cheek. She's warm, and you're not sure if she's already developing a sunburn.

"You should go inside", you say, grabbing one of the figs and peeling it. "You heard our neighbor."

Natasha sighs and leans back on her hands, head lolling back. You bend down and kiss her knee.

"I mean it", you say. "Come on, we'll go swimming later."

Reluctantly, she slides off the table. She'd probably live outside if she could, and you don't blame her. The air is salty from the ocean and sweet from the fig trees, the sun is warm, the world seems at peace. It's so unlike your penthouse in Manhattan, and it only confirms that moving here for a while was a good idea.

Why stay in New York, anyway? Your company has been sold. You're currently unemployed, for the first time since you were 16. Staying in the US didn't make any sense. You don't regret coming here — you only regret not coming here sooner.

It's healing, that's what it is. You're not just married, but actually in a marriage now. She's not your wife, but your partner. Whatever you'd been doing wrong before has been fixed. And for the first time, there's no hurry. You're allowed to exist with her, in the same space, and don't have to worry about anything but the two of you anymore.

Inside, it's cold from the air conditioning. After being outside for over an hour, it's enough to give Natasha whiplash. You pull her into your side.

"Told you not to stay outside. It's too hot."

"And I told you to get sunshades."

Smiling faintly, you roll your eyes and let go once you reach the kitchen. You grab the empty bowl from her and watch the sticky residue of the figs away. You only notice how she's gotten closer when she wraps her arms around your middle, her front pressed against your back.

"I don't want to leave, you know."

"Mhm?"

"It's nice here. Nicer than New York." She kisses your shoulder, lips lingering. "Maybe we could stay a little longer."

You hum. You did buy the house for this specific reason — so you can stay as long as you please to, return whenever you like. You have the necessary money, too. And if Natasha wants to stay? You're staying.

"I like that", you say. Her hand slides under your shirt and splays out on your abs. "We'll stay, then. How long did you have in mind?"

"I don't know." Lips press against your neck, again and again, covering your skin in kisses. She nuzzles your shoulder. "Maybe until we get started on our family."

'Family' could mean anything. You don't need the specifics — you feel like you'll be happy with anything.

You're in this together, after all.

[eringobragh420]

✘✘ i want it. ✘✘

➺ pairing — cm punk ‪‪♥︎‬ f!reader ➺ summary — punk and paul heyman’s daughter have a special relationship. ➺ links — one. two. ➺ words — 4.1k ➺ warnings — nsfw. age gap (she's twenty-something, he’s forty-something), daddy kink, dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, toxic-ish relationship, cum 18+ ➺ taglist — if you’d like to be added, please click here! 

➺ MASTERLIST ➺ 10-FOR-30 KINK LIST

Punk feigned interest in whatever the hell Heyman was going on about, striding next to the older man across the tarmac, bound for Paul’s private jet. He was far more concerned with any other passengers who might be accompanying them to the next city, specifically Paul’s twenty-something-year-old daughter. Punk could almost feel her soft, supple, pliable body under his coarse, tattooed hands, could almost smell her sweet, hardly ridden (compared to him, and most of the women he’d slept with) pussy, almost taste that honeyed flavor on the tip of his tongue. Licking his lips, unconsciously searching for that flavor, he glanced at Paul and nodded, despite still having no idea what the man was talking about. Paul, the kind, thoughtful father had no idea the filthy things Punk had done to his only daughter and the even dirtier things he still planned on doing.

Punk allowed Paul to climb the stairs into the jet first so he could adjust the growing lump in his thin, black joggers, which would be rather noticeable very soon if he didn’t do something about it now. After modifying the position of his hardening cock, he placed his duffel bag in front of his hips just in case, and boarded the plane. He smelled her signature perfume immediately, sucking it through his nose, the sexy scent going straight to his dick, causing a twitch, and a slight shiver throughout his spine. He’d suspected she’d be here, given her tendency to travel everywhere with her father, but actually laying eyes on her still promoted a thrill surging in his veins. Especially with close proximity to the young woman’s father, who also happened to be one of his closest confidants. 

Fighting a smirk, Punk plopped into one of about half a dozen empty seats, sighing, combing his fingers through his longish hair. He glanced sideways at the heir to the Heyman empire, gaze landing on her Nike sneakers, climbing to her toned legs and spandex shorts, bare stomach, sports bra that matched the shorts, and a large button-up, long sleeve shirt covering her arms. Punk really didn’t understand the fashion choices of the current times, but he owed the person who invented leggings and their matching shorts and bras a sincere thank you. Her legs were bent, calves to her thighs, shoes on the seat, and she held her phone between her legs and her breasts, thumbs tapping away as she texted. She felt his gaze on her, however, and she turned to look at him, rolling her eyes after catching him staring, sinking further down in her seat. Punk chuckled, shaking his head, and as his eyes passed over Paul, who glanced at the girl before sitting in a chair that faced the opposite direction of Punk’s, Paul whispered an apology for his bratty daughter. Punk’s nostrils flared as he battled a full blown grin, swatting his hand一no big deal, sir. I promise I'll teach her some manners.

The jet took off without a hitch, and the three of them settled into their typical plane activities, which mostly consisted of scrolling on their phones or, in Paul’s case, going through physical paperwork concerning this contract or that, this client or that. It didn’t matter what he was reading, just that he was. Heyman was famous for napping following the completion of one or two pages, and with the addition of the blandness of a nearly two hour flight? It was only a matter of time before Paul was snoring away.

Punk could be a patient man, but when his eyes flickered up from his phone to check on Paul’s status, finding him still awake, though his eyes were definitely becoming heavier, he switched his gaze to the girl seated in the back of the jet. Her feet were on the floor now, one shining leg crossed over the other, and Punk watched as she sat up, removing the button-up shirt. Her manicured nails crept along her full, gravity-defying breasts, slipping under the elastic band of the sports bra, and she smirked, winking, just before lifting the garment. Punk placed an elbow on the armrest, hand covering his smirking mouth, but if anyone who knew him looked closely enough, they’d realize his eyes were no longer an approachable green but a murky, predatory grey. Her tits were perfect, Punk had never seen a more picturesque set, and he was back to having to adjust himself, this time simply pulling the bottom of the hoodie he wore over his burgeoning bulge. She replaced the bra, giggling softly, tip of her finger between her teeth, and Punk’s chest ached.

He’d never expected to feel anything more for her than a need to fuck her in every position possible, but he’d be damned if he didn’t miss the girl when she wasn’t around. That snicker, when she really got going, was akin to a symphony, while her sultry voice ripped a moan from him every time she whispered words he thought she shouldn’t know directly into his ear before nibbling on the lobe and licking the shell. She fit flawlessly under his arm on the off-chance they spent their time cuddling instead of fucking, because somehow, this girl had him wanting to snuggle. And when he inevitably woke up alone in the morning, he swapped his pillow for the one she’d been using一that goddamn scent of hers smoothly lulling him back to sleep before he had a chance to wallow in self pity or wonder if she was headed to some other man’s house after she left him and whether or not he wanted to strangle that man with his bare hands.

Paul was finally asleep, laid back in his seat, headphones on at this point. Punk stood, headed toward the back of the jet as if bound for the bathroom. He made a beeline for the pretty young thing who’d just flashed him, standing tall behind her seat while his unrefined hands slid across her shoulders. He leaned forward, his nose following the aroma of her familiar shampoo, hands gliding further south until he was clutching her breasts. Just like her body fit into his side like a universe-made puzzle piece, her tits did the same in his hands as if they, too, had been made for each other, and as he squeezed and groped, lifted and bounced, he pressed a stubbled kiss to her forehead when she leaned back to gaze adoringly up at him. Her teeth clamped on her soft bottom lip, and he grinned when her back arched off the seat. He didn’t ever remember experiencing a woman so damn responsive to him一the patience he had now had been a learned process一her hands gentle but insistent on his as he continued entertaining himself with her breasts. 

His hand slid out from under hers, scraping across a firm nipple, fingers trailing up the side of her throat until his thumb brushed her lips. Her tongue slithered along the digit, a barely audible mewl escaping her parted lips, but he sought something different. He watched her bright, glittering eyes open as he applied pressure on her bottom row of teeth, reveling in the incredible amount of trust she had in him, and she allowed him to lower her jaw. He nodded, and he had no idea how or when they’d achieved the same level of depravity, but she needed no further instruction or encouragement to stick her pretty pink tongue out, those sparkling eyes round and clearly feigning innocence. Punk leaned closer, one hand on her cheek, the other still on her breast, and he glanced up to be sure Paul hadn’t moved, finding him in the exact same position. Returning his attention to Paul's daughter, he spit onto her awaiting tongue, watching as it slid down the already slick muscle toward her esophagus. 

“Swallow,” he whispered, thin lips grazing her forehead once more. Hand clutching his wrist, the other still atop his on her breast, she closed her mouth and obeyed, Punk gliding his hand down the side of her throat so his fingers could feel her actually swallowing what he’d given her. “I missed you,” he murmured, kissing her nose, and he tried to ignore the swelling in his chest, instead focusing his attention on the straining in his joggers, as she grinned, tight body writhing under the weight of his praise and attention. 

“I missed you, Daddy,” she faintly replied.

Punk took a deep breath through his nose, cocking his head disapprovingly. “You’re gonna call me that when he’s一” His hips ground against the back of the seat, seeking any and all friction. He hadn’t planned on doing anything during the flight … 

“Mhmmm,” she purred, nodding, and Punk would be goddamned if he didn’t absolutely fucking adore her honesty and raw enthusiasm and the fact that, not only did she not worry about any punishment he might bestow upon her, sometimes she begged for it.

“That’s not what good girls do,” Punk intimately informed her. She shook her head this time, eyes utterly wicked and inviting and so fucking stunning, never afraid to maintain eye contact for long periods of time. And if there was one thing Punk loved, it was eye contact一there he could see her obedience, and her want, and the mischief, and even the naivety of a young woman who had yet to really be exposed to the harsh realities of the world. Which was difficult when you were a millionaire and had absolutely no reason to entrench yourself in the atrocities of the real world. If anything, Punk wanted to keep her sheltered, maintain her innocence, as it were. Let him be the most nefarious thing she ever came in contact with. “But you don’t wanna be a good girl,” he went on. 

Another shake of her head. His lips drifted to hers, barely brushing them, and his eyes fluttered as her hand snaked to the back of his head, carding her fingers through his hair along the way. And son of a bitch did she fucking own him when she did that一her nails scraping along his scalp, gently tugging at his hair一and he would make sure she never, ever discovered the power she held over him in that respect. She tilted her chin, raising herself up in her chair, but Punk eluded the kiss she so desperately sought. 

“You wanna be Daddy’s bad girl tonight, don’t you?” Punk breathed. Her nod this time was frantic. “Take your shorts off. Because if you’re Daddy’s bad girl, then you shouldn’t be wearing any panties, right?”

She lifted her hips, nimbly removing her shorts, slipping them past her sneakers without one snag, and she spread her thighs as far as she was able. Punk peeked over her shoulder, sighing, finding no panties, just smooth lips, which also easily separated, and he could then see her little clit poking out, begging to be licked. He suddenly felt his age, his heart pounding at an almost painful rate, but he quickly recovered, taking a deep breath and strolling around the seat. Paul hadn’t moved, and Punk descended to his knees in front of the wiseman’s daughter. Her grin was contagious as Punk gripped her hips and yanked them closer to the edge of the seat so he could then spread her legs to his heart’s desire, which usually meant as far as she could physically handle. The saccharine scent of her pussy slapped him in the face, and his hand shot down to clutch his cock一he hadn’t prematurely come since high school and he wasn’t about to go back down that road. She was wet一from the fondling? From the spit? From calling him Daddy?一perfect一because every fucking thing about her was perfect一cunt simply weeping, and he glanced up, finding her pupils blown, jaw dropped, and her own hands were now cupping her breasts. 

“Aww, is this all for Daddy, princess?” Punk whispered, hand abandoning a leg so he could slip the tip of his index finger down her already spread folds, sliding along her swollen clit.

She nodded, sneakers in the air—Punk had a vision of Paul turning around, able to see only the Nikes above all the other seats, and it shouldn’t have made him squeeze his dick harder, but fuck all if it didn’t. “My wet pussy is always for Daddy,” she purred softly.

Punk shook his head. “Slut,” he hissed, diving face first into the cunt he literally dreamed about, even while lying next to her following a hard fucking.

She gasped, Punk’s eyes and brows rising instantly as he prepared to reprimand her for being too loud, but her hand slapped over her mouth, quickly followed by her other hand when Punk flattened his tongue and licked from her tight hole to the top of her clit. He battled with the volume of the groan which bubbled unknowingly from his chest because somehow this pussy tasted better every single time he put his mouth on it—more luscious, wetter, that much more addictive. Sucking on the soft nub, he scraped his teeth along the bundle of nerves, and her lithe body twisted not unlike a pretzel, sneaker sole landing hard against the wall beside the oval window. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Punk declared, and as he pulled away from her flooded pussy, a thin, clear string of her essence bridged the gap between his salt-and-pepper beard and her rosy clit. This had to be heaven, he thought, passing his finger through the middle of the bridge, gathering the string, before sucking the digit into his mouth. She whined, manicured nails sliding down her belly, bound for the apex of her thighs, and Punk snatched her wrist before she arrived at her destination. “You gotta be quiet, princess,” he reminded her, hardly audible, as he gradually came to his feet, positioning her hands on the backs of her knees. He glanced over his shoulder, at the same time pulling his straining cock out of his briefs and pants. Paul hadn’t moved, and maybe Punk even heard him snoring. Turning his attention back to Paul’s precious little star shine, his knees were pressed against the edge of her seat, her legs still spread indecently, which she couldn’t close now if she wanted to due to his proximity and sheer size compared to her, and her big, beautiful eyes were laser focused on his leaking cock that was mere inches from her face.

“Please, Daddy?” she whispered, licking her lips eagerly. 

“Listen,” Punk said, finger lifting her chin until her eyes reluctantly left his dick to give her attention to his mouth. “You have to be quiet. No choking, no gagging …” She pouted, the girl fucking pouted, and Punk smirked, shaking his head. Lord have mercy on his soul, but she had him finished. “Just lick it—” He pressed the wet head of his cock to her lips, and her tongue promptly slinked out of her scorching mouth, lapping up the precum from her skin and his. Punk let out a breath, one hand clamped on the seat, the other finding its way to the side of her face, thumb on her forehead, her tongue exploring as far along his cock as she was able. “—and suck it real fucking quiet, you hear me?”

She nodded, opening her lips around the head, and Punk pressed forward, somehow forbidding himself from shoving his dick directly into her throat. Her cheeks sunk as she applied just the softest pressure, crystal eyes locked on Punk’s face, because as much as she loved him in her mouth, she loved watching his reaction, and that did something to him all on its own. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” Punk sighed, surprised at the restraint in his own voice. Her tongue undulated against his cock, still gently sucking, and he started to pump. Only an inch or two, not enough to kiss the back of her throat no matter how much he wanted to. He smelled her sugary pussy on the air, and made a note in the back of his mind to try and find something to mask it after he was finished with Miss Heyman. “Daddy’s sweet girl.” She smiled around him, sucking just a little harder, though staying perfectly silent, hands still holding her legs open. He’d have to remember this position as one to use when he didn’t want her touching herself. “You wanna be bad, but you can’t help being Daddy’s good girl, can you?” Her eyes fluttered, and he felt a warm rush of air from her nose over his wet cock, and he then stole his dick from her mouth with a pop, and as much as he wanted to blame her for the lewd music, he hadn’t warned her he’d be pulling out while she was in the process of sucking. 

“Daddy,” she whined, pushing out her bottom lip, and Punk nearly fell to his knees so he could worship at the altar of her.

“Spoiled little slut,” Punk said, backing up. She closed her legs and sat up in the chair, glaring at him because of the pet name, but also awaiting further direction. He nodded toward  a small couch on the other side of the cabin, and she understood almost immediately, standing, naked from the waist down, save for curiously sexy sneakers and the sports bra. She was also aware of their position, that there were three people in the cabin of this jet, so she laid across the couch on her back, head facing the front seats. Someone needed to keep an eye on Paul, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with this task. Punk, on the other hand, didn’t mind at all, and maybe it turned him on a little, and, as Paul’s daughter watched him, body squirming as she waited impatiently for him, wicked smirk on her lips, maybe it wasn’t such a secret. 

“Daddy, please,” she breathed, lifting the sports bra to entice him to hurry the fuck up, and Punk dropped his head back, laughing silently. Yep, she was gonna be the death of him. And he was old, so he probably wasn’t long for this world. 

