#he just keeps letting things happen to him

[trashytracktales]

Miami heat | OP⁸¹

🟤 summary ──── Winning the Miami Grand Prix was the second-best thing that happened to Oscar. The first? Saying yes to Logan’s invitation to celebrate.

🟤 pairing ──── Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

🟤 rating ──── explicit

🟤 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, drinking, smut, swearing, public setting, thigh riding, unprotected sex, manhandling, hair pulling, light dominance, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, mirror play, possessiveness and marking, Logan cameo.

🟤 word count ──── 5.6k

🟤 date ──── May 21, 2025

🟤 a/n ──── Hi lovelies! Since it was my birthday today (surprise 🥳🥳) I HAD to treat myself with this one. If you know me, you know I am absolutely obsessed with Oscar’s thighs [exhibit ONE, TWO, THREE...]. I fear it’s not just a phase, mom, this is who I am. I’ll go back to your requests now & we’ll read each other soon ♥︎

���JUST A COUPLE of drinks,” said Logan and, apparently, that’s all it took for Oscar to postpone a date with his hotel bed.

It would’ve been quite lame, he thought, to go to sleep after winning a Grand Prix on American soil.

With that in mind, half an hour after he finished all his duties at the track, the aussie sat nestled into a booth, shoulders relaxed and fingers curled around a chilled glass of something sweet and citrusy.

Logan had gathered a group of friends, already half-tipsy by the time Oscar arrived. As usual, he was quieter than the rest, laughing when he should, content to let the buzz of conversation pass over him.

Until she caught his eye.

He watched her slipping into the booth, sitting next to Logan with such an ease that made it feel like the night had been waiting for her to actually start. His first impression was that she is stunning, and not just physically speaking, though that alone made Oscar forget how to sit properly. There was more to it, something about her presence that made everything else fade. Because from the moment she turned her eyes on him and smiled, everybody else simply blurred into the background.

And now, Oscar can’t stop looking at her.

Not even when someone at the table congratulates him on tonight’s win.

Not even when Logan throws an arm around his shoulders and asks for more drinks.

There’s an undeniable glow to her that has him in complete trance, some effortless kind of beauty wrapped in softness and pure femininity. It hits him all at once, starting with the irrational need to know her, and the urge to keep her attention, to make sure he’s the one she remembers when they’ll part at the end of the night.

When the next round of drinks lands, she slips in beside Oscar to congratulate him in a whisper, which draws his attention to her full lips. But that doesn’t last long. The heat of her thigh presses now flush against his, bare skin to bare skin, and that almost terminates him. The girl doesn’t wait for him to thank her, instead, her palm brushes over his arm, a small touch that lasts no more than a second.

For that one second, Oscar’s lounging casually with his drink in hand, but the next, he’s shifting in his seat like the air’s gone too hot around him. He downs the rest of his drink in order to cool himself from the inside out, then tugs nervously at the hem of his shorts, while trying to adjust himself discreetly under the table. Still, she notices, and it makes her lips twitch, like she’s hiding a secret only they know about.

What is certain is that his pulse blooms in his chest, and without thinking, Oscar drapes his arm over the back of the booth, claiming the space behind her. It makes his heart race, even though he knows how silly it is to get protective over someone he just met.

His fingers lightly brush her shoulder, and though he’s still, in theory, paying attention to the others, the gesture catches her attention, and she understands what it means in no time: mine, for now.

In this new position, they’re close enough to feel each other’s scent, and her perfume coils into his senses. A sweet smell that reminds him of Fantales, some caramel candies Oscar used to sneak from the kitchen cupboard as a kid. The memory makes him smile, taken aback by the unexpected trip to the past.

Her fingers skim the base of her glass.

His leg starts bouncing slightly.

Her laugh curls warm around his ribs when someone makes a joke.

And when his knee bumps hers under the table, they both go still.

Oscar looks at her, happy to find out that she’s already looking at him. Their eyes lock, and everything else falls away.

Until Logan decides to get up like a whirlwind of noise and glittering eyes, drunk enough to grab Oscar by the wrist and her by the hand, dragging both of them after him.

“Come on,” he slurs, “Let’s shake our asses.”

They follow him, laughing, weaving through the crowd, with the bass vibrating beneath their feet and neon lights spinning lazy halos above their heads. The music is loud, atmosphere inviting, making it impossible not to move.

Somewhere between the second and the third song, Logan disappears from their sight into the mass of bodies, and they’re left behind in the middle of the dance floor. They don’t even notice until they start to dance side by side. Separate at first. Just enough space to feel like they aren’t doing anything dangerous.

But the crowd pushes closer, the bass gets heavier, and with each second, the gap between them evaporates. With that, eyes find each other in the dark and smiles linger a second longer than they should.

At this point, it’s only natural to let it happen.

They collide, soft but inevitable, and Oscar’s hands go to her waist like it’s instinct. His grip is firm, and it pulls a gasp from her lips before she can catch it.

The girl doesn’t pull away. She likes the way she fits there, right against him, as if it’s something her body already knew. Her hands drift without conscious thought, her palms pressing flat against his abdomen, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. Then higher, across his chest, up to his shoulders, and finally down his arms.

Oscar’s biceps flex under her touch, strong and taut, and his grip on her tightens in response.

Before they realize, she’s wrapped around him entirely, her body molded to his, moving with him to the music. Her scent is dizzying, driving Oscar straight out of his mind. As if he’s controlled by some external force, he ducks his head without thinking, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like he needs it to survive.

She shudders, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against her skin. It drives her mad that she can’t hear him properly because of the music, but she feels the low vibration, and something inside her snaps.

Or maybe it finally clicks.

Oscar’s hands slide lower, down her sides, around her hips, then firmly palm her ass, pulling her with him in his inviting, heated personal space. The sudden pressure draws another moan from her, right into his ear, and her reaction lights him up from the inside out. It also encourages Oscar to keep his hands on her, shamelessly, their faces so close they’re basically breathing each other in. Her lips are slightly parted and her eyes flick to his mouth, lingering for just a fraction, then dart back up.

She wants to kiss him.

He looks like he wants it, too.

But slowly, the girl ends up shaking her head. It’s not a no per se. It’s rather a we shouldn’t.

Luckily, Oscar couldn’t care less. His eyes are already begging, full of lust and that want she saw in him earlier. He’s not pushing, but he’s insistent, asking a stupid question without words: why not?

As expected, she doesn’t have an answer, yet she’s looking at his lips again like they’re already hers. She could die in order to find out how he kisses. Where his hands go when he’s not holding back. What kind of sounds he makes when he’s diving all in. How long it lasts. How deep. How wet.

It doesn’t take her long to glance around the club, just enough to think. Then, without a word, she laces her fingers through his and tugs him behind her as if she’s on a mission.

Oscar follows like he’s still in a trance, heart pounding in his ears with every step he takes behind her.

The bathrooms are hidden near the back, sleek and modern, far quieter than the rest of the place. The lighting here is cooler, silvery, and the stalls are private, each one with a full mirror and its own sink, separated by thick doors and expensive privacy.

She pulls him into the last one, the lock clicks and, in a blink of an eye, he’s on her.

Oscar presses her back against the door with a firm heat, hands braced on either side of her face as his mouth crashes onto hers. The kiss is hungry, open-mouthed and curious, all tongue and breath and need. She tastes like everything he imagined she would: sweet and impossibly addictive.

Her hands are already under his shirt, palms exploring the planes of his stomach, the rise of muscle, and everything she can reach, really.

His knee wedges between her legs for support, and she arches into him with a quiet whimper, mouth breaking from his for long enough to breathe it out. At that, Oscar groans low in his throat, a delicious sound that will haunt her dreams from now on. His hands slide down to her waist, holding her in place while he’s studying her face, searching for any trace of hesitation. There’s none.

Because he’s a tall man, she’s forced onto her tiptoes just to stay with him at the same level as they kiss, but the strain catches up quickly, and when she finally lowers herself, her hips settle onto the firm pressure of his thigh.

Oscar freezes for a beat, then leans in close, “You smell so good,” he says dumbly, just as his body presses more into hers in order to make her whimper again, only for him.

As if he’s done this so many times before, his fingers trail down her side, tracing the curve of her waist with so much intent that makes her shiver. When his hands dip lower, ghosting over the hem of her skirt, she catches his arms lightly, but doesn’t stop him.

Oscar pauses, eyes flicking up to meet hers, asking a silent question and thinking already that this became quickly their way of communicating. Her response is equally quiet, but clear: she shifts nervously, spreading her legs just enough for him to access her with ease.

The girl braces herself against the door, knuckles white as she fists the front of his shirt, breath stuttering out of her lungs. And it doesn’t last long. Not when she’s perched on his thigh, the thin fabric of her underwear barely a barrier between them.

She closes her eyes as she moves slightly, testing the limits of what she can do in a position that doesn’t help her height. And without a doubt, the press of muscle beneath her is firm, and the sensation ripples through her, forcing her to continue her seductive dance, without assistance.

“Oscar,” her voice is just a whispered plea.

He gets the memo, his hand traveling instinctively from her waist, brushing down to her hip. His fingers hook into the waistband of her panties and tug them gently down her thighs, making her gasp in anticipation. The cool air against her skin gives her chills and, suddenly, Oscar is all heat.

“You’re okay?” he asks curiously, breathing against her temple.

She nods, pressing in closer. “Yes. Just…” her voice trails off, brain shutting down as her bare skin drags against his thigh, core aching, her fingers curling into his shirt.

She barely manages a desperate roll of her hips, when her hesitation makes Oscar chuckle gently.

“Are you okay?” he repeats the question more demanding.

She nods against his neck this time, but she doesn’t say anything. Her hips twitch in response, like her body wants it more than she’s willing to admit out loud.

“What is it?” Oscar insists, lips curving into a smirk; he knows what it is, just wants to hear her speaking her mind.

She bites her lip, both embarrassed and frustrated, still grinding against him as if she has no willpower to stop. Shaking her head in disbelief at how her own body betrays her, she whispers, “I don’t know.”

“Then show me,” he says softly, his accent dripping like honey from her ears. “Let me help. We can stop if it doesn’t feel right.”

The girl hesitates only for half a second before moving again, the friction sending a rush of heat up her spine. It’s ridiculous how easily her body responds, how quickly she’s sweating, flushed, soaked, and yet it doesn’t matter. Not when his hands are steady on her hips, not when he’s humming in unison with her sharp breathing, shutting down every rational thought in her head.

“That’s it,” Oscar encourages her, “Use me. Take what you need.”

She lets out a soft whimper, eyes closing as the words melt straight into her stomach.

“You’re doing so well,” he adds, continuing to guide her. “Feels food, doesn’t it?”

“So…” she tries to reply, but she has to swallow the moan that threatens to spill out, her whole body trembling with how turned on she is.

The thickness of Oscar’s thigh fits perfectly between her legs, parting her folds with every slow grind, the pressure against her clit maddeningly good and so, so right, like he was made for her to ride it. Every movement lights up the atoms in her body one by one, and it takes everything in her not to fall apart from how deliciously he fills the space between her thighs.

All this time, Oscar watches her face closely, feeding off her expressions. He flexes his thigh beneath her, just to see her reaction, and when she gasps, he starts moving, lifting and shifting to meet her grind.

Soon enough, he can feel the subtle, desperate throb of her clit through the damp heat between them, and his voice drops low. “Ride it harder, sweetheart,” he says, fingers digging into her hips. “Don’t shy away.”

Her senses explode all at once, like someone struck a match inside her. The fabric of his shorts rides up with her, the heat of his skin burning on hers. Her nerves are buzzing, overwhelmed by the drag of her slick folds against the muscle of his thigh. The speed at which she loses herself is embarrassing, her rhythm faltering already, breath catching in her throat; she would be mortified if it didn’t feel this goddamn good.

She can’t protest much, though. Oscar’s thigh itself is a sin: thick and solid beneath her, strong from years of training, and just soft enough in the right places. It might be the euphoria talking, but she wishes that she could use him like this whenever she wants, ride his body until she forgets her own name. And the way he flexes beneath her, patient and ready to take the lead if necesarry, makes it all too easy to imagine just that.

His jaw flexes the moment he feels her losing it. Her slick heat leaves a trail on his thigh with every slow grind, and the sensation shoots straight to his gut. His mind races, wild with thoughts of what it would feel like to sink his fingers into her, to taste her desperation on his tongue, to bury himself deep in that warmth she’s giving so freely now. He squeezes her harder without realizing, fingers digging in, lifting her just slightly off the ground as he rocks her against him.

“See how perfect you are?” he asks, feeling the way her hips stutter. “Come on, baby, soak me. Show me what I do to you.”

“Osc…ar,” she pants, clinging to him, hands fisting into the back of his shirt, face buried in the crook of his neck. His scent envelops her, clean and dizzying, and her breath comes fast and wet against his skin.

The friction, the rhythm, the pressure, it’s all too much.

Oscar watches her, mesmerized. “Right here, beautiful,” he assures her softly, but the tension in his voice betrays how affected he is only from seeing her so lost in pleasure.

“I’m…”

Oscar’s hand goes up her thigh, his thumb finding the sensitive spot at the apex with practiced ease. She jolts when he touches her there, the motion instinctive. He knows exactly what he’s doing, the rhythm steady and precise, and it sends a rush of heat spiraling through her spine. She sees stars behind her eyes, every nerve ending sparking as more pleasure builds too fast for her mind to catch up.

“There you go,” he breathes against her ear. “I feel you.”

He does. The way her hips start to tremble, the small stuttering jerks of movement that speak louder than words. She’s a mess, pulsing under his fingertips, and the way she grips with every wave of pleasure makes him nearly lose it, too. His fingers hover just shy of slipping inside her pussy, and the thought alone, that all it would take is one tiny push to fill her, to ease that aching need, drives him insane.

“Fuck, you’re so desperate,” he points out in awe. “You need more, don’t you?”

She whimpers in response, hips faltering, and he feels her heat start to coat him, warm, all over his thigh. His jaw goes slack for a second, mind spiraling with the image of what it would feel like to actually slide his fingers into her, his tongue, his cock — anything, everything — just to feel that perfect pull around him the exact moment when she comes.

Her hips stutter again, bringing him back to the present moment, and Oscar swears under his breath as he feels the shiver roll through her body. All around him, her body tenses, clings, and the only thing she can do is hold on, lost in the mess of a sensation so superficial, and the sound of his voice, his scent, him. Just him.

“I’ve never…,” she begins, trying her best to catch her breath. “Never did that before,” she ends up saying, a small laugh escaping her lips.

She surges up to kiss him as a thank you, messy and breathless, her lips trembling as the aftershocks roll through her. His hands fly everywhere, until she finally slows, head resting against his chest.

When she looks up again, Oscar is watching her with the same fire in his eyes. Holding his piercing gaze, her hand darts down to the waistband of his shorts, intent yet impulsive.

But he catches her wrist, stopping her.

“You don’t have to,” he says, voice low but conflicted.

She smirks. “Why not? You look like a guy with good reflexes,” the girl purrs, leaning in.

Oscar’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I am,” he agrees, smiling politely. “But you don’t have to,” he repeats, thumb brushing over her soft skin.

“No, I know,” she insists. “I mean, it’s fine. Unless you talked to Logan—”

In one smooth motion, Oscar spins her around and bends her over the marble sink, the cool surface biting into her skin. She whimpers at the sudden position change, lifting her gaze to the mirror, only to catch the reflection of them both: her flushed and excited, him looming behind her, all heat and tension.

Oscar’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, unreadable for a moment, but his voice is calm. “Did anything ever happen? With you and Logan, I mean.”

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice.

Oscar watches everything from the way her lashes flutter to how her body reacts to his question. Pleased with her answer, his palm skims slowly down the curve of her back, then to her hips, where his touch grows firmer.

“Good,” he nods, his knee pressing between hers, nudging her legs apart.

Moments later, her hands grip the edge of the sink, her skirt hiked up. She arches her back slightly, giving him a clear invitation with the way she rolls her hips, a playful gleam in her eyes. Behind her, Oscar moves like a man possessed, pushing down his shorts, enough to pull himself out. Calculated, he fits himself against her, one hand braced on her lower back, the other guiding himself. And when he’s inside, they both breathe out in relief: her at the fullness, him at the slick heat that welcomes him like she was meant for this.

She starts meeting him thrust for thrust once he begins to move, her moans echoing against the cold tile, the mirror fogging up as the air thickens with heat and desire.

“Good, you have his permission to fuck me,” she breathes heavily, “Or good, you’ll fuck me without even telling him?”

Oscar chuckles, pace deepening. “Good, I only need your permission,” he clarifies. “And I’m pretty sure I got it the second you dragged me in here.”

At that, her head dips forward, between her shoulders, overwhelmed by the stretch, the sound of their bodies moving together, and the raw heat that surrounds them. But Oscar isn’t letting her disappear into sensation. Not this fast.

His fingers wind gently through her hair, a firm but tender hold as he pulls her head up. “Up,” he orders in a gentle voice. “Let me see you, yeah?”

Their eyes meet again in the mirror as she tries to nod, but she can’t, thanks to his strong grip.

“Yes,” she says instead, without looking away.

She can see the flex of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches with restraint, the way his eyes lock on hers like he has something to prove to her.

With that thought in mind, Oscar lets go of her hair only to grip her hips with renewed purpose, fingers digging in with hunger. She feels his desire and need for control in every part of her body, and she likes it. It makes her push back into him, begging for more, meeting him with equal intensity.

Oscar’s chest rises with every breath, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he moves inside her. He looks like he is restraint personified, where every ounce of him is burning, yet held just barely in check for her.

It becomes messier in no time, the rhythm unraveling as control gives way to need. He spreads her wider with a low groan, and the sound alone sends another pulse of fire through her. But instead of protesting, she moans his name again, her body pushing against the pressure. Again and again.

“Fuck, Oscar,” she whimpers, closing her eyes just to focus on the way he fucks into her from behind. “That’s so good, please. Please, don’t stop.”

Exhaling in spasms, Oscar is able to find that spot inside her again — the one that makes everything tilt sideways. The one that breaks her piece by piece, and puts it together the same exact way. He’s not just ruthless in his movements. He’s precise, and every snap of his hips is a calculated promise.

“Yes,” she keeps echoing, her voice going higher, only to crack at the intensity.

“Keep going, you sound unreal,” he leans in, brushing his lips to the shell of her ear.

She pushes back into him, needing much more. “Harder,” she breathes.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, the word punched out of him like her command knocked the air from his lungs. “Since you asked so fucking nicely,” he adds sarcastically, but he gives it to her almost instinctively.

After that, Oscar’s movements grow more unrelenting, until every thrust seems to echo with the tension built up all night. His hands smooth up her back, then down again, gripping her like he’s terrified she’ll break under his force.

“You feel…” he groans, watching the way he sinks into her, “Ah, heavenly,” Oscar continues. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

She gasps, and he presses in deeper, then slows while dragging his cock out, letting her feel every inch of him before snapping his hips forward again.

“Oscar—” she chokes out.

“Yeah, baby. Tell me,” he whispers, “Tell me what you need.”

Truth is, she doesn’t even know anymore. She just knows it’s him. All of him. Everywhere. All the time.

She looks at him through the mirror, eyes glassy, lips trembling, and thinks she’s never seen anything as heartbreakingly hot as Oscar in this exact moment.

His hands trail up her spine again as if it’s already muscle memory, wanting to feel the way she shivers underneath him. Then he brings them beneath her shirt, palms gliding along her stomach before cupping her breasts through the lace of her bra, his thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks that make her gasp and arch into his touch with her entire body.

The slip takes both of them by surprise, his cock sliding free of her slick heat, making them groan in disagreement at the sudden emptiness.

“Hold on,” Oscar instructs, already grabbing her.

She barely has time to blink before he’s spun her around, back hitting the cool tile wall, his hands under her thighs. He lifted her so effortlessly, and now her legs lock around his waist just as he thrusts back into her. The new angle’s different, way deeper, and her head falls back with a loud moan.

“God, Oscar,” she gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders, then burying into the hair at the back of his head. “I feel you in my fucking throat.”

