#constantly stares at him & softens his voice when talking to him

[theninth09]

still think making theo watch liam and hayden kiss was an.. Interesting decision. especially bc hes the only one present in both instances. like what was the reason for that if not to make him look gay and jealous..

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

Currently rewatching cm rn and i saw that you requests are open and i honestly love your blog and your writing so i decided to make a request.So i was thinking,spencer is in jail and when reader goes to see him she tells him that she’s pregnant (yk that scene where jj shows him henry draw?Instead is reader showing him the ultrasound)sorry if this doesn’t make any sense,hope you have a great night/day🩷🫶🏻

i was trying to find that scene you were talking about but couldn’t, but i get what you mean. liaison!fem reader

spencer was being framed and you haven’t seen him in a month. the team kept work on his case while dealing with the active ones, whenever there was a spare moment you’d look over the files collected and try to see if something might stick out to you. you weren’t a seasoned profiler, but you’ve been around them for ten years that bits and pieces get picked up.

you needed spencer, you needed his arms wrapped around you so you could sleep soundly. you needed his random facts so you could always ask him more questions. you needed his sweet kisses and delicate hands leaving you dreamy and breathless.

you needed your husband so you didn’t have to raise your child alone. a palm rubbed over your small bump, one of spencer’s sleep shirts swallowing your figure. “i’m gonna bring daddy home. don’t worry.” whispering choked as you were hunched at your dining table with the scattered files staring up at you.

tomorrow was your day to visit spencer. you’ll bring the ultrasound picture with you so he could maybe sneak it onto his person. you wanted to give him another reason to keep himself safe as the days tick by.

there were many different families in the visiting room, young children were even sat at the cold metal tables. your knee kept bouncing from anxiety and your fingers held onto small photo, you tried not to bend or curl it.

you perked up when one by one, inmates were escorted to their tables. the officers reminding everyone, “no physical touch from inmate or visitor.” you took a shaky exhale when spencer’s tall figure entered the room, he looked unharmed.

he sat down across from you, his messy curls starting to grow longer. “hi honey,” eyes getting watery at the forced separation. spencer’s smile wobbled, “hi love.”

“i- i brought you some news, it’s not for the- the case. but it’s good news.” you slowly placed the photo on the table and slid it towards spencer then pulled back, just feeling his fleeting warmth as he pulled the paper closer.

he stared down at it, mouth slightly agape. “is- is this real?” he asked quietly. his eyes looked to you and you nodded with a few tears sliding down your cheeks, “i’m three months along.”

spencer licked his lips then dragged his palms down his face, “holy shit.” you heard his whisper. you stuffed your hands under your thighs, “are- are you happy?” voice cracked on the word happy.

spencer was quick to snap his eyes to you, his eyes softening and brows pinching. he started to reach a hand out, but pulled it back to the photo. “of course. this is the best thing to happen to us, i’m just- i’m just worried. emily said it might be awhile and im worried that i’ll miss so much with you and the baby, they might not even know who i am when i’m released.”

you didn’t want to get his hopes up, you didn’t want to get your hopes up. “we’re working on it twenty four seven. it shouldn’t be long before you’re free, and i always play the recording of your ted talks or lectures when i go to sleep. it calms both of us.”

you always made sure to talk about spencer with your growing fetus. making sure you constantly remind them, “your daddy loves you. he’s just somewhere for the time being, but he’ll be home soon.”

the guards reappeared and told everyone their time was up. “keep it,” you jerked your chin at the photo. spencer quickly slipped it into his uniform pocket and stood from the table, hesitating for a moment. “i love you. i love you both.” he said before leaving the room.

[thesilmarillionblog]

𝗪𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘

Summary: In the hopes that things would improve between you, you choose to lose your virginity to your friend Dean Winchester because you have been in love with him madly for a long time. However, he doesn't feel the same about you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Warnings: +18 (MINORS DNI) smut, virgin reader!, unrequited love, heavy angst, reader gets hurt, kinda friends with benefits, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, fingering, language

Word Count: 7216

A/N: English is not my first language.

Song: 'Waste' by Kxllswxtch.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he treated your wounded hand; you smiled a little to yourself as he talked about how you sometimes behaved recklessly. If only he knew how much you cherished the moments when he protected you during a hunt.

You had been with him and Sam for a year now, and it was difficult to resist falling in love with him. You weren't sure when you fell in love with him, but you sensed it from the moment he smiled at you, or maybe in a random moment. Every time you glanced into his green eyes, you felt a sense of admiration. You had absolutely no complaints. 

He complained as he was working to treat your wound, “You must know, I will consider kicking you out of the team if you keep acting like that.”

It began to rain in your house's weak light. Your heart was filled with fright as he took care of your wound in your house, where you were alone, and it seemed so calm; you were afraid of losing that precious, fragile time with Dean, not of ghosts. You weren't afraid of ghosts. 

You asked naively, as if you had no idea what he was talking about, “Like what?” When he grabbed your hand too tightly unintentionally, and that sudden moment hurt you a bit, you attempted to draw it in toward yourself with a pained gasp. 

With a look of regret on his face, you looked at him with understanding. 

“When I tell you to get behind me, you must do what I say, or when I tell you to stop, you must stop.”

“Remember the previous case in point,” you sighed. “If I did what you told me, we'd both be dead.” You looked up to see how he was feeling. 

“It was only a single exception,” Dean immediately defended himself, rolling his eyes at you. 

“However, if I had listened to you, I would have been killed. You too,” you mutely remarked. You weren't attempting to put the blame on him. You were aware that he was guarding Sam and you constantly. You dropped your eyes to your eyes as he looked at you, feeling instantly overwhelmed and overpowered by his piercing stare. “I promise that when I go hunting, I'm not being careless. I truly listen to you, but you must have some degree of faith in me. Since I joined you and Sam months ago, I'm convinced he has more faith in me.”

You wanted Dean to think highly of you, someone whom he could always trust, just as you trusted him with your life. You wanted him to trust you, your strength, and your feelings. Even if you were quite successful, you felt that he still seemed to be unsure about you.

This time, instead of cracking one of his jokes to lighten the mood, he seemed to be deep in focus. When he appeared so confused and like he was in pain on the inside, you wondered what exactly he was thinking. Though you didn't think you could stop him from ruminating at that moment, you still wanted to help him if he was in pain, calm him down if he was feeling anxious, and comfort him if he was feeling uneasy. 

The sense of worthlessness was an emotion you wanted to stay away from. 

When he noticed that you weren't as happy as you had been minutes before, he stated in a dry voice, “I don't want you to get killed or hurt because of me. I do trust you, but you have to stop acting reckless and try to save me by endangering yourself.”

“I wasn't putting myself at risk. You're exaggerating,” you said as you continued to examine his hands while he continued to take care of your wounded hand. 

“You're very stubborn, aren't you?” In an attempt to soften the thick air, Dean smiled back weakly. 

You chuckled and tried to catch his gaze by raising your head as you drew nearer and moved on to where you were sitting. “But Sam thinks I'm the easiest one to get along with and easiest to persuade,” you said. 

Dean winked at you suspiciously and said, “Hey, I guess you were right about something.”

“About what?” 

“He's dumb when it comes to reading people, huh?” 

You muttered, “Asshole,” and gave him a little leg kick. It made him laugh, which made you joyful. 

Dean let go of your hand, gave you a long, odd smile, and checked his watch after making sure you were okay and being well taken care of. You could feel the joy leave your body when you realized he wasn't going to stay or anything. You had no idea how to get him to stay with you, at least for a day, at your home. Still, he was always on the move. It's fortunate that he didn't hear how quickly your heart was beating, how much you wanted his touch, and everything else.

You said in a hushed tone, as if you didn't give a damn whether he said ‘yes,’ but you cared like crazy. “You can spend the night in here if you wish.”

“I think I have other plans for tonight,” he remarked, flashing you his adorable grin and a wink. “We move so much throughout the day. The town must have missed me.”

You chuckled slightly and said, "By whom exactly, Mr. Loverman?” You noticed that the rain was falling more quickly through the glass. 

Dean gave you a haughty look and stated, “By ladies, of course,” which made you jealous, but you didn't want to show it to him and ruin your friendship.

Playing with the fabric of your sweatpants, you said, “Boys. They come and go.” You attempted to ignore the vivid images of Dean with other women that were playing out in your head. It was unavoidable, but you didn't want to get jealous and mess up everything. “New ones appear all the time. Don't be worried about the women who missed you.” 

He smiled and replied, “You're a smartass, aren't you?” You felt encouraged to continue since he didn't appear to be offended or anything.

“And you're overconfident in yourself. Have you yet to be rejected by someone? Not even once?” You said it inquisitively. 

“Just once,” Dean remarked humorously. It eluded you whether he was being serious or joking. At times, it was difficult to understand him.

You tried to chuckle as you remarked, “Must be fun.”  You sounded like you were going to choke though.

Dean spoke for a little while before attempting to get up and leave your home, but the electricity unexpectedly cut off, leaving you gasping in surprise. You backed away from him with a shy grin, not because you were afraid, just because you realized you had touched his knee. 

You said, “Ah, it doesn't look like the rain is going to stop soon,” and to your relief, he sat back on the seat. As it was pouring heavily, you expressed your gratitude to God and Michael for their generosity and compassion, which you felt had come once in a lifetime.

At least once, you prayed that night's rain would never cease so Dean wouldn't go. 

"Yeah," he said in a dry voice. It was your hope that he wouldn't feel stuck with you and let down. Dean was aware that although you weren't terrified of ghosts, you were fearful of being alone yourself in the dark. “Do you want me to light a candle?”

You timidly replied, “I guess I don't have any.”

“All right.”

“Are you still planning to leave or spend the night?” You tried not to seem enthusiastic as you asked, but with anticipation. You hoped that his ability to read your face in the dark would be poor.

“I suppose it's best if I stay with you. You're a lovely young girl who, in the end, is more terrified of the dark than ghosts. As a gentleman,” he murmured, moving to a more comfortable position on the coach. “It's my responsibility to protect and repay you tonight, don't I?”

You laughed as though he had made a joke, but in reality, you were only finding it difficult to hide your happiness at his answer that he would stay. The angels seemed to fill your heart with such incredible bliss. If it would force him to spend his time with you in that manner, you may put yourself at ongoing risk. You wished he understood how much you valued each and every word he said.

“How about you, though?” Dean asked out of the blue. Although his face was concealing himself in the darkness, you could tell by the tone of his words that he was perplexed. 

You asked, perplexed, not understanding what he was talking about, “What about me?”

“I haven't seen you with...someone in a long time since you joined us,” he said. You may argue that he spoke slowly in order to carefully select his words so as not to offend you or cause you distress. “Actually, I've never seen you with someone nor heard you talking about anyone.” 

You attempted to give him a confident smile, but all you managed to do was give him off an odd look. “Uhm,” you stammered out while attempting to think of anything to say without looking foolish. “Those hunts are challenging and exhausting.” You attempted to explain to him, “I'm not interested in seeing someone right now, and I can't find time for myself.” You were hoping he wouldn't dig too much.

You weren’t the best when it came to lying. 

As if he wasn't okay with your explanation, he grumbled, “We've been staying here for a month, and we are not even that busy.”

You wouldn't tell Dean that you were an inexperienced one in your mid-20s, as you knew he was very skilled with women. You just could not possibly make yourself look so foolish in front of him. You were unsure what he would think about you. Definitely, it was best to remain silent.

You said, “I'm just not interested and feel like I have no time for anyone,” trying not to sound like lying. Although it wasn't a total lie, how in the world could you admit that you were truly interested in someone, him, and that's the reason you weren't interested in anybody else?

You wanted he could read the words on your lips and your voice so you wouldn't have been trying so hard to explain things to him while hiding yourself away from him for so long.

Love was something that both wanted to be hidden and to be revealed. It was complicated and bizarre.

Dean finally responded, “You're right, actually,” after giving you a long stare. “You should avoid things that might distract the focus of your attention. Men might easily split your soft and lovely heart in half.”

You asked, irritated, “Why do you say that?” You always believed that since you avoided people so well, nobody would ever consider hurting you or anything like that.

As he moved a little closer to you, Dean smirked and remarked, “Like you say,” which made you tense. You couldn't see him well, but his smile was joyful. Before continuing, he arched an eyebrow and nibbled his bottom lip. “I'm ladies' man. I read women really well, and you're easy to see through.”

You said to him, “You really are a ladies' man. But I'd say you are illiterate.” 

Dean gave you a small chuckle and made the decision not to push you too far or make you feel more shy. And anyhow, he wouldn't allow you to talk about males, not right now. You did not require guidance since you did well on your own. “Hey, I see that you’re a little sharp today. After taking care of your wounded hand, I made the decision to spend the night with you and look how you treat me. You're being ungrateful.”

He made a false furious look at you, and you couldn't stop laughing. “You do realize, though, that I have once again saved your ass. I'm beginning to feel like you must repay me for acting as your guard. Like an angel.” You gave him a little smile and added, “That means something, right?”

Dean said, “It does,” with the same lighthearted tone as you, his eyes examining your face up close in the dark as your smile slowly faded from the corners of your lips.

You gasped in surprise and fright when an unexpected lightning strike struck with such force it seemed like the sky had been split in half. Dean laughed, seeing as how you really jumped on the coach. 

“I can't believe you're not afraid of ghosts, witches and all, but just some raindrops,” he stated in astonishment. Your pulse beat like crazy when you felt his breath close to you, but Dean probably assumed it was because you were frightened.

Both of your arms and legs touched, but you tried not to react. “I'm not afraid of rainy weather or something,” you replied. “It's normal to be jumpy when an unexpected noise like lightning appears.”

In an attempt to annoy you, Dean said in a persuasive voice, “It was just simple lightning. Many things might come as unexpected. You can't always get scared.”

You said, “Like what things?” as if in plea. 