“What?” Punk teased, glancing at Paul as he stroked his cock, which was now coated in his precum and her spit. He looked back at the desperate girl writhing about on the couch, his eyes darkening as he closed the space between them. 

“I need you inside me,” she murmured. “It’s been so long.”

Three days. It had been three days since he’d had her on her hands and knees on his bed, hands leaving bruises on her hips that he could easily see now, buried balls deep in the tightest pussy he’d ever had the pleasure of fucking.

He climbed onto the couch on his knees, between her open thighs, and he unzipped his hoodie, dropping it on the floor beside them. She mouthed fuck as he revealed one of his merch shirts, sleeves cut out, leaving holes big enough to show about half of his tattooed chest. She slipped her fingers inside those holes, fisting the shirt, and she yanked him down to her. Punk chuckled, she smiled as she bit her lip, but they were both short-lived when Punk’s cock slipped along her slick folds, and they both shared a gasp. 

“God, this fucking pussy,” Punk gushed into her ear, fondling a breast, and she turned her head to allow him better access. He sucked at her collar bone, biting down like a feral dog, and her hips lifted, bringing the head of his cock that much closer to her pulsing hole. “And you smell so goddamn good,” he continued, not even realizing he was speaking anymore, still rutting against her. “Christ, it has been too long.”

She giggled, a whimsical melody not unlike wind chimes, and she cupped his face, urging him to look at her. Then she did it—first she sifted one hand through one side of his hair, then the other, pure eyes locked on his sinful ones as she wrapped a leg around his waist. Punk was now under her spell. “You’re so obsessed with me, you dirty old man,” she muttered against his lips.

And the spell was broken.

Punk sat up, tilting his head, eyes slits, nostrils flared. Without warning, his hand shot up to clutch her throat, applying enough pressure to let her know he wasn’t fucking around, if the wild eyes and snarl weren’t enough. “I didn’t hear you,” he growled. “Must be my old man ears. What did you say?” She gripped his wrist with both hands. 

“I said—” she forced out, still swiveling her hips into his, her pussy desperately seeking his cock. She met his eyes defiantly. “—you’re so obsessed with me, you dirty … old … man …” He was offended by the old man, though she spoke only the truth. 

“I don’t know where this attitude is coming from, but you better fucking squash it and apologize … now,” Punk rasped. 

“Or what?” the girl challenged. 

“Or I’ll take you into the bathroom right fucking now and wash your pretty mouth out with soap,” Punk promised. “And you definitely won’t be getting this old man cock.” She wasn’t as frightened by the prospect of soap in her mouth as she was the possibility of not getting fucked, and there couldn’t possibly be two people better suited for each other than CM Punk and Paul Heyman’s daughter, he thought. “So which is it?” he pushed. “The soap and no dick? Or—” 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she breathed. “I just like that you’re obsessed with me …” 

“And the old man.” Punk seethed.

She shrugged, still gripping his forearm as he still clutched her throat. “I like that, too,” she admitted.

Punk searched her face for a moment before crushing his lips to hers, hands grabbing at her legs, shoving them apart, Nikes flopping around, and then he rubbed the fleshy head of his cock along her clit before plunging inside her. He was able to get a hand over her mouth just as she was about to cry out. Her eyes squeezed shut, Punk pummeling her pussy, and she tried to push him away with hands on his belly as he rammed her cervix at the same time as her legs pulled him impossibly closer and somehow deeper. 

“I am obsessed with you,” Punk rumbled into her ear, using his hand over her mouth to shove her face to the side. The air was so thick it was difficult to breathe, dripping with the aroma of their intimate union. “I watch you when you don’t even know I’m there …” Her legs tightened around him, the hands on his belly now fisted in his shirt, also tugging him closer. “You like that?” he asked. She nodded, rolling her hips into his, meeting each of his slow thrusts. “You like that I have pictures on my phone of you that you don’t even know about?” She moaned into his hand, her hands releasing his shirt so she could clutch his shoulders. “And I jerk off to them every single fucking day we’re not together?”

She came apart then, entire body shuddering, cunt clamping around his cock, milking it like it always did. He pounded faster into her, harder, one hand remaining over her mouth while the other groped a breast. 

“Fuck, you dirty slut,” Punk panted. “I’m gonna come inside this pussy.” Her back bowed, her nod frantic. “Daddy knows that’s what you want, isn’t it?” Another desperate, silent affirmation. 

A few more pumps into her and a glance in Paul’s direction to find he’d changed positions, but was still asleep, and he exploded within her, lips pulling back from his teeth as his hips stuttered. He looked down at where their bodies were joined together, his cock covered in her cum, glistening in the harsh overhead lights, and he thought, no, this was heaven. Pulling out, he couldn’t help but finger her clit poking out between her spread folds, and she jumped, squeaking. When he was sure his legs could handle it, he stood and grabbed her shorts, helping her to move them past her shoes as she languidly pulled them on. 

“These are gonna be a mess in a few minutes,” Punk warned, “but I want my cum as close to your pussy as possible for as long as possible.”

She breathed an exhausted laugh, pulling her bra down over her breasts. “That’s exactly what I wanted,” she replied. “It’s also why I brought the big shirt.” Punk tucked himself away and sat on the couch, her sneakers in his lap. “So … when can we talk about how you’re basically stalking me?” she grinned.

continued in part two.

[p1astr81]

Hi! I saw you were open for requests and I was wondering if you would be willing to do one for Oscar Piastri? Something along the lines of Oscar finds driver!reader in the McLaren Garage going over race footage late at night and he comforts her because she’s under pressure as the first Female driver? Sorry if it’s a little wordy 😂 and thank you if you write it!

an: I hope this is what you were looking for🙈

warnings: use of y/n, underlying themes of misogyny

Oscar forgot his phone at the track, two hours after he had already returned to his hotel.

Fine, whatever, he’d get it in the morning.

Except he needed it to set his alarms.

So, showered and ready for bed, he drove back to the track and snuck into the paddock. He took the back entrance to the garage, pausing when he saw a faint glow in the space on your side of the garage.

Strange, the lights and computers were usually shut off at night. Perhaps someone forgot one?

Or, perhaps not, because a voice cut through the still silence. “Where is he getting four tenths?” It was undeniably your voice that was filled with frustration.

You were bent over the computer, comparing your qualifying lap with Oscar’s. Your hair was a mess, your hands having run through it and grasped it in your fists more times than you could attempt to count.

As he got closer, he could see your distressed state. He could see how tension seized your body, and paralyzed it to the outside eye. The darkening circles under your eyes. The exhaustion weighing on your body.

Too engrossed by whatever was displayed on the computer, you hadn’t noticed he was there until you felt his hand on your back. You jumped, fists readying for a fight until you realized it was only Oscar. He held his hands up in surrender. “Hey.” He spoke with a soft laugh. “Just me.”

It had only been seven short weekends—and 5 months that flew by like minutes—that the two of you have spent as teammates. But Oscar was a guy who was easy to get along with. Everything about him (apart from his initial intimidating demeanor) was a big welcome sign.

Every muscle in your body relaxed. “I thought you’d gone back to the hotel awhile ago?” You questioned, diverting the conversation before he can question you about your whereabouts.

“I came back for my phone.” He paused. “What are you still doing here?” He raised a brow.

You adverted your eyes, studying the data in front of you instead. You shrugged. “Trying to figure out where my pace has gone.” He could hear everything in your voice—the disappointment, anxiety, doubt.

Oscar frowned then reached across you to take the cursor in his hand. He closed the tabs.

“Hey-! I was looking at that!”

“It’s not going to help you any tomorrow. You’re better off reviewing it after the race.” He sighed.

You shook your head. “Oh, ha ha.” You laughed sarcastically. “I get it, you’re trying to throw me off to get an advantage.”

“No, im trying to help you.”

“I’m not buying it.”

“Y/n, just listen to me.” He huffed. “I get it. It’s a lot of pressure and you feel like you have to be incredible right away, but you’re going to destroy yourself thinking like that.”

Your laugh was void of humor. “How am I supposed to not think like that? I don’t have a 5 year contract like you.” You shook your head. “One year. That’s all I get.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I overheard Zak and Andrea talking. They see potential in you. They want to extend your contract.” Your demeanor shifted. Hope lightened your body.

But it was a lie. He didn’t intend to make a habit of it, and he was sure they would sign you again. He just wanted to give you some confidence. “So will you just come back to the hotel with me?” He was exhausted himself, desperate to get to sleep, but he wouldn’t leave until you did.

He saw the hesitation cross your features before you gave in, shutting the computer off. “Do you mind giving me a ride? I don’t-“

“Yeah.” He answered without a question about it.

You offered a small smile and muttered a, “Thanks.”

Oscar thought that was the end of it. Boy, was he wrong.

This time, he caught you still in the meeting room, two hours after the post-race debrief had ended. He stood in the doorway for a moment, observing you. Routinely, your eyelids fluttered closed before snapping back open.

Until they didn’t, and you let your eyelids close. Your head��previously held up by your hand—slid from its spot. The drop of it woke you up with a start.

“If you’re tired, you should probably head out.” He said, making himself known while stepping into the room. He closed the door behind him.

“Can’t. I have to figure out how to beat you.” You deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled, taking the seat next to you. You glanced at him from the corner of your eyes before rubbing the sleep from them. “That’s where your problem starts. Focus on winning, not beating me.”

You put your head in your hands. “Same thing.” You grumbled.

“Except it’s not-“

“I’m not in the mood for another one of your lectures.” You snapped.

Oscar sat in stunned silence. You’d never lost your temper. It was a strange sight to see. But he didn’t blame you for it. He could see the tension in your stiff shoulders and the frustration in your unkept hair. The pressure was still getting to you. He didn’t offer any more words. Just a hug.

You froze, unsure of what to do or say.

Until the comfort of his embrace broke down your carefully constructed walls built around your emotions. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your head in the curve of his neck.

He just held you, offering his warmth to comfort you. “I wish I was a man. It would be so much easier. Less eyes. Less questions. Less speculation.” You mumbled. “Less people telling me I can’t do it.”

His hand rubbed your back. And all the frustration, it just broke. You shoved his chest as soon as you felt the first tear slip and turned your face away from him. Still, he rubbed your back. “I- I think I got something in my eye.” You rushed out the excuse. Anything to not seem weak.

He chuckled. A sound that wasn’t meant to be cruel but you interpreted as. You stood, distancing yourself. “You don’t have to lie, it’s okay to cry.”

“I’m not crying.” You defended too quickly.

He called your name in that kind voice of his. The one that felt like a warm hug on a cold winter’s day. The one you couldn’t not turn around for.

You took in his gaze, understanding with an undercurrent of pity. “I’m just so frustrated.” You confessed in whispers. “I know I’m good, but the results aren’t showing it.”

He stepped closer, his hand finding your arm. “They are.” He reassured. “You’re just stuck up here.” He tapped your head with a small smile. “And thinking too much about what other people think.” He added.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You hated to admit he was right, but you nodded.

He initiated the hug this time and you reciprocated, resting your head on his shoulder.

[stxrvel]

absence (1)

series summary. the holy grail of the seven men who ruled the country's entertainment used to be your friends at school. now, ten years later and between successes and failures, what reason would they have to want to come back into your life? pairing. eventually ot7 x f!reader... or not? content. first of all, english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes! curse words, fangirling a lot and some self-deprecation. no proofread. this is just silly writing, we're on the safe zone for now. a/n. hi guys! i was gonna wait a little bit but i'm really excited about this one so you're gonna have earlier! thank u all for the support and i really hope you enjoy this 🫶🏻

series masterlist | bts masterlist | next

You met them all at school. Each with their own ambitions, their different dreams, but so similar in the nature of their core. It was almost funny how everyone with their dissimilar personalities fit so strangely well into one school group. There were times when you could still remember how you used to tell them that all together they could rule the world.

Maybe that's why you didn't see them years ago.

Jeon Jungkook was an idol. There wasn't an hour in the day or a screen in the city where you weren't watching him. He was so popular around the world that you suspected that not even one person didn't know him. His voice was on every radio station, on every cell phone of the people you passed on the street and on the buses, his face on the TV sets with the last interview he had done, as if it were a national achievement. You even saw him in restaurants, chefs naming dishes after him, production companies releasing collaborations with his company. There wasn't an object in that city that didn't have Jungkook's face on its forehead. It was impossible to escape him.

He was closely followed by Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, two of the most promising models of the last decade, a national pride hand in hand with Jungkook. You didn't see them as often as Jungkook, but they still swept the international public and there was hardly anyone who didn't talk about them. Invited to catwalks in Paris, choosing their contracts and collaborations, wearing the most expensive clothes that you wouldn't even think of buying, wearing beautiful matching jewelry, expensive enough that a single outfit from each of them could buy you five houses in the small town they all came from. Taehyung and Jimin were known as the Siamese twins of modeling. Wherever one went, the other always had to be. Their exclusivity was incomparable.

In levels of recognition, Min Yoongi followed them in line. A great rapper who was well received by the general populace. Yoongi had managed to captivate a large audience thanks to his incredible command of the production of his music and his ease and gift for writing his own lyrics. His growth was gradual, but when he touched the sky he never went down again. His popularity was not low even though his presentation to the public was not that high compared to the other three. Still, Yoongi had enough charisma and talent to stand out, especially when his fans were obsessed with highlighting the duality he had when he was on stage and when he did those seventy question interviews with Vogue or whatever… that had made him one of the best rappers of his generation and probably of the last century.

Kim Namjoon was the owner of the company that made Jungkook's debut and welcomed Yoongi with total creative freedom. If he were not solely focused on music, he would surely also be Taehyung and Jimin's agent. Namjoon had inherited a company from his parents, but the success he had turned it into over the past few years, into one of the most profitable businesses in the country, was entirely to his credit and effort. His popularity was also high, because everyone said he was too handsome to be a mere businessman; not knowing, of course, that everything involved in maintaining such a business required much more than a pretty face. Of Namjoon the public didn't know too much, not probably like the other guys and you, if he was still half the person he was before.

Hand in hand with Namjoon were Jung Hoseok and Kim Seokjin. Hoseok was and still is to this day a national pride as he passionately played tennis since school and turned professional, reaching to participate in major international tournaments representing his country and winning one of them. However, two years after that great feat, an accident involving one of his hands prevented him from continuing to play. No one knows exactly what happened during the more than a year and a half that he almost completely disappeared from the public eye, but when he returned with his huge smile he announced that he would dedicate himself to dance, opening his own academy throughout the center of the city. Although he was not a recurrent teacher, his academy was one of the best in the country, and of course, it was financed by Namjoon's company. At one time Hoseok became Namjoon's associate.

Seokjin, on the other hand, was the one who kept the lowest profile. He was a great doctor, cardiovascular if you were not mistaken. In addition to being an amazing surgeon, his research projects were the ones everyone looked forward to the most at the end of each year. You didn't know much about the subject, but he was almost like the guru of medicine in his field specifically. The only reason he was so much in the public eye being a doctor was because he was regularly seen in the company of Namjoon, Hoseok and Yoongi. The four of them made up the holy grail of dilfs.

They had all had incredibly successful careers and you were glad that they had been able to accomplish everything they once talked about on the rooftop of Namjoon's house, with sneaky steps so their parents wouldn't scold them when they sneaked out in the wee hours of the morning.

You didn't know exactly what it was - or you didn't want to acknowledge it - that succumbed inside you every time you saw or heard about any of them on the news or on social media. Because yeah, no matter how low media exposure any of them had, always the faces of all seven appeared on your TikTok every week.

It was amazing how they had all moved on and you… well, you-

“Weren't you supossed to leave?”

You lifted your head from your phone, trying to hide it with trembling hands as you let Taehyung's face next to Jungkook's plunge into the darkness of your apron pocket.

“Huh?”

You tried to look distracted, returning your gaze between your boss and the notes next to the cash register. She had a soft gaze, between amused and sisterly. Her brown eyes shifted from your eyes and hot cheeks to the notes you held upside down in your hands, pretending to work as if she herself hadn't seen you completely frozen and gawking at the pair of the country's great casanovas.

“I thought you were leaving earlier today,” your boss shifted, settling her trench coat and long brown strap bag over her shoulder. At that moment she was leaving to walk around to each of the locations she had in town, just to do follow-ups. “Don't tell me you forgot.”

You followed her index finger until it landed on the red circle you had drawn on the calendar placed in your little cubicle a couple of weeks ago, with hearts surrounding it and exclamation points. Yes you remembered, of course you remembered, but at the point where you were at the time no one was going to miss you if you didn't attend.

“I didn't forget…” your voice trailed off as you looked down, your fingers finding the tips of the pages more entertaining than your boss's worried expression.

