#hand eye coordination must be really good

[americanoddysey]

Had a dream last night that A Fresh Pair of Eyes got a TV adaptation and my mom watched it before I did, for some reason. Also, Elias was a gamer with the cat ear headphones. That is all.

(he still is)

[plutoslastwords]

i honestly love these fics so much xx

i was hoping you could write about landos reactions to baby norris milestones, for example, first time crawling, first words, first steps etc.

milestones

lando norris x daughter!reader

summary: a collections of moments that made lando realise that his baby girl was getting bigger (spoiler alert, he doesn't take it well)

w/c: 2.9k

warnings: none

a/n: ...........hey. i'm sorry i may have been slightlyyyyyy mia (only 1 month....) school has been actually the death of me, but i'm on break now!!! (yay!!!!) so here's a longer one as my sincerest apologies xxx

~~~

Even when you were barely a day old, Lando could already tell that you were going to grow up too fast, that he was going to have to cherish every moment that he could whilst you were still with him. He is not ashamed to admit that he cried on your first birthday, the thought of his little girl getting bigger, getting one year closer to not needing him anymore was too much to handle. 

Therefore, milestones were a very big deal in the Norris household.

Crawling

It was around Christmas time when you first decided that you wanted to move around on your own, and figured out how to coordinate yourself to do just that. You were in Bristol, staying with Lando’s family for the holiday season meaning you were in one of your best moods, getting to spend so much time with your Nana and Grandad, and your aunts and uncle, all of whom spoiled you endlessly. 

As is typical for the Norris family, after lunch everyone had herded into the living room, sitting in front of the tv with big glass doors looking out onto the vast property to the side of the room. 

You were sitting on the floor, playing with some building blocks that you were making towers with. Lando was busy telling his family how you were going to be a future architect because, ‘look at her tower! Look how good she is!’, therefore he didn’t seem to notice when your attention moved away from the building blocks, more interested in something that you could see in the garden.

A couple deer had decided to take a trip into the Norris land, casually grazing on the grass. Having lived in Monaco for your entire (albeit not very long) life, you had never been exposed to such wildlife like this, you were infatuated. You try babbling to your daddy to come and help you and take you over to the strange creatures, but he is too busy bragging about you to listen. So you have to take matters into your own hands. 

Carefully moving one limb at a time, with the uttermost focus on reaching the wondrous animals, you begin to manage to propel yourself across the floor. Unfortunately you aren’t quite as graceful as you imagine, leading to you falling onto your front.

“Woah, baby, what’re we doing?” Lando immediately gets up, ready to come and scoop you up into his arms, protecting you from any possible danger, but his mom stops him. 

“She’s crawling!” She whisper-shouts, excitedly. Lando’s mouth opens, but no words come out. How have you grown so quickly? It was only yesterday that you were opening your eyes for the first time, it seemed, how were you already learning to crawl?

Not letting your little fall set you back from reaching the cool animals, you manage to drag yourself a few steps towards them, slightly clumsily, but you got the job done. Lando lets out a strangled sound from his throat.

Much to your disappointment, when you are nearly at the windows, the deer must hear something from deeper in the grounds, and run off, causing you to stop where you are and not move. You don’t have anywhere to go anymore.

Sensing that he would no longer be preventing you from achieving a milestone, Lando rushes over to you, scooping you up into his arms, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head.

“Oh, baby. What a big girl! Did you just crawl my darling? Yes you did! My smart, smart girl…” He coos, you don’t really understand, but he sounds happy, so you giggle at him. “My baby…” he mumbles, “You’re growing up so fast, hm? What’s daddy going to do…?”

He carries you back to where he was sitting on the sofa, keeping you in his arms on his lap as you continue to coo and babble. “Maybe I’ll just carry you for the rest of your life, hm? You can’t crawl if you’re in my arms…” he begins to consider, but quickly backs down when his mom swats his arm, then he just pouts. 

“Never want you to grow up, my love…” He murmurs into your little ear, kissing the top of your head sweetly.

Walking

Once you had started crawling it was hard to stop you. Lando often had to chase you around the house because you discovered the art of crawling under the table where he couldn’t reach you, giggling like crazy at his failed attempts to get you. You were a little menace, but he still adored you. 

However, he knew that the time would come that crawling wasn’t going to be enough for you anymore, he dreaded the day. He hated how big and self-sufficient you were becoming already, he couldn’t dare to think about what would happen when you could walk. Would you even ever want him to carry you anymore? He pushes it to the back of his mind, too upsetting to ponder.

Even though you were barely a year old, you were still more well-traveled than half of the human population. Lando refuses to leave you alone, even though his friends and family have offered to watch you countless times whilst he’s away for work, he would never accept. 

At present, you were in Ibiza with him, he was there with Max and Keegan for some much needed downtime after the chaotic first half of the season. You loved Ibiza, spending hours upon hours crawling around in the sand, building elaborate sand mounds castles whilst Lando chatted with his friends.

You soon discover, however, that the feeling of the sand on your hands is icky and gritty, getting in the way of holding your bucket and spade comfortably, but you can’t not get them sandy, because then how would you crawl around? It’s quite the dilemma.

You put all of your brain power into discovering a solution. Looking around you see a little girl, who’s a bit bigger than you, who’s moving around without her hands, like your daddy does! If she can do that, then surely you can, you think.  

Using your giant mound of sand as support, you manage to push yourself up onto your two feet, feeling much taller than you did a few seconds ago. Now comes the tricky part, but you’re sure that you can manage it. 

Carefully, you manoeuvre one leg into front of the rest of you, aiming to get further along the beach, to a pretty seashell that would make the perfect turret for your mound castle. You manage to take one step, getting ever so slightly closer, the beauty of the seashell pushing you on.

Another step, Lando is still none the wiser, engaged in a heated discussion about some video game with his friends. 

Another step, Max turns his head, like Lando he is always looking out for you, it’s his duties as a godfather after all. When he spots you he almost chokes on his beer, letting out an odd sound that causes both Lando and Keegan to look at him funny.

Another step, Max doesn’t say anything, just widens his eyes and points to where you are toddling over to the sea shell.

Another step, for a minute, Lando just sits there in silence, not knowing how to react, his baby is walking. This wasn’t meant to happen so soon, how are you already walking, he needed you to be his baby for longer, soon you were going to be independent and never need him anymore…

Another step, finally he speaks, “Oh my god…” he chokes out, Keegan and Max adorning similar slightly shocked expressions. 

After he’s decided that you’ve gone too far for his liking, he strides over to you, swiftly hurling you up into his arms, to which you respond with a whine, pointing at the shell that you so want to get.

“You want the shell, baby?” He asks quietly, still not quite ready to accept the fact that he just saw you walking for the first time.

You respond with an eager nod, and of course he walks over with you in his arms and picks up the shell, placing it into your outstretched hands.

“You walked, baby, didn’t you… such a big girl…” he murmurs into your hair as you play with the pretty shell, “God you’re growing up way too fast…”

Talking

You learning to walk doesn’t get any easier for Lando, he winces everytime you manage to take a few more steps, and eventually just has to accept it when you’re charging around the apartment on a daily basis. 

In some ways, even though you don’t need him to carry you around as much anymore, he quite enjoys the fact that you know how to walk, it gives you more of a sense of character (if that was possible), more of a chance to express what you want, as you could just simply walk over to it. 

It is very rare that you and Lando get to have a quiet weekend to yourselves. Normally, he’s either at a race, or has other commitments with Quadrant and such that mean that you’re not at home in Monaco. 

On this occasion, one of the members of Quadrant had gotten sick just before filming was meant to take place, so it had been postponed for a couple weeks, meaning that Lando got to have a quiet weekend at home with his favourite person in the world. 

Before you were born Lando has to admit that he wasn’t the most experienced or talented chef, often relying on his pre prepped meals from his trainer, or takeaways. But since you were born he has taken it upon himself to learn how to cook, so that you weren’t eating the same two meals for the entirety of your childhood. 

Currently, he was in the kitchen, cooking your favourite, pasta bolognese. You were in the living room, immersed in watching something on the TV, some cartoon with a lot of animals, Lando had lost track of all of the names of your favourite shows. 

Deciding to spoil you, as he always does, Lando brings in the finished pasta to the living room, ready to let you watch your cartoons whilst you eat your lunch, as long as you didn’t make too much of a mess, which you would end up doing, of course, you’re a baby there will always be a mess.

You grin when you hear him coming with the pasta, but as soon as you see it you scowl, he has forgotten the most important ingredient, the cheese. 

Lando freezes at your scowl, he hates when you’re upset and he doesn’t even know how to fix it. “What’s wrong, my love? Is there something wrong with the pasta?”

You just scowl harder, all you want is the grated cheese on top of your pasta that always makes it taste so much better. You stare at him scowling for a minute until…

“Cheese.” 

He freezes, just stares at you with his mouth agape, completely lost for words. Did you just… talk???? His mind is going completely haywire, his tiny, baby, precious girl was talking?? You were meant to stay a baby forever! Talking was basically a telltale sign that you were growing up and about to leave home forever and he’d never see you again!

When he doesn’t respond to you, you scowl some more, repeating yourself louder in order to get your point across, “Cheese!”

Your adorably angry tone seems to be able to snap him out of his trance, “I- uhm- you want cheese, baby? You want daddy to get you some cheese?”

“Cheese, daddy!” 

He completely loses it there, his eyes immediately fill with tears when he hears you say ‘daddy’, scooping you up into his arms and holding you as close as possible, lathering sweet little kisses all over the top of your head.

“Oh, angel, daddy will get you some cheese, okay? Daddy will get you all of the cheese in the world, anything for you, okay?” He mumbles, bouncing you on his hip as he makes his way into the kitchen in order to grab the cheese that you were obviously so desperate for. 

“My big, big, girl…” he coos, “Can’t believe you’re already speaking, hm? Feels like yesterday when you were this big!” He uses his free hand to show you a tiny pinch, to which you giggle at his exaggerated tone.

As he grabs the cheese from the fridge he whispers to you once more, “Daddy loves you so much…”

“Lub you daddy…” and then the waterworks start all over again.

First day of school

You had become quite the chatterbox after you started speaking, picking up full sentences in only a couple of weeks, but nothing made you talk more than the idea of going to school.

There had been much discussion about where to send you for school. Lando’s parents were quite keen on you coming back to England for school, where you were from, as it would be much easier for you to make friends there. Lando, however, hated the idea of you being separate from him, you’d gone to nursery in Monaco, so the french language and people weren’t completely foreign to you, and he’d much rather you be at home with him.

In the end, after much back and forth you were enrolled in a primary school in Monaco, but in the words of your Grandmother, ‘as soon as she feels the slightest bit upset I’m flying her straight to England’.

The days leading up to your first day at school you were the opposite of upset, practically jumping off of the walls, making Lando chat to you about your new ‘big school’ every evening. You’d tired him of every question that there could possibly be about starting a new school.

“How many people in my class, daddy!?” ‘15 baby, lots of friends’

“How many subjects daddy?!” ‘Maths, French, English, maybe some history’

“Where are the toilets there daddy?” ‘Not sure yet, my darling, we’ll find out when we’re there, okay?’

And the list goes on. 

Lando was not sure if he was ready to send you off to school, he already struggled when you were at nursery, and that was only 3 days a week. You were still his baby, he couldn’t bear to be without you, not knowing whether you were safe or happy.

Finally, the dreaded day comes.

You are up at the crack of dawn, banging on Lando’s door, barging in even after he doesn’t answer, poking him repeatedly on the head.

“Daddy!! Up!! School today!!” you shout excitedly.

He groans in response, still half asleep, scooping you up and onto the bed next to him as he sits up and rubs his eyes.

“G’morning my angel… we’re up quite early today, hm?”

“School today daddy!!” You repeat, “We gotta get ready for school today!!”

As much as he disliked the idea of you going to school today, you were being so adorable about it that he couldn’t help but let a big grin grow on his face, god he loved you.

“Yeah?” He smiled, “Let’s get you ready then baby… you want me to do your hair?” Like cooking, after becoming a dad Lando had taken it upon himself to learn how to do hair, he was not going to let his daughter be left out because she was the only one without someone to do her hair in pretty styles.

“Bunchies daddy!!” Your word for pigtails. His heart swells, he thinks that pigtails make you look absolutely adorable, even more so than normal, if that’s possible. 

“Of course, my darling. Let’s get you into your uniform first though, hm?” He coos, lifting you into his lap in the bed, taming your messy hair slightly so that he can see your little face better. 

The two of your work in getting you ready for the day, you were being very meticulous about everything, down to the colour of the hair bows that he was using to tie your pigtails up with, but by the end you looked perfect.

Lando could’ve cried looking at you, standing there in your little blue uniform, with a backpack that’s way too big for you on your back, you were getting so big…

“My angel… you look perfect, you excited?”

“Yes!!!” you squeal, “‘M gonna make so so so many friends, daddy!!”

“Are you gonna miss daddy, baby? You’re not gonna see me all day…”

“It okay!! I’ll see you when I’m home!” He rolls his eyes at the fact that he’s more torn up about this than you, he’s meant to be the adult here!

“Cheeky girl…” He mumbles under his breath, but you don’t hear, too focused on making sure that your bag is packed just right.

He takes you to school himself, you babbling away in the backseat of the car about how excited you are for your first day, as much as he hates it, he can’t help but smile at your childish wonder. You’re not going to be saying that in a few years…

When you finally arrive at the school, you hug him tightly before leaving him.

“I love you, daddy…” You mumble into his chest

“Daddy loves you so so much my darling, you go and have a great day, okay?” Then he goes back to his car and sobs.

~~~

a/n: i hope that you enjoyed!!! i've got loads of wonderful requests from you guys that i promise that i'm working on!! might do a special easter event if i manage to get everything done!! ;)

[darylbae]

there’s just smth about daryl seeing you injured maybe a broken leg or even an amputated one from a bite and limping, someone holding you up as you walk. he’d almost run over to you and pick you up.

a dumb idea — daryl dixon 🩰

in which you were injured on a run, and daryl can't bare to see you that way without helping.

Rick had chosen you for a run, not alone, but for you to go. He'd seen you were quick, efficient with your melee weapons, and were probably one of the best choices. You were joining Rick and Glenn, Daryl having to sit this one out by Rick's orders. He hadn't cleared the prison in full yet, so he wanted Daryl back here to keep watch. Daryl and you weren't exclusively a thing, neither of you had spoken about it at all, but everyone else could see it was waiting to happen. You were currently just really good friends hiding your feelings for each other, or at least thinking you were hiding your feelings for each other. You were sat in the backseat of the car, happily talking to Glenn as the car rolled towards the gates. You glanced out the window to see Daryl, sulking at the gate yet picking his arm up to wave at you. You returned the gesture, a sweet smile on your face that Daryl had become addicted to. One of the many addicting things about you.

Your positive-for-the-end-of-the-world attitude had come to an end when you'd ran into a building to find some cover, the darkness of the building rendering you blind as your leg had been impaled by a broken bit of a glass shelf. You let out a cry, falling to your feet as Rick and Glenn rushed over to assist you. "You good?" "What happened?" Rick had turned a flashlight to your leg, seeing your jeans ripped and stuck to your leg with the amount of blood. You almost passed out at the look of it, the glass had lodged itself in there pretty snug. "We need to get her back, now," Rick demanded, wrapping an arm around your back and coordinating with Glenn to get you safely to the car. Rick had taken his shirt off and tied it around your leg above the wound, before beginning the drive back to the prison. Glenn had trained his eyes on you and your leg for most of the drive, making sure you were still alive and not dying back there. The drive felt like hours, you felt like closing your eyes but Glenn was adamant on talking to you. Telling you about Maggie, telling you about how sweet Daryl seems to be around you, and you knew it was a distraction tactic, to keep you awake and not looking at your completely blood soaked shin.

You heard the rattle of the gates as they'd slid open for the car, and you felt a short burst of relief to be back. "Dar..." You managed to speak, wincing as Rick had reached for your hand to pull you out. "Daryl." Rick and Glenn had their arms under yours, carrying most of your weight for you. Until Daryl had heard the commotion and come out to see what the fuck people were shouting for.

Daryl saw you. Your leg, completely red from the knee down, being assisted into the prison. He wanted to help, he wanted to ease your pain even just a little. Dropping his crossbow to the ground, he'd paced over to you, relieving Glenn and Rick of their duties. "It's okay, I got ya," he cooed, "I got 'er," he'd lifted you, arms clinging to you as he led you to the cell block. "It's okay, sweetheart." Your blood loss wasn't fatal, thankfully, but Herschel was about to have you on the mend in no time.

You'd been allowed to rest, peeling your eyes open after having slept a while. The first thing you were aware of was the pain in your leg, which was thankfully still there. It was still light outside, so it must not have been long at all. A bottle of water and some pain meds were sat at your bedside, and you'd desperately taken them in order to ease your pain. "There's my girl." You heard, and Daryl had entered your cell and sat at your side. "How's the leg?" You chuckled. "It's seen better days." You could've sworn you'd spotted a smile on his face for a moment. "Were you scared? Did you think I was gonna die?" You teased, poking his arm and smiling innocently up at him. "No," he answered, "you're a fighter. I know that." There was something he was keeping to himself, you could see it in his brain. Almost as if he wasn't allowing himself to say it. It had been a tough process even getting to a friendly level with him, he had always kept his feelings to himself. But you liked to believe you were making progress with him, you wanted to. "What's on your mind?" You asked sweetly, your voice like honey, and he was addicted. God, he was addicted. He wanted nothing more than to have you night and day, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But he didn't know the first thing about flirting, or even dating. "Nothin," he grumbled, and you sighed dramatically. "Come on, Daryl," you exclaimed, "talk to me. I need some sort of stimulation for my brain." Your voice was light, but you meant it. He paused, almost debating whether or not to say it. "I just care about ya, is all. When I saw ya bein carried in, my mind just stopped and all I wanted to do was make sure you were okay. Told Rick it was a dumb idea." You smiled, poking his arm again. "You care about me, that's sweet. I care about you, too." He grabbed your hand as it made contact with his arm, and just held it between his own. This was his way of expression, to show you how he felt without ruining it with his words. The pair of you just sat in silence, hands interlaced, a stupid grin on both your faces as you stared at each other. Adrenaline was pumping through your veins, a wave of confidence taking over you as you leaned up and pressed a small kiss to his cheek. Once Daryl had registered what you'd done, he'd turned his head, closing the small gap between you both for a delicate kiss. He was so gentle, his hands still holding yours firmly, and you wanted to do this forever. "I hope that speaks better than I do." He admitted, and you just laughed, resting your head on your shoulder. "Now get some rest, I don't want to see ya on your feet for the rest of the day."

[multific]

Undercover Sweethearts

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: You were never one for undercover work, but with a partner like the handsome Dr Reid, you had no problem playing your part.

The case was unlike any the BAU had seen.

A killer targeting couples.

Stalking them, studying them, and ultimately murdering them in their homes.

The unsub was careful, leaving no traces except for one chilling detail: each couple had recently attended a romantic retreat, a place meant to renew love but now tainted by death.

Hotch’s solution had you blinking in disbelief and gasping for air.

“Reid and Y/N will go undercover as a couple at the retreat.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“I agree with Hotch,” Morgan chimed in with a grin. “You and Reid are the least expected pair, and that’s exactly why it’ll work.”

Spencer’s eyes widened as he fumbled with his watch.

“Uh, w-wait. Why us? I mean, there are more... seasoned agents for this.”

Hotch’s tone was final. “You’ll blend in the best. And you know the profile. You two are the best for this.”

Your stomach flipped, not from fear but anticipation.

You’d had a crush on Spencer for months.

Working with him was both a privilege and a curse; his awkward charm and brilliant mind made him irresistible.

Pretending to be his lover, his wife?

It felt like a dream come true and a nightmare at the same time.

The retreat was a small lodge nestled in a forest, designed to encourage intimacy with its cosy fireplaces and heart-shaped bathtubs. A bit too much for your taste but hey, at least it was for free.

You and Spencer arrived late, you were greeted by a cheerful coordinator who handed you a single key.

“Mr. and Mrs. Reid,” she said warmly. “We hope this weekend brings you closer together.”

Why must you use his real name? Not even Hotch could answer with a serious face.

And his face is always serious.

The title of wife and husband sent a chill down your spine, but Spencer’s face turned crimson.

Just like that, the genius turned into a fool.

“Uh, thanks. We’re, uh—”

Slipping your hand into his, you played your part and rescued your husband. “Looking forward to it. Aren’t we, Honey?”

Spencer’s lips parted as if to protest, but he nodded quickly.

“Yes. Very... forward.”

You almost wanted to laugh at his nervousness. But you knew, you just hid yours better.

In your cabin, you threw your bag onto the bed, turning to find Spencer standing awkwardly near the door.

“Relax, Dr. Reid,” you teased, leaning against the bedpost. “You’re supposed to act like you love me, not like you’ve been trapped in a room with a bomb.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, offering you a shy smile. “Sorry. It’s just... this is new territory for me.”

“Good thing I’m here to help you,” you joked, crossing the room to straighten his tie.

You couldn’t resist brushing your fingers against his chest.

His eyes moved to yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, you forgot this was an act.

But you offered him a smile.

The retreat’s activities were tailored to strengthen bonds.

Consisting of trust exercises, tandem kayaking, and even a “love languages” workshop.

Whatever that was.

You leaned into the role with ease, finding every opportunity to hold Spencer’s hand or tease him with playful whispers.

During a group dinner, you fed him a bite of dessert, laughing when his ears turned red.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” you said loud enough for others to hear.

Spencer stuttered, “I-I’m not flustered. Just... surprised.”

Later, in private, he sighed as he sank into the couch. “You’re really committed to this role.”

You sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched.

“Isn’t that the point? We have to be convincing.”

“You’re... very convincing.”

"Undercover is not my strongest suit. I might be overcompensating."

"No. You are doing... too good." you shrugged your shoulders at his words before heading to the shower.

Maybe you were having too much fun. If he began to notice, you might become obvious that this is not all an act.

On the third day, the tension thickened.

You felt eyes on you during a group hike, and Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“We’re being watched,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hand.

The unsub had a pattern, choosing couples who oozed happiness.

Your exaggerated affection had likely drawn their attention. Much like how you planned. Hoping your happiness might bring him out sooner than his previous kills.

That evening, you and Spencer staged a romantic moment by the lake, knowing it might bait the killer.

“You’ve been amazing,” Spencer said softly, his voice laced with sincerity. “I don’t know how you make this seem so effortless.”

You smirked, leaning in. “Maybe it’s not entirely an act.”

Before he could respond, movement in the shadows caught your attention. Your eyes spanned to the bushes.

The unsub emerged, a knife in his hand. Just as you predicted, a white male in his early thirties.

The attack was quick.

The unsub lunged, and Spencer shielded you, wrestling with the attacker.

You grabbed a heavy branch, swinging it to knock the knife from his hand.

Spencer subdued him, his strength surprising you, until backup arrived to take the unsub into custody.

As the chaos settled, and the police took the man away, you sat by the lake, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Spencer was beside you, his shirt torn, and there was a small cut on his temple.

“You’re okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your hands were shaking. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re braver than I gave you credit for.”

You turned to him, your heart pounding but you couldn't handle it any longer. “Spence, I wasn’t lying earlier. About this not being an act.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” You hesitated before forcing the words out. “I’ve had feelings for you, for a while. Pretending to love you wasn’t hard. Pretending it was fake was.”