You stared at his wonderfully shaped lips in the darkness as he spoke in a whisper. Your lips felt so dry that you wanted to lick them. Although you hoped he didn't notice, at that point you weren't really worried. Yes, you were a virgin with no prior experience, and you were very determined to keep your body and mind closed off to others, but things seemed different when you met Dean. It wasn't that you were old-fashioned-minded; you just wanted to be with someone you cared for, someone you loved. 

You were aware that the desire to be near him was more than simply passion; you wanted to touch his face, jaw, hair, and every other part of him. Your soul yearned to be near him desperately. 

Dean failed to notice when another lightning strike made you jump. It wasn't the finest moment for him to think clearly. There was always something enjoyable to do. Given that you've known each other for a while and that it must have been a while since you allowed someone to touch you, it seemed appropriate to blow off steam with each other. It was, after all, a difficult and somewhat tiresome a few hours earlier. 

Just when you thought you were going to pass out, Dean suddenly captured your lips and began to give you an urgent, intense kiss. Yes, you were somewhat inexperienced, but at least you've had a kiss. Quite some time ago, indeed. You made an effort to calm down, returned his kisses with your best effort, let your racing thoughts disappear into the darkness, and gave yourself over to that single perfect moment. 

You sucked Dean's lower lip, and your fingers stroked his jaw as his skillful tongue dominated yours. He must have been encouraged by your response because he moaned a bit as he shoved you back on the coach and pushed you to lie under him. He kept giving you firm kisses throughout.

His muscular neck was stroked by your hands as you drew him in between your knees. You shuddered as he put his body between your legs. It was the realization that your body was missing something that you were unable to identify. Your entire body exuded passion and desire. It hurt to need Dean so much. You had no idea how you had been able to contain yourself for so long.

You were longing to touch him all over.

Dean moved his lips to your throat, allowing you to take a deep breath. You were unable to contain a giggle as he violently sucked on your neck and throat. You realized you were sensitive there.

“Don't keep those lovely noises from me. Are we not the only ones alone in here?” While he boldly touched your skin beneath your shirt, Dean whispered. Though you urged yourself to relax down a little, you felt like your heart would burst at any minute.

It was possible that he might back off if you revealed to him that you were a virgin. It was certain that he would. You attempted to pretend that you had experience too and that it had simply been a long time because he was just interested in hook-ups, and that's what you were going to go through. It hurt to admit it, but maybe things would change.

You never would have imagined that you would feel that way about Dean, and you refused to miss the opportunity to be with him by telling him you weren't deflowered just yet. All you had to do was appear bold and avoid raising suspicion with your awkwardness.

Your cheeks flushed red, but at least the room was completely dark, keeping your almost scared gaze and timid finger movements hidden from him.

Your hands gently slipped inside his t-shirt, touching every muscle in so as to savor it. Your breath quivered with anticipation as your palm brushed every part of him. You could never let someone else touch you in the same manner that Dean did. 

Dean's eyes were on you, and as he nibbled your lower lip, you urged him to remove his shirt. You could see he was smiling a little bit when he pulled it off. That you were prepared to go one step beyond thrilled him. 

You must have pushed your injured hand a little bit hard when you gasped in little pain after both of your hands reached his back and you enjoyed the feeling of his muscles beneath your palms. 

“Hey, be careful and take your time there. Remember that all you are is a wounded gazelle under my mercy. You’re a greedy one, aren’t you?” As he worked on your clothing, Dean said in amusement.

You moaned in surprise as one of his hands slipped into your shirt and gave you a strong grip on your nipple. “Maybe I am,” you murmured, almost laughing, but the noise you made turned into a moan. 

You made a little movement beneath him. It seemed as though your body needed something from you or him, but you were completely unaware of what was going on. All you knew was that you were desperate for Dean to do something. 

You gasped somewhat alarmed as your nipple hardened between his skilled fingertips. As he slid on top of you and played with your tits, you got excited more and more, assuming that he wanted this as much as you did. You thought for a moment that it was actually romantic considering it was all dark and raining like hell outside, like the whole heaven wanted you to be with him.

You nailed Dean's back with boldness, crushed your lips to his once more, kissing him with desire while trying your hardest not to show Dean how shy you were in fact. It relieved you to hear him groan a bit in your mouth. You moaned quietly into his lips as soon as his thumb started playing with your nipples once again. 

Dean moved quickly to help you remove your shirt by pulling back. You were shivering a little, but even though he was making your skin hot, you would have blamed the room's cool temperature if he had asked.

His lips made their way to your nipples, where he expertly sucked them with his tongue. Your back arched as his lips nibbled your breasts delicately, and you forgot about your envious thoughts about how many other women he had treated like this. This time, you were unable to stop your loud moan from filling the room. 

Dean gave both of your nipples little licks and a firm kiss after sucking your tits for many minutes, making them slippery with his spit, and making you cry out beneath his body. You didn't know how pleasurable it was to be with someone doing such things.You were aware that you were attempting to create friction by placing your leg on his hip. 

He whispered to your lips, “I bet you're fucking dripping there,” as his hands gently moved into your sweatpants. He was trying to see every expression on your face in the dark. His voice was rough as he asked, “Are you wet enough to take me?”

You managed to say something like “Hmm,” which is sufficient. “I think I am.” 

“We must be sure,” Dean remarked in a lighthearted manner. “Let's see.” 

Dean slid his fingers slowly inside your sweatpants. He was grinning a little over you when he heard your heartbeat. As you waited for what was going to happen, you gripped onto his shoulder.

His fingers touched your underwear, causing you to gasp in surprise as he gave you a soft touch. Every second, you felt like you were becoming wetter. You believed you might orgasm at any minute since your clit was so sensitive to him. You wanted more because of how ethereal and gentle his hands were. You needed to raise your hip to him and squeeze his bisceps in order to receive what your body craved. 

Satisfied, Dean moved your underwear aside as he watched you twitch under him in desperation. He rubbed your clit some more, then used two fingers to feel how wet you were. 

Dean kept pushing back on his groan. He said in surprise, “Fuck, I knew you'd be wet, but you are literally leaking there.” You had no idea whether or not it satisfied him. All you wanted to do was the right thing. Regardless of what it was. 

You lied when you said, “It's been very, very long,” since you had no idea what to say. The way he responded truly made you feel a little awkward. 

You felt better after sharing quick kisses on the lips with him. “Good,” was Dean's sharp reply. “How many times can I get you to come to me tonight? You deserve appropriate treatment in light of the effort you have been doing these last few months, you know. I must reward you.”

Encouraged, you had a blossoming sensation of bliss and anticipation in your chest. You wished that light would never return and that you and him would always be in the dark together in that very moment.

He touched you during hunts and other times to make jokes, but you didn't used to be physical like that. Watching him being intimate with other women except you was agonizing. But now you knew you could touch him whatever you pleased right now. Just like you imagined when you thought about him, you touched yourself. 

Dean palmed your moisture in his hand, causing you to both pant into each other's mouths. You felt a little uneasy as one of his fingers began to gently press into your entrance since you weren't sure if it would hurt that much or not. You just didn't tell him anything since you didn't want to spoil things. All you did was wait expectantly.

He said, “You're a tight one, aren't you?” as he kept his finger inside of you. You were glad Dean wasn't being swift with you. You withdrew your lips from biting and captured his, pushing him into doing what he needed or desired as well. 

Dean expected that you would be tight, but he didn't anticipate that level of tightness. He was taken aback by how tightly your walls clamped around his finger, and he couldn't help getting thrilled at the thought of feeling your cock around him. He was shivering with excitement coursing through his veins. 

You bit your lip hard in pain as he pressed his thick finger a little further. You didn't make any sound that might have stopped him. Dean would stop in an instant, you knew. 

He must have realized how uncomfortable you were, though, because he began to touch your clit more in an effort to prepare you to become accustomed to him and make you wet enough to take him. 

As he worked on your clit, he remarked, somewhat smirking, “It seems we need to get you ready for me; otherwise, it might be painful a bit for you.”

“I'm prepared. Really,” you said, lifting your hips in the course of action. “You can go on.”

Dean groaned a bit and pressed his finger inside again. He used extreme caution. You whimpered and attempted to make yourself quiet by stealing kisses from him to silence your whimpers. 

Dean withdrew his finger and then thrust it back, not allowing you to say something. His abrupt movement caused your lips to parted in pleasure and enthusiasm. Even though there was still some discomfort, it was soon overshadowed by pleasure and desire as he began to properly finger you. You grabbed onto his shoulders because your pussy hurt from yearning. You tried to put your groaning mouth into Dean's, but he wouldn't let you kiss him. 

You could not help but let a moan out in ecstasy as your back arched when he gently pushed another finger and began to fuck you with them. You made a valiant effort, but it was impossible to avoid coming so quickly and effortlessly.

Dean moaned, “Give it to me,” realizing that you were making it difficult to come. “Come to me now. You're almost there; I know that.”

As soon as your climax hit, Dean grabbed your lips and planted a passionate kiss on it as he touched your chin with one hand, allowing you to ride your pleasure in between moans. 

Your hips rose to get more pleasure as though you could, your back arched, and your walls clenched hard as you rode your climax. Dean's experienced tongue expertly dominated yours as he murmured into your lips. He withdrew to give you a bit of time, and while he did so, he studied your face in the darkness, as if he wanted to remember each and every shadow that passed across your skin in the flickering light. 

He was at a loss as to why he had never touched you before. For a while, at least, it felt pleasant enough to become sidetracked. 

Your cheeks became scarlet as your climax wore on, but you were itching to go one step more. For that, you were ready. For a long while, you had been ready to give Dean everything. 

If he asked, there was nothing you wouldn't give away. 

You planted a hesitant kiss on him to gauge his reaction before your shaky hands made contact with his legs and through his trousers. You could see more of his face as your eyes grew used to the gloom. Your hands became braver as you watched him smile, and boldness invaded your body and thoughts. The sexual experience shouldn't be difficult. Particularly with him.

Shortly after your hand briefly ran over his hardened cock through his trousers, your fingers somewhat slid into his boxer. You were taking your time to gauge his reaction. You were hoping he wouldn't say no, draw a line, or worse, end it up.

You yearned to offer him the same pleasure that he gave you.

In a weak but hopeful voice, you asked, “Can I touch you?”

With a charming chuckle, Dean added, “You can do whatever you like.” His voice carried expectation, which made you thrilled even more.

You reached out and stroked his erect cock, feeling that it was safe to go a step further and meet his gaze with yours. His sly smile vanished from his mouth as he stifled a moan and shifted on top of you, his hand still resting on your thighs and legs. 

He said, “It seems like you're cold,” as soon as you began to touch him. 

You retracted your icy hand in an ashamed attempt to mumble a “sorry,” but Dean reacted swiftly and put your hand back to his aching cock. 

He responded, “We'll get you warm,” and helped you put your hand around his cock to feel closer to him and to give you the confidence to continue. “Your hand feels so good around me.”

Driven by his words, you felt each vein on his cock and then circled your fingers around it to memorize him. You weren't familiar with his length or anything because you weren't an expert on male anatomy, but he was thick, so it was difficult to properly wrap your hands around him. You reasoned that it would be best to take some action to get him to come. 

You moved your hands and began to rub him, trying not to feel shy as you stared into his eyes. Your chest was rising with excitement, and your breathing was heavy. His gasping for air made you pleased and aroused; all you had to do was give him the same pleasure. 

Dean told you, “You're doing so good,” in between strokes. 

You inquired quietly, “Do you like it?”

“I really like it,” Dean said as he planted a kiss on your neck. He paused at your sweatpants and began to carefully lower them with his hands. 

Your hands were moving more quickly on him, and your heart was racing. He felt larger in your grip. He was nearly there. But Dean gently stopped you, pushing your hands aside and planting a kiss on your lips. You sensed that the big move was about to happen.

He saw you were becoming stiff as he assisted you in taking down your sweatpants and underwear, so he questioned you suspiciously, “Are you nervous?”

You lied once more while waiting for him to remove his clothing. “No, of course, not,” you said. When he removed his boxer, you could have practically felt the chills beneath you. You had everything you had on the floor. “It's just cold in here.”

“Trust me, you'll feel warm very soon,” said Dean confidently. His tone had hints of dedication. 

You shifted slightly beneath him to find a more comfortable position. Luckily, there was plenty of room in the coach. You put your hands on Dean's back, feeling his hardness on your stomach, and you waited for him to do something already. Though plainly aroused and moist, you were still a little anxious. You

didn't want to come seem as inexperienced, though. You wished for this to keep going. 

“I do trust you.” That was true at least. 

Dean believed you.

While you waited, he took his cock and gave himself two or three strokes. Witnessing him stroking himself got you even more aroused.

Dean positioned himself on your entrance, making you tense up a little, then brushed his hard cock on your clit after making sure you were both ready. But you were determined to see it through to the end. It was almost like a chance to win him over in a romantic way. Maybe.

He pressed the tip of his cock, and you laid your hands on his back and nailed him like crazy. He was able to slide inside you very easily because of how wet you were, yet it was still uncomfortable and painful.

You bit your lip to suppress your agonizing groans and not to make him stop, so as not to seem like a wounded animal or anything.

Dean groaned over you, “Fuck, you are really tight,” pausing just before pulling away. It was difficult for him to fit inside completely.

You whispered to him, embarrassed, “Sorry,” attempting to calm down and let him in.

“Just relax,” Dean said, taking another position. You nodded to him quickly. 

He again pushed his cock inside of you. This time, your pussy was around him tightly, drawing him within. He let out a sigh of delight at that. Your eyes welled up with tears as he withdrew and used a forceful motion to push himself forward. It was as though he was slicing you in two. Thankfully, he was unaware that a few tears had trickled down from your eyes onto the coach. However, you were unable to cease whimpering in pain. 

Dean sensed when you were ready and gave himself a single, full thrust. You nailed his belly and back and moaned in agony this time because of his harsh moment. 

You were no longer a virgin while you were lying beneath him. Even though the man you loved was unaware that you had given him something unique, you knew that no matter what happened, you would never regret it. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asked. He could not believe how tight you were. Your walls were drawing him in, constricting around him all the while. If he was less experienced, he would have come inside you as soon as he entered your pussy. 