“y/n, you asked me to leave earlier this day from four months ago,” her high-pitched voice echoed in your head, reminding you how excited you had been a while ago for this day to come. “You can't just give up like that. Come on. You still have time.”

You began to shake your head, releasing your grip on the woman who was looking at you with the same worried eyes of a mother. Your boss had been one of the most encouraging people you'd ever had in your life, besides the handful of friends you had stored in your phone's contacts.

“It was a bust last time. I don't plan on going through that again.”

“But hadn't you told me afterwards that you weren't going to let that stop you? You said… what was it? I can't drown in this glass of water.”

You grudgingly resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Really you of four months ago was a deluded fool.

“I had no idea about life at the time.”

Your boss clicked her tongue, dropping her hands on your shoulders, giving little squeezes whose familiarity stole your breath.

“I'll leave Patrick waiting for you in case you change your mind.”

You shook your head, evading the memories. The man outside the store shook his head in greeting as the two of you turned to look at him, as if he knew you were talking about him.

“Don't miss this opportunity because you're afraid. It may change your life.”

You watched her leave, the clacking of her low heels drawing the attention of everyone in the store, earning every possible stare as she did every time she entered any room. Her chauffeur, Patrick, greeted her with a similar nod of his head as before and stood leaning against the black car parked right where he could get a perfect view of your nervous face.

You, unlike the great and successful lives of your high school friends whose company you still used to miss like a fool, had not had such a great and successful life.

You were a writer. Well, an attempted writer and, worse, part-time. The other part-time was this job behind the cash register at the largest pastry chain in the country. Or sometimes as a waitress, it depended on the day. There was good pay, mind you, at least it allowed you to make up for the losses you took every time you tried to sell a book and then had to market it on your own, only to have five purchases once every seven months and three of them were from your parents and brother. The other two were from your friends.

Four months ago you had been invited to a sort of convention for readers, how they had found you and why? You had no idea, but the idea of being considered in that way drove you crazy at the time. You were so excited that you had more copies of your failed books printed and prepared your booth several days in advance to present them to the horde of people who, you were sure at the time, would come to meet you.

Only one person came by to ask you about the bathroom.

You never recovered from that.

Even with all that failure, that same day you were invited to another convention and, for a while, you were excited to attend. Everyone goes through those kinds of bumps at some point in their life, right? You have to work hard to earn that kind of fame, you kept telling yourself. But as time went on and your networks didn't grow and your videos didn't get more than ten views, or fifty views at most in a week, you began to lose that spark of excitement you held for your dream. Your parents had never turned your back on what you wanted to do, but it was too demotivating and discouraging to have spent so many years at it, so many headaches and tears invested for you to just keep losing and losing money.

That was why you were sure you wouldn't go to that convention if you had to go through that mockery again. You hadn't even bothered to go and fix your booth so surely they already knew you weren't going.

“Have you seen them yet??????”

The female voice coming from the wine cellar made you jump up on your chair.

“Jesus, Yuna, you almost killed me here.”

“I don't care! We could die right now for all we care!”

“Wow, speak for yourself.”

“Haven't you seen theeeem?”

Yuna held up her phone, the screen at full brightness blinding you for a moment. The blurry dots you saw from the proximity of the device told you nothing, as your friend jumped excitedly beside you.

“God, hold still.”

Grabbing her wrist, you leveled the phone to see her TikTok and a picture of three men.

Namjoon, Yoongi and Jungkook coming out of a building. From Namjoon's building.

“They look amazing, don't they? They just came out! That means their car will pass in front of us any minute!”

Yes, Namjoon's building was just a few blocks away from your boss's place. In fact, your boss knew him and many times they would prepare large orders for parties at his company. You had never seen him set foot in this place or any other in the country, but every time he went to celebrate something he had to dial your boss's personal number and you would work until your backs burned because everything had to be perfect for the big businessman.

“Are you going out to greet them or what?” you frowned, letting go of her wrist and returning your gaze to the notebook next to the cash register.

Yuna let out an excited exclamation.

“Ohhhh~, should I? Should I?”

You grabbed her by the collar of her uniform as she tried to pass behind you.

“We're still on business hours.”

“I'm sure Sol wouldn't mind,” her almost heart pupil eyes stared down the street, her hands moving in front of her like she was a zombie. She almost seemed possessed by her fanaticism. Though of course you didn't blame her, if you didn't know any of the seven knights of the underworld you would surely be as excited as she was.

“Don't put words in her mouth. You'd better tell me if the lady's batch of cakes is out yet-”

Commotion erupted throughout the room. You almost saw in slow motion how all the people in the premises got up and running in the direction of the glass doors when you heard the screams coming from far away.

“They're comiiiiiiiiiiiing!!!”

Sometimes you wondered how they dealt with this level of fanaticism.

The ground almost shook with the amount of people running after a black car, where the three men who were causing such a furor so early that day were most likely to be, and the commotion was not tiny inside the venue where the screams erupted.

Having to deal with that on a daily basis would easily turn someone into a hater. Not that you were one... strictly...

“God, for a moment we breathed the same air,” Yuna plopped down on the table, her body doubled over with her eyes lost. You resisted the urge to smack her forehead.

“Their car windows were up.”

“So you saw them, right?????”

“Argh.”

You had to drag her back to work as the excitement in the store dissipated. You attended to another batch of consumers while Yuna fixed the display case and, in a moment of lapse you could almost tell, her back suddenly straightened and she turned to look at you with her eyes a little too wide. You passed the change to the man in front of you, who barely sent you a confused glance before continuing to claim his order at the other corner of the store.

“What's wrong with you?”

“You shouldn't be here.”

“Don't say that with that face. You look creepy,” you pulled out the bill to tuck it under the cash register as Yuna approached, leaving the frightened face behind.

“Wasn't that convention today?”

You sighed. ���Yes.”

“Then why aren't you there?”

“Do I look like I want to be there?”

“Y/n! It's a great opportunity. You should-”

“A great opportunity for what, to be a laughingstock again?”

Yuna pursed her lips, looking almost pained that you would remember in that way the experience that was supposed to change your life. She had been one of the ones who had accompanied you to set up the booth and she was sure she had never seen you smile so much during all the time the two of you had known each other. Yuna was aware of how over time you seemed to have lost interest in this new convention, but she didn't think you would finally decide not to go.

On the sly, she had prepared your booth with the help of your mother and Sol, your boss.

“You were never a laughingstock! Don't say that,” Yuna patted your forearm harder than necessary. “Besides, I recently logged some purchases on the site! How do you-?”

“I know it was you and mom,” you raised your voice to interrupt her, stepping archly away from her body.

“What the… Of course not, ha, ha!”

“You're the only fools who would write down celebrity names to register purchases. Besides, the addresses don't even exist.”

“Fuck, I told her that wouldn't work.”

Under your heavy gaze, Yuna had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Okay, I'm sorry! We wanted to motivate you to go to the convention.”

“Can't you just let me do my own thing? If I don't want to go, I won't go.”

“Even if you leave Patrick waiting there?”

You followed his gaze, watching the man pull an umbrella out of the trunk of the car as the slightest breeze brushed against his body and the water droplets were smaller than a dew that the two of you had to squint to see them on the glass of the entrance.

“Whatever it is, I'm not going.”

“y/n…” Yuna pleaded, coming closer with her puppy dog eyes.

“No.”

“y/n, please…”

“No and stop doing that. You look weird.”

“I don't,” Yuna pulled away to frown at you. “I once heard you agreed with Seoyeon about my puppy face being cute.”

“I never agreed with that!”

“Seojun told me so!”

“Your first mistake is believing Seojun.”

“Do you blame me if the reason is your demonstration of love for me?”

“That was your second mistake.”

“Y/n!”

_____________________

That day you arrived home a little later than usual. Since Patrick had been waiting for you all day in the sun and mini rain and refused to let you take a cab on direct instructions from Sol, you asked him to take a ride downtown so you could buy the teokkboki your mom loved and incidentally bought some for him, even though he didn't want to accept it at first.

“y/n, dear, how did it go?”

Your parents were in the living room when you arrived playing Go. Your father left the table when he saw you carrying the bag of food and came over to take it from you.

“What does our little writer bring here, a contract by any chance?”

You watched out of the corner of your eye as your mother tried to get your father's attention by wildly waving her fan, while the man rummaged through the bag to find something warm and delicious smelling.

“Oh, it's teokkboki.”

Your mother stopped waving her arm to stare at the bag with sparkling eyes.

“The ones from the center? From Mrs. Wang?”

You nodded in her direction, taking a seat in their midst on the floor. Your parents started a pitched battle to see who would break the bag first to try the first batch of teokkboki and you could only watch them with a smile on your face. The day may have been difficult, but being home at the end of the day always made you feel so much better.

Amidst laughter and anecdotes, trying to avoid the elephant in the room because you knew your mother's furtive glances weren't for nothing, the three of you ate teokkboki until you were bursting at the seams. You organized the kitchen with your father while your mother grumbled from the living room whatever he said about her. You watched the three of you favorite soap opera on the fixed schedule and finally got ready for bed.

With your body more relaxed and lighter, you let yourself sink into the softness of the sheets, completely ignoring the messages Yuna had sent earlier and the stupid questions your brother asked at the most inopportune moments.

How do I unclog a bath?

Do I add salt to the rice???

Where do I get the kimchi mom makes?????

His independence was probably one of the worst things that could happen. You being the older sister thought you would leave home first. Even according to your twelve year old diary, you should have been married by then or at least planning your amazing, mega giant wedding, complete with helicopters and puppy dogs carrying drinks through the reception. You didn't know what kind of crazy dreams you had when you were younger, but up to that point you hadn't been able to fulfill any of your inner child's desires except to study for a career you were passionate about.

Still, what good had that done in the end? Maybe you should've listened to your grandparents to study medicine. Maybe your parents should've been a little more conservative instead of libertarian, which your grandparents always complained about when they had the chance. If you were a disgrace to anyone in the family, it was to them.

Ah, what a long day.

You didn't know at what point you fell asleep, but the incessant sound of your phone vibrating next to your pillow woke you up. With a grunt, you moved your hands to put the device in front of one of your half-open eyes to find Yuna on caller ID. Your eyes moved upward.

It was one in the morning!

“What the fuck are you doing calling at this hour? It better be an emergency because-”

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING THAT YOU DON'T CHECK YOUR MESSAGES?”

“WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT? IT'S ONE IN THE MORNING! WHY WOULD I BE DOING ANYTHING ELSE BUT SLEEPING?”

“I'VE BEEN TEXTING YOU FOR A WHILE NOW, Y/N!”

“YUNA HOW CAN I NOT FUCKING SLEEP-?”

“Well, whatever!”

You let out an exasperated snort, giving her time to say what she had to say.

“You're going to fall on your ass.”

“I'm lying down.”

“Your books have sold a thousand copies in the last hour!”

Silence. Absorbing silence…

“Yuna, if you really woke me up to play a fucking prank on me I'm going all the way to your house to pull out every single one of your hairs with a fucking tweezer.”

“First of all, gross. Second of all, I'm not kidding! Get on your fucking Instagram! What's worse is that's not the most shocking news. Well… depends on how you look at it.”

“Yuna, I don't think I'm following you.”

“Fucking Kim Taehyung was at the reader convention and he took a picture of your books and UPLOADED IT TO HIS INSTAGRAM STORIES!!!!! AN HOUR AGO! The damn shopping notifications woke me up and I think I took too much time trying to process what was going on because they already tripled!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, did you start smoking weed?”

“Ugh, why are you so insufferable? Just look at fucking Instagram!”

You didn't want to believe Yuna, but a part of you was vibrating in anticipation. You'd already seen her text messages, her exclamations and voice notes, you'd barely processed the images she'd sent you. You logged on to Instagram. The first thing you noticed was the exorbitant amount of notifications and direct messages.

You had to search for Taehyung's account because you weren't following him.

There was the colorful arc around his profile picture. The story.

You clicked on his picture on the screen.

Your books were all over his story, with his hand holding one of them.

It jumped out at you that there was a stand of your books that you had no idea where it had come from.

A description loomed between the image.

One of the best fantasy books I've read in recent years. And by one of the best writers I've ever met in my life.

Your user was next to the description. You had no idea how fucking Kim Taehyung had gotten your user when it wasn't even something related to your name. You hadn't even uploaded pictures of yourself once in all the time that account had been open.

“Did you see it?? Can you see I wasn't lying?”

With Yuna's malevolent laughter in the background, you felt your mind escape into an unknown mental space.

“You're going to be rich!!! And I'm going to meet Kim Taehyung!”

Your mind was racing a thousand miles an hour trying to make sense of what your eyes couldn't credit. His story was replaying on your screen. So many things you could say and just…

“What the fuck?”

--

tag: @rinkud @futuristicenemychaos @pastelpeachess @parapiop7

[sutorus]

JUST THINKING ABOUT VIRGIN!GOJO. . .

getting close to gojo satoru was hard. like limitless was not only a technique but a way of living — of getting by. and you understand; having someone means having something to lose. being the strongest sorcerer alive means you have to be self sufficient, for the entire world’s sake.

but even though most would insist he is more god than human, there was nothing he could do to keep himself from falling into you. it’s the first time he feels okay relinquishing control, accepting unpredictability. he wonders, morosely, if this is what it feels like to be a regular teenager, even if he’s well into his 20s. to make dumb decisions like stay up late on the phone, to make out in the movies, to get nervous about meeting your parents, to buy matching phone cases.

gojo is obsessed with the feeling. he didn’t know he could want someone as much as he wants you, body and soul but god — your body. the way you get on top of him and make his abs seize, his hips grinding up of their own accord. you always laugh so sweetly at his desperation, licking into his mouth and letting your hands wander.

he gets hard embarrassingly fast, every time. whines anguished little moans, not knowing what he wants next. gripping your hips over his like it’s a lifeline, fucking up into you and rubbing your clothed crotches together like he doesn’t know how much better it can get — and he doesn’t. and that excites you beyond belief.

the first time it happens, it doesn’t last long. you told him you could ride him, that it wasn’t a problem, he could just focus on being as comfortable as possible. but the utter heat with which he said “no. no, you’re not fucking me. i’m fucking you,” left you weak in the knees.

he’s hurried, but he takes time to kiss every inch of your body once your clothes are off, murmuring sweet nothings about how you’re so perfect and all his. he’s been hard as a rock ever since you started kissing, not letting you get your mouth on him or even roll the condom on, too afraid of ruining it that soon.

when he slips inside, it’s so much better than he could’ve imagined. there’s no comparison, no feeling in the world, not even healing his deadly wounds and coming back to life can compare. you’re soft, warm and wet, gripping him just right, massaging his length like you were made to take him.

he can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t keep the surprise out of his voice. he fucks into you violently, unable to comprehend that it can feel this good. you feel perfect, like he never wants to leave, wants to be inside of you forever and just fuck you again and again and again.

“f-fuck, fuck, hang on,” gojo has to pause halfway, abs contracting rhythmically as he stills inside you. he looks up, huffing out an overwhelmed breath, and you can’t help but let out a giggle. “yeah? this funny to you? i’ll give you something to laugh about, just you wait.”

he starts moving again slowly, and you caress his face, singing him praise about how good he’s doing. he mewls at the compliment, wanting to please, needing to be the best you ever had no matter the circumstances. and he is, he was made for you and you for him.

“aahh, fuck baby i can’t stop — can’t, sorry, i can’t, i’m gonna cum, god i’m gonna cum,” he chokes out, pistoning in and out of you at an unforgiving pace. you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. “oh fuck, fuck don’t do that, if you do that i’m gonna—“

“it’s okay, satoru,” you whisper, finding the timing to catch his lips in a kiss. “i want you to.”

his groan is guttural, like it’s been punched out of him, and he buries himself so deep inside you you can hardly swallow as he gives a few final, short thrusts into your pussy. he cums so hard that he loses all sense, his grip bruising you, he’s pretty sure he’s crying, whining your name like you could save him right now.

it’s a heavenly sight, so hot that it has you clenching around him chasing your own high. when he comes to, he presses two long fingers to your clit, kissing your face all over until you’re tumbling over the edge as well.

you lay there, side by side, catching your breaths in sync. which is why it comes as a surprise when he wastes no time getting on top of you again, fingers chasing your entrance.

“satoru,” you laugh, in part amusement and part desbelief. “just gimme a few minutes, okay? i just c—“

“nuh uh,” he kisses you to shut you up, then takes his mouth down your body. you notice, a little horrified, that he’s already hard again. “you already came on my cock. now i’m gonna make you cum on my fingers, and then my mouth. and then we’ll see who’s gets the last laugh.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Squeaky Clean 5

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: damn, boy.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“So, if you terminate contract without two weeks’ notice, terms state you owe the agency an admin fee.” Jan explains over the phone. 

