#i would Not change it i would not Want it changed. not even for a what if; really. yet their basis is Knowing They're Kindredly Doomed.....

[thebibliosphere]

Do you think Bruce Wayne would flirt with Benoit Blanc?

I think if Bruce ever found himself in a situation to meet Benoit Blanc, to his great chagrin, it’d be as Brucie Wayne. He’d be on some rich fuck’s island under cover when a murder happens and it’d be killing him that he can’t break cover to get a closer look at the body. And then along comes Benoit Blanc and Bruce decides, well he’s Brucie right now, it’d be weird if he didn’t flirt a little.

And hey, who knows, if Blanc likes him maybe he’ll let Bruce tag along and get into places Brucie wouldn’t normally be if he wasn’t trying to seduce this weirdly accented, tall glass of deductive skills. (And maybe he’s enjoying it a little more than he should, but technically he’s on vacation so…)

Blanc, of course, catches on and thinks Bruce has something to hide and is keeping him close because he thinks he’s either the killer or in on it.

Except that’s not what the evidence or instincts are actually telling him. Not really.

But he also can’t ignore the fact that Bruce managed to trip and fall directly into the filing cabinet in the office, causing the drawer to fly open and reveal the evidence Blanc’s looking for. Or that the billionaire has a slightly delayed reaction to seeing blood. Not much, but enough for Blanc to notice.

There’s also the way he keeps making suggestions that on the surface seem benign, but are nevertheless intended to lead Blanc toward where his own instincts are telling him to look. So either Brucie is one of those killers who likes to be involved in the investigation because they want to make sure you’re noticing their ‘genius’ or because they think they can control the narrative by being helpful, or…

“Y’know something, Mister Wayne…”

“Benoit, please,” Bruce says with a slow, seductive smile that unfurls like silk over rich velvet. “How many times do I have to ask? Call me Bruce.”

“… Bruce. You’ve been so remarkably helpful.”

“Oh, you know me. I always aim to please.”

Bruce’s smile takes on an electric edge that makes Benoit’s thumb slide to the gold wedding band on his ring finger. He’s a married man, he’s a married man…

“I can’t help but wonder, though,” Benoit says, matching Bruce’s smile for a knowing one of his own. “Don’t you get tired?”

His tone is off, he knows it is because Bruce’s expression doesn’t flicker, not even a jot. It’s just unnatural enough to be telling.

“Tired of what?” the younger man asks, just the right amount of cheerful confusion in his voice and an adorable title of his head like a puppy to make you miss the sharpness behind his eyes. The way his body is coiling tight. Ready for a fight.

“Of pretending,” Benoit says, lifting a cigar to his mouth, making a show of patting down his pockets for the lighter. “I know I surely do. It grates on a man, always being underestimated. Everyone thinking you’re not as sharp as you are. Not as clever, not as quick. It must be a relief, I think, to finally be seen…”

The hand that had been rummaging in his pocket shoots out, aiming for Bruce’s perfect face. Bruce deflects it, twisting Benoit’s hand in a viper-like move Benoit hasn’t seen since…

“Ra’s doesn’t train just anyone,” he says, acutely aware of how much Bruce’s expression has changed without so much of a flicker of muscle. How sharp and hard the angles of his face have become. How deadly. “I confess, I didn’t see it at first. You’re very good, Bruce. I never would have put two and two together if you hadn’t twisted Haggart’s elbow the way you did when he tried to grab Maxine.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “Take that as a compliment from one detective to another… Batman.”

[buildthoughts]

Minecrafters Using Reference

Reference as in real world architecture, not other minecrafters' builds, though that's a fair way to learn too. Studying real world architecture gives insights about designing buildings, while studying other minecrafters would give insight into how to accomplish certain effects in Minecraft.

I didn't have more than passing interest in architecture before watching mcyt, but now whenever I'm outside, I'm evaluating the buildings around me. Do I like their shape? color? Any interesting details? Any wear or texture? And above all: How would you do that detail/shape/etc in minecraft? (please note: I don't even play minecraft)

Rendition and Inspiration

There's a minecraft project called BuildtheEarth that's replicating the earth in minecraft on a 1 to 1 scale. There's some fantastic builds on there.

On hermitcraft, Joe Hills is known for creating to scale renditions of real world places/objects. In season 10, he's tackled a project of massive scale with Bell Labs. He used a map from the library of congress to layout all the shapes!

These are examples of renditions/replicas/copies/whatever you want to call it (Although Joe's doubles as a community build area in place of massive parking lots).

Then there's using the buildings for inspiration. This may involve just taking bits and pieces. Or maybe you just take a color palette. Or maybe just the shape. Maybe you don't take anything but vibes. As a general rule, I think having multiple sources of inspiration is important so the new build doesn't end up feeling like a rendition instead of its own thing.

Bdubs in season 9 used the bakery from Kiki's Delivery Service as inspiration for his mud cafe. It can be seen in the wood framing, the stairs, the archway, the shape, the shed, the chimney designs. But the colors, the composition, Bdubs made changes that made it his own and combined the addition to his previous shop Moss o Menos.

The aesthetics of Geminitay's season 10 base is based on the video game Dredge. I feel like the most obvious influence is in her research castle and fishing boats. She used inspiration from the spooky sea creatures in the game to create a uniquely frightening angler shop.

In Pearl's Build a Day series, she did a week focused on real world places. Here's the one she designed after a countryside home in Australia (her home country):

Goodtimeswithscar in season 7, when starting Aqua Town, based his shop on old department stores:

I like looking at his Aqua Town builds in comparison to his Scarland Main Street facades, which draw additional inspiration from Disneyland:

I feel like, comparing the builds you can see how he's grown; he's learned new detailing tricks, found colors and textures that work better with the architecture style. The main street has a similar layout to Disneyland, but his buildings are all unique.

Mogswamp is working on a massive build that's based on architecture drawings from Renzo Picasso:

He's incorporating groin vaults from roman architecture too!

I think builders learning about existing architecture is so good. It can give them so many ideas to add into their toolbox. It reminds them of small details that give builds life, like small sheds, some pipes, porches. And the builds don't need to be realistic; My mind goes to work by Shovel and Joel. Or everything Mumbo has done in season 10.

[maskedbyghost]

Hear me out, possessive reader plays a prank, or maybe to see how it would work out and starts acting wayyy less possessive, to the point of being a normal partner..

I NEED SI REACTION

Anon, I love your fucking mind. I had the best time writing this, literally giggling and kicking my feet while imagining Simon spiraling because his crazy girl went "normal mode" on him and he couldn’t handle it for even a second. BASED ON THIS IDEA

You barely looked at him when the waitress called him handsome.

You just smiled to yourself and kept sipping your drink, didn’t glare at her, didn’t grab his hand and lace your fingers through his, didn’t scoot closer in your seat or wrap your arms around him like you used to, and Simon sat there blinking at you like he’d just been slapped across the face.

And then when you walked past a group of girls at the grocery store and one of them giggled and said something about his arms, you didn’t even flinch, didn’t even frown, didn’t even murmur something low and territorial under your breath the way you always did, and Simon actually almost tripped over the cart trying to get a reaction out of you, heart hammering so hard.

You used to get pissed if he so much as looked at another woman too long, used to give him that smug little smirk when you caught someone staring at him, used to lean into him and press your mouth to his ear and mutter "mine" so dark and low that it left him shivering for hours, and now? Now you were just... chill.

Way too chill.

He caught himself thinking insane things like maybe you were losing interest, maybe you were getting ready to leave, maybe you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you, maybe you were pulling away slow and silent to make it easier when you walked out for good, and by the time you got home, Simon’s brain was working overtime, replaying every interaction, every glance, every smile you had given that wasn’t just for him, every time you hadn't touched him when you should have.

You didn’t steal his hoodie when he tossed it on the couch.

You didn’t scroll through his phone and make snarky comments about the girls who liked his photos.

You didn’t pull into his lap when he sat down to watch TV.

You didn’t tell him to shower because he "smelled like other people," which he always secretly loved, even though he rolled his eyes and grumbled about it every time.

You just... existed next to him.

Detached.

Simon sat there on the couch while you scrolled on your phone, completely casual, legs tucked under you, not touching him at all, and he was spiraling so badly he almost convinced himself he could physically see the relationship disintegrating in real time, piece by miserable piece.

He thought about asking if you still loved him.

He thought about proposing on the spot just to lock you down before you could change your mind.

He thought about texting Johnny and asking him if it was normal to feel like your entire world was slipping out from under you because your girlfriend wasn’t being a possessive lunatic for five seconds.

Finally, when you stood up and stretched and said, "I'm gonna head to bed" without even glancing at him, without even saying goodnight or trying to drag him with you, Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

He launched off the couch and followed you, heart pounding like he was about to get left behind at the airport or something, stomach twisted into a knot.

You climbed into bed and flipped onto your side, facing away from him like it was nothing, like you hadn’t spent months curling around him like a vine the second he lay down.

He just stood there at the foot of the bed, breathing way too hard for a normal human being, feeling an honest-to-God panic attack brewing in his chest.

"Love," he said, his voice way shakier than he wanted it to be.

You didn’t even roll over. "Hmm?"

He swallowed hard, hands fisting at his sides. "You don’t want me anymore."

You snorted. Actually snorted. "What are you talking about?"

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "You—you’re not even—you didn’t get mad when that girl flirted with me. You didn’t steal my hoodie. You didn’t call me yours even once. You’re acting like we’re—" his voice cracked and he cursed under his breath, "—like we’re normal."

You turned slowly, propping yourself up on your elbow, and the look you gave him was so infuriatingly calm he almost burst into tears on the spot.

"You mean," you said, so evenly it made his eye twitch, "like a normal girlfriend who trusts her boyfriend?"

He stared at you, chest heaving, entire body screaming at him that something was wrong.

"You’re gonna leave me," he said, absolutely sure of it, absolutely certain this was the beginning of the end.

You blinked at him for a second, like you were trying very hard not to laugh in his stupid, panicking face, and then you moved so fast he barely had time to react—you were grabbing him by the front of his shirt, hauling him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, and pinning him there with your thighs as your hands locked around his neck, firm but not tight, just enough to make him shut up and listen.

"Listen to me, you stupid, beautiful man," you said, voice low and furious in that way that made every nerve in his body light up, "you need me just as much as I need you. You belong to me. You hear me? You are fucking mine. I’m not going anywhere; I’m never fucking leaving you. I don't want normal; I want you wrapped around my fucking finger where you belong. Don’t ever doubt that again."

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing his, your hands still gripping his neck just enough to keep him pinned under you, and you added, your voice dropping even lower, smug and wicked, "And maybe I wanted you to lose your fucking mind for a bit. Wanted you to see how much you love it when I’m unhinged about you."

Simon just exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach and kissed at the same time, his whole body sagging against the bed.

He groaned, almost whining, burying his face against your chest with a muffled, desperate, "Fuckin’ hell, don’t ever do that to me again, you psycho."

But his arms were wrapping around you like steel, holding you so tight, and when you laughed and tugged his hair gently, he actually sighed in relief, like his whole world had finally clicked back into place.

"You’re crazy," he muttered again, not even trying to sound annoyed, his voice almost grateful.

"You love it," you said against his hair, grinning wide enough your cheeks hurt.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice raw and low and real, "yeah, I fuckin’ do. I need you crazy. Need you to ruin me a little. Keep me yours."

You kissed the side of his head, smug and sweet and savage all at once, and Simon just kept breathing you in, letting that awful gnawing terror bleed out of him one slow second at a time until there was nothing left but you, your hands, your voice, your body wrapped around him like armor, pulling him deeper, anchoring him exactly where he belonged.

And he was fine, better than fine actually, and exactly where he needed to be.

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

i can't even explain how much i love this idea...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[ozzgin]

You plan to throw them a surprise party, they think you're leaving the school. Misunderstandings should be avoided when you're dealing with a pack of obsessively attached students, yet here you are. content: gender neutral reader, yandere horde, parody, kidnapping, Patreon commission

[Yandere School Masterlist]

You’ve been acting strange lately. As the end of the year approaches, so has your behaviour become increasingly suspicious: acting emotional at random times, frequently reminiscing your arrival at Yandere School, asking your classmates to take another photo in order to commemorate the moment. Something is about to happen.

“A surprise party?”

Your mother eyes you curiously, putting the cutlery down. You nod, wiping the corner of your mouth with a napkin, and your father hums without gazing up from his 1001 Ways to Stalk book.

“I just wanted to thank everyone for helping me all this time,” you explain with a faint blush, idly nudging your breakfast around the plate. “To be honest with you, I don’t think I would’ve passed any of my classes without them.”

Your statement is by no means an exaggeration. As it turns out, sheer determination alone does not necessarily compensate for lack of talent or proper skill. You wanted to follow your parents’ footsteps, yet you quickly discovered that having a dream wasn’t merely enough to compete against the true elites of the yandere world. It was out of the kindness of your classmates and staff that you nonetheless succeeded. Your teachers stayed behind with you, your classmates wasted their weekends helping you through every step of the homework. To think such a fierce, cut-throat community would go against its very nature and extend unconditional support, to you of all people...Ah, you’re getting flustered again.

“That’s a fantastic idea, honey,” your mother encourages with a warm smile. “I’m sure they will love it.”

Meanwhile, somewhere away from your peaceful morning meal, the students are gathered with roughened faces and clenched fists, weighted down by an unspoken tension.

“I think it’s already obvious to everyone here,” a young man declares sombrely, taking a moment to observe the masses, “that (Y/N) is most likely considering dropping out.”

“How could this happen,” someone else shouts, voice breaking theatrically. “We did everything to keep their grades up. I’m certain it worked; I broke into the school’s grading system to confirm for myself!”

“Maybe we were too involved,” someone sheepishly suggests.

“Nonsense.”

“Well, they did catch us in the changing rooms that one time,” someone admits. 

“Ah, what about the time we stole their childhood albums to make copies for our shrines? (Y/N)’s mom almost killed us!”

“Don’t forget when our coach got caught sniffing (Y/N)’s confiscated jacket.”

“Can you blame him? That scent’s heavenly.”

Everyone nods in approval, then scrambles back into a focused frown after being scolded by the apparent leader of the pack. We must stay focused, he warns with authority.

This is no laughing matter. If you were to transfer to a different school, they would lose their one and only Darling! There’s no telling how the students and staff will react; there could be riots, wars, utter chaos. One could even go as far as to say that your fate no longer depends on your own whims. Your presence is of political importance, potentially causing irremediable damage to all involved parties if you’d ever make a rash decision.

“Do you have a date in mind,” your mother asks, taking away the empty plates.

You shake your head confidently, standing up from the table.

“We must settle this quickly, gentlemen,” the leader warns. “Mark down the date in your calendars.”

“Could it be that we got the time wrong,” your father probes, tapping his foot impatiently.

“No, I’m certain it’s today,” the woman retorts, checking her watch.

The classroom is overflowing with dazzling party elements, from balloons, to colourful garlands, to tables cluttered with snacks and appetizers; yet it’s missing the most important element – the people. You!

You shake your head to no avail. The blindfold is tightly secured over your eyes, and the intricate knots roped around your body leave no room for any kind of movement. You can tell you’re presently tucked in the trunk of a car, though you’ve no idea where said car is headed or why you’re folded in here to begin with.

Did you forget about some school appointment? No, the next kidnapping simulation should be after the holidays. You’re also rather confident you haven’t accidentally promised to be the study partner of some classmate on this day in particular. You should know; you have a thick scheduling notebook just for this purpose, given most of the school seems to be eager to tie you up and pretend to steal you away. Whatever happened to that third year who actually tried to leave the country with you? Despite your reassurance that you never once feared for your life, they still suspended him.

Ah, but now is not the time to daydream about the good old days. You have a party to attend. Your parents should already be at school, and you’d guess that most of your friends are on their way there. What will they think once they realize their host is missing? What a deplorable way to show them your gratitude!

Before you can consider how to escape this predicament, the door opens with nonchalance, and you’re carefully carried out and placed onto the ground. The blindfold is swiftly removed, causing you to squint your eyes against the sudden avalanche of light.

“What are you guys doing here,” you mumble in shock, gawking at more than half the school standing across from you.

“Don’t do this to us, (Y/N),” one girl cries out, collapsing to her knees and punching the ground for additional effect.

“What did I say about emotional blackmail,” the leader grunts. He snaps his fingers, and a pair of students lift the offender up, dragging her to the back of the group as she shouts in protest.

“Do excuse our methods, (Y/N),” he proceeds to explain with the calculated tone of someone deep in negotiations, “but you have to understand we’re all struggling to accept your decision. If we have ever wronged you or made you feel uncomfortable, let us know and we shall ensure immediate punishment for it!”

“Wait, what decision?”

“To leave Yandere School,” someone bawls, the others lowering their gaze. “We won’t accept it! Never!”

There’s a moment of silence as you process the words, lips pursed in confusion.

“Don’t lie to us, you’ve been acting strange for the past few weeks.”

“I mean, yeah, I was...planning a surprise party to, uh, thank you for all your help. Although I can see why you’d think it was a goodbye announcement instead,” you say, letting out an awkward chuckle.

Oh. That’s what it was. Well, it makes sense. It’s definitely something you’d do, upon further consideration. The crowd erupts in a murmur, and the leader of the pack rubs his temples, visibly humiliated to be caught in this farce of a misunderstanding. With ears flushed red, he quietly asks you for the location, then scrambles to retrieve the car.

“I’m so glad they showed up,” your mother sighs in relief, gesturing to a nearby teacher. “I was worried I might have to use the stun gun, had anything happened to my little (Y/N).”

A couple of your classmates swallow dryly, tugging at their collars. It’s the second time they’ve narrowly escaped death at the hand of your parents.

One student is angrily stuffing his mouth with some of the appetizers, trying to hold back the tears. If he knew it was all just a misunderstanding, he would’ve tried his luck with you instead of chauffeuring you around. Good Lord, to think you were all tied up, just for him, and he fumbled it.

[a-pute11as]

i don't share - alexia putellas

word count - 2.9k | summary - your arrangement with alexia had been working out pretty well, until a night out with the team had her jealous for something that's her.

MDNI 18+ - smut

you and alexia had been ‘friends with benefits’ for a while, something that had no real labels or exclusivity but it never really felt like that. not with the late night calls when you couldn’t sleep so instead you spent hours talking to her or the fact that she was the first person you went to with any kind of news you had to share, good or bad, or even the way you’d end up on her lap at every team bonding because there was, coincidentally, no seat left for you. 

your relationship was unpredictable and daring, but at the same time, it was familiar, easy and it felt safe. 

the two of you were still professional, the respect you had for alexia had never waivered, no matter how often your mind flashbacked to the way she had you arching your back the night before. you were good friends, two teammates that had a good connection, able to execute beautiful passes, precision assists, duels against oppositions. but off the pitch, it was a slightly different connection. 

a connection that held more intimacy. 

of course the team teased you endlessly, told you to ‘hurry up and make it official’, but you and alexia had made a deal to stay this way. it worked so why change it. 

But there was a different side of alexia on team nights out. she was possessive, jealous and incredibly selfish when it came to you. 

“i don’t like the way she’s looking at her,” alexia muttered to irene. 

alexia was sitting at the table reserved for the team, sipping on the last few sips of her drink as she complained to irene as you went to get another drink from the bar. irene was her current unlucky victim as she complained that someone was showing you an ounce of attention. 

irene laughed slightly before reassuring her, “ale, she’s just ordering a drink.” 

alexia continued to glare, her mind fizzing at the way the bartender’s eyes glazed over you, her tongue flicking her bottom lip as she laughed at something you said. 

“are you sure you’re still wanting to be just friends?” irene suggested, alexia immediately snapping her gaze towards her now, “it’s just you’re very focused on someone you’re adamant it’s just sex.”

her eyes went back to focus on you, watching you closing, “things change.” she mumbled, jaw clenched.

you leaned over the bar, giggling as you repeated your order to the dark haired, tanned, muscled girl behind the bar, for what felt like the fifth time over the sound of the booming music. you’d be lying if you said you weren’t flirting, she was your type, and there was never a harm in getting a few free drinks.

“that girl is staring at her boobs,” her hand clenching and unclenching into a fist under the table, “i told her that the top would make people look at her.”

with a quick smile, you thanked the bartender for your drinks, calling patri over as you lined up the shots you had ordered for the two of you.

patri had become your partner in crime on nights out, she was your best friend but on nights out you two took it to the next level. you couldn’t say no to any kind of chaos, if the two of you were dancing on the table by the end of the night, then it would have been successful. 

“patri aqui, take the shot.” you shouted with a mischievous spark in your eye, the two shots on the bar in front of you.

“ah nena, trouble already?” she grinned, the same look in her eye, instantly coming over as the two of you clinked the small glasses and practically inhaled the liquid. 

sending a final smile to the bartender, whose eyes were yet to leave your sight, you picked up the other two drinks, and made your way back over to the table. 