Spencer’s gaze softened, and he reached for your hand.

“You should’ve told me. I...” He trailed off, then leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was tender and perhaps a bit sloppy.

But it was also perfect.

Absolutely perfect. Like him.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Maybe we don’t have to pretend anymore and it can be real.”

You smiled at his words. It was a promise of something far greater than you could have ever imagined.

Now, you just have to run it by Hotch, but you were pretty certain he chose the two of you for this mission for a reason.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

after the party - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader can't let go of her wedding day so spencer needs to give a reminder of what weddings are really about

genre: flangst wc: 823 warnings: wedding, post-wedding-depression, talk of honeymoon and kids, reassuring, very brief mention of the wedding night, pessimist!reader

Your wedding was everything. It was perfect despite your worries. Beforehand, you thought up all that could possibly go wrong but it turned out that the moment you saw him waiting at the end of the flower-covered aisle, nothing could ruin it. There was cake, food, photos, smiles, and laughter. When it came to your first dance as, officially, Mr. and Mrs. Reid, Spencer revealed that he'd been taking dance lessons without your knowledge. He said he didn't want to mar your perfect wedding with his two left feet and poor coordination. You thought the idea was preposterous.

The planner he was, David Rossi offered to hold the event at his mansion. Who were you to pass that up? It ended up being everything you've ever dreamed of—fairy-lit backyard, family, and the man you love. Not to mention the party.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. While your wedding night was mind-blowing, you were upset to leave the day behind. Because you knew you'd revisit it forever.

And you already are.

Yes, you're now the wife of the most perfect man you've ever known but the best day of your life has also slipped away. Maybe that's dramatic and not at all what you should be focused on but you can't really help it, can you? Perhaps it's the petulant side of you. The side that yearns and holds on.

And maybe it's the metaphoric packing away of the memories that's contributing to this feeling. After all, you're quite literally picking up the night before and placing it in the garbage. Quite literally. Here you stand, in slippers and remnants of last night's makeup, picking bits of confetti and glitter off the ground. Leftover curls sit atop your head.

From behind you, familiar arms wrap around your waist. "You finished outside already?" you ask. Spencer shakes his head against your shoulder. "No, not yet. I just wanted to see you."

You smile, turning to face him, a hand coming up to hold his face. You remember yesterday, how he looked, smelled, admired you while—

"What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" your brows furrow.

He hums thoughtfully. You wonder if you'll ever feel how you did last night again. "You seem... distant," Spencer acknowledges, eyes narrowed.

"Oh."

Kindly, his eyes search yours, looking for any explanation because all he really wants is for you to be happy. He mutters softly, head dipping closer to your level, "tell me what I can do."

What can he do? You mean, he's a profiler, he's not going to let this go. So, you should tell him, right?

"I'm just... upset that it's over, I guess. I'll never be a bride again," you admit gently, voice unsure.

Spencer nods with understanding. His hand runs up and down your arm. "You're right... you'll never be a bride again," a small smile appears on his lips, "but you'll always be my wife."

It's true and you know it. You'll be his forever and ever. He'll be yours. Though, there's still that feeling that your best has passed you by.

"I suppose that's true..."

A sigh leaves him before he inquires with a faint, cheeky smile, "is that really why we got married? To have a party?"

You frown, shaking your head adamantly. "No! Come on, you know what I mean."

"No, I don't," he quips with more confidence than you were expecting. "Because, yes, our wedding is over, but now we move on to the next part and then the next and then the next."

You playfully roll your eyes at the simplicity of his words. Since you, he's become better at looking at things more positively. Probably because you don't.

"Think about it," he whispers.

"Think about what?" you hum, now a small smile on your lips.

Spencer grins with you, bringing his hand to yours. "What comes next. Look forward to our honeymoon instead of thinking about what's passed."

"Okay, fine. I'm only agreeing because I'm excited to go to Paris, though," you giggle softly.

In an awful French accent, he responds almost dreamily, "ah, Paris."

Leaning down, he places an exaggerated kiss to your cheek before sighing, “then whatever comes after. House, kids.”

“Kids,” you murmur happily. You’ve spoken about this.

“Yes. Let’s focus on the next few things, okay?” he smiles sweetly.

You nod your head. Spencer’s ability to soothe every line between your brows never fails to baffle you. Somehow, he can simultaneously calm and excite you with everything he does. Perhaps it’s in his nature or maybe he just knows you all too well. You like to think it’s the second option.

When his lips come down on yours in a gesture of warmth, you breathe out through your nose, a smile creeping up onto your mouth. It’s quick, lasting only a few seconds.

“Better?” Spencer mutters.

Humming in affirmation, you nod. Your thumb brushes the scruff on his chin. “Better.”

tags: @angellic4l @sweetestthingonthissideofhell @floraisunwell @1mnshw @mggslover

[specialgradefckr]

thinking about taking advantage of satoru gojo when he's high.

it's not like you mean to, at first. you didn't get him high on purpose.

in fact it was more him taking advantage of you, actually, eating those weed brownies you'd left out to cool on the shared dorm's kitchen counter.

and it's innocent, at first. you stumble on him, and the completely finished pan of brownies, rightly infuriated at the white-haired man lounging back on your couch.

but it's hard to get angry at him, lying there all sweet and docile. pupils blown wide like the smile stretched lazily across his face.

satoru croons your name, voice all sing-song, with that pretty face looking up at you. starry-eyed.

he hums noncommittally when you accuse him of eating your brownies, and giggles when you press him.

"honestly, i did you a favor. they had this weird aftertaste," he laughs, and you have to bite your tongue.

at this point, you're still being nice, still being a good friend. because why wouldn't you? you are a good friend. forgiving his useless ass even though he ate a batch worth a hundred bucks.

when you reach out to help him up, satoru makes another giddy laugh, pulling you down.

he's far too heavy to resist, of course, and so you fall onto him, into his long, lanky arms that wrap themselves around you.

"wowwww," he sniggers, "did you just fall for me? how embarrassing for you."

even when he's high, satoru gojo has a gift for making your heart flutter and making you want to smack him at once.

he's annoying - god, is he annoying - but his embrace is surprisingly comfortable. he nuzzles his head into your hair like a cat.

"mmh. warm~" you think he purrs like one, too, tightening his embrace.

ugh. he smells like weed.

"get up, dumbass. how long have you even been here?"

"don't wanna." naturally, he completely ignores your question.

luckily, though, in his inebriated state he doesn't have the coordination to stop you from pulling back.

but he does make a whine, a little pitiful noise combined with his outstretched arms and his shining eyes that tug on your heartstrings more than they should.

dirty little thief. you pull him up and he stumbles to his feet, shamelessly leaning on you.

"woah there," he moans, wincing, and you feel bad for once - the six eyes might be hurting him, "easy on the goods, babe."

you no longer feel bad.

maybe that's when it started. he leans on you, so much weight, but stumbles with you as you pull him along to his bed.

he tumbles into it, dizzy, movements slow and halting.

"it's hot in here," he whines, pulling up his shirt.

satoru gets it halfway there but can't quite make it. it's hilarious to watch. he's stuck with his shirt over his head, chest and abs exposed as his face is covered and he groans and moans like the loserboy he is.

god, does he look good. all his fine musculature bared for your viewing pleasure.

he groans from underneath his shirt, squirming, and you reach another hand to his pants to pull them down.

there's only a few moments of struggle before he flops down, pitifully, stuck with his arms and face trapped in his shirt over his head. like some kind of human earthworm.

he makes another one of this pitiful moans.

yes, this is it, you think. this is about where you should leave.

but your feet don't carry you out.

instead, your hands freely roam his toned abs. they flex underneath you as satoru undulates, groaning and whimpering some more at the contact.

you think he likes being like this, some pitiful helpless creature squirming beneath you.

and maybe you're right, or maybe it's just the contact, or maybe it's just because he's high, but you see a bulge in his boxers, exposed from his unbuttoned pants.

you're still being helpful when you pull them down (god, those thighs, his legs really went on with miles. and so smooth, does he wax?) and he kicks them off, so he must have wanted that.

you're definitely being helpful when you pull his shirt up over his head, but not off his arms, so that you can see his face.

it's flushed red (he'd said it was hot in here) but he's still so cute.

and it's really not your fault for indulging him. who could refuse him when he's like that? soft and needy, all fluffy hair and dreamy eyes.

so big, so blue. blinking away tears.

"what... where..." breathless, he shivers beneath you.

you watch his pupils contract, and blow wide again. six eyes adjusting, re-adjusting. you brush a nipple with your arm and he squeals, squinting his eyes shut.

"too bright," he mutters.

you kiss his eyes, lick his tears away, and he sighs in relief.

"you..." he breathes.

nuzzling your cheek against his, you hum back. "me."

"you're... you... what are you..." bleary eyes open up at you. they can't focus, though, and he winces at the light.

his arms wiggle over his head, but if he really wanted, he could have gotten out (never mind he can barely walk).

he doesn't tell you to stop. you don't take his boxers off, either, you just straddle him and grind.

satoru's so fucking pretty when he whines at the contact. his head raises up, arms straining as if to reach out to you.

his eyes are still blown wide, dazed and glassy. lips wedged open as if in passionate expectation.

can you really be blamed for giving him a kiss? when he's such a vision?

his whole body reacts to the contact. hungry, curling up into you, bucking into the heat of your crotch pressing into his.

he's hard, now, really hard, bulging against his boxers and up against your pulsing cunt.

it's not taking advantage if he so obviously wants it too, isn't it? even if his arms are still struggling to slip out of his shirt.

those pretty eyes tear up when they look up at you. that beautiful mouth, swollen lips falling open and closing again, helpless to form words. his whole face contorts in pleasure as you keep grinding over him.

lost, hazy, the heat swells between you. even you have to bury your hands in the sheets, in his feather-soft hair, twisting as you reach your peak.

his voice is normally so smooth, so assured, and now it's a warbling, shuddering thing, syrup-sweet little gasps of pleasure hot against your neck.

that heavenly friction of you against him. his pretty pink nipples pebble up for you, and he gives these pained, drawn-out whimpers as you pinch at them.

"good. you're so good for me, satoru, you feel so good," you whisper, even though you're not sure he can hear it at all.

sensitive. keening. he twitches and pants and you feel him press himself up into you harder.

beautiful, so beautiful. the fine muscles of his chest straining as he arches up into you, bucking his clothed cock up into your cunt.

there's a wet spot on it now to match the patch on your panties.

you pull his head up for another kiss; you have to hold him up by the neck. he's limp, dizzy in your hold.

drool pools at the corner of his mouth, tears staining his cheeks.

god, he's gorgeous. and gone to the world. the delicate features of his face swollen and flushed in the afterglow.

you help the rest of his shirt off. he doesn't resist, doesn't help, doesn't move at all, but you can tell he's breathing.

he curls up the instant he's in the bed, limbs latching around you. it's a struggle to disentangle yourself (he wanted this, wanted you, it's proof) but you manage.

you leave a glass of water. painkillers.

you try not to think of what he'll say to you when he wakes up.

"hey!" satoru catches your attention, quite intentionally, the next day. waving you down.

you turn to him. keep your face cool. "what is it?"

the smile on his face is wide, unassuming, just a few too many teeth.

"those brownies were great! make them again?"

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

ac·cou·tre·ment

down bad joe, who's such a good boy. wears his suit proper but can't wait to undress you.

sub!joe. 18+ content (smut heavily described). fem!reader.

saw this bracelet and this shirt and decided to do a line and write some sub!joe. throw in the fact that i saw sinners last night and i was like, yeah, we're so back.

8.8K words. read part 2, 'room service'

talk--hozier

bloodbath for birds--squalloscope

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

_________________________

The Honors come every year. 

And every year, Joe’s always looking for something comfortable and easy to wear. It’s not that Joe’s not a fashion guy; it’s that he likes comfort more. However, comfort must strike the delicate balance with your outfit as well. It’s a team effort now—coordination of accessories, and color palettes, ensuring silhouettes are cohesive. Which leaves him here, in the bloom of December, fretting over this year’s color palette. Last year was a simple royal blue and black affair to match the space themed pant chain he wanted. 

This year must be different. It has to bring something new to the table. Joe’s looking for something fun and maybe even a little shocking. But he doesn’t have much mind left. Even if this is a job he’s happy to take on because he also gets a hand and first viewing of the dresses, gets to watch you twirl in the a-line skirts, shimmy into the bodycons, knowing that no matter what you wear, he gets to peel you out of it at the end of the night, Joe is utterly lost. He doesn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do or where to go for inspiration though you’ve supplied more than enough with your Pinterest boards. All the colors are starting to bleed together. Every suit’s starting to look the same. The names of each board are getting blurry in his vision. All stemming most notable from the fact that he didn’t sleep great the night before--a sniffle tickling in the back of his throat that he needs to get a handle on. A sniffle that’s been lingering since Wednesday. It’s not getting worse, but not necessarily getting better either. 

Joe is supposed to be napping. He’s not even supposed to be looking at your Pinterest right now, or worrying about the NFL Honors. Your order came firm, but sweet as you tucked him into the sofa up to his chin in the fluffiest blanket in the house after filling up his water bottle, Rest, baby. A command that came after you brought him a can of ginger ale, a bag of throat lozenges with a cup of tea as well. The cup of elderberry tea with manuka honey has long since been consumed. Joe made sure of it, because the warmth and the viscosity of the honey did help his throat. Now, though, the sofa’s too big and a little cold without you there at his feet. 

Joe’s not sure how long you’ve been in the kitchen. You were sitting with him on the couch, arm resting on his ankles, flipping through channels. But now you’re lost to his vision, only in his ears can he hear the symphony of sizzling, cabinets, and jars. Joe was somewhere between falling asleep and deeply asleep--just enough awareness to know that he wasn’t fully awake and just enough asleep to know that he’d lost some amount of time without any exact measure on it. When he cracked his eyes, he was stretched out completely, TV still softly playing but his toes only dug into couch cushions instead of your thighs. 

And that’s all it took. The moment Joe realized you weren’t there on the couch, that you’d disappeared into the kitchen, he woke up fully. Sleep is persistent though. His eyes blink close every minute or so even with his laptop on his stomach. Yet, Joe's a stubborn man and he refuses to go back to sleep until you’re there again, at his feet or next to him. 

The blue hue of the screen is just bright enough to keep Joe’s attention for small bursts of time. But not enough for him to sink into his thoughts and really focus on the task at hand. He had just enough energy to make it through practice. Now that he’s home, his brain has gone fuzzy. Everything feels like it’s moving slower than normal. Not quite a fog. This is more akin to the feeling of coming up from anesthesia. Joe is aware though it all feels and sounds so distant from him. Like he could be watching himself from the outside. 

The buzz of his phone drags his attention from the laptop. He groans as he stretches out for the device before he stares down at the text from his personal assistant. Dior’s reaching out if you want to work with them for a custom look for you and your partner for the NFL Honors. Interested?

Yeah, sounds cool. 

Perfect. I’ll get them in contact with you directly here shortly. 

“Baby?” your voice carries from the kitchen. 

Joe freezes. He should pretend to be asleep, but if you’re calling him then he’s already been caught. You already know he’s not sleeping. It doesn’t sound urgent. Whatever it is. Joe untangles himself from the cocoon, getting his laptop and phone down onto the coffee table before he stands. He rounds the corner to see you stretching up, but not quite getting to whatever it is you’re reaching for, given the huff that pushes over your lips. “What’s up?”

“Can you help me and get those mixing bowls down from that fourth shelf? I can’t reach.”

The cabinets reach to the ceilings and though there’s never really much that you or Joe put beyond the first three or four rows in the cabinet, reaching up to the fourth can be challenging even for Joe. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You hover just behind him. Joe slides into the place you were standing and though he much more confident in his stretching to be capable of reaching the bowls, the heat of your hands inches and only inches from his back seeps through the thin cotton t-shirt. A steadying presence though he doesn’t need it. A reminder that Joe knows you better than he probably knows himself. You are always right there, right within reach. 

Joe secures the cranberry colored Pyrex bowls into his grasps and brings the all lot of them--three total as they nest one inside of the other--down. Just as the bowls click against the counter, your hands slip up and under his t-shirt. You move into the space of Joe’s side, chest pressed into his ribs. The trail of your fingers is rather soft, like you might not even know you’re doing it. Joe’s trying to keep himself composed, torn between a laugh at how it starts to tickle and the satisfied sigh from the feeling of your body flush against him. That is until he coughs, catching it into the crook of his elbow. Now all he has left in his chest is a slight wheeze from whatever is slipping down the back of his throat. 

“Thanks, love,” you hum, “I appreciate it. Now, go actually sleep. You’re not fooling me.”

“How’d you know?” He’s not ashamed of being caught. There’s a sixth sense the two of you share about each other, but still Joe thought he was being pretty sneaky. 

“Sound of you tapping on the keyboard earlier and the click of the trackpad.”

“I was—” Joe starts and then his voice cuts out, the pitch rising before all sound leaves him. He clears his throat and tries again. “I was trying to sleep, but it’s not the same when you’re not there.”

Your ever watchful gaze cuts to him, even as you start pulling the chicken from the dutch oven. The steam billows from the opened mouth. “Did you finish the tea?” 

“Yes.”

“Have you had a lozenge?”

“No.”

Your brow arches. The onions, celery, garlic, and carrots smell heavenly as the steam remnants make their way over to his nostrils. The fact that he can still mostly smell is a reassuring sign. Joe knows what that looks mean the moment it dawns on your face. Pursed lips, a high cut eye. There will be no amount of reasoning that will win against you now. 

Joe raises his hands up in surrender. “Okay, nurse. I’ll go pop a lozenge.”

“Soup will be done in like twenty minutes. But after you eat, I want a nap out of you.”

“You promise to cuddle with me?” It’s a Friday and Joe’s hoping you’ve handled all errands while he was at practice. 

“Yes, I promise to cuddle with you.”

“By the way, Dior will be reaching out to me soon about a custom look for the both of us for the awards. So even though I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t bullshitting around.”

“I don’t really care if Jesus called you. You need rest since I know you won’t be convinced to not start Sunday.”

Joe snorts, pushing off the counter’s edge to slip in behind you. The loud care, the persistent eye over him—Joe wouldn’t trade it all for a thing, not even to get rid of whatever was pestering him at the moment. His arms slip around your neck, loosely, and he presses just a fraction of his weight into you. Part of Joe is relieved you hadn’t pushed him about the game Sunday. He knows it’s probably irking you not to say something. The demands for naps, and the tea, and the lozenges are a replacement in the wake of such silenced objections. The actions replacing the words. 

“Are we just ignoring the part about custom Dior or?” Joe’s whispered question wisps down the side of your neck.

“We can worry about custom Dior once you’re feeling better. But get a date and I’ll get the time off.”

The crook of your neck is so warm, so inviting. Joe can’t resist settling in closer to your throat, nose pressed into the thumping flesh. Your perfume is soft and sweet—a vanilla base with something earthy underneath. Joe can’t place it—sandalwood or musk. All he knows is that you smell like home, like warm sheets and home cooked meals. A scent Joe chases in his dreams when he’s away from you. 

“My poor baby,” you coo. Your voice rumbles, refracted in a way that makes it deeper than normal through your bones back into his ears. But Joe can only hum when your nails scratch over his scalp. “You still need to grab a lozenge before you get to snuggle up on me.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Just,” Joe inhales again and it cuts off the thought for a moment. “Just need a minute here.” 

He’s met with silence, only broken by the click and soft taps of your work. Your palm slides up and down his forearm, making his spine melt. Joe could cease to exist in a moment but as long as that moment is with you that’s all that matters. 

“Ten second warning.” Your voice is a whisper. Sounds like it could get swept up in a strong enough wind. 

“Hmmkay.” Joe takes his remaining seconds, presses another to deep inhale of your perfume and natural musk into his lungs, and then pulls away, slowly bringing his awareness back to the kitchen. The chicken that’s resting in the bowl, pulled away from the bones now. The slightly charred vegetables sitting in the small personal serving blender, like you’d been intending to start it up but waited on like you had another thought. Maybe as to not startle him? But Joe’s not sure. Just feels like whatever was supposed to happen was paused.

“Lozenge. And then soup. And then a cuddle and nap,” he recounts to himself, reorienting to the new objectives. 

“In that exact order.” The command is paired with a tap, a gentle pat to his ass. 

Joe laughs, a blush creeping up his cheeks as he covers his behind with his hands. “Wine and dine me first. Jesus,” he calls out, departing the kitchen.

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” you holler back.

Loving me, Joe wants to say, but can’t get it over his lips before another cough creeps up his chest. He takes a swig of water first before unwrapping the lozenge and then slips back down into the cushions, under the blanket and stares at the TV--seeing but unseeing as he waits for you.

________________

Joe’s seen the dress before. The blush pink velvet over your curves, the sweetheart necklace and cinched waist that Joe swears was painted on you. And Joe’s seen it before, but each time you’re in it, it’s like seeing it for the first time. Over, and over again. Up and down he tracks the lines of your body. 

The dress leaves your shoulders bare, begging to be marked, to be bitten, the longer Joe looks at you. While there’s no sleeves to the dress, there is a bit of a bow effect that starts at the neckline, fabric that circles out before it reconnects back to the bust, creating loops for your arms to slip through. Not quite capped sleeves--you distinctly asked not to have those--but a dramatic middle ground that creates a nice line of movement for the eye to take on the otherwise simple ensemble. The skirt of the dress drapes to the floor and is form fitting around your hips and thighs. And to think this all started with a singular picture--a gold bracelet dazzling that spells out, I love you, replicated now on your wrist. 

This all started with one singular click. 

When the Zoom meeting to start the process loomed just days away before you both, Joe began pestering you--he could admit that and would admit it if pressed--about your input. Though Joe was the one to take the reins when it came to getting the ball rolling on styling for events, he felt uninspired. He wanted out of his comfort zone, but wasn’t sure what that looked like. Your boards were nice, but they felt common. He’d seen those dresses and those suits a million times over. He needed something that would set you both apart, bold, but still classy. So Joe pestered, and he pestered until you sent him a brand new board to look through. 

Right there at the top was a 1960’s bracelet--gold with only a few small cut diamonds and letters written in all caps in a not quite cursive but not fully printed font that spelt out, I Love You, photographed on burgundy velvet and that’s all Joe needed. It’s a subtle piece, understated, and still charming. The Dior team hadn’t been able to secure the original bracelet itself. It’d been auctioned off on a UK based jeweller’s site and then resold from that owner to someone else, down to a blackhole it appeared. But the website still had decent shots and measurements that the team had been able to work with to replicate the bracelet. 

And Joe only really had a few sentences for them, to describe what he wanted. You had a few more words to describe your desires, but the core of it was simple: The ‘It Couple’ in Old Hollywood Glamour. And by God, did Dior deliver. Especially with you in that fucking blush colored dress. You look good enough to eat, for Joe to unravel you on his tongue until his mind has left his body and made him just a shell of himself—yours for the taking, a sacrifice, body laid bare and weathered.

“I’m going to need a fire extinguisher because I swear you’re going to set that room on fire,” Joe groans. 