He lets a small laugh against her neck, lips brushing her jaw as he speaks, “‘Cause you’re so fucking tight,” he fires back proudly. “Can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you like this.”

In her defense, she can’t either. Can’t even come up with a lie, let alone a good excuse. But her body does it for her anyway: convulsing in pleasure, fluttering around his thickness as her climax crashes over her. She clutches at him, lips parted in a silent cry, lost to everything but the sound of his voice praising her, and the way he fills her completely. Her entire body is clenching as the orgasm rips through her, hot and blinding, hips rolling without rhythm, unable to stop herself from grinding into every inch of him as she comes.

Oscar is so close, and he has to still deep inside her, a strained moan escaping his throat as he feels her grip his length repeatedly. She’s swollen, sensitive in all the right places, and he swears he can feel her pulse around him, velvet heat dragging him to the edge.

“You feel so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “This is fucking torture.”

She feels him throb against her walls, hard, the tension in his body barely restrained. And just as her legs begin to tremble and the aftershocks ripple through her, Oscar pulls out in a desperate motion. He doesn’t trust himself to stay inside longer than that. Not when she feels that good. Not when she just coated him in the pleasure that he gave her and made it nearly impossible to think.

Dizzy, the girl slides down his body to her feet, barely steady, but her hand finds him easily. He’s hot, slick, straining. Without even thinking, she wraps her fingers around his cock, firm but tender, her thumb pressing to his tip and circling through the wetness gathered there.

His breath shudders out of him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears, forehead dropping on hers, hips twitching against her palm.

Somehow, she’s stroking him with just the right pressure, enough to make Oscar whimper as if he’s in pain.

Their mouths find their way back to each other, parted but not kissing, breath blending in that hazy space they’ve built. He thrusts into her palm, muscles pulled taut, chasing the edge she’s holding him on with such frustrating, perfect control.

In no time, his body goes rigid and then Oscar exhales a delicious sound that’s barely audible, but full of release, white heat spilling over her fingers and dripping down her hand. His own moves to gently push hers away, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she kisses him, her lips finally catching his with a lazy kind of gesture.

“Let me,” she whispers, brushing her thumb along his skin. “That’s so hot.”

“You’re hot,” Oscar shoots back, as if it’s just a silly game for kids.

Looking for some support, he leans in, bracing one palm against the wall beside her head, while his other hand slides down her stomach with purpose. She’s taken aback when his fingers find her hole again, still aching, still swollen with need.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers sink into her, curling in just the right way that makes her eyes roll back and her knees nearly buckle.

“I like odd numbers,” he explains, breathing hoarsely into her skin. “Come on, one more.”

“Oh, shi—” she whimpers, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

She cries out, the sensitivity making her jolt, but she doesn’t pull away — wouldn’t ever dream of it. Not when Oscar holds her steady with one arm around her waist, the other working between her thighs, patient but purposeful. She buries her face in his neck, breathing fast, tasting salt and skin and something that feels dangerously close to a tenderness she won’t be introduced to.

Not tonight, at least.

In the mirror across from them, she catches a glimpse of their reflection, and she likes what she sees, maybe too much: the broad muscles of his back shifting beneath his shirt, arms braced to keep her upright, his body completely encompassing hers. The sight of it and how small she looks in his hold, how thoroughly he’s taken over every inch of her, sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through her.

His shirt is damp against his chest, biceps flexing with every motion of his hand. He’s methodical, and the control in Oscar is intoxicating, all steady strength and relentless focus on her.

“Is there something you can’t do?” she jokes.

His eyes close for a moment, playful yet annoyed, in a way. “Yeah,” he replies. “I can’t take you home and fuck you properly.”

Her back arches against the wall, mouth open in a silent cry as she comes for the third time. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, thighs trembling, heart pounding. And he holds her there, breathing calmly while he helps her riding it out.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple.

When her breathing steadies too, he gently withdraws his fingers, keeping his arm wrapped around her waist. She’s still reeling when he brushes a strand of hair off her face, and then lowers to a crouch.

Without breaking eye contact, Oscar picks up her panties from the floor, the damp lace curled in his palm. Initially, she reaches for them, but he pulls back at the last moment, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Oscar,” she warns.

He smirks and tucks them into his pocket, pulling his shorts up from where they were hanging around his thighs. “Mine.”

She frowns. “Not fair. I have nothing to keep from you.”

“Nonsense,” he leans in, presses his lips just below her jaw, and sucks gently, until her skin blooms under his mouth. “That count?”

She sighes, eyes bright. “Maybe a—”

But before she can finish, a toilet flushes in a nearby stall, and the sound freezes them both. Their eyes meet instantly, making them laugh at the timing, the kind of laughter that shakes their shoulders.

Closing his eyes, Oscar lets his head fall against hers, grinning like a fool. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Thank you for… this.”

“Team effort,” she says, placing a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, sweet like a promise. “When do you leave?”

Oscar lifts a brow. “Why? Miss me already?”

The girl rolls her eyes with a small snort. “Just curious.”

He looks in her direction suspiciously as they try to fix their clothes in silence, still buzzing with the weight of everything that just happened inside the small space. Her fingers tremble slightly as she smooths her skirt, and Oscar’s watching her in the mirror, eyes soft but studying.

Maybe she does. Maybe it’s stupid, but the thought of waking up tomorrow and not having this gnaws at her more than she wants to admit. Because suddenly, the night feels like it’s slipping away too fast, and she doesn’t know how to ask for more without sounding like she’s asking for too much.

Oscar can feel the switch in her behavior, and before she can reach for the door handle, he steps closer, stopping her.

“Hey,” he says in a gentle voice, almost like he’s trying not to scare the thought from her mind.

She looks up, and before she can say anything, he kisses her. Soft and lazy and sweet and with no rush. Nothing like before. His lips move slowly over hers, and he exhales into her mouth like he’s been holding his breath. His tongue brushes hers with such delicate care that makes her knees weak all over again.

When they finally part, she’s breathless in a whole new way.

“If, God forbid, you do end up missing me,” he teases lightly, but he sounds so honest, “I’d like to see you again.” He hesitates, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to hers. “Not just for… you know,” he says, heat creeping up his neck. “I mean, that was woah! But, you know.”

She smiles, nodding. “Yeah, I know. I’d like that, too,” she agrees. “Now let’s go back. Logan probably thinks we’re fucking in here.”

Oscar looks at her, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Probably?” he repeats.

“Well,” she shrugs, eyes flicking up to meet his, “He’s a smart cookie, and Miami heat does tend to enhance the senses.”

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[humanjarvis]

it’s 12:06 when the jingle of keys tells you he’s home. 

rubbing sleep from your eyes, you straighten your nightclothes and switch on the floor lamp, lighting his path through the midnight shadows. 

zayne enters the room just as you settle on the edge of the bed. his usual greeting, tired but warm, never comes. 

he needs prompts, sometimes. conversation starters. so you give him one. “long day?” 

no response. 

“did something happen?” you try again. “i missed you today.”

still, he doesn’t answer. but he does turn around. 

and zayne stands before you, looking at you—at your lap—with skittish uncertainty. 

“i’m sorry for waking you,” he rasps quietly, eyes flitting from your face to your lap before settling on the floor. 

“i’m glad you did. i said i missed you,” you reply, letting a fond smile grace your lips. 

you don’t repeat the question—you don’t need to. 

because when your eyes meet again and you beckon him forward, zayne sinks to his knees before you and, with a shuddering sigh, lays his head across your lap. 

fighting your instincts, you resist the urge to coo at him. he’s fragile, right now. vulnerable. and if your care comes off as condescension, he’ll deem those things unsafe. 

wordlessly, you pull him to your chest, running a careful hand through his thick onyx hair. and with the way he stays, it’s clear that silence was the right move.

moments pass, but zayne doesn’t calm; his breaths quicken, his body trembles. and when a low whimper leaves him, he abruptly retreats from your warmth, blinking profusely to no avail.

catching his reddened face in gentle hands, you stare into his teary eyes, swimming in sparkling pools of hazel. when your thumbs brush his cheeks, as tender as the smile on your face, those pools overflow.

as the first tears fall, you return him to your chest, stroking his hair between soft kisses. he’s quiet like this—how else would he be?—but his faint, muffled sobs pierce your heart like the loudest wail.

you don’t keep track of how long you hold him. for as long as he needs, you just do, letting the drops seep through your shirt and into your skin. 

but as his tears dry and breaths even, zayne still won’t relax. he grows more tense, more rigid, and you can feel the heat of his apprehension—feel his unease over breaking down on you like this. 

so you talk to him. tell him about your day, your mood, your plans for tomorrow—rerouting his mind until his shoulders slump from fatigue. 

he’ll tell you when he’s ready. and until then, you’ll wait. 

lulled by the comfort of your voice, zayne nuzzles further into your chest, where the soft vibrations mix with the steady pulse of your heartbeat. 

before long, sleep consumes him. it’s dreamless.

[mari-positas]

a safe haven | one

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist

chapter summary: After the events in Salt Lake City, Joel and Ellie are back in Jackson, Wyoming to start a brand new life in the safe haven; Ellie has a difficult time fitting in, but she finds a friend in you; Joel meets you for the first time and a foreign feeling instantly takes root.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. AGE GAP (reader is 29 and Joel is 57). minimal physical description of reader, she is shorter than Joel and has longer hair (exact length/type is not specified). reader is married, reader’s husband is mentioned and makes an appearance at the end of the chapter. lightly implied domestic violence. mentions of character death (reader’s father, unspecified illness). tlou2 timeline deviations (maria has only just found out she’s pregnant).

word count: 6.1k

a/n: well, here she is! apologies for the delay. life happened. :( i had this huge nervous ramble-y note planned out, but instead i just want to thank anyone who has shown me kindness for this series. this is for you. <3

His dark eyes linger on you from across the mess hall.

He doesn’t mean to stare.

Though, truthfully, Joel Miller doesn’t even realize he’s staring in the first place.

It’s half past twelve o’ clock in the afternoon, Jackson’s designated lunch hour, and the steadily growing town’s cafeteria is nearly too overcrowded, buzzing loudly with obnoxious, overlapping chatter. He pays no mind to the commotion around him—bitching patrolmen, gossiping women, children running around as if the mess hall was their playground and it’s time for recess. He tunes it all out, much too focused on the prettiest damn thing he’d seen since the world ended two decades ago.

You’re sitting at a small, round table made for two that is tucked away over in the furthest corner of the packed eatery—as far away from the chaos as one can possibly be during midday mealtime.

Craning his neck slightly, Joel squints to get a better look and notices your only company for lunch is a large open book beside your plastic tray that takes up most of the table’s surface. In between bites of Cornish hen and roasted vegetables, you thumb through the book’s pages, occasionally pausing every here and there to scribble something in the notebook on your lap with a pencil.

It’s not the first time Joel’s seen you around. In fact, he still remembers the moment when he’d first laid eyes on you several months ago that cold, winter morning.

He’d been fresh on the heels of a devastating fight with Ellie. She’d confronted him about his plans to hand her off to Tommy—a choice Joel believed to be selfless, the right thing to do, had been mistaken as a selfish act of abandonment, leading to harsh words exchanged and a door slammed in the heartbroken girl’s face. Little had she known that it’d been just as painful for him to walk away from her.

His choice hurt him too, but he couldn’t keep on failing her.

Older, slower, his hearing no longer what it used to be, he feared he would only end up getting Ellie killed if she continued on with him. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen. He would not cradle another child’s dead body in his arms, not again. Not her.

Following a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning, Joel pulled himself out of bed the next morning, quietly slipping past Ellie’s bedroom door and out of the house with his pack in one hand and a map in the other. He’d quickly made his way across town towards the stables, hoping he could escape Jackson without notice from his brother—and more importantly, without notice from Ellie.

It’s not like he wanted to leave without saying goodbye to her, but Joel couldn’t be certain he could find the strength to stand firm on his decision if he saw her face again.

So there he had been, in one of the stalls at the stables saddling up a mare he planned to take off on when you walked by, the loud crunch of your heavy winter boots on the frosted concrete startling him.

“Good morning,” you’d greeted politely, flashing him a friendly smile over the top of the thick, knitted red scarf around your neck.

Silent, Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line, no trace of emotion on his hard, stony face.

“Getting ready to head out on early morning patrol?”

“Yeah,” he’d replied curtly.

Another smile. “Be safe out there.”

He’d almost forgotten about you since then.

Almost.

The next time Joel had seen you was on his second day back in Jackson. While Ellie settled herself at home, he took a trip to the market over on the main street to pick up vegetables for their dinner—it would be the first real, proper meal he cooked in twenty-one years. No more stale jerky, no more old, barely-edible Chef Boyardee.

“Regular potatoes or sweet potatoes?” he’d muttered to himself, hands on his hips as he stood in front of the bins, looking over his options for produce.

“Sweet potatoes aren’t in season yet.”

Eyes widening, Joel looked up only to see you standing one aisle over in front of a cardboard box full of carrots, a woven shopping basket hanging over your arm. Much like that winter morning in the stables, you offered him a friendly smile he didn’t return.

Surely by now you must think he’s an asshole.

He wouldn’t blame you if that’s the case.

“Hellooo?” Tommy waves a hand in front of Joel’s face looking thoroughly amused. “Anyone home?”

“Sorry, you say somethin’?”

“Maybe we should find you a damn camera,” he teases, chuckling when once he finally garners his attention. “Y’know, so you can take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Joel scowls at him, though he says nothing.

He can’t very well deny that he’d been caught gawking.

“Shut up, Tommy,” is all he can come up with before taking a large bite of seasoned carrots. Heat floods his face when he catches the mischievous glimmer in his younger brother’s eyes.

“Hey, I don’t really blame you.” Tommy reaches over for his glass of iced tea and picks it up, gulping half of it down in one swallow. Smacking his lips together, he casually shrugs a shoulder, shooting Joel a knowing smirk over the top the glass as he comments, “She’s certainly a sight for sore eyes, ain’t she, big brother?”

“Watch yourself. Don’t think Maria would appreciate you sayin’ that kinda thing about another woman,” Joel warns, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Much less now that she’s expectin’ your kid. Have a little more respect for your wife, asshole.”

Tommy shrugs again. “Ain’t no harm in just lookin’,” he remarks, although there’s a joking edge to his tone. He sets his glass back down on the table and leans back in his chair, glancing over at you. He lets out a long, low whistle, another smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Oh trust me, I get it, Joel—hell, every man ‘round here gets it, fuckin’ single or not. She’s gorgeous. And a real sweetheart, too. But don’t go gettin’ any ideas about her.”

He asks without thinking. “Why not?”

Tommy’s brows raise to his hairline in surprise. “Well for starters, that girl’s damn near half your age, you old fucker. Jesus, what is wrong with you?” Rolling his eyes, he adds, “And besides that, she’s already spoken for.”

“Oh,” Joel clears his throat awkwardly and sits back in his chair. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

“Husband,” Tommy corrects him. “She’s married, Joel. And here’s the real fuckin’ kicker. She’s married to the town’s doctor.”

“Luke?”

“You’ve met him?”

“Heard of him,” Joel clarifies. “Maria keeps on insistin’ I get checked out by him. Ellie too, but—” He glances at his own forearm. “Don’t think that it’d be wise.”

Stiffening in his chair, Tommy’s lips purse together. His one rule?

Ellie’s immunity was not to be mentioned.

Ever.

Joel clears his throat again, shifting gears and steering the conversation back into less sensitive territory. “He legit?” he questions before shoving another forkful of carrots into his mouth. “Luke?”

The younger man’s shoulders relax slightly. “Yeah, he’s legit. Well, as legit as he can be—he was still in medical school when the outbreak happened,” he explains. “Bit on the younger side, but he knows his stuff, Joel. Looks after everyone in town. Delivers the babies, stitches up wounds. Hell, I broke my arm in a ridin’ accident a year ago and he set the bone right back into place. Had me as good as new within a few weeks. It’s a miracle we’ve got someone like him ‘round here, y’know?”

“Mm,” he hums in response, twiddling his fork between his thumb and index finger.

Of course you’re a married woman.

And to a fucking hero doctor nonetheless.

Underneath the table, Tommy lightly kicks his shin with the steel toe of his boot. “Y’know Joel, there are plenty of other single women in the community. If you want, I could introduce you around. In fact, Maria has a friend named Esther, she’s a real cute blonde. I could set you two up if you’re interested—”

“I’m not,” Joel interjects with a tight shake of his head. “I just got got here, Tommy. Besides, I’ve got Ellie that I need to look after. She’s my priority right now—my only priority,” he emphasizes firmly. “Not meetin’ women.”

Knowing better than to push him on it, Tommy changes the subject. “Uh, speakin’ of Ellie, how’s she been doin’ by the way? I haven’t really seen much of her since you two got back. She alright?”

Joel hesitates, averting Tommy’s gaze.

It’d been a couple of weeks since the events that took place in Salt Lake City. 

Since the hospital.

Since the Fireflies.

Tommy’s clueless, had been fed the same bullshit story as Ellie about raiders invading the hospital—he had no idea about what Joel had done. How he ruthlessly killed all of those people. How he shot Marlene dead at point blank range without hesitation, not an ounce of mercy despite her gasping pleas for him to let her go. How he single-handedly prevented the Fireflies from perfoming that operation on Ellie, stopping what might have been humanity’s only chance at potentially finding a cure.

The surgery would have killed her.

So, he had no other choice but to kill them.

Joel doesn’t regret it. If it came down to it, he would do it all over again.

Though he doesn’t carry guilt over having done what he’d done, he does carry the guilt of having lied to Ellie about it after it was all said and done. 

“Swear to me,” she’d said, her eyes looking up into his as they stood atop the mountain overlooking Jackson Hole. “Swear to me that everything you said about the Fireflies is true.”

“I swear.”

Ellie’s smart—too fucking smart for her own good. She might not have known the extent of it all, but she knew Joel wasn’t being entirely honest about what had gone down in Salt Lake City.

Joel’s chest heaves as he exhales a heavy sigh, finally answering the question. “Not too great,” he admits, quietly. “I’m real worried about her, Tommy. It’s been a couple weeks now since we’ve been back and she still hasn’t made one single friend around here. She doesn’t fuckin’ talk to anyone, hell, she hardly even talks to me these days.” He sighs again, tiredly scrubbing his free hand down the side of his face. “She spends most of her time hidin’ out in the stables with the horses. She would rather be around them than people.”

“Think maybe it’d be a good idea to have her see Gail?” Tommy suggests lightly.

“You’re kiddin’ me, right?” Joel snorts. “Take her to see a fuckin’ shrink?”

“Don’t knock therapy. It’s been pretty helpful for a lot of folks ‘round here, y’know. Gail’s pretty good, she could give Ellie some guidance on how to make friends. Ain’t that what you want for her?”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “And how well do you think it’ll go over when I tell her I’m puttin’ her in therapy?”

“You’d have to sleep with one eye open,” Tommy muses with a laugh. He catches the tick in the muscle of Joel’s jaw and his smile falters. “Just give her time, Joel. After everythin’ she’s been through, it ain’t exactly a surprise that she’s strugglin’ to fit in. I know Ellie means a whole lot to you, and you’re worried about her. I would be too. But it’s only been a couple weeks. Give her some more time to adjust. She’ll get there, I know she will. She’s a strong kid, brother.”

“Yeah, I know she is,” he murmurs in agreement. “Hell of a lot stronger than someone her age should have to be.”

“She’ll be fine,” Tommy reassures him with a confident nod. “She’ll find her place here. You’ll see.”

Joel sighs in defeat. “I sure hope you’re right.”

You relish the feeling of warm sunlight on your skin.

Summer’s arrived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and after a particularly long, brutal winter that swept the western state last year, you couldn’t have been more thrilled to see warmer weather well on its way. Sure, summer heat can be just as unforgiving as bitter winter cold, but at least now, you’re not walking around ankles-deep in the snow or rubbing icicles out of your nostrils.

Clutching the thick strap of your old, but sturdy leather satchel, you leave the town mess hall and hastily make your way toward the horse stables. It’s after lunch, and there’s still plenty of work to be done before the end of the day rolls around—most of it which would without a doubt trickle into the next day, as it usually does.