“amor, i have your drink.” you smiled, sliding into the seat next to alexia as you placed the glass on the table in front of her.

alexia didn’t say thank you, she just looked at you. “you were flirting with that girl,” she stated, irene taking it as a signal to leave, unsure of what was coming, “did she say anything to you?”

“she asked for my number.” you replied casually, sipping on the mixed alcohol you had just bought, watching as alexia’s eyes narrowed. 

“and you gave it to her?” she probed, her eyebrow raising as she questioned you. 

you shook your head contently for a moment, “nope, unless i don’t have someone to go home with, then i might.”

alexia’s face was painted with amusement, a cocky grin on her face, “posiblemente.” she shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. 

and just like that, your mission was set. in your mind alexia ‘possibly’ was a challenge, she was practically asking you to make her jealous enough that the two of you would be leaving early by her request. 

you shuffled closer to alexia, your legs placed over hers as your bare skin brushed against her jeans. alexia’s hand instinctively drew patterns on your thighs, goosebumps rising on your skin as you relaxed into her touch. 

your conversation flowed, fellow teammates popping in and out of the conversation as the night developed.

the touch was innocent at first, her hand starting just above your knee, slowly making its way up your inner thigh until it danced just under the hem of your skirt. 

and that’s when your attention snapped to patri, as she sat down on the chair next to you, her hands draping around your shoulders. 

“chica, come and dance!” her head was placed next to your head as she smiled. 

you could see alexia’s jaw tighten at the closeness between you and patri, but she didn’t say anything, she was used to it. alexia didn’t mind how close you were with patri, you’d been like this since you first moved to barcelona, she was one of the first to welcome you with open arms and it had stayed like that. but alexia knew what you were like when you were drunk, you’d push every button for the reaction you wanted, and after the ‘challenge’ she set you, tonight was perfect. 

your legs automatically swung off of alexia’s, your body missed her touch, but what you were about to make her do was a whole lot more fun. you gave her one last, teasing look before heading to the dance floor with patri.

you and patri started off with plenty of space between you. your body moving to the beat of the music as the liquor in your body was coursing through your veins. 

you could feel alexia’s eyes on you. 

precise, daring, watching your every move as if you were her prey and she was ready to pounce. 

but she waited. as if she knew the trick you were about to play. yet her face was harsh, a single raised eyebrow etched onto her face as the corner of her lips tugged, a smirk daring to enter her face. pure danger. 

your bodies gradually grew closer. the space between you closing as the music got louder. it was as if it was a cover for your actions, something you could hide behind that made you want to go the extra step. 

you moved closer, closer than usual, feeling the deliberate heat of it, the almost staged intimacy. it was a show, after all.

for alexia.

you tossed your head back, laughing at something patri whispered in your ear, making sure the moment stretched just long enough for alexia to notice.

patri’s arm's reach out, your body turning flush against hers. your back pressed against her front, barely any space between you. her hands laid safe on your hips. it was friendly, it didn’t cross any boundaries, but the look on alexia’s face suggested differently.

patri knew what she was doing, it was a conversation the two of you had already had on the way over. she knew her ex was at the same event and wanted to make her jealous, and you had your plans to make alexia feel the same way. 

patri’s fingers tightened slightly at your hips, guiding your movements to match hers. you swayed together, your bodies moving in perfect sync, and the longer you stayed pressed against her, the easier it became to forget where you ended and she began.

you tipped your head back onto her shoulder, letting your eyes flutter shut, not because you needed to, but because you knew Alexia was still watching.

you could feel the sharp burn of her gaze, it felt as if it pinned you in place, even as you danced. it was pure, unfiltered possessiveness, a dangerous glint in her eye that promised punishment, not patience.

patri leaned in, her lips just brushing the shell of your ear in a whisper only meant for you, “she’s going to lose her fucking mind” she murmured, her voice low, asmused, daring. 

you smiled, letting your hand trail up patri’s arm in a way that was just shy of too much, just shy enough to make it look real.

your eyes fluttered open, daring to glance in alexia’s direction.

her smirk was gone. her arm was crossed, jaw tight, eyes dark and unreadable. the look she was giving you was so heated, so loaded, that it stole the breath from your lungs.

her message was clear, yet you weren’t done. you didn’t stop moving. if anything, you pushed back even harder against patri, a wicked little tilt of your hips daring alexia to come and do something about it.

you spun in patri’s touch, the two of you now facing. you reached up to her, “i think this was the best plan you could’ve come up with”, you muttered into her ear. 

that was the snap that had alexia rise to her feet, you barely had time to register the look on her face as she moved.

one second you were face to face with patri, the next alexia had gripped by the wrist and away from your friend entirely.

alexia pulled you away, her touch scorching, fingers possessively curled around you as she pulled you from patri without a word. the music was blaring around you, yet all you could hear was the beating of your heart, a smug smirk on your face, you got exactly what you wanted. 

alexia didn’t stop until she had pulled you into an empty stall in the bathroom. her body crowding yours, the heat of her anger and something far more dangerous.

her hand was still around your wrist, pinning it against the wall, her body firm against yours.

there was nowhere to run. nowhere you wanted to run.

her eyes burned into yours, wild and dark, her jaw tight with restraint she was quickly losing. her face painted with jealousy, pure possession, exactly what you wanted.

"you think that's funny, cariño?" she hissed, "you think you can dance like that, look like that, and have someone who is not me all over you?"

she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, a ghost of a touch that made your knees buckle.

"you've been playing your stupid little game all night," she murmured, her free hand skating down your side, slow and torturous, "but you forgot one thing."

you barely managed to choke out, "w-what?"

her mouth pressed against the corner of your jaw, her breath hot, dangerous, “i don't share."

and with that, she kissed you, fierce, claiming, punishing, all the anger and want and jealousy crashing into you at once. you melted against her, all thoughts of games and jealousy burning away under the raw, possessive way she touched you, kissed you, owned you.

the music faded into nothing. all that existed was her, the taste of her, the feel of her body against yours, the way she made it very, very clear:

you were hers.

and she was going to make sure you never forgot it.

she pressed harder, her body pinning yours firmly against the wall, her thigh forcing its way between your legs, leaving no room for guessing what she wanted. you whimpered into the kiss, hips grinding against the hard muscle of her thigh instinctively.

alexia pulled back, just enough to watch you, her eyes so dark, so full of desire, lust, want it made your head spin

“i fucking knew you wanted this” she muttered, her eyes scanning your body infront of her, watching as she broke you down piece by piece under her touch. 

her hand traveled under the hem of your dress, fingers rough against the skin of your bare thigh, “whatever you want to call this, no one gets to touch you like that”.

her thigh pressed harder between your legs, grinding up as her hand gripped your ass, pulling you even closer, forcing you to rut against her like you were already hers.

and god, you were.

your head rolled back against the wall, a broken moan tearing from your throat as you shamelessly rocked against her.

she smirked, a dark, dangerous thing. her hands dropped from your body, her thigh suddenly absent from in between your legs. 

your face dropped as she looked at you, a face full of amusement, yet yours was the opposite. 

"so fucking needy, making me watch you act like a slut on the dance floor just to get my attention." she shook her head slowly, rolling her eyes, sharp venom in her voice.

“please ale” you reached out to grab her hand, to lead it exactly where you wanted it, but she quickly moved her arm out of your reach entirely. 

“did you think i was going to be nice about this, carino? give you what you want after you grinded against your best friend in front of me?” she practically laughed in your face, “it's never that easy, my love.”

her hand gripped yours again, dragging you through the crowded space, past curious eyes and whispered mentions, not giving a single fuck about anything but getting you away from prying eyes.

you stumbled after her, heart hammering in your chest, your body still buzzing from the heat of her touch. she didn't slow, her grip on your wrist tight as she yanked you through the back door of the venue, straight to her car. 

the drive was silent, full of anticipation, but not from her. alexia knew exactly what she was going to do to you, yet you had no clue what you were about to expect. 

your leg bounced against the floor of the car as your fingers tapped against each other, all whilst shuffling your thighs together, as the heat continued pooling between your legs. yet alexia kept her eyes on the road the entire time, barely acknowledging the sight of you falling apart next to her. 

alexia didn’t wait once you got home.

the second the front door clicked shut, she had you pinned against it, her body pressed tightly against yours, her palm flat against your chest, keeping you in place.

her eyes burned into you, the anger and desire written across every tense muscle in her body. her free hand tangled into your hair, forcing your head up until you were forced to look her in the eyes.

"you really thought you could get away with that?" she laughed, it was low, sharp even. the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"you wanted to put on a show for me, hm? dance all over her like you didn’t know who you belong to?"

you opened your mouth to respond, but she shook her head with a quiet, dangerous laugh, cutting you off. 

“bedroom. now.”

you rushed past her, practically tripping over yourself as you made your way down the hall. you could feel her behind you, calm, collected, deliberate, a predator stalking her prey.

by the time you reached the bedroom, your hands were trembling with anticipation.

you turned to face her, but before you could say anything, alexia pushed you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. you collapsed onto it with a soft gasp, bouncing slightly as you sat on the mattress. 

"take it off," alexia ordered, nodding to your skirt, her voice leaving no room for negotiation.

your fingers scrambled to obey, clumsy in your desperation, peeling the fabric down your legs and tossing it aside. your top followed, leaving you stripped down, bare for her.

alexia stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, her head tilted as she looked you over like she was considering exactly how she wanted to break you apart.

you shifted on the bed, thighs pressing together instinctively, the ache between them unbearable, growing more and more.

she clicked her tongue disapprovingly, “ah, ah cari.” 

moving to kneel on the mattress between your legs. she grabbed your thighs and yanked them apart roughly, settling herself between them with radiating control. her fingers trailed up the inside of your thigh, barely touching, making you whimper in frustration.

"patri got to dance with you tonight," she murmured, leaning in close enough that her lips brushed your ear.

"but i get to ruin you."

a/n - thank you for reading! and thank you for the request anon. not 100% proof read so lmk any errors. as usual, i appreciate any feedback, my asks are open <3

[girlatmirror]

baby, baby | jjk

why would jungkook need to entertain other women when you have enough personalities to keep him completely occupied?

husband! jungkook x (kinda crazy!) pregnant!reader

warnings: reader is sooo bratty but very pregnant so it’s justified, jungkook is the president of i 🫶🏼 my wife club, in my mind this is bend my rules jungkook and reader in the future, smut (minors leave immediately), degradation!!!, slapping (only once), spanking, use of the word slut, penetrative sex, bj, i didn’t proofread 💔, i had entirely too much fun writing this (i’m just a silly girl in a non silly world), idk what else, but i love this jungkook and reader

_

Your mood swings had never been worse. you, 4 months pregnant with an even worse attitude than before, were a lot to handle, but your husband was beyond resilient.

Jungkook worked extremely hard as well, owning a big law firm and juggling a needy, pregnant wife who needed his constant attention and love was almost impossible. Well, it was actually just impossible.

He gave you everything you needed; a cleaning lady, a private chef, a masseuse, a personal midwife that would visit you whenever he wouldn’t be able to go to the appointments with you.

But you didn’t want any of that, you simply needed him.

He didn’t work more than he used to, he actually reduced his work hours as much as possible when you two found out about the pregnancy, but that didn’t seem to satisfy you.

Picking fights and using his ‘absence’ against him was now your go to, but jungkook was always calm with you, simply saying ‘baby, it’s just 9 hours and you sleep through half of them anyway.’

sometimes, the problem was his calmness.

You thought back to those days where you were dating, or engaged and you would have the arguments that would lead to the filthiest, roughest sex. You missed seeing his face scrunch up, his nostrils flare up and his eyes darken.

He was always your sweet, understanding jungkook, but back then, it was easier to make him lose his cool.

Ever since you got married, he became a big softie, never raising his voice, even when you did and never showing you the fiery side that you could not admit you yearned for. You could do or say anything and he would simply listen and abide. Especially while pregnant.

You obviously loved him for it and thanked God for giving you a husband as wonderful as Jungkook, but since you got pregnant, you started craving the jungkook that would voice his anger and later, turn it into passion.

You didn’t know if it was something about your hormones changing and what-not, but you just simply knew you needed him to react to your brattiness the way he used to.

Longing for the Jungkook that would put you in your place, you (semi-unintentionally) went on a mission to bring him back.

_

You woke up and waddled your way to the spacious kitchen, where you found jungkook making a big breakfast for you two - it was his day off after all.

Once he saw you, his face broke out in a huge smile and he kissed your lips softly. “good morning, my baby, how are you?”

You simply huffed, taking a bite of the crispy bacon. your lips were pouted and your eyes slightly squinted.

Jungkook was not even confused by your behavior, he was already used to not being able to foresee your mood.

“What’s wrong, yn?”, he carefully asked, planting a kiss on your forehead, resting a hand on your growing belly. “did you sleep well?”

You just shook your head in response and turned your back on him.

“How could i sleep well??”, your dramatic response caused him to slightly chuckle under his breath. “you cheated on me!!”

That accusation made jungkook drop everything he was doing and look at you with the most questioning face he could muster; what could possibly make you believe he cheated on you?

“huh?”, was all he was able to say.

You rolled your eyes and lightly, but not playfully punched his arm. “I saw you with that girl last night! you were kissing her and whispering things into her ear..”

Jungkook’s confusion seemed to grow even stronger, trying to understand how you could be so serious and sure of something that never happened.

“Baby, i don’t know what you’re talking about”, he expressed his confusion very calmly, a soothing hand running over your arm. “you do know i was with you the whole night last night?”

“That was before!”, you let out, which confused him even more. “I went to sleep.. and i saw you there in bed with .. her and you were so in love.. how could you do that to me, jungkook??”

Actual tears formed in your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Babyy”, he cooed and wiped away some tears from your face. “that happened in your dream, it wasn’t real at all. i promise i’d never do that to you, princess.”

“But”, you sobbed silently. “it felt so so real.”

Jungkook took you into his arms and gently held and swayed you, of course not without adding a kiss on your head.

“I’m sorry, baby”, he muttered genuinely against your head. “if i ever do that again in your dreams, i’ll make sure to make it up to you, okay? i’m sorry, please forgive me.”

You nodded, against his chest, which had been dampened by your tears. “okay.. i guess i’ll forgive you.”

Not all days started off this way, of course, some days you would wake up and attack him with kisses, some others you wouldn’t wake up until after he’s gone to work (which meant waking up to a handwritten note from him) and then there were days where you would either find a reason to be mad at him or hold onto him so tightly and tell him not to go and then get whiny when he did go.

It wasn’t just your desperation to get fucked hard, it was also just the fact that you, for some reason (pregnancy), felt lonelier and more bored than ever before.

You can only go on shopping sprees and sit in cafés and gossip with your friends a certain amount of times before you get super bored.

At least before the pregnancy you were a working woman, which was not that fun either to be fair but at least you were productive.

Jungkook suppressed a chuckle and just held you for a while.

Despite you being so difficult sometimes, he enjoyed every single moment.

_

The worst thing about being pregnant was, without a doubt, the sleep. you were actually a side sleeper and for obvious reasons that wasn’t possible at the moment.

You had about an hour of actual sleep (and it wasn’t even satisfying) before you gave up trying and just decided to sit on the bed with your hands dramatically resting on your belly.

One thing ran through your mind like usain bolt; food. You tried to think of any snacks you had in the house but quickly remembered you ate them all the other day and didn’t restock.

Watching and low key envying the way your husband was peacefully sleeping with his pretty snores and his even prettier face, shirtless as he always slept. You suddenly had an idea.

“Jungkook”, you softly nudged his naked arm.

He didn’t budge.

“Jungkooook”, you repeated, dragging out his name and softly poking his nose.

A low grunt escaped his lips as he slowly started to stir.

You leaned closer, brushing your lips against his ear. “jungkook, wake up.”

Once his body recognized you were talking to him, he jolted up with wide eyes. “what?! what’s wrong?? are you okay? is it the baby?”

He was now sitting up straight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes to be able to properly see you.

You pouted, dramatically nodding. “the baby’s hungry.”

“Huh?”

“The baby wants snacks. and we don’t have snacks at home.”

Jungkook glanced at the clock and said, “baby.. it’s almost three in the morning.”

You tilted your head and adorably shrugged your shoulders, lips still pouty. “well, your child doesn’t know the concept of time yet.”

With a groan, jungkook got up and stretched.

“What kind of snacks do you want, baby?”, he asked mid stretch, before putting on a shirt.

“All of them”, was your ambiguous answer. “I want sweet, sour and salty stuff. If that cookie store on Bel Air drive is open, get me three of the marshmallow-filled ones.”

“Alright, baby”, he leaned down to kiss you. “You just text me whatever you need. I’ll be right back. I love you.”

you grinned up at him, so satisfied with his lenience and kissed him again, “i love you more.”

Simultaneously hearing the car start and your stomach rumbling, you found yourself trying to occupy your mind with something other than food, but you were so impatient.

Moments later, your phone rang.

Incoming FaceTime Call from Hubby🧎🏽‍♀️

You immediately picked up. “Hey.”

Jungkook’s still sleepy face took over your phone screen, seemingly looking down at something. “Hey, baby, just wanted to make sure these are the sour patches you like.”

He went on to show a bag of sour patches, holding it up for the camera.

You squinted, dramatic as always. “hmm… those are the right ones. but get two. the baby’s feeling greedy.”

He chuckled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “you sure it’s the baby?”

“Are you calling me greedy?” you gasped, clutching your chest as if he’d just committed a felony.

“I would never, baby”, he chuckled again, his raspy voice doing things to you.

While he was still out, being your knight in shining armor, you decided to pull out your wedding photo album (something that never failed to make you break out in tears) and look through every single picture taken that day.

It was by far the most precious day of your life. a destination wedding in a venetian palace, just as you had requested (of course jungkook had to fulfill your wish).

Before you could even flip to the second page, your eyes started to water.

He was so handsome that day, even more than normal, which was a very hard thing to achieve and the way he looked at you.. ugh.

Pictures of him kissing your hands, your photoshoot on the palace stairs and the gondola brought back instant memories.

The calming melodies of ‘over and over’ by Bobby Vinton replayed in your mind.

you swore you could hear the ‘wows’ of the guests as you walked down the aisle in your wedding dress, a breathtaking dress designed by Elie Saab himself, and see a teary eyed Jungkook waiting for you at the altar.

you couldn’t even hear the front door open, that was how invested you were.

“Baby?”, Jungkook’s concerned voice interrupted your crying. “what happened?”

you got up from your spot and walked up to him, directly throwing yourself into his arms, which resulted in him dropping the bag of snacks on the ground.

“i missed you.”, you sniffled against his neck and kissed it.

jungkook coo’ed at you and swayed you gently.

“I was gone for 20 minutes.”, he murmured against your hair.

“but..”, your voice started to quiver a little. “that’s way too long.”

he held onto you for a while, “i know, baby, i know” and then ultimately let go to grab the snacks. “alright, what do you want to eat first?”

you both sat on the bed and he dumps all the snacks onto the bed. your mouth started watering; a whole lot of chips, cookies, sour patch kids, drinks and chocolate bars.

that man knew the way to your heart and walked it.

you instantly grabbed a cookie and bit into it, groaning, “oh my god.. this is so good right now. just what we needed.”

holding it up for jungkook to take a bite, he chuckled and took a big bite.

suddenly, you felt a kick in your stomach and excitedly waved your hands, pointing at your stomach. “oh my god, the baby is kicking. i think it’s trying to say thank you to daddy.”

ever since you got pregnant, you and jungkook became the cheesiest couple you swore you would never become but here you were.

jungkook instinctively laid his head on your stomach gently to hear the kick, before he kissed it lovingly.

“hey, baby”, he whispered against it. “mommy and daddy love you so much and we can’t wait to meet you.”

your heart warmed at the sight of jungkook being such an amazing dad; it made you want to give him everything. your eyes traveled back to the photo album that was now back in its original place.

brushing through his dark hair soothingly, you watched him with an amount of adoration that was so palpable.

the baby kicked again.

“i think the baby likes your voice.”, you noted softly. “it kicks whenever you’re around.”

jungkook couldn’t help but smile, now his head was sleepily pressed against your chest, which was obviously his favorite place in the world. “i’m its daddy, of course it love me.”

you scoffed jokingly. “well, it better love me more, i’m the one carrying it.”

that made jungkook let out a laugh. “of course, baby. you shall be the most beloved.”

you stayed in your positions for a moment in silence and then, you felt and heard Jungkook’s cute snores against your chest.

poor him, he had to wake up for work just 4 hours later.

not much later, you also felt yourself getting closer to sleeping.

_

You felt a little bad about waking Jungkook up at night when he had work in the morning.

So, you decided to make him lunch and visit him at the office, like the good wife you were.