Your laughter bubbles from your chest; it makes the lines of your collarbones dance. Joe tracks the movement with his eyes, but wishes he could trace the dips and valleys with his tongue. He doesn’t stare long, can’t afford too given the rather tighter fit of the dress pants. You look up from the stylist helping you into your shoes over to Joe--he’s finishing up the last few buttons on his black dress shirt, his cream velvet tuxedo jacket still hanging on the rack for him. 

Your voice carries over the room to him, a taunting and haunting laugh behind it. “I still can’t believe I’m getting you into a properly tailored suit.”

Joe can’t believe it either, but it fits the theme. It is out of his comfort zone and still comfortable.  He ensured that there was still an extra inch in the cut so it wouldn’t feel like it was suffocating. But it’s not as slouchy as the custom Alo suit, not even by a long shoot. “When standing next to you, I have to come correct. You’d bury me alive if not.”

“I’d unbury you though afterwards.”

“You always do,” Joe hums, turning to get a look at himself in the mirror. But your gaze is hot on him. If a look could carve him open, yours would--the pouty lip, the look up at him from beneath your lashes--coy, but the tiny curl to your lips tells him everything. You would and will crack him. Leave the window of his chest open and heart beating for full display. You always unbury him, always bring him to the brink--and sometimes over--but never leave him down alone. A fact Joe knows backwards and forwards. 

And this hotel room really isn’t the place, not with his stylist and assistant around. 

“And you’re sure these aren’t too tight in the toe?”

“No, it’s fine. There’s enough room.”

Joe takes the opportunity to regroup. The black dress shirt is decorated around the collar in kiss shaped lipstick stains. They range in various shades of pinks and reds to match your dress. And a couple of the stains fall down to his chest—one placed oh so delicately over his heart. All your markings, half a day spent with body paints and a tester shirt. Though it seemed ridiculous that you kissed a dress shirt over and over and over again, applying, taking off, and reapplying different paints, the end result is more than worth it. 

Your heels click with your approach, a steady sound, a confident echo. Before Joe can reach for the cuff links, your fingers are tugging at the collar of the dress shirt that Joe just finished tucking into his pants. You undo the top button. The second one follows suit. “There,” you muse, fingers now trailing down to his wrists. Thankfully his pants are securely zipped now but the delicious points of your new nails make his stomach swirl. Fucking hell if he shouldn’t wish that he could take you now, but he does watching now at every prick of the pointed nail tips.

The gold and red accents are tiny on your nails. Joe watched in fascination as the nail tech attached each nail in the mini lamp, and hand painted on each detail. Her sponge and fingers were covered in gold chrome, red, and blush pink by the end. And your nails sparkled in the glossy finishing coat. Joe watches those same nails now as you work the cuff links into place, mesmerized by how confident you move and how well you manage given the extra fractions of nail that’s not usually there.

“Trying to slut me out?” he teases.

“Not unless you want me to.” The grin is devilish as your eyes cut upwards, a warmth and glitter to them that Joe never wants to see leave them. 

Joe’s not sure if he really wants that, but he loves the lingering gaze, how your eyes rack over his chest just barely peeking out from the undone buttons, like you want to devour him. He’d let you. Joe would let you suck every ounce of himself off his bones and let the marrow of them become broth. It’s insatiable really--a hunger that’s just never fucking satisfied never quieted.  Only locked away. Only tampered down momentarily.

The tug at his sleeves lets Joe know that you’re done, that the cufflinks are assembled and he takes hold of your waist, fingers brushing over the soft material. “And if I ever wanted to?” he whispers. 

“It’s a good thing I only require explicit permission.”

You don’t linger in his hold. You turn instead to grab the suit jacket and Joe lets you go, half aware that the two of you aren’t actually alone. With you, Joe has a habit of forgetting that he’s not always alone. With you, everything else can melt away, fade into the background. He can worry less. It’s addicting. A high that Joe only gets when he’s with you. A high that he only wants with you. 

Joe finds the opening of sleeves and you help drape the jacket over his shoulders. The deep cut of the lapels paired with the now billowed opening of he dress shirt makes Joe feel even taller, the lines echoing each other and elongating his torso. Not that he needs it, but he has to admit it does look good. 

“Buttoned?” Joe starts securing the jacket closed. “Or unbuttoned?” He pops the button and lets the jacket fall open at his side, slipping his hand into the pants pocket. The action gives just a tiny glimmer to the gold watch on his wrist, to match your bracelet. 

“I’m always going to vote unbuttoned if you’re asking me,” you laugh, carefully as you lean into the back of him, as to not get the makeup decorating your face onto the light colored coat. 

Joe wants to ruin that too--make the mascara run, smudge the soft painted lipstick across his cheeks and yours. But not right now. He shouldn’t do it right now. You can see it though, in the way your hands slide across his stomach, dancing dangerously close to the third button. “The way you’re acting I think I’m going to have to go buttoned,” he laughs. 

“I like a challenge.”

In the end, after only a half second decision, Joe leaves the jacket unbutton, knowing he’s never going to put up that much of a fight with you. The car ride is smooth, his hand slipped into yours, your fingers intertwined around his. A comforting weight as the two of you review the game plan--who Joe needs to make sure he talks with, where to go after the awards should the food suck, which side his speech is tucked behind the peaked lapels of his suit jacket. 

“There’s an after party, right?” you ask. 

There’s usually one every year. Joe nods. “I’m sure you’re going to want to get out of those heels first so we can make a pitstop to the hotel first.”

“My hero,” you laugh, easing a kiss to his cheek before you double check for a stain left behind. “No transfer.”

“Damn, and here I was hoping there’d be one.”

“You’ve got me draped around your neck, bubs.”

“One more never hurts.” He shrugs once, and then presses a soft kiss to your temple.

It’s bashing at the back of his teeth, how much Joe really don’t give a fuck about this awards anymore. Not with your perfume dancing in his nose and how you’re pressed into his side. How you look carved by the gods, placed earthside for the kind of myths and legends that will come years from now about your beauty. 

Or at least the stories he’ll tell your kids, and the grandkids and that’ll be just the same.

Joe’s out of the car first, but reaches back inside to take your hand and help you down onto the carpet. The camera’s are bright flashes, only the halos of their bulbs echoing in the red and fading dots of Joe’s vision. He takes a second once you’re stable on the ground to place a few pieces of your hair back into place, straightens out the faux sleeves around your biceps and does a quick swipe at the skirt to keep it behind you, out of your way as you walk. 

“Perfect,” he grins. 

“Thank you, baby.”

The earrings are long to accent the hair style and the bareness of your shoulders. A perfect addition to the bracelet, as they echo the same kind of chain weaving. It’s understated but bold--proclamations draped over both of you of the other. Not possessive as is needing to be claimed, but voracious--a way to boldly announce who the two of you belong to. Freeing and greedy as it is. Your lips on his collar, the bracelet dazzling around your wrists, him on your arm. You belong to each other out of choice, out of desire, out of that insatiable fucking desire.

Joe wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The two of you pose on the markers, inching your way down the red carpet. Joe keeps his hand wrapped yours. “Oop,” you laugh and Joe flashes a glance your way to see you fighting with the skirt. 

“Here, let me,” he whispers and then releases your hand to stand in front. He shimmies the skirt out of the way for you and you fix the top, using his body to hide the moment. 

“Stepped on it when we shuffled sideways.”

“Got it. I’ll lead then. So we have no more mishaps.” Joe waits for you to finish the shifting of the top before taking your hand again and crossing up the carpet to the first interview. 

“God, you two look stunning.” Joe tries to read the name of the mic, to see which platform or outlet this is but catch the name before you express your gratitude. He slides in next to you, ensuring he doesn’t step on the skirt of your dress. 

“And such a gentleman,” the blond haired woman laughs. “I saw that little step mishap and Joe, you just swooped in, like Superman--shielding them from the camera. Very sweet of you.”

“Thanks. Was just the right thing to do,” he returns, his laughter a little stilted. What else was he supposed to do? Leave you hanging? Never that. Not even for a single second. The squeeze of your hand relaxes him though and he lets the comment go--for now. 

“Okay, I have to ask, I know there’s big nominations and categories you’re in, but out of the two of you who came up with this look? I mean it truly, you both look ah-mazing.”

“We have customs from Dior,” Joe answers. “Uh, had to switch it up, bring out the classics. She inspired the vibes. The bracelet,” Joe raises your combined hands to show off the piece of jewelry, “started it all. One of her Pinterest--am I saying that right?”

You nod with a small tuft of laughter escaping you. “Yes, you are.”

“Okay, one of her Pinterest boards and I don’t know, it spoke to me. So, we’re here now. Replicated after a 1960’s piece, right?”

“Yes, the original bracelet is from the 1960’s. But you don’t need me to say all that. You got it.” It’s soft encouragement. Joe knows he knows it, but it’s nice to have your reassurance, that you’re right there for him in the sea of the crowd. 

“Oh, that is gorgeous.” The woman leans in a hair closer to get a look at the details before standing back to her full height. “And so we’ve got a bit of a vintage vibe from the bracelet that’s brought us here, I love that. Talk to me about this kiss print collar though. What is going on there? I know you’re bold with prints--some florals, and vibrant colors with some of those tunnel fits. But this feels like a totally new direction for you.”

Joe shrugs. Knows it’s your lips on his shirt. “Her,” is all he says with a smile. 

“Oh, her idea or her lip print? Which is it?”

“Just her.” 

And that’s all there really is too. It’s all Joe wants to say, because the two of you know what it means. That’s all that matters. You bump into his arm, a gentle brush paired with a teasing grin on your lips. One Joe is sure his smile matches. That part is just for the two of you-a secret that can dance in the words not said.  

The interviewer laughs. “Okay, I get it, I get it. You are stunning. I mean it, so stunning. I can see why Joe is so inspired by you.”

“Thank you,” you return softly to her before the rest of the interview turns to Joe and his nomination. 

And in every interview, Joe is sure to praise you, credit you for the inspiration behind the look and each time there’s a small shared grin, the unstated but clear truth. That Joe is carrying you in all senses of the phrase, proud to show you off. Thrilled and blessed to call you his. The first step inside of the building is an exhale for Joe. Done with the carpet, Joe feels that the breaths come a little bit easier as you cart him around, half a step in front of him as you greet some of the other players and their dates for the evening. 

Here, now, is your time to shine, for you to scan the crowd before depositing the both of you in front of the people Joe said he wanted to talk with before his social battery totally tanked in the evening. And where Joe’s doing most of the talking, your eye is focused, head on a swivel as you greet and chat to a couple people on the side, but always watching him. All Joe has to do is cut his eyes for just a second and there, still next to him is you in those long dangly earrings, your hand still safely tucked into his. 

He’d only need to give your hand two squeezes if he needed an out and you’d swoop in, find something in the room---the refreshment, or the drinks--to get him away from the conversation. Always within arms reach. Resting in his palm and on his shirt, a weight that feels nearly weightless on and next to him, a presence so right that Joe notices when you’re gone. Every step, every conversation, steadier with you next to him. 

You are there, next to him, painted into that gorgeous fucking dress that he keeps looking at, keeps watching the way you move in it. Even just sitting, the material looks like a second skin. He knows it was made for you, sewn to accentuate your figure, but it really does make you look like a goddess, someone to be adored. He’s so distracted that nearly every conversation gets into into falters because he can’t keep his eyes off you. Joe ought to be more ashamed of himself. Yet, he can’t find himself to care. 

You snort as you lean into him. “Your category is next. Should I get a tissue for your drool?” you whisper. 

Joe laughs. “What I need is to talk to you.”

Your shoulders drop, where you’d be sitting with your back arched perfectly, you recline back. “Then talk to me,” you urge, flicking your gaze up at him. “Tell me all the things you’d do.”

Caught--like he knew he would be. “I’ve got quite a few things in mind.” The announcer starts to call out the new category and Joe exhales, knowing he needs to stay focused for the camera that's going to pan over to him. “But first, the show must go on.”

“Won’t be too much longer,” you promise, your voice low, dripping with authority and sticky with the timbre of your desire. An octave that makes Joe’s stomach jump. 

He shifts, sits up a little bit in his seat, catching the pan of the camera. Joe peers into the lens for a moment and smiles but can feel that carving gaze--the look you give where you’re smiling, looking through your lashes like you’ve got a fucking secret. And you do. Joe does too, even if it’s stitched onto his chest for all the world to see. 

He hears his name, catches the way your hand slips out of his to clap. But the thing that rattles in Joe’s ears, well after he’s climbed the steps, and slipped the speech out of his left breast pocket is the simple sentence you whispered to him in the tight and brief hug the two of you shared on his way to the stage, “You make me so proud, baby.”

Joe can barely read his speech. Even if he was the one trying to start it, asking for it, it never ceases to rattle him how quickly, how easily you can make him crumble. How all it takes is just one look, one phrase and Joe’s no more than a collection of atoms and cells, liquified. But Joe’s well practiced, has played a dangerous game like this before. He takes an inhale, gets through the speech, takes his award and walks backstage, watching you the entire way. 

Because you’ll find him. Like you always do. You know how to sneak out from the crowd, weave your way through to the back. You’ll roll your shoulders back. No one can really say no to you; it’s not just Joe who's weak to the magnetic pull, the charm, the confidence. You could charm a snail out of its shell. Joe poses for a few pictures, blinks back the flash of the bulb in his vision. He is proud of himself too, but likes knowing he makes you proud too.  

“So handsome.”

Joe looks up to see you, like you blossomed out of the flash of light--one moment not there and then the next spontaneously you appear. Like he blinked you into existence. 

“I couldn’t compare to you.” It’s soft and falls without Joe really thinking when he takes in your visage again. 

“Good thing there’s no competition here.”

Joe doesn’t care about an after party anymore. The second he’s alone with you again, the award safely tucked away to be shipped to him later and the two of you climb back into the SUV, Joe doesn’t give a single fuck about the after party. Not with the soft graze of your nails over his calloused palms, not with the soft murmur of your voice against the shell of his ear, the drag of your lips making his spine shiver. “You said you had a few things in mind earlier, still need to talk to me?”

It’s a fleeting thought, that Joe should be more careful, more mindful of the driver. But there’s a hot wisp of your breath, the sharp delicious points of your nails. There’s no thoughts, just Joe turning and laying claim to your mouth with his. His hands cupping your jaw. The kiss is tainted with the bitter edge of your lipstick, but fuck does Joe love it. 

Loves the rumble of your laughter from your chest as you slip your fingers into the hair at the  nape of his neck. Joe loves the way you scratch at the peak of his chest exposed by the undone top two buttons. He fucking loves that you recline back into the seat, body turned sideways. The move pulls him up in his seat. 

“That’s not an answer,” you laugh as you push him back down, tracing along the prints on his collar. 

What Joe needs is you, legs draped over or against his shoulders, the heels, and the earrings, and the bracelet still resting against your body and the heat of nothing but sinful desire. An elixir of both your arousals seeping onto the sheets that Joe would be nearly tempted to eat up himself. 

But his lips won’t cooperate. Not until you grab his chin, forcing his eyes onto yours. “Tell me.”

It all comes up in hushed whispers against your cheek. “Want your makeup ruined,” Joe starts, voice rough and ragged. “Want to make sure your body can never forget me.” Because your mind won’t--Joe knows that. Know you couldn’t forget him. He inhales, hand sliding to your waist. But he wants to ruin you, run you into and through the mattress, make you writhe beneath him, chant his name over and over again. Decorate your shoulders in the bites that he’s wearing.  

You arch up into the touch, the softest of sighs leaving your throat as he teases over your stomach. He continues, a raspy whisper against your cheek, “Want it to be fair. Because if I’m pretty when you make me cry, then Jesus fucking Christ, you’re going to be gorgeous when I make you cry, leave streaks across your cheeks because it feels that good. And it should be fair, right?”

Your fingers dig into his jaw, pulls his face back from the press of your cheek. “We’re not making a damn after party. Tell me we’re not going.”

Explicit permission. “We’re not going to a fucking after party.”

The second the lock latches beneath him, the dam breaks. The fissures leaked in the car ride. The concrete crumbled in the elevator, teasing nips and soft long kisses. But the moment the door clicks behind Joe, there’s no more reason for self control. No more reason to pretend that he’s something more than just a man. 

Only a man. But he’s your man and by God, he is going to tear you asunder. Leave both of you bare and empty, breathless and relieved. You drop a few inches and Joe shakes his head. “No, the heels stay on.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Joe kneels, helps you back into the shoe as you use his shoulders to stay steady. His hands are full of you, his face pressed into your lower abdomen, hands full of your hips, Joe inhales, catches just the faintest whisper of your arousal--and he moans. Such a pitiful sound before it cracks his chest. He kisses at the dips in your pelvic over the fabric, pulls you in closer and closer and closer to him. 

The skirt is long but Joe’s not deterred as he pushes it up and up drapes what he can over his head before he sinks his teeth into the meat of your inner thighs. Your step goes wobbly above him, his name falling from your lips in a shaky exhale. He soothes the ache with the swipe of his tongue and pushes up on his knees, nose brushing over the crotch of your panties as he goes. 

It’s damp, and there with another deep pulled inhale is the smell of you. Sings out to him, makes all the noise in his head go quiet. Just you, the heat of your body against the cold hotel air. And him.

You and him like it’s always meant to be. 

Joe grabs the band of your panties with his teeth and pulls them down until they hit your knees and then he rolls them down with his fingers, eases the material over your heeled feet. Tongue licking over the whole over you, not between the slit, but over you, a mess waiting to be consumed. 

“Joe, fucking hell.” It’s heaved over your chest, a little muffled, but the grip tightens on his shoulders. 

That’s what he wanted to hear. That’s what he needed. Just you, the whine over your chest, the way his name falls in two parts instead of one. He teases the sensitive skin with the tips of his fingers, up and up, and up until he’s peeling open the center of you, tongue darting up and in before he pushes up to circle your clit. 

“Oh, shit,” you heave again. “Oh, fuck.”

Over and over and over, he laps from you, darts at a time, teases. Not enough to make you sink into pleasure, but just enough to rattle your edges. Just enough to make you sweat. Your knees shake on either side of his head and Joe’s laughing, he’s fucking laughing at how much he loves making you weak in the knees, loves letting himself be used like this. Of volition and with honor. 

But he doesn’t take you over. Not yet, can tell by the way your thighs clench and how your arousal drips down onto his chin that your pussy is aching for more, but not yet. It takes a solid minute for Joe to fish himself out of the fabric but when he’s free, and he sees the shattered look on your face, not upset, just wrecked, he knows the night’s just begun. 

The zipper on the dress is thankfully accessible from his kneeled position as he has you turn, your back to him now. Joe is slow to take it down, inch by inch exposing your skin to the frigid air of the hotel room. Goose bumps litter your spine and Joe kisses them down, over each of your vertebrae. 

He unearths you. Slips your arms free. Peels the dress off you inch by inch. Takes your flesh between his teeth as he reveals more and more of you to him. Until the dress is a puddle and there’s only you—bare except for the earrings, bracelet, and heels. 

Joe can’t help himself. Your breathing hard and shaky, the anticipation making you relax into his palms rather than tensing when he runs his hands up your outer thighs. 

“I need you to lay back on the bed for me. Don’t do anything else. Okay?” He breathes the words into the arch of your spine, hands still roaming over your stomach. 

“You can sound more confident than that.” 

Joe exhales, mouth opening to take another graze at the dip in your lower back. Knows he can be more domineering. But god, the grovel in your voice makes his mind blue screen. And all he can do is groan at the command—knows that’s what is is that you want him to do. Joe pushes up, resting his weight on his knees again, chest pressing into your back. His fingers dance between your folds, circling your clit as he goes. Watches more and more of your body melting into him. And he finally, after hearing the sweet shuddered moan that erupts from you, finds his voice and mind again. 

“Lay back on the bed and do not do a single thing else.” His voice is thick but firm.

You step out of his hold wordlessly and take the four or five steps to the bed gracefully, kneeling into the mattress. An arch in your back that fills his vision with the globes of your ass, the back of your thighs, the tensing muscles of your shoulders and triceps and calves. All dancing in the haloed moonlight through the still opened blinds. 

The suit jacket is easy to peel out off, thanks to the earlier decision to leave it unbuttoned. Joe pulls himself up off the floor and watches you. You lay against the pillows, hips tilted so that your legs lay in an a jagged angles—like you’d been sleeping in your side, and turned but only your shoulders. One leg lays further down on the bed than the other. 

The cuff links hitting the dresser the TV is on brings your attention from the window back to Joe. He rolls the sleeves up, taking another button out of the loop. “You’re beautiful, you know that right?” He asks, working the button of his pants open and the zipper down. 

“I know.”

“And you know that when I’m done with you you’ll still be beautiful right?” 

You grin, turning your hips in alignment with your spine again. It’s slow, never an inch hurried or rushed as you ease open your legs to Joe. Your arousal shines in the dark. He can follow the trail of it over your inner thighs, what slips down behind you and below to the sheets. “Let’s find out shall we?”

Joe slips himself out of the shoes, eases the pants down and that’s all he has the time for. All he has the mind for because that soft challenge in your voice itches the scratch. Drives him absolutely wild. It’s only inches but they feel like miles before he lays his mouth on you, drags from bottom to top with the tip of his tongue and Joe doesn’t need another thought to devour you. 

All he needs is him. And the sweet sounds you make. The dig of your nails into his shoulders. The click of your heels when your ankles meet at his back. You’ve locked him in and Joe has nowhere to go or to want go. 

Your first orgasm rips through you, a long and low sound. He keeps his fingers at a steady push, in and out, not faster than before and not slower, knows even as your pussy clenched around him and you hiss that you can’t handle it that you can. 

“No, no, don’t take me out,” Joe urges, watching you take hold of his wrist. “You’ll miss me if you do.”

“Fucking hell,” you heave, easing up on the grip. “Swear I’ll cum again if you keep up.”

Joe grins, drags his nose back down the seam of your pelvis before sucking at your clit again. Because that’s what he wants. Just wants orgasm after orgasm from you. 

Your hips rut up to meet his tongue. Joe ruts his hips into the sheets, his cock aching but knows he can’t give you that just yet. He will, but the delicious taste of you, the tug of his hair by your palm, keep him hypnotized. 

The second orgasm quakes through you. A hiss pressed through your teeth. His name lost between the “shit I’m—,” and the dragged out “Goddamn”. 

“Such a beautiful pussy. God, just look at it,” Joe heaves, pulling you open with both his hands. It’s only a small reprieve, just enough of a break to bring you back to your body, let you reconnect with yourself before he goes back for more. That and it is a rather divine sight, how could he not take a moment to savor this? 

He teases his fingers along the edges, not inside just at the puffy rim. Feels your pussy clench at his touch. Your back arching off the bed with a sharp gasp from your lips. Joe ruts again into the mattress. God, you’d feel so fucking good on his cock. But how can he deny himself such an exquisite sight of you open, clenching, and dripping wet for him. 

The glob of spit surprises even Joe—doesn’t know where the thought started and when the action took over but he spits all the same, swirling it around in your sensitive nub. “Oh God. Joe, I can’t. Shit I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” A broken sound. You chant it over and over. “I can’t,” you whine. 

“You can. I know you can. Please.” He needs it. Another orgasm from you, the shuttered and broken sound of you begging. 