You hold your together fairly well, bear the brunt of your stressful job without making too much of a fuss. But on those rare occasions where you feel completely in over your head, you wonder if maybe you’d made the wrong decision taking such an enormous responsibility in your hands. Then again, the more you think about it, it’s not like you had been given much of a choice. In a way, this had been expected of you.

Prior to his passing two summers ago, your father had been the town’s equine veterinarian. He had offered to begin teaching you to care for the horses, knowing one day, eventually, someone would have to take his place. Not long after you started joining him at the stables, he became ill, and over the course of a year, your father’s health began rapidly deteriorating, his sickness one you both knew couldn’t be treated, much less cured, not in the post-outbreak world. Even as he wasted away, he’d used every ounce of strength he had left to teach you. He spent countless hours in the stables with you, until he lost most of his mobility—when he became bound to his bed in the final weeks of his life, you curled up at his side, the ache in your heart growing more painful as you watched him scribble notes in the margins of his copy of Horseman’s Veterinary Encyclopedia with a weak, trembling hand.

“My body might be failing me,” he’d rasped. “But I still have my brain.”

Your father prepared you to the best of his knowledge and ability, and while you certainly know a thing or two, it’s still so daunting. Horses are how everyone travels when in search of supplies, how patrolmen and women get around while protecting the community against the dangers that lurk outside the gates. Horses are one of the most important, most precious resources Jackson possesses—they keep everyone moving, everything going, and you’d be lying if you said that being the sole person in charge of caring for them doesn’t put a tremendous amount of pressure on your shoulders.

“You need to stop doubting yourself,” Maria would tell you. “He believed in you. Everyone believes in you. It’s about damn time you start doing the same and believe in yourself.”

You rush inside the stables, already going through your mental checklist of all the horses that still need to be looked over for the day, including the group of horses that had just arrived back from that morning’s patrol.

But first, you decide stop in and see your favorite girl.

“Hi there, Stella,” you coo sweetly, walking into a stall housing a beautiful, chestnut-brown pregnant mare. “Hi, gorgeous. How are you doing today?”

“I’d be a hell of a lot better if I could have one of those apples I know you’ve got in your bag,” a voice answers, startling you.

Peering around Stella’s body, you find Ellie laying on a small bed of hay in the furthest corner of the stall, her head resting on her backpack as she flips through her favorite superhero comic book for the hundredth time.

“Ellie,” you sigh her name softly.

She offers you a silly, lopsided grin. “Howdy.”

“What in the world are you doing in here?”

“Keeping ol’ Stella girl here company,” she shrugs. “What else does it look like I’m doing?”

“Ellie,” you say her name again. “You can’t just hide out in here with the horses every single day, you know,” you point out, dropping your satchel onto the ground. Stella lowers her head and gives it a sniff, no doubt smelling those aforementioned apples.

“Wanna bet?” The teenager quips with a smirk as she sits up, tossing her comic book to the side. Bits of hay stick out of her brown hair and to her clothes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school with the other kids? Until you’re sixteen, that’s the rule isn’t it?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “I already went to school. Back in Boston. FEDRA’s finest, man.”

You don’t know much about Ellie Williams—nor about the brooding older man that she’s here with, Joel Miller. The only thing you do know is that Joel happens to be Tommy Miller’s older brother, and he acted as Ellie’s guardian. Initially, you’d thought he was her father, and when Maria informed you he had no familial relation to the girl, you had been completely taken aback.

“I don’t believe it. They’re really not related?”

“I know, those two even walk the same. But nope, no relation.”

Their arrival in Jackson in the winter had caused a bit of commotion and had the entire town talking—but by the following morning, the pair were gone, not to be seen again for several months until their return towards the end of spring. Rumors flew once the word of their return had gone around, but in reality, no one had the slightest clue about where they had been, or why they decided to leave the safe haven in the first place.

Much like everyone else, you’re curious about Ellie, and you’re especially curious about Joel. You’ve seen him around, had a couple close encounters with him where your pleasantries had not been returned—a man of few words, he keeps to himself for the most part, seems to have no interest in getting to know the townsfolk.

Ellie’s just as reserved. She spends most of her days in the stables with the horses while she reads her comics or listens to tapes on the old Walkman she’d borrowed—stolen, rather—from Tommy. Having taken notice of the young girl hanging around your place of work, you began carving out some time in your hectic schedule to talk to her. You’d tested the waters with casual chatter about the most trivial of things, such as the weather or what had been served in the mess hall for lunch that day.

Although Ellie seemed annoyed at first, she’d quickly warmed up to you, and by the end of the week, you had yourself a little foul-mouthed shadow following you around.

You walk over to her. “Listen Ellie, as much as I really enjoy having you around me all the time, you really do need to make friends.”

She blinks. “But you’re my friend.”

“Friends your own age,” you rephrase yourself, biting back a smile. “My husband has a niece about your age. Her name is Dina. I could introduce you to each other if you’d like?”

Ellie furiously shakes her head. “No.”

“Ellie—”

“Everybody around here looks at me like I’ve got two fucking heads or something. She probably fucking will too,” she mumbles. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “Fuck that.”

Sighing softly, you squat and lower yourself to her eye level. “I know how hard it is when you don’t fit in with others,” you emphasize. “It’s tough.”

“You? Not fit in?” Ellie scoffs and rolls her eyes in reply. “I don’t believe that for one second, sweet cheeks.”

“Hey, I was fifteen once too,” you chuckle. “When I was your age, I was living in one of the quarantine zones. In Albuquerque. My mom was a nurse there, so she had the privilege of enrolling me and my little brother into their best school—a preparatory school. She hoped he and I would become officers, have a chance at a decent life. She didn’t want us working in the sewers.” There’s a, strange glimmer in Ellie’s eyes, but she says nothing.“So, as you can imagine, I went to school with a bunch of kids whose parents were officers and other higher-ups in the zone.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And it was the worst three years of my life,” you tell her. “The world may have ended, but teenagers are still fucking assholes.”

Ellie laughs loudly. “Jesus, I thought you were too prim and proper to curse!”

“I’m not all that prim and proper,” you counter, winking playfully. “Besides, I think you might be starting to rub off on me a little bit.”

You grin, but upon meeting her gaze, it falters.

Ellie certainly isn’t the only child refugee who has lived a life outside these gates. Yet, there is something about her that sets her apart from the others.

She’s different.

There’s no telling what unspeakable things this girl has survived, but one thing is for certain, the haunting look in her eyes confirms your suspicion that she has been through a horrific kind of hell.

“So,” Ellie finally says after a minute. “Is it okay if I keep coming to the stables to spend time with you and the horses?”

“Of course it’s okay.” Rising to your feet, you glance at Stella. “But on one condition. You have to help me out with the grooming. I’ve been really short-handed lately and I could use the extra help. Plus, if you aren’t going to school, then you need to pitch in around here. Do we have a deal?”

She jumps up, nodding eagerly. “Deal.”

Joel dumps his plastic tray and used dishware into the designated dirty dish bin before shoving through mess hall’s double doors. He steps outside and starts toward the horse stables to find Ellie, who had skipped lunch.

He keeps his sights set straight ahead of him, trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with anyone who so much as even throws a glimpse in his direction. People seem to be getting used to him, but they’re still wary, and he feels like something of a pariah.

He can handle it, though.

Stares, whispers, pointed fingers.

Being an outcast.

It’s his Ellie he’s worried about. Between her survivor’s guilt and her struggle to fit in, Joel feared for her well-being. He can only hope Tommy’s right, and all that she needs is time—that she’ll find will find her place here.

Joel walks into the horse stables. “Ellie?” He calls her name, peeking into each stall. “Ellie? You in here?”

“Wait, what?”

He hears her voice.

“Stella’s pregnant? I didn’t fucking know that!”

Rounding the corner into the very last stall, Joel finds Ellie standing there, her hand resting on the muzzle of a brown horse. In her opposite hand, she holds a mane brush.

She’s not alone.

You stand in front of her, one hand planted on your hip, the other resting on the animal’s back. Joel takes in the sight of you, your lower body clad in a pair of well-worn blue jeans, the legs tucked into weathered black riding boots whose soles are caked in muck. He recalls you in a long-sleeve red, flannel shirt, but it’s now tied around your waist, leaving you in a white cotton tank top—the material fits snug on your frame, and his eyes wander, settling on the patch of smooth skin peeking between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your jeans for a brief moment before trailing back up to your face.

“She sure is,” you reply to her question with a wide grin. “We just found out about a week ago and believe she’s about a few weeks along. We’ll have a sweet new baby in a year.”

Bewildered, Ellie glances at the horse. “Really? They’re pregnant for a whole year? That’s fucking insane!”

“Well, eleven months,” you clarify for her, giving Stella a gentle, but firm pat. “This is Stella’s first. I’m hoping to see her pregnancy reach its full term, but sometimes babies decide to come sooner than expected.”

Joel’s lips part slightly.

He almost can’t believe it.

Ellie hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in two weeks and yet there she is, engaging with you so effortlessly. His gaze flits over to her just in time to see her crack what had to be the first real, genuine smile he’d seen since they had fed the giraffe in Salt Lake City. Ellie is being herself, cursing up a storm and all, and you don’t seem the slightest bit bothered by it, not like the other adults whose jaws dropped in utter horror at her use of such foul language.

Joel wills himself to move and steps inside of the stall. He lightly clears his throat. “Ellie.”

Simultaneously, you and Ellie both whip around in his direction.

“Joel? What are you doing here?” Her smile falters as he approaches her.

“Lookin’ for you. It’s lunchtime. Y’need to eat, kiddo.”

She holds up the brush in her hand. “But we were just about to—”

He stops her with a stern glare. “Lunch. Now. Go.”

“Fine,” Ellie huffs and rolls her eyes at him. Picking up her backpack, she hands you the brush and stomps out of the stall, roughly shoving into Joel’s shoulder as she pushes past him without another word.

Suddenly, the stall feels much too small, and just as he opens his mouth to excuse himself and leave, you say, “You’re Tommy’s older brother, right? Joel?”

He nods. “Yeah. I am.”

Stepping away from Stella, you walk over to Joel and introduce yourself, extending a hand for him to shake. Your name is just as beautiful as you are—he repeats it, and it rolls smoothly off his tongue. He takes your hand in his own; it’s small and soft in his large and rough, a stark contrast but perfect fit.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Joel.” Your eyes find his, meeting them in a way that makes something inside of him that had been sleeping for decades stir.

Realizing he’s been holding onto your hand longer than necessary, he drops it and takes two steps back, lightly bumping his back against the stall door. “I’m—uh, I’m sorry about Ellie,” Joel apologizes to you after a minute. “I know she’s been spendin’ a lot of time in here. I hope she hasn’t been botherin’ you or gettin’ in the way of things. If she is, I can have a talk with her.”

“She hasn’t been bothering me at all,” you assure him, shaking your head. “It’s been nice having her around. I enjoy her company very much.”

“You do?”

You toss him a puzzled, but amused look. “Yes. Is that strange for me to say?”

Joel places his hands on his hips and leans back against the stall door. “Ellie’s been havin’ a little trouble,” he confesses. “Adjustin’ to her new life here. Meetin’ people and things like that. She, uh—she ain’t like all the other kids around here, y’know?”

“I know.”

His raises his eyebrows.

“I was just talking to her a little while ago. I told her I know how hard it is being a teenager and trying to fit it in with the crowd, even in a world like this one.” You let out a humorless laugh and shake your head. “It’s even harder when you’re just so different.” You seem to pick up on the way that your statement triggers something of a negative response from Joel—the way his eyes darken in a flash of anger and his nostrils flare slightly warn you he doesn’t take all too kindly to anyone talking negatively about Ellie. Her being different is something he already knows, of course, but hearing it from someone else isn’t easy for him, and it certainly isn’t welcome. You hold your hands up and reassure him, “There’s nothing wrong with being different, by the way.”

Joel sees the sincerity in your eyes that go hand in hand with your words and his defenses switch off almost as quickly as they’d switched on. “There isn’t,” he agrees with a careful nod of his head. “Nothin’ wrong with it at all.” He clears his throat. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to—it’s just that I don’t really like it when people start runnin’ their mouths ‘bout my kid, that’s all.”

Waving a hand, you assure him, “No need to apologize, Joel.”

Little by little, he starts to relax. Taut and tense muscles that have been wound up for years and years are suddenly beginning to loosen, and all it is taking is being in your presence for him to understand why Ellie’s taken such a quick liking to you. 

You’re bright, and radiate such warmth—a different kind of warmth Joel hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

He glances around the stall. “So, uh—what’s the deal? You one of the stable hands around here or somethin’ like that?”

“Something like that,” you repeat after him, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of your mouth at the way he speaks with a heavy, but still incredibly charming Southern drawl. “I’m the equine veterinarian here in Jackson.”

He chuckles. “Veterinarian? Y’mean, those still exist?”

“Sort of. My father used to be the veterinarian here,” you explain to him. “That was what he did for a living before the outbreak happened. When we got here a few years ago from one of the quarantine zones, he told Maria what he had done for a living before this and he was asked to care for the horses in exchange for our place here.”

“And you?” Joel can’t help but wonder out loud. You seem quite young, can’t be older than your late twenties or early thirties at most, which would still have made you a child when the outbreak happened. “No offense darlin’, but you seem a little bit too young to have gone to vet school before shit hit the fan.”

Darlin’.

He doesn’t mean to call you that. But it’s too late—and you don’t appear bothered by it.

Instead, you laugh, and the sound is like a gorgeous melody he could listen to on repeat for the rest of his life if given the chance. “No, I definitely did not go to veterinary school. Actually, my dad taught me everything I know.” You speak fondly of him as you continue to say, “He educated me. Well, as best as he could considering the circumstances and all. He tried to teach me all that he could before he died a couple of years ago.”

Joel frowns. “Oh. M’sorry to hear about your dad.”

“It’s alright. You don’t have to be sorry.”

He peers at you, unable to mask his curiosity.

“He died of illness,” you tell him, as if having read his mind. “And before you say it again, you don’t have to be sorry.” You cross your arms over your chest, tilting your head at him as you change the subject and ask, “So, how are you settling in?”

“S’been alright, I reckon. Real different from what I’m used to—from what we’re both used to,” Joel answers, referring to Ellie.

“I can imagine it is. It took me a while to get used to this place when I first got here too. It’s such a different way of life,” you empathize with him, sighing as you drop your arms back down at your sides. “You stay just a couple of houses down from Tommy and Maria, right?”

“Yeah, we’re two doors down in the brown and greenish lookin’ unit.”

“I’m in the light blue and white house right across from them,” you inform him, your pretty eyes twinkling as you give him a smile. “I guess that kind of makes us neighbors, doesn’t it?”

Joel’s stomach somersaults. “It does,” he manages to say. Remembering Tommy’s warning from earlier, he decides it's time for him to leave—and the quicker, the better because he’s beginning to notice how easy it is to fall under your spell. He pushes himself away from the stall door. “I should probably get goin’ now. Got some stuff to take care of before evenin’ patrol,” he says. “Listen, uh, I really appreciate you spendin’ time with Ellie and bein’ so kind to her. Thank you for that.” He gives you a small grateful nod and turns on the heel of his boot to leave the stall.

“Joel?”

He stops dead in his tracks, his back stiffening slightly.

The sound of your soft voice saying his name is sweet like pure, raw honey.

If he isn’t careful, he’ll become addicted to it—he fears he already is.

Swallowing harshly, Joel turns back around to face you. “Yeah?”

“We’re having this big get together on Saturday night in the barn that’s right across the way,” you say, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder, towards the open window. “We do it every single year on the first day of summer. It’s for the kids more than anything, but everyone comes out.” There’s a subtle hint of shyness to your tone. “I’m not sure if Tommy or Maria have mentioned it to you yet, but there’s going to be a big cookout, drinks, and even a band to play live music. The whole nine yards.”

Joel has to bite back a small scoff of disbelief. “You serious?”

“People still know how to party,” you joke. You observe the genuinely perplexed look that crosses his face and giggle. “I know, it must sound really bizarre. But it’s a lot of fun and it’s a great way to really get to know the folks around here. I think it would be great if you and Ellie both came.”

“Ain’t too sure if it’d be Ellie’s thing. Or mine,” he admits, raking a hand nervously through his hair at the thought.

“You won’t know unless you give it a shot, Joel.” You gift him with another brilliant smile that just about makes his heart stop inside his chest. “Please?”

Joel hardly knows you. Hell, up until five minutes ago, he hadn’t even known your fucking name—how is it possible that he can’t say no to you?

He mulls over it in his mind for a moment. He doesn’t like the idea of having to interact with anyone outside of patrol duty, but if going to the thing means seeing you again, then he’s willing to at the very least give it a shot. 

“Maybe we’ll both stop by for a bit and check it out,” he finally replies, exhaling a small sigh of defeat.

“Great!” You beam happily. “I’ll see you both on Friday night, then.”

“I’ll see you Friday night,” Joel repeats, giving you one last nod before turning and leaving the stall.

As he leaves the stables and heads home, he can’t help the way the corners of his mouth threaten to turn upwards at the mere thought of seeing you again.

Shit.

He’s in fucking trouble. 

His fork scrapes against the plate a little too loudly, the noise echoing throughout the kitchen. Your fingers curl tightly around your own silverware, and you flinch—it’s been a calm, quiet, and uneventful few weeks between you and your husband, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction you can’t control when you’re alone with him.

He doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully.

Loosening your grip around your knife and fork, you let your shoulders drop and force yourself to relax. You eat slowly and in small, measured bites, every move careful and contained, purely out of habit—because as tranquil as things have been, his moods are unpredictable, and you never know which version of your husband will be coming home to you.

Your marriage to Luke hadn’t always been a nightmare—in fact there was a time where you could have sworn there was love. Somewhere along the way, he began to resent you, and now anger and control fills the space where affection once lived.

Nights like this one, where it is silent and hollow, you’re almost grateful for it. His coldness can be painful, but his fists hurt even worse.

Luke abruptly pushes back from the table, the chair’s wooden legs scraping harshly against the tile.

You flinch again, your stomach twisting.

“I’m going to bed,” he murmurs. “I have a long day at the hospital tomorrow.”

“Okay.” You bring yourself to meet his dark green eyes, giving him the best smile you can muster. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t say it back, simply nods and disappears out of the kitchen.

It’s not until you hear the door close upstairs that you exhale a small sigh of relief.

After finishing your dinner, you bring both plates to the sink. You run the water but make no move to wash them, and instead you stand there, hands braced on the counter.