You packed plain white rice, sautéed veggies, and some grilled chicken along with a spicy sauce (what can you say, your husband loved spicy food). It wasn’t much, but the expectations for you weren’t high right now.

Besides, the lunch was just a front to have an excuse to see your husband. You needed to look good, so while it took you less than half an hour to prepare the food, it took you an hour to pick out an outfit and do your makeup.

You opted for a flowy pink sundress that showcased your little baby bump you had grown to adore. You were pregnant, not exempt from looking gorgeous.

You checked the stove, called the driver, made sure your keys were in your bag, and finally, he arrived.

“Where to, Mrs. Jeon?” your driver, Mr. Petrov, greeted you with his usual kindness.

He had been driving you everywhere since your 21st birthday. You admitted to Jungkook a couple months before that you hated driving, so he got you a personal driver for your birthday. In a way, you considered him family — an uncle or something like that.

After all, he had witnessed your relationship through almost all its stages: from being a couple, to becoming engaged, then married, and finally, soon-to-be parents.

“To my husband,” you replied eagerly. “I want to bring him lunch.”

The drive went by as it always did: Mr. Petrov telling you stories about his teenage daughters that you always loved hearing, asking about Jungkook’s wellbeing (which you found adorable), and, of course, giving you parenting advice.

Once you arrived at your destination, Mr. Petrov made sure to help you out of the car (the privilege and disadvantage of being pregnant; people always thought you were incapable of doing anything by yourself) and watched you enter the building to make sure you got in safely before driving away.

The building was as tall as ever. The guard immediately recognized you and personally escorted you to the elevator.

Your walk was confident (at least you thought so). Despite your pregnant self, you looked like you owned the place — which, you kind of did since it was your husband’s company.

The receptionists and all his employees already knew you; you liked to think you had built a good relationship with them. As the boss’s wife, you took that responsibility seriously.

The elevator doors opened to the executive floor and you waddled out toward Jungkook’s assistant.

“Mrs. Jeon, how good to see you!” she greeted you eagerly, with her usual nervousness. “Mr. Jeon is in a meeting right now. He should be done very soon.”

You thanked her and made your way to the meeting room. Through the glass windows, you could see your husband in action, ever the perfect businessman.

He looked so effortlessly commanding and authoritative, but there was a hint of tiredness in his eyes you couldn’t overlook.

Your eyes met his and suddenly, his entire posture changed; the tension in his shoulders softened and a small smile formed on his handsome face.

You waved, and for about four minutes, you waited — which in pregnancy minutes felt like an hour.

He rushed to you once he dismissed all the meeting participants, giving you a tight hug, careful not to press on your belly.

“Hey, beautiful,” he uttered, placing a kiss on your forehead. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see my handsome husband and I brought him lunch,” you smiled. “You look so tired. I feel bad for waking you up so late.”

Jungkook shook his head gently, adoring you with his gaze. “Don’t feel bad,” he murmured. “Let’s go to my office. I’m starving; I want to eat that food you made.”

He sat down at his desk and you positioned yourself on his lap immediately, not needing an invitation, pulling the lunch out of your Goyard bag.

“Eat,” you practically demanded, handing him the spoon.

Jungkook, who had been hungry for a while, immediately dug in, taking big spoonfuls of the food. He offered you some, but you informed him you already ate at home.

“This is so good,” he mumbled through a mouthful, scrunching up his nose like he always did when something tasted especially delicious.

Of course, you loved seeing him like that — and even more when you were the reason.

He quickly finished his food and went back to giving you all of his attention, his hands drawing soothing circles on your back.

“Do you love me?” you asked out of nowhere.

“Yes,” Jungkook didn’t even hesitate to answer.

Nor was he weirded out or surprised by your randomness.

“Would you still love me if I shaved my head?”

Jungkook chuckled, his hands now gripping your waist. “Yes, you’d still be the prettiest woman in the world.”

Your heart smiled. You lazily traced his sharp jawline.

“What if I were a worm?” you asked; it was a question you had asked a million times before.

“Ugh, that question,” he feigned annoyance. “How would I even know it’s you? Hypothetically, if I saw a worm, how would I know?”

Hand on your chest, you pretended to be offended, much to Jungkook’s amusement. “If your wife, I, were to suddenly vanish from your life, you’re telling me you wouldn’t look for me everywhere and in everything?”

He shook his head again.

“Of course I would!” he explained, the smile never leaving his lips. “I just wouldn’t think you’d turn into a worm… more like a fox or a lynx.”

You giggled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

_

“I need everything to be perfect!”

The workers didn’t know whether to admire your dedication or be scared of you; either way, they appreciated the hefty sum and the hospitality they were given.

The decorations for today were carefully chosen by you (Jungkook was allowed input too, but not too much). You opted for a classy lavender theme and wore a white maternity dress that perfectly sat on your body.

Today was an especially special day: the gender reveal party for the demon living inside you.

Your sister was picking up the cake that you insisted had to be a white chocolate cake with cream pistachio frosting.

Jungkook was in charge of the guests; he made sure they all arrived safely and were taken care of.

There were, to the surprise of absolutely no one, a lot of guests: besides your and Jungkook’s close and extended family, there were your numerous friends, a few of his workers, neighbors, a couple of women from your prenatal Pilates class, and of course, Mr. Petrov and his family.

You already knew his two daughters; they were self-proclaimed fans of yours. “I want to be just like you when I’m older, Mrs. Jeon.”

“Hi, sweeties.” As soon as you saw them, you hugged them. “How are you guys? I missed you.”

They were practically squealing at the sight of your pregnant stomach, exclaiming how “Wow, your stomach grew so much!” which was received with laughter.

“Girls, has no one taught you basic manners?” Mr. Petrov scolded his daughters semi-jokingly in his thick accent. “Seriously, who raised you?”

The girls didn’t even bother to look at their dad, simply too in awe of how beautiful and pregnant you were.

“That kid is gonna be so gorgeous!” Natasha spoke with excitement. “I mean, with your genes and then Mr. Jeon’s… oh my god.”

“Oh, thank you, my love,” you patted her cheek lovingly.

More guests kept arriving, which left Jungkook, who was very used to being in charge, looking like the perfect host he was.

“Seriously, I hope it’s a boy,” Daria admitted, an eager look on her face. “So we can raise him to be a gentleman.”

That statement quickly turned into an argument between the two sisters; Natasha wanted a girl, and Daria wanted a boy.

You, wanting to give them a bit of space in their sisterly fighting, made sure to greet all the other guests after offering Mr. Petrov a drink.

Jungkook had a moment to spare, using it to make sure you were doing okay. He came over to you, placing a hand on your back. “How’s my princess doing?”

You instinctively put a hand on your stomach (something you did quite often these days) and gently smiled at him. “I’m doing well, just waiting for my sister to come through with the cake…”

“Is the photographer already here?” you suddenly started panicking, realizing you momentarily forgot about somebody.

Jungkook tapped you on the shoulder reassuringly. “Relax, he’s right there by the bar.”

That didn’t reassure you though; on the contrary. “Why is he drinking?! That could mess up all the pictures. Oh my god… Jungkook, go and tell him to stop drinking!”

You pushed him toward the bar and immediately left, leaving him with no other choice but to actually go up to the photographer and prevent him from drinking.

Right then, your sister finally arrived with a huge cake box in her hand, puffing from the sheer weight of it. “…I’m here, oof… damn!”

Just as you wanted to go over and help her, your dad took it from her hand and placed it onto the table.

The cake arrived, the buffet looked good, the music was great, the kids were having fun on the bouncy castle, the adults were happy about the free drinks and food, and there was nothing to complain about…

Jungkook was hoping you would not find anything to complain about.

“I’m so excited,” your fingers almost trembling as you wrapped them around Jungkook’s big arms. “Do I even want to know? Like… what if we waited until I give birth to know… so many moms do that, maybe I should too.”

Jungkook couldn’t believe his ears; first, you turned the entire world upside down to make this party as epic as you could, and now, you were practically objecting to it.

“Baby,” he spoke ever so gently. “You’ve been wanting this for a long time now. You’re just nervous, don’t worry. We’ll know the gender and nothing bad will happen regardless.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Okay.”

A few hours of dancing, gift opening, and games passed, and now you were all ready to witness the sole reason for this party.

When you were planning the gender reveal party, you wanted something classic and simple for the reveal.

The good old cutting into the cake to find out the gender. Nothing more, nothing less.

So, there you both were, standing in front of the podium where the cake sat in all its glory. Your shorter body was in front of Jungkook, and he was positioned right behind you, his hand on yours, both holding the knife.

Your heart pounded; you didn’t even know why. This wasn’t even an anxiety-inducing situation. Your hormones were messing you up.

All the guests were watching curiously and with full attention as you and Jungkook cut a piece of cake.

The frosting was pink. Cheers broke out.

“It’s a girl!” Jungkook announced with joy in his voice, hugging you so tightly.

You, of course, cried tears of happiness. “I can’t believe we’re having a little baby girl…”

He kissed you on the lips passionately, both of you completely forgetting the camera and the guests.

“She’s gonna be a handful,” he joked, holding your chin and caressing your tear-stained cheeks. Finally, you laughed.

He was probably right.

“Oh, absolutely,” you agreed with him. “But you’re gonna spoil her, so it’s gonna be all on you.”

Jungkook couldn’t deny it, so he just tilted his head. “What can I say? It’s my thing.”

_

it was dinner time, your favorite time of the day. on most days, dinner is the only meal you really got to sit with Jungkook and enjoy the food, unlike the hurried breakfasts and the lunch that you either eat together during his ‘break’ or just completely separately.

that’s why you got so annoyed whenever something distracted him from dinner; this was supposed to be your time together.

you crossed your arms, nostrils flaring while he was on the phone with Selene, a new employee of his that seemed to come to him whenever she was overwhelmed or unfamiliar with something at work.

you completely understood that this was a new job for her but you didn’t particularly like that she felt the need to call your husband outside of work; if she needed help, she could just ask any other employee.

it was excessive.

“Yes, i’ll tell Jason to bring a copy too”, jungkook spoke into the phone, his tone professional. “don’t worry about the presentation, the material you showed me today was good.”

fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you very passive aggressively poured juice into your glass and drank it.

“finally.”, you said once they hung up.

jungkook’s eyes narrowed a little but he didn’t say anything, he just scooped some more rice onto his plate.

“she just needed some help, baby.”, he explained after he noticed your sour expression wasn’t going anywhere.

“pf. why are you even talking to her outside of work? what’s so important that can’t wait until literally tomorrow morning?!”, you spewed, louder than intended. “and you just pick up, ugh. you should’ve ignored her but nooo, of course you had to pick up.. almost like that phone call is more important than having dinner with your wife.”

“yn.. that was a 2 minute conversation.”, he started getting more irritated by the second. “what are you even implying here? do you think i’m cheating on you cause i answered my employee’s phone call?”

“i don’t know, maybe you are.”

you were so obviously trying to push his buttons and see how far you can go; you wondered if he noticed or if he didn’t.

he knew you knew he would never ever cheat, perhaps that���s why the accusation irritated him even more.

“yn, don’t piss me off. you know damn well i would never cheat.”, he spoke with fire in his voice. “and why would i? you have enough personalities to keep me completely fucking occupied.”

it was true that you were a woman of multitudes and normally, you would have laughed at that statement but you could not give him the satisfaction.

you knew you were getting closer to your goal; he already looked like his veins were about to pop.

it wasn’t like he didn’t know how you were; he had to endure you every single day of his life, but he was bound to break eventually.

suppressing a smile, you simply huffed and stated, “that’s honestly hard to believe.”

jungkook’s nostrils flared and he looked down at you with an expression you hadn’t seen in months.

you were looking up at him with big eyes, your hand on your hips as you seized his reaction.

“yn..”, he fought the urge to raise his voice but ultimately lost. “i’m so serious right now, do not piss me off. i’ve been so damn patient with you.. i forgot that’s not the fucking way to deal with you..”

his hands were now gripping your waist tightly; if it hadn’t felt so damn good, it would probably hurt.

“what is the way to deal with me then?”, your voice was soft, almost angelic as you held eye contact with his fiery eyes.

“you know.”, he lowly spoke against your lips.

“no”, pushing him further and further, you held onto his muscular arm. “show me.”

that was when he crashed his lips into yours with a sense of desperation mirroring your own, his hands roaming your body like he memorized it. he gripped your ass hard, getting you to jump and wrap your legs around his waist.

your baby bump wasn’t making any type of difficulty for either of you, thank God.

he carried you all the way to the couch and practically (yet very carefully) threw you onto it. he quickly took off your night gown and threw it aside, before taking off his own shirt.

“is that what you want?”, jungkook’s voice was now merely a growl as he started undoing his pants. “to get fucked hard? huh?”

his pants were off, leaving him in only his boxer shorts; the sight delicious.

the wetness in your pussy was almost unbearable at that point, even pressing your legs together didn’t help.

you nodded, reaching for his boxers and kneading his dick almost desperately, before completely taking them off, revealing his hard dick.

as horny and perverted as that sounded, there was almost nothing in the entire world you loved as much as seeing Jungkook like that. So in control, yet so needy for you.

there was already precum on the tip of it, you licked it off.

jungkook reacted with a groaned ‘fuck’.

you wrapped your hands around his thick shaft and massaged it up and down, then gently wrapped your full lips around it, sucking it while holding eye contact. his moans continued.

despite you barely being able to take all of him at the same time, he thrust his dick further and further into your mouth, making it difficult to breathe.

“you can take it, baby.”, he breathed, hands gripping your hair. “you run your mouth all day long, this shouldn’t be so hard for you.”

you let out a groan, pressing your legs tighter together.

Tears began to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you enjoyed the feeling of his dick in your mouth. you moaned around it, big, innocent eyes meeting his.

he rammed his dick into your mouth in steady, aggressive motions, making you choke on it, causing your saliva to coat his dick.

the moans that he released were enough to make your head dizzy; you were nothing but mush.

your face was now a teary mess.

before he could cum, jungkook pulled back suddenly, his dick sliding out of your mouth and slapping gently against his lower abdomen. he grabbed your jaw and said, “i’m not gonna cum in your mouth.”

you knew what he was doing, he was being an asshole. he was aware of how much you loved swallowing his cum or even having his cum all over your face and he denied you of it. your brows furrowed just slightly.

You whimpered, the ache between your thighs unbearable. “Then where?”

he didn’t verbally respond, simply putting his big hands on your thighs and separating your legs roughly, making you gasp. he pushed two fingers inside your wet mess of a pussy without warning and started curling them teasingly.

“fuck”, he let out. “that pussy’s so fucking wet.. shit, you fucking love making me mad.”

you started desperately grinding against his fingers but he removed them before you could truly enjoy it, grabbing your jaw again and approaches your face so you’re facing each other directly, breathing against your lips. “open your mouth.”

you obeyed. then, he spit in your mouth.

“swallow it.”, he demanded.

you swallowed.

“good girl.”

“jungkook..”, you whimpered, overwhelmed by your own arousal, needy for any kind of friction.

jungkook just pressed his index finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet. “you don’t get to talk right now.”

that was what you were waiting for for a while; the sheer dominance and degradation that jungkook seemed to have shyed away from lately. you were craving the side of him that completely shut you down and put you in your place.

he pumped his dick before slightly bending his legs to teasingly slowly slap his dick on your wet pussy. your breath hitched and jungkook smirked at your state.

“i don’t think you deserve to get fucked.”, he declared after almost slipping his dick in, enjoying the power he had over you entirely too much. “good wives get dicked down.. the ones that obey their husbands.. and don’t drive them insane.. not spoiled brats like you who don’t know when to shut up.”

with every breath, he slipped his tip in and out, causing you to arch your hips up in desperation.

“please”, you begged with almost tears in your eyes. “i’m gonna be good, i’m gonna be so good, jungkook.”

jungkook laughed, almost evilly, and breathed through his teeth. “i don’t believe that.”

you reached for him and clung both your arms around the broad shoulders you were unhealthily obsessed with and hid your face in his chest.

you sniffled with teary eyes. “but i promise.. please.. please just put it in.”

with that he entered you, completely too slow for your liking. your head curled back at the pleasure.

he started thrusting very slowly, teasingly so, his breath getting heavier against your ear, before he began fastening the pressure.

the thrusts were so deep, he made sure to hit the spot right. his grip was almost unbearably strong, making your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

his lips moved to your full breasts, taking your hard nipples in his mouth and sucking on them.

“still so fucking tight.”, he groaned, before crashing his lips against yours.

your whiny moans met his as he suddenly picked you up, his dick never slipping out.

before you could realize, your naked back hit a cold wall, making you gasp.

the angle made it easier for jungkook to completely plow into you mercilessly.

you were so lost in the moment, almost felt like you were in heat. you didn’t think, you couldn’t.

the sounds of slapping skin and wet arousal spread across the room.

jungkook slammed his hips against yours, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark with hunger. “don’t forget your place, yn. you exist to get fucked by your husband and do as he says, not disobey him.”

you knew this was all just sex talk, this wasn’t truly what he believed but God.. you wouldn’t be mad if it were. you instinctively clenched around him, replying with soft cries.

“shit.. look at you”, the strokes became harder with every second. “even pregnancy can’t stop you from being a dick crazy slut, huh?”

his pace was relentless, yet steady. he held onto your hips, controlling your movements, ensuring you take every single inch of him.

When all you could manage were broken, whiny moans, he seized your jaw in a tight grip and delivered a sharp slap across your cheek.

You gasped, the sting spreading warmly across your skin and you both knew you loved it.

“Answer me when I speak to you, fucking slut,” he growled, his fingers digging harder into your jaw.

“yes, jungkook.. please don’t stop.”, you whimpered with teary eyes. “i love that dick so much, ah.. i’m just.. a fucking whore for you.”

a wicked grin tugged at his lips as his thrusts became gradually slower, yet deeper.

“that’s right,” he growled, “that’s what you were made for, to get fucked and bred. the only thing you’re good for.”

you clutched his neck even tighter, hiding your fucked out face in his shoulders, moans spilling out shamelessly.

you could practically feel your pussy juice dripping on his dick, your body tightening against his as you felt your climax nearing.

“kookie..,” you whimpered, voice trembling, “please… don’t stop. I need you. I’m so close.”

he only nodded as he continued with the same force, driving you closer to the edge with every brutal thrust. a mixture of moans and sobs flooding the room.

your entire body tensed with the last couple of thrusts and waves of uncontrollable pleasure rushed through you, your pussy squeezing with urgency and then, your vision blurred, leaving you dizzy and breathless.

chest heaving heavily, “ah, ah, ah” and the intensity built up until you came undone blissfully, collapsing into a trembling mess.

a couple of seconds later, jungkook’s hips stuttered, signaling his own orgasm. his big hands left bruises on your hips, a rough growl leaving his lips, “fuck, fuck, fuck”. he fucked the last thrusts into you with force, his breath heavy. with a guttural groan, he spilled his hot, thick cum deep inside of you. he stayed buried inside longer, making sure every drop of cum entered your pussy.

your heartbeat was faster than ever, you felt (good) pain all over your body. before you could climb jungkook like a koala bear and demand him to carry you to your bedroom, he turned your still aching body around, your body facing the wall.

then, he slammed his heavy hand down on your ass.

“ouch!!”

“stop whining, you asked for this.”, he hissed, delivering another spank to your ass. “i told you to fucking behave.”

your whimpers were almost pathetic. you could never admit to him that you enjoyed the pain, but something told you he already knew. your pussy was still soaked, his fingers lightly brushing against it from the back while his palm met your generous backside.

“you’re so fucked out, you can’t even speak”, he whispered, now kneading your ass. “that’s how i fucking like you.. if i could fuck another baby in you right now, i would.”

you tried to suppress your moans, but failed.

His fingers grazed your slick folds, sending another shiver to your core, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your release.

He removed his hands completely and you turned around, too scared and turned on to look him directly in the face.

He caught your gaze and softened instantly, the fire in his eyes melting into something quieter, more tender.

“Come here,” Jungkook murmured, pulling you into his chest with surprising gentleness for a man who’d just wrecked you.

You melted against him, your breathing still uneven as his arms wrapped securely around your swollen belly and your trembling body.

the earlier degradation was replaced by his usual warmth.

You stayed like that for a long moment, your fingers tracing lazy circles over his back, both of you finally still.

Slowly, he carried you to the bed, careful and deliberate as if you were the most fragile thing in existence.

after cleaning up, the both of you settled under the soft blankets, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, your eyelids growing heavy.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he whispered, lips brushing against your forehead.

“Goodnight, Kookie,” you breathed, already slipping toward sleep.