“Baby, please,” you huff, the ending of the word swallowed up by the cracking sob. “Joe, please. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Please. One more. Just one more,” he begs into your crotch, nipping at the seam of your pelvis, dragging his lips towards your inner thighs. “For me. I know you can. Please.” There’s just the center of you, ripe, puffy, and open for him. He teases another lick over you, just barely touching and you hiss, though your center quakes, clenching on the flat of his tongue. “She’s begging for it. I know I am.”

It’s a laugh, but it’s swallowed up by a sob too. The utterly broken and choked sound. It goes straight to Joe’s cock, makes his own chest rumble with the satisfied moan at the sound. “Fuck, God.”

Joe eases himself up, heart thundering in his chest as he goes, kisses over your thighs, over your stomach and there in the soft hue of the moon, he spots something glistening on your cheeks. “God,” he groans, dropping his head into your throat for just a brief moment. Joe continues on to kiss over your cheeks. “That’s it.” His stomach swirls, hips still covered in his boxer briefs rutting into yours. 

“Please, baby, I can give you one more. Just need you close. You can do that, right? Stay closer to me.”

Your fingers are already dancing though at his buttons, popping that third one completely. Then the fourth. The tips are still sharp and Joe loves that you dig them into his muscle. His mouth falls open against yours, harsh exhales feeding each other. “Yeah,” Joe agrees. “I can stay close to you.”

The shirt falls open but neither you or Joe make moves behind that to rid him of the item. Instead, Joe seals your mouth into a kiss--salty thanks to the tears that have streaked down your cheeks. His hips, clothed and his cock still tucked away, still rock against your core. Each minute movement makes you whimper. A soft and throaty sound. Joe can’t get enough of it, wants to hear it over and over, until he’s fucking you without actually being in you, just the material and his hips pressing into your overly sensitive clit. 

Your nails dig into his ribs, pricks of fire, like spurs in his skin. All that to make him rut into you harder. The sound of your orgasm choked in your throat, body spasming beneath him. Joe doesn’t stop, not even with the bite of your teeth into his shoulder, through the shirt. It might bruise. The action does hurt, but Joe doesn’t care. Can only focus on you, and the way you sob beneath him. The way you sob for him. 

“Baby, shit, so good,” you cry. “So good to me.”

“Can I get even closer?” Joe whispers into your ear. 

“You can have it all,” you laugh. “But tell me first, can I give you a matching set?” Your lips drag along his throat. He knows what you’re asking. “You looked so pretty today with my kisses all over your shirt.”

“Somewhere I can hide it please.”

That’s all you need, you push up, lips latching to his left pec, rip in the dip of his breastbone, over his heart. And it’s messy, teeth, and tongue, and it feels so good. Feels so fucking good. It feels even better when Joe bottoms out into you. He won’t last. God, he couldn’t. But that fix--Joe needed that fix of you, the warmth of you wrapped around his cock. The way you take him like he’s built for you, like he was carved and left on this earth just for fucking you. 

Billowed shirt and all, Joe drives his hips into yours, chases down the feeling of you, the sound of your choked moans, wonders what the pillow looks like, if it’s streaked like he wanted. He hadn’t ruined your shoulders like he wanted, too focused on your pussy, but there’s always next time. There’s always time. His orgasm hits him fast with little prompting, didn’t need much help given all his dry humping earlier. Joe drops his head into shoulder and grazes his teeth over the bone, a raggedy and long moan punching over his chest. 

Your skin is warm and the room is cool. 

There’s two distinct clunks to the floor and then your toes are brushing over his hips and he knows it was your heels. Your nails run along his scalp. The smell of you is glued to his nostrils--your arousal, the humidity of your sweat, the prickings of your perfume still attempting to put up a fight. 

No words are needed immediately as the two of you stay wrapped up in each other. Until you sniffle and then Joe drags his head up from your neck. He’s slow, careful as he pulls himself out of you, knows there’s definitely an ache settling in for you. Just like there is for him, the spots at his ribs and chest are still throbbing from your work. Joe eases over and flicks on the bedside lamp. 

Your cheeks are a mess of mascara and streaked foundation. If it didn’t hurt bad, Joe’s sure he could get hard again. You laugh though. “Proud of yourself?”

“Very,” Joe whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

It’s all slow and sluggish afterwards. Joe peels off the bed first, helps you up next. The shower is wide and the water gets hot fast thankfully. You kiss his skin under the hot shower, working the washcloth over his back. Joe’s careful as he helps remove the makeup, gentle around your eyes with the spare white cloth.

Under the sheets, cozy in his pj pants and you in an old t-shirt, baggy and boxy over your body, you two face each other. Joe’s arm over your waist, your leg threaded through his. “How bad is the mark?” Joe asks, lips brushing over your forehead. 

“My best work,” you laugh. “You need anything? I’d have it room serviced because I think my legs will need 12 hours to re-solidify.”

Joe’s laughter is breathy and spacey. He wants to kiss you again, say thank you, like he always does and likes to do, so that you know he’s never taking you for granted. But he’s not sure he gets it out. There’s a whisper, but he doesn’t catch the words. Wouldn’t know if it was your voice or if it was is at this point. Joe’s not even sure he gets an answer out to your question either. Just sinks and lets the steady brush of your knuckles over his chest lull him under.

[powderpinkprincess]

The Favourite One I. [Carlos Sainz x British!reader]

description: You and Carlos have a one-year-old daughter, Sofia. The two of you finally witness her fist word, but it is not what any of you have expected (with godfather!Lando and Ferrari!Carlos).

(TSMT (Targeted Sensory Motor Training) is a movement therapy for kids that supports their development. In this case, it is used to get Sofia talk and be more coordinated. Kids usually say their first words and start walking around when they become one year old, but of course, a little earlier or later is perfectly normal as well. Sofia's development is a bit late because she is one and a half but doesn't speak at all and she is a little less coordinated than kids her age.)

When you were a little girl, you always imagined having a wonderful, big wedding before becoming a mother. Yet your daughter, Sofia, arrived in your lives before Carlos had seemingly even thought about proposing to you. He loved Sofia to the moon and back, and you knew he loved you, too, but- It would’ve felt better if you could call yourself a wife instead of a girlfriend of six years.

Sofia was an adorable little girl. She looked a lot like Carlos with her nearly black, wavy hair and dark brown eyes. She was one and a half years old now. Time was flying.

What worried you was that she did not speak yet. She pointed at things, kept eye contact, smiled, laughed, and even had a pretty wide range of different noises she communicated with, but her first word just didn’t happen yet. You knew bilingual kids tended to start talking later, but she was also a pretty clumsy baby compared to her age.

Carlos knew how much her development concerned you. He wasn’t as worried as you were, knowing that you were taking her to TSMT regularly. He trusted in that, hoping that she would catch up soon.

He only spoke in Spanish to her, but the two of you talked in English, given that it was your native language and you didn’t speak Spanish that well. Sofia must have found that a little confusing if she understood anything of it.

You were holding Sofia’s hand as she walked down the paddock while you talked on the phone with your mom. Carlos appeared out of nowhere, and you sent him a smile, watching as he crouched down and took Sofia in his arms. As you finished the phone call, he was keeping her occupied, asking her questions in Spanish. Sofia held his gaze intently.

 “Will you answer Daddy, sweetheart?” you asked gently as you slipped your phone back into your pocket. Sofia just sent you a cheeky smile and then buried her face into Carlos’ shoulder.

Carlos chuckled and tightened his arms around her little body, giving you an understanding look. “Mami, don’t worry. She’ll speak when she’s ready,” he soothed you in a quiet whisper. He stood up with Sofia, who was now watching the Formula 2 cars pass by on the track.

You stepped closer to Carlos and kissed him on the lips. “How was the practice, amor? I didn’t see anything. Sophia was finally sleeping.”

He placed a hand on the small of your back. “Practice has been good," he responded. "But I'm excited to get to my hotel room with you and Sofia tonight." He winked at you, which seemed to cause Sofia to giggle. It was hard to tell if she was in a good mood or thought he was silly.

Carlos had always managed to spend some time with the two of you before he went to bed. He couldn’t sleep in the same room with a baby, it was a team order. You understood because Sofia tended to wake up at night when she wasn’t sleeping in her own bed, but it was still sad.

 “I love you, babygirl.” You smiled at your giggling daughter, stroking her cheek with your fingers.

Carlos couldn’t help but smile at that. He gently rocked Sofia in his arms before turning his eyes to you. "She loves you too, cariño," he assured you as he watched you. He always found the interactions between you and Sofia heartwarming.

 “Are you buzzy right now?” You ran your fingers through your hair. “I really need to go to the bathroom, but she hates the lights inside so much for some reason.”

Carlos chuckled, understanding the situation you were in. "Go ahead. Take the opportunity. I can watch her for a few minutes," he assured you as he shifted Sophia to his hip.

When you returned, Sophia was giggling loudly in Carlos’ arms, who was just shaking his head, talking to her. “She is a handful, huh?” Carlos joked as you stepped back to his side, lifting Sofia in the air, which only made her laugh more.

 “Did she bite you?” you chuckled dryly. If anything, her teeth were perfectly fine, and lately, she enjoyed testing them on people.

 “Yes, she chewed on my thumb,” Carlos answered with mock distress, watching his daughter intently.

You tried to hold back your laughter, but it was hard. You should’ve warned Carlos about her new habit. “Sofia, baby, you know we don’t bite.”

Carlos snickered as he watched you try to speak seriously. Sophia just giggled and looked at you with a cheeky smile. Carlos shook his head again. "Oh boy, she's going to be a little menace, isn't she?" he joked.

Lando rushed by, but when he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. He walked over to where you were standing. “There is my favourite little girl!” he exclaimed with a big smile before greeting you. You and Sofia couldn’t make it to the past two races.

Carlos had Lando had a special relationship ever since they became teammates years ago. Their friendship didn’t falter even after Carlos signed his contract with Ferrari. In fact, by accident, it was Lando who Carlos told first about the news of you being pregnant. He didn’t check who he was texting, but he didn’t regret it. And now, Lando was the godfather of your little girl, and Sofia adored him.

Her eyes immediately lit up, and she reached out her little hands towards Lando, making a small, demanding noise. You knew that if Lando started coddling Sofia, the little girl wouldn’t let him leave anytime soon.

 “If you’re in a hurry, you can go,” you assured Lando quickly. You knew how busy race weekends were, and he seemed to be in a rush.

Lando chuckled at Sofia’s reaction to seeing him, and he shook his head. “Nah, I have a bit of time,” he replied as he took her from Carlos. As soon as he hugged her close, Sofia immediately bit his shoulder.

 “Sofia!” you and Carlos exclaimed at the same time.

 “I’m sorry, Lando,” you apologized immediately. Carlos was just snickering, watching his daughter.

 “Don’t worry about it,” Lando chuckled, prying Sophia off his shoulder with a wince. Sophia laughed wholeheartedly. She enjoyed this more than she should have.

Carlos and Lando started talking while the British boy was playing with Sofia’s fingers. She loved him so much. You understood it. Lando was silly, and he was a lot of fun around her. She made a small noise, trying to get Lando’s full attention again, but the boy was deep into discussing something. She let out a frustrated whine, but Lando only placed his hand on the top of her head as a reaction. It wasn’t enough. Sofia was silent for a minute before she opened her mouth again.

 “Lan’o!” she exclaimed all of a sudden, smacking her little palm against his shoulder.

Carlos and you both froze and shared a look. Lando paused as well, looking a little shocked. He knew everything about your concerns with Sofia’s development, and he definitely did not expect to witness her first word, let alone it being his name.

 “Did she just-“ he began, staring down at the little girl between his arms.

 “Are you kidding me?” you whispered, feeling your throat tighten. You started laughing at the absurdity of this situation, but tears of joy filled your eyes as well. You’ve been waiting for this moment for over six months now. Sofia finally spoke.

 “She said my name,” Lando grinned proudly, bouncing her in his arms. “Did you just say my name, little girl? We are best friends, aren’t we?”

Sofia was satisfied that she had finally got his attention back, and she started babbling something, gripping his shirt between her fingers.

 “Can you believe this? We should just bring her to you instead of TSMT,” you joked, wiping your eyes.

Carlos and Lando burst into laughter at your comment. Lando continued bouncing Sophia in his arms as he replied. "I think I'd be a great unofficial speech therapist for her," he joked with a grin.

Sofia started wriggling in his arms, kicking her feet to get down.

 “Are you ready to go exploring?” Lando asked as he placed her back on the ground.

Carlos instinctively stepped closer, but he wasn’t quick enough. Sophia started to waddle away, but after a few steps, she tripped over her own feet and fell. She started screaming immediately, and Lando winced, looking a bit guilty for letting go of her hand. Carlos quickly picked her up and started soothing her in Spanish.

Lando should’ve left already because Zak Brown himself came looking for him. As he approached Lando, Sofia stopped crying, staring at the man with wide, surprised eyes.

 “Oh my god, is this Sofia?” Zak asked, momentarily forgetting about Lando. “The last time I saw her, she was a newborn.”

Carlos nodded, gently stroking Sofia’s hair. “Yes, she’s grown a lot since then. She’s one and a half now.”

Sofia looked at Carlos, then back at Zak, and then at Carlos again, trying to see his father’s reaction and figure out how to react. Carlos chuckled. “It’s okay, Zak is a friend,” he reassured her. Sofia hid her face into his shoulder, so he wrapped his arms around her in a comforting embrace.

 “Lando, by the way, the whole team is waiting for you,” Zak finally turned to his driver. “You were supposed to be in the meeting room like… Ten minutes ago.”

Lando’s eyes widened in realization. “Damn, right. Sorry, guys. Bye, Sofia! I’ll catch up with you later, alright?” He made a face at her, causing her to giggle. “Oh, I love being the favourite one for once,” he joked.

 “You won’t be our favourite though if you don’t hurry up,” Zak patted his shoulder.

 “Right, right,” Lando nodded. “See you guys later!”

As Lando started walking away, Sofia's eyes widened. She inhaled sharply and looked at Carlos. Carlos chuckled softly, and he gently brushed her hair back from her face. He started speaking to her in Spanish again. You wished you would’ve done a better job at learning his language before she was born.

 “Alright,” Carlos looked at you. “I have to go, too, amor. The buffet has her favourite crackers now, so you can pass the time there if you want to.”

You took Sofia from Carlos. He kissed her forehead and rubbed her back.

 “I can’t believe her first word was Lando’s name,” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “When did he ever change your diaper, huh, babygirl?”

You laughed at that. “At least she spoke. I feel so relieved.”

 “Yeah, I bet,” Carlos looked up into your eyes. He held your gaze for a moment, and there was everything in it. Love, pride, adoration, affection- Then he gave you a gentle kiss and walked away.

find part two here

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 52

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Minors DNI. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

52. the end of the world

You wake feeling as though you are buried beneath a ton of bricks. Your mind is foggy, and it takes you a while to focus your eyes and gather your bearings. The room is dark, though you can tell through the quality of the shadows that the space is large. Slowly, your eyes adjust, and you take in the high ceilings and tall windows, slivers of moonlight or streetlight shining through the drapes. You’re in a soft, canopied bed, tucked under the covers. In a panic you sit up quickly, your head spinning, pushing off the blankets. You’re relieved to see you’re still in the same sundress you started the day in, though your shoes are gone. 

You swing your legs off the bed, sliding to the floor. Luckily your legs hold you, and your first instinct is to check the window. It’s locked, of course. You shove aside the drape to find that you are high above the street, at least on the third story. Fuck. You are not steady enough to climb down a building, that’s for fucking sure. 

You look around for your shoes, but find nothing in the dark room, though you manage to bang your knee on an ornately carved chair. You’re afraid to hit a lightswitch or try a lamp. For now, darkness is probably your friend. Even in the twilight you can sense the old-world opulence of this room, the baroque details and crown moulding accenting the high ceilings, the fine furniture all seemingly placed with a diabolical perfection to trip you. Whoever took you clearly has money, and you suddenly cannot shake the idea that some remnant of the Aragón cartel has decided to enact some unsavory form of revenge upon you. 

Consequences.

You decide you’re not sticking around to find out. 

Now that you’re up and moving some semblance of coordination starts to return to you. The door is locked, of course, but the hardware is antique, maybe original to the construction of this place. You make use of a heavy brass candlestick, slamming it down on the doorknob to destroy the mechanism. With a good push you’re able to open the door, and you spill out into a long dark hallway. 

You don’t waste any time, scurrying like a scared rat down the corridor. 

When a tall, dark figure appears from a door at the end your heart falls, but you do not slow down, knowing you can’t waste your element of surprise. You sprint, jumping at the last moment to hit him in the midsection with your knee. Utterly stunned, he goes down with an “Ooofff,” the breath knocked out of him. You scramble to get back to your feet, knowing there must be a door or a staircase somewhere ahead. You make it one step before he catches your ankle, sending you tumbling to the ground again. 

“Y/n.” 

You hear it, yet it does not register in your frenzy. It’s like the boat all over again; maybe there’s an element of PTSD to your rage. In full fight and flight mode, you are determined to escape, to survive. You did not come this far to lose it all now, like this. 

You kick out at your captor, dislodging his grip for a few seconds. But then he has you again, this time his grip unforgiving as iron upon you, bruising. It just makes you fight harder. You kick out with your other leg, but he blocks it. He’s strong, his forearm solid as a tree. 

“Let me go!” you snarl, thrashing and growling like a wild animal in a trap. Unseeing, unreasoning, only desperate to get away, but he climbs your body, pinning you to the floor with his solid weight, trapping your hands above your head. 

“Y/n!” 

Finally, you look up at him, really look at him, breathing too fast, your heartbeat a deafening thunder in your ears. 

The lines of his face have deepened. His hair has grown long, waving down in a dark curtain around you. His eyes have not changed a bit, that devouring gaze searing straight into your soul. 

You whimper like you've seen a ghost. 

“John?”

He has the grace to look apologetic as he reaches to smooth your hair out of your eyes, both your hands still pinned by one of his own over your head like he doesn’t quite trust you yet. For a long minute you just look, transfixed, in absolute awe that this man is truly in front of you.

It's all you've wanted, the only thing you've wanted, for nearly a year. This precious, imperfect man, all yours, in your arms.

“It’s me, sweetheart. It’s me. You gonna calm down now?” 

As the reality of it sets in…so does your self righteous anger. He's been alive all this time? And he let you dangle, thinking he was dead? Suddenly you’re tempted to headbutt him, the jackass, but you crane your head to press your lips to his instead, kissing him with as much teeth as tongue. 

A low growl vibrates from deep in his chest; you feel it in your bones, in your blood. He falls on you, claiming you with those soft, full lips you thought you’d never get to kiss again. His fingers tangle in your hair, holding you closer, until you’re not sure where you end and he begins. 

“John,” you say between kisses, your legs wrapping around his as though he might disappear if you do not coil yourself around him. “What. The ever-loving. Fuck? You. Asshole!” 

“I’ll explain everything,” he grumbles low against your skin, kissing the bend of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone. “But first…” He claims your mouth again, and there’s no question of his need, or his intentions. 

You should stop this, of course. You should bite him, pinch him, something until you can get an explanation for why you’ve been living like a wraith for nearly a year, dying from the sheer weight of your grief and your longing for him. 

Can this be real? Or did you finally snap? Are you hallucinating? The pain in your back and your knees feels very real. You have a million questions, but you can’t give voice to any of them as he devours you like you are a dying man’s last meal. 

You are very aware of the fact that your skirt has ridden up your thighs, as you grind against each other like teenagers on the hardwood floor. Your need is sharp, and fierce, and with a leg over his hip you hold him to you, desperate to have him against you, inside you. It’s John who breaks your kiss with a snarl. 

“I am too fucking old for this shit,” he grouses, dragging you up off the floor and sweeping you into his arms. 

No matter the changes time has wrought–he is still very strong.

“What did you do to my door?” he grumbles, kicking it open wider churlishly so that the two of you can pass back into the bedroom. 

“You’ve got to stop locking me up!” you fire back. 

His answer to this is forgotten as you both sigh with relief when you sink down together onto the soft bed. “Much better.” He kisses you again, a little less urgently, but with no less feeling. You didn’t really realize that you’ve had tears streaming down your cheeks this whole time, until he reaches up to wipe them away. 

“Don’t cry, baby girl. Please don’t cry anymore, it breaks my heart.”

“I’ve been so lost without you,” you choke out, clutching him to you again. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because Caine was right. My love is a curse. I wanted…you to have a chance to be free.”

The magnitude of this confession stuns you. It echoes from the very beginning of your relationship, when he’d tried to resist this attraction between you, then even tried to warn you, in his way, before things spiraled. Yet you’d fought so hard and the two of you had come so far. That he still carried that doubt of himself, and of you, twists the knife in your heart even more.  

“Fuck Caine,” you snarl, your fury like a venomous snake coiled in your belly. “You are mine and I needed you.”

How did he not know? How badly you failed him, if he thought for a moment that you would not always choose to be at his side? 

There is some mercy in that he doesn't argue with your outburst, looking down at you with those sad dark eyes, stroking your cheek.

“Did you really think I could be happy without you?” you demand hotly past the lump in your throat.

“Eventually. I thought…you might be relieved.” 

Your heart breaks all over again, hearing him say this with such sincerity. You reach up to cup his face, stroking his beard, tracing the lines of his face that are so precious to you. “I would have done it all over again, to have you in the end,” you tell him with your own earnestness. “I would have endured worse, to have you again. John…I can’t believe you didn’t know that! I’m sorry you didn’t know that!” 

He growls at this, rolling over and pulling you to rest on his chest, wrapping you up tightly in his arms. You listen to his heart beating steadily beneath your ear, feeling like it’s nothing less than a miracle, questioning your sanity again and again. Can this truly be real? 

“Don’t be sorry, baby. None of this is on you.” He strokes your hair, his big hand on your head like a shield from the world. You lay in his arms digesting this, your thoughts spinning like a maelstrom, even while the rest of you just wants to savor the pure relief. 

“Wait. Did César know? Did Winston know?”

If that canny old bastard kept this from you…

“No, baby. As far as the Underworld knows…John Wick is dead.”

“But it was you who sent the brochure to me?”

“Yes.”

It was like an old espionage signal, subtle enough not to draw outside attention, but loud enough just between the two of you.

“Why? Why wait so fucking long?”

“Because…I could tell you weren't moving on. And I needed you, too.”

He kisses you sweetly, and for a few moments you allow yourself to melt into the miracle of having his lips on yours again. 

But you pull back as the next question occurs to you: “You’ve been watching me?!” 

“Shhh, just on the house cameras,” he soothes you, sensing you getting excited again. “Well…after I woke up.” 

“What?!” 

Suddenly your attention turns to his shirt. You have to know, and you sit up to straddle him so you can attack his buttons, wrenching them from their holes, popping the thread off of two of them with your shaking fingers. As though he understands your need he lets you, going so far as to reach out to flick on the bedside lamp so you can see. 

You’d memorized the constellations of his scars so well, you zero in on the new marks immediately. A gash that knitted badly in his side, the scar tissue still raised and angry red. A purple blossom of mottled flesh at his shoulder, just under his collar bone; the aftermath of a bullet. You run your fingers over a similar but larger wound on his abdomen, between his hip and his lowest rib. 

You know that Caine shot him three times, and you know that man didn’t miss. 

“The third?” you ask, your voice hushed and tinny. 

He points to his heart, though there’s no scar. “Vest,” he answers to your puzzled look. 