Your wedding band gleams under the bright, overhead lights, catching your eye, and all you can do is wonder when—or even if—he will ever let you go.

i do not have a taglist, for fic updates, please check out my notifs blog, @mari-positasupdates!

dividers by @/saradika-graphics 🤍

[fear-is-truth]

contains : erotic & horror themes, including depictions of monsterfucking, violence & blood. reader is imagined to be black, though interpretation is open. MDNI 18+ note. english is not my first language, ignore typos

MAMA USED TO SAY AINT NO GOOD EVER CAME FROM A MAN WHO TALKED SMOOTH. told you that they’re either preachers or predators, and neither’s worth your virtue or your time. (sometimes, you think maybe she was just trying to ward you off pretty white boys.)

she also told you all about vampires.

according to her, vampires couldn’t cross a threshold unless you bid them, that holy water’ll make their skin slough off like boiled peaches. she said they couldn’t cross running water either.

that part, you’ve since learned, was nonsense.

it was a vampire who damn near carried you across the creek last week when your heel got wedged between the rocks. he didn’t flinch at the current—simply hitched up his trousers and waded through, big arms hooked beneath your thighs like you weighed nothing at all.

your mama was a wise woman, but there are things she couldn’t have known.

after all, she never met remmick.

he first came to you when the heat broke. the song of cicadas gone silent, purple bruised sky leaking copper. june’s breath turning sweet and spoiled like ripe fruit. you opened the door barefoot, porch boards sun-warm beneath your soles.

now he comes and goes as he pleases.

his skin is as cold than the river stones under your feet that day. cold even when he’s fully sheathed inside you, fucking into you nice and slow.

his pupils stay tar-black until he’s hungry. then they bloom red—rich and furious, red as poppies—just as he’s yanking your bloomers down, breathing hard against the inside of your thigh.

his mouth unhinges in such a way that can only be described as serpentine. you’ve seen the full spread of it. a row of fangs where a human’s teeth should be, gums slick and red like fresh meat. tongue, long and deft, moves with inhuman control—circling your clit, lapping at it in slow, surgical swipes like it was shaped for that purpose alone.

he keeps the claws tucked away most days. but you’ve seen them. curved obsidian sickles catching the lamplight, retractable like a cat’s. the first time he let them slip during sex, he raked them down your back mid-climax—tore your nightgown straight down the spine, left welts that stung for days. another time, remmick clawed through the headboard, splintered it clean, hips stuttering while his mouth stretched wide, teeth bared. you watched it happen from beneath him, utterly struck by the sheer violence of it. and the beauty.

he’s not entirely invincible, though. the smell of garlic makes him recoil in disgust. sunlight and silver blisters his skin on contact.

remmick is the monster you’ve been warned about. the thing with claws and fangs, glowing red eyes and cold skin.

you’re not stupid. you knew better. that’s why you keep a silver charm strung around your neck. holy water in a flask on your bedside table, and most importantly — a stake under your pillow.

but knowing hasn’t stopped you from letting him kneel between your thighs and lick you open with that obscene mouth in search of ripeness. hasn’t stopped those cold lips from murmuring “mo chroí… cailín milis…” against your skin as he pushes in slow, every thick inch of him dragging against soaked velvet walls.

you want him.

in ways that aren’t just carnal, even if you both pretend otherwise.

and maybe—just maybe—your mama wasn’t warning you about monsters.

maybe she was warning you about the mistake of falling for one.

[azzo0]

Let's talk about Katsuki, who happens to be dating a med student. Both of your guys' schedules are hectic— rising with the sun and sleeping a few hours before it rises again.

But still, you manage to make time for each other. He makes sure to drop by your place on the weekends with your favourite drink even though he knows your nose will be buried deep in your laptop or a textbook. You're not hearing a single complaint from him, though. You can study while he's still there. On his lap.

He'll silently lift you from the chair and sit on it, dropping you on his thighs. You'll kiss his temple and continue working on your laptop while he scrolls on his phone with his forehead resting on your back, or he'll simply close his eyes with his arms wrapped around your waist while his lips lazily kiss your hair or the back of your neck. He lets you study all you want, but sometimes, he feels like being mischievous.

His breath will fan your jugular while his hands slip under your shirt or move ever so slowly down to your thigh, where he'll give it a firm squeeze, pull your legs slightly apart and draw circles with his thumb on your inner thigh. He likes watching you try to pretend like you don't care what he's doing when you're really crumbling with every touch. He keeps toying with you until you finally give up and turn around to give him a rough kiss and order him to carry you to the bed.

He's not the only one who pays visits. Sometimes, after class, you drive to his agency even if he's not there. You wait for him in his office, in his chair, while doing your own thing. Usually, when he's back, he has a bruise or an ugly gash from a fight with a villain. He insists he'll get it checked from the clinic, but you know he won't, so you tend him instead.

He knows med school isn't easy and that you can't be hanging out with him all the time. He knows you like holing up in your room and distancing yourself from the rest of the world when you have exams and tests coming up, so he gives you the space you need. He also knows how much burden you put on yourself during these days, so his brain has developed an alarm system where he automatically knows you're having a bad day. He drags you out of your apartment by force if he has to so you can take in some fresh air, or he simply drops by to make you your favourite dish and clean up for you. He can tell when you just need his company, so he sits on your bed while you study, his presence comforting your nerves a little bit.

He loves watching you study, but his favourite bit is when he is a part of your study/ practice. He willingly gives you his arm to practice drawing blood, even if takes you a few tries to insert the needle properly. Oh, he loves presenting his arms to you, his veins already protruding out. He doesn't miss the glint in your eye or the way you subtly bite your lips before meeting his gaze.

He loves loves loves when you have an anatomy exam most of all. It's not really studying, but damn, it's so hot when you're straddling his lap with his shirt off, your fingers roaming on his bare skin, while you yap on and on in a dead-serious tone about every muscle and structure.

Once, you were sitting on his lap during a similar session and you grabbed his chin and tilted his head head upwards, making him look to the side. You ran your fingers on the strong muscle of his neck that popped out, your touch sending shivers down his spine.

"This, Katsuki, is your sternocleidomastoid." You said.

He turned his face to you again, his pants tightening a bit too much for his liking. He couldn't make out the complex words falling out of your pretty lips because he was patiently waiting for you to point out every muscle of his and then just kiss him. He knew you were well aware of his erection poking your crotch, but you went on despite it and fuck, it pissed him off and turned him on at the same time.

He took your hand and smoothly guided it down to his hardened, clothed dick, "And what is this called, Doc?"

You gave him a coy smile, your fingers playing with the band of his pants, "You see, there are a lot of parts to name here, so I might need to take a proper look to name them all for you."

And all he could do was try not to come undone while you looked up at him through your long lashes while telling him about his own anatomy.

[dilf-docs]

Light Up My Life (So Blind I Can't See)

pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: pedro pascal in cannes breaks the internet, only rivaled by the mystery figure next to him at the airport. oh, that's you. oh. well, that wasn't part of the plan. oops.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, begging kink, lwk praise kink, choking, fingering, creampie, hurt/comfort, fluff, cannes!pedro (yes that's a warning)

word count: 5,984 words

side note: not to be that bitch but i think pedro in cannes 2025 will be my roman empire. shot out to secret dating, love that shit!!!! based on this request by my lovely fren :)

A few days ago, you had been watching a movie marathon in the comfort of your home.

"I can't believe it, you said you liked it!"

"I never said that. I said it looked interesting" he yawns. You narrow your eyes. "Sleep deprivation" he clarifies, as if reading your mind. "But, you chose it"

"Yes, because you let me" you're quick to counter.

"Yes, because we always do what you want"

Even in the distance, he finds ways to tease you.

"Not true. If it was, I would be there, with you. You know I love Marvel"

He laughs. "It's rare to hear that nowadays, less sounding so sure. You're an endangered species, baby"

You gasp. "I'm not that much of a fan"

"Not a lot of people watch a six hour livestream of chairs"

"Five" you correct, "and I did just to see if you'd show up!"

As if, gut feeling aside, he hadn't told you before.

"Alright, my bad. Five. Still, my point stands"

"So does mine. If Coco is there, why can't I be?"

"Do you happen to know hairstyling? I thought your thing was marketing"

"Oh, shut up"

Stanley Tucci briefly shows up on screen. Not that you already know, given the amount of times you've watched it.

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you?" he asks. Could refer to a lot of things.

It's the crack of dawn.

"It's the only time you can give me" you answer instead.

He makes a little pout, making you giggle. The movie keeps playing in your laptop.

"I'm sorry you have to meet me like this"

"Please, stop" at his bad joke. "The lack of sleep is showing"

He just laughs. "I can't wait for you to come"

(Texted you places of London you wouldn't be able to visit. It's just a stopover, you said, yet he insisted on sending links of London's best attractions for tourists)

"I know" you admit, softer. "Me either"

You yawn. So much for a movie you aren't watching.

"Won't it be too tiring?"

Your amazing boyfriend, ever so caring.

"Pedrito" he sighs at his name on your lips, little and a warning. "I'll be fine. Besides, I already dowloaded the movie's soundtrack to keep me company"

Pedro rolls his eyes. "You really enjoy this movie, don't you?"

You take a brief glimpse at the forgotten movie, playing on your shared screen, then back at his face.

A bit tired, eye bags more pronounced. The sleep thing was true. Still, he was the same in many other ways. His broad frame, sharp jawline, grey hair now dyed yet stubborn enough to show in some edges and over his face, in a beard that would scratch against your face when he kissed you, because he liked being close. Too close. You can still smell him, even if he hasn't been in your apartment for over a month now. As if his smell, him being intoxicantingly close, had impregnated on your skin. Another part of his to be yours.

"It's Madonna" like that's enough of a reason.

It shouldn't be this distracting. Singing Who's That Girl after arriving in France isn't a special thing, but to you, lyrics blasting through your airbuds that Pedro hates except when you offer a song and he listens, because he always listens, holds something sacred the moment your feet stretch and you're back on land again, yet people speak French instead of English and time has warped your sense of reality again.

Pedro had checked on you all the time. That was distracting. Some texts during the flight, insisting on buying Wi-Fi on the plane as if he was a millennial who couldn't survive without internet, saying what he couldn't live without was writing to you. That's a lie. You caught him on TikTok sometimes. Over his shoulder, because you couldn't sit together. Liar, you sent. You know he saw it by the way his shoulders wiggled and he covered his mouth to stiffle a giggle over the silence in the cabin. Nevertheless, he continued his little check-ups on you, as if you were a kid.

(Him: in a way, you are. You: Pedro, I'm almost thirty. Him: That's as ambiguous as me coming to Cannes. You: Your fans already suspect. Him: They're smart. You: They are. Him: Listening to the soundtrack? You: Tenth round. Him: You're insane. Insufferable too. You: It's only about forty minutes. This is a seven hour flight. Besides, you love me. Him: I do. Now stop peeking over my shoulder. You: Stop watching TikToks then, you addict!)

Somehow, lost in the music and happy feet struting towards movies, bright sun and the close yet faraway sea, you take too many of those. That wasn't the plan. Don't sit together, don't look in his direction. Over and over again. Precautions. To you, rules. Memorized them. It's not every day you board a plane, but the others are similar, in a way. It was a small price to pay for dating him.

Sometimes you mind.

(You: I miss my personal pillow. Him: I ain't got a belly anymore. You: I'm aware. I was talking about other huge things. Your biceps. HUGE. The one's Julie will show to the world in a day. Those HUGE biceps. I want to bite them. Him: You're a freak. You: Blame Kevin Feige. Him: Not the guy who lost 25 pounds?)

Sometimes you don't.

(You: Come to think of it, you do snore a bit. Him: But I thought you missed me? You break my heart, y/n)

Bump.

The defeaning sound. Coco and his bodyguard glance. But Pedro? he looks. At you.

The internet has rules too. They're both, funnily, f-rules: never forgive, never forget.

His expression is of surprise. They don't forget. His wide eyes. No, that's beyond a surprised face. That's a knowing face. They don't forgive. The subtle difference. He knows you.

Seconds, probably. He goes back to stoic mode. You hear his voice as he chats with Coco. His voice is tight, barely noticeable to anyone but you; know him better than you know yourself. But not today, when he's a supposed stranger and you're another passenger of this plane. An insignificant dot in a crowd. You walk further and avoid his gaze, pretending to search for imaginary stains in your passport, as if you hadn't make the worst mistake of your life.

Days ago, sitting in your bed, you were just another light in the vast Californian sea of houses and salt air. Now, everyone knows he's your something.

Makes sense.

The slip-ups on interviews, his comments about Materialists, his behavior on that interview with Dakota, the mysterious silhoutte that ressembled a woman but was always too blurry and far yet close to identify.

Unrecognizable.

Because you were a nobody. Made a line to get coffee, nothing about you guaranteeing any special treatment. Worked in a publicity agency from Mondays to Fridays, Saturdays if someone called in sick. Took your dog, who complained when the LA sun hit his tiny paws too much, out on walks: Toto, the little cairn terrier who was now under the care of your brother and his girlfriend because of your trip. Was photographed because you wanted and not because they had to, the hidden cameras capturing every move of yours.

That was the privilege of anonymity.

But that luck, like everything else in the world, seemed to have run out.

Now you sit on the hotel room, phone blowing up with messages, mentions, and emails. Funny thing is, despite already having your Instagram account leaked, you were still a ghost. A who?. Just a face Pedro had looked too much for it to be a simple passerby.

You sniffle as Coco brushes your hair, more to calm you than to fix it for the event.

You look through the mirror, not at you, but at the bag dangling from it, and sniffle again. The dress hangs on the closet as Coco gives you a sympathetic look and Lux squeezes your shoulder gently.

"Maybe we can still work it out" you manage to choke up, hoarse from useless crying. So hopeful, as Pedro would say.

The original plan, before the little "bump" on the road, was to attend Cannes while disguised, which meant sneaking as a guest, skipping the whole red carpet.

But now people knew who you were. Or how you looked, at least.

"Not to be a killjoy, but even if the French press is oblivious, I'm sure the internet will catch up as soon as the live stream for Eddington's red carpet starts broadcasting" Lux comments.

"They don't know your name, yet I'm sure they've already memorized your face. You're all over my Instagram" Coco adds, smiling sadly. "Your face is not to be forgotten"

You smile weakly, still feeling bad.

"I don't know what to do" you sniffle, looking back at the dress, one your budget could've bought but leave you on a tightrope for the rest of the month. To your boyfriend, it was barely a tickle on his finances. He insisted on buying it after your bright, unable to hide, smile. Wear it on a special day, and that is today.

Was.

"I'm sure we can come up with something" Lux offers.

"Come with me"

The three of your turn around. You'd recognize that voice even if you were deaf.

"¿Te volviste loco?" Lux asks, perplexed. (have you gone crazy?)

"Un poco" he replies in a Spanish that needs to be practiced a tad bit more, "por ella, sí" (a bit, yes. for her)

"What's going on?" you ask, wiping your tears.

Pedro kneels down in front of you, already dressed in an all black suit. If you weren't on the verge of sobbing for the umpteenth time, you'd tear that suit in two.

"You look good" you sniffle.

He smiles, softly. "I know"

"I love those glasses. They're my favorites"

He smiles again, adjusting them. "I know"

"Se acabó el tiempo, tortolitos" Lux jokes. (time's up, lovebirds)

"Yeah. Are we going to ignore the elephant in the room?" Coco asks, eyes widened in exasperation.

"I'm taking her with me"

"To the red carpet?" his sister asks, surprised.

"No, to fucking Wendy's. Of course, Lux. I'm taking her to the red carpet" he then gives his sister a glance. "You look gorgeous, by the way"

"I know" she flips her hair.

"Yeah, she's beautiful and so are you" Coco interrupts, then points to you. "Is that how you plan on solving this?"

Pedro nods, solemly.

"Listen, it's just a matter of hours before people connect the dots. They already have your Instagram and name. What's next? Your job, your dog?"

You gasp. "I have a whole dump of Toto on my feed!"

"Your account is private though" Lux drops.

"Still!" you panic. "What do I do?"

"Come with me" Pedro insists. "Harm's already done. What would change if we walked down a piece of red clothing?"

"Not even Rooney Mara will walk along Joaquin"

"So? We're not them" he kneels in front of your face again. Wipes a stray tear and grabs your hand. Squeezes it, like fresh oranges for a juice, because he knows you like the gesture. Need it. "And Emma is taking her husband, so"

You only sigh, unconvinced.

"Come with me" he repeats again, like a mantra. Or a prayer. Maybe hoping you'd accept.

"And let the whole world know?"

"Precisely" he smiles, cheeky. "They know some things already. We're just advancing the process for them"

Coco sighs. "At the speed of a bullet train"

"Whatever" Pedro drops. Then, looks at you. "We like it fast, don't we, baby?"

You can only blush in response.

"She'll come with me, then. We'll ride in the car behind" Ullrich sentences.

"No" his grip on your arm is strong but not brusing. Firm, as his position. He gives you a little tug, as to pull you in. Needless to say, you felt like a ragdoll. "She'll come with me"

Fighting Pedro was like trying to tame a tide.

In the end, somehow, he'd managed to rope you into the chaos of the red carpet, black limusines and flashing cameras and inside his car.

You weren't sure. Back in school, you weren't disliked or bullied, but it's not like you were popular either. You had friends, but would rather be alone at times, be it at the library or just sketching at a lonely bench in the park. There was something precious in the silence most people didn't appreciate; you did.

So, to say you where overwhelmed at the bright lights and constant yelling for Pedro was an understatement.

But, if your boyfriend dressed in an all black suit didn't scream Look at me! energy enough, there was you.

It was quick. Everything seemed to be so as of late. The cameras and press, waiting fans, yelled for Pedro, only to then find out he wasn't only here with his sister, but another woman. The airport woman. A loud point of a finger and the whole world knows you're back.

That he isn't your something. No, Pedro is more.

He's your fucking partner.

And it's so obvious, by the way he looks at you fondly. It different from his sister. This isn't that type of unconditional supporting love, but a stronger one. Consuming. One that speaks of devotion. He looks at you. Admires you. Like a painting. As if you had all the answers in the world.

You say hi to his co-stars, maybe a bit too excited to greet Austin Butler. Pedro isn't happy but he's not putting a jealous fit for the cameras. Not when he's busy throwing charming smiles and flexing that body he's worked so hard for under the summer sun.

The world talks. It's all over the news. Your smile, growing only wider when Pedro is near you, hand on the small of your back, right where the dress leaves inviting skin for the rest to see. He introduces you to anyone who wants to listen, always talking, because he's such a yapper. A loud laugher too, and even if it's not with you, you laugh with him, too contagious for you to question it. Posing with the rest of the cast as you wait by the sidelines, taking some pictures for yourself. You see the bee, trying to meddle, imposing and nosy, and feel a little sorry for it, despite Emma's face and the guys' laugh. In a way, you see yourself in the poor insect: taking space where it shouldn't, captured under the lights.

Comments are deceiving, yet there's a movie playing and then an awkward, way too long, standing ovation for you to care. You do. But you try not to, rather focusing on the event and feeling proud of Pedro. You clap and do a little too loud sound that vagely resembles a cheer. Flustered, you find out later on that the video made it out to Twitter. Strangely, even if your sudden appearance in Pedro's life, or rather public life, is well received under that post. Maybe life wasn't so cruel.

"You're not wearing that"

Life is cruel.

"Why not? You knew it beforehand. Said it was your favorite"

"I changed my mind. It's too revealing"

"What are you? Seventy?"

"The age gap is the other way around, grandpa"

And then the fucker flexes his arms. Worst, not even on purpose. Putting on glasses and a pink soft sweater shouldn't be this hot.

"Don't worry, baby. Don't break a sweat. I'll take the grandma sweater off when we get there"

Your cheeks heat up. "That was on purpose"

He offers a cheeky grin.

"Maybe"

Today is the photocall, and if yesterday's outfit put you in your knees, this one sends you straight to the ground. Full force. In a tank top and black pants paired with spiky shoes, his purpose was to serve and to kill you.

He goes again for the round of photos and such, you trailing behind like a lost puppy. Everyone assumes, yet no one asks.

She, the airport woman, now y/n.

(Can't say it out loud either. Not even you, yet, as if the knowing smiles and stolen not so subtle glances hadn't given you away)

You enjoyed this limbo. Of belonging not more inside closed doors and ambiguous coincidences, but on tabloids and loud shutters of camera. You liked the attention but not the label. It was good to see them scrambling, begging for details. Your social media had filled with requests, and even at times, your phone crashed.

You sat in a corner, watching the press. A few clicks here and there, Pedro drinking water and making it sexy (the size difference of his hand and the tiny bottle? You need to be locked up), questions, some about the movie, others about working with Ari Aster and then, awkward ones Pedro handled with grace. He spoke with such reverence, care and thoughtfulness, you can't help but feel your legs weak. You knew he was smart, well read and opinionated, but hearing him was another thing. So lost in this, you don't hear the next question.

"I know no one else is brave enough to ask" the reporter laughs nervously, "but I need to know"

Pedro senses immediately. When he glances briefly at you, hidden on a corner, you know this is about you.

"I don't think you do" he laughs, but there's a certain edge on his tone.

"It's fine if you don't want to answer, but me and everyone else on this room, hell, world!, wants to know who the woman at the airport is"

Before he adds about your quiet but strong presence on both days, Pedro cuts in:

"Is that how you call my girlfriend?"