You sit in your car with her on speaker, idling behind the store, shellshocked.  

“How much?” You ask. 

“Based on how long you’ve been with us, four-fifty.” 

“That-- four hundred and fifty? That’s a week’s pay,” you exclaim. 

“Yes, well, we’d have to overextend other staff and then there would be training and recruiting. Seeing as you’ve not completed your probation period, we would be taking a loss.” 

“A loss? I’d still work, just for another client.” 

“There’s a lot of cleaners with seniority, they get preference. I’m sorry, but those are your options,” she says. She has no compassion, it’s all just money to her. 

You stare at the brick wall ahead of your car. Never mind about going inside. You’ll make your boxed macaroni with water tonight. Maybe as you scroll the job boards. If you get something quick, you’ll be able to cover the fee. 

Or. 

Or... 

Or you’ll have to face him again. 

You grip the wheel tight. It isn’t even your car. The fee comes out of your pay too. This whole thing is a grift. You lean forward and rest your head on the vinyl ridges. 

You see him, standing in front of the door, in his body armour and helmet. A man who could snap you like a twig. You exhale with a quake and roll your eyes back against the swell of heat. You have no choice. Not unless a miracle comes and you don’t believe in those. 

You drive home. Your apartment is small. Especially compared to his townhouse. How rotten. Look at you. Living at the bare minimum, living off his scraps based on how well you clean his floors. It’s not fair. And he can just do whatever he wants. Because what, because he wears that costume? 

You’re not hungry. You scroll through job boards. It’s all this bullshit AI training. You know it’s garbage. $100 an hour, yeah, you’re sure it will hit your bank account smoothly. Oh and Jan didn’t miss the non-compete clause. If you quit, you can work for another cleaning agency or even freelance for at least a year. 

Sleep is fractured by your anxiety. Every time you close your eyes, he’s there. Each time you move, you feel his hands on you. Your skin crawls and your insides burn. Why? Why you? Would it be the same if it was anyone else who’d taken that job? 

You stare at the ceiling as the sun rises outside your window. As the light shifts, your nerves flurry. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to go back. 

You flinch as a soft click comes from the kitchen. There’s a length of wall between the rest of your apartment and it. A bachelor with nothing more than a clunky radiator and scratched floorboards. Another click and the grind of the coffee machine. 

You sit up, chest thumping furiously. You’re dreaming. Your frail human condition finally forced you into submission. It’s a nightmare. It has to be. You're sure of it as he appears from behind the wall, leaning on the plaster with smirk. 

Steve’s hair is slightly askew. His cowl is gone but the rest of his suit is still in place. All but his gloves, tucked into his belt. 

“You know, I was always taught not to give up. Why do you think I am who I am,” he grips his hips as he pushes away from the wall and approaches you with decisive steps. “You don’t just roll over and let the world win.” 

You blink. It’s not a dream. You’ve never felt anything more real. 

“When you get a no, you don’t stop until you hear yes,” he stops at the foot of your bed, “or until they can’t say anything.” 

“Steve,” you bend your legs and push yourself back against the metal headboard. “What...” 

“You know, it’s funny. They didn’t tell me all the side effects.” He turns and sits on the side of the bed. “Nope. They said ‘it’ll make you strong. And big.’ That’s about all they told me,” he bends his leg and brings his foot onto his knee. He unlaces his boots, the ends of the laces snapping on the leather. “They don’t tell you how much you can hear. How much you can feel. Or not feel.” 

He scoffs and shakes his head, “either they didn’t care or they didn’t know. I can’t say which is worse.” He wiggles the boot off and switches boots. “Don’t tell you that your body turns into this callous shell. The caffeine in a cup of coffee does nothing. Nope. You’re body’s on overdrive. You get nothing. You only give.” 

He rips his other boot off and drops it. He sighs and leans forward, his elbows on his thighs as he bends his head. He smooths his blond hair. 

“I can hear through a car. Even from a block away. Even through the brick wall. And I can hear your heart beating from ground level,” he sniffs and rolls his shoulders, holding his head. “I can hear it right now too.” 

You’re silent. Paralysed. It’s all a game to him. He’s been following, watching. Even if the thought crossed your mind, you wouldn’t have caught him. He shows himself when he wants to be seen. Exactly as he does at his place. 

“I just want to feel one fucking thing that makes me feel alive,” he sits up. 

You stare at him. He slowly looks over his shoulder and meets your gaze. “I put the coffee on. Your head’s throbbing. Migraine. The cells in your brain are compressed. Lack of seratonin due to lack of sleep.” 

Your mouth falls open. He can tell all that. No, another job was never an option. Quitting, like he says, isn’t a choice. Why doesn’t matter. Why is a stupid question. Why won’t change what is about to happen. 

“Have a cup, take a shower, relax,” he commands. “I want you to feel it too.” 

[formulafanfics13]

Hi!!! First off, I am obsessed with each and every piece you post— you’re a magical genius. Silverstone is upon us (!!!) and I am a huge Carlos fan. I had an idea of Carlos falling for a British Princess, she could be Prince William’s younger sister, who comes to visit during Silverstone— he first meets her a few Silverstone back when he’s still with Ferrari and they’ve been together ever since. Maybe this Silverstone he finally proposes. Hehe I’ve had this idea in my head and your writing never fails to disappoint :)

Proposing to a Princess - CS55

Masterlist

Summary: Silverstone was always chaos, but nothing compared to the storm inside Carlos Sainz when she walked into the paddock. An English princess, sister to Prince William, she arrives under the guise of charity and STEM campaigns — but it’s all smoke. Carlos knows the truth. Two years of stolen time, secret meetings, and a love that rewrote the rules of both their lives. What begins as a late-night kiss behind an old motorhome becomes a breathless, sacred history. Now, on a rainy Friday evening at Silverstone, Carlos waits with a ring in his pocket, ready to risk it all. And when she rounds the corner with that same steel-and-silk grace, he doesn’t hesitate. No cameras. No press. Just the question, the ring, and the yes that finally makes him whole.

Warnings: Royal romance, secret relationship, emotional tension, implied sexual history, discussion of media pressure and public life, themes of identity and autonomy, public-private duality, proposal scene, strong emotional payoff. No smut in this part, but romantic and sensual intimacy is present. Expect continuation to include themes of hidden affection, press scrutiny, and the slow unravelling of privacy.

Silverstone was always chaos.

Carlos had stopped pretending otherwise. British fans were different. Louder. Hungrier. Sharp-eyed and smarter than they looked with their glitter face paint and oversized flags. They knew who everyone was sleeping with, who was under pressure, who was up for a contract renewal. They screamed your name when they loved you and booed the shit out of you when they didn’t. And somehow, Carlos didn’t mind. It felt alive.

It was late Friday. FP2 had ended an hour ago. He was still in his race suit, tied around his waist, black Ferrari shirt clinging to his chest as he stood beside the hospitality building, sipping from a water bottle and ignoring his phone. Charles had already vanished to some Ferrari dinner. The press pen was finally empty. For once, no one was watching him.

Except her.

She didn’t belong in the paddock. He knew it before anyone said her name. There was a certain kind of poise that couldn’t be trained. A way of walking that came from bloodlines and boarding school. That chin-lifted grace, like she could drop a curtsy and a dagger in the same breath. Her hair was swept into a bun. Her dress was simple. She wore flats, not heels, and carried no bag. But everyone looked when she passed. Every single one of them.

And Carlos had no idea who she was.

He watched from behind his sunglasses as she stepped out of the Williams hospitality building, laughing politely at something one of the PR girls had said. There were security men shadowing her. Not close enough to be obvious, but close enough to make you wonder. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She glanced across the paddock once, expression unreadable. That was when she saw him.

Their eyes locked. Something flickered.

He didn’t move. Neither did she. The moment passed in silence, stretched too thin, too long, until one of the Williams engineers approached her with a clipboard and her gaze snapped away.

“Who is that?” Carlos asked, turning toward the closest Ferrari staffer.

“Her Royal Highness,” the guy said. “You didn’t hear? shes a Princess. Prince William’s little sister. She’s doing a charity tour this weekend. Mental health campaign or something.”

Carlos blinked. “She’s a princess?”

The guy laughed. “Of England.”

Later that evening, when the sun dipped lower and the paddock emptied out, she came to the Ferrari garage.

Carlos was reviewing telemetry, headset on, shoulders tense. The engineers were mid-debrief, the mood serious and sharp. No one noticed her at first. She didn’t announce herself. Just walked in quietly, hands behind her back, flanked by one discrete bodyguard and a PR girl who looked like she was holding her breath.

Mattia greeted her. Everyone else stood straighter. Carlos removed his headset. Turned. Froze.

She was closer now. Close enough for him to see the faint freckles across her nose, the silver chain around her neck, the bare sweep of her collarbone. She looked at him like she remembered.

“Mr Sainz,” she said softly.

He smiled. “Your Highness.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a mouthful.”

He shrugged. “It suits you.”

She smiled, and for a second, she looked nothing like a princess at all. Just a girl. Curious. Sharp. Amused.

“You’re not British,” she said.

“No.”

“So you won’t care if I sneak out of here before the photographers catch me.”

Carlos tilted his head. “Why come at all?”

She glanced around the garage. “I like the smell.”

He laughed. “It’s not perfume.”

“No,” she said. “It’s oil and fire and adrenaline. You all reek of it.”

He looked at her. Looked at the way she moved without fear, how she didn't shrink under the weight of the silence in the room. She was the kind of woman who didn’t flinch.

“You want a tour?” he asked.

The PR girl blinked. “Sir, I don’t think-”

“I do,” the Princess said.

So he gave her one. They walked the garage side by side, a polite distance between them, her heels barely clicking against the floor. He pointed things out in low tones, watching her take it all in. She didn’t ask silly questions. She didn’t pretend to be impressed. When he showed her the steering wheel, she didn’t even look at it. She looked at him.

“Do you love it?” she asked.

Carlos frowned. “Love what?”

“This. Driving. The risk. The chase. The loneliness.”

He blinked. “I’ve never been asked that.”

She smiled softly. “I’ve never had to ask. Most men tell me everything without saying a word.”

Their hands brushed. He let the moment breathe.

When the tour ended, she thanked the staff graciously and shook a few hands. Her security team nodded. The PR girl looked close to crying. But she turned back once. Just before stepping into the hallway. And Carlos stepped after her. “Wait.”

She turned.

“Meet me later,” he said.

Her eyebrows lifted. “You want to be seen sneaking around with a royal?”

“No,” he said. “I want to see you.”

Her lips curved. “Where?”

He didn’t hesitate. “By the old McLaren motorhome. Midnight. It’s quiet there.”

She held his gaze. “If I don’t come?”

“I’ll wait anyway.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away like she hadn’t changed everything.

He waited. She came. And the first time they kissed, it was like the world fell out from under both of them.

*

Silverstone still smelled the same.

Rubber. Petrol. Rain on hot asphalt. Carlos had always hated that smell, until he met her. Now it felt like something sacred. A memory soaked into the air. A kind of church.

He stood at the edge of the Williams motorhome, half-listening to Alex talk shit about British weather while rain pattered lightly against the roof. FP1 had wrapped two hours ago. Carlos had run well. Clean lines. Strong pace. But his mind was a thousand miles away.

Or rather, a few paddock blocks away.

She was here. Officially, she was attending as a royal ambassador for a new STEM education campaign. The press releases called her “a dedicated advocate for young girls in science and engineering.” The papers fawned over her sensible heels and climate-conscious wardrobe. No one mentioned the real reason she was here.

Carlos hadn’t seen her yet.

He knew her convoy had arrived that morning, quietly and without ceremony. Four SUVs. Two private officers. Her personal assistant, bodyguard, and royal press liaison. He’d seen the tail end of it from his window, coffee in hand, heart punching through his ribs like a fist.

He hadn’t breathed right since. Now, with evening creeping in, he reached into his jacket pocket. The ring was still there.

A simple band. Platinum. One square-cut diamond. No embellishments. No bloodline rubies. He didn’t want to give her history. He wanted to give her choice.

Alex wandered off. Carlos stayed put. Watching the corner of the paddock like she might round it any second.

And then she did.

Hair swept up in that lazy twist she always wore when she wanted to look polished but untouchable. Navy coat cinched tight at the waist. Black trousers. White blouse. Minimal jewellery. She looked like a portrait. Composed. Bored. Regal.

Until she saw him. Her face didn’t change. Not outwardly. But something behind her eyes cracked. That slow warmth. That softness he’d only ever seen in hotel rooms and back gardens and the low-lit seat of a private plane from Madrid to Edinburgh.

She kept walking. He stepped forward like gravity pulled him.

Their paths crossed behind one of the sponsor trailers, out of sight. One of her guards nodded once and turned his back.

“Hi,” Carlos said softly.

She exhaled. “Hi.”

Two years. And every time it still felt like this. Like the first breath after drowning. Like stolen oxygen.

“You look tired,” she said gently, reaching up to brush his jaw.

He caught her hand and kissed it. “You look dangerous.”

“I’m trying to behave.”

He smiled. “Don’t.”

They stood for a second. Silence folding between them like a blanket. Just her perfume and the brush of her fingers on his wrist.

“You have five minutes,” she whispered.

“I only need one.”

She blinked. “Carlos.”

“Not for that.” He reached into his jacket.

Her eyes widened.

“You kept me alive,” he said. “Through transfers and flights and chaos and hiding. You were the only thing that felt like mine.”

“Carlos-”

He held up the box.

“No one knows,” he said. “Not yet. No leaks. No pressure. We can keep it that way if you want. We can disappear into the trees of Balmoral for the rest of our lives and never come back.”

Her breath hitched. He opened the box.

“Marry me.”

No fanfare. No preamble. Just the words and the look in his eyes like this had already happened, and time was just catching up.

Her lips parted. She looked like she might cry.

Then she laughed. Soft and shaky.

“Yes,” she said.

He let out a breath. Smiled like the sun. Slipped the ring onto her finger with reverent hands. Pulled her in. Held her like he’d die if he let go.

One of her guards cleared his throat in the distance. She didn’t flinch.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered into Carlos’s neck. “Same place. Same time.”

“I’ll be there.”

She stepped back, eyes lingering on his. Turned. Walked away like a queen.

He stayed frozen. And for the first time in his life, Carlos Sainz was not thinking about lap times.

[pomegranate-fawn]

Jade x reader

‘Nature walk’

Notes: Yuu is gender neutral and as such they/them pronouns are used, not beta read, fluff, slightly ooc. Another older fic that I’m reposting here for my TWST x reader series, I hope all the Jade Leech fans enjoy and that I did this silly eel justice!

Wc: 1,747

Due to Yuu not officially being a student of Night Raven College, they weren’t in any clubs. At least on paper they weren’t. Yuu often switched between clubs every day, usually against their will. Somedays they’d be dragged along to help Vil with props at the film club, other times Idia would shyly approach them and explain he wanted to play a new game but they needed extra players, so they’d be in board game club that day. Thankfully they rarely had to go into any of the sports clubs, mostly due to them all using magic. But basketball club was different. Ace would usually invite them, and he’d also usually miss every single hoop he tried to make. Though Yuu always did their best to cheer their friend on.

Floyd and Jamil on the other hand were great at basketball, Jamil for his genuine skill, and Floyd due to his height, didn’t even have to jump to get the ball through the basket half of the time!

The two usually wouldn’t talk much to the magicless student, either being on their phone during breaks or talking with the rest of their team. But today was different. The moment Yuu sat down in the bleachers, Floyd waved and skipped over to them, a carefree but toothy grin on his face. He laid down on the bleachers looking up at the prefect with the same goofy expression.

“Hiya shrimpy. So…I got a really important favor to ask ya. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna pull out a contract so hear me out, okay?”

“Okay?”

“Hehehe…You don’t have a club. That’s really sad cause you can’t participate in any school events involving the clubs! Did you know my brother has a club?”

“Oh, he does? What club is he in?”

“Mmm Mountain Lovers club! Or is it Mountain Hikers? I don’t know, but he’s the only member in his club. It’s really sad. Since you don’t have anything keeping you in one club, you should join him tomorrow. It’d really mean a lot to him, shrimpy.”

Despite how innocent the request was, Yuu couldn’t help but feel slightly uneasy about it. Both of the Leech twins, along with their best friend and dorm leader, were a shady bunch of people. Not to mention Yuu was still slightly salty at the trio for trying to steal their dorm.

“Maybe he likes being the only guy there? I mean even when I’ve seen Jade in a group he kinda just…stands there.”