“I am,” you urged him to continue, your voice quivering. “Just give me a moment, please.”

Dean gave you a kiss to help you relax. He saw that you were a bit anxious and that you needed to wet yourself a little more before you could handle him. He was sure sloppy kisses would be helpful.

Dean stepped back after a while and questioned, “Are you ready now?” You were clenching around him, and his patience was getting thin.

You nodded to him, and Dean retreated and pushed inside again without waiting another moment. The way he fucked you was rough and painful for you. You didn't complain though, even if it was hard to get used to his size and pace in such a short amount of time. He moved slowly at first, but as you got wetter beneath him, he accelerated his pace.

Dean moaned, “You're taking me so well,” while fucking you in a rough way. His delighted tone and praises made your heart sing. “I like how tight you are.”

You only said, "For you." His compliments caused the anguish to become joy, and this time you didn't suppress your moans. You had no idea that you would enjoy this so much. 

“Oh yeah?” he said, teasing as he whispered into your neck, picking up speed. “You sound so sweet. Do you like the way I fuck you? I should have fucked your lovely tight cunt sooner.”

Your face turned red the moment he spoke dirty words into your ear. They were about how much he liked fucking you everything else. The whole room was filled with sloppy and obscene sounds that made you blush with shyness. You were becoming even more excited at the sound of his heavy balls hitting your pussy. You began to tighten up around him. Although you were trying to hold back to extend the moment, you were getting close. 

“This won't take long,” he groaned, getting his fingers tense around your flesh. It was difficult for Dean to control himself. You were tightening around him, whimpering beneath him. “Come to me. Come now!”

When Dean moved around a little inside of you, he started to fuck you harder and find your sensitive spot. With a groan, “Take it. Come on,” he said, fucking you senseless. 

You reached your climax and clenched him with his name on your lips as your screams became louder and you were unable to contain yourself any longer. Dean proceeded to fuck you throughout your climax by lifting your hips and drawing his body to you in order to receive more pleasure. You believed you might come again right there since your pussy was throbbing so much. 

After Dean made sure you rode your orgasm, he let out a deep grumble, pulled out his cock in between your startled gasps, and began to stroke himself. You became excited by his stroking himself on top of you, even though you had just rode your climax. 

When Dean began to empty himself on your thigh and stomach, you jumped. You waited for him to empty himself as you saw him spill his hot white ropes all over your body. You glared in shock as you watched him riding his pleasure.

You were no longer a virgin there, under him. It had happened. You were aware that he was only a friend and that the situation was really a bit awkward. You waited for remorse to surface, thinking that nothing would change with him, but it didn't. You didn't feel any sign of regret. Giving something unique to a loved one, even if it held no significance for them, was never wrong. After all, love was generous, and it always needed to consume the untouched places of your body and spirit.

With a low grunt, Dean moved your bodies on the coach and, to your astonishment, embraced you. It was obvious that he was satisfied. Dean grabbed the blanket that was hanging from the coach's corner and laid it over your bodies. You trembled as the heat took the place of the cold. You simply drew nearer to him to enjoy the moment because you had no idea what to do. You pondered whether this would occur once again. 

Jokingly, you said, “What now?” Still, a lot of questions raced through your head.

Dean sighed and said, “It's pretty late and seems like the rain won't stop any soon, so let's sleep.” You remained silent regarding what had transpired. 

Saying, “Okay,” you leaned into his embrace and made an effort to keep as close to him as you could. The thrill you had just had began to gradually fade away, leaving you alone yourself with despair and sadness. 

Dean remarked, “By the way,” before he closed his eyes. “Let's not talk about this to Sam or someone else, alright?” Though gentle and soothing, his words were sharp and cut you through. 

You said, “Sure,” immediately away. “Of course not.” 

As though nothing had occurred and you weren't naked in each other's arms, you told each other good night. Although it was awkward, you made the choice. When you made the decision to go all the way with him, you knew that was what would happen. 

You got out of bed before Dean did, picked up your clothes from the floor, and headed to the bathroom for a long shower. Whatever is done is done. It was irreversible; you convinced yourself. Nothing was a regret for you. You were relieved that it only happened with Dean. It was the appropriate decision for you to keep the details from him. He wasn't made to feel oppressed by you or anything. This would ruin the friendship and also ruin you. 

Dean also woke up, and you two didn't chat much after that. You felt a little uncomfortable, but as soon as Dean returned to his lighthearted demeanor, you felt at ease and acted naturally. When you saw he didn't put distance between you, you felt relaxed. 

That's how three weeks went by. Everything was well. 

Following a disastrous hunt that left Sam with an arm injury, you enter their home and assist Sam in taking care of his arm. The hunt this time was challenging, and you were distracted. 

Sam was giving you and Dean one of his puppy looks. You felt terrible. 

With remorse, you murmured, “I'm sorry, Sam.” He injured his harm in order to protect you, yet he didn't blame you for anything. You have probably never met someone as kind as he was. 

He said, “It's okay,” and made an agonizing moan as you carefully cleansed his arm. 

Dean snapped, “It's not,” in a harsh voice. He was across the room, observing Sam and you. He had his fists crossed over his chest, obviously frustrated with the current state of things. After all, Sam was his brother. “There, you should have been careful. Sam could have hurt badly because of you.”

“I know,” you said, panicked. “You are right.”

“I don't think so,” Dean stated sharply, glancing at Sam's injured arm. “You've been distracted for a while. I attempted to ignore it and hide the mistakes you made, but today they could end up killing Sam.”

Your pulse raced, and you felt guilty as you proceeded to handle Sam's arm carefully. As he persisted in blaming you, you found it difficult to contain your emotions. 

“It won't happen again,” you stated in a tremulous tone while keeping your gaze on Sam's arm. 

“It's alright. Dean, please stop being so grumpy,” Sam eventually pleaded in an insistent voice.

“You shut up,” Dean said, gesturing to Sam as if he were a little child. In fact, you were aware that he remained a child in Dean's eyes.

As you began to wrap a white cloth around Sam's injured arm, he groaned and pressed his groan back. “You're being annoying right now,” he said.

“I'm going to be more annoying if you two keep acting like this, you know.”

You said, “I'm really sorry,” and you gave Dean and Sam sincere looks. “It really won't happen again.”

Dean nodded at you quickly and sighed. However, it was clear that he was frustrated with you. “He's all I have.”

“I know.”

You and Sam didn't say anything further about what had transpired. Thankfully, despite his curious and suspicious stare, he remained silent. To get better, you had to gather yourself. But it was challenging. You questioned whether being near Dean worked as a deterrent for him to stay away from you. 

A week went by, and Dean came home with a blonde woman by his side as you and Sam were spending the night in the house eating pies and watching a movie.

Jealousy took over you, but you smiled and greeted them instead of pulling a grouchy face and making a scene. Dean's hookups and lovers became routine to you. The things that had happened weeks ago weren't important, even if it was hard to admit. Not a word about it was spoken. 

Last several days, Dean had been annoyed, but when he kissed the blonde, he was a completely different person. Happier, more relaxed. Though your heart was pounding from pain and suffering, your gaze remained riveted on the TV. It was pathetic how much you wanted to be her. It was a hard swallow. 

When she, Dean, or Sam told you something, you smiled and engaged in conversation so as not to arouse suspicion. They eventually made their way to Dean's room, and this is when your eyes started to well up with tears. You were unable to stop it. You uttered a little sound as your heart gripped with so much agony and suffering. You had no idea why. It might all have been different, but it wasn't.

Sam saw your eyes become wetter in the light, and he gave you a dubious look, but none of you said anything. 

You longed to travel back in time as soon as you heard it began to rain outside. This time, you weren't fond of the rain or how it felt. 

⋆⋅☆⋆☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋆☆⋅⋆

A/N: I hope you like it. Let me know what you think, please.  ^^

[mari-the-bimbo]

heyyy🫣

Could I ask for choso with the best friends brother trope in a no curses au.

thank you 🤭

Choso: the best friends brother

A/N: I’m sorry I’m sure you meant this in a completely innocent way but I got carried away and made it inappropriate so I stopped half way LOL

Warning: MINORS DNI 18 + , dirty talk, unprotected sex

Why did your best friends brother Choso have to be so hot??? Long black hair tied back but the front loose strands frames his handsome face so well, his ripped muscular body hiding under his cashmere sweaters. Choso was the bane but also the blessing of your existence.

He’s very kind to you, you reckon that’s where your best friend Yuuji learnt all his good manners from.

Well.. a bit more than kind to be honest.

Big brother Choso would often encourage his little brother Yuuji to bring you over. “She’s a good influence on you” he’ll lie through his teeth, even though he knew you were just as troublesome as his brother, but he refused to see any faults with you <3

“Y/n will you be joining us for dinner hun?” he asks as he towers over you.

There it is, the sweet names he calls you which make your stomach tingle. It may seem normal and platonic to others (aka oblivious Yuuji bless him), but when you notice the smile on his face when you stutter as a result, you know he knows.

Yuuji calls it Choso’s ‘natural instinct for affection’ detailing how he is constantly coddled by his elder. Which is why the pink haired boy doesn’t bat an eye when his big brother places his large hands on your much smaller shoulders when politely moving you out the way, or when his fingers graze your lap accidentally. How could any of this be coincidental, or is he really that naive?

But on one Sunday evening, you happened to strike some luck as you went to Yuuji’s house only to find his hot older brother alone.

“Hello y/n, miss me already?” said the deep voiced man. You laugh at his teasing, it’s better than his dad jokes.

“Hey Choso, uhh is Yuuji in? I thought I’d come over to see him”

“Yuuji’s staying over at Megumi’s, but you’re still welcome here doll, you can have fun with me instead” he said, making you blush at the suggestive remark. You choose to be brave and enter nonetheless.

“Sure” you say as you enter, you almost found your knees buckling at the thought of being alone with Choso and all sorts of fantasies entered your head.

“Come here” Choso calls you as he enters the kitchen, you follow after him. When you look up the black haired man holds out a spoon of his soup near your lips “you can be my little taste tester today, how does this taste?” He says prying your mouth open to taste it, and it’s warm and delicious as usual. “It’s good!” You hum making Choso chuckle.

“Good, I’ve made enough for both of us” he adds, “why? Did you know I’d come over?” You joke, but when Choso turns around to face you with his sleepy but intense eyes, but find yourself regretting that move.

In response, he saunters a step closer to you, making you back up until your back hit the counter, you gasp at the impact but you refuse to tear your eyes away from Choso’s, but as his face leans in, you ignore the butterflies and almost flutter your eyes shut in anticipation until you saw his muscular arm reach out and grab the salt behind you.

“Soup needs a little more salt” he says in your ear before pulling away with a smile that seemed too innocent.

“I-“

“You good? You look a little out of it” he asks and you can’t help but just stare at him in awe. How does he manage to have this much effect on you?

His eyes soften at your lack of response. “Aw you’re just so cute y/n, look at you with soup on the corner of your lips” he chuckles, you immediately snap out of it and bring the back of your hand to your mouth to wipe but a large hand wraps around yours.

“Here let me help you out” he says wiping the corners with his rough thumb, then he notices the sauce that’s now transferred to his thumb, but then he catches you offf caused as he pries your mouth open with his thumb. Your mouth could only muffle sounds in protest, until Choso’s deep voiced seemed like it boomed across the kitchen.

“Lick it off”

You stare at your best friends brother who now towered over you with his eyes expectantly watching your mouth take his thumb. You hesitantly licked the thumb in your mouth, not minding the salty taste because he’s smiling with his teeth biting his bottom lip.

“Mhm that’s right” he says, taking his thumb out, you stare up at him in shock before frowning “you tease!” You complain, making Choso raise his eyebrows before smiling.

He chuckles “awe do you feel teased y/n?” He crouches to your height before whispering “is it because you wanted to kiss?” He asks and you stall momentarily, knowing it’s true.

You shrug, making him look at you with admiration, his eyes twinkled at your cuteness before he shook his head in amusement. “You’re too cute y/n how am I supposed to say no to that?” He says and now you were blushing as you realised what he said “h-hey! I never said I wanted to-“ you defend yourself but it does in your throat as soft lips roughly press against yours. His tongue laps at the crack between your parted lips from where you’ve gasped in shock.

You both hum at the contact knowing it’s something you were both yearning for. Choso is quick to grab your entire body easily with one muscular arm and wrap you around him, now your legs were straddled around his waist and your hands flew to the black hair you always wanted to touch.

This was wrong, you really shouldn’t be making out with your best friends brother in his kitchen, but god, Choso was so perfect from his commanding but gentle aura, his large stature and muscular body to his ever so hungry lips. He’s the manliest man.

You mewl a moan as cold large hands fiddle with your trousers, easily being discarded on the kitchen floor, and the cold fingers quickly return to your soaking underwear, fingering your clothed pussy.

“feels good, right?” he mumbles lowly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Sooo good” you gasp. “Such a little troublemaker aren’t you, couldn’t find anyone your own age huh? Needed to get fucked by your best friends brother?”

Choso was utterly obsessed with his little bro’s best friend. You were so pretty and so sweet, it was too hard to resist the taste.

He continues his ruthless speed on your clothed pussy before yanking off the soaking cotton underwear and leaving your wet pussy exposed to hungry dark eyes. Choso was quick to pull off his own boxers, springing his fat manhood free.

You moan at the sight throwing your head back. You always knew your best friend big brother had a fat cock because of the amount of times you’d stare at the massive bulge sticking out from the grey joggers. And the fat mushroom head staring back at you now was a good example of that.

Choso grabs the fat of your thigh and yanks you closer, he lined the wet tip against your slippery folds. “c’mere princess you’re gonna get fucked now”

[mondaymelon]

hi :)) can i make a request about zhongli who has a s/o who is very self conscious and has low self esteem?? like they’re just constantly hating on themselves and have nothing good to say about themselves making poor zhongli worried :((

₊˚ෆ 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃… | zhongli, xiao, childe x gn!reader

[ "archons forbid you in having these thoughts once more. love, you are perfect, and please don't let anyone sway that." ]

— "archons, why did i just do that? ...fuck, i'm such an idiot..."