The uproar is so loud, even Joaquin, who seemed to be on a separate train of thought, jumps on his seat. More questions follow, ones he doesn't answer. Out of boredom or to keep. Some things are meant to be like this.

Tabloids go crazy with the news. You haven't even left the place and phone blows up even more. It will explode at this point. Worse, it's only been minutes. An hour later, it's still as bad. Well, bad is a way of saying it: what you mean is nosy press and the promise of a quiet vacation ruined.

"I don't think it'll ever be quiet again"

You sigh softly, leaning on the door of the car taking you to the hotel.

"It's an opportunity" you reply just to feel the silence.

"Ever the marketer, you bussiness woman"

Even then, he manages to rob from you a faint smile.

At least they don't know where you're staying. That would be awful. You can't imagine having troubles to get out of a car.

"Something's in your mind" as your heels click against cold marble floors.

A shit ton.

You. The fast changes. Impending. Privacy gone. Scrapes of your life out in the open for the world to see. Your relationship and this new stage you're in.

Him. His warm eyes. Firm hand to secure you. Those circles on your back that calmed you down. It's a quiet I love you. Reassurance you don't say but need. I'm here. Pedro won't let you take the fall alone.

But, also, him.

With his body that had been driving you wild. Intoxicating cologne. A small cut abov his beard, still fresh. Thick glasses. Long legs. Strong arms. His charisma. Confidence. A killer smile. Warm eyes. Kind. He laughed too much and filled the gap of your stolen breaths, waiting.

"Want me to tell you?"

Smug grin you could wipe off his face.

"I'm all ears"

He too has noticed you. Short glances. Parted lips. So plump he can still taste them. The lipstick inside his cheek, over his white pristine smile if he hadn't licked it off. A part of you in him. Another. Your body, always so perfect, but in that dress he bought? He steals a look now. He definitely pictured you in it, yet this is better. How you own it. The cameras aren't flashing your way, but their eyes trail your every move. You had that in you: a beauty that wasn't loud, but made sure to be noticed. Like the air: not seen, just felt. Sometimes light, others heavy. He feels light-headed. Today you chose another set he bought you. In away, Pedro feels as if he owns you. But a tender belonging, of soul to soul, possessive, yet not as an object; he was raised right. Although, after your giggles with Austin...

"Pedro..." all sweet voice. He likes his name a lot. More if it's from you.

Your silence is both punishing and teasing.

"Tell me what you want" he insists.

"You know me" you play coy.

"I wanna hear it" desperate.

You cave in. Then, lean. His hairs raise in a prickly trepidation.

"They know too much" he feels your pressure, fears. But also, he feels your hot breath and short gasps, as if you can't hold this any longer.

"I'm sorry"

You shake your head with parted lips and hooded eyes, blood rushing to your cheeks.

"Show me something only I'll know"

Pedro's control shatteres at your words, a low, animalistic growl rumbling up from his chest.

"You're gonna make me fuck you in here" he spills the lewd confession.

"You're going to get us kicked out of this hotel"

"Can I at least kiss you on the elevator?" he pleads. Puppy sad brown eyes and all.

"Maybe"

In an instant, he takes your wrist in his grip, pulling you stumbling to the dinging door.

"Be patient" you mumble as his lips ghost over your neck. You glance at the numbers.

"We're on the thirty-two floor"

"Patience is a virtue"

"I don't care"

As soon as the door opens, he strides out with desperate, urgent steps.

"This isn't our floor"

"Fuck!"

The short time from the twenty-four to your actual floor felt interminable, every second stretching into an eternity as the weight of your shared desire hung heavy in the air.

"Jesus" you mutter.

"That good or bad?" he asks, mouth busy and voice sort of muffled against the flush skin of your neck.

"Good" you manage to mumble, hands on his hair.

Alright, you miss the messy curls but you can see them insist on the top of his hair, now starting to get sweaty, Coco's work going to waste.

"Then let's give them more to talk"

As soon as you crossed the hallway, Pedro kicks the door shut behind both of you. He's got your back pressed against it, roughly, as if he couldn't wait a bit longer, mouth taking yours in a hungry kiss.

His hands roam your body, gripping, squeezing, tugging at any little space of honeyed skin he can, taking off the buttons with a feverish desperation. You swear one of them pops, if your ears don't deceive you.

"You bought that dress. I liked it"

He rolls his eyes. "I can buy you a new one. A whole closet"

"But I liked this one" you pout.

He kisses your pouty lips. "Then I shall move the earth to get the same one again for you. Now... where were we?"

He's back to kissing you roughly, and soon, your brain is too fuzzy and lost in the force of his lips on yours, that the cameras and late interview are soon forgotten in the back of your mind.

"I'm going to ruin you" he says against your mouth, voice ragged with lust. You let out a little moan as you squirm under his insistent touch. "So hard, so deep, you won't forget who you belong to. Never"

You should feel threatened. Scared, even. But no, down there? You're a wet mess.

The dress falls to the floor with a soft thud. At least he didn't rip it.

"No bra, baby?" he asks, voice thick. You swallow harshly and nod. "Bad girl. Such'a tease"

His mouth drops then to your chest, lips kissing and teeth grazing the soft swell of your breasts. His tongue runs cold through a shiver, moving to your nipples, taking the hardened bud into his mouth and sucking hard. You feel his hands then over the rosy flesh, grabbing what he can, which, given the size of his hands, it's a lot.

"All this for me?"

You nod, lost in the grunts, sweat, his mouth and touch.

"That's right. Mine. You're mine, baby. Just mine. Say it. Tell me you are"

"Yes!" you gasp. "I'm yours, Pedro. All yours. Only yours"

He groans into your mouth as your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. There's too a low sound coming from his throat, probably an approval sound of some sorts. His hands now slide down to your hips, gripping the free skin until he lifts you up. It's always like this. Now, you wrap your legs around his waist, tiny ankles locking at the small of his broad back.

Finally, he takes you to the bed in the middle of the room, all while never breaking the kiss or stopping his greedy hands from touching you. You whine and squirm, weak under his spell.

"So antsy" he softly says.

"I think you meant your hands"

With a little laugh, he lays you down on the bed, body hovering over you, pinning you to the mattress. Before, he'd take his time to let go of the shirt, undressing slowly and almost reluctantly. Now, he takes no time in stripping off his shirt, revealing the toned body under an already revealing shirt. You love Pedro, in all of his forms and shapes, but weren't you incredibly turned on like a horny teenager for this new body? Maybe it was his new energy, how it oozed off of him in the form of flexing biceps, slim figure, toned chest and stomach and disarming smile. He was a menace and knew it, by the smirk visible even through the soft moonlight filtering through the window.

"We should've turned the lights"

"I like you like this" needy fingers now turn tender as he traces soft hearts on your face, the rough skin brushing your soft flushed own.

"At least the nightstand one. It's yellow"

"No"

He leans down to claim your mouth again, or just shut you up. It's helpful, anyway, as he kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen and tingling.

"Someone's insatiable today" you croak out.

"For you? Always" he replies, fingers finding the damp patch in your panties, rubbing over it, thick fingers pressing against your clothed pussy. "It's never enough, baby"

He lets out a little grunt.

"Fuck, you're so wet" voice rough with lust and surprise. "Julie's outfit turned you on that much?"

"Even the hideous ones did" you whimper. "Imagine this one"

"I chose some of those, you know" he sounds a bit offended.

"Whatever. I'm happy with this Cannes run. I'll send some flowers or take her to lunch"

"So caring" he mocks.

"For dressing my man like a complete eye candy? Hell, yes"

"No one uses that term nowadays" Pedro interjects.

"Here you go again. You're my biggest hater. Shut up and just-"

You turn desperate at the pressure his fingers apply on your clothed slit. He smirks at that, eyes dark.

"You want this, don't you? You want me inside, filling you, stretching you around my cock?"

"Yes" you whimper again.

"Say it" he demands.

Never would you beg for something, but goddamn, didn't this man reduce you to a puddle of moans and pleasure? Your common sense, no, normal functioning, basic even, flew out of the window with just a kiss.

"I need you"

His fingers press even deeper, and the pulsing light pain sensation drives you wild, making you whimper again.

"Pedro-" you whine, hips rocking up against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction.

He clicks his tongue. "Manners, baby"

You squirm, violently and desperate. He really was going to make you beg for it.

"Please, Pedro"

"That better" fingers slightly more insistent. "One last time?"

Fuck dignity, man.

"Please, Pedro. I need you. I need you so badly" you choke out.

He grins like a schoolboy, eyes dark. "Good girl"

He rewards you by making a quick work of your panties, practically tearing them off and tossing them aside. His fingers then were on your bare skin, drumming on sensitive thighs.

"Don't tease" you plead through gritted teeth.

"So impatient" he tsks. "Want it now, baby?"

You nod, feverish.

"Because you asked"

"Because we always do what I want" you choke.

His eyes shine dark. "Easy, brat"

He strokes through the slick folds of your, pussy, pushing two long, thick fingers deep inside you, curling them just right, hitting that well known spot that made you see stars.

"So tight" his voice comes out strained. "So fucking tight and hot and perfect"

Pedro pumps his fingers in and out, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. His mouth drops to your breast again, suckling hard, biting just on the edge and then licking to soothe the sting. You feel heat building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Your hands scrabble at his back, nails digging into his skin, as to urge him.

And then he pulls away, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper at the loss, making him chuckle a bit.

"Calm down, baby. I ain't going anywhere"

He starts undressing what's left of his clothes, and if you liked the outfit, him naked takes the win. His cock springs free, long and hard, the thick head already glistening.

"See?"

He settles himself between your thighs, the thick length of his cock nudging against your slick folds. He looks down at you, eyes intense under the moonlight. His large, calloused hands slid under your hips, gripping them hard enough to leave bruises.

If spilling it in the interview wasn't enough, he was going to mark you, claim you, make you his.

"I'm going to fuck you now" Pedro announces, voice low with lust. "I'm going to fuck you hard and deep, just like you need. Like we both do"

With that, he thrust forward, pushing past your entrance. You gasp at the intrusion, feeling your pussy stretch around him, accommodating his size. It always happens; he's just big like that. He pauses, letting you adjust to the stretch, before pushing forward again, sinking deeper inside.

So thoughtful.

"Fuck, you're so tight " he said through gritted teeth. "So fucking tight and hot and perfect. You feel incredible, y/n"

He starts to move then, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in. Each push brings him deeper, until he was buried to the hilt inside. He sets a hard, fast pace, the bed creaking beneath with the force of his thrusts. The room filled with the sound of their mingled moans and gasps, sweat pooling like a second skin.

And if things couldn't get any better...

One hand came up to your throat, long fingers wrapping around it. He didn't squeeze, not yet, just rested them there, feeling the flutter of your pulse.

"Nervous?" his thumb brushes over your racing heartbeat, a teasing promise of what was to come. "C'mon. Don't get shy on me, baby. I know you like that"

(You did. He was new to this, mainly going off some spaking and dirty talk. Now, he seemed to be into it, if not more, as you. It was always exciting when he did it, never telling you before. If you didn't want to, he stopped. You know he would, at least, because so far, you've never told him to)

You nod, walls clench around him.

"As much as you like feeling my cock stretching you open? Filling you up? You like knowing I'm the only man to be inside this perfect little cunt?"

"Yes" you gasp. "God, yes. No one else, but you, Pedro. Only you."

A wicked grin spreads across his face and he tightens his grip on your throat, just a little. Enough to make you feel it.

"That's right, baby. This cunt belong to me now. Your body. You. You belong to me"

He starts to thrust harder, faster, headboard slamming against the wall with each snap.

Pedro feels you starting to tighten around him, breath coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps.

He knew you were close.

He leans down then, his rough stubble rasping against the smooth skin of your neck as he growled in your ear.

"Be a good girl and come for me" he urges. "Let me feel this pretty pussy spasm around my cock. Feel it come undone on my dick"

His hips never slow, pounding into you with deep, powerful thrusts. The grip on your throat tightened just a touch more, fingers pressing into the soft flesh. Not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make you light-headed.

"I'm going to fill this cunt with my cum. I'm going to pump you so full of it, you'll be dripping for days"

You let out a choked moan at his filthy promise, back arching off the bed. He could feel her starting to convulse around him, her slick walls fluttering and clenching. He was so close too, his balls drawing up tight against his body as the pressure built.

"Come now. Let me feel you scream my name as I fill you up. Let the whole damn city know who you belong to"

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. At the same time, his fingers tightened around your throat, squeezing just as your orgasm crashes over. You let out a strangled cry, body shaking and shuddering beneath him as you come apart.

"Fuck, y/n. Fuck"

With a load groan, he comes too, cock pulsing and jerking inside you as he pumps you full of his hot seed. Spurt after spurt, until he sees your stomach bloat lightly and you feel it sloshing inside you like the distant waves on the beach.

He collapses on top of you with a loud sigh, weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your fluttering heat; it's still dripping.

You both lay there for a long moment, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat, as you catch your breaths. Finally, he lifted his head to look at you, his eyes soft.

"You're incredible" voice raw. "I can't believe you're mine"

You giggle, feeling his arms wrap around you, pulling you close as you snuggle against his neck. He can feel your soft, warm breath tickling on his skin. A sense of peace and contentment settles over him, and he sighs happily.

"Yours" and a quick tired sloppy kiss. "You drained me, thought"

"If you weren't such a tease..."

You playfully swat him, weakly.

"Shh, just relax" he murmurs, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back. "You did so good, baby. So fucking perfect. As always"

You can't helo but say: "And now the whole world knows it"

He captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It was different from the hungry, desperate kisses before. This one was tender, almost sweet. Full of a quiet, growing affection.

"It's okay" so quiet you would miss it. "I've got you, baby. And I'm not going anywhere"

You make a soft, contented lazy sound as you snuggle even closer, fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He feels your body starting to give up.

"Promise?"

He tightens his arms around you, holding you like he means it. You are the most precious thing in the world to him, but he doesn't want to tell you. He wants you to know. So he holds you tightly, like a vow. Something to keep. Something worth.

"Promise"

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif: @a7estrellas / dts: @io12n

[abbotjack]

i don’t think people understand what just happened. shawn hatosy went grey—not like “silver fox” magazine spread grey. not “aging gracefully” grey. i mean slutty, exhausted, backseat-of-the-car, who-let-him-look-like-this grey. chaos grey. bad decision grey. has a past he won’t talk about and hands that know what they’re doing grey. and now i’m not functioning. this isn’t about character depth or performance range. this is about the grey hair and what it’s doing to me.

he shows up in the pitt as jack abbot and it’s over for me immediately. black scrubs. prosthetic leg. says things like “you good?” while leaning against a blood-smeared doorframe and you feel it in your spine. grey hair curling at the sides like he’s already been ruined but will absolutely still ruin you back. this is a man who fucks like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want it. like he can’t admit he needs it but takes it anyway. it’s in the hair. it’s in the way he doesn’t ask questions unless he already knows the answer.

and then—THEN—he shows up in chicago p.d. as charlie reid. and i don’t recover. because now it’s not just trauma hot it’s corruption hot. he’s in a suit. he’s running dirty operations. he’s lying to everyone in the room and still getting what he wants. full villain energy. zero remorse. and the hair? still grey. sluttier than ever. looks like he’d finger you in the back of an unmarked cop car and tell you not to say a word. like he knows he’s evil and still thinks he deserves head. and he’s right.

and now? charlie reid is DEAD. in a body bag. they shot him in the finale like i wasn’t still actively fantasizing about the way he says “you know who i am” with that low voice and dead stare. gone. erased. the sluttiest man alive eliminated in a network drama bloodbath.

jack abbot? gone too. until january. production limbo. they put that man in black scrubs and greying temples and let him emotionally unravel on my screen for three months and then snatched him away like i’m supposed to survive off reruns. it’s may. do you know what eight months of grey hair withdrawal does to a person?? i am hallucinating.

i don’t want him kind. i don’t want him soft. i want slutty grey-haired hatosy who lies, cheats, growls “get in the car,” and fucks like he’s trying to forget something. i want him pressed up against a wall with one hand braced beside your head and the other sliding under your shirt like he doesn’t care if you’re mad at him because you’re not going anywhere.

i want motel room heat. gritty lighting. a scene where he unbuckles his belt with his teeth clenched and says “this isn’t a good idea” and keeps going anyway. i want someone he shouldn’t be touching. a conflict of interest. a fuck-you kiss in a hospital supply closet. someone crying. it’s me. i’m crying.

he has slut shoulders. slut posture. slut cadence. and the sluttiest grey hair on television. i am not okay. i am on the floor. i need more roles. more morally wrong situations with his hand on the back of someone’s neck.

bring him back. give him a steamy role with bad lighting and secrets. let him wreck someone emotionally and physically. put him in another series where he’s unshaven and emotionally unstable and asks someone “you sure?” before ruining their week.

i’m down bad. clinically. catastrophically. the grey hair did this. and I WANT MORE!!!!!!!!!!!! hollywood needs to get serious and cast this man in something immediately. i am not being dramatic. i am not doing a bit. i am sitting in the wreckage of my life because shawn hatosy grew out his hair, let it go grey, and no one has figured out how to use it properly.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

What about Pierre having this bad haircut because it was his little girl doing it. And because he loves her so much, he wore it proudly everywhere.

Papa’s Haircut

The 2025 season kicked off with a buzz—quite literally—when Pierre walked into the Jeddah paddock on media day, baseball cap in hand and a brand new haircut on full display.

Well, if one could call it a “haircut.”

It was uneven. Patches too short on the side, a strangely long tuft at the back, and a slightly lopsided front that looked like someone had tried to shape a heart and then gotten distracted halfway through. And the cherry on top? Pierre was beaming like a proud man on his wedding day.

“Mate,” Lando said the moment he saw him, eyes wide, “what the hell happened to your head?”

Pierre turned toward him with a radiant smile. “My daughter did it.”

Lando blinked. “Your… daughter? Yn?”

Pierre nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes! She wanted to be my ‘personal coiffeuse,’ and who am I to deny her dreams?”

From behind, Charles nearly choked on his drink. “You let a five-year-old give you a buzz cut?”

“She’s five and a half, actually,” Pierre corrected, “and she took it very seriously. She even asked for a towel and said, ‘Papa, you must sit very still or I’ll make you bald like Uncle Seb.’”

At that, George burst out laughing. “Poor Seb. Man’s retired and still catching strays.”

“Respectfully, you do look like you lost a bet,” Carlos chimed in as he approached, adjusting his sunglasses. “Was this filmed? Please tell me this was filmed.”

“It was,” Pierre said proudly, pulling out his phone. “Kika was on camera duty. Wait—look at this part—this is where Yn says, ‘Oops, I think the wind moved your hair.’” He pressed play.

On screen, little Yn stood on a kitchen stool, holding an electric clipper nearly the size of her arm. Her tiny brows furrowed in concentration as she buzzed a line up the back of Pierre’s head.

“Oops,” she whispered.

Kika, off-camera: “What do you mean, ‘oops’?”

Yn: “Nothing, Maman, it’s just… art is complicated.”

The group around Pierre dissolved into laughter.

“Art is complicated,” Max repeated with a smirk, crossing his arms. “She’s going to be unstoppable.”

“You’re a good sport, man,” Oscar added, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I could show up to a race looking like that.”

“Because you don’t have kids yet,” Pierre said, tapping a finger against Oscar’s chest. “When you do, and your little girl climbs into your lap with her plastic scissors and says, ‘Papa, I wanna make you pretty,’ you’ll let her do anything.”

He paused.

“Well, maybe not anything. But… hair grows back. And look at this face—” he pulled up another picture of Yn, this one with her clutching a handful of Pierre’s fallen hair with glee. “Tell me that smile isn’t worth it.”

Charles leaned over to look. “Okay, yeah, that’s a dangerous level of cute.”

“She looks exactly like you,” George added. “Like… scarily identical. Mini Pierre.”

“I know,” Pierre said softly. “Same eyes. Same smile. Same chaos energy. Kika says she’s me with glitter and pink socks.”

“And what does Kika think of the haircut?” asked Lando.

Pierre snorted. “She was horrified. But she laughed so hard, she couldn’t even be mad. Said it was a small price to pay for family bonding. Then made me promise to wear a hat on the grid walk.”