“Mhm, that’s cause he only talks to people he thinks are interesting. Like you and Azul. If either of you bored us we’d leave you. But seriously, you should talk to him more. He really likes spending time with you.”

“Listen, Floyd. Did you and your brother get into a fight? Are you trying to mess with him by spending me to his club?”

“Huh? Why would you think that? Unlike my brother I have friends like crabby and sea snake and sea otter and goldfishy. But Jade…has me and Azul. That’s kinda it. I just think he needs more friends.”

Floyd sounded genuine, which contrasted drastically compared to his normal tone of voice, which ranged anywhere from mocking to bored. With a sigh, Yuu sat up, looking at the much taller eel.

“Okay. I’ll go to your brothers club tomorrow. But in exchange…get me more of that fancy tuna. Grim keeps asking for it but it costs so much. I can’t afford it.”

“Heh, okay. Baby seal will get some fancy tuna and Jade will have a new friend!”

Before Yuu could say anything else, the sophomore jumped up from his seat and got back onto the court, pulling Ace close and messing with his hair as the other struggled. Despite agreeing, Yuu couldn’t help but feel nervous. A sinking feeling settingly in their gut. Instead of staying longer to help the team clean up, Yuu left instead and made their way back to their dorm. After feeding Grim, the student passed out on the couch.

The next day went by painfully slow as if every second was another second before their doom. It would have been easy to try and escape back to their dorm, they could just say they had a lot of homework or that they were feeling sick. They could even blame the cafeteria food despite it being five-star meals in there every day. But any chance of escape was crushed as Yuu exited their last class only to see Jade standing outside the door, a large smile on his face as he spotted the human. He was also dressed…differently than usual. He wore an oversized track jacket along with track leggings and high end tennis shoes.

“Hello, prefect. I was informed that you are interested in the Mountain Lover’s Club. Oh my…those aren’t proper hiking shoes. Do you have any pairs of hikers boots or a good pair of tennis shoes?”

“Oh…Nope. I just have these, a pair of slides, and slippers. I guess this means-”

Before they could even finish their sentence, Jade took their hand and began dragging the student behind him.

“I feared this would be the case, so I put together a proper hiking outfit for you in our club room. You may get dressed then we can get going. I picked out a novice trail so you won’t strain yourself.”

“...How do you know your outfit and the shoes will fit me? What if they don’t?”

“Oh don’t worry. I simply asked Rook for your measurements. He knows the measurements of everyone on campus, I assumed you would be in that list and I was correct.”

Of course Rook helped him out…the student sighed before Jade brought them into a small classroom, leaving a moment later so they could get dressed.

To be fair, Jade and his twin had good taste in clothes and shoes. Making the outfit that was chosen for hiking actually rather nice. A few minutes later Yuu emerged with a similar outfit to Jade’s, though unlike the eel’s clothes, which were gray and purple, the shorter students outfit was gray and pink.

“Ah, I knew you’d look wonderful in that. And now we match, how delightful.”

“We do match…Wanna take a photo?”

Yuu instantly regretted their words as Jade stared down at them with a blank expression, only for an awkward smile to grow on his face a second later.

“I would really enjoy that…”

Jade said, his voice much quieter than it usually was. Yuu then took out their phone and opened the camera, holding it out to Jade so he could take the picture due to him being the tallest. And instead of simply taking it, Jade kneeled down to Yuu’s height and put a hand on their shoulder, giving a soft smile as the picture was taken.

“You’ll send it to me when we get back, right?”

“Of course. But…”

“…Is something the matter?”

…Jade looked kinda sweet when he didn’t show off his abnormally sharp teeth, though that statement didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

“Nothing, I just think we should take some more pictures together when we’re hiking.”

Seemingly satisfied with Yuu’s answer, Jade nodded as the two went on their way to the woods behind the school. Despite how sunny the day was, it was still cool enough for neither of them to get overheated as they finally made it to the school's campgrounds.

“Yuu, may we take another picture here?”

Jade chuckled softly as the shorter student replied by taking out their phone again, the two posing as another photo was taken.

“Now, since it’s your first time hiking we’re not going far. I mostly wanted to forage for mushrooms today anyways. I hope that’s alright.”

“It works for me. It’s actually kinda nice to be out here so…”

“Ah, did you expect it to be different? I only hike on days with good weather. The last thing you want to do is put your body at risk of hypothermia or hyperthermia!”

“Ah. No I meant…I guess I was a bit scared to come out here with you. Floyd was being really shady and I assumed he was trying to pull a prank on me.”

Yuu instantly regretted their words, Jade’s gentle smile fading, not into a look of anger or mischief, but rather one that seemed sad.

“I mean he said you had taken a liking to me and I just found it hard to believe, I apologize if I offended you.”

“…I’ve always had an interest in you. Though I believe he was trying to tease, not you but me.”

Not understanding his words, the sophomore simply tilted their head, as if asking for Jade to continue. The eel sighed for a moment before looking away from his peer, only then did he begin to speak.

“…I like you, Yuu. You are very interesting to me, and you impress me with everything you do. I understand you probably think this is some joke or something of that sort but I assure you it isn’t. I wanted you to spend more time with me so you could hopefully feel the same one day. Floyd said he’d find a way and…now here we are.”

“…You’re cute.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

Jade said as he turned around, staring down at the student with a shocked expression, which in turn caused Yuu to laugh softly.

“You’re cute…You could’ve just asked me yourself. I’ve never rejected anyone who wants to spend time with me. I wouldn’t have rejected you…I…I’m willing to try things out with you if you’re alright being quiet about it for a bit. Last thing I want to hear is Ace and Decue and Grim nagging me about who I’m dating-“

Jade suddenly kneeled down in front of the student, taking their hand and leaving a soft kiss on it, causing for Yuu to go speechless.

“Anything for you, ask and you shall receive.”

“…Heh. You really are cute.”

As Yuu left a quick kiss on top of Jade’s head, the eel giggled softly, standing up a moment later, still holding onto their hand.

“Now…Let’s go look for your mushrooms.”

“…Being with me means you’ll have to taste any new mushroom recipe I make. You can live with that, right?”

“As long as it’s edible I’ll eat it.”

Jade chuckled again as the two continued their walk, soft smiles on their faces as they began to search for mushrooms.

[readsaboutreid]

Periods Suck | S.R.

this is inspired by lenaleechi on instagram's comic about hating periods as well as the gif above because it gives me mad baby fever so i guess this is season 4 softdom!spencer x gn!afab!bau!reader plus a blink and you'll miss it buffy the vampire slayer reference

content warning: breeding kink and period sex [i'm too stoned to think of any others but if you think of them please add them (kindly) in the replies and i'll add them in later :)]

this is smut, minors dni pls and thank you

"...fuck this, fuck everything and everyone, I am done, I quit," I ramble as I open the door to my apartment and kick off my dress shoes that were painfully squeezing my toes, just adding to my frustration. This case had been particularly mild compared to others but I couldn't help but be in a mood due to the littlest things done by the (admittedly innocent) local police officers. I was so relieved to finally go home and get to sleep in my own bed and curl up with a heating pad and my boyfriend with a Doctor Who marathon.

"Deep breaths, (y/n)," I hear from behind me in a soft, soothing tone as gentle hands come down to rub my shoulders from behind. I know he’s well aware what’s causing me to be in such a shitty mood. His pattern recognition skills are off the chart and while he never outright said anything to me about it he'd always be prepared with hot water bottles and chocolate when this time of the month rolled around. I turn around and bury my face into his chest with a sigh.

"I hate periods, Spencer. They suck," I whine with a sigh, my voice muffled by the knit fabric of his cardigan.

"I know, love," he sighs above me, resting his cheek on my forehead and wrapping his arms around me, "I'm sorry there's not more I could do to help."

"You're helping already," I sigh again, but this time out of contentment as we sway side to side in the entry way. "I wish there was a way I could just, like, stop having them," I mutter, my face returning to the soft fibers that I had come to find so comforting over the years.

Spencer's voice is muffled against my hair as he mutters, "That may be something I can assist you with." I don't even need to see his face to imagine the grin spread across it. Lately, he had been subtly expressing his desire for children, but after JJ gave birth to Henry, his hints have become more pressing. And technically, it was all because of me.

The night was a blur of celebration and drinks, as Emily and Garcia joined me in raising our glasses to toast the occasion. But as we were caught up in the joy of the moment, I couldn't help but let slip that after seeing the pure happiness on Spencer's face at the sight of his godchild a spark ignited within me, igniting a fierce case of baby fever that threatened to consume me entirely. Garcia, the horrible traitor that she is, had messaged a video of my confession to Spencer before I had even finished talking and before I knew it, my phone was buzzing with pictures from Spencer himself - tiny onesies and miniature sneakers - accompanied by words like, ‘just imagine a little genius of our own running around our home in this.’

Without changing his stance, he starts off on one of his typical Spencer Reid rants. "Did you know that scientific research has indicated that orgasms can alleviate menstrual cramps? It's due to the release of endorphins and muscular contractions which help relax the uterine lining," he explains with a slight hint of arousal in his tone, "not only does it address your discomfort, but it also takes care of your other request at the same time."

"We could start trying now, if you want," he suggests with a playful tone, though the subtle hint of desire in his voice sends a jolt of anticipation down my spine and settles between my thighs, igniting a fervent ache. Oh. Oh.

I finally turn my head to meet his gaze, and I am met with intense desire radiating from his eyes. His pupils are dilated, and he licks his lips before gently tracing a finger along my cheek and following up with a soft, "what do you think?"

I interrupt him by pulling his face towards mine, and our lips meet in a soft kiss. Suddenly, I'm pushed against the wall with the command to "jump," and my legs automatically wrap around Spencer as he lifts me up by my ass. Our lips met in a hungry yet tender kiss.

Our breaths come in ragged gasps as he pulls away to meet my gaze, his eyes searching mine for confirmation. I eagerly nod, my heart racing and anticipation building. Our lips collide once more, the heat between us intensifying as we lose ourselves in each other's embrace. The world fades into the background as our bodies meld together, consumed by desire. He sets me down and guides me to our bedroom by the hand, giggling slightly with excitement. I know he wants kids and we have discussed having them together in the future but the giddiness of the grown ass man in front of me ends up drawing a giggle from my own throat as well.

As we enter the bedroom, he stoops down to give me a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom. He grabs an old black towel I use for dyeing my hair and returns, laying it down on the bed and patting it lightly. He sends me sweet smile full of adoration as he whispers, "after you, my love."

I stumble towards the light switch and turn it off before making my way over to the bed. I take off my top and lay down, the darkness giving me a sense of privacy. Suddenly, I hear a soft sound from Spencer as he walks away. The lights flick back on, and he quickly closes the distance between us with just two steps. Before I can even cover myself up in the glare of the harsh light, he's already crawling on top of me.

"You're so gorgeous," he beams at me again before leaning in to kiss me gently, lowering his hips to rest between my legs as they wrap back around his hips instinctively as he begin peppering kisses all over my face and drawing endless laughs from my mouth, "I'm," kiss, "so," kiss, "lucky," kiss, "to," kiss, "have," kiss, "you."

He moves back, his lips leaving a trail of fire as they kiss and caress my skin. My jaw trembles under the soft brush of his lips, before he slowly trails kisses down to my throat. I can't help but let out a moan as his lips touch the sensitive skin there. His body presses against mine, the unmistakable hardness of his arousal pressing against my hypersensitive center. Every move, every touch, sends electric shivers through my body, igniting a primal desire within me.

My body aches with desire as I struggle to catch my breath. "Please remove your clothing now," I manage to say between deep, passionate kisses. Spencer eagerly strips down and helps me out of my own clothes before settling back between my legs. His arousal presses against the wetness between my thighs, adding to the intense heat building inside me.

"I've been craving this all week, sweetness," he mutters against my neck as he sucks feverishly at the skin, leaving love bites in his wake. "Craving you and your beautiful body." I have no idea how he managed to get me from wildly upset to wildly horny in such a short time, but instead of questioning it, I just let out a moan as I grind my hips against him, begging for his cock to enter me. He continues to tease me by rubbing the tip against my wet slit.

“P-please, Spence,” I whimper, unable to form a coherent sentence through the haze of lust I had become quickly lost within.

Spencer's eyes flicker with desire as he holds himself over me, his hands fisting the sheets on either side of my head. "Say it again," he growls, rubbing his erection against my aching center.

"P-please," I beg, my voice shaking with need.

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down my spine.

"As you wish," he murmurs before slowly sliding inside me. I gasp at the intense pleasure that washes over me, causing my body to arch off the bed and my nails to dig into his back. He begins to move in slow, deep thrusts, filling me completely and igniting a fire within me that threatens to consume every inch of my being.

As our bodies meld together in a blazing inferno, time itself seems to cease to exist. Every touch of Spencer's fingers sends shivers of ecstasy coursing through me, while each caress of his lips against mine ignites a fire within. Our movements are fluid and perfect, each one bringing us closer to the pinnacle of pleasure. I am consumed by an overwhelming sensation, my senses heightened to their limits as our passion reaches an almost unbearable intensity. It feels as though this moment could stretch on for eternity, and I never want it to end. In this single moment, there is nothing else but the all-consuming desire between us, and I give myself completely to it.

My heart pounds against my ribs as Spencer's gaze locks onto mine, his eyes filled with the same ferocity and desire that burns within me. He gives me a wicked grin, and I can feel my resolve crumble as the insatiable hunger consumes me. "You want to have my baby?" he gasps, and all I can respond with is a loud, whorish moan, entirely unable to form any words as his hips start to move ever so slightly faster.

He surges forward, his body fusing with mine in a wild, primal dance. Our movements become more frenzied, our bodies slamming together with the force of a thousand thunderstorms. My breath comes in short gasps as Spencer's relentless thrusts coax an orgasm out of me. My muscles tense, my hips bucking against him, seeking the sweet release from the intense pleasure building up inside of me.

Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word sends me higher and higher, my body arching and bucking beneath him in a frenzy of ecstasy.

Spencer's eyes are locked onto mine as he continues to drive into me, his gaze burning with an intensity that matches the fire inside us both. His hands grip my hips tightly, never losing rhythm as he thrusts into me and coaxes that sweet release from me. My body trembles and shakes with each surge, and I can feel the orgasm building, growing stronger and more intense with each passing second.

A low, guttural moan escapes from Spencer's lips as he picks up the pace, his movements becoming harder and faster. I can feel him growing more desperate, and I know that he's close to his own release.

The pleasurable ache between my legs intensifies, and I know that I'm about to reach that peak. I let out a helpless whimper as the pleasure was threatening to overtake me, and I feel as though I'm being pulled into a vortex of ecstasy. Time seems to stand still, and I'm lost in the moment, our bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

The bed creaks and groans with our passionate lovemaking, the sound echoing in my ears as I reach for the pinnacle of pleasure. Spencer's eyes are locked onto mine, and I see the same intensity in them that I feel in my own being. We're one, united in our desire for each other, and nothing else matters in this world.

His thrusts become harder and faster, the tip of his erection brushing against the most sensitive part of me with every stroke. The pleasure is overwhelming, and I can feel the orgasm building within me, growing stronger with each passing second. I cling to Spencer, my nails digging into his back as I beg him to take me over the edge.

“Gonna fill you up,(Y/N),” Spencer moans, “everyone will know who you belong to once you’re — oh fuck — carrying my fucking baby inside you.” His words send me falling over the edge and I can feel myself slipping away, my mind consumed by the intense pleasure reaching it's peak as my hips buck wildly.

Time seems to stand still as we reach the pinnacle of pleasure together. Our bodies move in perfect sync, every thrust, every caress, every whispered word fueling the fire that burns within us. The pleasure is all-consuming, coursing through my veins and reaching every cell in my body. I let out a series of orgasmic moans bordering on screams and Spencer smiles down at me wickedly, his eyes never leaving mine as his thrusts become harder and more disjointed as his own orgasm looms on the horizon. His moans grow louder and louder as the feeling of slight overstimulation makes me clench even tighter around his throbbing cock as he reaches his breaking point.

"Please, Spencer," I whisper, "make me yours, sir. P-please, please put a baby in me!"

Finally, with one last deep thrust, Spencer moans loudly and shudders above me, his body rigid as he loses himself in the pleasure of a release he had been building up to for what felt like an eternity. As Spencer's body shudders above mine, I can feel the warmth of his release filling me up, an earth-shattering feeling that takes my breath away. We lay there for a moment, our bodies still joined together, basking in the afterglow of our passion. Finally, with a contented sigh, Spencer pulls out of me and collapses onto the bed beside me.