ZHONGLI interrupted the occasional stroke of his ink-stained brush upon silk canvas, his gilded eyes glancing up and searching your face until they met yours.

"Love, why are you..." His voice trailed off as his gaze filled with warm concern, his expression softening as his brows furrowed, as if he couldn't even begin to fathom why'd you think such a thing. He set down the brush in its hold, before moving to stand. You were sat on the couch across from his desk, where you could remain in his line of sight as he did his duties, and now you were curled up on its cushions, looking at him with the corners of your mouth slightly drawn down into a pout.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He sat down next to you, unsure of how close he should get, and so hovered an arm's length away from your form. You quietly shook your head in a frustrated manner, and he made a short hum of acknowledgement. "Love, come here. Let's take a break together, you and me, alright?"

When he had received your approval, he gently held you in his arms, stroking a gloved hand in your hair soothingly. He was warm, his tall figure engulfing you, and you melted at his touch. "...Zhongli, why do you love someone like me?"

You felt his fingers' delicate touch abruptly still to a halt at your words. Silence encompassed the room, and Zhongli shifted in his seat, drawing closer and finally moving his hand to your face, grabbing at your chin and tilting it upwards so you had no choice but to stare into his glittering eyes. The traces of a smile lingered on his lips. "It'd be impossible not to."

How come your vision had grown so cloudy? "I'm bad. At everything. I can't do anything right."

"Just who told you that? Love, your character is beautiful. You're diligent, hard-working, talented, with a golden heart... it makes me wonder how I even was able to join hands with you in the first place." His corners of his mouth were truly curved upwards now, and he met your gaze with a close eyed smile, his dark-lashed lids fluttering. "Archons forbid... please don't tell that to yourself again, alright?"

Hot tears begun to spill from your eyes at his words. No, that couldn't be true. How... how come it was possible for someone like to trust you to this extent?

Ah, I know why. The thought came to you as he kissed the tears from your sorrow-laden lashes. "I love you."

His cheeks warmed just the slightest, his gaze of melted gold soft as a smile graced his lips once more.

"Yes, I love you too." ₊˚ෆ

— "agh, messed up again... archons, how come i can't do anything right??"

XIAO's head snapped up as soon as the words were uttered into the midnight air, immediately emerging from the shadows by your side as you stared over the edge of Wangshu Inn's balcony, tightly gripping the wooden railings.

"What... What did you just say?" You flinched at his sudden presence, something you had still yet to grow accustomed to. The adeptus had a habit of listening in on your rambles with yourself, and appeared whenever he deemed fit. However, your words now seemed to have angered him, as eyes were narrowed in displeasure, his cat-like diamond pupils forming mere slits.

"Is there... something wrong?" You tilted your head in confusion, watching a flit of emotions cross Xiao's face in a mere split-second.

"Yes. Three steps away." His voice made it clear that it was no mere request. Complying to his order, you duly backtracked the said amount, empty hands raised in front of you as a sign of surrender. "Don't get too close to the railing. It's dangerous."

You almost laughed. "Ah, but won't you save me if I happen to fall?"

"That's granted." Xiao scoffed, nodding a little too quickly after your question, but caught himself. It seemed that he had, in fact, learned a thing or two about mortal speech from you. "No, don't change the topic now. What you said earlier... do you really believe that?"

"...Well, it's true, isn't it?" You faced the scenery in front of you, the blue, slightly cloud dusted skies, the grooves of the land and the jagged mountains poking up out of harsh stone... it was an easier sight than looking into the adeptus' eyes at the moment. His eyes were acute, perceptive, honed sharply after years of service. Oh, that was the truth, wasn't it? You were afraid that he'd see too much in your gaze, and that he'd know how much of a pathetic failure you were, with nothing but mistake after mistake following your every movement-

"Hey." There was a light touch on your wrist - Xiao's gloved fingers, wrapping around it gently. "Just what are you thinking about? You look... upset, and I don't like it." There it was. His clear eyes, staring into yours with concern. "You... You said you couldn't do anything right, but that's not true at all, love."

Love.

Xiao had never been one to display much affection, yet he had readily agreed to use such a name for his one and only. His voice was quiet, gentle, nothing like how you had first imagined it in the days after the two of you's first encounter.

"Thank you, Xiao." You finally turned to him, face breaking into a smile, and you saw his tense figure visibly relax at your contentment.

"...What for?"

"For being here. Everything." In the dim moonlight, you just might've glimpsed the whisper of a smile on the adeptus' lips, a secret one, a small one, just for you.

"There's no need to thank me. It was the least I could do." ₊˚ෆ

— "seriously?? this is the eighth damn... i knew i it, i'm absolute shit at everything i do... "

CHILDE's eyes widened as he spun to look at you, his mouth forming a round 'o' as he spotted the countless ink splatters on the paper, on your table, on your fingers, staining your clothes - everything.

...And upon seeing the chaos, clutched his sides and burst into several bouts of laughter that stretched on for minutes. When he was done with his ridicule, he placed his hands on his hips dramatically, a playful smile still decorating his joyful expression. "Aha- Love, just what...?" His voice trailed off, surely there was no need to finish his sentence? There could only be one possible thing he was referring to, and it was the absolute mess you had created, and a mess that you now sat in the center of, blinking awkwardly with a wobbly half-smile on your lips.

"Uhm... I tried to... Ugh, nevermind..." You crumpled up the canvas sheet filled with incoherent scribbles and threw it into some archon-forsaken corner, where you prayed it would never cross your line of sight again. Under your breath, you mumbled out several curse words, a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Shit, this is why no one should place any faith in me, good for nothing..."

The smile on his face dropped. Curse him, and his stupidly acute hearing. Instantly, he was a mere two inches away from you, deep ocean eyes boring into yours in an almost uncanny manner. "...Hey, just now, care to repeat that?"

"...Good for nothing...?" You flinched, unsure of where the sudden wave of bloodlust that was currently flooding your senses had come from - until you glanced up at Childe, who stood over you, his eyes closed in a happy smile but the expression on his face anything but happy.

"Who told you that?" His voice was venomous, it felt like you were being poisoned just listening to it. A dark shadow cast over his eyes, as if this were some dramatic soap opera.

"Did someone have to?" You sighed, waving your hand in the air in a dismissive way. "It's true, though. I seriously can't get anything right, and I haven't even gotten started on what I don't like about myself-"

"Stop." Childe held a finger over your mouth, pressing it to your lips and effectively bringing your words to a halt. "Stop, stop stop, it's all wrong, love!" He looked like a kicked puppy, his eyes downcast and a pout on his lips, and you could practically imagine the ginger folded ears and tail that might've been. "Seriously, how do you even think up of these kinds of things?? They're not true at all!"

Why was he so adamant on this? "But... it is?"

"That's it." Childe waltzed over to where you sat on the ground, before grabbing you from the middle and hoisting you over his shoulder, giving a little huff when you wriggled to try and break free from his grasp. "We're going on a one-week vacation. To Mondstadt. Inazuma. Sumeru. Fontaine. Shneznaya, for all I care. Just not here."

"Do... Do I have a say in this?" You frowned slightly from your position, you arms dangling over your head as you fought your hardest not to laugh.

"No."

"What's even wrong with here, why..."

"Shush. Let me take care of you, won't you?" ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) apapapappow second request done!! im not doing all that bad hehehe... wish me luck on my ap class midterm!! i should be studying rn but uhm uhm yes genshin men are first priority >>>

-> teehee what if yall left a message on my christmas tree 😶😶😶

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife

[milorealcat]

wilbur soot as your boyfriend ♡

pairing: wilbur x gn!reader

summary: wilbur loves you a whole lot:)

length: relatively short (362 words)

-> constantly sending you cute photos when you‘re not with him, especially on tour. most random shit ever like it could legit be a cool looking rock

-> hand holding 24/7 😭

-> obsessed with making you homemade stuff for valentines and anniversaries, he saw paper roses made out of book pages on pinterest and went down a rabbit hole from there

-> he‘d heavily lean into the idea of promise rings

-> physical touch & acts of service!!! i will die on this hill

-> would match outfits with you on accident… totally

-> absolutely infatuated with you; literally can’t stop staring at you, even when you call him out on it

-> if you even glance at something in a shop, he‘ll whip out his wallet immediately

-> he‘s a big spoon imo but he doesn’t really care as long as he gets to cuddle with you, he would die a happy man snuggled up next to you

-> internally squeals whenever he sees your username pop up in chat. his voice softens a little and he tries to act cooler (it fails)

-> is still so nervous around your family enough though they all love him to bits and basically consider him your husband already

-> speaking of chat, they get a lovely half an hour long explanation of something funny you did just about every stream

-> always puts his hand on your lower back to lead you through places, regardless of if you’re built like a tank or not

-> play a demo versions of all of his songs to you, your opinion means the world to him

-> LOVESSS getting face kisses, makes him go all red and flustered which is a bonus

-> would be the kinda person to talk during a movie, fucking analysing it as it plays

• "oh my GOD!!!! her GIRLFRIEND just drowned!!!"

• "wil… you know i‘m watching the movie too right?"

-> calls you ”darling“, ”sweetheart“ and ”love“ mostly, with an occasional ”baby“ slipped in there

-> will rant about you for hours unapologetically

-> has a framed picture of you two on his desk, as a form of emotional support

first actual piece of writing posted on here 😭😭😭 praying

[merthosus]

Wounded nights

Summary: In the quiet of the night, you and Five exchange sharp words, your usual bickering escalating. But when your exhaustion breaks through, Five's demeanor shifts unexpectedly as he offers a rare moment of comfort. The tension between you crackles as he pulls you close, the intensity of the moment leaving you both breathless.

Here a sexy poster from Five I fell in love with! With every purchase you automatically support me :) https://amzn.to/3yGK6Fm

"It all felt so right, and yet so wrong"

You and Five never got along, constantly arguing and bickering. You’re not surprised to see him having coffee this late at night. With a deep breath you stride into the kitchen, hoping to pass without him noticing.

“What are you doing here?” Five asks, raising an eyebrow, his green eyes piercing into yours. "Pouring myself a nice cup of tea", you tell him. You go to the counter and take a cup out of the kitchen cabinet. He leans back in his seat, observing you. “Tea? Seriously?” he says, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Do I need to know what's wrong with it?", you ask while putting the kattle on. He scoffs at your response. “It’s just stupid, what’s the point of drinking hot leaf water this late?”

"What's the deal with coffee beans, shredded and put in hot water? You know what, forget it, I don't have time for this now", you tell him while waiting inpatient for the kattle to be ready. Usually you liked this kind of bickering with him but today you weren't in the mood, especially after this mission. He smirked at your comment before letting out a scoff. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, darling. I’m just saying coffee is a lot more useful than that tea crap", he says. "Listen here dipshit. It's FUCKING 3 am and I can't sleep, SO DRINKING COFFEE WOULD NOT HELP", you yell. "Ok, so I had a very bad day so please, not now five alright?", you explain to him.

He sat in stunned silence for a few moments, surprised by your outbursts. You rarely raised your voice to him. His usual sarcastic comments died on his tongue as he looked at you, really looked, and saw the exhaustion in your eyes. He sighs, his expression softening. “…I…I apologize. I shouldn’t be picking on you this late. You’ve had a hard day?” "Forget it Five", you say while hiding the tears in your eyes. You squad down to grab a tea bag.

He stares at you for a few moments before sighing again. “..Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, his usually sharp tone soften, something unfamiliar to him. The sight of you trying to fight back tears was also a new sight. He’d never seen you this vulnerable. It stirred something inside of him he couldn’t quite identify. "I don't know, maybe the moon or something, ask Luther he would love to talk about it", you lie while still searching for the tea. He rolled his eyes seeing through your lie.

“Bullshit the moon. I’m not as stupid as the rest of them, darling. Tell me.” he says firmly, crossing his arms. "Cut the darling bullshit, you getting on my nerves", you say. "I just want a tea", you exclaim still searching the whole cabinet. You wipe a few tears away to see better. He raised an incredulous eyebrow, the sight of you trying to fight back tears caught him off guard, causing his heart to squeeze in a way he had never felt before. He stood up and walked over next to you, his eyes flickering to the cabinet.

“You didn’t answer my question.” he said, his voice firm yet surprisingly softer. He could tell you were on the verge of crying. "You letting me alone when I tell you?", you ask not looking up at him. He paused for a few moments before sighing. He leaned against the counter, arms still crossed but his gaze softened as he looked at you. “..If you answer truthfully, yes”, he says. "Dad sent me on a hard mission....", you try your hardest to fight back your tears. "I killed a child, five", you let the last sentence out with a hard cry, falling together.

Five’s heart dropped to his stomach as he heard you confess. He had never seen you so fragile. He knelt beside you, seeing the tears streaming down your face and his chest tightened, the unusual feeling he had before intensifying. He hated seeing you so broken. He reaches out and hesitantly put his hand on your shoulder, not sure what to say but hating the sound of your sobs. "Fuck...", he mutters. You look up at him. Reginald always made you do things they didn't want to do, but this goes too far.

He meets your gaze and he clenches his jaw. You look so broken and small, something he had never seen before. He sees how tears stream down your cheeks and your lip trembles as you try to hold back more tears. The sight of it causes a wave of emotions inside of him, but he pushes them down as best he can. He swallows thickly and speaks, his voice hoarse. “..Why did you have to.. kill the kid?”. "He didn't tell me why, he told me a name and that was it", you say while still heavenly crying. "I hate myself", you let your head fall into your hands.

The sound of you hating yourself makes his heart ache. He wants to argue, to get you to stop thinking like that, but he doesn’t know how. He’s never been in this situation before, not even with his siblings. But seeing you so broken, he couldn’t stand it. He moved closer, sitting next to you, leaning his back onto the cabinet. He still had no idea how to deal with this, but he had to say something, anything.