_

the next morning, jungkook woke up way too late. you were already awake; he couldn’t feel you when he sleepily slid his hand across your shared bed.

scenes of the night before played in his mind, causing a smile to spread on his handsome face.

looking at the clock, he couldn’t believe you wore him out so well that he woke up about three hours later than he usually did. he didn’t even care that he missed work; he was the ceo after all.

damn, that pussy truly got power.

after freshening up in the adjacent bathroom, he started hearing voices from downstairs; certainly more than just yours.

making his way downstairs, he found you in the dining room, surrounded by both of your mothers, animatedly talking about some new recipe you wanted to try.

his heart warmed at the sight. they must have dropped by unannounced or you might have forgotten to tell him they were visiting.

he immediately walked up to the three of you, greeting his mother and mother-in-law.

“good morning, ladies!”, he greeted, giving each one a kiss on the cheek.

and there you were, now quiet and admiring the interaction, looking beautiful in your yoga pants and that fitted shirt that did nothing to conceal your baby bump.

“and good morning to my beautiful wife”, he was practically beaming at you, approaching you with open arms. “and my future princess.”

he first kissed your lips and then, he squatted and lovingly put his hands on your bump.

“good morning, my handsome husband.”, you smiled up at him, your cheeks heating up from the flashbacks of last night. “you’re finally awake!”

both of your mothers knew what type of couple you were, even before pregnancy. they admired you two deeply.

“aren’t you supposed to be at work, jungkook?”, his mother’s playful voice broke the moment.

“I slept in”, his head was now resting on your shoulders from behind, his hands holding onto your waist. “this one kept me up all night.”

his suggestive tone made your moms laugh; they understood exactly what he meant. for you, It was embarrassing because, surprisingly, you're not as shameless as he was.

it wasn’t that big of a deal though, they could tell a couple of hours ago when you couldn’t stand properly from all the pain your body was still in.

jungkook immediately started eating breakfast like the food was going to run away, as per usual.

after a heated 15 minute discussion over the baby’s name, you decided to change the topic without hurting your moms’ feelings and just directly tell them you didn’t like any of the names they suggested.

“you two go sit on the couch, i’ll be right back with the tea and cakes”, you told them, not wanting them to lift a finger, despite their constant need to stand on their feet.

“i’ll help you”, jungkook insisted and followed you to the spacious kitchen. “when the hell did you have time to make cake?”

he asked you in such a confused tone, it almost made you laugh. did he forget you were at home basically the entire day?

“tsk.. acting like i don’t have all the time in the world”, you replied, cutting into the chocolate cake you knew jungkook’s mom would love. “taste this.”

without hesitation, he took a big bite.

“hmmm”, he took another bite and then another. “so good.”

you snatched the fork away from him with feigned offense. “leave some for the others.. greedy.”

he bursted into laughter at your offended face and pinched your cheeks. “i’m sorry.”

you looked at him and just breathed in the happiness; he was your husband, yours.

as long as he was yours, you didn’t care about anything else because there was nothing you wanted except for him to be with you.

you were so grateful for his existence, for his love, that life brought you together.. and it was always the most simple moments that made you appreciate him even more.

you put your head on his shoulders.

“Marry me.”, you whispered.

He blinked. “We’re already married.”

“Well, I wanna marry you again, Jungkook.”, desperation was evident in your voice. “Please.”

and then, he got on his knees, taking your hand in his, a goofy smile on his face. “yn jeon, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife again?”

you teared up, getting on your knees with much effort and engulfed him in a hug, gripping his arms like you’re never letting go of him.

“yes, yes, yes. a million times, yes.”

_

i love writing unserious stuff honestly 😭 hope you enjoy this!!! 😘💗💗

[ssa-dado]

30 Seconds

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

masterlist(s)

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

[dipperpepper77]

Arranged Marriage AU LADS Men

Dipper's Delusions

TAGS: Fluff, AFAB reader, children, men who yearn... ARE MEN WHO EARN.

Intro: Your kingdom reeked of smoke and burnt produce. The heat was so palpable that it seemed to stick to everyone's skin. Leaving yours to always be damp with soft sweat. The war was taking far too long to end. Your parents, the king and queen, opting for more drastic measures. Securing your hand to a foreign kingdom could provide aid and stability to your tiny kingdom. You weren't one for dramatics. Only nodding hesitantly as the documents were filled and signed over. Whilst, you didn't want to marry out of convenience... you also didn't want to see your people starve or succumb to the war.

The resources and power of the foreign kingdom would be enough to end the war and establish your own as one of the greats. One to not be messed with. Your people could now live in peace for your sacrifice. It would help that he was easy on the eyes.

It wasn't hard to convince him for your hand. He knew you. From prior balls were you didn't even spare him a passing glance. Now it was relatively the same. You still didn't grant him a passing glance in your shared castle. But, oh... how he longed for you. You were completely unaware of his sentiments for you. However, you'd soon find out.

Sea god Rafayel: You picked at your food with the gold plated fork. Your lips parting to make a comment but stopping halfway. Rafayel cleared his throat, "something's on your mind. Say it". You gave a curt nod before speaking "I thought it would be highly inappropriate to eat one's own kind". He let out an amused laugh. "Seafood? It's the circle of life, my dear. Eat or be eaten. Humans truly know nothing.. do they?" You shook your head a bit. Feeling more comfortable to take a bite of the seafood. It was rich and buttery. Light with the slight taste of the ocean. His hand grazed yours, picking it up in his soft delicate palm. "May I?" You nod. He places kisses to your knuckles. You felt a burning feeling in your throat. A lump forming as he nuzzled against your hand. "You don't need to feel the same... just know one thing. You will always have a place in my heart."

You found yourself easing into Rafayel. Gradually picking up with his steps. Finding yourself nuzzled in his embrace as he showed you his art pieces. More often than not you just found that... you couldn't be apart from him. His head laid on your lap as you fixed up his hair. You held golden shears as you cut small bits of his violet strands. "Raf... I think I'll do this wrong." He only smiled up at you. "You could never do wrong in my eyes. I trust you." He bit back a smirk. "Besides, If I look awful I'll tell everyone it's because my dear wife is possessive."

The kingdom was pushing for an heir after the anniversary of your marriage. You sat on the bed. The lump crawling back into your throat. You loved Rafayel. But, you were afraid. What if he changed? What if all he was doing was wooing you for an heir?

Rafayel kissed behind your ear. "Listen to me. We go at your pace.. okay?" You nod gently. Breathing out gently. "I'm scared.." His gaze softened. Looking at you like you were a wet trembling animal he needed to protect. He pushed a strand of hair out of your face. "Have I ever told you... you always happen to be the most beautiful woman in the room?" He got up. Extending his hand for you to take. He lead you to the garden. You looked at it in awe. You. Paintings full of your face. Painted in a way that showed you how utterly devoted he was.

(Skip forward) Rafayel was a proud dad of twins. One girl and one boy. Both had your hair and his face. Oh, how he doted on them. Kissing their cheeks constantly. The kingdom was quick to choose the boy as the heir. Leading to constant protests from a moody Rafayel. "No. Whoever shows they are ready for the throne gets it." He will NOT back down when it comes to showing equality to your children.

Crown of Light Xavier: A man beyond his age. When you heard of him at first, you thought he was an old man. But, when you saw him... it was another story. He was beautiful. You averted your gaze away from him. The side of your face seemed to be cradled by the candlelight. He smiled softly. "Do you like the light?" Your eyebrows furrowed but you decided to indulge him with a soft nod. His palm extended, a bead of light appeared only to transform to a bunny.

As soon as the precious moment occurred, it seemed to fleet just as fast. News of the kingdom awaiting an heir seemed to strike Xavier down. He hardly spoke to you. Leaving you to go into the bed chambers and sleeping. Dozing off as if he didn't have a wife.

You sat on the plush cushion of the couch. Embroidering a pillow for your future children if your husband just got out of his bed chambers for once. Then, you saw him standing at the doorway. His face looking like he mourned you. You spoke softly, "what troubles you so much?" He shuddered before he took a seat next to you. Whatever he was about to say seemed to be rehearsed. "I.. can... I can not give you children." Your eyebrows furrowed. "Can't or will not?" He shook his head gently. "Will not."

The castle has been tense ever since. You hardly spoke to him. It was the casual difference of him saying will not rather than could not. You sat on the silk bed in your bed chambers. Looking at nothing in particular. Rather, you were deep in thought about how you even got into this situation. Xavier walked into the room, blowing the soft flames of the candles that illuminated your room. You were about to protest... but, his hand rose. "Just... let me speak okay?" You nodded quietly. "It's not that I do not want children with you. It's more that I... I'm scared. Terrified actually. What if I'm not a good father? What if I don't last long enough to see them into adulthood.. I... I can't". Your hand went to the small of his back. Truly the most reassuring thing you could've done. He smiled softly. Using his evol to make a little light show for you as an apology. Light illuminated the room, forming intricate shapes.

You two had triplets on the first go. Poor Xavier's heart nearly dropped. But, he was making the most of it. Two little girls with golden strands and your eyes. The boy inheriting your hair and his blue eyes. King Xavier was reduced to a restless father. His girls pulling at his locks while the boy nestled in his chest... he wouldn't have it any other way.

Ice King Zayne: "I'd like to formally introduce my-". He walked away before you could even finish your sentence. Your eyes widened. What? He was the one who rushed your union. So why was he pushing you away? Did he think you lower than him?

You avoided him like a plague and so did he. The ice of his evol was not the only thing making this castle so... frigid. You ended up developing a routine: wake up, finish up royal tasks, meet with your ladies in waiting, eat in the empty dining table, and go to bed. 150 steps to your bed chambers. So you started counting again and again. 150 exact. What a mundane and boring life.

Today was no different. 150 steps to leave your room and to the dining table. But, this time you saw Zayne eating. You took your seat and ate in silence. The day was pretty pleasant afterwards. 150 steps to the chambers... 1...2...3. You only counted to 50 until you felt a hand grab your wrist and tug you somewhere else. Your mind was on autopilot. 150... 151? 180 steps to Zayne's chambers. Wait.. why are you in his chambers? He helped you out of your robe. His gaze appreciative of the silk white nightgown you wore. You looked up at him baffled. But, he just tugged you into bed with him. You were spooned into his embrace. Back hitting his muscular chest.

You were weak. How else do you explain just sleeping comfortably? He nuzzled his face into your neck. "I'm... not one for affection. I really tried... I just find being away from you is unbearable." What you didn't know is that he was a mess around you. The times he rushed away from you... he was hiding in the corner of the room blushing like a fool. He was not good at being vulnerable at all. But, he will try for you.

Twin girls appeared in his arms. Both having your face, your hair, your mannerisms. His genes didn't seem to even fight it. He thanked all the wishing he did. These little girls thawed the rest of his frigid heart that you couldn't reach. He would always carry snacks hidden under his heavy crown. Chocolate for the eldest twin, strawberry jam packets for the other, and whatever you craved. All with a faint blush whenever he was around you.

Dragon Sylus: You signed up for a marriage… not this. You were stuck in the tower being guarded by a damn dragon? You knew his name was Sylus. Knew he was also the king of the kingdom. Knew he preferred to be alone and recluse in the tower. Knew he hated humans. But, also knew he had to endure to keep the kingdom out of ruins.

He clung to you. His strong voice squeaking out. What happened to this strong dragon? “M-may.. I hold on to your ribbon?” You nod. His long fingers twirled around the ribbon that laid behind your dress. The one that held your waist. His black nails scratching lightly on it. “Pretty.”

You woke up more often than not in his arms. He always asked before he touched you. Not wanting to scare you off. His finger tips were ash black. His nails pointed and sharp. The noir color fading past his knuckle to reveal pale skin. Your fingers reached his horns earning you a soft groan. “They’re sensitive, my belle.” You took your hands off. He looked at you with almost worry. His nail dragging on your soft cheek. “Do I.. scare you?” You shot up. Wanting to protest. He shook his head. Getting up and leaving the room.

You found him mopping by a small nest that could only fit you and him if you squeezed. Maybe he made it so he could envelop you whole? That’s how he felt he could protect you. Your hand petted his hair. Asking.. begging to talk. He looked up at you. “I don’t want to scare you. It’s hard enough to ask you to have heirs with me. They’d be half dragon and half human.. I can’t ask you to create monsters.” You shook your head. Explaining you didn’t find him repulsive. But, his hand found yours again. “D-don’t.. not for my sake. I’d do anything for you. My horns? I’ll shave them down. Look more human. I’ll cut the claws.. the fangs too. Anything. Please.. I don’t wish to frighten you.” When you finally got him to see reason, he slept soundly on your chest.

He was the best girl dad. His little girl had your hair and his crimson eyes. She had the most fierce personality anyone had ever seen. More importantly… she had her dad wrapped around her finger. He’d always make her a nest. Always laugh whenever she started showing her dragon side. You two would take her to the gardens so she could enjoy the sun.

God of War Caleb: Strategically, this was a match made in heaven. His kingdom was one that never lost a battle. The soldiers were all top quality and ruthless when it came to protecting the crown. But, you grew up with Caleb. The powerful king was the same person who’d fuss over your dress, fix your ribbons, put your shoes on for you. His reward? You hardly acknowledged him as a romantic prospect. Hardly batting an eye to him at the balls.

How long would it take for him to snap? Not long actually.. you’re his wife now. His queen. You were blissfully unaware to his romantic sentiments. Usually giving him the same polite nod as always. Caleb… was a good and dear friend. Until tonight.

His hand snaked to the small of your back. Keeping you pressed against him. His cheek rubbed against yours. His voice… soft. Almost melodic. “Am I not enough? I’m yours… so humbly yours. My heart..” He placed your hand on his warm chest. Your fingertips feeling his steady and strong heartbeat. “This… it beats for you.” You could only swallow hard. Your eyes flickering with recognition. You truly loved him.

He followed you around like a lost puppy. Making countless excuses as for why he needed to be in your line of sight. No one understood how this man crumbled to a pathetic fool over you. But, they weren’t crazy enough to question him. A single utter of your name had his intention. If it was a negative comment? The person would rather be dead and gone than face Caleb’s wrath. Come hell or high water, that man would go to war for your dignity.

Caleb had his heir. A boy who looked exactly like him. A carbon copy down to his pout. He adored the boy.. absolutely. But, mentally cursed himself because he wished he looked a bit more like you. He also cursed himself because his son is EXACTLY like him. Caleb would follow you around for affection or praise, only to get knocked by his son. His son was equally possessive and jealous over your time. A chaotic but loving home is what I can best describe it as.

[highdramas]

ik you said you were looking for ideas: what if the f!attending!reader got too drunk at a group outing and he took her home?

party for you | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!resident!reader warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), descriptions of throwing up, references to sex and gets steamy but nothing explicit, sweet sweet fluff <3 word count: 2.6k summary: you party a little too hard and jack takes care of you in his perfect way. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. thank you for this lovely request!!!! idk if i like how this one turned out but i hope that you do! oh to be taken care of by jack when i'm too drunk! this is a part of the ring of fire interconnected series, but it’s not necessary to read the prior parts to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find the masterlist here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!

“hey, brother.”

“hey man.” jack keeps one steady hand on the wheel, the other holds the phone to his ear. when he felt the vibration from his pocket, there was that sudden, jolting feeling. was it you? were you okay? did you just want to say hi? did you miss him, the way he missed you? but then robby flashes across his screen, adorned with a stupid picture of him from a thanksgiving potluck a few years back.

( when he thinks about that thanksgiving potluck now, in retrospect, the detail that stands out to him is that he actually sat next to you. when dana, half drunk and wild with her wine glass in the air, asked everyone to share what they were grateful for, jack had nudged you and muttered, “just say your family. it makes her weepy, every time.”

you had covered your mouth to stifle your laughter. he felt entirely satisfied with himself. one little moment out of several across the years where the lines were clearly drawn: attending, resident. teacher, student. off limits. )

jack makes a shoddy attempt at shaking the thought of you away to focus on whatever it is robby needs to share– unlikely to keep him as rapt, but worthy of his time and attention, presumably.

“you getting close to town?”

“uh– ‘bout five minutes out. what’s up?” the rumble of the party is heard, but robby doesn’t say anything. jack asks robby if you’re alright. more quiet.

when you asked jack last weekend if he was planning on going to princess’s halloween party, with that goddamn glint of hope in your eye, it had taken all of the self control in the world to say, “i volunteer with the VA for a camping trip every halloween weekend. i won’t be back until late the night of the party.”

you had deflated slightly, but mustered up enough mischief to say, “what, you don’t want to go as jim and pam from the office, in true 'we just started dating' fashion? rude.”

he had hung his head, put his hands on your thighs and looked up at you with what he could only assume was a pathetic, pitiful expression. to be fair, you made him reasonably pathetic, and certainly pitiful. the fact that every man wasn’t unreasonably infatuated with you was a wonder to him.

“i’m sure i can get someone to cover for me–”

“no,” you had said with a shake of your head. your hands went to cradle his face, your thumb brushing the place where a dimple develops when you really get him smiling, or laughing. “don’t do that. they’re planning on having you. i shouldn’t be selfish.”

but what if he wanted to be selfish? it’s already been a significant struggle to not want to follow you everywhere. he would go with you into his worst nightmare if you asked. he’d do another tour if it meant that you were smiling at him, just like you were in that moment. the hold that you have on him is not lost on him in the slightest, and he wouldn't change it, even if he wanted to. devotion feels good. it feels right.

but, with coaxing from you, he had gone on the trip, and you still went to princess’s party. when he got cell service back during the four hour drive, he immediately called you, if only to hear your voice. you sounded excited, but he could hear the dip in it when you said wish you were here. then you sent a picture of that goddamn tomb raider costume…

which was why, despite his exhaustion, despite the fact that he probably stinks like a campfire, despite the way that his leg burns… he has princess’s address in his gps.

“is she alright?” jack repeats himself.

“she’s fine. she’s fine. she’s just had a lot to drink, is all. dana’s in the bathroom with her now, but i think she’s about ready to, uh, go. i was just wanting to see if you were close, or if we should get mateo to–”

“don’t put her in a goddamn car with mateo, or anyone else. i’m down the fucking road. are you keeping her hydrated?”

“yes, and–”

“what about some carbs? get her a piece of toast. she’ll ask for it with honey, but best to keep it plain. and maybe some ice on her wrists to cool her body temperature. she’s prone to overheating.”

“jack,” robby cuts through. “we know. we got her. i’ll see you soon, brother.”

–

the thing that people don’t tell you about alcohol? it’s fun when it’s fun. it’s horrible when it’s horrible. well, they do tell you that. you've seen enough alcohol poisoning cases come through the emergency department to know just how easy it is to topple over the edge without even realizing it. but, treating it is one thing. experiencing it is another.

and there might not be anything more hellish than getting nearly blacked out, surrounded by health care professionals.

everything had been great. you were drinking a little more than normal, but, hey– it was halloween! and you had two days off in a row! that felt like something to be celebrated. and, yeah, maybe the fact that you drank two of those nearly neon blue buzzballs was a bad idea. maybe that last shot with princess was also a bad idea. but you had been feeling good. better than good.

you had never been much of a drinker, or a partier, but not because you didn’t want to be. sometimes, you just didn’t know how to be. at a certain point, you had accepted that you were a little bit of a recluse in college… and med school… and, now, through your residency, too. you liked working and researching and if you weren’t doing either of those things, you preferred to smoke some weed to relax and watch below deck, or a real housewives franchise.

the only time that you didn’t feel like a loser was when you were in jack’s living room watching something inane, like one of those live police shows, or ancient aliens, because if you get jack high enough, he’ll want to watch it for hours. in those moments, the only label that felt sufficient was his.

you are typically wise enough to know what your limits are around drinking– you are a doctor, after all. but you were feeling a little moody since jack wasn’t there, and the alcohol wasn’t doing anything to help that, and then, you made the uniquely horrible decision to hit the joint that was being passed around the backyard. you told yourself it would calm your nerves. the only thing it did was kick off the world spinning for the better part of an hour.

which is how you’re now, here. back against the wall of princess’s bathroom, your head between your knees, with dana and samira crouched beside you, each trying to heal you– as is their nature.

“baby, you need to look up, and just stare at that shampoo bottle. keep staring at it and don’t stop. that’s my trick for the spins.” dana’s voice sounds warbled, far away. you force your head up and stare at the shampoo bottle in question. “good, good. keep doing that.”

robby comes to the doorway with his phone in his hand, and a fresh glass of water in the other. you don’t quite pick up everything that he says, but you hear jack and soon and it’s enough for your incoherent brain to string together the rest. “jack is here?” you ask, and damn that hope in your voice, damn it to hell. you’ve been publicly dating for less than six months and you’re already being embarrassingly, publicly in love.