I snap back to reality, my mind reeling from the intensity of our lovemaking. I can feel the stickiness between my legs, a reminder of the incredible moment we just shared. The room is still, the only sounds being our heavy breathing and the rhythmic beating of our hearts. I reach over to grab the bedside table, searching for a tissue to clean myself up.

"Spencer?" I say softly, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" he replies, still out of breath.

I flash him a saucy grin, "I think we'll have to make sure we keep trying this before my next period so I won't have to suffer through another one, for a while." I joked, while playfully poking his chest.

He chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear, "I think that's a great idea, my love." I couldn't help but giggle at his response, feeling a burst of warmth spread through my body.

[atomicami]

surprise visit

contractor!abby anderson x joel’s daughter!reader

- summary: after your first encounter with abby, she’s all that’s on your mind. because of this, you decide to ditch work one day and go to her father’s contracting site to pay her a visit, only to find out that she feels the same way with you. (part 2 to quick fix)

- content: smut MDNI, no outbreak/modern au, contractor/engineer!abby, texas living, no sarah, joel and jerry are both alive, jerry is not a doctor, reader has a business degree, family & work drama, office sex, oral & fingering (both receiving) squirting, thoughts of strap usage, cockblocking, reader and abby almost getting caught again, pet names instead of y/n, abby begging if you squint, and i think that’s it but lmk if i missed anything

- author’s note: no bc i was literally shocked over how quick fix blew up omg?? thank you guys so much! i had so many people request for a part 2 so here it is! i hope y’all enjoy it :)

To your luck, your dad didn’t suspect anything when he found out the TV got fixed.

You told him that you ended up calling the electrician instead. And while he did scold you on how the electricians here tend to overcharge their customers for their services, he eventually just let it slide.

Besides, it would have been better to tell him that rather than the truth. That the daughter of his work rival set foot in his house to fix the TV, only to soon put her hands on, or rather inside his precious daughter.

Movie night flew by slow for you that day, like painfully slow. Abby was all that ran through your mind that night. You pretty much spent that night sitting on the couch surrounded by your friends, in that same spot where Abby’s head was in between your legs just a few hours before. You’d keep turning your head back just to take a peek at her house across from you.

Eventually, you became so desperate for that night to be over that you decided to end things early and escorted your friends out of your house, only to soon get under your bedsheets to try to fix the ache that was forming in between your legs once again.

But you knew damn well that it could never compare to how Abby made you finish that day. She made you finish in a way that no one else could have.

Despite that, the two of you may have thought about the idea that this could have just been a one-time thing, but you were still tempted to see her. You didn’t want to go against your dad’s rules, again…but just like the last time, part of you was leaning towards doing so.

Besides, you got away with it the first time…who’s to say you might be able to do this for a second?

But you don’t see her right away. Despite how hard it may be for you, you make the effort to wait for the right time.

A week passes by since your first encounter with Abby, and that’s when you decide to go see her.

You’re on your shift at work, finishing up some customer calls before gathering your things to head out. Once you get to the door, you stop in your tracks for a brief moment. A variety of questions start to flood your mind:

Is it worth it to take the risk again? What could happen if you end up getting caught? Would Abby even want to see you again? Is she craving you the same way you’re craving her right now?

You quickly shook your thoughts out of your head and turned the doorknob, exiting the office trailer before closing the door behind you. However, you only make it down the first few steps before running into your father. He bumps into you while finishing a call, phone in one hand and some files in another.

Joel quickly hangs up the phone and peers his eyes down at the screen. “Hey kiddo, I was just lookin’ for ya so I could give you these—“ He cuts his sentence off once he looks up from his phone to see you standing in front of him, bag over your shoulder and car keys in your hand, ready to leave as if your shift was already over. He looks at you with a confused expression. “Where are ya headed? You’re not done for another few hours.”

You try your best to come up with an excuse on the spot. “Oh, I have to head out to run some errands…I uh, need to start buying ingredients for the bake sale next week.”

That was a full-on lie. You already bought everything the week before. And knowing Joel, he can typically sniff out a lie like a bloodhound. But you still hope that he’ll take the bait for it.

Your dad simply nods and puts his phone back into his pocket. “Alright sweetheart, well, whenever you can, I need ya to file these for me. No rush though.” He hands you the files before passing by you to head into the office. You let out a sigh of relief, only for that feeling to soon come to a halt when he calls out your name again.

You turn back around to face him. “Yeah?”

“Do you think you could make that—that custard cake— what’s it called again…You made it last Thanksgiving at Uncle Tommy’s, remember?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You mean my flan?”

“Yes!” Your dad exclaims. “Make as many of those as you can. Wanna be able to beat Anderson in the bake sale this time.”

You pursed your lips together and nodded. “Alright, I’ll be sure to make those then,” you reply.

Your dad gives you a thumbs up in response before pulling out his phone to take another call and stepping back into the mobile office.

Another sigh of relief escapes from you. If it weren’t for your dad being so occupied with his clients, you definitely would have been caught a lot sooner. As much as you love and care for your dad, his obsession with trying to one-up Jerry at his job seriously drives you crazy.

Crazy to the point where you decide to break his rules and get with Jerry’s daughter, perhaps?

Once you approach the parking lot, you step into your car and start it up before pulling out your phone. The first thing you end up doing before anything else is shutting off your location. Aside from Abby being off limits, your father was never really the strict type. The only reason behind having a location set up on your phone was so he’d make sure you were safe whenever you’d be working late at the company or when you were out with friends.

But that’s not the case today, since you’re simply just ‘running errands’, as you so graciously told him before leaving.

Your finger hovers over the screen before tapping on the navigation app. You then type in the directions for Anderson Contracting Company.

Those are three words you definitely didn’t expect to be putting into your GPS.

Once the route guidance was set up, you shift your car into drive before slowly pulling out of the parking lot and exiting your dad’s contracting site.

Excluding the possibility of traffic, it usually takes about 15 minutes to get to Jerry’s contracting site. That is…if you’re taking the fastest route. But due to the anxiety bubbling in your stomach, you decided to delay yourself as much as you could to get there. You avoid the highway if possible, purposefully miss every exit, and even let every single driver pass you while on the road. You’ve lost count of how often the GPS has rerouted since you were just going around in circles.

Eventually, you quit stalling and follow the correct route to Jerry’s contracting site. That feeling of deja vu instantly hits you once you see those two familiar pickup trucks in the parking lot upon arrival. It meant that there’d be another 50/50 chance of either running into Abby…or her father.

But it’s not too late though. You’re still in the car. You haven’t left yet. There’s still a chance to back out of this now and leave as if you never showed up in the first place.

But then again…you’re tempted to go in and search for her. You truly couldn’t resist being away from her for so long. A week may seem like nothing for most people, but to you, it felt like a fucking eternity. Do you really think that Abby might feel the same way?

Fuck it. You do it anyway.

Once you’ve stepped out of your car and locked it, you start making your way over to the contracting site. Your chances of backing out progressively become slimmer with every step you take.

Before you know it, you’re standing at the site, front and center. Jerry’s site looks quite similar to your dad’s—pretty spacious, filled with loads of inventory, it even had the same trailer-like mobile office that stood its ground next to the parking lot with its company logo in big, bold lettering.

But then again, all of that pretty much looked the same to you. The only task on your mind right now was to search for that man’s best employee: his daughter.

You squint your eyes to get a better look at the workers on site right now. They all looked the same to you due to the far distance—a bunch of little figures all spread out in its ample environment. However, you do see Jerry standing among those figures, to which you’re relieved. He had the same height and build as Joel, but with lighter physical features instead of your father’s dark ones. At least you knew where he was situated right now.

But Abby? She was nowhere to be seen.

It didn’t make sense to you at first. Her truck was in the parking lot, and given her prominent figure, she’d be easily identifiable out of all of the workers that were scattered around the site.

Regret starts to pass through your body right now. You felt like you’d wasted your time coming here.

That is…until you feel a strong, familiar hand grab your arm from behind.

You freeze in your tracks and slowly turn your head around. Your prayers have been answered once again.

Abby keeps her grip on your arm and turns you around, her body shielding yours so her father wouldn’t spot you from the distance. She then leans into your ear. “Stay in front of me and keep walking forward,” she says sternly.

You nod and continue to walk in her direction. The two of you approach straight to the mobile office, and you notice that the door is wide open. Looks like that solves the mystery as to why you couldn’t find her in the first place.

Abby guides you up the steps and brings you inside the trailer. She makes sure to check her surroundings before entering inside and closing the door behind her, locking it shut.

“Are you seriously out of your mind?” She asks, turning around to face you. “It’s one thing to come to my house, but to come to where I work? And with my dad here? What if he saw you?”

You shook your head at her and put your hands up to quiet her down. “I know, I know…This is literally the last place I’m supposed to be at right now, but I need to talk to you.”

She let out a sigh and shook her head as she walked over to her side of the trailer where her desk was. “About what?” She asks, turning back around again to face you.

“It’s about last week, um…” you trail off for a second, briefly averting your gaze from her and nervously rubbing the back of your neck. “When you came over to fix my outlet…”

Even though you weren’t looking at her, you could feel the smirk that was growing on her face. Abby leans back against the corner of her desk and crosses her arms. “Oh yeah? Which outlet are we talking about, exactly?”

Looking back at her now, you scoff at her and lightly shove her shoulder. “Come on, you know exactly what I mean…” You let out a sigh before continuing. “Look, I don’t know about you but…it’s been on my mind this past week. And I need you to do it again. Please.”

Abby raised an eyebrow at your statement. “Make you do what now?”

Jesus. She’s really trying to get the words out of your mouth, isn’t she?

Another sigh leaves from your lips. Your eyes divert back to the ground again. “I…I need you to make me finish like that again.” You mutter out to her. “No one has ever been able to make me feel that good…besides you.”

As hard as you were trying right now, the desperation in your voice was still so obvious to hear. You didn’t want to be desperate about it, but you couldn’t help it.

However, Abby was quite flattered to hear that, and even a little relieved. Despite her previous experiences with women, she wanted to be able to please you the most. It was just hard for her to ever do so due to both of your dads’ rules.

She looks out the window for a moment. Her dad appeared to be miles away from the two of you, still barking orders at his employees over inventory. She then walks over to the back of her desk and moves some things around to make some space before motioning you to come over. “Come here. Sit on my desk.”

You oblige, walking over to the back of her desk. You give yourself a boost and sit on top of it. Looking down, you see her hands placed down on the desk, one on each of your sides. It’s almost as if she’s slowly entrapping you with her large frame.

You look back up at her to see her looking down at your lap, watching how your thighs are pressed together right now. “I don’t regret it, you know…” she starts, looking up at you. “Coming over. I don’t regret it at all. If anything, you’ve been on my mind just as much since then.” She then leans into the left side of your face and whispers this memorable statement in your ear:

“Even my tongue still remembers the way you taste.”

“Fuck..” You mutter under your breath, averting your gaze back down. Her words alone were already turning you on and making your arousal rush quickly to your core.

Her eyes were now meeting with yours when you looked back up at her. “Would you want to do it again?” You asked her. That same smirk shows back on her face as Abby shakes her head. She thought your question was ridiculous, even after hearing what she had just said to you. But on the contrary to last week, you were now the one seeking reassurance from her.

Without taking her eyes off of yours, she slightly parts your legs open with her knee and slides a hand underneath the knee-length pencil skirt you were wearing. Your breath hitched once you felt her touch, followed by your thighs tensing up a little. “Is this answering your question right now?” she asks, not stopping her movements.

You try to catch your breath as she holds eye contact with you, nodding slowly as her hand inches closer to your heat. Her actions come to a halt once her hand reaches your clothed cunt. It wasn’t until her fingertips brushed against the soft fabric that you broke eye contact with her to look down at your lap, even though her hand was hidden under your skirt.

Abby did the same, gently pressing her thumb down against the now damp piece of fabric that was separating her hand and your pussy. Her action causes you to jerk back a little. The ache in between your legs was making you sensitive. “You’re so wet for me already, fuck…” she mutters out, hooking her finger underneath your underwear and moving it to the side. You spread your legs out farther for her for better access, trying to hold back your whimpers when the cool air of the office’s AC tunnels under your skirt and hits your wet pussy.

This gives Abby the chance to start inserting one of her fingers inside you. The second her fingertips start passing through your tight entrance, you instantly feel alleviated. Despite the slightly uncomfortable feeling it can give you at first, there was something about Abby’s fingers that was just so…addicting. It’s almost as if you needed to have her touch inside of you all the time.

You can’t help but let out a whimper once you feel a second finger enter inside you not even a minute later. Abby leans in to kiss you, desperate to swallow the pretty sounds you’re making while her fingers were nestling in your pussy.

“God…” she begins to mutter in between kisses. “It’s only been a week…and you feel even tighter than when I first went down on you…” She briefly pulls away from your lips to kiss your neck.

Abby silently cursed at herself for not having her strap in her possession. If only she had known beforehand that you were going to sneak your way out of work to come see her, she would’ve brought it with her. As much as she loved having you come undone onto her fingers, there was truly nothing more she wanted to do right now than to fuck you senselessly on top of her desk.

Your hands grip the edge of her desk when she begins to slowly pump her fingers in and out of your pussy. More sounds continue to leave your lips, and you begin to involuntarily grind your hips against her hand as a desperate call for her to go faster, which she soon ends up doing.

“Fuck, Abby…” you whimper out to her. “Your fingers…feel so good…” You bring your gaze back down to your lap, watching the hidden movements of her hand under your skirt.

Secretly, it was kind of pissing both of you off that you still had that fucking skirt on. You’ve been trying to hold back the urge to strip yourself down. The pleasure that Abby’s giving you right now with just her two fingers was so good that having your skirt and underwear still on you was bothering you so much. At that moment you didn’t want anything touching you from the waist down.

Anything except for Abby’s fingers.

And it was even more frustrating on Abby’s part because although she could feel and even hear your needy pussy underneath your skirt right now, she couldn’t see what she was doing. She wanted to see her actions right now. She wanted to watch your pussy visibly contract against her thick fingers before coming undone on them.

That stupid skirt was by far the worst obstacle for the two of you right now. But regardless, it wasn’t going to stop Abby from trying to make you finish. You told her that you needed her to make you cum just like how she did when she first came over, and that’s exactly what she was going to do.

Your grip on her desk tightened when her fingers were now going at an uncontrollably fast pace. Your head was thrown back, your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your mouth slightly parted. A moan would escape from your mouth with every brush of her fingertips on your g spot. That familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach forms as your cunt begins to pulse around her fingers, indicating that you were getting close.

Just like last time, your head starts to feel heavy once again. You try to tilt back down to meet with Abby’s gaze so you can let her know. “A-Abby…” you call out to her. “I—fuck—I’m getting close…”

She simply nods, not quitting her pace with her fingers. “I know you are, that needy cunt of yours won’t stop squeezing my fingers.” She looks back up at you. “Just ride it out for me like last time, make yourself cum on my—“

Then suddenly she cuts her words off. Her gaze starts to avert away from yours, and her fingers start to slow down.

She turns her head around to look out the window, leading you to do the same. The pleasure in your body soon starts to replace itself with panic when you see who’s approaching closer to the office.

Abby’s father.

She turns her head to face you and she can practically see the pleading in your eyes. You were already so close to the finish line. So close to finishing on her fingers and getting to that blissful feeling that you’ve been craving from her touch for the past week.

“Abby…” you whisper out to her. “Please…just let me finish…”

Although she felt like she could do it, and make a new record out of it, she just couldn’t take the risk.

Abby could feel her heartbeat racing as she heard her father’s footsteps get closer to the door. She looks over at you, her gaze flickering between your face and your lap, where her fingers remain inside of you.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered back and pulled her fingers out of you, causing you to whimper at the loss.

The rattling of the doorknob startles the two of you, followed by the sound of keys jingling. Abby instinctively grabs your hips, getting you off of her desk. “Get under my desk,” she commands, leading you to quickly crouch down onto the ground and tuck yourself into the leg area of her desk.

Abby sits back down in her chair and scooches in, scattering all of her blueprints, sketches, and files back on the center of her desk to make herself look busy.

Then the door clicks, right on time.

She looks over to her left and watches her father enter inside. Jerry’s eyes were fixed on his phone screen for a moment before looking up to see her. “Hey kid, I didn’t know you’d still be in here,” he says, walking over to her desk. “Why’d you lock the door?”

Abby immediately starts stammering on the spot, trying her best to figure out an excuse. “Oh, um…I think the self-lock was still on..”

He nods in response, looking at the door and back at her. “I see…Well, I have to head into town in a bit to check out a client’s property. They’re in need of their kitchen being remodeled and I’d like to get to them before Miller does. Do you think you can go outside and finish up with inventory while I’m out?”