“Are you going to?” Oscar asked.

“Nope.”

That earned another round of laughter.

“Of course not,” Max said, grinning. “He’s too proud.”

“Damn right I am. I might start a trend,” Pierre declared. “Buzz cuts by children. All the rage in Milan next season.”

Charles fake-sneered. “You can keep that to yourself, mon ami.”

They were still teasing him later in the driver’s meeting. When the team officials handed out strategy folders, Pierre placed his phone on the table like a proud dad at a PTA meeting, showing off photos of Yn and the makeshift salon she’d set up in the kitchen with a towel cape and a Hello Kitty comb.

“I even gave her a tip,” he told the group. “Two scoops of gelato.”

“She undercharged you,” Lando muttered. “This haircut’s gonna haunt you in every interview.”

Pierre shrugged. “Let them ask. I’ll tell them: ‘My daughter made me look like this. What’s your excuse?’”

Max held out a fist. “Fair play, man. You win this round.”

Pierre bumped it. “Always.”

The next morning, he FaceTimed Yn before heading to the track. She answered from Nonna’s kitchen, surrounded by markers, glitter glue, and what looked like a Barbie head with a similarly questionable haircut.

“Bonjour, Papa!” she chirped, waving.

“Bonjour, ma chérie. You’re up early.”

“I made pancakes with Nonna! And then I gave Barbie a makeover like you.”

Pierre smiled. “She looks… fantastic.”

“Do you still have your haircut?”

“Of course,” he said, turning his head so she could see all the uneven angles. “Still just the way you did it.”

Yn squealed. “Yay! Did everyone love it?”

“They did,” he said. “Everyone laughed a lot.”

“Good!” She paused, growing very serious. “Do you think you’ll win the race because of my haircut?”

He laughed. “I think I might.”

“You better,” she said firmly. “Because it’s lucky hair.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And if you win, I want a unicorn.”

“A real one?”

She tapped her chin. “No, just the toy. But with sparkles.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As the call ended, Pierre slipped the phone into his pocket and looked at himself in the mirror one last time. The haircut was ridiculous, sure. But the love behind it? That was real. That was everything.

He grinned—crooked hairline and all—and headed to the garage with his daughter’s voice still ringing in his ears:

“Lucky hair, Papa!”

And maybe, just maybe, it would be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-💚🐍

[whambamsami]

private show pt.2

summary: what happens in the private showroom, stays in the private showroom...stripper!bucky pt.2

pt. 1

warnings: 18+ language, alcohol, almost smut! i promise theyre gonna fuck like bunnies in the next part of this lmao

note: if this doesnt flow super well im sorry, i didnt proofread and i did rush it a bit! i also dont totally understand how tag lists work so forgive me if i messed that up too haha, small chance i delete this and try to make it a bit cleaner!

taglist!: @sebastians-love @marianastudiesart @bowscale @staley83 @opheliabbarnes @hhyukasworld @unicornqueen05 @defn0tonyourleft <3

If the bouncer noticed your nerves, he didn’t let on. He just pulled back the plush red curtain and waved you in. 

You stepped inside before you could decide against it. 

The door shuts with a soft click.

The room smells like leather and cologne. Dim lights flicker warm over plush velvet seating. Your heart’s pounding in your chest. And you’re frozen where you stand.

Because in the center of the room, the man you’d seen on the stage was leaning against a pole, shirtless now, glistening faintly in the warm, low light. One silver chain resting against his collarbone, made of the same metal that made up his left arm. Tattoos dotted his chest and abs, thin black ink delicately drawing your eyes lower. A dangerous smirk on his lips. 

Bucky, they had said his name was.

Wonder if that was his real name.

“Oh.” You breathed.

His smirk turned wolfish. 

“So you’re the girlfriend,” he said, voice low and deep as he stepped closer. “Didn’t expect you to say yes.”

“...And if I had said no?” 

“Then I guess I would have had to come out there and ask in person,” he said, eyes raking over you. “And that could’ve gotten messy.”

You sputter just for a second before catching yourself.

“I- yeah. Thanks for the rescue. I really appreciate it.”

He tilted his head. “The rescue?” 

“Yeah. Saved me from my asshole boyfriend and his gross friends. I owe you.”

That made him pause for a beat. Considering. Calculating. 

Then he’s back in control like nothing happened.

“Is that what you think this is?” he smiled gently, stepping even closer.

You blink. “Um. Yeah? You got me away from Nick and made him look like a jackass. Not exactly a hard thing to do, but still-credit where credit’s due.”

Bucky laughed-low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He had a nice laugh, you thought. 

“Sweetheart”- and you do a great job of showing how that nickname doesn’t affect you one bit, you’re sure of it- “I didn’t save you. I picked you.”

Your stomach did something traitorous as he popped the champagne, and you didn’t miss the evil glint in his eyes when the head of the bottle was swallowed by frothy foam before he could capture it with the flutes. 

He handed you a glass. 

You needed it. 

“What does that mean?” 

He leaned in, his voice dropping to something that wrapped around your spine like silk.

“It means I saw you sitting out there, looking like you were five seconds from either crying or setting the place on fire, and I figured you could use a reminder that not everyone in the room is a complete asshole.” 

Great. More pity. Just what you needed.

But then he continued.

“And I could see your thighs squeezing together when you saw me. All the way from up on the stage.”

You let out a soft breath, surprised at how much that hit you.

But he wasn’t done. 

“It also means,” he added, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, “I wasn’t gonna let some sweaty, insecure little prick keep looking at you like you were an object. Not when I know exactly how a woman should be treated, how you deserve to be treated.”

“Wow,” you breathe, almost to yourself, “you’re like… dangerously good at this.”

He grins. Like he had you right where he wanted you.

And suddenly the room around you felt like it was shrinking. You instinctively go to tug your dress down a bit, feeling overexposed. But he’s quicker, catching your hand in his own. 

“Don’t,” he murmurs, “you’re perfect like this.”

You should laugh it off. You should roll your eyes.

But you don’t.

Because the way he says it- like he means it-makes something deep inside you clench.

“I liked your show.” and it feels like a confession, like something you weren’t allowed to say out loud. 

“I know.” and you roll your eyes playfully before he cuts you off with, “So did your thighs.” 

You choke on your laugh.

“Confident, aren’t we?”

Bucky tilts his head a bit, and you can’t tell if he’s getting a better look at you or analyzing exactly where he needs to touch to make you weak.

“Don’t act shocked. You started it. Squeezing your thighs together while I was on stage? That’s flirting.”

“That’s called crossing my legs.”

“Cross them around my head next time, and we’ll call it even.”

You blink.

“Are you always this subtle?”

“Sweetheart,” he grins, “subtle gets you half the fun. You want subtle, go back to your boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes. “Ex-boyfriend.”

He takes another step forward. Then another. Gently leads you to sit on the red couch, so soft it felt like you were being sucked into it. God, you didn’t even want to think about what this room would look like if you turned on a blacklight- 

He straddles your lap.

And you forget how to breathe.

His knees bracket your legs, not quite touching you. His hands rest on his own thighs, muscles flexing just slightly, forearms thick and inked. 

He’s shirtless. You were clever enough to have noticed that when you first entered, but now, up close, it was all-consuming.

The glow of the lights dances across his chest, down his stomach, and whatever oil he must have used on himself amplifies every divot of his toned body. He must have spent years eating clean and hitting the gym to get this kind of figure. Every inch of him screams control.

He looks like a god. 

“You ever had a dance like this?” he asks softly. 

You shake your head, sure that it’s the last move you’ll make before you become paralyzed forever. 

“Good,” his voice is raspy, like he’s almost whispering, “I want to be your first.”

He leans forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. 

“And your favorite.”

Then he moves.

His hips roll slow and deep, grinding just above your center, close enough to feel the heat of him through your clothes. His hands rest on the couch on either side of your shoulders, caging you in.

“How do you want this to go, doll?” he murmured, voice low and sinful “You want me slow? Gentle?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He was close-too close. You could smell him. Feel the heat coming off his skin.

“Or…” His metal hand gripped the back of the couch behind your head. “You want me to show you what your asshole boyfriend never could?”

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he doesn’t need to.

Because the way he watches your reaction-how your lips part in a silent gasp-it’s like he’s memorizing you.

You exhaled shakily.

“That one.” you say before your brain can catch up to your mouth, “That one sounds- sounds good.”

“Good,” he coos, “let’s make your boyfriend nice and jealous. Show him how a woman like you deserves to be treated.”

“God, can we please not talk about my boyfriend right now?” you mutter, doing your best to keep your hands rooted at your sides like you’re cuffed there.

Not a bad idea. 

He chuckles wickedly above you.

“You’re right, pretty girl. Sweet little thing like you, and he’s taking you to a dirty place like this? Doesn’t he know what happens when you don’t take care of your things?” he coos, rolling his hips once more, closer this time, “Someone might take them away. Take better care of them. Someone like me.”

You hear a soft, pathetic whine pass your lips before you can stop yourself.

His mouth curls. 

“That’s my girl, let me hear it. Let me hear how much you want this.”

He’s licking up your neck, biting gently at your shoulder, sucking the sensitive spot where your neck and collarbone meet, nibbling at your earlobe.

“Bet he’s never touched you like this, doll. Never had you whining, begging for him, not like I do. And I haven’t even shown you my best moves.”

“What, the ones that require me to buy two drinks minimum?”

“Mmm. The ones I really want to try on you. The ones that might get me fired.”

Then he moved-really moved.

His hips were flush against yours. His abs brushed your chest as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek. And then he finally brought his hips to yours.

Slow. Deep. Grinding down like he already knew exactly where you needed him most.

You gasped.

Your hands shot out on instinct, landing on his thighs, hard muscle under your palms. Just as quickly as you touched him, you pull away, internally cringing at your lack of control. 

“Sorry, I-”

“What are you sorry for, doll? Touch me all you want.” and he’s grabbing your hand in his, the vibranium arm still rooted behind your head. He brings your shaking fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he gives your fingers a soft kiss, and then he’s dragging your hand down his chest, letting you feel every smooth valley and crevice of his delicious body, still rolling his hips into yours. 

Your fingers curled around his legs as he rocked into you again-slower, rougher, the friction making the growing heat between your legs grow more intense, drawing a gasp from you. 

“God, the sounds you’re making,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “You ever been this wet with your clothes still on?”

“Jesus, Bucky-” and he’s back to his attack on your neck.

You’re gonna think about this later, aren’t you?” he said against your skin. “Gonna lie in bed and replay this in your head…fingers between your thighs… wishing it was me.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, rocking your hips up to meet his.

“There she is.”

You’re not even sure when it happens.

One second, Bucky’s hips are rolling slow and smooth against yours, his hands slipping beneath your dress in ways that definitely broke some rules, his voice wrecking you in your ear.

“You feel that, baby?”, he rasps, “That’s all me. For you.”

You’re just about to cave, to beg for him to just take you right there.

Then the door slams open.

“What the fuck?”

[nighttime-rebel]

That last point.

Before my egg cracked and I sloughed off the suffocating yolk of masculinity, I went through a phase in my early 20’s of being what I believed was a cynical, artsy writer who had high standards, was above the pedestrian, and encouraged others to rise above the mundane and not just be sheep following the herd.

In reality I was just a pretentious prick, and I paid for it.

I annoyed people, hurt the feelings of close friends, and repeatedly put my foot in my mouth. I was so enamored of this image of myself as a “crotchety on the outside but if you really get to know him he’s really sweet” kind of guy, and all it did was hurt me, make me feel isolated.

And finally, one day, after *thoroughly* making an ass of myself and getting shouted down by some women who weren’t taking any of my shit, I broke down crying and asked myself what was wrong with me.

And the fact was that I had a choice to make:

I could either keep doing what I was doing, believing that some ideas, some behaviors, some ways of living were more “well-heeled”, “refined”, or “intellectual” than others, or I could just accept that what really matters is people being happy, and living their best lives without some tool giving them grief.

I was immediately happier, and slowly, but surely became a better person and friend. I still had a long way to go, and many other toxic traits to abandon, and I still kept fucking up and doing stupid shit, but as time went on all that venom flowed out of my system, and soon the poison of toxic masculinity with it.

So my advice, if you happen to be a 20-something cis man reading this: Let it go.

Forget everything you have ever been told or thought about “being a man” or “what makes a girl attractive” and just focus on being who you are. Specifically, learning who you are.

Earnestly explore your hobbies, your interests, your philosophy, your politics, and most of all your emotions. Don’t be afraid to cry, or laugh, or giggle, or blush.

Don’t listen to what society tells you you should be. Concentrate on being who you truly are. And what’s more, let the people in your life be who they are, and accept them for it.

If you do these things, relationships, platonic and romantic, will become infinitely more comprehensible to you, and you will be able to navigate them effectively, even if it takes you a little while.

[posh--bee]

all bark no bite || Aaron Hotchner

pairing → Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary → It starts with your boss slash older boyfriend's hand simply resting on your thigh while driving in one of the team's SUVs through the night. But it soon turns into your hand on the noticeable bulge in his tight pants, teaching him a long overdue lesson.

warnings → smut (18+ only), fem!reader, BAU!reader, secret relationship, age gap, teasing, handjob, car sex...?, heavy on the dog imagery, shamelessly pushing the desperate loser bottom Hotch agenda

author's note → This was supposed to be a blurb but after the first 500 words the story looked me dead into the eyes and told me it's a full fic. And now, a few days and this year's ESC later is! And I really don't what happened here, all I can say is that I am but a mere slave of the freaky spirits that possessed me to write this. Let me know what you think about it ;D

word count → 4k

masterlist(s)

The countryside outside your window passes by in a blur of various shades of black, the darkness closing in all around you, broken only by the blindingly bright headlights of the government-issued (and in your humble opinion, incredibly ugly) massive SUV you're currently driving in.

Well, you're not actually the one driving, Hotch is, because he insisted like the annoyingly caring boss slash secret older boyfriend he is, his focus solely and sternly on the road in front of you to keep the car from crashing into the thick line of trees standing next to your path through nowhere America, population: just you and him, and some forest dweller thankfully smart enough to wait for you to pass by them before stepping their paws or hooves onto the cold and bumpy asphalt.

You're just sitting prettily in the passenger seat, bored out of your mind with a headache brewing behind your eyes from the long and exhausting day you had that is already bleeding into the next one, examining the different secluded locations your current unsub dumped his victims' bodies to be discovered by unsuspecting hikers weeks or sometimes months later.

You scrub your hands over your face and rub your tired eyes which earns you a sympathetic chuckle from your personal chauffeur, his eyes never leaving the road ahead of you. You resign yourself to fiddle with the fancy radio of the SUV, skipping from obscure local station to obscure local station, from generic country song to generic country song before you turn the stupid thing off for good with a huff of grouchy frustration.

"Don't worry, the motel isn't far anymore, okay?"

If his low and gentle voice isn't enough to appease your mood, the big big hand that leaves the steering wheel in favor of coming to rest on top of your thigh definitely is. He softly squeezes your leg, his doting eyes finding yours for just a moment and you can't help but to smile at the man who stole your heart with his brown eyes following you longingly whenever he thought he was unobserved, with his awkwardly gentle touches and his sad attempts of what he thought qualified as flirting. The warmth of his palm seeps steadily through the fabric of your trousers into your own skin, the pleasant feeling spreading from there through your whole body and you relax into your seat, immediately mollified by this simple touch of his.

But as his thumb starts to rub slow circles into your clothed skin, even absentmindedly tracing along the inner seam of your pants, the depraved part of your brain that embarrassingly is always just a little bit horny for him deliberately misreads your boyfriend's innocent gesture and suddenly, your whole body is wide awake. You try to be good and ignore the tingling sensation between your legs each slow and heavy drag of his thumb against your skin feeds, but it gets more and more insistent by the second and you can't help but hope against hope that his deliciously thick fingers will be shoved down your panties to toy with your clit and fill up your lonely cunt within the next few minutes.

You're 99.8% sure that Hotch isn't sharing this particular vision of yours, with the remaining 0.2% wishful thinking at best, but that doesn't stop you from curling your fingers around his much larger hand and slowly, playfully bringing it closer to where you so desperately need it, need him.

Regrettably, your boyfriend, who is much more concerned with decorum than you could ever be, proves you right.

"Behave, will you?" he gently scolds you, a lovingly exasperated smile playing on his lips as he wiggles his hand from your insistent fingers. He shifts slightly in his seat then, raising his hand to your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before simply cupping your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin softly.

You lean into his touch immediately, the whine that spills past your lips making you sound incredibly pathetic but you don't care about that right now. You're exhausted and frustratingly turned on and just want him to make you feel good while you're enthusiastically returning the favor. If he actually loved you, like he always tells you he does in the stolen moments during cases or in the privacy of your apartment, he'd just stop the car on the side of the road and let you climb over center console onto his lap, let you spit in your palm to work him to complete hardness before pulling your panties to the side and sink onto his cock that you're actually convinced ruined you for any other man on the planet—not that you would admit that in front of him, ever. And then he'd let you ride him to your heart's content, you gasping and moaning on top of him as his infuriatingly perfect dick hits all those sweet spots inside of you with every sharp thrust while he hides his face in your neck, groaning wetly against your skin, his hands leaving bruises against the soft skin of your hips while desperately chasing his own release—until you're both shaking with ecstasy and exhaustion, the tinted windows of the SUV fogged up from your exertion, and your shared spend dripping from where you're connected so intimately, making a sticky mess of his trousers and the black leather of his seat.

But instead his thumb brushes lightly over your pouting bottom lip before he's leaning into your space to place an infuriatingly deep and lingering kiss to your lips, his talented tongue tracing the seam of your lips teasingly while his eyes flicker between your half-lidded and blissed-out ones and the dark road stretching in front of you.

The only thing that that kiss accomplishes is to stir the simmering arousal deep in your belly into a blue-flamed fire and make you a little bit stupid which he's completely aware of, smugly smirking against your lips before pulling back completely, even placing his other hand back on the steering wheel.

This time, you swallow the pitiful little noise rising in your throat, clinging to your last measly shreds of dignity with burning ears and the miserable throbbing of your neglected clit between your legs.

You stubbornly turn your head with your chin held high to watch the blurry darkness rush past your window instead of longingly staring at his side profile and strong jawline for the rest of the drive like your heart—your pussy—wants to. (Same difference, really.)

You hear him chuckle quietly to himself which only makes you raise your chin higher, visibly flinching when you suddenly feel the tips of his fingers ghost over the naked skin of your arm. He immediately squeezes your elbow in apology for startling you and you can't help the smile tugging at your lips at the sweet gesture, hoping he doesn't feel the goosebumps that his initial touch caused to rise on your skin.

Then he says your name all adoringly with that stupidly attractive voice of his and you aren't strong enough to not look at him then. The slow grin that forms on his handsome face and the cocky rise of one eyebrow however tell you that you fell right into his trap. Because apparently, he's not done teasing you yet—far from it.

But two can play this game, you decide with an overdramatic roll of your eyes, especially when he opens his mouth again, drawing out his words slightly.

"Be good for me, sweetheart, and I promise you I'm all yours when this case is over and we're back home."

The indignant huff that pushes past your lips at his words only makes him grin harder, the enticing crow's feet framing his eyes and the dimples at the corners of his mouth mocking you with how stupidly attractive you find them—find all of him, really.

But you're quick to wipe that grin off his face when you reach over and drop your hand to his lap, unceremoniously cupping him over his tight dress pants.

His reaction is everything you knew it would be—and then some.

Instinctually, his hips roll forward, pushing himself more insistently into your touch, into the warmth of your skin bleeding through the layers of fabric and the delicious pressure you're squeezing him with, his jaw going slack in the process, his control immediately slipping through his fingers as they're gripping the steering wheel for dear life. You revel in this sight without shame, without mercy, the realization of how much power you're holding over him giving you a headrush like it did the first time. And you're really not a good enough person to not exploit this little fact unashamedly, not when he was acting like that, toying with you like that.

He may have you wrapped around his little finger, but his leash is in your hands and you're keeping him on a tight rein.