“yeah, he’s almost here.”

you smile. laugh a little to yourself. dana and samira share a look and they can’t help the laughter, too. you’re about to say something else when robby is maneuvered to the side, and jack stands in the doorframe. everything is still spinning, but you try dana’s trick, making jack into your shampoo bottle, using the image of him to ground yourself. “hey,” you say, head falling back and thunking against the wall. he’s at your side immediately, using a hand to cradle the back of your head, push strands away from your eyes. “i think i partied a little too hard.”

“yeah, i think so too, kid.” he gives robby an intense look and a nod of his head and everyone clears out from the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. he finds your eyes, so bleary and tired and unfocused. you give him a half hearted pout that turns into a smile. “want me to get you home?”

“yes, please,” you let him hold your head up, hand sliding from the back of it to your cheek. you turn your mouth to press a kiss into his palm, open-mouthed, wanting, despite everything. “i’m so embarrassed.”

“what?” jack scrunches his face up. “you have nothing to be embarrassed over.”

“i do,” you say through a hiccup, your hands reaching to grab at jack’s forearms– you love his arms, love how strong they look, love how they hold you. “i started blabbing about how much i love you to robby. and i’m not embarrassed that i love you– i’m embarrassed because i’m supposed to be a professional, and you’re my attending, and–” you cut yourself off because he’s smiling at you, wide. “why are you looking at me like that?”

“because you’re one of a kind, kid.” he presses a kiss into your forehead. “c’mon, let’s–”

the sentence dies because you dive forward, scrambling to get the toilet seat up before you empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet. “shit.” you hear him grunt, but it’s faint over the sound of you coughing, resting your forehead against the edge. you take in a shaky breath as you feel jack’s hands pulls the strands of your hair that have escaped the lara croft-esque braid you put your hair into. “let it out. you’re good, i’ve got you. you’ll feel better.”

you throw up another two times before your stomach finally relents and gives up the good fight. your limbs are shaky, and jack’s hand rubs a gentle pattern into your spine. you faintly, far away, hear the door open just a crack. jack murmurs something to who you can only presume is robby, because he returns with a fresh glass of water, a sleeve of saltine crackers, and a stick of gum. you're just glad they're not taking you to the emergency room for a bag of fluids. you wouldn't put it past them.

jack settles behind you with a groan, knees creaking. you look at him from over your shoulder and ask, despite everything, “how was the camping trip?”

he smirks, the amusement at your question evident on his face. “good. really good.” he adjusts the tank top that you wear, where it’s ridden up, smoothing it against your waist. “how are you feeling?”

“much better,” you say with a nod of your head as a punctuation. “it was the joint i smoked that really did me dirty. and the fact that i ate, like, ten hush puppies.”

“i believe it.” he looks lost in thought for a moment, before he adds, “i’m sorry i wasn’t here.”

“it’s not your job to babysit me,” you muse, shaky hand taking the water from him. he shakes his head and puts it to your lips, helps tip your head back, takes proper care of you. “and you deserve to do things on your own. we both have to do that if we want this to work.” the alcohol still has you loose, because you continue, “i like being my own person. doing my own things. but…” you shrug a shoulder. “i really like being me with you. i did wish you were here tonight. i missed you. i kept looking over my shoulder like you'd just... be there.”

“i wished i was too. i missed you,” jack sets the glass down and hands you a saltine cracker instead. his eyes trail you, up and down. “i didn’t get a chance to say it yet, but you look sexy.”

“i just threw up enough alcohol to get an entire sorority drunk.”

“still sexy.” his hand lands on your thigh and squeezes one time before he lets go. “you wanna get out of here? or want to hang for a little?”

“i’m ready to go.” jack helps you to your feet and rubs at your shoulders while you take handfuls of water from the sink, swishing it about in your mouth. jack unwraps the stick of gum and turns you, tapping it against your chin once. you open your mouth for him and he places it on your tongue with a heady gaze. you blow a bubble at him, listen to the pop fill the air around you.

when his eyes flick down to your mouth, you put a hand on his chest. “you can’t wait to kiss me until i’ve brushed my teeth?”

“i don’t care.” his hands are getting greedy, going to your waist, squeezing like he just needs to feel you, needs to feel that you’re real and right in front of him. “please.”

before, you never would’ve pinned jack abbot as a clingy man. now, it makes perfect sense to you. you only need to be apart for a few hours before he’s looking at the little picture of you that he has in his wallet. you could only imagine him these last three days: huddled around a campfire, mind drifting to you. the thought makes you feel a satisfaction you've never known before.

you don’t know if you’ve ever been loved as completely as jack loves you. it’s not just one way that he’s good: it’s all of the ways. he’s not perfect, and you don’t expect him to be– sometimes, he can close himself off. he can snap at you when he’s irritable. but he’s good. a good man.

how can you deny jack what he’s asking for? especially when he asks so nicely. you give a slight nod of your head and that’s enough for him. he pulls you in close, by the back of your neck, his favorite point of your body: and he presses his lips against yours and kisses you so thoroughly that you feel breathless.

you feel a little bit like a college kid, making out in a bathroom while loud music plays behind you. but you wouldn’t change a thing: you love sex with jack, you love that he makes it good, tender, hot, passionate. but you love this, too: the neediness that can exist without ever taking an article of clothing off, arching your back so that your breasts press against his chest, hearing the catch of his breath when you do. you love to rake your fingers through his hair because you know that it drives him crazy, and you like seeing the goosebumps that you get in return.

jack nips your lower lip with his teeth and it makes you gasp into his mouth, and his hand squeezes against the back of your neck. he chuckles into you. “i love when you do that,” he breathes. “when you make that sound.”

it’s your turn to cling to the back of jack’s neck and press your fingers into it. “are you going to take me home or not?”

jack wears his smirk like a badge of honor. and then, so seamlessly, he blows a bubble with the gum that at some point went from your mouth to his.

“that is disgusting,” you say, but your face deceives you: your slack-jawed, twinkly eyes expression says everything that words can’t. “foul.”

“sorry,” jack says and comes in for one more hot kiss, using his tongue to press the gum back into your mouth. “didn’t mean to take that.”

[bunny-jpeg]

your big bear

capt. john price

tags: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/46), pet names, established relationship (married), missionary, sweet/dirty talk, oral sex (reader receives)

a/n: this is sadly not a hybrid au, but there will be one soon!

you loved your big bear. jonathan price was his name, a good man. worked hard as a captain and now retired. forty-six, long time in the forces. so retirement took to him well.

even with the aches and pains you loved him. when you told him if you made him feel young, he chuckled and pinched your cheek.

"i'm no cradle robber, love." he said in that gruff voice of him. the kind of voice that made you weak in the knees.

your nickname for him stuck, even when he tried to coax you into other names - honey, sweetie, daddy. but you loved your big bear, so why change the name?

he sort of lumbered around, a bad pain in his hip and knee kept him less than nimble, the hairiness of his chest and face kept you warm in the winter months, he loved how you cooked fist (especially salmon).

but there was one aspect that made him the most bear-like.

his ability to manhandle you. while the average grizzly would just eat you, price had a different way of eating. currently he was between your legs in bed with his tongue pressed up against your bare cunt. your thighs over his shoulders and those broad hands across your soft skin.

"fuck, big bear." you whimpered as he continued to play with your clit with his tongue. his bread was scratchy against your thighs and you felt the excitement of pleasure wash over you.

you held onto his brown hair, it was greying at the temples. you gave it a firm yank and he held on a little tighter.

"careful there, cub. i'd hate to put ya over my knee for ripping my hair out." he continued to give your inner thighs beard burn as he teased your clit. you pussy tasted perfect to him, the sort of perfect that only encouraged him more and more.

"fuck, ah. john!"

he chuckled lowly before he took one hand away from your thighs and captured both of your wrists to pin them on your stomach above where he was. he said, "stay, cub. be a good girl for me."

he was just so big, that was your fault though. you wanted to get with the biggest, burliest man you could get your hands on, good thing that price liked you in return. he kept you pinned to the bed by your wrists and continued to orally pleasure you, the feeling zipped up your spine and made you hot all over. the thump of pleasure through your core as he kept kissing at your sweet pussy.

"my precious girl." he moaned into your pussy as he continued to lick your slit, his eyes closed as he continued to gorge himself on you. it tasted against, you felt like heaven. he loved you.

you felt dream-like, the pleasure only continued to grow inside of you. there was a leap of excitement through your core as you stayed pinned on the bed. this was what heaven must have felt like.

"you taste like honey, and i'm one hungry grizzly."

you chuckled lightly between the heightened pleasure, "you cheesy bastard."

price kissed your clit before he pulled away and looked into your eyes, "only for you, petal." then got up and away from your pussy. his cock stood proud against his fuzzy stomach. you were painfully aroused.

he eyed you up and down for a moment, and felt so deeply in love with you. he licked his lips before he wiped his beard. he hiked you up by the hips and admired you. his blue eyes gazed across your flustered form.

"beautiful." he mused before he sank his cock into you. you tensed up for a moment before he started to rock his hips against you. he wrapped your legs around his waist and leaned forward. he pressed a hand against the wall behind the bed and moved against you with strong thrusts.

"fuck, john." you shuddered.

"i love how my name sounds on your tongue, petal." he said with the utmost affection. he continued to rock against you, his thrusts were heavy and it made your soul sing for him. your beloved john.

you shuddered under him, felt the throb for him between your legs. you yearned for your man, your john. the feeling of him so close as he made love to you felt amazing. you could feel the excitement crawl through you, the hyperactivity in your brain as he made love to you.

"my beautiful girl." price said lightly, "my precious angel, bein' with an old dog like me. makin' me work your pretty little pussy, but it's all mine. no question about that." he purred lowly and you felt the excitement course through you.

"please, john." you moaned.

"prettiest voice in all of england. hell, the most beautiful woman in the whole world. and all mine, my precious little love." he purred. he thrusted up into you. he panted against you, the movements excited him greatly. the rush of want through the both of you.

you whined and arched your hips a little bit, and price only admired you more. there was something about how you looked under him that drove him mad. he continued to rut against you.

"quite the fuckin' sight." he mused as he moved faster.

"i love you."

"and i love you too, petal."

you shared a passionate kiss, you could taste your pussy on his lips, but you only dove deeper into the kiss with your husband. the center of your universe, the man you'd love for the rest of your days. you said your vows, and you made your promise to your bear of a man.

"my big bear."

"my little cub." he chuckled lightly as he took you by the hips and hiked them up a little higher to access you from a better angle. the feeling of his cock hitting up against all of your sweet spots made you feel even more excited to have sexually.

you held onto his strong, broad shoulders as he continued to make love to you. the forse he used was full of passion and made you core swim with desire. the pleasure mounted further in your cure with each movement.

you were pinned under him, letting him use your body as he saw fit. the feeling elated you, excited you beyond words. he was the kind of lover that would make anyone drool. and he was all yours, only yours.

price was obsessed with you, but not in a way that it dampened your love for him. he was protective, supportive, a provider in every sense of the word. all the way down to making you feel good. it was hard not to be so deeply in love with him - he was the man you always yearned for. wanted. and he wanted you.

and with each heavy stroke of his hips against yours, the promise was sealed. you were his and he was yours. hand in ever loving hand forever.

"my love. my woman." he said softly.

you kissed him once more before you replied, "my world. my man." you chuckled, your lips close to his before he captured your lips once more in a searing kiss.

he kissed across your cheeks as you held onto him tightly. he continued to rut up against you, his thrusts heavy as he took all of you. with a few more ruts against your sweet sex, you were holding onto him tightly.

you panted and he pressed his forehead against yours. he continued his quick movements, it left after shivers run through you. it was a small inferno in his soul as he fucked you, and soon after he finished inside of you with one final thrust. he went in for another steamy kiss before he pulled away and laid out on the bed beside you.

you draped an arm across your bear of a lover and kissed his temple softly. you giggled lightly, "my big bear."

he pulled you in closely, your sweaty body against his. he kissed you deeply on the lips before he added, "my everything. now why don't i get you some water and you pick a movie for us to watch tonight."

you broke into a big grin. no matter what - you'd always be spoiled by your precious husband. your big bear <3

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nineteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, teeth-rotting fluff, mentions of minor ptsd, the "do you want kids" talk, therapy, sexual content.

Notes — The queen of fluff strikes again. They're so in love it hurts. Enjoy this intermission from the angst before we get to Spa.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Hungary)

Max was having headaches.

Not debilitating, not anything he would admit needed painkillers. But Amelia noticed the way he squinted at the sim screen, how he blinked a little too often under the harsh lights, how he’d logged fewer hours this week than he had since he was seventeen.

She didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t want to push him.

But it gnawed at her, heavy and sour at the pit of her stomach.

Because she knew Max. Knew how he worked. If he thought for even a second that she might tell Christian or Helmut or, God forbid, the FIA, he'd lock it down even tighter, wrap himself up in barbed wire and throw away the key. Anything to stay in the car. Anything to win. 

Still, it scared her. The idea that maybe the crash had done more damage than he was willing to admit. That maybe he was hiding it from her, from everyone, in order to be given the all clear to keep racing. 

She leaned against the doorway to the RBR sim room one evening, arms crossed tight over her chest, watching him fight through another lap. He was good at pretending, but she saw the way his hand came up to the back of his neck when he thought no one was looking, how he massaged the side of his head, quick and angry like he could force the ache away. 

Her fingers twitched at her side. She wanted to walk over. Put a hand on his shoulder. Make him stop. But she didn't.

Instead, she just said, quiet but steady, "Don’t be stupid, Max."

He flicked his eyes toward her, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She already knew what he’d decided. And she already knew it would break her heart trying to change his mind.

— 

Amelia sat at the kitchen island, watching her mom buzz around the kitchen, throwing together something that vaguely resembled a pasta salad. She scrunched her nose at the sight of it, half-finished, but already tragic, and fought the urge to say something. She hadn’t been lying to Lando over a year ago, standing in her garage, when she’d told him her mom was really only capable of cooking one thing successfully. And there was definitely no chicken in sight.

Her iPad was open in front of her, specs from the latest floor upgrade zoomed in on the screen, but she wasn’t really looking at them. Not properly. She was too focused on the strange, unsettled feeling curling in her stomach.

This was her first time at home for weeks, maybe even over a month, and she’d missed it, she had. She really had.

But something felt… different. Off, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down.

“I think I should get my own place,” she said eventually, voice quiet but certain.

Her mom spun around, salad tong still in hand, blinking fast.  “You— you don’t want to live at home anymore?”

Amelia shrugged, trying to find the right words. “No, it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t like it here. It’s just…” She trailed off for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I feel like a nomad. I’m living out of hotels most of the time. And when I am in England, I’m split between here, Glastonbury with Lando, and Milton Keynes at Max’s flat. I have all these different places that feel half-mine. But nowhere that’s actually mine, you know?”

Her mom set the salad tongs down carefully, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. She didn’t look angry.

Amelia pressed on, rushing a little now in case she’d somehow managed to made her mom sad. “I still love it here. I do. But it feels like… like my childhood home, you know? Not my current home.”

There was a small beat of quiet. Then her mom gave a soft, bittersweet smile. “That’s what’s supposed to happen, honey. You’re supposed to outgrow home. I’m glad you feel ready.”

Amelia relaxed a little, shoulders unclenching. Then her mom added, almost too casually, “Will you and Lando get a place together?”

Amelia blinked. “What? No— I mean—” She stopped herself, brain scrambling to catch up. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I just meant me. Like… by myself.”

Her mom laughed, warm and a little amused. “Well, think about it. You practically live with him already, in hotel rooms, but still… it counts.”

Amelia frowned, thinking it through like it was a math problem. “Oh. Yeah. That would… probably make more sense, wouldn’t it?” She mumbled. “I don’t particularly think I’d want to live alone, anyway. And I have gotten used to all of his stuff taking up my space—“ 

Her mom just smiled again, all knowing and fond, and went back to massacring the pasta salad.

— 

Amelia smiled to herself and kept her head down, pencil scratching steadily across the paper in her lap. The rumble of the jet engine faded into white noise; background to the way her hand moved without much thought, the way it always did when her brain was chewing on something bigger than her.

Lando, sprawled out lazily in the aisle across from her, leaned over, curious. “What are you drawing, baby?”

Immediately, Amelia tilted the sketchbook away from him, tucking it protectively against her chest. Her ears burned hot. “Uh. Nothing. I mean—obviously something, but I don’t want to tell you.”

He stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decode her, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that meant he wasn’t sure whether to push or leave it alone. Then he grinned, easy and warm. “Alright. Keep your secrets.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out. 

Amelia ducked her head again, heart thudding faster than she wanted it to.

She wasn’t lying. She just… wasn’t ready to admit it out loud yet. Not to him, not to herself.

In the sketchpad, dozens of early concepts sprawled across the page; lines and curves and arrows scribbled in shorthand. A McLaren.

Not just any McLaren, either.

One capable of winning championships.

Lightweight rear end. Aerodynamic front wing for better rotation. A reimagined floor, designed with efficiency and flexibility in mind for whatever the regulation changes might throw their way in the next couple of years.

It was stupid, probably.

She didn’t work for McLaren. Never had, in any official capacity. 

She was still Red Bull’s weapon — heralded by the press as Max’s saviour. Mini Newey. A hundred nicknames but never just her own, never just Amelia Brown.

But the ideas had crawled into her head after Silverstone and refused to leave. It had started with a little idle thought (If I could build him a car good enough to fight Max…) and now here she was. 

She chewed on her pencil, staring at the half-formed shape of the nose, and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything else. 

— 

They stopped in Belgium before ultimately traveling to Hungary. Lando had family there. Cousins, some distant and some much closer. They’d be too busy to do anything of the sort during the actual Belgium race week, so it was nice to be able to fit them in.

They visited a few over the course of the week; fleeting hellos, shared meals over chipped plates and loud, overlapping conversations. It was nice. Overwhelming, a little, but nice.

Lando introduced her to all of his relatives with a beaming smile and a dozen proud praises—"This is Amelia—yeah, my Amelia"—and she offered polite hellos, dodging kisses on cheeks and handshakes as politely as possible and then doing her best to keep up with the small talk when it was asked of her.

It was a little exhausting, mentally. The swirl of laughter, jokes she didn’t quite catch the punchline of, but Lando never pushed her too far. Never nudged her into the centre of things. He let her stay where she was comfortable, sometimes sliding his hand across her lower back when it got too much, or catching her eye from across a room with a soft, wordless smile.

Mostly, she ended up perched on the carpet with the kids, knees tucked under her, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she held up a toy car and explained, far too seriously, the engine type and manufacturer history. The toddlers listened with wide eyes, clutching their sticky-fingered toys and nodding solemnly as if they understood.

Later, in the car, as they drove back toward their hotel under the pale blue of evening, Amelia sat curled up in the passenger seat, hair pulled over one shoulder, a big blue stain on her blouse that was the product of finger-painting gone wrong. 

Lando was quiet, his hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other tugging her knuckles gently onto his thigh. "You were really good with them," he said eventually, voice soft enough that she almost thought she'd imagined it.

She made a face. “Kids are easy. All you have to do is keep talking and occasionally shove something colourful at them.”

He laughed under his breath. A minute passed.

Then, casual, like he was asking if she wanted to stop for food, he asked, "Do you want kids?"

Amelia blinked, turning her head to stare at him in the half-light. "I— we don’t even live together," she said, blunt and a little incredulous.

Lando’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. "Well, we can change that."

She stared at him for a long second, watching the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. Like he wasn’t nervous. Like he meant it.

"Did you talk to my mom?" she asked suddenly.

He shot her a quick, confused glance. "What? No—why? Did you already—? I mean—"

“Okay. I would like to live with you," she said, cutting him off neatly.

For a second, he just blinked at her. And then he was smiling, wide and ridiculous, so big it looked like it physically hurt to contain it.

She giggled, reaching over to nudge his arm. "Stop making that face. You're going to scare the other drivers."

"I'm happy," he argued, grin stretching impossibly wider. "Let me be happy."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away. She settled back against her seat, watching the trees whip past the window, her heart full and a little chaotic.

"Who gets the bigger closet?" she asked after a beat.

He laughed, a low, warm sound. "You do. Obviously. I’ll just shove my stuff in a corner somewhere."

She nodded. “I do need a lot of closet room. I have two-hundred pairs of shoes.” A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before she tilted her head, thinking. "Where would we live?"

He didn’t miss a beat. "Monaco." 

She wrinkled her nose, instinctively. "That's... a big change."

He glanced over, softer now, like he already knew she'd need a minute with the idea. "Just think about it, baby," he said. "Makes sense for me. Makes sense for you. No taxes. Close to Max if you stay with Red Bull. Close to everything else if you don't."

She chewed on her bottom lip, the weight of it settling on her. A new country. A new chapter. A real home; with him.

He smiled again, smaller this time but just as sure. "We could make it our home."

Amelia nodded slowly, feeling her brain already spinning into overdrive. "I need to make a list. Pros and cons. Things we’ll want in the apartment. Maybe a balcony?"