You remember what it felt like to take a bullet to the side with the help of kevlar. It cracked three of your ribs. You can’t imagine how traumatic that must have been over his heart–especially after all the other damage he’d taken that night.

“John…how are you alive?” He must have fallen into the water. How did he not drown? 

“Dumb luck.” 

That might be part of it, you know, but there is something to his fortune being helped along by the sheer power of his determination. He has it tattooed upon his skin, after all.

When he sees you’re not satisfied with this answer, he goes on, “A fisherman picked me up out of the water. Took me back to his house, fixed me up best he could. Infection set in. I was in the hospital for…a long time.” 

“Where? I checked the villages! I checked the hospitals!” 

Did you miss him by a fucking inch? 

“It was…more like a clinic.”

You picture him in some tiny makeshift bush hospital in the jungle, delirious with fever, fighting off death, alone. 

“Oh, John.” The waterworks start again, and he kisses away your tears. “I'm sorry!”

“Don't be, honey.” You look down at him, unbearably filled with so much emotion roiling inside you. Relief, regret, disbelief, and so much love you can hardly contain it all. As though he can sense it, the corner of his mouth quirks a little, though he’s wise enough not to outright tease you. 

“John…why?” you ask again. “Why didn’t you meet me at the fucking airport?” You’re certain he knew the moment you landed, now. 

“I had to be sure you weren’t being followed. I'm trying to be more careful. For us. For you. I think…we can have a fresh start here. If…you still want me?”

You nod slowly, understanding, even if it frustrates you so much you want to scream. “Of course I want you! But…did you have to drug me?”

The corner of his mouth pulls slightly. “I thought sedation might help with the shock. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

“You fucking think?”

He takes your smaller hand in his, pressing his lips to the small stump of your missing finger before inspecting the ring you still wear next to it, for him.

“I never took it off.” 

“I know.” 

“I never will. Your love is not a curse. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Finally he looks fully up at you, his dark eyes shining with unshed tears, reaching to engulf your cheek in his catcher’s mitt of a hand. You lean into him, closing your eyes, taking a deep breath. This room is filled with his intoxicating scent, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice it before. Did you forget so soon? The thought hits like a blade between the ribs.

“I love you, y/n. It’s been hell, without you.”

“Hearing that shouldn’t make me so happy,” you tease shakily around the tightness in your throat. 

“I deserved it, I suppose.” 

“Maybe.” You narrow your eyes down at him, your lip quivering. “You took three bullets for me.” 

He nods slowly, his hands upon you your anchor as you start to shake. 

“You didn’t even think about your answer that night.” 

“No.”

The magnitude of his sacrifice still moves you to the bottom of your soul, even if it was your worst living nightmare. 

“Don’t ever do that again, okay?” 

He gives you that restrained huff of laughter you’ve missed so dearly. “I’ll try not to.” 

“I mean it, John!” You poke him in the ribs, making him wince. Immediately you retreat. “Sorry.” 

“That’s ok.” He rubs his midsection. “Glad to see you didn’t forget your training.” 

“I didn’t get away very effectively.” 

Again, his torso shakes with his internal mirth. “You got close. Did I hurt you?” 

Maybe there is a bit of the devil in you. With mischief in your heart you point to your thigh, all shining eyes and pouting mouth. “Here.”      

“Oh. My poor, sweet girl.” His hand disappears under your skirt, rubbing your skin in soothing circles. You sigh with closed eyes, the fire in your loins returning with a vengeance. You feel safe and sated with some of the answers that you needed–and you rock yourself against his hard bulge as his thumb sweeps the sensitive skin further inward. 

“Everything hurts,” you complain, and considering the year you’ve had, it’s not exactly an exaggeration. 

“Then let me kiss it all better,” he offers, his voice low and soft as velvet as he scoots down in the bed, guiding you to his face with those strong arms under your thighs. And with his clever tongue in your weeping slit, his generous lips teasing your aching clit until you cry with pure relief…maybe it does feel like everything will be alright.  

***

That is…until he brings you to the shining edge of release, just to retreat at the last moment. The frustrated sound that escapes you is barely human. “Shhh,” he scolds you, and somehow you can hear the delight in that small, soft, sound. “Greedy girl. I need you.” 

You might have argued more just for the sake of it, but John Wick is still strong, and so fast, and suddenly you are under him, the delicious weight of his muscle-strapped body and his demanding mouth over yours pinning you down, and there was never anywhere you’ve felt you more belonged. You tug at buttons and push at fabric until at last his bare skin is against yours, and your frustrated growls diminish to a satisfied purr. He chuckles at your neediness, as though he has not been dying in the exact same way all these months. 

The only difference is that he knew there was some hope, whereas you had been left in the dark. You express your displeasure with this injustice with your teeth in his shoulder; he answers you with a glorious thrust that fills the aching void in your body to the brim, tearing the breath from your throat.   

“If you ever die on me again I’ll kill you,” you threaten breathily into the bend of his neck, and he laughs now because he at least partly believes you. 

“Baby…” Yet he forgets what point he meant to make, as you move against him, canting your hips in the way that’s always drove him wild. There are no more intelligible words, until you are writhing on his cock in ecstasy, stuffed full with the hot rush of his seed.

“I love you,” you pant against his chest, your head in the divot of his shoulder that was so perfectly sculpted in the divine clay for Helen, and then, by some miracle of fate, also for you.   

“I love you more than I can ever tell you,” he answers in kind, and with the steady drumbeat of his heart beneath your ear, you believe him. 

***

You make love twice more before surfacing for air, and mostly only because John’s stomach growls audibly beneath your ear. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks, drawing light circles on your bare shoulders as you press languorous kisses to the new scar on his abdomen. 

“For food?” you clarify cheekily, running your fingers over the crisp hairs of his muscled thigh. 

This wins you a dark chuckle that makes you gush between your legs all over again. You’ve lost track of how many times he’s made you cum tonight. It’s almost embarrassing, how much you want him. How quickly he brought you with his mouth again, more slowly but no less ruinously with his cock buried inside you, and then his thick fingers stroking through the gloriously silky slick of his spend between your legs while he spoke low in your ear while taking you from behind. 

This is your natural state, you’ve decided. In bed, fucked senseless by this man who you love with your whole heart. 

“For starters,” he answers, pulling you up into a tooth-counting kiss with his hand tangled in your hair. “Can I take you to dinner?” 

It seems late, but Buenos Aires is a city that does not sleep. 

“Ok, but all I have is that wrinkled sundress.” 

“Check the closet.” 

You might have known he’d be prepared. 

***

You get your wish, sharing a table for two with John in the glow of candlelight at a family-run parrilla, eating delicious food with a bottle of good wine and his long legs tangled with yours under the table. You cannot stop staring at him; it’s not just because in a black t-shirt and a jacket he’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. It still feels so unreal. Too good to be true. A golden-edged dream you've clung to for so long. You hold hands while you talk about the months you’d been apart. You laugh, and you cry, and you whisper sweet nothings as though all the room cannot see that the two of you are deeply in love. 

It’s late when you walk home together arm in arm as though you have all the time in the world now, taking in the city at night, marveling at the miracle that you get to lean on his broad shoulder once more. You’re making your way through the Plaza Dorrego again when you see a different pair of performers plying the tango for tips, the mournful airs of the violin and the bandoneón drifting through the night from their accompanying stereo.

Maybe John notices that you slow with interest, watching the romantic dance through a different lens, now that you’ve been reunited with your love. “Want to try it?” He squares with you with his elbows out, your hand in his. 

You scoff at the thought, grinning up at him. “I don’t think I can.”

“Oh?” He pulls you close, his torso flush against yours, and a spear of heat jets through your body, molten hot desire igniting within you all over again. His voice rasps low, his lips against your ear as he tells you, “I think you can, if you follow my lead.”

“You mean do as I’m told?” you tease him, relishing this closeness, even if you’re not moving. Is it just a fancy of yours, that your hearts are beating in time?

“Mmm. A man can dream…” 

Rolling your eyes, you counter, “I will if you will.” 

Fair’s fair, afterall. 

“I guess I’ll have to,” he teases you. “You have all my money now.” 

You laugh at the absurdity of it, and not just because he obviously had a little extra stashed away offshore. Through the joy you marvel at how far the two of you have come. Once you were this broken man’s prisoner, a cherished possession kept under lock and key. Yet by the force of your wills and in the forge of your love, the two of you managed to put the pieces back again, filling the gaps with shining gold until you were both made whole. 

Stronger, better, together. 

You press your lips to his, and he smiles against your mouth, leading you through a few steps with his feet pushing yours across the cobblestones before both of you decide you are in need of that soft bed again, pronto. 

Epilogue:

“Let’s stop up here.” 

You park your motorcycles in a little lot by the harbor, pulling off your helmets. For the umpteenth time this past month, you are starstruck by the sight of this man by your side, even with his fluffy hair sticking up in every direction, his dark gaze glittering just for you. When you offer him a warm smile he repays it in kind, and you feel like you are the richest woman in all South America. 

The moment is shattered when you are whipped in the face by a gust of salt-tinged wind coming off the cold sea; it hits you both hard as a slap. But miraculously, the sun shines like a blessing just for the two of you. You lift your faces to the warmth with a laugh and a smile. In the distance the jagged white-capped peaks of the Andes mountains tower majestically over this tiny town.  

A handmade sign declares Ushuaia - Fin del Mundo. 

The metropolitan lifestyle of Buenos Aires suits the two of you well enough, but you wanted to explore your new chosen home country, maybe find a place to retreat in the countryside. The wild beauty of Patagonia called to you both, and maybe just because you could, the two of you kept going until you reached the literal End of the World. 

You rode through grasslands and desert, marveling at the vast tracts of open land, the distant mountains and the glittering blue sea. You beheld grazing guanaco and herds of sheep, solitary rhea and flocks of chattering green conures, and beaches littered with plump seals sunning themselves after gorging on fish in the rich waters off the Peninsula Valdes. 

Perhaps your favourite, a thing you will hold in your heart for the rest of your life, was the sight of Juan Carlos Rivas, formerly known as the notorious assassin John Wick, holding a serious discussion with a magellanic penguin, their respective arms and flippers held out in a gesture of shared consensus (that the day was rudely scorching for the season). Since that day you have caught John chuckling over penguin videos on his phone more than once, a thing of which you find endlessly endearing. 

It is as though a great weight has been lifted from both of you, and finally you feel free to simply be as you are meant to be, together. For the practical purposes of records and the small matter that John Wick is supposed to be dead, you have decided you will not officially marry, not even in John’s new fake name. 

The decision didn’t disappoint you. You’ve always been more interested in actions than titles. But maybe, it bothered John. The next day you found your custom-bound copy of Jane Eyre on the nightstand, (a prized possession you had deemed necessary to bring with you), with some small object tenting the pages. Afraid you had used something for a bookmark in an absent-minded moment that would damage the spine, you raced to open it–just to find a delicate silver ring encircling the first line of the last chapter: Reader, I married him. 

It’s possible that you squealed with the delight of a schoolgirl and whirled to go find your own personal Rochester, just to run straight into his arms. You exchanged your own form of whispered vows between kisses, your bodies entangled in the soft sheets. Later you procured a ring for his middle finger too, and you reckon this commitment made to each other is as binding to the both of you as anything ever officiated in a church. It was written in tears, and blood, and all your stubborn devotion; that is enough for the both of you for now. 

You plan to make one more trip home to New York, to collect Dog, and maybe a few essential sentimental things. After that, you’re not sure if you will ever return to the United States again. You know you can live wherever now; on the road, or in a city, or out in the wilds–because your true home is with John, wherever you may roam.

You know that it is a bittersweet blessing, to love someone so deeply. A boon and a curse, a glimpse of heaven and the promise of hell if ever you are parted. But you endured the latter once already, and maybe it’s not sane, or good, or right…but you can soundly say you would do it all over again–lie, cheat, steal, kill, for just one more taste of your man, John Wick.  

The End—

Or maybe, just a new beginning, the way all ends are…

Afterword:  You guyssssssssssss!!!😭😭😭 I can’t believe this is it! From the bottom of my heart, I cannot thank you all enough for the love you have shown this story over the past year! It NEVER EVER would have become what it did without all of you! Your enthusiasm, your support, your comments, your ideas, your speculations and our mad spirals of unhinged brain rot! 😂😂😂 Thank you for your likes and your reblogs, and a very special thank you to anyone who took the time to comment, you truly did keep me going at times when I might have given up on this behemoth of a fucking fic. This thing took on a life of its own and I am so grateful for this experience. I love you all, and I can’t tell you how much fun it was to write this story here with you!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤  

[exhaslo]

Kinktober Day 7- Miguel x Clumsy!Reader (Toys)

        It was a gag gift from a close friend of yours. Never had you thought you would actually use it. Staring at the clit and vibrator in one before you made you sweat. Today had been a really rough day and you meant rough. You had your ass handed to you during a mission earlier only to come back to your world to deal with Rhino being a complete ass to your favorite museum. That and Miguel gave you a lecture about being reckless, again. Needless to say, you needed a stress reliever. Something to get you off.

        Exhaling loudly, you slid your pajama pants and panties off. You were hesitant. You had never done something like this. You rather it be Miguel stuffing you with his cock, not a toy. Huffing your cheeks at the thought, you knew that would never happen. Miguel probably saw you as a nuisance. A Spiderwoman who always caused trouble. You couldn't help it though. You were still fairly new at being a superhero. Miguel was just a handsome jerk. 

"A sexy jerk," You grumbled.

        Finally finding the courage, you shivered as the cold vibrator entered your tight walls. You repeated to yourself that it was Miguel, which helped it slid in. Next, you attached the second part to your clit. It felt a little uncomfortable at first, but you got used to it. Right when you reached for the remote, your watch went off. 

"(Y/n)! We have an urgent anomaly, I need your help. Here are the coordinates." Miguel told you.

        You squeaked and told him you'd be on your way. Hurrying up, you put on your suit and grabbed the remote, thinking it was your phone. Opening a dimensional portal, you hopped inside, forgetting about the toy you were wearing.

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

"Alright, you're all dismissed. Good work," Miguel praised.

        You must be dreaming. Never had he told you that you did good. Waving goodbye to the other Peter's, you decided to grab a quick bite in the cafeteria before heading home. You went to reach for your phone, only to realize that nothing was in your pocket,

"Huh? Oh no...Did I drop it in Miguel's office?!" You whined.

        Right as you went to turn around, you felt a strong buzz from below. Your body flinched forward at the sudden pleasure. Heat was forming fast in your suit. You let out a small gasp, remembering about the vibrator. It wasn't your phone you brought, but the remote! Leaning against the nearby wall, you whimpered wondering who found the remote. You needed to hurry to get it back, or find the bathroom to take the toys out before it was too late.

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

        It was when Miguel had dismissed everyone when he noticed something on the floor. He jumped down from his platform, making his way towards the item. To his surprise, it was a remote. He wasn't sure what kind it was, leading him back to his desk. He summoned Lyla, asking her to scan the item.

"It's a vibrator remote." Lyla said with a grin. Miguel immediately tensed up,

"Who-No, I don't even want to know." He spat lowly. Lyla appeared in front of him,

"You totally know who it belongs too." 

"No. It could be one of the Pet-"

"There she is on the camera, you know you want to test it out~" Lyla cooed.

        Miguel grumbled lowly as he ignored his AI. His eyes were focused on the cameras before him, watching you skip your way to the cafeteria. He knew better. He knew he shouldn't, but you were just so clumsy. Ever since you first fell into his office, he had a soft spot for you. That soft spot started to grow into a desire. You were reckless. Sometimes he just wanted to fuck you until you learned your lesson. Until you finally listened to him and stayed put.

        Staring at the remote, he wondered if this was it. If this was his chance to teach you a lesson. It was wrong, but he wanted to see your face contort in pleasure. To hear you moan his name, begging you to let him fuck you. A low rumble escaped his throat as he started to get hard at the thought. He might regret this, but he just wanted to see your reaction. You were the one who did something so foolish, what were the chances that you were actually wearing the damn toy?

"Dios mío, lo es. (My god, she is.)"

        Miguel groaned lowly as he pressed on the remote. He watched as your body flinched forward before finding something to lean against. It was a damn good thing it was late at night. Most, if not, all the Spiders were in their own world. Miguel's fangs started to show as he bit his lower lip, stroking himself. He watched as you made your way to probably a bathroom. You were so clumsy. Miguel imagined that it was his dick inside you and not this toy. His dick harden at the thought. He wanted to watch you cum.

        Miguel looked away from the screens for only a moment to engulf himself in pleasure. Right when he did so,

"U-Um...M-Miguel? I think I uh, dropped something in here." Your voice trembled. Miguel flinched as he heard you, accidently raising the setting on your vibrator, "Ah~"

"Joder, esto tiene que ser una señal. (Fuck, this has to be a sign.)" He groaned, lowering the setting for you, "I did find something, do you realize how reckless this is?" His breathing was heavy, wanting to return to his high.

"I-I know, I'm sorry! I completely forgot-"

"That you were fucking yourself with this?" Miguel hissed lowly, unable to face you since his cock was still sprung out and hard, "That you brought it with you on a mission and dropped it in my office?!"

"I was about to use it! I never done this before! I thought I grabbed my p-phone." You whimpered as Miguel played with the setting again, "M-Miguel, w-wait-"

"You tested my patience long enough, cariño. (sweetheart) I'm going to teach you a lesson,"

        You let out another whimper as you tried to get closer. You went to web the remote, but Miguel caught your webbing inside. He pulled you towards him, looking down at your trembling form. He could smell your arousals. The wet slick in your suit was strong. He glanced down at your flustered face, observing the lust in your eyes. There was practically drool coming down your mouth. He turned to face you, watching as you stared at his dick,

"Suck it." He demanded.

        To his surprise, you did not hesitate. It was as if you were waiting for his. Miguel groaned lowly as he buckled his hips, letting you sloppily suck him. His thumb against the remote, slowly raising the setting each time he felt you slow down.

"Finalmente ser una buena chica. Escuchándome por una vez. (Finally being a good fucking girl. Listening to me for once.)" Miguel gripped the edge of his desk, feeling the urge to cum, "I'm about to cum, cariño. Tell me where you want it?"

"Mh-"

"Fuck, tell me without my dick in that little mouth of yours,"

"I-In here," You whined, leaning back as you pressed the vibrator deeper inside you.

        You were a mess at this point. As you were sucking Miguel's dick, you had reached your orgasm not once, but twice. You knew that Miguel felt you too, because he raised the setting on your vibrator each time you did. All you wanted right now was his dick inside you. To ravish you pussy better than this damn toy did. Another loud moan was forced out of you as Miguel raised a setting once more. You could barely take it.

        The vibrator inside you and on your clit felt like they were on fire. Your suit was drenched with your juices that it almost hurt to be wearing it. You were desperate for something bigger to enter you. Having Miguel's cock in your mouth made your mind wander as if it were inside your pussy instead. Trying to fix yourself, you laid on your back, spreading your legs for Miguel. Moans kept coming out of your throat as he just watched you struggle while stroking himself.

"Mírate, rogando por mi polla. Si tan solo hubieras hecho algo tan estúpido antes. (Look at you, begging for my dick. If only you did something this stupid earlier.)" He used his talon to rip your suit from your breasts to your pussy, "Vas a chupar ese juguete. ¿Por qué no le doy a tu coño algo mejor para chupar? (You're going to suck that toy in. Why don't I give your pussy something better to suck on.)"

        You were so fucked out to even know what Miguel was saying. Your body arched as the cold air hit your drenched cunt. Miguel bend down to your level, deciding to lick your body. You cried out as he poked the small vibrator on your clit. It hurt. You needed him. You needed his dick. Spreading your legs out more, you whimpered his name.

"M-Migueeeeel, pleaaaase,"

"Have you learned your lesson?" He asked, toying with the remote. You raised your hips, feeling the vibrator burn hotter,

"Y-Yes!"

"What did you learn?" Miguel panted softly, feeling his high getting closer by the second. Your vision started to blur as you felt your orgasm approaching again,

"I-I will...ah~ will listen...to...to y-you~"

        Miguel muttered a good before turning the vibrator up to the highest setting. He had his cock between your thighs, rubbing himself against your dripping cunt. The vibrator giving him an extra push as well. The two of you moaned together as you both reached your mind blowing orgasm. Right as you did, the vibrator stopped working. Miguel chuckled lowly as he pulled it out of you, watching your juices spill all over his floor,

"Looks like I'll have to buy you another one," He panted, watching his cum rest on top of you, "Now, I think you've learned your lesson."

        You tried to catch your breathe, but gasped as you felt Miguel easily enter your abused hole. Your eyes nearly rolled back as he stretched you out and hit you deeper than the vibrator. You could barely hear what Miguel was saying since you were so blissed out. His hips pulled out before giving you a fatal blow. His cock hit your cervix, causing a ringing in your brain. Your throat started to hurt as you cried from overstimulation. 

"Así es, sigue chupandome la polla. Esto era lo que querías ¿verdad? Joder, mírate, un bonito lío para mi polla. (That's right, keep sucking my cock. This was what you wanted right? Fuck, look at you, a pretty little mess for my dick.)" Miguel slapped his hips into yours, soaking in your moans as you gushed around his cock, "La próxima vez que cometas un error, te haré suplicar por mi polla otra vez. Entonces te follaré como un estúpido hasta que aprendas a comportarte. (Next time you make a mistake, I'll make you beg for my dick again. Then I'll fuck you stupid until you learn how to behave.)"

        You arched your body towards his, clenching against him once more. Your vision blurred as your cam hard. Miguel groaned lowly, enjoying your lewd face. The cute little 'o' you made with your mouth as you cam for him. His cock covered in your white ring while he filled you up. Catching his breathe, Miguel stared down at you. You were so beautiful under him. Pulling out, Miguel fixed himself before picking you up.

"I'm going to make you a new suit, and get you a new toy." He told you, knowing full well that you weren't listening, "I hope you chose to not listen next time. I enjoyed this lesson."

        Now that, was something you didn't need to listen to. You were defiantly going to mess up again, and Miguel was going to have to teach you to listen again.

[topzsun]

THE ART OF INVASION

── ♡ BELPHEGOR, ASMODEOUS & SATAN

heavy inspiration from @ephie-om's post! i found this idea really cute and wanted to try my hand in writing this out.

“Get out,” You pair your curt words with a precise shove of the foot, nudging Belphegor’s side until the invasive demon lets out a low groan, face buried into your pillow. He waves you away the first time, but by the fourth forceful kick, he finally begins to stir.

“What’s your problem?” He whines, lifting his head from the pillow just enough so he can glare with narrowed eyes. In response, you fix him a bemused stare.

“My problem is that you’re on my bed and I want to go to sleep. You’ve got a perfectly fine bed back in your room. Move it.”

Your words might as well have gone from one ear out the other because the Avatar of Sloth does not twitch at your command. His face is settled back into the silk cover of your pillow, giving an exaggerated snore when you push him once more.

It’s not like you didn’t like Belphegor, far from it. However, like the youngest sibling he is, the concept of privacy and ownership exists in a different realm from him. This has also managed to extend to you, with him suddenly claiming your bed and space whenever he felt too lazy to take the extra few steps to his room.

With a huff, you stop your relentless shoving, but an idea pops into your head when you hear familiar, heavy footsteps passing by your door. You lean closer to Belphegor, your lips hovering over his ear as you whisper.