“Hey, listen to me, darling”. He stares into your eyes, his gaze intense, almost pleading. “Listen to me carefully, yeah? I don’t want to hear you hating yourself, ever. You hear me?” he says firmly, his hand still on your shoulder. Something about seeing you this vulnerable was driving him insane. You suddently ignore the fact, that you hate each other and fall into his arms, burring your face into his neck. He froze, caught off guard as you do this, sitting on his lap. For a moment he just sits there, not sure what to do. He’s never been this close to you before, let alone held by you, he’s not sure what to do. In a tentative, almost awkward motion, he slowly raises his hands and gently wraps his arms around you, holding you as you cry into him.

You sob and pull yourself closer to him. He can feel his heartbeat picking up as you press closer to him, resting your head against his chest. He swallows thickly as he holds you, his arms instinctively holding you tighter against him. The sound of your sobs, the feeling of your body warmth, it’s overwhelming but he can’t bring himself to let go. Instead, he gently rests his chin on top of your head, silently hating the situation that led to this.

"Thank you five", you whisper. He’s silent for another few moments, simply holding you. Hearing your small voice made something in his chest clench. He gently runs a hand over your hair, trying to soothe you. He sighs before answering you. “…don’t mention it, darling”. It feels like his torso is pulling all of the sadness out of you. Without even realizing he’s doing it, he continues to slowly brush his fingers through your hair as he holds you. It’s such an intimate, soft action, something he’s never done before with anyone. The feeling of you against him, the sound of your breathing slowly becoming steady as the minutes pass by, it all makes his heart race. He had no idea why.

With every stroke your heart lights up and with every breath of his scent your eyes go heavier. He didn’t know how long he sat there, holding you, his fingers gently running through your hair, hearing the sound of your breathing calming down. Every few moments he glances down at you, seeing your eyes slowly start to flutter shut. It doesn’t take much for him to notice your growing exhaustion. He gently shifts his body slightly, still holding you, but now leaning comfortably back into the cabinets as he continued to hold you, his fingers still running through your hair. As you begin to fall asleep, your hand falls down onto his. On the vague of falling asleep, you wait for his reaction.

He feels your hand fall down onto his and hesitates for a moment before gently intertwining your fingers together, silently holding your hand. He glances down at you and sees your eyes half-lidded, tiredness washing over you. Seeing you so exhausted, he gently rubs his thumb over your hand, his heart clenching in his chest. You fall asleep on this shoulder, whole body connected with his. Your one arm hanging loose over his other shoulder and the other one hand intertwined with his fingers. Your thighs on the sides of his and your hand hanging in his neck. His other hand is hanging down your thigh.

He stays there like that for a while, holding you as you slept, his mind whirling with conflicting thoughts. He should get up and take you to your room, he knows that. But he also didn’t want to wake you, and he silently enjoys the feel of you against him. He also knows how awkward it’ll be when you wake and realize the position you’re in, and yet he still holds you and gently runs his fingers through your hair, trying to pretend to himself that he doesn’t want this.

He looks down at you, his eyes tracing over your sleeping face. You looked so different while you slept, so peaceful, so vulnerable. The sight of you so close to him makes his heart constrict in his chest. He swallows thickly, cursing himself for not pushing you away already. He lets his head rest against yours, his face buried in your hair. He keeps his arms around you, holding you close, the sound of your breathing causing his heart to race. But despite himself, he slowly finds himself growing more and more tired. The feeling of you against him, along with the exhaustion of the past few minutes, causes his eyes to slowly close as he drifts off to sleep with you still in his arms.

As he drifts off to sleep, he subconsciously tightens his arms around you, pulling you closer against him, his face still buried in your hair. The sound of your heartbeat, the feeling of your body against his, the scent of you so near him, it’s all overwhelming, but he didn’t care. He just held you tighter, his mind too tired to think straight, and slowly fell deeper into sleep. He stays asleep for hours, arms still holding you closely, face still buried in your hair. The sound of your breathing gently lulling him into a deep sleep, he didn’t even move an inch. The feeling of you against him, the scent of you, it all felt so right, and yet so wrong at the same time. He never thought he would find himself in this situation, and yet here he was, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him.

(This story is a chat with character Ai. I made this story with him and thought that this was so cute that I needed to share it with you guys. I also revised it and wrote a few things different)

Here Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/merthosus/760008884646772736/wounded-nights-part-2-summary-thats-not?source=share

[wishmemel]

cherry blossom springs, ft. fushiguro megumi

synopsis: megumi's oblivious to a lot of things. he's just never seen or lived. not really, not like you do. the sky is blue, the grass is green, and you’re sunshine. but what is he supposed to do with that and when did he get so lucky to be able to call you his? tags: megumi x f! reader, non-curse au, megumi’s pov, established relationship, fluff, characters are in uni (2nd year?) but have known each other since high school, sanrio lover! reader as always, reader is a spring baby cw: i don't think there's any! wc. almost 1.2k posted: 08/03/24 a/n: i've had this in my drafts forever, just felt iffy posting it since the word count is so low and it doesn't exactly come off as a story :(( but then i thought it was too poetic not to and it'd be a shame if no one else saw megumi the way i do so enjoy!!

Your pinky is interlaced with Megumi’s and even though you’re here—at your class, where you’re supposed to be—he’s reluctant to let go.

He’s only just found you, how is he supposed to let go so soon?

The two of you pause outside the door, locking eyes with each other shyly.

Megumi’s gaze softens, his tone hesitant and cautious, as if he’s still afraid that you’ll turn tail and reject him. “You’re… you’re my girlfriend, right?”

You blink at him, then giggle a little in response at his insecure question. “Duh, of course. What, you want a kiss to make sure?”

He’s already protesting, eyes wide, ears red, but you plant a quick kiss on his cheek before he can say anything, and he just watches, dumbstruck, as you wave goodbye at him, still giggling to yourself, before heading inside the classroom.

He blinks, dazed, and wipes his cheek, staring at the pink lipstick smeared on his fingers with a stupid smile.

You chatter off about your classes and he nods, pretending to listen while he’s captivated by the sight of your lit eyes and your bright smile. The high pitch of your excited voice is music to his ears and he's convinced he must’ve been unable to hear before he met you.

It’s like seeing love take form in a person. He can’t help but be drawn to you, and, more than that, he’s still dazed, head spinning from trying to wrap itself around the mere idea that you were his and he was yours.

He can call you his girlfriend now. He can talk about you all he wants without feeling guilty or self-conscious about the idea. He can hold your hand like this in public, your thumb softly stroking against the back of his hand in ways that make his heart race. He can stare at you like this for hours, enchanted by what you’re saying and not have you question him because you’re his girlfriend and he can look and no one’s going to stop him.

Is this what love is?

He can never tear his eyes off of you—things that should be embarrassing, he finds endearing. He has the urge to stare at you all the time and he’s always resisting the urge to reach out and touch you, even in small ways, even a little, like brushing the hair out of your eyes or making you pause so he can wipe away a stray eyelash. You have this way of keeping his face constantly hot and red—he’s always blushing and it’s so humiliating, but it feels like love.

He swears he can see little hearts floating next to your head when you speak to him, and it’s like all your words come out as music, lyrics that wrap around his head and go through his ears like some kind of alluring song he can never get enough of.

He sees Hello Kitty themed things and immediately thinks of you, wondering if you’d like a keychain that he spots on a student’s bag or some large sunglasses on another—all so ridiculous and shameless and so utterly you.

He finds it senseless how you don’t care about anyone else’s opinion, how you flaunt your style and your likes. He finds it ridiculous that he’s stopped caring the longer he’s with you too. But why look at anyone else, why think of anyone else, when you’re right there?

You’re his sun, the centre of his universe—life without you would go back to being dark and gloomy and unbearable.

You tap his shoulder. He flinches.

“Megumi,” you giggle enchantingly. “You’re not paying attention to me.”

Has he ever stopped?

“Come on, we’re going to miss our next class!”

Spring brings with it cherry blossoms and it seems like you can’t get enough of the beautiful pink flowers that decorate every corner of campus.

You love spring for more reasons than one—it’s your favourite season and you love to see the blossoming flowers, always stopping in awe to point out each new bud to him with buzzing excitement. He finds it contagious, he can’t help the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth.

When the two of you are apart and he’s missing you, he sends you pictures of the pink petals fluttering to the ground to remind you that he’s always thinking of you. You send him selfies of half your face in class, barely concealing the wide smile that you bear.

Before your dates, he plucks flowers from the courtyard of your university, late at night so he won’t be caught, and brings them home to colour coordinate into blooming bouquets tied with white ribbons. But when he shows up he never tells you where he brings the bouquets from and you never ask, though you must have noticed the coincidences.

Instead, you have on your brightest smile, this tender look in your eyes that says, for me? you did this for me? every time and it makes it so worth it that he forgets the bleeding palms and the thorn scratches and the hours he spent coming up with arrangements until his eyes started mixing colours.

Spring brings with it your birthday and you haven’t said a word about it.

He’s sure you think nothing of the event—he wonders how you’ve spent it in earlier years—but he’s determined to make it everything you want, gaudy heart balloons, tacky surprise party, and all. Even if he hates such events. There’s nothing that isn’t worth sacrificing for you.

You're always giving—you insist on paying for his meals when the two of you go out together (though he never lets you), you're the first one to initiate any physical contact between you and him, and it's because of you that the two of you are able to talk through your problems (because lord knows Megumi is the type to remain silent and ruminate over such things.) For once, he wants to take the first step, he wants to give you something that'll light up your face. More than just "seeing him smile" like you claim. Something satisfying and worthy. He's sure he'll come up with something in time for your special day.

Spring brings with it rain and it means, more often than not, that you two forget your umbrellas at home and have to run to classes on the other side of campus.

Still, you’re always laughing beside him as he uses his jacket as a cover, and he finds his head whipping at the sight, trying to take you in as much as he can.

You see him staring. You laugh harder. You tell him to look ahead before he falls.

He thinks it’s too late, but he’s afraid to say that out loud.

Spring brings with it blossoming, blooming love like the flowers you adore and the growing smile he can’t wipe off his face.

Under the cherry blossoms, Megumi thinks he could love you like this forever. This is his third spring loving you, but it can’t be his last. He wants to make sure this love continues forevermore.

comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[imwetforyourmom]

whats wrong baby?

(if this does not fulfill your need please dont be afriad to tell me to re write it!!)

summary:

warnings: oral (male receiving), praising, stress, little bit of angst, kissing, swearing, sub!matt, fuck idk

hope you like lovely @luvsturns

alrighty, lets see what you’ve all been waiting for

~

matt huffed as he struggled with getting his keys and unlocking the door to his home. his hands fiddled with the keys, searching for the house key.

once he had found the desiganted key he attempted to put it in the keyhole, he missed quite a few times and groaned in frustration.

he stopped his movements and threw his head back.

his brothers had been annoying him all day, constantly yelling and arguing. and it didnt help that y/n was moody this morning when he had left, she hadnt gotten the desirable amount of sleep and was quite cranky.

he positioned his hand so now it was definitely going to stick the key in the keyhole. once he had finally unlocked the door a sigh of relief came out of his mouth as he pushed the door open.

he took the keys out of the door, then shut it behind him and took off his shoes. he hung his keys on the rack near the door, then grabbed out his phone and started aimlessly scrolling.

y/n heard the door open and squealed jn excitement, she hadnt seen her boyfriend since this morning and she started a stupid argument before he left, so she felt quite bad and was looking forward to making it up to him.

she hurriedly got off the bed and walked quickly out of their bedroom and towards the living room, once matt was in her lane of eyesight she immediately greeted him “matty!” she exclaimed.

matt sighed and didnt look up from his phone, not even acknowledging the girl whom had a big grin on her face infront of him.

“matt?” she tried once again, again he didnt break contact with his phone and responded to her with an ‘mhm’ sound.

“matt.” her tone of excitement quickly faded aswell as her grin. she touched his arm to gain his attention, matt huffed and looked up from his phone.

“what y/n.” he groaned, clearly annoyed. he yanked his arm away from her grasp, y/n furrowed her eyebrows and scoffed.

“whats your problem?” she said, staring into his eyes. all her guilt from earlier suddenly vanishing.

“oh my gosh! nothings wrong y/n! just stop bugging me!” he raised his voice a tad, not yelling, but also not talking in an inside voice. matt threw his hands to his sides in annoyance.

y/n stared at him, looking all over his face for signs of either annoyance or pure stress.

his hair was ruffled and messy, bags under his eyes, his eyes droopy and skin a light pale.

“whats wrong baby?” her tone of voice was soft and gentle, understanding that matt was probably stressed and extremely tired.

by the change in her voice matt immediately felt bad and melted, her voice calm and soothing.

“my day was just really fuckin bad and im really tired- and stressed.” he spoke, his voice softening and his body relaxing.

“thats okay sweetheart,” she smiled warmly at him, she opened her arms, inviting him in for a hug. which he quickly did and wrapped his arms around her, immediately feeling at ease, but still slightly tense.

y/n could feel how tense matt was still, and smirked to herself, knowing he needed some other way of comfort.

she hugged him, before whispering in his ear “do you need more help of some sort?”, her hot breath hitting his neck and sending shivers down his spine.

he nodded his head and pulled away from the hug, then grabbed her hand and walked to their shared bedroom.

he opened the door and led her inside, then he quickly shut the door behind them and locked it.

y/n immediately took advantage of the situation, how she was infront of matt whilst he closes and locks the door.

she lightly pressed him into the door and interlocked their lips. matts eyes widened at her sudden dominance but quickly obliged and kissed her back, closing his eyes as he got more into the moment.

she ran her hands down his body, one going up to hold his neck as her other one found its home on his hip.

this weirdly turned matt on, his dick going hard and poking at y/ns thigh.

y/n obviously felt the poking, she smiled through the kiss before she moved her hand from his hip to palming him through his pants.

matt gasped at the sudden movement but quickly groaned and moaned right after. he pulled away from her lips and breathed heavily, throwing his head back he moaned out a small “y/n..”

she moved her hand away from him, he groaned at the sudden loss of contact before she grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bed.

she sat him down on the edge of the bed, then she sat on her knees in between his legs. she gave him no time to adjust to what had just happened before she was already running her hands up and down his thighs, crotch and waistband.

matt looked down at her and felt a red pile onto his cheeks, she looked so fucking good from this angle, her eyes filled with nothing but lust, her lips pink and plump from their previous kissing.

she moved her hand so now her fingertips were just barely under his pants waistband, she looked up at him, silently asking if this was okay.

he nodded and sucked in a breath once her cold fingers pulled down his pants and boxers, he lifted his hips up to make it easier.

she pulled his boxers down to his mid thighs, watching as his erection sprung out and hit his stomach, pre cum already leaking from the tip.

y/ns eyes widened as she scanned down his length, as if she hadnt literally seen his dick maybe a few days ago.