Because for you and only you, this big bad, scary FBI agent becomes a docile little lapdog, one single assertive touch of yours and he's presenting his belly to you.

All bark and no bite.

Because while you're playing the role of his hypersexual younger girlfriend perfectly, not only easily 10 years his junior but also his subordinate for the extra sprinkle of office drama wrapped in an HR nightmare, he's the pathetically repressed and touch-starved middle-aged, overworked and divorced father who wallowed in shame and guilt over his 'inappropriate' thoughts and feelings for you until you showed him absolution by shoving him into his office one night when the bullpen was completely deserted and simply yanking his tie down until his lips crashed into yours.

And you're very happy with your complementary roles in this still-secret relationship of yours, because you know you're only acting like you are with him, because he's the first and only man you have ever fully trusted with your body and soul, with every fiber of your being, knowing with absolute certainty that your trust won't be broken.

You're even more pleased about it when his head falls back against the headrest of his seat and a rough moan reaches your ears, a guttural sound coming from deep within his chest that resonates between your legs. And for now, you're kind enough to continue your ministrations, not when he's standing at attention for you so nicely after only a few light and teasing touches of yours.

Your usually so composed boyfriend curses under his breath which in your humble opinion is one of the hottest things he can do, only surpassed by staring down patronizing and sexist small town police officers with a superiority complex and calmly but sternly putting them into their place, or rolling his shirts above his elbows to do literally anything. Bonus points if he's wearing his bulletproof vest for any of these three scenarios.

"What are you doing?" he manages to grit through clenched teeth before his breathing hitches delightfully, your hand purposefully stroking over the mouth-watering shape of his generously sized and equally aroused dick clearly outlined against the tight fabric of his pants. Your fingers close around him as best as they can like this, the sheer girth of him shutting down your brain momentarily as you're reminded just how perfectly he fills you up when you sink down on his cock, the stretch toying deliciously with the fine line of absolutely heavenly and almost painfully. Your poor neglected cunt clenches around nothing and you feel your arousal turning your panties into an uncomfortably sticky mess.

You're brought back to reality when you feel his cock twitch pitifully against your hand in its confinement and you remember your boyfriend asked you a question that you haven't answered yet. How rude of you.

So you look at him with your eyes fluttering innocently, your head tilted to the side in mock-confusion, all while your hand continues to stroke him and make him lose his mind—the realization that he will finish in his pants if you keep your sweet torture up only makes the coil in his stomach tighten, his ears and cheeks burning in humiliation.

"What do you mean?" you chuckle lightly, mirth dancing in your bright eyes, getting drunk on the sight of your usually so commanding and imposing boyfriend being turned into this pathetic mess of a man from just your nimble hands. "I'm only returning the favor."

Not even a second later your face falls and your eyes widen in belittling concern, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you ask him gingerly, "Or do you want me to stop?"

You're cruel enough to pull your hand back, too, folding both of them in your lap while searching his suddenly panicked eyes, looking almost earnestly, but the condescending smile on your lips gives you away immediately. Not that you were really trying to hide it.

The wanton little whine that spills past his lips is answer enough, pleading with you out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze torn between your pretty and mean face and the road he's still driving the massive SUV on.

You however are not merciful enough to answer his pleas, too entertained by watching your poor boyfriend figuratively and literally squirm in his seat. But like the misbehaving and greedy mutt he is he blindly reaches for your hand in your lap, his shaking fingers curling tightly around it before pressing it back to his erection straining against the dark fabric of his pants, stroking himself with your hand swallowed by his own, his hips rolling mindlessly into the touch.

Your surprised little sound that was decidedly not a moan is drowned out by the relieved sigh pushing past his lip. You only allow this crude stunt of his because you're literally too stunned by it to do anything else but watch him with your mouth hanging open, letting him use your hand as he pleases, debauched and desperate, your touch the only thing on his mind.

Oh, you'll have to seriously put him in his place.

Because if he really thinks he can get away with misbehaving like this, denying you earlier what he's doing right now, there is a horribly rude awakening waiting for him on the horizon.

That's the only thing on your mind as you struggle to regain your composure even as your fingers curl around his twitching dick, squeezing him harder than is probably comfortable in punishment, before wrestling your hand out of his grasp.

"Fuck, don't stop—"

You ignore how your name leaving his lips in a moan makes your thighs clench together, ignore how your poor clit throbbing with want screams at you to just shove his hand down your pants to finish what he wouldn't earlier, ignore his words and not dignify him with any spoken answer.

Instead, you lean closer to him over the car's center console, your fingers making quick work of his belt before unceremoniously popping open the button of his trousers. His hips shift closer to your touch again while both of his hands have the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grasp, his tongue peeking out to wet his dry lips briefly.

"Sweetheart—"

His eyes snap down to his own lap where you're slowly pulling down his pants' zipper but you pause halfway through when you notice where his attention has shifted to.

"Eyes on the road, Agent Hotchner," you scold him sternly and he obeys at once, firmly fixing his gaze on the dark road still stretching out in front of you, humming appreciatively when you open his fly all the way. You bring your hand closer to your lips then, shamelessly spitting in it while you have front row seats to your boyfriend hurriedly pulling his erection out of his underwear without his eyes straying from where you've told him they should be. He's well-behaved enough to immediately return his hand to its place on the steering wheel, even when you take a moment to appreciate him in all of his glory like this. His cock stands up proudly for you, coming to rest against his stomach, gently twitching. Even in the dim lighting your eyes can easily follow the prominent vein running down his considerable length, the head of him a miserable shade of red and the drop of pre-cum shining on the tip beckoning you closer.

You give into the temptation, your spit mixing with the sticky clear fluid as you bring your wet palm to his sensitive head, your hand closing around it before you slowly, deliberately work your way down, making sure every single inch of his stupidly big cock feels the delicious tightness and warmth of your fingers wrapped around him, keeping the same maddening pace when you reach the base and retrace your path back to his weeping tip.

He sighs your name oh-so gratefully and you're almost willing to forgive this blatant misbehavior of his during tonight's drive now that your hand is wrapped so nicely around his cock, burning hot to the touch, his skin silky-smooth and soft, your thumb tracing along the vein at the side. Especially now that you feel the whole weight of him against your palm, real and perfect and twitching desperately, and only for you. Yours to play with, caress and tease until his whole body goes rigid as his orgasm hits him, his dick pulsing in your hand as you work him through it, thick ropes of cum spurting from his tip, covering your fingers and running down your hand, his length, little drops of it getting caught in the coarse dark hairs at the base.

But you square your shoulders, figuratively that is, reminding yourself that you can literally drool over his cock after you're finished with this basic lesson, teaching your unsuspecting boyfriend that actions have consequences and that he should know better than to string you along like he did.

Without warning you pick up your hand's pace, deliberately neglecting his most sensitive spots while you steadily jerk him off, the sounds of the car rolling a little less than smoothly over the bumpy road drowned out by all of his enticing noises, groans and gasps and moans, high and breathy, by the sound of your hand guiding him closer and closer to the edge.

You're attuned well enough to his body by now to keep him from falling before you want him to, expertly dancing around his point of no return, slowing down when he gets too close, replacing your palm with just the tips of your fingers or stop moving altogether, simply holding him with your hand wrapped around the thick base before beginning to gently stroke him again.

So with all that petty torture you're subjecting your now writhing boyfriend in the driver's seat of the still moving SUV to, you're admittedly a little surprised when you look up and see the red neon sign of the cheap motel the team is staying at for this case glowing like a beacon in the dead of the night, the bold "M" flickering sickly, instead of ending with the car's whole engine block wrapped around a tree somewhere in a ditch next to the desolate road like you expected you would.

With his last ounce of strength and sanity, your boyfriend jerkily maneuvers the car onto the motel's premises, pulling up next to the other two government-issued SUVs before carelessly and quite crookedly throwing the car into park. He impatiently unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches over to do the same to yours, giving you no further warning before his strong arms wrap urgently around your waist and back, half-lifting, half-dragging you over the center console to place you squarely on his lap.

His big hairy paws immediately cage your face between them, insistently pulling you closer until his hungry lips are pressed to yours, groaning deeply against your mouth in pure, bone-deep relief, all but devouring you like the starved mutt that he is.

And you let him, meeting his desperation with the same hunger, the same greed, your fingers far from gentle where they grab onto a fistful of dark strands of hair at the back of his head, pulling on them just for the sake of it, just to swallow the curse that tumbles from his mouth into yours when his tongue finds yours.

His arms are wrapped almost suffocatingly tight around you, trapping your body against his while his fingers are digging into your soft skin, and it doesn't seem like he plans on letting you go anytime soon, wanting you just like this. Right here, right now, parked in front of a little motel with the car's headlights not even turned off, the engine still idling—a motel, you might add, that all of your medically certified insomniac teammates are staying at too.

How adorably hypocritical of him. At least you wanted to fuck him on the side of a deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

So finally, it's your turn to grin wickedly against his lips and slowly pull back from him. You chuckle quietly at the way he immediately sways forward, blindly chasing your touch, his dark and dazed eyes blinking open sluggishly when he doesn't find it again because you're moving out of his reach further.

He searches your face in stupefied confusion, the warm brown hue of his eyes swallowed almost completely by his blown-out pupils, while you only smile serenely at him, your arms wrapped around his shoulder lightly while your fingers are playing with the short strands of hair at his neck.

"Sweetheart, please."

He actually whimpers and you don't know what that says about you, but it's probably the hottest sound you've ever heard coming out of his mouth. His fingers dig deeper into your skin, hard enough to leave bruises and bordering on painful but you really don't mind, too drunk on this beautifully debauched sight in front of you. His usually carefully and strictly styled hair is a mess, the apples of his cheeks rivaling the red glow of the motel's neon sign and his lips kiss-swollen and shining with spit while his belt is unbuckled and his pants are open, his painfully hard dick trapped between your bodies, begging for the release you denied him over and over again during the drive. Release, he realized in desperate dread, you're not planning on allowing him now as well.

You lean closer to him again, your chest pressed against his while your breath fans over the shell of his once-pierced ear. He didn't try to deny it when you asked him about it, after all, you could see the little mark left on his earlobe from when he was younger, but to this day he heartlessly refuses to show you a picture of him back then wearing an earring even though you promised him you would be normal about it. (You absolutely wouldn't. You know that. And he knows that too.)

Your low voice so close to his ear makes a shiver run down his spine, but the words leaving your lips in a condescending purr turn the blood in his veins to ice.

"You didn't seriously think I'd let you come after teasing me like this, did you? Oh, you poor, delusional man."

You catch his earlobe between your teeth and with one last dirty roll of your hips you reach for the door handle on his side and hop out of the SUV, striding to the entrance of the motel, letting the metal ring of the key to your single room spin around your finger.

"Have a good and restful night, sweetheart," you sing-song without looking back, your lips curling into a devilish smile when you hear your boyfriend's broken "Fuck—!" that sound like a sob echoing through the dead of the night.

You really hope he will remember tonight's lesson—for his sake.

Because only well-behaved good boys get their treat.

Thank you so much for reading <3 Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

Feel free to hop into my inbox and talk to me ✨

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[sumluckr]

Being in a situationship with Geum Seong-je hcs:

• You don’t remember how it started. Not really. You just remember the tension. That weird, low-level electricity that followed you whenever Seong-je was around. He never flirted. Never smiled at you. Barely even talked. But there was always this feeling — like he was waiting for something. Like he was watching.

• The first time it happened, it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even planned. It was after a party. You were pissed, he was pissed, you said something sharp and stupid and he grabbed you by the wrist and shoved you against the wall. And you didn’t tell him to stop. Not when his mouth was on yours. Not when his hand was between your legs. Not even when he said, “You better not make this a thing.”

• And it didn’t become a thing. Not officially. You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t ask him where he went when he disappeared. He didn’t ask you who you were texting. But somehow, it kept happening. Every time you said it was the last time, it wasn’t.

• He doesn’t touch you in public. Doesn’t text you goodnight. Doesn’t post. Doesn’t call. But he shows up. Always. Always at the worst times — late nights, after arguments, when you’re pissed at the world and don’t want to see anyone.

He never asks if he can come in. Just leans against your doorframe and waits. You always let him in.

• You’ve never heard him say “I like you.” But you’ve heard,

“Don’t wear that out again.”

“Why were you sitting next to him?”

“Next time you ignore me, I won’t be so nice.”

That’s what passes for affection with Seong-je.

• He talks to you like you’re just a convenience. Acts like you’re the one who keeps crawling back to him. But he’s the one who remembers what food you like, who pulls you onto his lap when you’re angry, who won’t let you leave when you’re crying even though he’s garbage at comfort.

“I’m not gonna say some soft shit,” he mutters, brushing your hair off your face.

“Didn’t ask you to,” you bite back. But you lean into his chest anyway.

• You don’t call it jealousy. But the second you so much as laugh too hard at another guy’s joke, he shuts down. Goes silent. Gets mean. One time you were drunk at a gathering and sat in someone else’s lap and Seong-je didn’t say anything until the night was over — then dragged you into a side hallway, slammed you against the wall and kissed you so hard your lip split.

“Don’t make me look stupid again.”

You should’ve been mad. But you kissed him back harder.

• The sex is intense. Desperate. Quiet, sometimes — like if anyone heard it, it’d make it real. He doesn’t make love. He fucks. Fast, rough, with teeth on your neck and his fingers gripping your hips so hard they bruise. But sometimes, right at the end, he softens. Presses his forehead to yours. Keeps his hand on your thigh. Stays inside you a little longer.

That’s the part that really fucks with your head.

• Afterward, he doesn’t cuddle. Doesn’t say sweet things. Half the time he lights a cigarette and stares out the window. But he never leaves right away either. He always lingers. Picks up your clothes. Brushes his fingers against your back like he didn’t mean to.

It’s not affection. But it’s something.

• You tell yourself you’re not attached. You tell your friends it’s nothing serious.

“It’s just sex,” you lie.

But it’s not. Because it makes your chest ache when he leaves. Because you dream about him. Because you miss him even when you hate him.

• He pretends he doesn’t care. But he knows things. You were sick once and didn’t tell anyone. He showed up with soup and medicine and didn’t say a word about how he found out. Just pushed the bag into your hands and muttered, “Don’t be dumb next time.”

• Sometimes he gets violent. Not with you — but around you. He holds it in, but you can see it simmering. He clenches his fists when people look at you too long. You’ve seen him pull someone aside and say something low enough you couldn’t hear. The guy didn’t speak to you again after that.

• You try not to cry in front of him. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He shuts down — stiffens, goes cold. But once, when you broke down in his apartment, he didn’t leave. Just sat beside you, awkward, quiet, and rubbed your back. Later, when you were asleep, you felt him pull the blanket over you and press a hand against your spine like he was checking to see if you were still breathing.

• You’ve stopped trying to define it. He won’t. He acts like the whole thing is your idea. Like you’re the one who made it messy. But he’s the one who shows up every time. The one who gets jealous. The one who pulled you into his lap last week and whispered, “No one touches you. Ever.”

• You don’t date anyone else. Not because you’re exclusive — but because it wouldn’t feel right. He’d find out. And it wouldn’t be worth the fallout. You saw what he did to that guy last semester.

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he told you after.

“Then why do you act like it?”

He didn’t answer.

• Sometimes, when you’re asleep beside him, you think about how it could be different. How if he’d just admit it — just say he wanted you — it might be okay. You might be okay.

But then you wake up, and he’s already getting dressed, already halfway out the door.

“Lock it behind me,” is all he says.

• You know this can’t go on forever. But you also know — if he ever asked you to stay, you would.

And if he ever told you to stop seeing anyone else? You’d listen.

Even if it hurt.

Especially if it hurt.

[confuzing]

Street kid Luo Binghe makes the mistake of letting some weirdo get a hold of him and finds himself locked up in a windowless room somewhere.

The only bright spot in this shit situation is that there's another boy in there with him. Shen Yuan is clearly in considerably worse shape than Luo Binghe and he says he's been here for a very long time. But he's so kind to Binghe and deliberately draws their captor's attention to himself (and away from Binghe) whenever he can.

He also, after Binghe's been there about a month, steals their captor's keys, unlocks the restraints they're both in, and then shoves Binghe out the boarded up window he's been prying open when he had time.

Shen Yuan is too big to fit through the window, he says. They both know that's not true but they can also both hear that their captor is coming-he must have noticed the keys were missing- and Shen Yuan intends to stall him while Binghe gets away.

Binghe promises to come back with help and SY just smiles and nods and shoots him away.

He runs as fast as he can, and once he's far enough away from the house he escaped from he starts asking for help- but no one is listening to him. And he knows if he goes to the local guard he'll probably be handed back over as a runaway slave... And then he sees two men who both seen almost to shine in the dirty city streets... they must be cultivators, they must. If anyone can help him now it will be them. So Luo Binghe throws himself at the taller of the two men and starts begging for help.

Shen Qingqiu is absolutely positive this kid is trying to lure them into an ambush, but Yue Qingyuan- who invited himself along on SQQ's mission without asking him- doesn't think so.

YQY goes with LBH, and SQQ follows, complaining that this is a trick the whole way- up until they discover that yes actually the local nobleman does have a secret room he's been imprisoning children in and there is indeed an almost beaten to death SY in there.

YQY sends SQQ off with SY- gotta get that kid medical attention ASAP- while he and LBH stay behind to Politely Ask Some Questions.

When YQY and LBH arrive back at the sect SY is still in the medical ward but isn't dying and is even awake! LBH is relieved and refuses to leave him again.

YQY fills SQQ in that not only were both boys not slaves, SY was actually the son of the nobleman's first wife she had as the result of an affair. He disappeared from the household around the time the first wife died and all the servants assumed their Lord had sold the boy or killed him outright.

But now that the nobleman has died a sudden and painful and extremely mysterious death it looks like SY has inherited the estate. YQY will have someone from An Ding go sort out the details since SY can't.

SQQ watches YQY smile at the little urchins they've rescued and talk in a way that obviously means he intends them to stay and says, internally 'Fuck no Qi-ge you don't get to replace me with a Shen you actually did manage to save. Absolutely not!'

Out loud the conversation goes:

SQQ: I want the older boy.

YQY: What?

SQQ: You intend for them to stay right? I want the older boy for Qing Jing Peak, you can keep the little one if you want.

YQY, pleased and assuming SQQ and SY must have bonded while he and LBH were away: Of course.

SQQ and SY have not bonded, and once they get back to QJ Peak things are tense. SQQ is low-key kinda jealous of SY and also reminded much too much of himself by the boy. Except he was never as naive and stupid as this kid is! Why is he so nice? How?? And the little shit isn't even afraid of him!

SY, deeply sarcastic: Oh nooo. I'm going to be beaten? Such a thing has never happened to me before! *Coughs because his throat is permanently messed up from being nearly strangled to death*

SQQ, aware that if he hits the kid now he loses: You're not allowed in the library for a week.

SY: What!

SQQ: The next words out of your mouth better be "yes Shizun, sorry Shizun" or it'll be two weeks.

SY: ...yes Shizun, sorry Shizun.

Meanwhile LBH and YQY are having a magical adventure in becoming a found family and are bonding over their obsessions with their respective Shens. They absolutely come visit QJ Peak at least twice a week much to SQQ's displeasure and SY's delight.

[sleep-0-deprived]

Could you make a scenario between a yandere bully and a chubby reader saying that they can't sit on his face because he would get crushed?

Yan bully x chubby male reader Drabble~! ૮꒰> ˕ < ྀི꒱ა

Taglist : @asher-is-hotxp @silvern1006 @unstab1eperson2 @yyuinaa @dewday1 @blond3ang3l @creepy141dollie @m4r13ll @ihavezeropancreas @sooobiinn @just-ignore-them @fuckingmxonlight @nightwinglover101 @chasingknives @littlelilithsposts @gayaristocrat @whatupbishs @dearestlitteleaf @nightshadelover12 @galiadeeznuts @piercing-gaze

A/N: this S’ jus a short lil Drabble, but I hope ya like it though <33

All he could do is sit and blink- I mean how could he not. The words you just said to him sounded so stupid, the way you rambled about not being able to ride his face just as he so wished you to because you were ‘too big’ which you weren’t to him.