“Beel is in the kitchen right now. Perhaps this is the perfect time to tell him you ate his Spicy Newt Chips?”

Your threat finally gives you the reaction you wanted, with Belphegor’s shoulders stiffening before he flops onto his back, scowling despite there being no obvious ire in his voice.

“That’s evil. I’m almost proud,” He languidly lifts himself, snatching his jacket from where he lazily tossed it onto your bedpost. You sigh tiredly, giving an unenthusiastic “Goodbye Belphie” as he only replies with an equally unenergetic wave. You fall onto your dearly missed sheets, and you can already smell the tinge of lavender and powder from where Belphegor had last been. Despite your initial annoyance, you almost second-guessed your decision to kick the demon out. He always smelled good. However the countless nights when you let him crash on your bed, only to wake up shivering because he was a shameless blanket-hogger deterred that train of thought.

You close your eyes, welcoming the long-awaited rest you need, until there is a familiar vibration from your D.D.D. You opted to ignore it, rolling to your side as you toss your quilt over your head. Another vibration, insistent and grating. You hesitate. Perhaps, for once, it’s an emergency?

You reluctantly reach over to your side table, opening up to the missed notifications on your screen. Three messages from Mammon.

mammoney: yo you better not be asleep

mammoney: come to my room asap were watching the entire fast and furious series

mammoney: don even think about missing it

You shut down your phone and toss it at your side, snuggling deeper into your covers.

If you wanted constant critiques of your wardrobe, you would have called your mother. Yet, here is Asmodeous, ready to fill in her missing shoes as he riffles through articles of clothing with a dissatisfied frown.

“Ugh, why did you even buy this?” He turns his nose, picking up a rhinestoned t-shirt with two fingers as if he were handling something diseased. You don’t bother lifting your gaze from the device in your hand, the mindless doomscrolling through Devilgram being more interesting than Asmodeous’ rampage through your closet.

“Don’t be mean. Satan got it for me as a gift,” You retort and the demon sighs heavily, making no effort to conceal his visible disappointment.

“I swear I taught him better than this,” He pauses to reflect, “No. It must be like an innate thing to be this bad at coordination. Nothing I can do to fix it. Have you seen his everyday wear? I could cry.”

Despite the invasion in your closet, at least Asmodeous has the decency to pick up after himself, neatly hanging back every piece of clothing that had been tossed to the side. When you hear the shutting of the door, you finally look over and give pause.

“Asmo?” He looks over his shoulder at the call of his name. “Why do you have a pile of my clothes?”

“Sweetheart, these are just too ugly! You can’t even wear them anywhere. Isn’t it better to let them become scraps instead? I’ll replace all of them with way cuter stuff instead! My treat, of course,” He is quick to pick up on your growing displeasure, fixing a pout that you were shamefully weak to. You drop your head into your hands, knowing any attempts at argument would be fruitless. Admittedly, the idea of him replacing your old clothes with more fashionable wear is tempting. At the same time, you weren’t exactly excited by Asmodeous’s growing authority over your closet.

“Okay fine, but you’re going to put back the shirt Satan got me,” When he doesn’t move, you repeat his name sternly. “Asmodeous.”

“Fine,” He drawls out with a roll of his eyes, but dutifully drops the shirt onto your desk chair. “No need for sentimentality in fashion, dear.”

You bid him goodbye as he blows a parting kiss, and when the door shuts behind him you relax against the edge of your bed, tilting your head back as you eye your ceiling. Maybe it’s about time you considered some boundaries for how much digging the brothers can do in your room.

There is a knock at your door, but before you can answer, it opens to reveal Satan. A book tucked to his chest as a fond smile reaches his lips.

“Good, you’re here. The new addition to the Handmade Prophecy was just released. Do you want to…” He trails off as his eyes fall to the other corner of your room. You could have sworn there was a dash of pink on his cheeks. “Oh, it’s the shirt I got you. Are you planning on wearing it out?”

You’ll ask Solomon tomorrow about the process of getting a magical lock on your door.

[dyaz-stories]

say my name and everything just stops || gojo satoru x reader

synopsis: You welcome Gojo back after a mission that lasted longer than expected.

(He fucks you on your desk)

word count: 2.6k

genre: canon compliant, smut

cw: porn with some plot, porn with feelings, vaginal sex, fingering, gojo is a tease, light angst, some fluff too, reader is afab, implied fwb, gojo calls reader sensei but they're both teachers

a/n: just a little thing for fun and practice :) enjoy!

more gojo x reader here

Though the sun is setting outside, you’re still at your desk, dutifully filing paperwork. You’ve dismissed the students a long time ago, of course, but you haven’t left the classroom yet. The door sliding open, though you haven’t heard any footsteps, has you glancing up, on high alert. The worry dissipates right away when you’re met with familiar white hair, a broad grin, and all-black clothing.

“Well, well, sensei,” Gojo Satoru says as he approaches your desk with a nonchalant pace, hands in his pockets, “working late, are we?”

“Gojo,” you reply, eyes back on the paper sheet in front of you. “How was your trip?”

“You know you can just ask Ijichi to do that for you, right?” Gojo continues, now standing in front of your desk. “No need for you to do all that by yourself.”

“Ijichi is busy,” you answer, unperturbed by the way he ignored your question. “You’ve been gone a whole week. Did something go wrong?”

“Aw, sensei,” he coos, “were you worried?”

You put down your pen to look up at him. You’re always worried, obviously. While you’re a teacher at Jujutsu High, the main role you’re expected to fulfill is that of strategist, to better coordinate group actions. You wouldn’t be able to do that without being at least a little paranoid.

It just so happens that you are very paranoid.

Faced with your stare, Gojo’s grin widens.

“Well, I guess they were happy to have me around and they had me fix all the little problems they hadn’t been able to get rid of by themselves,” he tells you with a shrug. “If I didn’t do it, no one was going to, so, might as well get everything taken care of in one go.”

It’s hard not to openly grit your teeth at his words. You’re not thrilled about the way Gojo just gets used and shipped off to wherever the elders deem fit. You and Shoko, on the other hand, are expected to remain caged in the more ‘safe’ properties, all in the name of the greater good. You’re not sure what good it’s doing. You still know better than to say it out loud.

“You stopped by Shoko’s before coming here,” you say. It’s not a question, and his face lights up at it.

“One day, you’re really going to have to tell me how you do that.”

It’s not that hard. A light smell of smoke lingers around him; the last button of his shirt is unbuttoned, likely because of an examination; there’s a pen sticking out of his pocket that you suspect he’s stolen off her desk; and he’s not wearing his usual travel shoes, meaning he changed since coming back to Tokyo, and knowing him, you must have been close to the top of his list of people to see, so you don’t think he went home, so Ichiji must have brought them to him at the lab.

You could easily have been wrong, of course. You just made an educated guess, and it worked out well for you.

“I found something weird out there,” he states matter-of-factly. “Didn’t need any patching up. C’mon, don’t tell me you were worried?”

You roll your eyes and push your chair back to stand up. He should have been back three days ago, and you didn’t hear from him. Not that the way your relationship works means you should have. It explicitly doesn’t.

“We don’t know what kind of curses are out there,” you say. “Anything could happen.”

“Aw,” Gojo says. “But you know I’m the strongest. I can take everything they throw at me.”

He says it with such absolute confidence that you want to believe him blindly, but all your instincts rebel at that idea. You can’t let yourself think he’s invincible. You can’t make your plans based on that idea. There’d be too much to lose if— if—

“With how gloomy you look, it’s hard to think you’re happy to see me,” Gojo pouts. “And here I was, thinking I’d get a warm welcome back…”

You scoff, fighting the smile that wants to break on your face, then make to move past him. You have no intention of actually leaving of course, but you know that—

Of course, the second he thinks you’re getting away from him, he grabs your wrist and twirls you around and into him. His arm wraps around your waist smoothly, presses your chest against his.

“Really? You’re not even a little bit happy?” He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the very light twinge of annoyance in his voice.

You like to think that you are one of the few people that can get a rise out of him.

It goes both way, of course, but now that you’re in his arms, after a week without touching him, anger and fear melt away all too easily, and all you want is him.

You put both of your arms around his neck, and push yourself on your tiptoes to capture his lips. There is a second during which he remains still, as if unsure, no matter how unlike him that would be. It’s like you don’t have him back yet, like there’s a part of him, of his mind, that is still out there with the curses.

But the moment passes, and then he’s kissing you feverishly. He pushes you back until you hit your desk, then helps lift you on top of it. The papers you’ve filled so dutifully fall to the floor, but he doesn’t care and neither do you. His warm tongue meets yours and you feel small moans escaping you, which he swallows hungrily. One of his hands sneaks under your shirt, the other pushes up your long skirt as he lifts up one of your legs, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh.

You burry your hand in his hair, try to pull him closer to you, because fuck, you’ve missed him, you’ve missed the weight of his body on yours, and you want him, you need him to be as close as possible. He groans inside your mouth, and when your other hand moves down to trace his jaw, his neck, the muscles of his shoulders, before trying to unbutton his shirt, it turns into a full whimper.

Unfortunately, that sound also brings you back to reality, and while your body is an inferno right now, you feel your cheeks heating up even more.

“Wait, wait, Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he almost growls. Now that you’re trying to speak, he presses open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, then down your neck, sucking and biting lightly at the skin.

“Satoru,” you whine, left with no strength nor desire to fight him on that, “we shouldn’t— students could—”

“They’ve gone home,” he dismisses your worries easily. “None of them are going to show up here at this time.”

He’s hooking his fingers in your panties now, trying to slide them down your legs, but you catch his arm first. You’re quite the spectacle, breathless and panting, clothes half off. Even then, there’s that serious light in your eyes that just has him weak in the knees.

“Yaga— Yaga could—”

“If you think about it, that’d be doing him a favor,” Satoru hums. “Would give him some really, really good material, if you ask me.”

He doesn’t add that the material in question is all his, and that he’d never let Yaga catch you in the act, just for that reason. He doesn’t have to, because his answer makes you laugh softly.

You always laugh for him.

“He better not find us,” you warn him, as your grasp on his arm relaxes.

“Hm, that shouldn’t be a problem, as long as a certain someone can keep quiet…”

You roll your eyes, and then you pull him back down against your lips to interrupt his laugh.

He manages to get your panties out of the way, and then pushes a long finger inside you. You’re already so wet for him, he marvels as it slides in easily. He soon follows it with a second one, spreading you open carefully, and that’s when you throw your head back, closing your eyes and pushing your hand against your mouth to muffle your moan.

“So you’ve really missed me, huh?” he can’t help but tease as he chases your mouth. He’d love nothing more than to hear you loud and clear, but he knows you won’t risk it, no matter how empty the school is right now.

Underneath him, your body trembles, and he can’t resist any longer. He pulls his blindfold out of the way, drinking in the most beautiful sight he’s ever beholden. You’re trying your best not to let the pleasure get to you, but even then, you manage to open an eye to look at him, and you’re met with the stunning blue eyes you wish you could see more often. Something softens inside you, and you reach up to touch his cheek.

“Of course I’ve missed you,” you answer.

Shit. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. He’s already rock hard and all he’s done is rock against you. He wanted to take his time with you tonight, because all he’s had the past week is the memory of you, and that’s nowhere near enough, but it’s not looking like he will last that long.

“Yeah?” he insists as his thumb finds your clit and he starts rubbing carefully. “Thought about me while I was gone?”

You let out a loud cry, manage to cover your mouth again before another one comes out. Your thighs are trembling around him, and fuck, he’s going to have to fuck you real soon, otherwise he’s just going to burst in his pants without you even touching him, at this point.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tells you as he pulls his fingers out of you to get rid of his pants. “Thought of how good you feel around me, of how good you sound for me, of how pretty you are when you’re bouncing on my cock…”

He guides his cock against your entrance, presses it against you. You buck your hips, unable to stop yourself, but he doesn’t give it to you, not just yet.

“You really want it that bad, don’t you?” he practically purrs.

“Satoru,” you whine, and oh, if you knew what it does to him when you say his name like that… “don’t make me b— Ah!”

Finally satisfied, he sheathes himself fully inside of you, and fuck, it’s all he’s been dreaming of for days now. Next time he swears he’ll come running back to you the second he’s done with the stupid assignment. You reach up for him and he lets you, lets you dig your nails into his shoulder blades as you bury your face in his neck to stifle your moans. His hips set up a lazy pace at first, and you try your best to follow, try to meet him with small movements of your own, before you feel his breath against your ear.

“It’s all good,” he says warmly. “Just let me take care of you, babe. I’ve got you.”

That’s when he picks up the pace, and you’re left to writhe underneath him, whimpering his name desperately against his skin like a prayer, Satoru, Satoru, Satoru!

You come, shaking, around him when he brings his fingers to your clit once more, and he doesn’t lose a second of it. The high-pitched moan that you just can’t hold in, the way your head falls back, how your thighs shake on either side of him, it’s all so perfect. You’re perfect.

He does his best to let you ride your orgasm on his cock, but he comes inside you just a couple seconds later, unable to last longer. He collapses on top of you, and your labored breathing fills the room. Your hand on his back moves gently, tracing circles on the nape of his neck, gently running through his hair.

“If you’re not down for a round two just yet, I recommend you stop that,” he mumbles against you, only to regret it immediately, because you do stop.

“We should— we should take this elsewhere,” you say quietly.

Ah, now that’s more like it.

“I can call Ichiji and we could do that in the back of the car on the way home,” he offers cheerfully as he gets up, putting the blindfold back in place, though not before he can see you grimace in horror at his suggestion.

“Absolutely not,” you say firmly, though once more, he was only teasing. He’d never let Ichiji see you like that. “Although, if you could call someone to come clean up in here, just, uh, just in case…”

Cute.

“Done. Now, about that round two…”

“Else. Where,” you insist, and you don’t fall for his cute pout.

He sighs but takes your hand to help you to your feet, then turns around as he pulls out his phone. He’s about to hit Ichiji’s number when your fingers on his skin almost bring a shiver out of him.

“Shouldn’t this be healing?” you ask, frowning, and he realizes you’re talking about the marks you’ve left on his back.

“Nah, I quite like them, actually,” he grins back. “Don’t you?”

There’s a lot of unsaid things that hang between the two of you. A lot of things that are better left unsaid. Sadly, you’re too smart for your own good, and you know better. You leave them be.

“I was worried for you,” is what do you say.

Satoru’s expression shifts. The grin vanishes, and you can’t see his eyes, so you’re not sure how he’s feeling, not until the corner of his lips lift up in a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he says, voice uncharacteristically low.

Then he turns away from you, and he’s as loud and boisterous as ever when Ichiji answers.

Of course. The strongest can’t let himself grow soft.

You bend down to pick up your papers, rearrange them neatly on the desk, eyes still on him, on the animated way he moves around the room.

You think you’re more grateful than he knows, for him being back here. Not because he’s the strongest, not because no one gets rid of a curse like he can, but because he’s Satoru. It’s probably better that way, though. You’re both too busy for distractions.

With a sigh, you put your papers back on the desk, then start moving towards the exit.

“Aren’t we going?” you ask Satoru right as you’re reaching the door.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

“Hope you wrote all that down, ‘cause I need to get out of here,” he says on the phone, and you hear Ichiji protest, but that doesn’t stop Satoru from hanging up unceremoniously. He follows you in the hallway, shoulders brushing against yours without quite touching.

“Hey, if not in the car, there’s a supply closet on the first floor—”

“No.”

“Yaga’s office is probably—”

“Absolutely not.”

“How about in my bed?” he asks, right against your ear, breath tickling against your skin. Your cheeks heat up.

“…Sure.”

He only savors his victory for a second.

“What about the couch?”

“Don’t push it.”

But he does, and you let him.

How could you not, when you finally have him back?

still trying to get used to writing gojo's character, don't know if i quite have him just yet. i hope you enjoyed this, any feedback you have is welcomed and encouraged! reblogs and comments are what keeps me writing, so please engage with my work to let me know if you'd like to see more~

if you enjoy my writing, you can find more gojo x reader here

[lsunstreakerl]

1.6k words of 2025 omegaverse! (was anyone going to tell max he's a mother now or was he supposed to find out himself?)

Pre-season preparations are as hectic as always, but Max's eye twitches as he scans across the room, flooded with scents, drivers and team members alike. The photography crew is shouting at people already, and Max is trying to headcount- two, four, six- is Jack his?

Charles raises an eyebrow at him from where he's already sitting for the photo, looking mildly amused as Max wrinkles his nose and makes his way over.

"Lose track of your kids?"

"Mate, I'm not even sure how many of them are mine."

"Whore."

Max smacks him on the shoulder as the photographers start shooing everyone into place.

Bubbles, Kimi, Ollie, Liam, Isack, Jack... that's everyone, he's pretty sure.

Liam technically doesn't count, and he doesn't know Jack all that well, but he's Australian, so Max is obligated to look out for him just like the rest.

"Max! Lift your chin a bit please."

He falls into the easy rhythm of listening, moving when they tell him to move. Charles earns the ire of one of the set coordinators by moving too far away on purpose, and Max has to muffle his giggle, even as Charles winks at him.

He's wearing scent blocking patches, but he still hears a soft laugh from Carlos, so his pleased scent must be sneaking through.

At least he waits for a break in the photos to poke fun at him.

"It is a good sign for the season everyone, we have a happy Max."

"Shut up."

Max kicks a leg out at him, but Carlos just grins, twisting away.

"Mate, I am wearing white, watch your shoes."

"They're clean!"

Pierre groans from behind him.

"The season has not even started, stop flirting."

Max leans back on his palms, flashing Pierre a smile. The alpha's been cranky since he and Esteban split teams, so Max won't take it personally.

"Now Pierre, if you would really like to see some flirting-"

"Max, oh my god-"

The photographers are yelling again, and Max gets back into position. Carlos is more relaxed, and now Pierre just smells mildly exasperated, compared to the faint sadness and guilt from earlier.

Mission successful- somewhat. Charles seems annoyed, but he'll get over it.

------

They're on a quick break, and Fernando leans down, clapping Max on the shoulder.

"You're all grown up now."

"Huh?"

Max twists to look at him, and Fernando pokes at one of his scent patches.

"The whole room can still smell you."

Rude.

"These are new blockers, I am not sure why-"

Fernando laughs, and he gestures at Max's neck and shoulders.

"You covered your standard glands, but you missed the new ones."

The what.

"Sorry?"

Nico leans down, inserting himself into the conversation.

"Oh, are you talking about the dame ones? That's cute, Max. Talk about a pack omega- it must be all the rookies we have this year."

Max makes a strangled noise, clamping a hand over the bottom of his jaw, covering the space just underneath his ear.

He does not have dame glands. Those are for- are for schoolteachers, childcare workers, omegas that spend most of their time with pups.

Max is a Formula 1 driver.

Pierre laughs.

"Mate, no way you did not realize?"

Max had not realized.

Being the pack omega is one thing- the grid is typically on the older side. Max's responsibilities have been more on the marathon sex side of things, not pup raising.

Kimi pipes up, eyes wide and voice soft.

"I think you smell nice, Max."

Now that Max is aware of it, he can see the other drivers subtle reactions to the change in his scent.

"Thank you Kimi."

His scent must go sweet, because Fernando winks at him as the other alphas look fondly over at him and Kimi. Kimi's own scent is still subdued under the blockers, but the way his cheeks go pink is a good indicator.

There's a slight jealous tang in the air, faint and milky, but Max's brain latches onto it, follows it higher until he spots Gabriel sulking. Lando doesn't seem to have picked up on it despite sitting closer to him.

Max is going to blame that on his heightened nose as pack omega, and not anything dame related.

"Bubbles, mate, come here for a second."

Gabriel perks up, hopping down to come sit near Max.

Ollie frowns as Gabriel passes him, and Max realizes he's going to have a lot of rookie managing to do this season.

------

Daniel has not stopped laughing since he picked up the phone. Max buries his face into one of the hotel pillows, temporarily forgoing his shoddy nest building attempt to whine.

"Danny, you are not helping."

Another bout of laughter.

"Sorry mate, I just- you're a dame now, that is fucking hysterical Max. They're not even your pups!"

Max can't stop the hiss, because they are-

"Did you just hiss at me? Maxy, bud, I only meant biologically. Obviously they're still your grid pups."

Max makes a mortified noise into the pillow. He hadn't meant to hiss, so this whole thing is really a sign that the entire season is just going to be embarrassing for him.

"Remember when they called me Mad Max? And everyone thought I was terrible and evil and a villain? Let's go back to that. Someone called me maternal yesterday, Daniel. Maternal."

Daniel rumbles, loud enough for Max to hear over the phone.

"I think it's sweet. You've really matured and grown into yourself since you joined. That the pups are so comfortable going to you, and that you clearly care about taking care of them- that's a good thing."

Max flops onto his back, glaring at the phone.

"Did your tits get bigger?"

"Daniel!"

------

It's the first nest in the packroom of the season, so Max has been messing with it for thirty minutes before the door cracks open, and Charles pokes his head in.

"Can I help you?"

Charles makes a face.

"Isack and Liam are fighting. They are saying they aren't but we can all smell it."

Max scrunches his nose. Charles is more than capable of getting between a fight- he's an alpha- but Isack and Liam are both Redbull, so they're Max's responsibility.

"Can't you make Lewis do it?"

Charles shifts on his feet.

"I was thinking they maybe needed to talk it out instead of being yelled at, yes?"

Lewis doesn't yell. Max knows what Charles is trying to imply- they need a gentler hand, an omega.

He glares at him.

"I am not actually a dame, Charlie."

"I mean..."

Max doesn't want to hear it, stalking out of the room past Charles.

"I am handling it, but next time one of you is doing it, got it? And don't let anyone into the pack room, I'm not done with the nest yet."

Charles rumbles behind him, content to be given a task.

Alphas.

------

Max is fluffing the blankets in his hotel room nest, carefully poking through his bag of scented items.

He's picking out an old jacket from Daniel, a new shirt from Oscar, and a new beanie from Jack, making a little Australian corner, when there's a series of rapid bangs on the door.

There's only one other omega on the grid that knocks like that, and Max is rolling his eyes as he swings the door open.

"Lando."

Lando shoves inside past him.

"Can I get in the nest yet?"

Max sends a quick prayer for patience.

"Hi Max, how are you Max, lovely to see you Max."

Lando grins.

"Can I?"

"No, I'm not done yet. Sit on the floor."

"Fine."

Max picks his way back over to the nest, grabbing the rest of his things as he eyes Lando out of the corner of his eye. Lando doesn't smell like preheat, which is usually when he wants to snuggle, and they're not into the season enough for drama.

"What do you need, Lando?"

Lando tilts his head, looking at Max. Or- at his neck.

"Oh, nothing, I was just curious about the dame stuff. I've met a few, but they all had like, biological pups, ya know? Went through the pregnancy and all that."

Max rolls his eyes.

"Obviously I did not birth the rookies Lando."

Lando snorts, passing Max a blanket. It smells like Checo and some of the mechanics, goes carefully in the Redbull wall.

"I know that, I was just wondering, like, if any of the other physical stuff happened? Cause your hormones changed, and you smell different."

Max pauses, eyeing him warily. He's being deliberately vague.

"What are you actually asking me?"

Lando leans forward, squinting at Max's chest.

"Do you have milk?"