Lando just grinned, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. "Anything you want, baby."

— 

“Do you think I’d be a good mom?”

Max froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “You—fuck, are you pregnant?”

His alarm might’ve had something to do with the fact that she was halfway under his car, only her legs and a shock of messy hair visible as she fiddled with a stubborn screw.

Amelia blinked, glancing up at him from beneath the chassis. “No. I’m just wondering.”

Max let out a breath so heavy it was basically a groan, dragging a hand down his face like he needed to physically wipe the terror off. “Fuck, don't do that to me, zusje. I nearly had a heart attack.”

She wriggled out from under the car, wiping her greasy hands on a rag as she sat back on her heels. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I’m being serious.”

Max crouched down beside her, arms draped loosely over his knees, studying her with a little more care now. “Okay... why are you thinking about that?” he asked, voice softer.

Amelia shrugged. “I was just thinking—if it ever happened, would I be good at it?”

Max’s face relaxed. “You’d be a great mother.”

She tilted her head, skeptical. “You’re just saying that because it’s what you’re supposed to say.”

He snorted. “No, I'm saying it because it’s true. You love very intensely, you’re honest even when it’s not easy, and you are protective and strong. That's exactly what children need from a parent.”

Amelia chewed on her lip. “Pregnancy is scary. Completely out of my control. Everything, anything, could go wrong.”

Max’s expression shifted, softening. “That’s not something you need to worry about yet.”

She hesitated, then said, almost too quietly, “I think Lando would be a good dad. And I want to give that to him. One day.”

Max nodded. “Then you will. When you’re ready, of course.”

Amelia pursed her lips, staring off to the side. “We... I think we’re going to move in together. Soon. Lando mentioned Monaco.”

Max immediately brightened. “Good! I’m there already. We could be neighbours.”

She blinked, absorbing that new piece of information, slotting it neatly into the mental checklist she was already building. “Oh. Are there any available apartments in your building?”

Max huffed a small laugh, like he hadn’t expected her to take his suggestion seriously. “I’m sure there are.”

She nodded firmly, already halfway down the rabbit hole of logistics. “Okay. That would be efficient.” 

Max smiled at her, patient, fond. “I’m sure that you will find the perfect place, zusje. Don’t worry.”

Amelia nodded again, more to herself this time. 

— 

“We’re not living in Max’s building,” Lando said.

Amelia, perched cross-legged on the bed in his drivers room, immediately pouted. “Why not? It would make life so much simpler, Lan.”

He let out a short laugh, setting his phone down. “Look, I love Max, alright? But living that close to him would be... proper weird.”

Amelia tilted her head, frowning like he was speaking another language. “Why?”

Lando scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Imagine it. Every time we argue, he’s knocking on the door two minutes later—sticking up for you, making me feel like a right dickhead.”

She cracked a tiny smile but stayed stubborn. “But it would be efficient. And Max could help us fix things if something breaks.”

“Baby,” Lando said, laughing, “if something breaks, I’ll fix it. Or we’ll call someone. A professional. Not Max with a wrench and a YouTube tutorial.”

He reached over, tugging her socked foot into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was thinking somewhere quieter anyway,” he added, softer now. “Away from the main city. Somewhere you can go on your little daily walks without bumping into tourists every five seconds.”

She perked up immediately. “My walks are important for my brain.”

“I know.” He smiled, running his thumb over her ankle. “I even asked Charles where he grew up. There are places, baby; small, quiet. Still close enough if we need to get into town. He said the air’s cleaner too.”

Amelia tapped her fingers against her knee, thoughtful. “Cleaner air is good. Better for respiratory health.”

Lando chuckled and tugged her closer until she half-fell into his side with a tiny yelp. “Exactly. So let’s find somewhere ours, yeah?”

She tucked her head under his chin, breathing him in. “Okay. But if Max gets upset, you have to deal with it.”

Lando grinned against her hair. “I can handle a grumpy Verstappen.”

— 

They were curled up in their hotel room, watching the latest episode of Grill the Grid the night before qualifying.

Amelia sat between Lando’s legs, her back pressed against his chest. He had her squished close, big hands sprawled comfortably across her stomach, pressing just enough to ground her, to help her breathe a little easier.

It’d been a rough day for Max, and the stress had bled into her too. Finally being still, finally letting herself relax, felt like a blessing.

She fiddled absently with her golf ball, thumb tracing lazy circles over the surface, half-listening, until the first trivia question came up.

Without hesitation, she rattled off the answer.

By the third question, Lando was laughing, reaching for the remote to pause the video after each one. “Alright, genius,” he teased, chin nudging the top of her head. “You get first go. Beat all of us.”

She answered every time without missing a beat.

He kept pausing, and she kept getting them all right, and after a while Lando wasn’t even pretending to be surprised anymore. He just squeezed her a little tighter and said, “Smarty pants.” 

Amelia smiled, small and shy but real.

Lando pressed a kiss into her hair. “I should start taking you to pub quizzes. I’d make a fortune.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn’t pull away.

— 

She felt... clingy.

Sitting next to Lando in hospitality, she stared at him, hands itching, burning to reach out, to grab him and never let go.

It had started yesterday. A coil of anxiety tightening in her stomach, left over from Silverstone. Aftershocks, she supposed.

She’d googled it, of course. Trauma responses. Hyper-vigilance. Perfectly normal, the internet said.

She didn’t feel normal.

She kissed Lando goodbye before qualifying, smiling as best she could, and ignored the way her hands trembled when she pulled away. She didn’t look back, even though everything inside her screamed to.

If it were up to her, none of them would be taking part in the weekends running. 

Not Lando. Not Max. Not Fernando. Not anyone.

She caught herself before the spiral could dig deeper, bracing one palm against the wall of the motorhome and forcing a deep breath.

She couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t let one crash, no matter how terrifying, poison the thing she loved. The thing they all loved.

But reason didn’t quiet the fear.

It didn't steady her hands as she watched Lando climb into his cockpit on the livestream.

It didn’t stop her from hugging Max tighter than usual, long enough that he gave her a puzzled little look before he was called away.

Even GP noticed. He kept glancing over, subtle but persistent. “You okay?” he asked, at least a dozen times throughout the session.

Every time, Amelia just nodded without looking at him, glued to the data, clinging to logic, to numbers, to anything she could control.

It helped. A little.

— 

Lando out-qualified Daniel by a mile.

He was cocky and proud, chest puffed out as he peeled her dress off later that night, caught between frantic and careful.

His mouth was hot against her neck, pulling soft, desperate sounds from her lips, her back arching into him. Then his hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He was smirking. Full of adrenaline. Hungry. “You think I deserve a reward for my performance?”

Amelia blinked up at him, sweet and soft and unbearably hot. “Anything you want, Lan.”

— 

The next morning, she clung to him, legs tangled with his, her hands wrapped tightly around his wrists. Holding him, having him, needing him close. The warmth of his body against hers felt like the only thing that was grounding her.

He kissed her nose, then her forehead, her cheeks, and chin, finally landing on her lips. The slow, deliberate kiss deepened, but she pulled away just enough to speak.

“I think I need to talk to somebody. A therapist, probably.”

Lando froze, his fingers still brushing against her skin, a soft hesitation in his touch. “You’re... Fuck, I knew something was up. I could feel it, but I didn’t know for sure.”

She gave him a steady, matter-of-fact look, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Yeah, that’s because I hid it from you. Didn’t want you to worry."

His face softened, and the guilt crept in. “You should’ve told me, Amelia.”

She shrugged, her stomach twisting under the weight of his gaze. “I didn’t want you distracted…”

"Don’t be stupid." His words were sharp, but they didn’t make her flinch. His hand found the back of her neck, pulling her gently against him. “You tell me when you’re having a shit time, okay?”

She sighed, pressing her forehead to his. “Sorry.”

His fingers slid through her hair, his voice steady but soft. "No more hiding it. Right?"

She nodded, barely, but it was enough.

“We’ll find someone good for you to talk to,” he said after a beat, his hand moving to stroke her hair.

She rubbed the tip of her nose against his collarbone affectionately. “Okay.”

— 

She popped her head into Fernando’s garage, offering him a soft smile. He came over, gave her a quick squeeze, and gestured proudly to his helmet. “Pretty, huh?”

She nodded, indulging him with a grin. “I like it. How are things going with Esteban?”

Fernando sighed. “Ah. He is… complicated. A good driver, but a terrible teammate. He does not see how both things can be true at once.”

She glanced over at Esteban’s side of the garage. “He’s passionate.”

Fernando nodded thoughtfully. “He is. That will be his greatest strength—and his greatest weakness.” He kissed her cheek and shooed her off. “Go, go, before Verstappen finds you here and threatens to keep you chained to his garage.”

She hugged him again, leaning in just close enough to murmur, “Adjust your ride height. Two centimetres higher.”

Before he could say anything, she gave him a sly smile and disappeared down the paddock.

— 

She sat next to Checo in the strategy meeting, slouched low in her chair, sneaking cursory glances at him every time he slid his phone under the table toward her. They were playing chess; badly, if she was honest, but that was half the fun.

Checo would make a move, tilt the screen toward her, and wait, barely suppressing a smug grin. She'd frown, tap out a counter, and slide it back without a word.

No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Checo was a lot of fun. Easygoing. Quick to laugh. And, as it turned out, a little reckless with his queen.

Amelia pinned him in three moves flat.

Checo huffed under his breath, shaking his head at her. She just shrugged, eyes back on the screen at the front of the room like nothing had happened at all.

— 

It was raining. Not hard, not anymore, but enough to slick the track and raise every hair on the back of Amelia’s neck.

She stood, stiff-backed, arms folded across her chest in the Red Bull garage, the whole world around her muffled and distant. She could hear the shrill whine of the engines as the formation lap wrapped, but it was like she was underwater. Distant. Fading.

Max was P3. Lando was P6. Fernando was lurking, dangerous as always. The Mercedes were ahead, unpredictable on a damp track.

Amelia flexed her fingers, breathing deep and slow. 

The lights blinked above the front of the grid, one, two, three, four, five, and before she could even brace herself, the race started.

Chaos.

Immediate, all-consuming chaos.

Bottas missed his braking point into Turn 1 and plowed into Lando. She didn’t even see it happen, only saw Lando’s car snap sideways, broken, ruined, like a toy in the rain.

She flinched so hard she almost dropped her iPad.

And then Max—Max—

She watched it in horror, too slow to look away, as Max’s Red Bull got collected in the chain reaction, bodywork flying, his car crumpling along the side-pod.

Her knees buckled; she caught herself with a hand on the pitwall.

Someone shouted. Someone else was already running to grab spare front wings. Alarms buzzed in her headset, engineers yelling over one another.

“Max has heavy damage,” GP was saying into her ear through the comms device, voice low and tight. “We’re evaluating. Standby.”

Her hands trembled.

The cars crawled through the carnage, half the grid limping back toward the pitlane. She stared at Max’s car as it crept past, side torn open like a wounded animal, sparks flying out the bottom.

“Still going,” she heard someone say. "He's still going."

Somehow, Max was dragging the car around. Somehow, Lando had pulled off track without getting hit again.

The red flag was thrown. Race temporarily suspended.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and pressed her forehead against the wall. Cold metal, cold air, cold panic.

She felt a hand squeeze her shoulder — once, solid and grounding. Probably an engineer who hadn’t been briefed, but they were lucky, their touch felt good, and didn’t make her want to tear off her skin. 

She nodded, to herself, to anyone watching her, making sure she was good. 

Didn't trust herself to speak yet.

— 

Lando was out.

Too much damage. Retired on lap two.

Max was luckier. He kept going, dragging a half-broken chassis to the finish line, scraping whatever points he could.

Esteban won. His first victory.

Amelia watched from the back of Lando’s garage as the Frenchman stepped onto the top step of the podium, soaking in the moment.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

She didn’t need him to say anything — she could feel it. The bitter edge of jealousy under his skin, the tight set of his jaw.

“It’ll come,” she muttered, more promise than reassurance, her mind flicking to her sketchbook, to the concepts she hadn't shown anyone yet — the ones that could take him all the way. 

The chassis she’d created with two particular drivers in mind. 

Lando squeezed her tighter.

— 

Summer break came just when she needed it.

She and Lando flew back to Monaco with Max, crashing in his guest room while they started apartment hunting.

Well… Lando did most of the hard work. Talking to estate agents, putting out feelers.

Amelia kept herself busy playing with Jimmy and Sassy, who decided almost immediately that she was their new favorite human.

She didn't mind. The cats were easy company, curling up on her lap or following her around the flat as Lando scrolled through listings and Max grumbled about all the overpriced places in the area.

It felt good, normal, even, to slow down. To just exist for a little while, tucked away in the hazy warmth of a Monegasque summer, surrounded by people (and animals) who loved her.

— 

They fell in love with the first place they viewed.

If Amelia believed in fate, she might have called it that.

Lando stood back and watched as she wandered through the apartment; past the galley kitchen, onto the balcony, big enough for a table, a chair, maybe even a canopy swing if she wanted.

Two bedrooms, three bathrooms. A master suite and a double. A massive living room, an even bigger office.

She could already see it: herself at a big desk, sketching new concepts as sunlight poured through the wall of windows.

She found Lando in the kitchen, deep in conversation with the property agent.

When he glanced up, she was already beaming at him.

— 

They spent two weeks of summer break, the rare stretch when neither of them had to be working full-time, Lando free from training camps, Amelia unchained from the factory, tucked away in the South of France.

It felt like stepping into another life. Long mornings spent tangled up in crisp hotel sheets, slow breakfasts on sun-drenched balconies overlooking sleepy coastal towns. They rented a little convertible and drove with no real destination, winding through golden hills and lavender fields, the radio humming low between them.

Amelia wore tiny sundresses and braided her hair, and Lando kept finding excuses to kiss her bare shoulders. They swam in cold, clear water until their fingers wrinkled, then collapsed on the beach, salt still clinging to their skin. 

At night, they fell into bed full of good food and exhausted. 

It wasn’t some extravagant, carefully curated holiday. It was just… easy. 

And somewhere between the lazy afternoons and the late-night kisses, Amelia stared at him and thought, “I could spend the rest of my life with you.” 

— 

The evening was warm, a soft breeze rustling the leaves around them. Lando had set up a speaker on the patio, the faint sound of acoustic guitar playing in the background, but they weren’t paying much attention to the music. Amelia was sitting on the edge of a chair, arms loosely draped over her knees, looking out at the stars above. Lando was sitting on the stone steps, watching her.

“So, how was it?” He asked. 

Amelia smiled faintly, but her eyes were tired. “It was… fine,” she started, kicking the edge of the chair with her foot, watching the dust float up into the air. “A bit awkward, but that’s probably normal. Online therapy, you know?” She rolled her eyes, but there was a lightness to her tone, as if she was still trying to find the right words. “It felt like… trying to untangle a knot in my brain, but someone else was holding the other end.”

Lando nodded thoughtfully, shifting on the stairs so he was facing her more. “I get that. Did she—” He paused, checking her expression, making sure she was okay. “Did she help at all?”

Amelia shrugged, a soft exhale escaping her. “Not yet. I mean, we talked about a lot of stuff. Things I didn’t realise were connected, you know? I think it’ll take a few sessions for it to click. It’s hard to explain. But I felt… heard, I guess. Which is something.”

Lando nodded again, his gaze softening. “Proud of you, baby.” He looked over at the empty space beside him. “Come here.”

She raised an eyebrow but stood up, moving to join him. As she sat beside him on the steps, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re really good at this whole comfort thing.”

Lando chuckled, sliding an arm around her waist. “I try my best.” After a beat, he stood up, holding out a hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

Amelia looked at him, surprised, but the quiet night seemed to make everything feel a little more possible. She took his hand with a grin. “We’re really doing this?”

Lando smiled, tugging her to her feet. “Why not? It’s a slow song.”

The music played on, soft and gentle, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just moved together, swaying under the dim glow of the patio lights, with the sound of the wind and distant waves in the background. Amelia closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the moment settle into her chest, her heart still thudding, but in a different way now.

“You know, you’ve been pretty great,” she murmured after a while, her hand resting against his chest. “With everything.”

Lando’s smile was barely visible in the dark, but she felt it in the way he pulled her just a little closer. “Always.”

She closed her eyes.

Always sounded pretty good.

NEXT CHAPTER

[dior-luxury]

could i request yandere hcs for the vice dorm heads?!! since i saw yiy do yandere and im curious ^^

Yandere Dormleaders

( ✧ ) ────── yandere stories . yandere/angst - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dormleaders

- [𝐩:𝐬] Yandere Themes (Obsession, Possessiveness, Emotional Manipulation) . Psychological Manipulation . Implied Isolation/Kidnapping . Mild Horror Elements . Dark Romance . Loss of Autonomy . Mentions of Surveillance/Controlling Behavior . Non-Physical Coercion . Angst and Unhealthy Relationships

Note: Sure, I could totally do that! I haven't written anything yandere in awhile, but this turned out good! (￣▽￣)

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle's obsession with you would be disturbingly proper. He wouldn't immediately spiral into madness; rather, his need to "correct" and "guide" you would bloom slowly, quietly wrapping its thorns around his heart.

You might not even realize it at first — the way he insists you "follow the rules" he writes specifically for you. Small things:

"You must report to me each morning."

"You must sit beside me during tea."

"You must not entertain any suitors without my approval."

He frames it as "for your own good," citing countless examples of how the world is too cruel, how others might taint or mislead you. At first, you might mistake his behavior for being strict or protective. He corrects your habits, scolds you for being careless with your health, forbids you from mingling with those he deems "unsuitable."

But over time, the punishments escalate.

Riddle is not above using his magic to enforce obedience. A single, sharp command — "Off with your head!" — and you’d find yourself paralyzed, dizzy, barely able to resist. He'd smile sweetly afterward, telling you he "only does this because he loves you so very, very much."

Isolation becomes a tool. He arranges your class schedules to match his. He ensures that Heartslabyul students monitor you under the guise of "house unity." Trey and Cater notice the change but say nothing — Riddle is their dorm leader. And besides, you always look so cared for, so properly dressed, so "happy," don’t you?

Behind closed doors, Riddle’s desperation festers. He fears your rejection more than anything. He fears your disobedience. His worst nightmare is you laughing with someone else, choosing someone else.

So he tightens his grip.

In private, he would kneel before you, his gloved hands trembling as they reach for yours.

"I cannot allow you to stray. I cannot endure a world without you by my side. You belong to me. You must understand that, won't you?"

If you try to run?

He has the entire dorm searching for you within minutes. And when he finds you — breathless, furious, terrified — his composure shatters.

Tears burn in his eyes, but his voice is calm, almost eerily so:

"If you do that again, I will make sure you never walk far enough to leave."

And somehow, horrifyingly, he still kisses your forehead afterward. Sweet. Gentle. Terrifying.

Yandere Riddle is a prison made of velvet and roses — a nightmare draped in politeness and ritual. You would forget what true freedom even feels like.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s brand of yandere is predatory — lazy, slow, but terrifyingly inevitable. He doesn't chase. He waits. And you realize too late that he's already set the trap.

At first, you think Leona barely notices you. He's dismissive, gruff, always sleeping. But behind those half-lidded eyes, he's watching. Calculating.

He doesn’t ask for your time; he takes it.

You find yourself summoned to his side often. Tasks, excuses, meaningless errands. He’ll tease you, order you around casually, “Be a good herbivore and fetch me some lunch, yeah?”

You think it's harmless until you realize: he only wants you doing these things.

No one else.

Leona isolates you subtly. Friends who get too close? He humiliates them with cruel, cutting words until they slink away. Teachers who praise you? He sneers, dragging you back to his side afterward, reminding you of who really understands you.

"You're not that special. They don't see it. But I do." "Stay where you belong, little herbivore. Right here. With me."

Jealousy turns him violent.

Smile at another guy? Leona’s hand is clamped around the poor fool’s collar before anyone can blink, growling low and deadly in his throat. He doesn’t always resort to physical fights — most back off when they see the glint in his eyes.

But make no mistake: if someone really threatens to take you away? Leona would not hesitate to use his magic to eliminate the problem.

He’s possessive in a way that feels ancient, animalistic. Sometimes he'll drag you to the gardens of Savanaclaw, sprawling on a sunlit bench, pulling you into his lap lazily — but with a grip that promises you won't leave.

His voice is low, rough, coaxing you like a predator comforting its prey:

"Don't bother struggling. You're mine. You're safer here than anywhere else. You don't need anything outside of me."

Leona demands loyalty. And if he ever suspects you want to leave — truly leave — he'll break you down, piece by piece, until you have no one but him left.

It’s suffocating but disguised as protection: "You think you can survive without me? Pathetic. But... tsk, guess I'll just have to teach you how much you need me."