That thought left him flabbergasted I mean that’s the point. Your soft thighs and plush ass we’re all things he loved and right now all he wanted was to have his face nuzzled between your cheeks with his tongue pressed to your hole, he’d be damned if he didn’t get it.

“Stop acting like a damn idiot- get over here, you aren’t too fucking big”

He’d hiss his words and grip your hips like a life line pulling you over to him on his bed, trying to get your pants off you and you on top of him. He’d strip you from your underwear and make you spread your thighs wide until he could get beneath you with his hands sliding down to your ass and spreading your cheeks wide apart.

“I’m gonna suffocate you- I don’t wanna hurt you I know I’m big”

“You aren’t gonna hurt me, I’m not that weak I am man enough to handle you”

He took your insecurity and worry for him as a sign you thought he was too weak to have you riding his face- he had a point to prove now. His tongue wasting no time pushing into you and licking at your rim, the muscle twitching at contact. You couldn’t help but just arch your back.

His saliva starts to coat your hole, lapping up and down your crack making you all slick dripping on his face, running down his chin. This man simply cannot help himself with you.

He may not be gentle or the kind caring man that came from fairytales but he would make it clear how obsessed and devoted he was to you- to your body, he wanted to make it all his.

The sensation of your inner walls being stretched starts to fill you, your walls all gummy like trembling and clenching like it was trying to milk a cock, he kept at his pace rubbing circles on your hips groaning on about how you tasted while his nails dug into the fat of your flesh.

He made it known that this was for His pleasure and not yours, your pleasure just happened to come but it wasn’t the purpose. Even when you manage to orgasm he keeps going, he wants to wear you down and out. He will make the thought in your head become mush until the point you can’t question the things he wants to do to you regardless of size.

He was brutal with you, giving your ass a hard slap when your thighs quivered from your orgasm, he wants you to keep moving your hips and riding his face. He’s no where near done with you yet.

“Let’s see how many more you can give me baby, keep going. I didn’t say stop”

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Ooo hi! Can I please request a Bucky x fem!reader where Y/n was an innocent civilian that Hydra kidnapped to try to turn into a super soldier (like the ones we saw in flashbacks in CA: Civil War, the ones Bucky, as the Winter Soldier, helped train). Bucky and Y/n had fallen in love during her captivity in Hydra (since he doesn’t remember his name is Bucky, she honestly probably just called him “Winter Soldier” the whole time in Hydra), and in that time, they’ve had many times where they’re ✨alone✨in her cell and they both took advantage of that (iykyk). Also her body reacted differently to the serum, like instead of getting super strength and all that, her powers manifested in a soft, harmless way like being connected with nature (being able to grow plants/bring them back to life with magic). So while everyone else is being trained to be deadly super soldier assassins like the Winter Soldier, she simply cannot be as she doesn’t have super strength or anything else like them. Hydra considers her “weak” and “disposable” so they order Bucky (The Winter Soldier) to take her out of her cell, to the back of Hydra’s property and off her, but not only is he in love with her, she’s also pregnant with his daughter (Hydra doesn’t know, but Bucky and Y/n do) so with A LOT of effort, he is able to fight the brainwashing, just for a little, to tell her to run and never look back. She’d hesitate but he’d tell her through gritted teeth that he won’t be able to fight the brainwashing and order to take her life for much longer, so she doesn’t even get to hug or kiss him goodbye 🥺 She runs through the forest near where Hydra’s base was, and the Avengers happen to be on a mission there and see her wandering around, looking extremely terrified and confused (and freezing) and offer to help her🥺 Steve would be the first to approach her as whenever anyone else tried to get close to her she started crying more, cowering away, and begging them not to hurt her or take her back to Hydra because they’ll kill her and her baby🥺 Omg imagine the way Steve finds out Bucky is alive in this is when they do a paternity test on Y/n’s baby and they see a DNA match to Bucky (which would shock everyone because they thought he died in 1945 when he fell off the train). Steve and the Avengers would be a found family to Y/n and her daughter and take care of them, and help Y/n with her baby). Y/n and Bucky are reunited after he comes back from Wakanda (he didn’t want to take a chance that he could hurt Y/n or the baby being brainwashed) and he gets to meet his now 6 month old daughter 🥺

Our Happy Little Family » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Winter Soldier x Female Reader, Bucky Barnes x Female Reader with Steve Rogers/Captain America and the Avengers

Summary: After the Winter Soldier tells you to run away from the HYDRA base, you run into the Avengers. They help you and keep you and your baby safe. Then when you and Bucky are reunited, you and him have a happy little family when he meets yours and his daughter.

Warnings: Fluff, language, Super Soldier!reader, pregnant!reader, dad!Bucky/mom!reader, HYDRA, crying, flashbacks, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for this adorable request @kpopgirlbtssvt 🩵

A/N #2: Flashbacks are in Italic texts.

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIFS ARE NOT MINE! GIF credits go to the creators.

Days turned into weeks and then turned into months since HYDRA kidnapped you. You were just an innocent civilian when they got their hands on you. They injected you with the Super Soldier serum. They excepted you to be the same as the Winter Soldier and the other Super Soldiers, but you’re not. The serum somehow gave you powers to grow plants and to bring them back to life.

The only thing keeping you sane is the Winter Soldier. You don’t know his name. Due to the brainwashing, he doesn’t remember his own name. He lets you call him Winter. He sneaks into your cell any chance he gets. At first, he was told to guard you so you didn’t try to attempt to escape like he’s your own personal bodyguard. Now, he sneaks into your cell to spend time “alone” with you. Shortly after one of the nights you two spent alone together, you’ve been feeling different. At first, you thought it was side effects from the serum, but it’s not. It didn’t take long to realize that the symptoms you’re experiencing is telling you that you’re pregnant. The Winter Soldier realized it too without the brainwashing.

Today, you were pulled into a room. You assumed they were going to do more experiments on you. You put your hands on your stomach, scared of what those experiments might do to your baby. They did just the opposite. They called the Winter Soldier in the room. They said something to him in Russian that you didn’t understand.

You didn’t know what he said, because he was speaking a different language. The Winter Soldier nodded and grabbed your arm, leading you outside to the back of the base. You shivered when the cold weather hit your skin.

“What are we doing out here, Winter?” You asked.

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he took the gun he has in the holster on his hip and aimed it at you. Your eyes went wide and your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach.

“What-What are you doing?” You asked.

“What I was told to do.” The Winter Soldier says.

That was enough to tell you that he was told to kill you. Your eyes began to tear up. You were scared for yourself and your baby.

“Please don’t do this.” You pleaded. “You love me. What about our baby?” You say, putting your hands on your pregnant belly that’s showing a little bit.

He slowly lowered his gun. That’s when his mind started to fight the programming. That’s when his normal self -Bucky- began to show, but not for long.

“Run and never look back.” Bucky says.

“What?” You asked, making sure you heard him right.

“Run away and never look back.” He repeats. “Now!” He says through gritted teeth.

You listened that time and ran. You wanted to look back at him, but you didn’t. The Winter Soldier watched you run into the woodsy area behind the base. To make it believable, he rose his gun in the air and shot a bullet in the sky before going back inside the building.

You ran as far as you could. You stopped running when you seen the Avengers. You stopped a few feet away from Steve. He stopped what he was doing and looked at you. Steve cautiously approached you. You got spooked and walked backwards. You walked backwards till you bumped into a tree.

“Please don’t hurt me and my baby.” You whimpered.

“We’re not going to hurt you and your baby, ma’am.” Steve assures softly.

“Please don’t make me go back there. They’ll kill me and my baby.” You say with tears streaming down your face.

“They? Who’s they?” He asks.

“HYDRA.” You tell them.

“We’re not going to make you go back to them.” He assures. “If you come with us, we’ll help you and your baby.” He says softly.

You stared at him for a moment. Something about Steve is telling you that you can trust him. You nodded, agreeing to let him help you. Steve wrapped his arms around you and lead you to the quinjet. You sat down in one of the seats and Steve found a blanket to wrap around you. He informed the rest of the Avengers that he found a civilian and he’s on the quinjet.

“So you’re pregnant?” Steve asks, trying to make conversation.

You nodded.

“How far along are you?” He asks.

“I-I don’t know. I think a month.” You say.

“It’s ok if you don’t know. I’ll take you to the doctor and we’ll figure it out together, ok?” He says softly.

“Ok.” You whispered.

Steve took you to the Avengers compound and got you settled in and cleaned up. Like Steve said, he took you to the doctor to make sure you and your baby are ok. Everything is fine with you and your baby. The doctor said you’re almost two months pregnant.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asks as you and him approached the front entrance of the compound.

“Yes.” You replied.

“What did HYDRA do to you?” He asks.

“They injected me with the Super Soldier serum, but I guess it failed.” You say.

“What do you mean it failed?” He asks.

“It didn’t give me super strength like it did for you. It gave me powers to grow plants and to bring plants back to life.” You explained.

“Can you show me?” He asks.

You nodded. You found a small bush in the sun on the side of the compound that looks like it’s dying and needs water. Steve watched closely as you hovered your hand over it, making it come back to life.

“Woah. That’s interesting.” Steve says.

“I’m glad you think so. HYDRA didn’t think so.” You say.

“Don’t let what they said about you get to you. You’re unique in your own way. Everyone is.” He says.

“You’re right.” You smiled.

———

It felt like your pregnancy went by fast. At least that’s what you think. You gave birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl named Gracie a few months later. She’s the absolute light of your life. Steve and the Avengers offered to help you take care of her, which you happily accepted.

You walked in Gracie’s nursery to check on her and to see if she was awake so you can feed her, but Steve beat you to that. He was sitting in the rocking chair that’s by the window and feeding her.

“Look at godfather of the year.” You smiled.

“She was crying when I checked on her. So I made her a bottle and she’s fine now.” Steve says.

“Thank you, Steve.” You smiled.

“You don’t have to thank me, Y/N. I’m happy to help out.” He says.

You smiled and walked over to him. You gazed down at your baby girl as she was being fed.

“Can I ask you a question?” Steve asks.

“Of course.” You replied.

“Do you know who Gracie’s father is?” He asks.

“He never told me his name.” You say.

“You know there’s a way of figuring out who he is, right?” He says.

“I know. I’ve actually been thinking about that.” You say.

“I’ll help you out with it whenever you want to do it.” He says.

“Thank you, Steve. You’re the best.” You say with a smile.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles back.

A few days later, you got a paternity test on Gracie to find out her father’s name. Like Steve said, he helped out. He was there for moral support. So were the rest of the Avengers.

“I have the results of who Gracie’s father is.” You say, walking in the room with a piece of paper that has the results on it.

You unfolded the paper and read through the results.

“It’s says, James Buchanan Barnes is her father.” You say.

You feel better now that you know her father’s name. Steve found and his eyes went eye. How can that be when he witnessed his best friend falling off the train in 1945?

“Are you ok, Steve?” You asked. “You look like who seen a ghost.” You say.

“I know him.” Steve says.

“James Buchanan Barnes?” You asked.

“Yes. He’s my best friend. He died in 1945.” He says.

“How can he be dead when his name is on the results?” You asked.

“I don’t know.” He says.

Steve thought to himself. If those results are basically telling him that Bucky is alive, then he needs to look for him. That’s exactly what he’s going to do.

———

A few month later, Steve was able to track down Bucky. Bucky went to Wakanda to recover from the trauma HYDRA put him through. Steve told Bucky that you’re safe and had the baby. The whole time he was there, all he thought about was you and his daughter. After he got the help he needed, he was able to go home to be with you and his daughter.

“Are you ready to meet your daughter?” Steve asks as him and Bucky walked through the compound to find you.

“I’m more than ready.” Bucky says with a smile.

They found you in the lounge room feeding Gracie. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat when he seen you and his daughter.

“Someone wants to meet his daughter.” Steve says softly.

You looked up and seen Bucky. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw him.

“Winter?” You say softly.

“Call me Bucky, doll.” Bucky says softly.

Bucky sat down on the couch next to you, getting a better look at yours and his baby girl. His eyes filled with tears when he saw her. Steve smiles and left you and Bucky alone.

“What’s her name?” He asks.

“Gracie. She’s 6 months old.” You tell him.

“She’s beautiful.” He whispers.

“Do you want to finish feeding her?” You asked softly.

“Yes please.” He answers softly.

You carefully put Gracie in Bucky’s arms and he finished feeding her. You smiled at how great Bucky is with her. When it came time to put her in her crib for her nap, Bucky gazed at her with adoration on his face. Bucky heard you walk in the nursery and walked up next to him, but didn’t take his eyes off yours and his sleeping baby.

“She looks just like you.” You say softly.

“She has your beauty.” Bucky says softly.

Bucky turned to face you, putting his hands on your waist. You gazed in his blue eyes as you looked up at him.

“I’m sorry for almost doing what HYDRA told me- him to do that day. I should’ve ran away with you.” Bucky says.

“That’s in the past now. I forgive you, sweetie.” You say softly.

“I wish I could do something to make up for it.” He says.

“You already did. You gave me the most beautiful gift of all.” You say with a smile, referring to yours and his daughter.

Bucky smiles and kisses you sweetly and passionately.

“I promise I’ll do everything I can to take care of you and our baby girl.” He vows softly.

“And I promise I’ll do everything to take care of you.” You vowed.

You stood on your tippy toes and kissed him softly.

“I love our happy little family.” He whispers and smiles, putting his forehead against yours.

“I do too.” You whispered, smiling back.

-Bucky’s Doll

[ledbet]

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get it!”

“Nah nah nah.” You waggled your finger at the man. “My crew was hired to protect the town kids, and that’s what we’re doing.”

“Protect them by slaying the beast!”

You gave him a flat look as you picked some dirt from under your nails. The beast rampaged on outside your Mage’s barrier as the bedraggled children peeked out from behind your Paladin’s white cape. This was your favorite way to negotiate.

“Absolutely not. That beast is more interested in the factory. We’ll keep the children with us and out of harm’s way. Beast slaying is additional in hazard pay, and prevention of destruction of public or business properties is an additional one-time charge on top of that, depending on the value or potential value of the property of course.”

“That factory assures these children’s livelihood.” The well-dressed man’s face was red and bulging with barely contained frustration. “Without it the town will cease to exist!”

“Are you the factory owner?”

“How is that relevant?”

“I can’t negotiate property rates with laypeople, only property owners. People have been plotted against and financially ruined that way. It’s in your own best interest, you understand?”

He took in a breath and puffed up his chest. “Then, yes, I am the owner. Will you go after the beast now?”

“No.”

The factory owner took a threatening step toward your thin frame and only hesitated when your Rogue casually slipped in front of you, knives twirling on her nimble fingers.

“What happened to respect? I’m the head of this town. And what’s more, I’m your client!”

You raised an eyebrow and gave your best withering look. “At the cost you contracted my crew for, you’re hardly a client. A charity case, more like.”

His red cheeks flamed to maroon as he spluttered through his anger. Tight-fisted hands trembled at his sides, likely filled with the desire to wrap themselves around your neck. You smiled.

“How can you take this?” he shouted at your crew. “Letting this whip-thin little nothing tell you what you can and can’t do! I thought you were heroes, but now I see you’re leashed dogs!”

“Believe us, sir, we’d act if we could,” rang out the clear and surprisingly young voice of your tall Paladin. “But without the Miss we’d already be dead 10 times over. Heroes have to eat, too. It’s best you just negotiate.”

“Don’t call him ‘sir’,” you shot back. He ducked his head in acknowledgement.

The factory owner’s face started to turn purple. He looked about to pop. Perfect.

The man turned back toward you, a vile, twisted expression marring what must have been a handsome visage back in his day. “Treating clients this way, charity rate or not, is despicable. You ought to be ashamed.”

“Let me make one thing clear. You were never my client. This crew, these heroes, are my clients. They pay me to manage things for them. And I do, very well. I’m not their whip-thin little nothing. I’m their manager. Their shark.” He paused at that. You couldn’t resist a little smirk. “Do we understand each other a little better now?”

He said nothing, just stood for a minute breathing heavily. Not that far in the distance, the beast finished sniffing around the edge of the factory. It pawed at some decorative pillars and sent them crumbling to the ground as the children ooohed and ahhed. It wouldn’t be long now. The time was almost right.

“Those are interesting chimneys up there,” you remarked casually, pointing up at the factory roof. The owner followed the line of your finger. His angry face masked itself, deceptively blank.

“Oh?” He said disinterestedly.

Caught you, you thought.

“Yes, they’re kind of peculiar. That onion bulb shape is so unusual…almost the same shape as chimneys we’ve seen in the Cascadian capital, where they manufacture aether. It’s a difficult and expensive process, I hear, requiring particular parts from abroad.”

He sniffed, seemingly uncaring, and stuffed his meaty hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored suit. “Is that so?”

“It is.” You watched him closely. “I wonder what it would cost to have to replace one of those particular parts from abroad.”

He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

“The big chimney there must cost 1,000 gold alone. And don’t get me started on the aether engine. Have you ever seen one?”

He scuffed a shoe in the dirt, examining the mark he left behind as if there were nothing of more interest in the whole world. “Why do you ask?”

“They’re large, and finely tuned. I’ve heard some towns rely on children to tend to them, because of all the small, tight metalwork. And if they aren’t run to regulation they tend to spew unfiltered aether, attracting beasts.” You paused, noting how his foot stilled against the ground, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

As a unit, everyone within the barrier looked at the beast. It pawed at another pillar and pressed its flat nose against one of the factory windows, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a starved whine.

The owner took a deep breath.

“Alright, Shark,” he said with tired finality, “What do you want?”

You smiled, showing all of your pointed teeth. “Well, let’s discuss your anticipated earnings for the next quarter first. We can work out a payment plan from there.”

The beast took one hour and change before it finally fell under your Paladin’s blade, and turned out to be quite a lucrative way to spend your time. After collecting the first payment from your good friend the factory owner, in addition to some produce and meats given to your Cleric for healing injured townsfolk, you and your crew left the town with enough funds to take off the next few months. You pocketed your share, and explained back at camp while dividing out the rest of the coin.

“It’s too much for me,” the Paladin said, clear and honorable as he looked at the modest pile of gold in his hand.

“Me, too,” chimed in the Cleric, “especially when we know the suffering in that town.”

The Rogue rolled her eyes, but fell in line as she always did. “I think you’re both crazy. But I can’t say I like the idea of doing nothing for so many months. Sounds boring. And if we’re going to take more jobs then I suppose we don’t need all this.”

You didn’t bother to look up from your notebook as you did sums atop your modest travel desk. “You’re free to do with your money what you please. If it’s too much for you to use, and you know of people suffering nearby, then what are you talking to me for? You are the heroes, after all.”

“Can we spare it?” the Mage asked.

“I’ll make it so we can,” you said with a sigh, and the Paladin gave you a grateful smile. You raised a warming hand. “But don’t make this a habit.”

“We won’t, Miss,” they all promised. They were terrible liars.

They walked off, not toward the main town where the factory was, but toward the shanty town on its outskirts that housed most of the town’s children, many of whom happened to work at the factory. Purely coincidence, of course.

You flipped to the last page in your notebook, and pulled out your own earnings to count again, adding a tidy check mark against each member of your crew’s total retirement fund. A few more coin and each would be set for some time, if they ever decided to quit that is.

But they didn’t seem eager to. They weren’t in it for the money, as you well knew since not one of them had ever asked why you took such a large cut. Though, after the numerous times you had kept them from starving, and freezing, and being fleeced by prospective clients, they probably would have happily paid you anything.

But you had known for some time now that they had no thought to their own future. They probably planned to die on the job. That wouldn't look very good on your own resume, though, would it? You added a few more coin to each of their totals and smiled softly. No, you would see that you were all taken care of. It was your job to manage things, after all.

You are the highest paid member of your Adventuring Party. Not because you can fight, or have magic. You'd die to a cat, let's be honest. But because you can cook, clean, set up camp, also have a fierce sense of business. All things they more or less completely lack.