Abby nods slowly in response. “Yeah dad, of course, I can do that for you.”

The two of you figured that Jerry would leave after that…But he doesn’t. He continues to discuss work with her while you remain hidden under her desk.

About three minutes have gone by, but to you, it feels more like three hours. Despite the amount of legroom that Abby’s desk had, you still felt so cramped up. All that was there to see right now were three dark walls and the sight of Abby from the waist down. Wait a minute…

That’s when an idea popped into your head. The way Abby was sitting, manspread in her chair, her cargo pants tightly hugging her thighs even though they’re meant to be loose, and that tool belt of hers…it sure seemed to provide some coverage down there, right?

You want to talk yourself out of it, you really do. This wasn’t the time or the place to be doing this right now. But five minutes have passed now and you truly have no idea when the hell Jerry is going to get out of there so the two of you could be alone. Might as well keep yourself occupied for the time being, right?

Without trying to make any noise underneath, you shift your position on the ground until you’re kneeling. While Abby now remains distracted by talking to her father, you slip your hands in under the large pouches that were attached to her tool belt. Once your hands find the button and zipper of her cargo pants, you attempt to undo them and get them off of her.

Abby’s eyes quickly flicker to her lap before looking back at her dad, who was now talking to her about another client that Joel took from him. She notices what you’re trying to do, she can see it without even having to take her tool belt off. She truly wishes more than anything right now that she could at least help you take her pants off for her.

“…so I'm going to see if I can be able to meet with them next week and see if I can convince them to do business with us instead of Joel. I was thinking that—” Jerry’s words soon get cut off by the sound of his phone ringing, leading him to pull it out of his pocket and answer it. “Hello? Yes, this is him…”

While Abby’s father speaks through the phone, he briefly looks away from her. This gave the perfect moment for her to discreetly lift her hips so you could get her cargo pants and boxers down. You open her legs, eyeing her pussy that was hidden underneath her tool belt. Without even thinking twice, you dive in between her legs, quickly latching your mouth onto her clit.

Oh God, now Abby really needed her dad to leave right now.

The chair starts to shake a little beneath you as Abby’s hands grip each side of the armrest, trying to hold back any sounds as you sucked on her clit. Now it was up to Abby to try and compose herself in front of her father because the second he’ll notice something unusual, both of you would be screwed.

Abby glances over to see her dad turned around, still complaining through the phone. Her breath continues to hitch while you keep sucking and licking at her clit. “God, your mouth feels so good…” she mutters out quietly to you, praying that her dad didn’t hear her. She soon hears her dad finishing up his phone call and sits back up before scooching forward, trying to hide as much of herself below the waist down as possible.

“Look, just give me ten minutes and I'll be there. I’ll show you the plans I have for your kitchen, and I can assure you it’ll be better than what Miller would have in mind.” Jerry soon says his goodbyes before hanging up the phone and turning back around to face his daughter.

“That was the client I was just about to go see today. They’re already considering doing business with Joel instead.” he crosses his arms and shakes his head in disbelief. “The nerve of this ignorant man…He’s seriously trying to do anything just to get more clients than me…” he lets out another sigh before continuing. “I'm gonna head out now to meet with them. Please make sure to finish up on inventory before you leave alright?”

Although it wasn’t like you had a choice at that moment, you couldn’t help but eavesdrop on what Jerry was saying. You were definitely into Abby, but you couldn’t stand how Jerry talked about your father. As a result, you decided to do something just a little bold. While your mouth was fixated on playing with Abby’s clit, you insert two of your fingers into her pussy with no warning, causing her to jerk back at the sudden movement.

“Y-Yeah!” she exclaims before quickly closing her mouth shut, as well as her thighs. “Yeah, um…I-I’ll be sure to do that…” she says, her voice back at her normal volume.

Her father raised an eyebrow in suspicion but didn’t think anything of it. The only thing on his mind right now was getting to that client’s place before Joel does. “Alright then…I'll see you at home.”

Abby watches as her dad leaves the office and closes the door behind him. She turned her head around to the window to make sure he was officially out of view before letting out a sigh of relief. “Fuck…” she breathes out. She then pushes her chair back and quickly unbuckles her tool belt before tossing it to the ground, looking down to see the sight of you with your mouth and fingers both still attached to her cunt.

“You really are a fucking tease, aren't you?” she asks you. “Going down on me like that while my dad’s in the office because you can’t keep it in your pants…I didn’t take it that you’d be such a slut for me like that…”

With your fingers still inside of her, you briefly removed your mouth from her pussy to respond to her. “I seriously couldn't keep waiting any longer, Abby…” you plead out to her.

Abby slightly tilts her head to the side, raising an eyebrow in mock confusion. “Did I tell you to stop doing that, though?” she asks.

You shake your head in response. “No, I—”

“Exactly. So get back to it, princess.”

You then feel her hand on the back of your head, bringing it back down into her pussy. Without taking your eyes off of hers, you seal your mouth back onto her clit while pumping your two fingers in and out of her cunt, watching her every move to the pleasure that you were giving her.

“Fuck, oh God…” she moans out, pushing your head farther in. “Fuck, just like that…p-put that mouth of yours to good use…”

You moan into her pussy as a response, causing her body to slightly shiver. Your fingers speed up their pace inside her, desperately trying to get her to break apart. A string of breathy moans continues to escape from Abby’s mouth while your head stays nudged in between her legs.

You can’t help but hear those sounds that Abby was making as your tongue kept lapping up her juices. It was making you even wetter than before. You wanted to reach down and touch yourself so fucking bad, but you couldn’t. Not only was it because Abby would immediately suspect that you were doing that to yourself, but you were getting so fucking drunk from her pussy that you couldn’t even move any other part of your body except for the parts that were moving inside her right now.

“Oh fuck, I think I’m getting close…” she moans out to you, tightening the grip on her armrest. “Please…please don’t stop…”

The way Abby had begged you to keep going was driving you insane. Now you were more motivated than ever to make her finish. Your fingers were cramping, your jaw was getting sore, and your face was so buried in her pussy that you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

But you still refused to quit.

You keep driving her up to her climax until she finally comes undone with a broken moan, finishing all over your mouth and fingers. Once she’s finished on you, you lick and suck her release until she’s completely clean before taking your mouth and fingers out of her.

Abby looks back down and is amazed at the sight of you right now. Your pupils were completely blown out due to how drunk you’d gotten from her pussy, and her release was smeared all over your face. “Well, it looks like I’m not the only one who likes to get all pussydrunk…” she tells you, smirking once again.

You meet your gaze with hers and smirk back at her. “I had to return the favor for you somehow…” you reply, wiping her release off of your chin with the back of your hand. “Consider it a thank you for fixing my outlet last week.”

Abby returns your response with a smile. However, her eyes soon flicker over to your lap, where you were clenching your thighs together on the ground. Now she remembered that she needed to finish what she started.

She leans over to put her boxers and cargo pants back on before standing up completely. “Come on, get back up on my desk.”

With your legs still together, you slowly get up from the ground and stand up next to her. After almost getting caught by Abby’s dad and being under her desk for what felt like fucking forever, chances are that the heat pooling between your legs right now is going to be a lot more for Abby to work with this time.

You watched as she made space on her desk for you again by pushing her things around. Some of her blueprints and sketches fell to the ground as a result, but she could honestly care less about that. Her hands then move to your waist, picking you up in an effortless manner and placing you back onto her desk before leaning in and locking her lips with yours, tasting a bit of herself in the process.

Your hands grab at her shirt and pull her closer to you, while Abby’s hands grab the hem of your skirt and pulls it down your legs, followed by your underwear right after. Her lips then pull themselves away from yours so she can look down at your pussy. “Oh my God….” she breathes out to you, her face inches from yours. The arousal in between your legs had spread so much that even your inner thighs were shining with your slick.

“You’ve been trying to hide this mess while you were under my desk, weren’t you?” she asks, to which you nod in response.

The sight of your wet pussy was so fucking much for Abby right now that she needed to step back and sit back down. You watched as she sat back in her chair and pulled onto the side lever, letting it sink down so her face was parallel to your pussy.

Without even thinking twice, she dives her head in between your legs. As much as Abby had wanted to challenge herself and use her fingers like last time, she still had that desire to taste you, because she truly is one for craving the way your arousal would linger on her tongue.

“Fuck, Abby…f-feels so good…” you whimper out to her, grabbing her braid and pushing her head further into your pussy. With half-lidded eyes, you make the effort to keep your gaze at the window to be on the lookout. You seriously did not want to have to deal with the possibility of getting walked in on…again.

The amount of moans and whimpers that leave your mouth only drives Abby to speed up her pace. She ends up pulling your hips closer towards her as she continues to eat you out like a woman starved before inserting two fingers inside and quickly pumping them in and out of you.

Your hands have flown back to gripping the edge of her desk once again and your elbows are now propped at the center of it to support yourself. You can’t even focus on looking out the window anymore with all of the overstimulation that she was giving you right now. At this point, both of you could care less about someone knocking again.

It didn’t take long for that familiar feeling to build up in the pit of your stomach again. That same feeling that you had gotten when she came over last week, that same feeling that you had reached around 15 minutes ago before Abby’s father decided to interfere at the wrong time.

You try your best to even form a sentence right now to let her know that you were getting close. “A-Abby…I-fuck…I’m getting close again…”

She simply looks up at you without stopping her movements. Her bright blue eyes were darker than before, and her pupils were blown out just like yours not too long ago. She was getting drunk off of your arousal once again.

With her free hand, she manages to do that same movement with you again, where she brings it over to your stomach and presses her palm down, all while maintaining her mouth on your clit and her fingers pumping and curling themselves deep into your cunt.

From there, it didn’t take long for you to reach your peak.

“A-Abby…I’m gonna—Fuck!”

And that’s when it hits you. Before you could even warn her again your cunt pulses hard once last time before cumming all over her mouth and fingers, leading her to greedily drink you clean. Your head is thrown back in pleasure, your stomach is all tense from the pressure of Abby’s hand, and your inner thighs are trembling and dripping.

Once you’re able to catch your breath, you look down and watch Abby pull her mouth and fingers out of you. That same deja vu feeling hits you again when you see the condition she was in. She was just as out of breath as you were, and her fingers, face, and lap were now covered in your release.

Abby leans in and strokes your trembling thighs to calm them down followed by planting kisses throughout the tender parts of your skin. “You alright there?” she asks with a smirk, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

You nod slowly at her and give her a smile, still slightly drunk off of your orgasm. “Yeah, fuck…” you breathe out. “You’re so good at this, you know..”

The blonde simply shrugs in response. “Anything to get that taste from you, princess.” she replied with a chuckle, kissing your inner thigh one last time before setting it down.

You watch as she picks up your underwear and skirt off the ground and helps you get them back on before getting off of her desk. You hear her chuckle again when she sees you try to stand with your legs still limp. “Think you can walk?” she asks, that same smirk showing up on her face again.

You roll your eyes at her and playfully slap her shoulder. “Oh, I’ll be fine…” you tell her in reassurance.

Abby shakes her head in response, placing one hand on your waist before holding one of yours with her. “Let me walk you to your car. I’ll take you out the back so no one sees us.”

Once you safely get to your car, you unlock it and slip yourself into the driver's seat before closing the door and starting it. You then roll down the window to see her hovered over you, her arms resting on the roof of your car.

You feel yourself blush a little when you see how damp her clothes now were because of you. “Um, what do you plan to do with that?” you ask her curiously, pointing at her clothes.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got my gym clothes in my truck, I’ll be fine.” she reassures you.

You nod in response. “Okay, well…thanks again for, um…”

“Fixing your outlet again?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

You let out a laugh at her response. “Yeah,” you confirm with a nod, “For fixing my outlet, again.”

Abby chuckles and shakes her head, briefly looking down at the ground before back up at you. “So I’ll see you at the bake sale next week?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back your smile before nodding again. “I’ll be there.”

Abby leans in to kiss you goodbye before tapping on the roof of your car, indicating that you were good to leave. You wave at her as you pull your car out of the parking lot and exit the site.

Well, it’s safe to say that you most definitely will be attending that bake sale next week.

- a/n: did not expect this one to get long…part 3 anyone?

part 3 here

requested tags 🏷️: @ourautumn86 @winfleurs @aouiaa @zombholic @abbysfavewh0rx @lia-winther @grooviestcowboy @pretty-prrincess-13 @iwillkilyou @erinsdeluluworld @elliens4 @totallyghostdgirl @sirenbxby @bellaramslover @echostinn @uraesthete @cherrycolouredflunk @whorn3y @thatonementallyillsimp @elliewilliamsmunch

(striked text means i couldn’t tag sorry!!)

2023 © atomicami | all rights reserved. do not copy, modify, or translate any of my works.

[thegnomelord]

Alright since 28 is taken Ill do the next best thing 29! Graves and his shadows with M reader, who is a colonel.

I need the wholesome and maybe a bit of the spice ya know. Thank you for soing Shadow company content, i am so starved.

Once again good soup!

Here you go dude, I'm not the best when it comes to writing for a group of people so idk how this turned out :/. Play the game HERE

Prompt: Hug from behind

CW: NSFW, subbot Graves, domtop Mreader, Shadow company fluff, hug from behind, fluff, groping, handjob, cumming in pants.

Being a colonel in the Shadow company and Grave's right hand man, you had a lot of responsibilities. From running drills to stitching up wounds to writing reports and drafting contracts when your magpie of a commander sees a new person he wants to recruit; you expected to deal with a lot of shit, but never in your wildest dreams did you expect to become the Shadow Company's emotional support Colonel.

Colonel Care Bear — it was their nickname for you. You'd made the mistake of being annoyed at the name which, of course, made the little fuckers double down on it. Nothing you did made them stop, even Graves joining in their fun and calling you that instead of your name with a smug grin.

You're not even sure when or why it had started.

It wasn't like you were overly paternal, you just took care of your soldiers. In whatever ways they needed you; The first time you'd needed to give emotional support had been after Jenkins had lost his battle buddy. Jenkins was still relatively young compared to the other Shadows, a rising star that Graves had snatched up, but on the flight back to base he'd been no better than a scared kitten, desperately trying to hold in his sobs. You hadn't said a word when you had pulled him close to you, letting him cry his heart out into your shoulder.

None of the others said a word either, and you didn't bring it up after your plane had landed. You'd expected it to be a one off experience but oh — you were so wrong.

Like feral cats learning to trust a human, the Shadows started approaching you, carefully at first, standing just at the edge of your personal space nervous fingers toying with the hem of their shirts and eyes flickering between you and anything else, until you grew annoyed and pulled them close to you, letting them cry or talk or just sit with their head on your shoulder for as long as they needed; a lighthouse in a dark sea.

Then Williams, who'd had one too many bad missions, had come into your office without a word and plopped himself into your lap while you were busy doing paperwork.

You were surprised, but not too much, with how often you'd found yourself with a Shadow near you you figured something like this was bound to happen. Though you hadn't expected it to be this forward. "Bad day?" You asked.

Williams just grunted into your neck, slightly nodding his head.

You shifted to still be able to write with him in your lap. "Want me to talk?"

You felt his hair scratch your neck when he shook his head, a negative grunt leaving his throat.

"Got it." You said and went back to your work, a hand on William's hip to keep him stable.

Safe to say you weren't amused when Graves had walked in and cracked the biggest bloody smirk when he saw you like that. You were even less amused when he'd whipped out his phone and took a photo of it. And you were ready to piss in Grave's beer after that photo had circulated through the entire Shadow Company, leading to many more similar incidents of a Shadow crawling into your lap when you weren't busy.

It really wasn't their fault your embrace just felt so good and comfortable, your arms perfectly sized and muscled to put weight in your hugs, shoulders just broad enough to make them feel small and safe.

Graves knew this because when he'd needed to confiscate Smith's phone after he'd caught him taking pictures of your ass (not that he blamed him, you had a nice ass but they needed to have some professionalism) Graves had found their simp chat.

It took him days to finish reading all the messages. I mean there were hundreds of texts gushing just over you, calendrer times for when which Shadow could go bother you for attention, not to mention the countless pictures they'd taken of you, from mundane to more suggestive when you were in the communal showers (Graves would die before he admitted he'd needed to rub one out at some of the pictures).

Safe to say that when he gave Smith his phone back Graves was. . .curious. He'd never approached you for comfort like the Shadows did, mostly because he knew he couldn't keep his thoughts pure after just a few minutes in your presence, his throat going dry whenever he feels you pat his shoulder when you pass in the hall.

"Care Bear!" Graves calls when he finds you on your way to your room, using that name just so he can see the irritated twitch of your brow.