In the end, you realize the cage isn't physical. It’s emotional.

Because somewhere in your mind, you start to believe it:

There’s no escaping the King of Beasts once he’s claimed you.

Azul Ashengrotto

At first, Azul’s obsession with you would seem almost charming — flattering, even. He’d approach you carefully, calculatingly, hiding his trembling excitement behind a mask of cold professionalism.

He’d offer you small favors first:

A free meal at the Mostro Lounge.

Help with your classes.

A luxurious study room, just for you.

All free of charge, he promises with a dazzling smile — only his eyes, glinting with greedy hunger, betray his true intentions. You don’t realize you’ve been ensnared until it’s too late.

Because when you finally need something serious — help passing an important exam, rescuing a friend from a mess — Azul is there. Waiting.

Contract ready.

“Just a small agreement, my dear. Nothing you can’t handle.”

In exchange?

Your time. Your loyalty. Your company.

He’s careful at first. You spend hours by his side under the excuse of “repaying your debt,” helping with paperwork, entertaining him during long nights at the Lounge. But Azul doesn’t want your labor. He wants your heart, your soul, your everything.

You’ll start noticing the chains tightening around you:

Students whisper behind your back, too afraid of Azul to approach you.

The Lounge employees "casually" follow you wherever you go.

Jade and Floyd are always just a little too close, their smiles sharp and strange.

Azul is subtle in his madness. You’ll never catch him forcing you to stay. He'll smile warmly, adjust his glasses, and say, "If you don't want to spend time with me... well, I suppose there will be some consequences. But it’s your choice, truly."

And then terrible things start happening to those who get too close to you. Scholarships revoked. Projects sabotaged. Rumors spreading like ink in water.

Azul would make sure you realize:

You are safest by his side.

If you ever tried to confront him, he’d sigh, looking genuinely wounded: "I have given you everything. Is it so wrong to expect a little... devotion in return?"

And if you ever tried to leave? Azul wouldn’t fight. He’d simply present the contract you signed, in front of the whole school, revealing the humiliating clauses you never thought he’d enforce.

You’d have no choice but to stay. Chained, legally and emotionally, to the cunning boy whose love for you has long since turned into something monstrous.

At night, he would sometimes whisper into your hair as you sit rigid beside him. "Even if you hate me, even if you curse me... you’ll always be mine, my precious pearl at the bottom of the ocean."

There’s no escape from Azul Ashengrotto. Not without drowning.

Kalim Al-asim

At first glance, Kalim would seem like the least threatening yandere imaginable. Warm, smiling, generous — he showers you with gifts, attention, affection. He genuinely loves you, body and soul, with the purity and enthusiasm of a child.

But that’s what makes him so terrifying.

Kalim doesn't understand boundaries. He doesn’t want to understand.

If you mention something you like in passing, the next day he presents it to you — a mountain of it. You say you’re cold once? He fills your room with dozens of silk blankets. You admire a bird outside? He commissions a golden cage and presents it to you, saying "Now you can keep it forever, just like me and you!"

At first, it’s sweet. Overwhelming, but sweet.

Until you realize Kalim’s kindness comes with invisible chains.

He insists on escorting you everywhere — “For your safety!” He buys out entire cafes so you can have “private dates” without anyone else around. He fills your calendar with lavish parties — but only he is allowed to dance with you, talk with you, look at you.

Kalim doesn’t tolerate sadness from you. If you seem upset, he panics — and smothers you in even more suffocating care, "Are you unhappy? Did I not give you enough? Tell me what to do! I'll do anything, just please smile for me!"

At first, it seems harmless. But if you ever try to assert independence — refuse a gift, decline a party — Kalim breaks down.

Tears streak down his cheeks. His voice shakes.

"Don't you love me? I love you more than anything. I gave you everything! I made everything perfect for you! Why are you trying to leave me?"

His desperation turns dangerous fast.

You’d find that no matter where you went, guards would be stationed outside your door. He’d smile and wave when you see him — acting like everything’s fine — but the locks on the windows would say otherwise.

And if you ever tried to leave the palace-like dorm of Scarabia? You wouldn’t get far. The desert outside is endless. The guards are loyal. And Kalim...

Kalim would run to you, hug you tightly like a drowning man clinging to driftwood, sobbing against your neck:

"Please don’t go! I’ll die without you, I swear! Please, don’t leave me alone!"

And you realize — Kalim’s love isn’t something you can reason with. It’s too pure.

Too bright.

So bright, in fact, that it burns.

You would live your life like a jewel in a locked treasury — polished, adored, loved beyond sanity...

And never, ever free.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil’s yandere nature is refined, elegant, and absolutely merciless. He would never scream or throw tantrums. He would simply reshape the world around you until you only belonged to him.

At first, you think Vil’s attention is flattering. After all, he’s Vil Schoenheit — a celebrity, a prince among commoners, shining brighter than anyone at NRC.

He corrects your posture, critiques your clothes, adjusts your diet — always speaking with soft, lilting authority: "If you're going to stand by my side, you must meet the standard."

You think he’s just trying to help. You’re wrong.

Vil doesn’t want you to be perfect for yourself. He wants you to be perfect for him — a polished jewel, an exquisite reflection of his desires.

Every aspect of you becomes a project under his meticulous control:

What you wear.

Who you associate with.

Even what you say and how you smile.

At first, it's subtle — invitations to exclusive parties where you're glued to Vil’s arm, makeovers disguised as "treats," mysterious disappearances of anyone Vil deems "bad influences." But soon, it escalates.

Vil’s jealousy is cold, like winter glass.

If anyone looks at you for too long, he’ll deal with them socially. A few poisoned words in the right ears, a whisper at the right moment — and your admirer finds themselves humiliated, shamed, utterly destroyed.

Vil won’t yell at you if you defy him. No — he’ll sit you down, pour you tea with a smile, and calmly explain exactly how your "disobedience" makes you look ugly, foolish, and unworthy.

"I chose you. I could have anyone, and yet I chose you. Don't waste my love."

And if you still resist? He uses Vil Schoenheit’s greatest weapon:

Your own self-image.

He'll slowly chip away at your confidence until you can't imagine a life without him.

"No one else could love you the way I do."

"Without me, you'd crumble. Don't embarrass yourself, darling."

There would be no chains, no cages. Instead, Vil locks you inside a gilded mirror, a reflection crafted perfectly to his standards.

And the most terrifying part? Even as tears stream down your face, even as your heart aches for freedom — Vil will kiss your forehead gently and say:

"Shh, my sweet. It's better this way. You belong in beauty — my beauty. Forever."

You'd forget who you once were.

Because in Vil’s world, only he decides who you are allowed to be.

Idia Shroud

Idia’s obsession is deep, feral, and terrifyingly personal. Unlike Vil, who dominates the outer world, Idia traps you inside an invisible, digital web you can’t escape from.

At first, Idia is barely noticeable — just a shut-in, a ghost in the halls, hidden behind his holographic screens. You assume he’s harmless.

But what you don’t realize is:

You caught his attention the moment you acknowledged him.

One glance. One smile. One kind word. That’s all it takes.

Idia’s obsession festers in the shadows. He doesn’t approach you openly — no, he stalks your social media, hacks into your class schedules, plants cameras and tracking devices so tiny you’ll never notice.

In his hidden room, lit only by neon glow, he builds an entire digital shrine to you:

Thousands of photos.

Recordings of your laugh, your footsteps.

Custom programs that simulate conversations with your voice.

He tells himself it's "not that creepy" — that he’s just protecting you. From the outside world. From cruel people. From yourself.

When you speak to him in real life, he stammers, blushes, barely meets your eyes. But behind the screen, he’s a god — controlling everything you see, hear, experience.

Your phone starts acting weird. Messages don't get delivered. Friends drift away after "accidents" they can't explain.

You start feeling isolated — and that's exactly what Idia wants.

When he finally, finally makes his move, it’s not with threats. It’s with desperation.

"You're so lonely, right? It's okay... I'll be your player two. We'll stay together forever in a world where no one can hurt us."

If you reject him?

He doesn't get angry — not at first.

He collapses, weeping, clutching at your sleeve like a child:

"Don't leave me... You're the only real thing I have... If you go, I'll— I'll—"

And then things get worse.

Idia uses every ounce of his intelligence — hacking systems, trapping you inside the campus itself. No transportation. No communication. You are trapped in his perfect, isolated paradise.

When you finally realize the true extent of what he's done — that every door is locked, every path leads back to him — you find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, smiling with tears glittering in his sunken eyes:

"Game over. You belong to me now. Hehe... bad end, but at least we're together, right?"

You can scream.

You can cry.

But in the cold, humming, neon-lit tomb he’s built...

Only Idia can hear you.

Only Idia ever will.

Malleus Draconia

At first, Malleus’s obsession with you would seem almost... innocent.

He's so ancient, so powerful, and yet when he speaks to you, there's a kind of gentle wonder in his voice — like a lonely god marveling at the one star he can still see in the night sky. He doesn’t realize he’s becoming obsessed.

Not consciously.

He simply starts appearing wherever you are:

Strolling silently through your favorite gardens at midnight.

Standing by the windows of your classroom, gazing at you like a spirit unseen by others.

Whispering your name to the wind, letting his magic follow you like a loyal, invisible servant.

You might even feel special at first. Who wouldn’t, under the gaze of the prince of fae, the heir to Briar Valley?

But slowly, things shift. The weather darkens when you’re upset. Animals shy away from you — as if something ancient and predatory looms behind you.

You start to feel watched even when you're alone, even when you lock your door, even when you beg the darkness to leave you in peace.

Malleus is never cruel. He would never raise his voice at you. He would never strike you.

But his love is heavy. It bends the world around you like a star collapsing under its own gravity.

When you speak to others too long, Malleus grows silent. His emerald eyes narrow, his presence becomes chilling. Without lifting a finger, he commands the respect — and fear — of everyone near you.

Soon, others drift away, unwilling to risk the prince’s displeasure.

Malleus would never say, "you can’t leave me." He doesn’t need to.

Because he would reshape reality itself to bind you to him.

If you tried to leave Night Raven College, he would smile sorrowfully and ask, "Why are you running, child of man? There is nowhere in this world my wings cannot reach you."

If you dared to resist, Malleus would never rage. He would mourn.

He would weep thunderstorms into existence, each drop of rain a lament for the love you refuse to return. He would shroud the entire campus in endless twilight, time itself twisting under his grief.

"I do not wish to hurt you. I merely wish to protect you... from loneliness. From pain. From a world that will never love you as I do."

Eventually, Malleus would decide: The world doesn't deserve you.

He would spirit you away — to a palace of thorns and starlight, hidden in the folds of ancient magic. There, days would pass without end, each one a perfect golden cage.

You would be crowned beside him. A consort to the fae. An immortal beloved.

If you cried for your old life, your old friends, your old dreams? Malleus would hold you against his chest, humming a lullaby older than kingdoms, stroking your hair as you sobbed:

"Hush, my treasure. They are nothing now. Only we remain — as it was always meant to be."

Over time, even your memories would blur. The world beyond the palace would become a distant dream. And in the end, you would only remember his voice, his hands, his eyes — and the endless, inescapable love that burned like a black sun in the sky.

Because to Malleus, you are no longer mortal. You are no longer free. You are his.

Now, forever, and beyond the end of the world.

[azzibuckets]

all the little things

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: it’s the little things that paige and azzi miss about each other

a/n: i combined a bunch of different requests into one fic so it’s a little bit of a mess but like always, pls bear with me…also it’s been 1 year of me writing on tumblr which is crazy🙈 time flies so fast

word count: 2.8k

masterlist

Paige misses Azzi as soon as she disappears through the automatic glass doors. She cranes her neck, trying to follow Azzi’s increasingly small figure as she walks through the airport, but soon the crowds of busy travelers engulf her and Paige gives up.

She stares at her hands on the wheel, wondering how it’s even humanly possible to miss someone so bad that it feels like a part of her is gone too. Sighing to herself, she pulls out her phone, shooting a quick text asking Azzi to let her know when she boards and when she lands and when she gets home safely.

Azzi’s reply is immediate: you do know you have my location right

Paige bites back a smile, knowing she’d be tracking it regardless of whether or not Azzi texted. She shoots back a reply: god forbid a girl wants to make sure the love of her life is safe

Azzi: fuck, dallas already making you sassy as hell. should i be worried for the next time i see you

Paige: exactly this is why you should turn around and come back right now

Paige: i miss you already

Azzi sends her a selfie, lips puckered up into a kiss, brown eyes glimmering with amusement, and Paige almost drops her phone with how fast she fumbles to save it to her camera roll. She hearts the photo, sends back a quick selfie, and groans when the car behind her honks.

She checks her blind spot before pulling back into the left lane. Home seems like a weird name for her destination, an empty and unfamiliar apartment with only a bed frame and a couch and no one to share it with. Her heart twinges thinking about her teammates at Connecticut, her family spread across the states even further now, and the bittersweet feeling of starting over again in a new city.

Her phone lights up with one final notification, and she checks it briefly.

Azzi: drive safe honey. i love you

Azzi: and i miss you more. text me when you’re home

Paige smiles. The car ride isn’t too long, but she’s so lost in her thoughts she forgets to put the music back on. Azzi and her had always been in close proximity for the last four years, never really spending more than several weeks apart, and god, she’d fucking loved it, wouldn’t change it for the world, but now it’s even harder to be so many miles away when she’s used to seeing Azzi every day. Even the little things Azzi had done that she’d always used to roll her eyes and complained about, she misses now. Her heart clenches again.

•••••

Paige is dreaming about her next meal when she’s stirred into consciousness by a hand shaking her shoulder. Groaning, she rubs away the sleep from her eyes and dreamy remnants of In-N-Out burgers and Diet Cokes she swears she can taste. It’s been months since she’s been able to indulge in either, and she’s longing for the day season is over to be able to get her hands on both.

“Paige, honey, wake up.” Knuckles brush against her cheek, lingering in her warmth for a moment before trailing down to chuck her chin.

Paige is very much not a morning person, so she sinks deeper into the bed, pulling the sheets a little tighter around her head. Maybe if Azzi sees how deeply she’s sleeping, she’ll leave her alone.

“Paige. Get up.” Azzi’s losing patience, her tone becoming a little more demanding, and usually this is when Paige would roll over and let her girlfriend have her way, but she’d stayed up late the night before finishing up a discussion post and now she can feel the warm, lethargic fingers of sleep pulling her back into its heavenly state of nothingness. So, naturally, she makes the barely-conscious executive decision to cancel the early morning run Azzi had planned, and lets her eyes fall shut, succumbing to the weight of exhaustion.

Paige feels the bed creaking as Azzi slips off the edge, and she thanks God. She decides that when Azzi comes back, she’ll join her for the gym portion; after all, she’s a hooper, not a track star. Doesn’t make sense to waste her energy wearing down the pavement when she could save it for beating Azzi in 1v1s.

Yet Azzi is back in a matter of seconds, this time shaking Paige more insistently. “P, wake up.”

Not wanting to be the victim of Azzi’s wrath this early in the morning, Paige finally untangles herself from the mess of sheets, blinking as her eyes adjust to the piercingly bright yellow light now flooding the room. “Jesus, Az,” she mutters. “You didn’t have to turn every lamp on.” She runs a hand through her mess of hair, yawning tiredly. “What time is it?”

“3 AM.” Azzi at least has the decency to look a little bit guilty, her bottom lip tucking ruefully under her teeth.

“Azzi, what the hell.” Paige flops back into bed, attempting a dramatic attempt of feigning her return to sleep, but Azzi slaps her arm.

“I need to change my pad but I left all my extra ones downstairs.”

“Okay.” Paige grabs a pillow and starts suffocating her eyes with it, willing the light to go away. “Then go get it? Did you bleed through or someth—actually, don’t answer that. I’m way too tired to deal with changing the sheets, I’ll just sleep at the edge of the bed.”

“No, I didn’t bleed through. Chill.” Azzi says, voice strained. “But, like, you need to come with me.”

“What, you need someone to help you walk or sum? You’re not the one with the torn ACL,” Paige complains.

“Paige,” Azzi says exasperatedly, staring at her as if Paige could suddenly understand her logic behind waking her girlfriend up in the ass crack of night to go with her downstairs, but Paige just stares back, lost. “Paige,” she repeats, almost embarrassed as her eyes flick from the door to the blonde still sitting in bed. “It’s 3 AM. It’s dark and the house is making noises and there’s too many windows downstairs.”

“Windows?”

“Someone could be looking at me from outside and I wouldn’t even know it cause it’s so dark.”

“Azzi, you’re being ridiculous. No one’s standing outside.”

“That’s what all the victims who get murdered first in Criminal Minds say,” Azzi replies automaticaly. “God, you have zero survival instinct.”

“If I have zero survival instinct then why are you bringing me with you?” Paige grumbles, but she’s already standing up and slipping on a hoodie, already missing the body heat of her best friend and the warmth of her blanket.

Paige is too tired to argue when Azzi forces her to lead the way. Muttering under her breath, she pushes open the door and trudges across the hallway and down the stairs. She’s too lazy to take the extra steps to flip on the light switches, usually the type to stumble her way through the dark and inevitably bump into five different pieces of furniture, but Azzi demands requests her to use her phone flashlight to guide their steps, claiming that there could be someone hiding in the corner for all they know.

Once they reach the bathroom, Paige leans against the wall, finding relief in its sturdy support against her head. “Okay.” Azzi fingers the door handle nervously. “You’re gonna be here when I come out, right?”

“I won’t move at all,” the older girl promises, raising her hands in innocence.

“I’m serious, Paige. You can’t leave or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Azzi, I swear to fucking god-,”

“Alright, alright,” sensing that Paige is close to reaching her last straw, Azzi closes the bathroom door behind her. As soon as she hears the lock clock, Paige leaves. But she heads into the kitchen, rummaging around the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Midol she knows is hanging around in there. Spotting the familiar unicorn heating pad on the couch, she grabs that and pops it in the microwave for a couple of minutes.

Azzi’s still in the bathroom when the microwave beeps, so Paige flops down on the fooor and curls around the unicorn, basking in its heat. She’s almost fallen asleep on the ground, which is honestly a lot more comfortable than it looks, when Azzi finally emerges, wiping her wet hands on her t-shirt. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “I had to poop.”

Shaking her head, Paige pushes the heating pad into her hands along with a couple pills. Azzi looks up at her gratefully. “Thank you.” Paige offers a lazy smile in reply, pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead before rushing them back into the room and into the bed.

Azzi bustles around the room for a little bit as Paige gets settled back into the sheets, arm thrown across her eyes. “You good, mami?” she murmurs once all the lights are back off and Azzi’s slipping into bed next to her. She feels a hand on her waist and a chin on her shoulder, and a faint whisper of an “i love you” before she’s fully fading into unconsciousness.

When Azzi wakes up four hours later, she spends ten minutes debating whether to wake up Paige with her. Well, five minutes to be exact - the other five are devoted to staring at Paige as she snores, pink lips slightly parted as she’s curled in her fetal position. She really is beautiful, her blonde hair almost a golden from the hazy sunlight falling through her open blinds.

Azzi decides to let Paige rest. She’s getting out of bed to brush her teeth when a hand curls around her wrist. “I think that midnight disturbance warrants a morning of sleeping in,” Paige says, voice raspy with sleep.

“You can sleep in,” Azzi says. “I still wanna run.”

“Nah, you’re staying. Can’t sleep without you.” Paige folds herself over Azzi, face snuggling into the crook of her neck, hip to hip with their legs intertwined, letting out a sigh of contentment as she relaxes into the younger girl’s body as if they’re one. And really, who would Azzi be to say no to her girlfriend?

•••••

Paige shakes herself out of her memories. Her chest feels heavy, yet she feels a little silly for getting all emotional about something as trivial and embarrasing as missing her girlfriend’s fear of the dark. Honestly, she should be glad she’ll now be able to sleep through the night without interruptions.

But Paige misses it anyways.

•••••••

Azzi walks through the airport, music blaring in her Bose headphones. She walks past a baggage claim and sees a familiar face on the TV, green and yellow streaked across the image. She smiles and takes a photo to show her parents later.

It’s still a little crazy for her to see her girlfriend’s face plastered across billboards and posters across her new city, a city that welcomed Paige like she’d grown up there. All these people passing by see her, but Azzi relishes the fact that there’s a part of Paige no one else knows, a part reserved solely for her.

•••••••

Paige has been unnaturally quiet all night, and it’s not like Azzi has been stalking her girlfriend, per se, but there’s always been a little part of her acutely aware of what the blonde is up to. The entire team, including the coaches and managers, are at Azzi’s grandparents house for their yearly pre-season barbecue, but the two of them haven’t been able to talk much all night - Paige has been chatting with the coaches, while Azzi was busy helping prepare food before getting thrown into a conversation with Caroline and KK for the past half hour.