"Get out-"

------

It's been raining all weekend, and Max is going around the paddock herding his pups after free practice. They're probably all cold and wet and shivering, and Max has made a nice cozy nest, so now he's passing the garages, impatiently waiting until they scamper out in dry clothes and go inside with him.

He's finally gotten his last two stragglers- Ollie hadn't been with Haas but instead chatting with Kimi under an awning, so Max is pushing them both down the hallway towards the pack room.

Max shuffles them around in the nest, settling down in the middle as they all adjust, curling on or around him. They're nice and warm now, all in one spot where Max can keep track of them, instead of being out in the rain or being asked shitty interview questions.

He starts purring, relaxing into the nest. The rest of the pack will be in later. If they're nice Max will let them in.

Maybe.

[starlight-45]

Dating BLLK boys in school! (Part 2)

Featuring:- Hyoma Chigiri, Reo Mikage, Seishiro Nagi (Part 1 here with Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira and Rin Itoshi and here's the masterlist )

A/n: again, don't know where this shit is set. It has their current personalities and they're still in blue lock. Maybe taking a break in off-season and go to school for a change. Idk.

~Hyoma Chigiri~

•Is pretty nonchalant about the whole thing actually he is about most things but gives in easily much to your suprise. he's unpredictable like that.

• To him school was just a place to showcase his talent on a low level before moving on to the bigger stage.

• Kinda really didn't have that many friends, despite being popular as hell because of his looks and talent.

• 'Cause no one really couldn't kept up with his actual sass and sharp personality. Well expect for you now, darling! Don't expect him to admit it though, you'll get only an eye roll out of him.

• But geuninely like there are situations where he has to reject like 5 people at once. 😭 You don't whether to be impressed or annoyed by it.

• Anyway.

• If Chirgiri isn't in class, you can find him in the library. Before you try to fight me, lemme remind it's in the egoist Bible so it's canon.

• He will binge read history novels honestly, and thinks in his free time how it could have been different and stuff. He thinks about the fall of the Roman Empire at least once a day.

• Won't ramble or blabble about it too much to you, but will share random titbits to you about, at the most random times.

• No seriously. At the most random times.

"Ugh trigonometry is the worst-"

"Christianity promotion must have resulted in loss of traditional values of Romans..."

"Huh?"

"You asked to study right?"

"YES. To study maths. Tommorow is the test!"

"...Oh."

• Also he's got a fair amount of complaints from teachers and other coordinators about his long hair. When they speak to him about it, he's judging then SO hard. He does it to almost everyone.

• If you blabble about your classmates stories, he will listen to it, asking questions actively. He actually is pretty interested in the gossipy stuff.

• Can I just rant about how much of a tease he is in denying you affection? Like don't get me wrong, of course Chigiri's gonna have some sort of physical contact like holding hands and stuff in front of other students.

• To show you guys are together and no he's not entertaining any confessions, that's what he tells you to just not get annoying interactions but you both know it's just not that lol

• But when you two do mange to get alone on campus, this guy is a cheeky little bastard. He intentionally leans a bit far than you, just to rile you up and make the first move.

"What? Why are you glaring at me, huh? I didn't do anything you know."

• By the way, this kind of situation doesn't really happen often. Only in school when alone. Still to this day you don't know why he gets like that during that specific time.

• You guessed it's maybe because he rarely can keep his hands off you in private, so this environment keeps him a but grounded and can act all cool. You saw right through it, but that's different story.

• Doesn't care what people think of him, rude, moody, arrogent hell even princess...because like whatever. But won't torelate any negetive comments about you.

• His demeanor doesn't change much, but his glare speaks for itself that the person currently should shut up if they know what's good for them.

• Because, despite all the ups and downs our princess truly loves you and will want the best for you. Amen.

~Mikage Reo~

• I'm guessing you already has a pretty good grasp at what to expect from him, huh?

• We all know, that while on the surface his school life is perfect with good grades, popularity, football...he gets really really bored there.

• But I think as his girlfriend, it's your job to not get him excited. And guess what? You're doing a great job at it!

• This guy is the type, that when in a relationship, you can talk on and on about golf most boring sport ever! and he will listen like it's the most interesting thing ever.

• So yeah... it's not really all that hard for ya to keep him busy lol. Others have a hard time to do so though.

• Though he gave up on studies since blue lock, he figured that it won't hurt to study a bit for a few months to keep up his reputation.

• And to impress you, but shh don't let him know I told ya. But yeah, when talking about studies he's more of a hard work type rather than being a natural. I'm looking at you, Nagi!

• Which is a blessing for you because you can literally just call him over whenever you wanna study. And like ACTUALLY study, he's the best at tutoring, teaching you everything patiently.

• I mean he was the best friend was Nagi. OF COURSE Reo gained a lot of patience from being around that baby.

• Still entertains the fan following he quickly gained at school I mean what did you expect? but not really too much like before.

• Kinda because of still having PTSD from blue lock. You know the the haunting feeling no matter what he does there are things he won't get. Yeah that's what he's afraid of deep down.

• And not just that, also because of you. He knows people can get a too overboard with the fangirling which might make you uncomfortable. So sweet! 😭

• Proudly shows you off as his, and damn he does get a bit of a smug look which is priceless to see. It's a good reminder for him that no matter what happens, you're always his side.

• Which suprisingly makes everyone immediately back off, because like it's just so evident that this guy is just too hooked up on you to even glance at their direction.

• Will actually bribe the school authorities to get you in his class, and will deny any accusations made against him by you about that matter you JUST asked him casually but y'know this guy is dramatic as hell.

• "Why would I do that? You think that I'm the kind of rich person to throw money away just to get my way?"

"I love you Reo but that's exactly what you are."

• Always has an arm around you, suprising you during lunch break, pulling your cheeks even in front of everyone...you're just that cute!

• Is the type to distract you during class, then giggle when you get called out by the teacher for not paying attention. :P

• Don't worry much though, Reo doesn't do it that often, he knows his limits, despite being tempted to do more just to have your attention and your adorable mad face.

• Damnit, you're still just too cute for him to resist having you with him. He truly is blessed.

~Nagi Seishiro~

• Okay so, I think this scenario can go two ways, depending on what time you ask him and what mood he is in.

• 1. Nagi would just say "It's such a hassle" and drop his head on your lap, not wanting to think much but will relent with a bit of convincing because again, he doesn't wanna use his brain much.

• 2. Would just say okay on your first attempt, not seeing any reason to refuse. As you can see, both of these scenarios end up getting him back in school for a few months.

• We all know he's the type to just sleep and play games in class and get scolded by the teacher because of it.

• Lord knows how this guy manages to top every single time because I don't.

• "Hey Seishiro what did you get?"

"..98.."

"I just can't believe it, how do you do it every single time?!"

"I don't believe it either." said the teacher unamused, arranging the papers.

• You also feel lowkey jealous because of it, like can study for hours and hours and still get less than him I don't know about you ma'am but I would have given up a long time ago on academics.

• However, it has it's merits as well. He doesn't study but hangs around you when you do in the library or his apartment and sometimes kind of helps you understand stuff.

• "God this question is so stupid."

"...Hm? It's so easy..."

"Oh really? Why don't you tell me how to do it?"

"... don't convert the tan A into sin A/cosA, because it won't get divided on the final step..."

"Wow it worked, thank you!"

"... don't mention it."

• If you can't find him during lunch, you can find him in teacher's cabin getting scolded or sleeping/playing games on the stairs.

• And in extreme cases, on the water tank of the rooftop how the hell did does he get there?? basically everywhere expect the classroom, eating his lunch, y'know like a normal person in lunch break.

• So it's your duty to drag him to have lunch so to make sure he doesn't die. No I'm not exaggerating, this guy can be starving to death but still be playing call of duty.

• This guy is shameless around you, and the worst part that you can't even say anything about it because it's not his intention to annoy you. He is just is build different.

• Like, he'd just lean over your shoulder as you drag him to class you still won't give him the piggyback ride. Poor boy not really regardless of people giving him and you judgemental stares.

• On the rare days when he's not sleeping in class, he's still not paying any attention to the teacher. Yeah all the teachers hate him.

• Instead his focus is all on you, observing how you are trying your best to pay attention to whatever the hell the teacher's trying to explain, suprisingly intrigued.

• He doesn't know why but, he's not bored while doing even though he's just looking at you . This guy is just attracted to you so damn much.

• And his smol energy level won't allow him to fight that attraction either. However Nagi doesn't dislike that fact. He loves the attraction and you, even if he didn't realise it yet.

A/n: I think the quality is dipped in this one, I kind of rushed it. I apologise for it. (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

[alisonsfics]

all it took

pairing: tony dinozzo x reader

summary: falling for your coworker was never something you planned on, but it happened nonetheless. so, you kept it top secret. this works fine until someone breaks into NCIS headquarters, and you and tony are put in harms way.

word count: 3k

warnings: hostage situation, guns, blood/injuries (nothing graphic), swearing

You sent a glare in Tony’s direction after getting hit in the face with a piece of candy. “Dinozzo!” You said, exasperatedly, trying to figure out why he had just thrown an M&M at your face.

“I called your name like five times. You didn’t hear me.” He explained. You ran your hand through your hair. “That’s cause I’m working. Gibbs is down in interrogation, and he needs something he can use. I don’t want to be the one to tell him I have nothing— whatever. What do you need?” You asked him.

“I want to show you a trick.” He said, excitedly. You and Tony were really good friends, which meant you both had no trouble having fun around each other. Gibbs didn’t always love this.

Tony tossed a piece of candy up in the air and attempted unsuccessfully to catch it in his mouth. You quickly put your hand over your mouth, suppressing a giggle. “Don’t you even,” Tony warned, expecting the sarcastic comment that was on the tip of your tongue.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. I just figured a federal agent would have better hand-eye coordination.” You said, smirking at him. He knew he had just been challenged. “Alright, let’s see you do it.” He said, inviting you over to his desk.

You stood up from your chair and walked over to the side of Tony’s desk. He tossed a piece of candy your way, which you caught in your mouth on the first try. The smile on Tony’s face faded. “You were clearly assisted by my excellent aim,” he said, defensively.

You giggled at his sad expression. “So, what’s my prize for beating you?” You asked, curiously. A smirk spread across Tony’s face. “That depends on what you want.” He quipped.

A flirty comment out of Tony wasn’t anything knew to you. All of your coworkers knew you both were into each other, but hadn’t admitted it yet.

You thought about it, and his comment gave you an idea about the suspect down in interrogation.

“I need to call Gibbs,” you said, grabbing the phone off his desk.

“I’m very happy for you, but I don’t think Gibbs is going to care that you caught an M&M.” He said, not catching on yet. You flicked his arm.

“Ow,” he exclaimed, scooting his chair back away from you.

“Your phone’s not working,” you said, slamming it down. You raced over to your desk, grabbing your own phone. You heard the same static sound over your phone. “The phones must be down.” You said, confused since the phones were never down.

Over your shoulder, Tony saw a man step out of the elevator with a large gun. His first instinct should have been to grab his own gun and order the man to surrender. That was his job after all.

But not with you standing in the middle.

He dived over to where you were standing, pulling you down to the ground with him. As you both fell to the floor, you heard a bunch of rapid gunshots go into the ceiling.

You felt a burning sensation on your upper arm. You swore under your breath, wincing in pain.

Tony felt his heart sink as he noticed the blood seeping through your shirt. “Hang on, it’ll be okay. One of the ricochets must have hit you. Just looks like a graze though,” he said, tugging off the button-up shirt he was wearing.

He was left in a white t-shirt, tying his other shirt tightly around your arm.

“I need to see Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.” The intruder announced to the squad room. There wasn’t very many agents in the office today, but they were all now laying on the ground as instructed.

“Keep pressure on this,” Tony said, starting to stand up. You gripped onto his arm. He saw the fear in your eyes. Tony had never seen you scared before.

You weren’t scared for yourself. You were scared Tony would play hero and get himself hurt.

“Don’t,” you begged him. He could sense your desperation. “I won’t go anywhere,” he gave in. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, keeping you close to him.

You heard heavy footsteps behind you. The intruder was standing right in front of your desk, staring at you both sitting behind it.

“You, up!” He ordered, staring at Tony. Tony slowly stood, holding his hands up. “I’m Gibbs. What do you need?” He asked, nonchalantly.

“You want to try again, agent? Because I know you’re not Gibbs.” He threatened. Tony shrugged his shoulders. “I’m Special Agent Gibbs. Don’t know what to tell you,” he lied.

You cursed Tony out in your head. He was amazing at his job, but always knew how to make you worry about him.

“How about you tell me the truth?” The intruder said, shifting his gun to point it at you. Tony jumped in front of the intruder, keeping you safe. “Hey hey hey, I’m Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo. Don’t hurt her” the words rushed out of his mouth.

The intruder smirked, realizing he had found Tony’s weak spot.

There was no bluffing when it came to you. Tony wouldn’t do anything that risked your safety.

“That’s better, Romeo. Now bring me to Gibbs.” The intruder demanded. Tony hesitated, looking over his shoulder at you. “She’s hurt. Let me call our doctor up here. Then, I’ll do whatever you want,” Tony negotiated.

The intruder considered his proposition for a minute, then turned to you. “You, come here.” He demanded. Following your training, you held your hands in the air and slowly walked towards him.

He pointed his gun at Tony and used his other hand to pat you down. You could see Tony tense up. “So, what do you want with Gibbs?” You asked, trying to get inside his head.

“My name is Jeremiah Parker. Agent Gibbs arrested my brother today, and I’m here to get him back.” The intruder explained, referencing the suspect that was down in interrogation with Gibbs right now.

Jeremiah ran his hand down your legs, grabbing your gun and throwing it to the side. His hand went back up to your waist.

You felt yourself flinch as his hand lingered on your ass. Tony noticed immediately. “Hey, get your hands off of her.” Tony snapped.

Jeremiah simply chuckled. “Calm down, Agent Dinozzo. I’m only looking for these.” He said, grabbing your handcuffs off your belt.

“Cuff his hands, sweetheart.” He told you. Tony gave you a soft smile, letting you know it was okay. You stepped towards Tony, grabbing both his hands and handcuffing them in front of him.

He grabbed one your hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re shaking. It’ll be okay, I promise,” he assured you.

Then, Jeremiah grabbed your shoulders forcefully and pulled you away from Tony. He pressed the tip of his gun against your side.

“Call your doctor, and put it on speaker.” He instructed Tony, who nodded his head and obliged.

The phone rang once or twice and then you heard Jimmy’s voice come through the speaker. “Hello, this is Palmer,” he said, nonchalantly.

“Hey, Jimmy. I need to speak with Dr. Mallard.” Tony said, silently praying Palmer would know he only ever referred to him as Ducky. Jimmy mumbled “one second,” and then there was some silence.

“Hello, Tony?” Ducky asked. “Hi, Dr. Mallard. I need you to bring your first aid kit up to the squad room please.” Tony said, calmly. Ducky was silent for a minute, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Tony, what’s going on?” Ducky asked, already knowing something was off.

“Just hurry,” Tony said, almost snapping. He was almost pleading with Ducky. If Jeremiah knew anything was going on, he’d probably kill you both.

“Tony is everything ok—” Ducky started to ask before Jeremiah quickly hung up the phone.

You felt your body tense as he slammed the phone down. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If your doctor does as he’s told, you’ll be just fine.” Jeremiah assured you, running his thumb over you cheek.

“I only bring you to Gibbs if you leave her alone.” Tony threatened. Jeremiah didn’t respond, he just chuckled to himself. “You’re the one in handcuffs. I don’t think you’re in a place to make demands.” Jeremiah told him.

The elevator door dinged. You all watched Ducky cautiously step out of the elevator, first aid kit in hand.

Jeremiah pressed his gun against your head. “Over here, doctor,” Jeremiah announced.

Ducky knew something was wrong just from the phone call. He wasn’t shocked that there was an intruder, but seeing a gun pointed at your head made him realize how serious the situation was.

“Ducky, Y/N’s arm got grazed. I need you to stay here and help her. Me and our friend have to go talk to Gibbs.” Tony told him.

Jeremiah shoved you towards Ducky, who held his hands out and caught you from falling over. Tony also lunged to try to catch you, even though his hands were handcuffed together.

Ducky wrapped his arm around your shoulder, in a fatherly manner. “Well Gibbs is down in interrogation now.” He said, looking towards Tony. You knew from Ducky’s expression that Gibbs knew what was going on.

You didn’t know why you were so nervous. You and Tony had worked in the field together for years, but he had never seen you this nervous. You didn’t know why it felt different this time.

You both were in dangerous situations all the time, but this time you were terrified that Tony would get hurt. He had the same worries for you.

Tony noticed how you were nervously biting your lip.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. You know me,” Tony said, softly. He was trying to reassure you, but it wasn’t working.

If you hadn’t seen the small beads of sweat on his forehead, you probably would’ve believed him.

But he was right. You did know him.

You knew he used humor instead of admitting he was scared.

You both had been hiding behind the “just friends” label for years, but Tony had always cared for you more he had ever cared for just a friend. As he saw the look on your face and the tear rolling down your cheek, he had all the confirmation he needed that you felt the same way about him.

He sighed at the irony of the situation. Tony was very aware that this could be the last time he saw you.

You also were terrified. As soon as Tony was out of your sight, there was no saying what would happen to him.

“Ducky, I need you to take care of her” Tony said with the most serious tone you’ve ever heard him use.

Jeremiah kicked Tony in the back of the leg, pushing him forward. “Let’s go,” he demanded.

As soon as Jeremiah turned away from you, you decided to copy one of Tony’s favorite movies, the A-Team, which he had forced you to watch with him.

You had the key to your handcuffs concealed in your hand. You quickly slipped the key into your mouth. “Tony wait,” you called out. Tony stopped in his tracks as you walked over to him.

You cupped his face and kissed him. Tony was shocked, but wasted no time kissing you back. He felt your tongue slip the key into his mouth. He smirked into the kiss, knowing that you remembered watching that movie together.

You reluctantly pulled out of the kiss. “Be safe,” you whispered. He nodded his head, “I promise.”

You felt Ducky’s hands on your arm, pulling you back towards him. You both watched as the two of them walked away towards the elevator.

“He’ll be alright, my dear,” Ducky reassured you. You turned around, leaning your head on Ducky’s shoulder as a few tears slipped onto your cheeks. “I really want to believe you, Duck.” You whispered.

“Anthony will do whatever it takes to come back to you because it’s you.” He told you.

As the elevator doors closed, Tony looked over his shoulder at Jeremiah. “If you put another scratch on her body, I swear to god, I will kill you myself.” Tony threatened.

“Is Agent Dinozzo in love?” Jeremiah questioned. Tony remained silent. He had barely been able to admit those feelings to himself.

“I am a sucker for love. It’s so sad that you’ll never see her again.” Jeremiah quipped.

Then, the elevator screeched to a halt. Tony knew that somewhere Gibbs was responsible.

Meanwhile, Ducky was dragging you up to MTAC. You had told all the other agents in the squad room to go up there to stay safe, but you weren’t planning on staying. You needed to go help Tony.

Ducky didn’t like that idea.

“Now, just come on, my dear. I need to look at your arm. Anthony has this under control. You could walk into an ambush.” Ducky tried to convince you, blocking the door so you couldn’t leave.

“Ducky. I think I love him, and I would regret staying here for the rest of my life if he gets hurt.” You told him, honestly.

Ducky nodded, sympathizing with your situation. “Then, let me fix this first.” He said, fixing the way Tony’s shirt was tied around your arm.

“There you go, but be safe.” He told you, letting you leave. You sprinted down the stairs and grabbed your gun off your desk. You opted to take the stairs down to interrogation instead of the elevator.

Tony and Jeremiah’s elevator finally continued descending down to the interrogation floor.

Jeremiah stuck his gun to Tony’s head, anticipating agents when the elevator doors opened.

The doors opened and revealed Gibbs standing with his gun pointed at Jeremiah. “Put your gun down, Agent Gibbs, or another one of your agents gets hurt.” Jeremiah demanded.

Ducky had told Gibbs about the weird phone call with Tony, but he didn’t know about you getting hurt.

“What did you do?” Gibbs asked, cautiously.

“Y/N got grazed by a bullet. She’s with Ducky now. She’s probably gonna need some stitches.” Tony informed him.

Tony promptly got elbowed by Jeremiah. “Shut your mouth, Romeo. Or your girlfriend is going to get more than a graze.” Jeremiah snapped.

Tony didn’t stop.

“Boss, drop your gun. You won’t need it to take him out.” Tony told Gibbs. Gibbs got the message and placed his gun on the ground.

Jeremiah had had enough. He threw a quick punch at Tony’s face, successfully hitting him right in the nose.

Tony’s plan worked.

He flinched, grabbing his nose with both his hands. He sneakily grabbed the key out of his mouth, but didn’t unlock the handcuffs yet.

Jeremiah walked Gibbs and Tony down the hallway, towards the interrogation room. Tony unlocked the handcuffs when Gibbs gave him the signal.

He popped his hands out and turned around, quickly smacking the gun out of Jeremiah’s hands. Then, McGee jumped out from around the corner with his gun pointed at Jeremiah.

Gibbs grabbed Jeremiah and quickly handcuffed him.

“Go get her,” Gibbs told Tony, but he had already started running towards the stairs. McGee followed after Tony, not quite keeping up. This was the fastest Tony had ever ran. His mind was racing with thoughts of you.

Tony got to the squad room and found your desk empty. You and Ducky were nowhere to be seen. Tony called your name a few times, desperately looking around for you.

McGee arrived shortly after Tony. “She could’ve brought everyone up to MTAC for safety.” McGee suggested. Tony sprinted up the stairs, slamming the door open as he ran inside.

He scanned the faces of all the agents standing in the room, not seeing you. Agents started to funnel out of the room, knowing it was safe now.

“Oh, come on, come on, where are you?” His mind was racing with possibilities.

Tony found Ducky. “Ducky. Where is she?” He asked, urgently.

“She went off to find you, Anthony.” Ducky informed him.

“Tony, Tony, down here,” Tony heard McGee screaming from outside.

Tony ran outside of MTAC and saw you standing down next to McGee in the squad room.

Once his eyes landed on you, he sprinted down the stairs, running as fast as his legs would take him.

He pulled you right into his arms, holding onto you tightly. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay” you whispered into his shirt. “I’m fine. Gibbs has him. It’s all okay” he ran his hand through your hair, comforting you.

“What about your arm?” Tony jumped back, thinking he was hurting you. “I’m fine, Tony. Ducky’s gonna stitch it up. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m fine.” You assured him.

You looked at his face, wanting to double check that he was actually okay. “Your nose looks all red and swollen.” You said, noticing his injury.

“I had to get him to throw a punch at me, so I could get the key out of my mouth. I promise, it’s nothing. It takes more than that to hurt Anthony Dinozzo.” He told you. He pulled you back into his arms.

“I know this is part of the job, but I was so fucking worried about you.” You told him, squeezing onto him tightly.

He grabbed your chin and pulled your face up to connect your lips. He had one hand pressed against your cheek, and the other was on the back of your head. You rested your hands on his sides.

You weren’t taking any part of this moment for granted. You memorized the way his shirt felt under your fingers and spearmint taste on his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? All it took to get you two together was a hostage situation.” Ducky said. You both pulled away and saw Ducky staring with Gibbs and McGee standing behind him.