"Yes commander?" You ask in that same tone of voice you use when you know he's up to something.

"Oh come on, no need for that." Graves grins, "Ah just need you to do something for me," He says, because he wouldn't be your commander if he was straightforward. "Follow along." He motions with his hand like a dog as he passes you.

Like a dog you follow, so close you cast a partial shadow over him. He leads you to a more secluded hallway, stopping abruptly and hearing you stop too. But you're not close enough, so with an annoyed sigh he says "Come closer."

You raise an eyebrow but do as he says, taking a few short steps closer until your chest is almost touching his back. Without a word Graves suddenly grabs your arms and wraps them around his waist, leaning back on his heels until his back is flush with your chest and you're supporting his weight.

You stall for a few moments just trying to convince your head that yes, your commander is doing that. "Really?" You ask.

He tilts his head to meet your eyes, casually resting his head on your shoulder. "Something the matter Colonel Care bear?" He smirks, reminding you of a very content cat.

You give him a blank look before rolling your eyes, "Could have just said you wanted a hug." You huff and move your arms to really hug him, your hands resting comfortably on his hips, your arms caging him in, the heat of your body seeping into his, your chest rumbling as you mutter your annoyance at the damn nickname.

"What fun would that be?" He says, eyes closing.

And, Hell, Graves gets it now.

He could get addicted this. Your scent and cologne clogs his nose, the heat of your body chasing away the lingering chill of the base. You support his weight so easily it's like he's floating on a firm cloud, forgetting about ranks and war and everything for a few blissful seconds. His mind wanders; wonders what it would feel to have your strong arms pin him every day, what it'd be like to be pinned down, the current gentle pressure turned bruising and demanding, bending him in half and shit— he's hard.

And of course you notice, wouldn't be his right hand if you couldn't read him like a book. "I'm getting the impression," You note, your grip increasing just a bit to keep him still, your other hand skirting down. "That you wanted something more than just a hug." You growl and squeeze your hand, groping the bulge in his jeans.

"Shit—" Graves sucks in a breath, legs scrambling for purchase but you hold him still, his weight still on you. "—I wasn't thinking of nothing." He says quickly, the pressure of your hand on his clothed cock too good.

"Uh huh," You hum, keeping a careful eye on his facial expressions as you experimentally move your hand; Short slow brushes of your thumb against his cockhead earn you little whimpers, unable to hide them with his head still resting on your shoulder. Firm squeezes of his entire bulge has his skin turning a nice shade of pink, his ear hot beneath your tongue as you nibble on it. His thighs part as you bully your hand lower, the strong pressure of your fingers against his balls as your palm grinds into his cockhead making him moan, the stuttered attempts at explaining himself dying out as a visible damp spot grows in his jeans.

"Faster-" Graves growls, his hands grabbing purchase in your hair, yanking your head down into a rough kiss, "-mhh, faster, fuck, man-"

You smirk against his lips. "Ask me nicely." You say, purposely pulling your hand away from where he needs it the most, ignoring his disgruntled sounds. "You son of a bitch-" Graves snarls, breathing rapidly in an attempt to get his frazzled brain to work before swallowing his pride. "Please," He says it like the word hurts him.

"Please what commander?" You wonder, undoing his belt and slipping your hand into his jeans, "Please touch my cock? Please get me off? Please fuck me till I can't walk?" You throw suggestions, applying just enough pressure on his twitching cock to leave him dumbly nodding his head.

"Yes, yes, yes- oh fuck- shit yes-" Phill pants, eyes closing and weakly thrusting his hips into your hand with what leverage he has, seeking out the pleasure that comes with your calloused hand stroking his sensitive flesh. "Fuck- just, ahh-" He breathes in through clenched teeth, "-just please."

"Alright, alright," You hum, increasing your pace, the glide of skin on skin eased by the precum he's leaking, swallowing his little moans and rough grunts as you kiss him. You can tell he's nearing his end with how he begins twitching even more in your hold, hips pushing into your hand sporadically, fat tears prickling his eyes. "Come on then Commander, cum already."

He does almost as soon as you tell him to, his moan swallowed down by your lips as he cums in his pants, your thumb rubbing insistently on his tip to milk him of all he's got, strong arm keeping him close to you.

"You did good commander." You coo gently as you pull your hand out of his pants, and without waiting for a response you push your cum covered fingers into his open mouth. "Real good," You smirk when Phill immediately sucks on your fingers, his brain melted into mush and incapable of rousing his pride to feel ashamed of how he moans at the taste of his own spend. "Such a good boy," Your praise does something to him, has his cock making a valiant attempt to get hard all over again.

The air leaves his lungs when you suddenly push your hips against his ass, making him feel your own hard cock trapped in your pants. "I took care of you," You begin, pulling your fingers from his mouth. "Are you prepared to take care of me?"

[daisyblog]

Birthday Twin

Our Story Masterlist Summary: YN and Harry welcome their baby girl into the world.

Warning: labour, delivery, child birth, gas and air

11th of April 2024

35 weeks and 5 days pregnant

The Tomlinson family had all travelled to Doncaster for a few days of celebrating YN turning thirty. 

“Your last couple of days of being twenty nine Kiddo!”. Louis gently ruffled YN’s hair as he walked by her in their grandparents kitchen. Both filling their plates with some more food from the buffet spread their Nan had made. 

“Don’t remind me!” YN groaned as she reached over and put some extra sandwiches on her plate. 

“Fookin’ ‘ell, is baby girl hungry tonight?”. Louis joked as he watched his sister continue to fill her plate that was already slightly full of food. 

YN laughed as she looked at her plate compared to Louis. “Your niece is a foodie, what can I say?”. She naturally ran her hand over her large bump. 

“Can I?” Louis gestured towards her tummy, his way of asking if he could touch. When YN nodded, Louis placed his hand over bump. “‘ello little one, are you gonna come and meet us soon?”. 

“You’re going to spoil her rotten aren’t you?”. YN couldn’t help but smile at the small interaction. She had witnessed her brother as a brother, dad and uncle already and she could tell how much love he already had for her little girl. 

“Uh obviously, I just hope she comes before tour starts again.” 

---

12th of April 2024

35 weeks 6 days pregnant 

8:30am

YN suddenly woke from small niggles in her lower stomach, something she had been experiencing for a few weeks. She tried to ignore the dull ache and go back to sleep, but after tossing and turning, she gave in and got up. 

As she entered the kitchen she noticed her grandmother sitting at the table with a cup of tea in her hand. “Morning my love, you’re awake early!”. 

YN began to make herself a cup of tea, as she sat beside Jen. “Morning Nan, yeah braxton hicks again!”. 

“You’ve been having them a lot haven’t you darling?”. Jen had a concerned look on her face as she watched her eldest granddaughter stir her tea. 

YN only shrugged her shoulders. “Apparently it’s normal at this stage, I just didn’t realise how painful they could be”. 

11:00am

As the morning went on YN noticed how the niggles only continued and become a tad more painful. But not wanting to draw attention or to cause everyone to worry, especially Harry, she suggested her and Harry take Teddy for a walk.

They were walking through the quiet field, Teddy running just a bit in front of them, when YN stopped suddenly and held her tummy as a sharp pain caught her off guard.

“What’s wrong babe? Are you alright?” Harry immediately went into panic mode, worry evident all over his face. His hand protectively wrapped around her smaller frame. 

“Yeah, just cramp that’s all”. YN noticed Harry’s worried look, his eyebrows in a tight frown and tried her best to hide how much pain she was really in. “I’m fine, it’s braxton hicks again.”. 

Although Harry wasn’t fully convinced, they continued their walk before heading back to the house. 

2:00pm 

Within a few hours, the pain had gotten worse with YN baring her weight on anyone or anything to try and ease the pain. It was when YN cried out in pain, as she grabbed onto Louis’ hand, that Harry decided to take matters into his own hands. 

“I’m phoning the hospital, this can’t just be braxton hicks!” Harry announced as he began to dial the number on his phone. 

“Harry’s right Tiny, you’re in far too much pain for this not to be real labour”. Louis agreed with Harry, taking note at how much his sister was squeezing his hand. 

After phoning the hospital and explaining everything to the midwife, Harry was told that it sounded like YN was in early labour and they needed to monitor and time how quick she was having contractions. 

At this news Daisy, Phoebe and the other men decided to take Lucky and Olive to Phoebe and Jack’s house to give YN some space before she had to go to hospital. 

“Ahhhh!” YN cried out in pain as she held onto Harry for support. “This hurts so fookin’ much!”.

Harry rubbed circles on YN’s back, trying to comfort her as much as he could. “I know baby…but you’re doing so well.”.

“You’re doing so well YN”. Lottie praised her sister from where she sat next to Louis. “All the pain is worth it in the end, trust me”.

“Lottie’s right Tiny…just think you’ll be holding your baby sooner than you thought”. Louis gave Harry a small smile, knowing how special that moment will be for them both. 

5:30pm

With her contractions lasting around a minute and only being five minutes apart, YN found herself in the hospital with gas and air being her new best friend. 

YN was lying down on the bed, the gas and air attachment in her mouth as she breathed through another contraction. Harry sat on one side of the bed telling her how proud of her he was and saying how it wouldn’t be long until their little one would be here. 

“Harry…baby…I can’t do this!”. YN’s head hit the white plump pillow behind her, as the contraction ended. “I’m so tired already.”.

“You can do it and you are doing it”. Harry brushed some of her away from her face. “You’re making me so proud!”. 

“YN, you’re doing amazing and just remember nothing worth having is easy”. Lottie encouraged her sister, having been through labour and birth herself, she what to say. 

“Listen to your birthing partners YN, you’re doing amazing”. The midwife smiled proudly at how supportive and calm they both were. “How about trying to the birthing pool?”. 

Harry helped YN into the pool and instantly YN’s once tense body was now relaxed. In between contractions she began to make jokes about how she’s glad she had shaved her legs before that day. 

When the next contraction hit, Harry was quick to kneel down beside the pool and hold onto YN’s hand as she took in the gas and air to numb the pain. “That’s it, keep breathing through the pain, you’re doing so well love”. 

8:00pm

“So how did you two meet?”. The midwife began to make conversation with the couple as another contraction ended.

YN was back sitting on the bed, the attachment still in her hand whilst her other one held Harry’s. “He was my brother’s best friend”.

“Oh how interesting!” The midwife leaned forward in her chair, eager to hear more. “How did that go? You know breaking the news to him?”.

“Not well but he came around pretty quickly”. Harry explained as YN worked her way through another sharp pain. 

“I wouldn’t have listened even if he didn’t come around”. YN allowed the gas and air to do a little bit of talking. “Couldn’t resist the charm”. 

Before anyone could respond, a gush of water surrounded YN and turned the blue sheet below a darker shade. “And that’s your water breaking!” The midwife announced before she helps YN to clean herself up. 

11:45pm

The contractions were coming thick and fast, YN was attached to the gas and air more than ever and Harry tried to hide how hard she was squeezing his hand. 

“YN I’m going to exam you, is that alright darling?”. The midwife stood at the bottom on the bed, gloves covering her fingers ready for the examination. With YN’s permission, the midwife began to see how far YN was dilated. “Oh darling, I can feel baby’s head, do you feel like you-“.

Before the midwife finished; YN let out a small groan as she bore down and began to push. Harry was overwhelmed with joy, excitement but also nervousness that any minute now their whole world was about to change. 

“Keep listening to your body YN, you’re doing amazing my darling” the midwife encouraged as she continued to watch the baby’s head begin to crown. 

“Aww I can see her head!”. Lottie’s excited voice could be heard as she took in every moment of watching her niece being born. 

YN took a rest in between contractions before she needed to push again. “I love you  “. Harry placed a peck to YN’s forehead. 

“I love you too!”. 

0:01am

After several more pushes, Harry and Lottie were in awe as the tiny little baby appeared and was placed on YN’s bear chest. The tears streamed down YN and Harry’s cheeks. 

“Hello baby girl!”. YN held her daughter tight, and kissed her head gently. Despite all the pain YN was still in, a large smile covered her face as she looked down at the small version of herself and Harry.

“Baby girl born one minute past midnight on the thirteen of April, weighting six pound exactly”. The midwife announced to the three of them. 

Harry smiled down at his wife and newborn daughter. “Happy birthday baby!”. It was in that moment that YN had realised that their little girl was born on her thirtieth birthday. 

---

13th of April 2024

6 hours old

“Thank you.” Harry spoke into the quiet and calm room as he held their newborn in his bare arms. “You’re a real life superwoman for doing all that and bringing our girl into the world!”.

“I’d do it a thousand times again because she was totally worth it”. YN watched as Harry’s hand held onto the tiny newborn fingers. “I couldn’t have done it without you or Lotts though.”.

“She’s your double”. Harry smiled as he observed the little’s one features, all resembling her mother’s. “She looks like your Mum too!”. He gave YN a sad smile. 

YN didn’t want to get too emotional at the thought that her Mum wasn’t there to meet her daughter, so she tried to remain positive. “I think me Mum sent her as a birthday gift and it’s the best gift I’ve ever had”. 

---

Instagram Reel:

Made by Lottie

The black and white video begins, the sound of Heartbeat by James Arthur playing over it. 

YN is sat on the birthing ball, her hips moving slowly, in her grandparents living room. Harry kneeling down in front of her, holding her gently and whispering how well she’s doing. Louis is sat to her side, holding onto her hand and being a support whilst he can. 

In the hospital corridor, YN has her neck tucked into Harry’s chest as they stop to allow her to breathe through a contraction. Harry places small pecks to the top of her head. 

Sitting crossed leg on the bed, YN takes in the gas and air that she’s holding up to her mouth. Her eyes are closed as she’s breathing through each contraction. 

YN is in the birthing pool, the gas and air still attached to her hand has she takes in another breath, Harry is kneeling down by her side. She holds onto his hand, he looks on with a slight frown on his face as he watches his wife work through another contraction. 

Now lying on the bed, YN cradles her new born daughter to her chest, tears running down her and Harry’s face as they meet their little baby for the first time. Grace Johannah Robyn Styles had stolen their hearts and YN couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift. 

---

ynstyles

liked by annetwist, lottietomlinson, and 5,634,543 others

ynstyles Grace Johannah Robyn Styles🤍 View all 15,788 comments

niallhoran Aww my little bestie❤️Can’t wait to meet her xx ⌞ ynstyles Little Grace is excited to meet her Uncle Niall!!

gemmastyles I’M AN AUNTIE🥰❤️Thank you both for blessing me with the most beautiful niece xx ⌞ynstyles AUNTIE GEM🩷

annetwist My family grows and my heart is so full❤️Congratulations my darlings! Grace is a beautiful little girl and I love you all very much xxx ⌞ynstyles We love you😘🥰Thank you for being the best Grandma already❤️

lottietomlinson Our beautiful Grace!! What a magical moment watching her come into the world. Love you all ❤️ ⌞ynstyles Thank you for being there every step of the way Lotts!! I’m so glad I got to share that special moment with you. Love you lots🩷

louist91 Can’t wait for more cuddles!! Proud of you both!! Grace is amazing!!xx ⌞ynstyles Grace loved her snuggles with Uncle Lou xxx ⌞harryfan3 Uncle Louis🥹 ⌞louisfan7 I bet Louis is the best uncle!!!!

zayn congrats guys! So happy for you. Big love x ⌞ynstyles Thanks Z! Hope to see you soon xx ⌞1dfan6 OMG!!! WE’RE GETTING A REUNION!

louteasdale 🥹🥹🥹Congratulations babes, can’t wait for a cuddle xx

liampayne Congratulations both. Can’t wait to meet her!

the.daisytomlinson Another precious niece to love🩷 So proud of you sis xx

thephoebetomlinson Olive’s little bestie🩷🩷

marktommo1111 Beyond proud❤️Another chapter begins!xx

mrlewisburton Congratulations to both of you. Welcome to parenthood❤️

sallietommo A precious baby girl! So proud of you beautiful girl❤️❤️❤️

perrieedwards Congratulations babes🩷Welcome to motherhood xx

pillowpersonpp Wow! What a cutie🥹

daniellepeazer Beautiful name🤍Can’t wait to meet her☺️

ryan.viggars ❤️

jefezoff Congrats guys! Very happy for you both!

j_corden A huge congratulations. Can’t wait to meet the little one

jack.varley7 Congrats guys!!

brianasrealaccount Congratulations Auntie YN and Uncle Harry. I can’t wait to meet baby Grace. I love you so much, love from Freddie❤️ ⌞ynstyles We can’t wait to see you Fred! Grace can’t wait for cuddles from her big cousin. Love and miss you soooooo much😘

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