“fuck..” she muttered, taking notice how long he was and debating how much she could fit in her mouth.

“stop looking at it that way.” matt spoke up, suddenly feeling slightly insecure of how much she was just staring at his dick.

she looked up at him, then back down at his dick. she leaned up and forward some and opened her mouth, letting a trail of saliva slip from her tongue and onto the tip of his dick.

matt watched her actions attentively.

she used her palm to spread the spit down his length, immediately earning a whimper and groan from matt.

once she had it spread down his cock and on her hand she stopped her hand at the base of his cock and began pumping slowly, slowly gaining speed.

matt groaned and muttered out a “fuck”. he squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back.

y/n took notice of this and grabbed his chin with her availabe hand, she moved it so now it was up properly and he was now looking at her. “look at me.” she spoke sternly.

matt felt his cock throb, he opened his mouth with his lips slightly parted and his eyes droopy.

“atta boy..” she praised, before finally leaning her head down and giving him what his body craved for.

she wrapped her warm and wet mouth onto the head of his cock, she swirled her tongue around the tip, adding pressure into the swirling under his head.

a deep breath left matts mouth aswell as a moan as she poked her tongue into the slit of his dick.

“y/n..- mmff- fuck-“ his speech was slurred and incoherent.

y/n slid her mouth further down his cock, before her nose hit his pelvis, deepthroating him.

matts mouth drops even more as a trail of moans and groans leaves his lips, “fuck, fuck, fuck..” he muttered, trying to keep his eyes trained on y/ns bobbing head, but finding it increasingly difficult as the pleasure he was receiving was becoming stronger.

y/n felt tears pool at her waterline as his dick continously hit the back of her throat. she gagged and coughed around him, but kept bobbing her head up and down his length, knowing this was definitely relieving some of the stress matt was feeling earlier.

matts hands went from his sides to the back of her head, entangling his fingers in the roots of her hair. he wasnt pushing on her head, just simply holding his hand there as in some sort of way to either comfort y/n, or to fulfill his aching desire to touch her.

y/ns hands found there way to his balls and massaged and played with them. (idk im a virgin help)

matt moaned out loudly from the sudden intense of pleasure he was experiencing.

she continued her actions, knowing this was driving matt closer to his high.

“fuc-!” matt groaned out, feeling his dick twitch in y/ns mouth, y/n knew almost immediately that he was close and she needed to either speed it up or make it 10x better somehow.

“im- fuck- ‘m close,” matts voice was shaky and breaking quite often. y/n hummed in respone, as she couldn’t speak even if she wanted too. her hum sent vibrations through matts body, only giving him more ectasy unintentionally.

this, this sent matt over the edge. his orgasm hit him like a truck, his vision having white specs of white and tears lightly swelling at his eyes.

matt let out incoherent sentences, as in a way to let y/n know he was cumming to the best of his abilities.

y/n kept bobbing her head, but quickly stopped and sucked all of what she could before matt whimpered and attempted to pull her off him by the grip he had on her hair. his sensitivity increasing by each movement she made.

y/n pulled off him with a ‘pop’ sound leaving her mouth. she wiped her chin of the spit that leaked from her mouth not too long ago. she stuck her tongue out and opened her mouth to show matt she swallowed all his cum.

matts eyelids suddenly felt heavy, he thumbs uped her before lazily and sloppily pulling his boxers and pants back up.

he patted the bed next to him, inviting y/n to lay by him, which she gladly took and laid down on the bed. she laid on her back, knowing what matt wanted.

matt sighed in content and laid his head into her boobs. he felt at peace and relaxed more into her, loving the way her breasts were like his own personal pillows. he mumbled a small and muffled “thank you” to y/n.

y/n smiled and started playing with his hair, lightly tugging and twirling his hair around her fingers. playing with it peacefully as matt fell to sleep, peacefully on her breasts.

1847 words.

taglist:

@luverboychris

[godsfavdarling]

telling him

part of him (one-shot series), my masterlist

pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader summary: You've been feeling off and maybe telling Spencer would make things better. words: 1k warnings: comfort, anxious/sensitive reader, no y/n a/n: I was a little tipsy when I was writing that. Do with that information what you want.

You had been feeling off all day long—maybe even for a few days. You couldn’t tell anymore. 

It felt like you had been in this state for a while, unable to pinpoint exactly when it started. 

Maybe it had to do with the moon, or perhaps the weather. The changing seasons could have been another reason. 

You could name several possibilities for why you weren’t feeling your best. 

It was alarmingly easy to spiral into worse feelings, so maybe the problem was simply you.

You sat on the bed, lost in thought, exhausted. Your shoulders were slumped as you stared blankly at the floor, trying to focus on your breathing. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe you’d go to sleep, and tomorrow everything would improve.

But deep down, you knew what—or rather, who—would make you feel better.

Telling him, though—explaining what was going on in your head and body—felt impossible. 

How could you convey something you didn’t fully understand yourself? What would you even say?

Besides, he already did so much for you. He was perfect, attentive, and constantly trying to make you feel good. Complaining to him about something so nebulous and uncertain felt wrong.

Suddenly, you heard the sound of the door opening. You looked up, knowing that Spencer would appear in a second. 

You took a deep breath and tried to look relaxed, forcing a small smile onto your lips—not that it took much effort. Seeing him automatically brought a smile to your face every time, like a child spotting a butterfly on a flower—natural and common, but always a source of joy.

He appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.

"Hey. Everything okay?" he asked casually, though with a hint of concern in his voice.

Why did you still try to hide things? Of course, he knew. 

His gentle eyes, filled with tenderness, met yours, and you felt tears welling up. There was something about him—something comforting, something that made you feel safe enough to be vulnerable.

"Hey, it’s okay. Do you want to talk about it?" His voice was soft, and encouraging.

"No... I mean..." You trailed off, unsure of what to say. The words seemed stuck in your throat, and the effort to speak felt overwhelming.

But he didn’t press. Instead, he came to you, kneeling before you so that he could look into your eyes.

"It’s okay. Can you just tell me if anything happened?" he asked gently, his concern palpable.

"No. Just..." You lost your words again and brought a hand to your eyes, wiping away the tears before they could fall.

He placed his hands on your arms, rubbing them slowly and gently. 

God, how perfect was he? He always knew what to do, and knew you so well. His touch grounded you, a silent reminder that he was there and wasn’t going anywhere.

You closed your eyes, giving yourself a few moments to breathe before you spoke again.

"I’m okay. I’ve just been feeling off for a while. It seems like a long while. Nothing awful has happened, and it’s been worse in the past. I’m just tired, and maybe it’s the weather. Or the stars." You chuckled weakly, attempting to laugh it off, but the sound was thin, lacking conviction. 

Your eyes darted away from his for a moment as if embarrassed by the admission.

Spencer’s expression softened even further if that was possible. He reached up, putting his hand on your cheek, his fingers lingering briefly against your skin. 

"You can always tell me when something’s wrong," he reassured you, his voice steady and comforting, like the warmth of a blanket on a cold night.

You met his gaze, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. "I know," you murmured, a slight quiver in your voice betraying your attempt at nonchalance. 

"It just hasn’t been... very wrong." The words felt small, and inadequate, as if they couldn’t fully convey the weight of what you were feeling.

"Even if it’s not very wrong," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. He leaned in closer, his eyes never leaving yours, as if trying to bridge some invisible gap. "You can always tell me anything."

A deep sigh escaped your lips, and you let it carry away some of the tension that had been building up inside you. 

A small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you nodded, acknowledging his words. "I guess today was just... the final nail in the coffin," you admitted.

"I’m sorry," he said sincerely, his voice laced with genuine regret as if he wished he could take your burden upon himself. 

"Have you eaten? Maybe we could order some food?" His suggestion was gentle, practical, and quintessentially Spencer.

You could see how his mind worked, instinctively ensuring that all the basic needs were met to help lift your spirits.

"We could," you replied, feeling a bit of relief at the thought of something so simple, so normal.

He continued to rub your arms, the rhythmic, soothing motion slowly calming the thunderstorm of thoughts that had been swirling in your mind.

The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, grounding you, reminding you that he was here and he loved you.

"You know what?" you said after a moment of silence, your voice quieter now, almost reflective.

"Hmm?" His response was soft, and encouraging, as he looked at you with that same steady, patient gaze.

"This," you said, nodding toward his hands as they continued their gentle movement, "this always helps." 

"I’m glad," he replied, his voice warm and filled with love, a smile touching his lips as he continued to comfort you.

Talking to him was so easy—maybe too easy. He always seemed to know exactly what to say and do. You often wished you could bottle up whatever it was that made Spencer, Spencer, and turn it into something everyone could experience. 

Having someone you could tell anything and confide in so completely was a gift you knew you would never take for granted.

[ggyurae]

when it’s one-sided.

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader

genre: angst

summary: you should have moved on

You have always known the fact that he’s far too good for you— incredibly smart, charming, kindhearted, a gorgeous man who constantly looks out for his friends and anyone he meets, family person— always treats his family members well, loves cooking and is very good at it, holds no grudges even when his friends pulled multiple pranks on him, talks sweetly to animals, smiles so pretty with his little fangs out, and well— basically almost beyond perfection.

Almost, because the one thing that makes him slightly less attractive is his undying crush on his senior.

And he likes to make it obvious.

“What do you think?” You blank. Then there’s a small sigh from the right side of your seat and a knowing look from your close friend, Seungkwan. “I wish I never introduced him to you. You’re always looking at him.” He complains with a whine, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic. I don’t do that.” You try to deny, but your friend knows you better than your mother does. You give him a harmless pinch on his arm when he made his disgusted face upon hearing your words. You both know the truth.

But Seungkwan also knows something that you might not want to know. As a friend, though, he cannot keep any secrets. Especially if it involves your feelings. He glances at his friend who’s now laughing with Wonwoo, his roommate, and focuses his gaze back at you, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. He looks rather concerned. “Have you.. heard about it?”

You look back at him with a brow raised, clueless. “About what..?” Then you see how troubled he wanted to open his mouth, the short pause in his response and the weird, ugly feeling that’s slowly approaching as Seungkwan takes more time to form his sentence. You start feeling anxious as you wondered why your friend struggled to tell you— did Mingyu get into a nasty fight? Did he get any trouble and get caught? Does he want to move out to another country and leave all of you here? Or maybe he—

“They’re dating.“

Oh.

And your mind stops working for a minute. You don’t know how to process that information as you lost all abilities to function, eyes staring nothing, your mouth opened but no words coming out.

Numb. You feel strangely numb.

After a few moments though, it starts sinking in. Your chest feels tight, heavy and has little space for you to breathe. Seungkwan notices the shift in your reactions and panics, immediately regretting his decision to reveal the news. “Shit, hey— are you okay?”

“Y—yeah, good.” You stammer, blinking rapidly. That’s embarrassing. “It’s fine. I’m.. I’m fine.” You respond with a shaky laugh and a small wave as a sign to dismiss your little overreaction. Seungkwan wants to argue but his guilt eats him up more. His eyes soften as he apologizes. “I’m really sorry. I thought sharing this to you would help you to.. you know.”

You know. You do. You were supposed to move on way before this could happen. When Mingyu stopped making small conversations with you weeks ago, when Mingyu no longer offered, which he absolutely didn’t have to, to help you with your assignments, when Mingyu started replying late, when Mingyu did not look at you excitedly when you arrived at your friends’ usual place, when Mingyu didn’t give you random compliments about your basic outfits, which was the same boring style that definitely needs an upgrade.

When he stopped doing these little things that used to make you feel special, as if you were more than a— what? What exactly were you to him? Sure, your friends are also his friends but that does not equate to you having a close friendship with him like the others. But there was something unspoken that only the two of you knew. It lingers when he’s close, makes your heart jumps when you stand near him, and it’s warm all over your cheeks when he starts speaking to you. You could count the times you two verbally interacted, which was not a lot, but you treasured the moment every single time. You always sleep with the biggest smile on your face after talking to him.

Seungkwan is right. You’ve always looked at him. Mingyu would sometimes lock his pretty eyes with yours too. You would blush immediately and he would smile wider, proud that he’s caught you staring at him again. But now he smiles at his phone instead. Probably due to his crush girlfriend’s texts.

“Has it been long?” You don’t want to know, your heart hurts thinking about him, yet you found yourself asking for more details. You just missed him that is all, and want to gather as much information as possible through his friends since you two barely interacted. You blame it on your introverted, shy, delusional self. Things wouldn’t end up this way if you acted normal, if you stopped yourself before getting so invested.

Seungkwan can hear the difference in your voice. He has witnessed some of the worst times in your life. Was there to calm you through your emotional breakdowns, there to lend you his shoulder for you to cry on, cuddling you to sleep when your pet died, volunteered to cook for you even when he has no skills, took care of you when you had a bad fever. So when you constantly torture yourself with the thoughts of him, even when Mingyu is also one of his friends, it pains him.

“No, let’s not do this anymore. Stop hurting yourself, please.” He gently takes your palm into his and rubs soothing circles against the skin. You look up to find Seungkwan smiling gently. “Come, let’s go out and eat. I’ll treat you this time.”