“I can’t believe you used the key trick from A-Team. You are so amazing.” Tony said, pressing a bunch of kisses to your cheek. Tony couldn’t contain himself. After all, the girl he was crazy about used his favorite move from his favorite movie to save his life.

“I hate to steal her from you, Anthony, but she really needs those stitches.” Ducky interrupted.

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” Tony said, cheesily interlacing your fingers with his and walking over to your desk where Ducky had his first aid kit opened.

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[katyaromanoffpetrova]

What if...they met in college? (1)

Instead of being forced into espionage, Kat and Nat grew up in society like normal kids. But fate always forces them together. As roommates in college this time. One popular girl and one nerdy girl.

• Natasha Romanoff x Fem!OC • Wordcount: 4.7k • Warnings: none • A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @nataliasquote !!! This one is for you. The college AU you are so obsessed with. More parts to follow :) Masterlist

Do not repost my work as your own or translate my work!!

Katya

The hallways of the campus' dormitories were chaos. Bags, suitcases, instruments, and people, lots of people, blocked Katya's way as she tried to navigate her way to room 415. They bumped into her left and right, and screamed things in her ear as she parkoured over their stuff, yanking on the handle of her suitcase aggressively whenever it got stuck. 

Move-in day was busy, really busy. She meant to avoid rush hour by arriving early, but she'd gotten stuck in traffic. For two hours. Now her roommate had gotten to their room before she did and undoubtedly claimed the good side, probably leaving her with very little space and very possibly decorating the floor with the world's ugliest rug. 

Katya stopped halfway down the hall to catch her breath, dropping her heavy sports bag to the floor to give her poor, aching shoulder a break. With the back of her hand, she pushed her glasses up her nose and brushed some hair from her forehead. It would have been great to have some help. At the end of the hall, a girl had a whole team to help her move in. Parents, sister or friend, boyfriend or brother. But Katya didn't have anyone, so she had to take three roundtrips to the parking lot by herself.

With a sigh, she hoisted the bag up again and watched the room numbers climb the further she walked down the hall. The girls in room 410 had their door open, a song from fifteen years ago blasting from a portable speaker on their desks. They must know each other, because both their sides of the room were in coordinating colors. One of them caught Katya's nosy eye and gave her an awkward smile.

411, 412, 413, 414…

The door to room 415 was open. Katya stopped and took one last, deep breath before stepping into the doorway. 

She was right. Her roommate had already decorated her part of the room. Her eye immediately fell on the large rug between the beds. A fluffy, really soft looking beige one that looked very tempting for a nap. It suited the rest of the surprisingly calm decorations. 

White bed sheets with various neutral colored pillows on top, the subtle black and white prints on the wall, the beige colored plant pots, the fairylights that emitted a soft yellow glow, and the beige curtains that Katya also wasn't mad about. The only thing that held some color were the pictures on the corkboard above her headboard.

Whoever this girl was, she had good taste.

Katya dumped her suitcase by the unoccupied bed and threw her duffel bag on top, careful to avoid the rug with her shoes. The knot in her stomach unraveled a little bit. Maybe her worries about her roommate had been invalid. She had definitely been overthinking too much. It even smelled nice in here, like her roommate had lit a vanilla scented candle.

''Oh, you're here!'' A cheerful voice came from behind Katya. ''I went to pick up two muffins from downstairs because I was hungry and I figured you would be too.'' 

Katya turned around… and was met with the most stunning woman she'd ever seen in her entire life. 

The same height as her, lean build, fair skin—but that wasn't what Katya's gaze was drawn to. A pair of full, pink lips framed a beautiful wide smile that reached all the way up to her even more beautiful, sparkling green eyes. Her eyelashes were so long they nearly touched her perfectly defined eyebrows, and when she blinked, they brushed over her sharp cheekbones. Her nose wasn't small or pointy, and had a little bump that would make most people self-conscious, but fit her face so well that everyone would be jealous of it anyway.

But somehow, like that wasn't already enough to turn heads, this all paled in comparison to the long, slightly curly hair that fell down her shoulders. It was that kind of bright, deep red that non-redheads tried to achieve but never could. The kind that naturally looked darker in the winter and lit up slightly orange in the summer sun. Everchanging and unique, and part of the reason why Katya's heart was hammering in her chest. 

''I'm Natasha.''

Oh. My. God. 

Katya could not form a single thought. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara desert in the middle of the summer. She could only stare. Stare at her roommate while she tried to fight off the gay panic that reduced her to a completely useless human being. 

This could not be happening. The girl she had to live with for a year could not be this excruciatingly attractive. Freshman year would be her end. 

Awkwardly, she cleared her throat when she saw that Natasha was waiting for a response, an amused eyebrow quirked up on her forehead. God, she was already making a fool of herself. ''Katya Petrova,'' she said shortly, her smile filled with embarrassment as she accepted the blueberry muffin Natasha kindly got her. Get yourself together, or she's gonna get tired of your weirdness quickly.

It wasn't physically possible, but Natasha's perfect eyes lit up even more. ''Russian?''

''Yeah.''

Her smile turned into a mysterious smirk that sent tingles down Katya's spine. ''Then we're gonna get along just fine,'' she said, and Katya couldn't help but feel like there was some sort of double meaning she was missing. Natasha looked at her like she was a meal, and her nerves intensified.

''Uh, thank you for the muffin,'' she blurted out.

''You're welcome,'' Natasha mused, totally cool as she leaned back against her desk. It was unfair, how she turned Katya into a complete mess while she remained confident and calm. But it was so attractive. Katya shivered as Natasha's green eyes slowly looked her up and down. ''I think I picked right. You look like a blueberry muffin girl.''

An awkward chuckle slipped past Katya's lips. She wanted to get away from that piercing gaze desperately, anything to think clearly again, but it wouldn't let her move. ''What does that mean?''

''I don't know.'' With a smirk—and intense eye contact—Natasha brought her ring finger to her lips and sucked the muffin crumbs off. Casually, she repeated the motion with her other fingers, her entire thumb disappearing in her mouth.

Katya felt her eyes widen, more gay panic flushing her veins until her heart thudded loudly in her chest. Images, ones she would never say out loud, filled her mind. Her lower stomach turned into knots while a blush covered her cheeks. She turned away, pretending to be really busy with unpacking. She swore she heard a soft chuckle behind her.

''I hope you don't mind the rug and the curtains. I took the liberty to decorate.''

''That's okay," Katya answered, having trouble remembering what the curtains even looked like. They were the very last thing on her mind as she rummaged aimlessly through her bag, hoping Natasha didn't notice that she wasn't doing anything.

''Is that all your stuff?''

Katya shook her head, risking a glance over her shoulder. She was relieved to see that Natasha's flirty expression had turned into something more puzzled. ''No, the rest is in my car.''

It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Natasha's eyes visibly softened. ''Are you here alone?''

''Yes," Katya answered casually, ignoring the stab in her heart.

It stayed quiet a moment longer than normal, painfully so. These silences were nothing new. She'd started to expect them. On Mother's day, on Father's day, on Christmas, on Thanksgiving, but also moments like these, where she didn't know she would be missing parents until she was in the moment. 

''Does your family live far away?'' Natasha asked carefully.

''Sort of.''

She put her muffin down and uncrossed her arms. ''Let me help you carry the rest up. I can't possibly let you walk back and forth countless times while I take a nap,'' she joked lightheartedly.

''Oh, no, it's okay. Really. You don't have to help me," Katya refused, not in the mood for pity. But Natasha stood up straight and tied her beautiful hair into a perfect messy bun.

''Well, I want to," she said with a tone so definitive that Katya lost all her will to protest. "And I'm not taking no for an answer.'' She looked ready to tackle a big job. Hands on her Lululemon shorts-clad hips, sports shoes on her feet. And those lean arms…they could surely carry a few boxes.

Katya considered it for a moment, and then nodded. It would be nice to have some help. ''Okay then.'' Natasha flashed her a big smile.

Somehow, she faced none of the struggles from before—having to parkour her way through the halls. People seemed to get out of their way for Natasha, driven by some invisible force that must have been her confident aura.

Katya felt entirely unworthy to be walking next to her. They attracted lots of eyes, and the reason they looked at them certainly wasn't her red, sweaty face. Nobody noticed a dull brunette next to a redheaded goddess in gym shorts and a crop top. 

Natasha didn't seem to notice anything. She kept talking to Katya, completely comfortable yapping to someone she'd only met five minutes ago, while Katya tried not to let her gay panic turn into real, uncontrollable panic. She only heard half of what her roommate was saying.

''Hey, Nat!''

They were in the quad, a huge field of grass between the main campus buildings. Today, the main path was lined with stalls full of information and help. If someone couldn't find their dorm or there was another problem, they could visit here. 

A guy, looking older than her, had called Natasha's name from one of the stands, his hand in the air to grab her attention. Katya's first instinct was; football player. He had the build for it.

''Jason!" She smiled, not stopping to talk to him. "How are you?''

He was the fourth guy to greet her like that. Like he knew her. They all looked vastly different—though good-looking—and they all looked older. Some closer to twenty-four than eighteen. It was odd. Where did she know all of them from? Katya was starting to gain suspicions that her roommate may be more well-known around here than she thought.

"So, what's your thing?" Natasha asked suddenly. Katya had been brooding over her roommate's popularity so hard that she didn't realize she'd fallen silent. Or that they were close to the parking lot. 

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"What are you here for?" Natasha clarified, smiling when she still saw the confusion on Katya's face. "Law and dance, that's my thing. Studying law, and I'll be trying out for the dance team."

Katya didn't find this surprising at all. Natasha looked like that kind of person who could do it both. Arts and literature. Body and brains. Someone good at absolutely everything. It also explained her subtle muscles and lean figure. Of course, the gorgeous, popular girl was a dancer. What were the chances she was a cheerleader in high school?

"Of course, you are." Katya paled when she realized the words had escaped her.

Natasha smirked amusedly. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Katya said quickly. Her roommate's need to fluster her all the time was starting to get on her nerves. She fiddled with her car keys, smiling nervously. "I'm not as interesting as you, I'm afraid."

Natasha tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with something flirty. "You interest me."

Heat rose on Katya's cheeks once more. She kept getting caught off guard by Natasha's simple yet effective smooth-talking. Everything she said seemed to have some sort of double meaning. Her body could not keep up with its reactions.

"History is my thing. History and literature. But the literature is just a hobby," she said awkwardly, trying to hide her red cheeks. Her studies and hobbies always sounded boring to begin with, but next to Natasha's they looked even worse. Katya grimaced. "I told you it's boring."

"No, it's not!" Natasha rushed to reassure her. "I've always envied people who could quote Hemmingway off the top of their heads. Are you one of those people?"

"Kind of." Katya smiled shyly when she realized that Natasha was being genuine. 

"That's cool." The redhead smiled. "Everyone has their own interests, don't be embarrassed of yours."

Katya wasn't used to the conversation going this way. It was a breath of fresh air. "Most people think it's lame," she said as she popped the trunk of her terribly plain and old Honda Civic.

Natasha shrugged, picking up the first box she saw. "People will always have opinions, so you are better off just doing what you like."

"Can't disagree." Katya smiled at her. Would things finally be different? Would she finally fit in somewhere? The day started off with lots of frustration but now the future looked very hopeful. Maybe she would finally feel at home somewhere.

It took the both of them three trips to get everything upstairs, after which Katya bought Natasha an iced coffee to thank her. She was drinking that as she scrolled on her phone and absentmindedly talked to Katya while Katya unpacked her stuff. 

Everything she had was in these boxes, her whole life. She had no family to store anything with, so all of it had to fit within the four walls of this room. There was some odd stuff in some of these boxes. But Natasha didn't ask her about anything. Overall, she had been nothing but considerate and an amazing roommate.

"This campus is full of disgusting boys."

Katya jumped. She had her back turned to the door, and with the business in the hallway hadn't heard someone stop in their doorway. It was a small blonde with her hands in her pockets. She looked annoyed, bored and disgusted all at the same time, like a moody teenager. Questionably, Katya looked at Natasha.

The woman sighed and put her phone down. "Kat, meet my little sister, Yelena. Yelena, this is Katya, my roommate."

As if she was only now realizing there was another person in the room, the blonde—Yelena—looked at Katya. Then she let out the loudest gasp. "Oh my god, they put you with a nerd." She laughed.

Katya blushed and looked away. That's not the first time she's heard that. In fact, people all throughout her life had taken the liberty of calling her that. It wasn't her looks per se—she didn't wear braces, outdated clothes, or thick-rimmed glasses. She was a normal kid, in normal clothes, with a delicate, modern-looking pair of glasses balancing on her nose. And, if Katya might say so herself, she wasn't ugly.

No, it was the things she did and liked that put a sticker on her. First of all, her introvertness and her shyness. It had gotten a lot better with age. She didn't stutter or stumble over her words as much anymore, but her shy nature stayed. It made that she never quite fit in with anyone. She didn't have big friend groups or hang around the popular kids. She usually had one good friend who she could sit in peaceful silence with.

Then there were the books, the literature, the movies she watched. Katya realized very young that she was different from the other girls in her class. She preferred the works of writers long gone, liked her movies black and white, and would rather spend her Friday afternoon reading than going to parties. They bullied her for having her lunch break in the library, reading alone, for getting an A on every test. Her interest lay with history, not with the latest Hollywood gossip. 

It shouldn't get to her, but in their cores, everyone wanted to belong, to be liked. She couldn't simply turn off her human instinct.

Natasha's hands curled into fists, and it looked like she was going to explode on her sister, until an older woman stepped into the room. Her hair was so dark brown it nearly looked black, and her face held a stern expression. She was also incredibly gorgeous. "Yelena Belova! That is not how I raised you!"

Yelena cringed. "Sorry, Mama," she muttered.

The woman's scowl disappeared as she turned to Katya, a warm, motherly smile appearing on her face instead. "Hello, my dear. I'm Melina, Natasha's mother. Please excuse my rude daughter. I promise I raised them both better than that."

A warm feeling flushed through Katya's body. "It's okay, ma'am. Natasha helped me carry the rest of my stuff up from my car."

"Good girl." Melina smiled proudly at her daughter. Natasha rolled her eyes, clearly not at ease with her family around a stranger. "If you don't need us anymore, Yelena and I will be leaving."

"Yes, please take her out of here." 

Anger flashed across Yelena's face. "I sacrificed my free day for you, you ungrateful—"

"Girls!" Melina sighed, shaking her head. With pity, she looked at Katya. "I wish you luck with her, my dear—"

"What does that mean?" Natasha exclaimed.

"---and be nice to each other. Natasha, if you need me, I'm just a call away."

"And just a town away." She rolled her green eyes again. "No need for emotional goodbyes."

"Well, I am gonna miss you."

"I'm not," Yelena mumbled under her breath, smiling innocently when her mother glared at her.

Natasha sighed and started to walk them out the door. Like a dog herding sheep. Katya tried not to laugh as Melina and Yelena stumbled over each other into the hallway. "Mhm, goodbye now. Thank you for helping me today." Natasha closed the door in their faces, locking it for good measure. A pleasant silence filled the room. "I'm sorry about her."

"It's alright." Katya shrugged, though her brain was still trying to process what just happened. "I'm used to being called a nerd. It's not an insult."

"She meant it as one. She's a dick." Natasha chewed on her lip, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of her sister's behavior. It meant a lot to Katya that it mattered so much to her.

"It's okay, Natasha, really." 

The redhead smiled carefully. "Melina is probably yelling at her now, though."

Katya laughed. "Their faces as you pushed them out the door..."

"If I hadn't, they would still be standing here, arguing." Natasha returned to her bed, falling back into the same position as before they were rudely interrupted. It already felt so domestic, so comfortable. They could exist together and do their own thing without bothering the other.

"Your sister is completely different from you, isn't she?" Katya asked as she continued her unpacking.

"Yes and no. She's more moody, sassy, rude." Katya chuckled when Natasha rolled her eyes. "But she's driven, hard working, and incredibly loyal to the people she loves. She will fight someone for you... Literally… She loves punching people."

Katya laughed. "She sounds like a good sister to have."

"She'll do." Natasha suddenly perked up, like someone flipped the switch of focus in her brain. Smirking, she studied the boxes on Katya's side of the room. "So, in which one of those is your lingerie?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Orientation had broken Katya's brain. She'd gotten so much information at once that she literally had a headache. A bad one. Add that to a bad night of sleep—only four hours in total because of her new surroundings and anxiety—and she was ready to crash.

She unlocked her door and stumbled into the room, not surprised to see it empty. Natasha's shoes were gone and her bed was made. From what Katya learned yesterday, she seemed to know a lot of people, so she was undoubtedly chatting with every person she ran into. Maybe she wouldn't even return until late. At least Katya had her number.

She took advantage of Natasha's absence to take a long shower. Then she drew the curtains closed and laid down for a nap, her headache already subsiding after chugging two glasses of water. Her eyelids were so heavy, sleep tugged on her brain… 

When her phone rang. 

Katya let out the loudest groan, hurting her head in the process. Who dared to interrupt her nap? Ideally, she would have ignored it, but it could be Natasha or somebody else important. Blindly, she felt around until her fingers wrapped around her phone, her eyes squinting against the bright light to read the name on the screen. 

Tony.

Yep, that made sense. That man always had the worst timing. 

"What?" Katya snapped.

"What a way to greet me. Are you busy?" He gasped dramatically, then lowered his voice. "Wait, are you finally getting laid?"

Katya sighed, the tips of her ears burning. Ever since he stopped seeing her as a kid, he was trying to get her laid. Unsuccessfully. "No."

"Then you got time for me. Did you get settled in?" 

"If you were actually here to help me, you would have known," she said accusingly. "But you're too busy slutting yourself out in Miami."

"Going on holidays is important," Tony said casually. Katya rolled her eyes. He wasn't vacationing, he was partying and drinking. Club music boomed in the background of the call. His classes didn't start for another week. "You know what's also important? If your roommate is hot."

Katya groaned, reaching for the curtain to tug it open. She was so glad this was not a FaceTime call, or he would have seen how red her face was. "I'm not entertaining you with an answer."

"So she is." His stupid grin could be heard in his voice. She wanted to slap him. "What's her name?"

Katya hesitated. Whenever she told him about her crushes, Tony would go and mingle. It wouldn't be the first time he scared one away, but if she didn't tell him now, he would show up next week on her doorstep. Even worse. "Natasha," she answered reluctantly. "You wouldn't like her, she's ginger."

"Wait. A Natasha with red hair? Does she have big tits and a great ass?"

As much as Katya wanted to yell at him for objectifying women, she couldn't help but blush. Of course, her gay ass had not been able to resist taking a look at Natasha's body. Subtly and respectfully, of course. Her thoughts had not been subtle or respectful though, but they were safely inside her head so it was okay. She wasn't that kind of person.

"She looks great, yes."

Exactly at that moment, Natasha freaking Romanoff herself burst through the door, looking incredible as always. Denim shorts, tank top, messy ponytail—Katya's heart skipped a beat. Nobody should look that good after a full day of walking around in the late summer heat. God, she was a mess for her. 

"Who looks great?" Natasha smirked, dropping her bag to the ground. "Some girl at orientation already grabbed your attention?"

"Uh—I…no. There's nobody," Katya stammered, watching wide-eyed as Natasha took the hair tie out her hair and shook all those gorgeous curls loose. Her biceps flexed subtly when she fluffed it up.

"Uhu. Better give me a chance too before you set your sights on someone," Natasha teased.

Katya's breath caught in her throat. Was she dreaming? "Y-You?"

"Yeah. Unless you're not into girls." Natasha smiled smugly when she glanced at Katya's stunned expression. "I thought so. Me too."

If this were a cartoon, Katya's eyeballs would have bulged out of her head. Surely, she was dreaming now. There was no way this was reality. "You're gay?"

Natasha shrugged, grabbing a towel from the cabinet. "I'm a little bit of everything. As long as it's hot and kissable, I'm kissing it." She smirked, and then she closed the bathroom door behind her like she hadn't just turned Katya's whole world upside down.

There was an error in her brain. Her brain had flatlined. Open-mouthed, Katya stared at the door her roommate had disappeared through. She was sweating. Did Natasha seriously just say that she is into girls and she wants a shot with her? Was her headache actually a stroke and was she hallucinating? 

"Shut the fuck up. Your roommate is Natasha Romanoff?" 

Katya jumped. She'd completely forgotten that she was on the phone with Tony, and that he just heard everything. Her heart was racing in her chest. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"

He sighed. "You're hopeless. You need to get out more. She has a reputation for crashing college parties since she was 15. She's basically a legend."

It all made sense now. The guys who knew her, her popularity, why she knew her way around campus so well. She cuddled up with college guys while she was still in high school. 

How in the world did Katya, a nerd, get matched up with someone like what? Some funny forces were at play here. Someone up there must be laughing very hard.

"Okay, bye now." She just caught the start of Tony's protests when she cut off the call. She loved him, but she needed a moment to process these developments, and his endless yapping in her ear did not let her think clearly. 

He came into her life at a time where she needed someone the most. Orphaned since birth, Katya grew up in orphanages across the country. The last one she lived in, from age thirteen to literally last week, she met him. He'd protected her on the first day, when some older guys bullied her, and from there, he'd become her big brother. She saw him as that, too; family. Did he know Natasha personally?

Katya panicked when the shower turned off in the other room. Like, had a full-on silent panic attack. Not enough time had passed to process anything or to calm down. She couldn't face Natasha again. Not yet. What if she continued the conversation where it left off?

Quickly, she dived for her laptop and headphones, and put on the first TV show she could find. When Natasha came out of the bathroom, she didn't even spare her a glance. It was possibly the best performance of her life, pretending she was interested in her show and her heart wasn't pounding in her ears.

But Katya looked at her from the corner of her eye whenever she could, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing. Natasha seemed to be getting ready for something. She did her makeup and spent at least ten minutes in front of her closet, trying to figure out what to wear. Katya's eyes widened when she came out of the bathroom in a short, tight party dress later. There were curves and skin everywhere.

Frowning, Katya slid her headphones off. "Are you going somewhere?"

Natasha smiled over her shoulder, slipping her earrings in. Her eyes looked incredibly bright with the dark eyeshadow around it. Mesmerizing. "There's a welcome-back party in the Kappa Delta Psi house." 

"Aren't those for older students?"

Amusement flickered across the redhead's face. "I have a fake ID." She grabbed a pair of heels from under her bed and slipped those on too. They made her toned legs look incredible, miles long. Katya tried not to drool. "You should come."

Katya quickly shook her head, her anxiety surging at the thought of a college party. "Oh, no, thank you. Parties are not really my thing."

Natasha chuckled, a beautiful sound that sent the butterflies in Katya's stomach into a frenzy. "Alright. I'll be back late. Don't wait up." She swung her small purse over her shoulder and set out for the door. Her beautiful hair swung left and right over her exposed back, her pale skin glowing in the light of the setting sun. She looked ethereal. Katya called her name before she decided to.

"Nat?"

With her hand hovering above the doorknob, Natasha looked back. "Yes?"

Katya wanted to tell her that she looked beautiful. That her hair was amazing, that her makeup was flawless, that the dress fit her perfectly. That she was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. But the moment she opened her mouth, she chickened out. "Have fun."

A bright smile curled on her dark red lips. "Thanks."