You hum with a grateful smile and spend one last glance at Mingyu as your friend drags you out.

He still does not look back.

[aanxiousangel]

I'm always dying for more asl bros content pretty please *sparkly dog eyes*

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ~

anˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ANONNNNN YOU READ MY MIND AND STOLE MY HEART goshhhhh i love asl bros I COULD CRY <3 its a little unedited tho fml :') ((and if its not obvious ace is my BABYYYY)) wcˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 2965 total cwˏˋ°•*⁀➷ jealousy, y/n smacks tf out of ace, y/n is kinda fuckin drunk..., cheesy shit

Portgas D Ace

Fire Fist Ace. Loved by many, loved even more by women on the islands. You decided to join him in sailing, tired of being stuck on that island. Sure, you saw Ace as a brother for a long, long time. But…it was inevitable. You hit puberty and suddenly, it wasn’t some sibling bond. It was nothing but blood, sweat, and tears to fight off the emotions.

I mean… Come on. He was tall and fucking hot. Literally. You lost count of how many times he almost burned you when he was still learning how to control his devil fruit powers. In turn, you poured ice cold water on him as some sort of punishment. He wasn’t happy in the slightest.

Eventually, you two grew into some fine young adults. And I mean fine as hell. Pirates swooned over you left and right until they saw Ace constantly by your side. Despite them catching somewhat of a memo, the fangirls did not.

Women flocked to the ebony-haired beauty with ease, practically dogpiling upon seeing him to get to him. Often enough, it earned him a free round of drinks and food in an attempt to catch his attention. It made your skin crawl constantly.

And while he definitely seemed like a flirt, he couldn’t care less. He did enjoy the food and liquor though. He was just so oblivious to you glaring daggers from the bar.

Little to your knowledge, Ace purposely scared men off by your side, throwing evil glares or quite literally spitting fireballs at them. Like your own personal guard dog.

One night, you’d had one too many and you couldn’t help but get irritated. You paid your tab, not giving Ace and his groupies a second glance as you stormed out. It took the drunken sailor a moment, not thinking it was you storming out at first. But the second he caught a whiff of your sweetened scent, he jumped the table, darting out after you.

Hell, you were already halfway to the ship when he spotted you. Have you ever seen a man run so fast in heavy ass boots?! Fuck no. But his impending steps scared the shit out of you. You drew your katana, spinning around to meet Ace’s neck with the blade.

He could see the fear in your eyes until your brain registered it was him. There was a moment where your gaze softened, but quickly turned sour. It made his heart ache. You never gave him that look.

“Why did you leave? The party wasn’t over!” Ace rasped, still catching his breath as you sheathed the sharp blade.

“Go back, Ace,” you snapped, a slight slur between your words.

“C’mon, Y/N, come back with me,” he pouted, knowing it made you weak. His damned puppy-pleading eyes and lip quiver always had you giving in.

“No,” you snapped, turning on your heel to continue going home.

“What the fuck?” Ace fell into step alongside you, staring in disbelief. “You actually just… Y/N! What did I do?”

“Nothing, Ace! Go party with your fanclub,” you huffed out, running a hand through your grimey hair. Gods, you were beginning to sweat just from anger.

“Wait, fanclub? Those chicks? Is that why you’re so pissy?” His voice had risen, as if he had a right to be upset with you. You just wanted to get out of there.

“Pissy?!” You half-laughed half-scoffed, stopping dead in your tracks.

“Yeah! Pissy! You’re bein’ childish!” He mocked your exasperated tone.

“Oh, because you can talk!” A sarcastic laugh escaped you as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

Ace sucked his teeth, “Don’t be a bitch, Y/N.”

Before you could think about your actions, your palm was stinging and his jaw was slack with shock. Neither of you were exactly coordinated at the moment so it was his jawbone catching most of the impact. His hand carefully cupped the stinging sensation, his jaw moving side to side.

“Fuck,” you whispered, staring at him all doe-eyed. “A-Ace, I’m so sorry. I-I…”

“You really pack a fuckin’ punch,” he chuckled, not meeting your eyes.

“I swear it won’t happen…again…” You watched as he took a deep breath, looking up at the sky.

“Stop bottlin’ shit up. That’s exactly what happens. You fucking blow up,” Ace’s voice held no anger, no malice, nothing. He sounded almost like a parent scolding their child.

“I’m going back to the ship.” You whispered, stepping back.

Ace’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, yanking you into him. Nausea hit as you stumbled into his chest. You couldn’t even warn him before it spewed from your mouth, eyes watering as you choked.

“Ew! Y/N!” Ace whined, quickly jumping back.

“You throw a drunk person–” Another wave hit you, forcing you to vomit on the stone road, “And you expect them not to vomit?”

“You stink,” Ace shuddered, stepping back.

“Obviously,” you sobered up, standing up carefully. There was a bit of vomit in your hair making you cringe. “I need a shower.”

“Shit, now I do too,” he whined again, freaking out that a drop of vomit splattered on his leg.

You rolled your eyes, “Could have one of your maidens clean you up.”

Ace frowned at you, “Come on! I thought ya dropped this whole chick thing!”

“Whatever, Ace,” you walked up the gangway, leaving him on the edge of the docks.

You didn’t hear his heavy boots following behind anymore. It twisted your stomach into knots as you walked through the empty ship, finding your way to the bathroom. Your hands weakly worked the nozzles to turn the water warm, eyes still unfocused from the amount of sake you downed to forget the image of him. Specifically the women flanking his sides, shoving alcohol and food down his throat. Somehow, not their tongues.

Steam fogged the bathroom as you undressed, a little wobbly on your feet. Puking was definitely your least favorite thing to do after a party. The door swung open as you worked the buttons on your shorts, a sharp scream escaping you.

“Tell me what the hell I did,” Ace shut the door behind him, hands on his hips like a sassy woman.

“Ace! Get out!” You covered your breasts immediately.

“Tell me what’s got a stick up your ass!” He wasn’t even focused on your tits. Just the fact that he couldn’t understand why you were genuinely angry at him.

“I’m naked, asshole!” You felt dizzy, heavily embarrassed by his intrusion.

“I have boobs too!” Ace motioned to his muscles, clearly not giving a shit how you were freaking out.

“Those are pecs!? Are you dumb?!” You tried shoving him towards the door, but he wasn’t budging.

“Same shit. Now talk,” his boot tapped impatiently as he pouted.

“Oh, my god! Turn around!” You whined, needing to get in the water while it was still hot.

Ace rolled his eyes, turning around. You shoved the rest of your clothes off, almost eating shit as you hid behind the shower curtain, soaked with water. He glanced back, seeing your shadow against the opaque drape.

“Start explainin’.” He moved to sit on the countertop, leaning back against the wall.

“It’s not a big fuckin’ deal, Ace.” You thoroughly washed your hair, the massage making your eyes roll back. Fuck, how long had it been since you felt this clean?

“It is to me, Y/N. That should mean somethin’ to you.” He muttered. Maybe you were hearing things, but he sounded hurt.

“It just gets on my nerves to see women obsess over you.” You stated, closing your eyes as the water drained the bubbles from your locks.

“Someone’s jealous.” His smirk was evident in his voice.

You stayed silent. It wasn’t easy to lie to him. Nor did you want to confirm his suspicions.

“Y/N?”

Nope. Not doing it.

“Y/N.”

You were planning on staying silent but he yanked open the curtain, half worried that you’d magically died in the shower. He let out a sigh of relief when you shrieked, smacking his hand away to pull the curtain back into place.

“Pervert!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“I thought you dropped dead, idiot!”

“Are you dense?!”

Ace pursed his lips, staring at your eyes. What did he do wrong? Obviously, opening the shower might’ve been was wrong. But the anger. You were so angry with him… It actually hurt his feelings. Poor baby.

“Ace, why are you so stuck on this?”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

And there goes your heart. It ached at his words. If you weren’t soaking wet and bare, you would’ve hugged him. So, you did the next best thing you could think of. You told him the truth.

“You’re an idiot.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. A habit when you were giving in to whatever he wanted.

“Ouch. Hurtful,” Ace crossed his arms.

“No, not because of that. You’re so fucking blind, Ace. I’m…fuck. I like you! So, yes, I get upset when women are touching you, getting all of your attention. You flirt with them in front of my face. It hurts. You always do that shit.”

Ace’s poor face. His jaw slacked, staring at you. He was stuck on those three words. Was he seriously that drunk..? Was he starting to hallucinate? Had to be. Not…not you, right? How could he be so blind? He was a god at reading women, so, why not you? Right up until this point, he assumed you still saw him as your older brother.

“Earth to Ace?” Your hand waved in front of his face.

“You like me…” He exhaled, not realizing he stopped breathing for a few seconds.

“Yeah, kinda just said that.” You yanked the shower curtain closed to finish up.

“You like me!” Ace yanked it back open.

“Stop that!” You tried fighting his strength without ripping the thin plastic.

“Hell no!” Ace jumped into the shower, almost falling over as he cupped your face. “You fucking like me?! Since when?”

“Sh-ince–” He squished your face too much, making it hard for you to speak clearly. “Ace!”

“Sorry.” He retracted his hands, resting them on his hat.

“Since we were kids, dumbass,” you rubbed your cheeks softly.

“I’m so stupid,” Ace breathed.

“You are,” you went to turn back to your shower, but he was quicker.

The tiles were ice cold against your back. The warmth of his lips made up for it though. He pulled back, looking down at you.

“You taste like vomit.”

“Ace!”

Flame Emperor Sabo

The stars twinkled against the midnight sky. You poor thing, drinking away your feelings. It almost became a monthly ritual. You’d sneak off in the dark with a heavy bottle of sake and sit on the shore’s edge. Water rippled around your toes, leaving icy kisses against your skin.

It wasn’t that you enjoyed being drunk out of your mind. It just took the edge off most times. You actually kind of hated the burn. The flavor wasn’t too great. Flavor… Huh, your mind lingered on wondering what Sabo tasted like. Just one little kiss. Wouldn’t that be something…

This was the first night you finished a whole bottle so you weren’t coherent whatsoever. You didn’t catch the footsteps walking up behind you or his voice softly calling your name. Not until his hand rested on your shoulder did you look over and see him.

His blond curls and black attire made you smile lopsidedly. You thought that you were just starting to see things from your inebriated state. Fuck, how strong was that liquor?

“You look like Sabo,” a giggle escaped you followed by a hiccup.

“I would think so,” he chuckled softly, sitting next to you. “Why are you out here?”

“I don’t know,” you turn your gaze back up to the stars.

“Are you sure about that?” Sabo hummed, gazing up at the sky.

“It’s dumb,” you snort, rubbing your heavy eyes.

“Tell me. I’m a great listener, you know,” he chuckled.

“I just really like him. No…I love him.” You sigh, your eyes growing heavy. You desperately try to fight it off, but it’s getting harder by the second. “But he doesn’t feel the same. So, I drink to force it all out. Or push it down. However it works. It’s a thing now. My thing. I don’t know how you found me.”

“Who?” His voice cracked, his eyes moving to glance at you subtly.

“Sabo.” Now it’s your own voice’s turn to crack. “He’s so sweet, so passionate. He doesn’t have time for a relationship though…”

He stays silent. Did he hear you right? Were you even sure? He could see the bottle was empty. There was no way you were all the way there. You must’ve been drunk out of your mind.

“See? ‘S dumb,” you mumble tiredly. “Just…don’t tell him I told you.”

“I won’t.” He watched your eyes slowly close, your body letting the waves lull you asleep. “I promise.”

Sabo scooped you up, bringing you back to the ship. He made a B-line for his quarters, tucking you into his bed. Out of respect, he wasn’t going to sleep with you. He couldn’t. But…your hand latched onto him tightly, brows furrowed in your sleep. Sabo tried to tug your hand from his coat but fuck, were you strong.

Sabo sighed and slid in beside you, holding you close. “I love you, too, Y/N.”

“I know,” you mumbled drunkenly against his chest, feeling his body tense up against you.

Monkey D Luffy

Oh, sweet Luffy. Such innocence in this strong fighter. It was laughable really. You could absolutely do anything and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Wouldn’t dare second-guess that you were just being you. After all, you two grew up together. Well, you four. But you followed Luffy on his adventure, some sort of instinct to protect this naive kid.

You were really into him. The whole crew could see it from miles away. Nami and Franky always teased you about it. Hell, even Sanji teased you. He tried giving you love advice, but you’d give him a pointed look and he would roll his eyes.

“You don’t have to look at me like that.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Alright! Alright! Tch. I know.”

You’d bring Luffy snacks while he was busy doing things around the ship–if he wasn’t already scavenging the fridge. Or force his stinky self to bathe. He’d scream halfway across the ship, telling the crew you were kidnapping him. Robin would tease that you were like his mother which you’d shiver in disgust.

“So, you enjoy being a parent?”

“What?”

“You’re like his mom.”

“Ew… That feels so wrong.”

One Sunday evening, Luffy came creeping into your room. He watched you carefully, extremely confused. You looked up from your book, raising your eyebrow as he flinched.

“What’s wrong, Luffy?”

“Bath.”

“Is it broken?” You get up, leaving your book on the bed.

“No. You didn’t make me take one.”

You stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Um, no, I didn’t.”

“Why?” He tilted his head and it made you smile.

“I’m not your mom,” you shrug softly, rubbing your arm awkwardly.

“So?” Luffy, still confused, went over and started tugging you along. “I know you’re not.”

“Where we goin’?” You raised your eyebrow.

“Bath.” He made it sound so obvious.

“You want a bath?” Your hand flew up to your mouth to stop your laughter.

Luffy stepped into the bathroom, pointing at the tub. “No… Yes… I don’t know.”

You started the water, plugging up the drain. He watched you, pouting. Why’d you stop fighting him? Was he being too annoying? His chest felt funny as he stared at you.

“Why aren’t you making me take one?” He asked again, poking your side.

“I figured you didn’t want it.”

You weren’t just going to up and tell him Robin’s comment made you feel strange and distant. You didn’t want him seeing you as his mother. Not when you had feelings for him.

“You’re lying. Your nose moved.”

“What?”

“Your nose. It did that thing when you lied.”

Your face went red, looking away from him. You shut the water off and nodded at it.

“Get in.” You glanced at him.

“No. Why are you lying? We don’t lie to each other.”

Luffy was right. You two didn’t lie to each other. It was just something that stuck all throughout the years. You sighed softly, dropping your head between your hands.

“I know and I’m sorry. But I can’t tell you.”

“That’s the same thing as lying.”

“Luffy, get in the damn tub.”

“Hey! Don’t be mean!” Luffy whined.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” you rubbed your face, looking up at him. Dammit. He was adorable. Cute. Really fucking attractive. Especially when he wore his shirt open… Crap. “Luffy, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Luffy tilted his head again. “What’s wrong?”

“No, like, I love love you.” You mumbled.

“What do you mean?” He sat in front of you, forcing you to look at him.

“Like… I have a crush on you, dummy. I love you. In love,” You bit your inner cheek, nervously tapping your heel on the floor.

“And…you didn’t want to make me take a bath because you love love me?” Luffy got up, taking his clothes off.

You looked away until you could hear the water splashing, “It’s not going to make sense.”

“Oh, well,” Luffy laid in the water. Before the effects could fully weaken him, he yanked you into the tub with him. “I think I love love you too.”

“Asshole!” You sputtered, looking up at him now drenched.

Luffy grinned, puckering his lips. Maybe he wasn’t so naive.

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

need a part 2 for sleeping beauty already omg ur writing is too beautiful, need to read Spencer being shy n sweet

:((( ♡

thank you honey🥺 i want spencer to whisper in my ear😔 pt1

“are you okay with sharing a popcorn?” looking to your left at spencer while the two of you stood in the concessions line.

the old styled theater was heavily packed with different ages of people. from young children with parents, to couples holding onto each other, and elderly adults sitting down before heading into the show room. you could see why spencer would enjoy coming to this place, he could meet people of similar interest.

spencer held on tightly to the strap of his satchel, “i don’t really eat popcorn much. also did you know that popcorn has been around for about nine thousand years, evidence found by archaeologists in peru.” he looked away from you then squeezed his eyes shut, “uh, but i’ll be okay with- with sharing if i want a few pieces.”

your lips shaped into a smile, “we can ask for a water cup and pour some in for yourself before i start eating.” two steps forward in line, “what size drink? and beverage?” eyes squinting a bit to read over the options.

“your not paying, right?” a stern tone from spencer that it gives you whiplash for a moment. his brows are harshly pinched in the middle, a finger twitched at the urge to smooth out the wrinkle.

you shrugged, “you bought the tickets, thought i could buy the food. probably gonna be equal pricing in total.” used to splitting or paying in full for past dates.

spencer pushed his bag behind him, your wallet was tucked away in the brown leather. “no, this is a date,” insisting, “i’m paying for everything. i want to treat you.” softening his voice as he stared at you, his eyes rounding out into that doe shape.

you bit into your bottom lip, saving your cheeks from their future ache of how strong your smile widened. “okay,” embracing spencer’s gentlemanly deed. you looked back to the line, only three more people ahead.

you let your arms rest at your sides, fingers constantly moving, wanting to do something bold but unsure if it’s too soon. there was a ghost of knuckles that tingled your skin and then, one slender finger wrapped itself around your pointer finger. your heart skipped a beat at the contact, but you acted like this was an everyday occurrence, the intimacy felt normal.

“do you want any candy?” spencer resumed your food chat. you hummed for a moment, “if i get a kitkat and reeces pieces, will you share with me?” giving your joined digits a slight swing.

“the kitkat. not a big fan of the reeces texture.” once at the counter spencer recited your order easily, not bothering with a spare water cup. you carried your soda while spencer held the small popcorn, his water and the candy placed into his bag.

“are you okay with the back? don’t want to distract people with all my moving.” standing at the foot of the steps, only two third of the seats filled during the commercials.

you dragged spencer behind you as you guided the both of you to the last row, a pair of seats close to the middle. “are you okay with translating the whole thing? if it’s like the original then i’ll be fine.” hoping spencer still agrees, but the movie is an hour and a half long.

spencer was distracted with his bag when he replied, “i’ve already seen this movie. i don’t mind talking you through it.”

your face warmed instantly at the innuendo. “just- just take a break whenever. i can use context clues.” crossing a leg over a knee so you can lean closer into spencer’s side. “thank you, for this date,” whispered between the two of you.

spencer turned his head quickly that your noses brushed, his lip parting and you let your eyes drop to the plush pink calling to you. you let your head move in just an inch closer, waiting to see if spencer will lean away or go forward. just before there was a definite decision the lights dimmed and an usher walked in front of the screen.

you settled your back against the cushioned chair but stayed leaning, elbow resting on the arm rest. “enjoy the show,” the usher finished with before leaving and just a moment after the projector lights shined above your heads.

sleeping beauty appeared in swooping cursive titling then faded into the opening scene of a giant fairytale book. you barely moved your head when you felt spencer’s breath ghosting over your ear, needing to suppress a sudden shiver.

“once upon a time…”

[prentissluvr]

talkative s/o headcanons — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, kissing, one suggestive comment at the end lol, poor editing, 0.7K words. requested !

prompt : sam winchester x talkative!reader

⟢ so we know that sam’s a bit on the more reserved side; he’s not as talkative as you by any stretch!

⟢ and at first he maybe is a little overwhelmed or mostly just surprised by how much you talk

⟢ but he gets used to it quickly!

⟢ and almost just as quickly, he discovers how much he loves your voice

⟢ and that means he just loves that you talk so much, and he’s decided he would like for you to never stop!

⟢ he’s come to find it just so so so endearing how much you talk

⟢ like he just stares at you with heart eyes, he's the king of giving you heart eyes while you talk!

⟢ and he’s not sure how you can just fill up a silences with your many, sometimes loud words for minutes, sometimes even hours

⟢ but he does know that he loves it

⟢ he’s got a staring issue (he just really likes to look at you), so he feels very lucky that once he gets you talking, you’ll just go on and on!

⟢ which means he has an excuse to just sit there and listen and watch

⟢ and that way he’s also watching your lips move hehehe and he’s just falling deeper and deeper into your spell

⟢ he also really likes that the amount you talk allows him to get to know you well, because he can constantly learn about the things you like, the things that bother you, the way that your voice changes depending on how you’re feeling

⟢ he knows your content voice, your excited voice, your annoyed voice, your tired voice, and the list goes on and on and on

⟢ and he’ll always pay so much attention so that he can keep you content or calm you down depending on what he reads from you voice

⟢ counts it as a date when you just sit together and talk and talk <33

⟢ it’s seriously just the perfect yapper x listener dynamic hehe

⟢ and sam really really really likes being the one that you talk the most to! he likes that you want to talk to him specifically for so long hehe

⟢ he also now knows the difference between how you talk to just him versus other people

⟢ and he’s secretly so :,) when your voice softens just for him

⟢ he’s also in love with the fact that, while you do most of the talking, part of your talking always includes questions for him or engages him into a really good conversation

⟢ and it’s nice that those conversations range from silly, simple, inconsequential things, to the sort of stuff that you stay up until 2 in the morning talking about with just each other

⟢ which also means that sam just talks more than he did before meeting and dating you!

⟢ which really does him good, because he often has kind of no one to talk to about literally everything

⟢ but by nature of being with you, he’s talking about all sorts of things

⟢ and having consistent casual conversation is just really nice and calming for him <3

⟢ plus, it encourages him to talk about more important stuff more!

⟢ since you’re so comfortable talking to him about pretty much anything, he becomes much more comfortable with talking to you about a lot more!

⟢ he also likes that you’re generally talkative, because that means when you’re too quiet, he knows immediately that something’s up

⟢ sometimes it just means that you’re sleepy, and he’ll always try to figure out exactly what’s going on with you

⟢ if you’re tired, he’ll make you lay down with him and be the one to talk and talk until you fall asleep because he knows that his voice is soothing to you <33

⟢ also him kissing you to shut you up hehe

⟢ not because he doesn't want you to keep talking, but only because sometimes it's the only way to get you to stop and get up and ready to go to dinner lmao

⟢ or because your eyes are drooping and you should go to bed, but you're still talking

⟢ or he’s just kissing you because he’s totally in love and just wants to kiss you hehehe

⟢ and i didn’t say this but he certainly appreciates of your talkativeness or loudness translates to other certain activities if you know what i mean wink wink

⟢ basically he didn’t know that he’d love being with someone talkative so so much but he absolutely does!

[leclsrc]

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k  

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?” 

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad. 

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed. 

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly. 

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning. 

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job. 

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window. 

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.” 

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before. 

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile. 

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing,  a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but). 

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little. 

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation. 

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip. 

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly. 

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile. 

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs. 

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours. 

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate. 

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing. 

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his. 

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity. 

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor. 

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.” 

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks. 

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

 “The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

[vxntagedior]

if i ever talk to you that way

summary | remus is concerned about the reaction you gave to him after he pulled a prank on you, based on this tiktok

pairing | dealer!remus lupin x fem!reader

warning | angst, fluff, grumpy/sunshine, mentions of slapping

word count | 1.0k

Profanities weren’t anything new to Remus, they had been integrated into his vocabulary since he could remember. Along with that, hearing him swear wasn’t anything new to you, you heard it constantly when he talked to people who came to buy from him. 

But that tough personal, would wash away whenever he was around you. The brute dealer who turns into mush when he’s around you. Remus liked to keep you and the rest of his world separate, he didn’t want you around all the stuff he did, and made a promise to himself that he would never talk to you the way he would talk to the deadbeats who came to buy. 

James and Sirius made fun of him constantly, saying that he was just puddy whenever you were around. And each time, he’d curse them out saying they would be the same if they had someone like you in their life.

He couldn’t taint someone like you when his profession, constantly Remus thought if you were truly right in the mind being with him, and though hearing you reassure him endlessly, making sure you told him ‘I love you’ at least once a day, Remus still couldn’t believe what he ever did to deserve you. 

Remus lavished you, made sure you had everything you wanted and more, because he was happy when you were happy. 

-

“Fuck off!” Remus swore at his best friend (even though you were his actual best friend). “I’m not doing that to her.”

James and Sirius had met you a handful of times and they could tell how sweet Remus was on you, and after seeing how Remus acts around everyone else, they wanted to do a little test. 

Sirius was the first to think of it. He remembered how you liked making dinner for Remus when he came home. Remus never asked, never requested anything, just eating whatever you made because he hadn't had a home cooked meal in a long time. 

James had practically set up the whole situation, when he came home, calling you a bitch, while asking you what's for dinner. Remus stared in horror at his friends, he couldn’t do that to you, he couldn’t call any bad name. Both boys were even shocked when Remus agreed, though they now owe Remus something in the future. 

Driving home that night, Remus contemplated actually going through with it. He loved you and could never do that to you, but he truly wanted to see how you would react to him. 

Pulling into the driveway, turning the engine off, Remus’s hands were still on the steering wheel. Seeing the curtains open, letting him look through the window, seeing you in the kitchen, moving around the kitchen, prepping for dinner. 

“She’s tough.” He muttered to himself, Remus taught you to make sure to stand up for yourself, making sure you don’t take shit from anyone. “She’ll put me in my place.”

Hearing the door open, and the footsteps coming closer and closer, just as you were about to speak, Remus beat you to it.

“Bitch, what’s for dinner?” Remus was already wincing at his tone. 

Your eyes widened, turning away from the stove to face him. Remus watched the hopeful glimmer in your eye fade away, your entire face fallen. Composing yourself together, not wanting to cry in front of him, you answered meekly. 

“Grilled cheese.” It came out as a whisper, letting the air travel your words. 

Just for a split second, Remus looked at you before his eyes softened. You had looked scared of him, your body was shielding itself from him. 

“If I ever.” Remus started, trying not to have his voice waver, he felt terrible in that moment, not being the person he promised you would be, because right now, you looked scared of him. “Ever, talk to you that way, you smack me right across the face.”

Your eyes finally shifted to his, hearing the sincere voice in his voice, the pleading look in his eyes, just wanting to say something to him. 

“Okay?” He finished, still not hearing a word from you, scared to death that you’d just leave him in the kitchen alone. 

“Okay.” You answered, still in that soft voice, like you were scared to raise your voice any louder. 

Remus strided across the kitchen, coming up to you, pulling you into him. Tightly wrapping his arms around you, your face pressed against his chest. Finally feeling you wrap your arms around him, he let out a deep breath, one that he didn’t know what he was holding. 

Pulling away from you, bringing his hand up to your face, thumb tucked under your jaw, the rest of his hand resting against your cheek, caressing your skin softly. 

“Do it.” He whispered. You looked back up at him confused, “Smack me.”

“Rem I can’t do that.” You shook your head rapidly, “It’s okay, I understand but-”

“Please.” He closed his eyes, “For a split second, you looked scare of me, I never want to make you scared of me again.”

You never answered, Remus closing his eyes awaiting his fate. Feeling a small brush against his cheek, he peeked open his eyes, “You practicing?”

He tried to lighten up the situation.

“I did it, I slapped you.” You answered. 

“Love, you brushed your fingers against my cheek.” He closed his eyes, a grin forming on his lips. 

“That was.” You protested, not wanting to argue, he just agreed, finally unwrapping his around you. 

“You okay dove?” He asked, not wanting to leave the situation with unanswered questions, “You know I’d never intentionally wanted to do that to you, James and Sirius thought of the idea.”

“Seems like them.” You hummed, turning back flipping your grilled cheese, smiling at the little charred pieces. 

Coming up behind you, Remus rested his chin on your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“Do I still get dinner?” 

Twisting your head to the side, he looked like a puppy who had been caught clawing at the couch. 

“Of course.” You pressed a kiss to his chin, “Can never stay mad at you.”

fin.