KK brightens up when CD excuses herself to take a call, calling Paige over. “Come here Boogers, I’m telling a funny story.”

Paige hesitates for a second before making her way over to join their circle, slumping down into the cushion between KK and Azzi with a tired sigh. “You alright?” Azzi murmurs softly, instinctively leaning into Paige’s space and reaching to brush the hair from her eyes. Paige wordlessly offers a small smile of reassurance before turning her attention to KK’s monologue.

Azzi had stopped listening ten minutes ago, so she’s thankful when KK backtracks so she can give Paige context. Caroline is already out of it, staring at the carpet as she fiddles with her watch. KK’s saying something about the prank she’d plotted with Ice and played on the freshmen the week before, and usually Paige would be eating this up, hollering alongside the sophomore, but tonight she remains restless, nodding along but clearly only picking up half of what’s being said.

Mid way through her story, KK pauses, seeming to catch onto her older teammates’ lack of enthusiasm. “Paige, you aren’t even listening!”

Paige’s eyes snap up towards KK. “My bad, KK,” she apologizes, tone genuine. “Just tired.”

“Man, you’re no fun,” KK grumbles, flicking Paige’s forehead. “What’s up with you?” Paige tiredly swats back at her hand, and KK laughs, pushing back at her shoulder to try and initiate one of their many wrestling sessions they’ve been keeping a running tally of (Paige 9, KK 4).

“Alright, leave her alone,” Azzi defends, sensing that Paige is clearly not in the mood to fool around. “Go play with the freshmen or something.”

“Y’all gentle parent me and shit like I’m a kid,” KK mutters, but takes off to probably go find Sarah.

Paige leans back into the couch, head tipping back. “What’s up?” Azzi says softly, cupping the back of her neck and running her thumb alongside her jawline. Paige’s eyes flutter shut at her touch as she slowly exhales.

“Don’t know,” Paige admits. “Not feeling it today. Too much going on.”

Azzi plants a soft kiss on her temple, lingering and sweet. “Wanna take a break in the guest room?”

“Please.” Paige sends her a grateful look.

After making sure her girlfriend is good in the guest room, Azzi returns to the living room, where the entire team is now piled in and playing Mario Kart. Before long, they get bored and switch over to Fortnite. “Yo, someone get P,” someone calls out, knowing Paige would give them shit for hopping on without her.

Ice pops up, but Azzi waves her off. “I’ll go check on her,” she replies. It’s been an hour, so knowing the older girl is likely asleep, she opens the door quietly and tip-toes inside.

Paige is sprawled out in the bed, unmoving as she clutches a pillow to her chest, but her eyes are open. “Thought you were asleep,” Azzi whispers as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “You been up this whole time?”

Paige flips over and looks at Azzi, grabbing her hand in her lap. The feel of Azzi’s hand, warm against hers, is comforting. “Yeah. Can’t sleep.”

“What’re you thinking about?”

Paige breaks eye contact to stare at the ceiling, mind clearly running. “I don’t know. I was talking to the media after practice earlier, and it - it was just a lot. There’s a ton of pressure and outside noise this season and I know I should be used to it by now but - I’m just tired of it all, you know?”

Azzi nods, quiet. Paige shifts over in bed, and Azzi takes the invitation to slip underneath the comforter and nestle in beside her. “I just can’t stop thinking about how much shit we need to do,” the blonde admits quietly, voice so soft Azzi has to strain to hear. “We lost to fucking Columbia last week. We were down by 14 in the second quarter and usually I can hype everyone up and keep maintaining that good attitude but this time, all I could think about was how much we still need to work on. Couldn’t even look at the other girls in the eyes. And I’ve been meeting up with some of the younger girls, tryna talk about what they need to work on and creating goals for the season and I don’t know, I’m just overwhelmed by all of it and I feel guilty.” Paige’s voice cracks on the last word, and she subconsciously clenches Azzi’s shirt as she buries her face into her chest. “I guess that’s why it’s hard for me to talk to them right now.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” Azzi says. “You’re doing a lot. It’s only natural to feel overwhelmed.” She runs her fingers through Paige’s scalp, gently messaging, and tension seems to escape her best friend’s shoulders. “But think about the good things. Ice and Jana are becoming more confident and aware in the paint, you can see it with every practice. Mo and Allie are having a hard time adjusting but god, look at Sarah. She could win a championship just by herself.” Paige laughs a little at that, and Azzi takes that opportunity to start peppering her face with kisses. “The team’s becoming more cohesive by the week and I’m like, half a day away from coming back. And you know when I’m on the court, you don’t got anything to worry about,” Azzi says, her voice teasing.

“You sound like you’re joking but you’re right, you know.” Paige’s hand falls to Azzi’s knee, her palm closing over the scar like a shield. “Fuck, I’m actually counting down the minutes til you get cleared.”

“Yo, you guys decent?” KK barely waits a second before pushing the door open. “Azzi, we gave you one job, now you’re here all snuggled up in bed with Boogers,” she complains, taking in the scene with a wary look on her face.

“Should’ve let me go,” Ice grumbles from beside her.

Azzi groans. “If y’all don’t leave us alone we’re gonna start making out in front of you right now.”

KK, who’d been roaming around the room curiously, immediately turns on her heel, grabbing Ice’s arm to drag her out with. “Y’all are some nasty mother fuckers,” she calls over her shoulder as they both run out.

“You’re such a liar.” Paige laughs. “You hate PDA.”

“I don’t hate PDA,” Azzi defends. “It’s not my fault your definition of PDA included shit like ass grabbing. I’ll never forget the poor look in that one kid’s eyes.”

“His eyes were wandering too much anyways,” Paige says. “What was he eyeing you up for? I hate men.”

“He looked 9, Paige.”

“Don’t care.”

•••••

Azzi stretches out her legs in front of her. She was able to get a window seat this time. She looks down at her phone again, still open to the photo Paige had sent with her own kissy face in return. Maybe she would be okay with PDA if it meant a few more minutes with Paige, she relents. She would never admit that out loud though.

[dannyriccsystem]

omgomg could you PLEASE do where the reader bites the drivers because it’s their love language

SINK YOUR TEETH IN!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: Biting is your love language! The drivers don’t seem to mind

WARNINGS: Biting ofc (consensual), Y/N usage, slightly suggestive, not proofread

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, CL16, LH44, CS55, GR63, OP81

I have a friend who does this exact thing

NOTE: Biting without consent/with the intent of harming your partner is absolutely unacceptable. However, in this story it is assumed that the reader and driver have had conversations about it and both parties are consenting, and have set forward a safe word in case of harm. Please do not intentionally cause damage to your partner without permission!

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

You and Max were enjoying a lazy day during the Formula One dry season. No racing, no events… Just the two of you enjoying time to yourselves. He had his arm around your shoulder, sitting beside you on the couch as you watched some documentary that came on. You wanted to change it, but the topic ended up sucking you in.

Your eyes began to feel droopy, and you snuggled into his side whilst blinking the sleep away. He noticed, running a hand over your head before letting it fall back to your shoulder. You hummed, closing your eyes.

Except, sleep had yet to claim you. You simply weren’t tired enough. In your half-asleep state, you grabbed Max’s hand, which was resting on your shoulder, and brought it to your mouth. You gentle bit down, teeth not even pressing into the skin. It was a soft bite, something you both established as affection.

You pulled your mouth back, wiping his hand off with the sleeve of your sweater, and then trailed up, biting softly into his arm. He didn’t flinch, used to these actions by now. Max never minded.

When you were finally done with your little antics, you rested your head against his chest again, stretching out your aching joints. He chuckled, kissing your scalp. “I love you too.”

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

It was always quite the show to watch Daniel work on the ranch. He’d be wearing a tank top with armholes that hung low, allowing you to peek in and see his abs if the angle was just right, and some shorts that let his thigh tattoo just barely poke out.

Underneath the sweltering sun, Danny would always sweat. Not that you were complaining, because your muscular boyfriend soaked in his own perspiration was always a nice sight to see. You’d be sitting on the porch, watching from afar as you sipped on the lemonade he squeezed for you.

When he came back, he always greeted you with a kiss before dismissing himself for a shower, and you’d slowly meander back inside to continue your lazing around in there. This time, the order of events was just slightly different. He leaned over your chair and kissed you right on the lips, his face flushed from the midday sun.

As he walked off, you clambered to your feet and wrapped your arms around him from behind. Your teeth gently bit into his exposed shoulder, tongue darting out to taste the skin momentarily. You pulled back, staring up at him silently. He blinked with surprise, and then grinned.

“What was that for?” He mused, turning around to properly hold you, his hands on your waist.

“Just wanted to let you know I love ya.”

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

“Lando, my feet hurt.” You had been subtly complaining about the ache your shoes had been causing all night, just to see if he’d notice. He didn’t pick up on the little hints you dropped, so when you guys left the restaurant to walk home, you decided to be upfront about your pain.

“Oh,” He crouched down to help you out of your heels, and then turned around. “Get on.” He gestured to his back, implying he wanted to give you a piggyback ride. You hopped on his back, arms encircling his neck as he slowly rose back to his full height. He held your shoes in his hand whilst simultaneously holding you up by the back of your thighs.

You seemed rather joyous as he carried you back to your home, your chin resting on his shoulder. He didn’t even seem like it was a big deal himself. It was more like he was happy to oblige to your request. That’s what happens when you date an athlete, I suppose.

Eventually, the urge got to you. His neck was exposed, so without even thinking about it, you latched on. Your teeth gently gnawed on the skin before you pulled back. He didn’t even flinch, as if this was typical. Because it was.

“Does it hurt when I do that?” You asked softly, resting your chin on his shoulder once more.

“Nope.” You guys had already discussed it before, and Lando said he didn’t mind, as long as you never bit down too hard. He actually liked it, most of the time!

With his confirmation, you leaned in for one more!

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

When you awoke, Charles was already awake in the bed beside you. His legs were tangled up in the sheets, like he had just rolled over and not bothered to straighten everything out. He was laying on his stomach, mindlessly scrolling on social media. He seemed tired still.

You groaned, stretching your arms and legs out, trying to shake the sleep off. You had things you wanted to do around the house today, but everytime you looked over and saw your lazy boyfriend, you wanted to succumb to laziness too. You hummed thoughtfully.

After what felt like hours of quietly deciding your own future, you chose what your heart wanted. You rolled over onto his back, laying on top of him. He chuckled, looking over his shoulder at you. “Comfortable?”

“Yes.” You replied, getting situated. He continued to scroll, but you were more focused on something else: His exposed back. You pressed sly little kisses all over, and then finally went in for the kill! You just lightly nibbled on the skin near his shoulder blade. He flinched at first, but then eased up as you continued.

Unless he told you the safe word, you knew you were okay to carry on with your little biting. Charles didn’t care. After you were done, you leaned back to admire your hard work: Little bite marks in the shape of a heart.

Lazing around all day won the vote, because afterwards, you laid back down against him and fell asleep once more.

—

LEWIS HAMILTON - LH44

Lewis found out about your habit the hard way. It didn’t hurt the first time you did it, but it certainly took him by surprise. You went in like you were gonna kiss his palm, and instead lightly bit down on his purlicue. He reeled his hand back, blinking at you with wide eyes.

After that, the two of you had a discussion. To give him some time to prepare, you’d tap the area twice before giving it a firm bite. That way he’d have time to tell you otherwise, and time to mentally prepare. It was a good system, and it worked well for you too.

It had been a mundane day in the Ferrari office. You wanted to tag along, and then realized why Lewis never spoke highly of the team meetings. They were excruciatingly boring. You nodded along, trying to keep interest.

Eventually, your attention started to drift. Without even thinking it, you grabbed his hand and tapped it twice, before clamping your teeth down and on the side of his thumb. Lewis didn’t stop you, but you both quickly pulled away when you realized Charles had noticed.

Trying to blink like nothing happened, sitting abnormally still. It was silent… Until, “Mate, did you just bite him?” He laughed softly, and you both locked eyes of embarrassment.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

Carlos thought it was endearing. It certainly took him by surprise the first time you did it, but he didn’t exactly care. When you explained it was a weird way to express your love, he took the news quite well and gave you permission to continue expressing yourself in a rather non conventional way.

It always struck you randomly, like right now. To congratulate your boyfriend on placing so highly during qualifying, you wanted to pepper his lips with a few kisses, until they were swollen and red with your lipstick.

You bit down on his bottom lip suddenly— It didn’t hurt, but it made him flinch as he wasn’t expecting it. You pulled back, your face growing warm as you gazed at him sheepishly. “Sorry!” You apologized, grimacing at your own mistake.

“It’s okay, amor.” He laughed softly, leaning in for another kiss. “It was hot.”

You laughed yourself, rolling your eyes playfully. “Of course it was.”

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

George was into it, whether it was intended sexually or not, he liked the bites. He wore little bite marks and hickeys on his neck with pride, and when people asked him, he’d just laugh and explain that “My girlfriend has shark teeth.”

Usually that was followed by some concerned questions, asking if everything was okay. He’d sincerely smile and reassure them that he was just fine with it, and found your habits to be adorable. Fortunately for you, George is absolutely whipped.

Both of you were laying on the couch, snuggled up closely. You were lying on top of him, his arms securely holding you to his chest. It was one of those quiet days that felt so loud in your heart, a day where the two of you didn’t have to worry about media and could just be yourselves.

Not that either of you were entirely different.

You lightly tugged at the collar of his shirt, exposing his collarbone, which you promptly bit down on. You drew a laugh from George’s lips, almost like the sensation was ticklish. You peeked up at him, and then bit down on another spot.

You were rewarded a similar reaction. Note to self: George’s collarbone is sensitive.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

Two things about you. You liked to bite, and you really liked your boyfriend’s legs. Usually it was the other way around, but right now you were laying with your head between his thighs, enjoying the moment thoroughly. He’d occasionally reach down to scratch your scalp, but other than that, the position felt mindless to him.

You were scrolling on your phone, as well as taking lots of selfies as well, fully intending to brag about your current situation later on, because you were the only one who got to experienced the glory of Oscar Piastri’s thighs. Every time he noticed your antics, he’d just laugh and roll his eyes.

You looked over to your side, and your instincts took over. Rarely did you bite, but the two of you had talked about it before, and he told you he didn’t mind. You bit into his thigh, feeling the muscle twitch momentarily. You pulled back, looking at the very subtle mark you left.

He didn’t say anything, which prompted you to bite again, this time sucking just barely to leave a mark. You wiped the spot down with your sleeve after, leaning back to admire your artwork.

“Not sure how I’m gonna explain that.” He teased, and you felt your cheeks grow warm.

“Whoops.”

[poisonofthepaint]

thinking of you

jack broke up with you because he said you needed someone younger. yet, he's still offended when he hears you're going on a date with someone else. you show up to his apartment to set the record straight.

cw: MDNI, make up sex to the max, pinv, no protection, kind of angsty but like not really, reader is independent and sort of snappy (for good reason), nipple sucking, pet names (angel, honey, sweetheart), not sure what else lmk if you see anything!

a/n: i wrote this off two beers so i'm gonna say i proofread it, but who knows...

wc: 2k

Jack didn't get pissed off. Sure, he would get mildly annoyed. He could snap. But he was never filled with unbridled rage. He could contain himself, calm himself down. He learned it in the military. He knew you couldn’t fight as well if you were angry, it clouded your judgement too much, you have to keep, at least a little bit, of a level head.

But tonight, Jack was pissed off. Robby had told him you had a date tonight. He told Jack over text, saying he, ‘figured he should know.” Jack couldn’t decide if he was thankful for the message or not.

That is what he said to you, when it ended. That you needed someone your own age. That you needed to get out there and act your age. It wasn’t good to work with someone and date them, act older than you need to. It was self-defense, he later realized. He was insecure about himself, and what he could or could not give you, so he ended it. He couldn’t believe you had listened to his incoherent ramblings. What he said made no sense, and he knew that now, but he also knew he had to take a step back and leave you the hell alone. He had fucked up, that was for sure. Begging for you back, when you had no reason to come back, would be even more fucked up.

He was regretting that mentality right now, all he wanted to do was call you. To tell you to come home. To come back to him. That guy didn’t know how to treat you, he didn’t know what you needed. He was only there to get in your pants. You were far too fucking intelligent for some immature douchebag. Jack knew what you needed, he was the only one who knew how to treat you right. He would give anything for you. This kid would not. Jack didn’t even need to know his name to know that.

Jack’s finger hovered over the call button on your contact. He tried to think of some emergency to get you to come see him instead of being on that date. But he couldn’t think of anything. There was no reason, fake or real, why you shouldn’t be on that date. 

He sighs, puts down his phone, sits in his recliner. His cushy chair, one of the only things he has splurged on in his life, faces the window, which overlooks the city. The buildings sparkle at him. It’s around seven, usually he’d be at work by now, but it was his day off. He wishes it wasn’t, he wishes that he had something to distract him. He thinks about grabbing his go bag, thinks about changing into what he wears under his scrubs and telling Shen and Ellis to just leave him the hell alone and let him work. But, he hears you in the back of his head, telling him to slow down, telling him to wait a moment, to sit with what he’s thinking instead of shoving it down.

So that’s what he does. He sits. And he thinks. And he fucking prays to whoever is listening. That you’re safe. That you’re having an okay time. That maybe you’ll come back. Even though he’s a piece of shit. Even though he’s the one who told you to leave. You’re just following his orders, after all. 

Three small, basically unhearable, knocks strike his door. He pushes off his chair with a sigh, thankful he didn’t take off his prosthetic yet. He figures it’s a neighbor, he lives by a lot of older women who tend to check up on him. 

He opens the door with a force, but his eyes get heavy when he realizes it’s you standing there. 

“Did he fucking hurt you?” Jack thunders.

“What? How do you even know where I was?”

“Answer me.”

“No, he didn’t hurt me. He just–”

“You’re scaring me a bit, sweetheart.”

You let out a long breath, Jack has both of his hands on your shoulders, giving you the eye exam of a lifetime.

“He didn’t hurt me, he’s just not you. He’s too, spritely. Too eager. I don’t know.”

Jack fights a smile, he bites the inside of his cheek. “No one is me.”

“Not the time to be fucking cocky, Jack. We need to seriously talk.”

The smile he was fighting fades from his face. He becomes pale, his heart is tachy. 

“You fucked me up real good. You told me I was wrong about something that felt so right–” you say, crossing your arms and staring. You’ve entered the apartment at this point. You stand at the island in the kitchen.

He cuts you off. “I was wrong. I’m wrong. You’re what I need. I need you more than I need work, and I’ve never said that about anything.” 

Jack swipes a hand over his face, crossing the room to come stand in front of you. “I was scared, I was being a fucking pussy. Worrying about what people would think, worrying about you.”

“I don’t need anyone to worry about me.” you state firmly.

“I know that. I know that. Please, give it another go with me. I won’t fuck it up. I won’t. I see what it’s like now. I see it. I hear it. Loud and clear.” he’s inches from your face, holding you at your hips. 

You don’t move just yet. Your eyes scan his, you're used to his eye contact by now. You’re searching for any signs of lying, any signs of unseriousness, but there isn’t any. Jack gives you a sharp nod. His eyes are so sharp, you think that they could cut daggers into yours.

You swiftly nod back, just once. Up and down. And that’s all it takes.

Jack’s lips are on yours before you can inhale. All teeth and tongue, he wastes no time showing you how much he missed you. The grip at your hips tightens, and he pulls you closer to him, so that your hips grind against his. So that your stomach can feel his abs through the worn gray cotton t-shirt he has on. You try not to notice that it’s the shirt you would sleep in when you slept over, but you do. Because he’s a sentimental man, because he’s obviously been punishing himself with his memories of you.

He comes up for air and shakes his head at you. “Thank you.” he kisses you again.

“Thank me?” you query.

“Thank you for coming back. You know what I need.”

“You know what I need. I never had to fucking ask for anything. You just knew. Before I did.” you admit.

“You know me too. You know me better than anyone does, angel.”

You pull his face back to yours. Eager to feel his lips after a long five months. 

He grabs your hips again, hoisting you up onto him. You wrap around his midsection. The friction from your jeans rubs you just right and you moan into Jack.  

“Tell me more,” is all he says in response. 

You groan. “I didn’t miss your old man jokes.”

“Yes you did, that’s why you’re here.”

He lays you back in the bed and doesn’t give you a chance to respond. The kisses become more fervent as he pushes the gym shorts off of himself. You make quick work of your jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down, along with your underwear. 

You and Jack didn’t need to talk it through any more. You were on the same page. You just understood it. You two could go hours without speaking, and still say a million words to each other. 

It’s like at work, all you had to do was shoot him a look and he understood. When a patient wasn’t going to make it, when something suspicious was going on, when something hysterical was going on, but you couldn’t laugh. You didn’t need words to convey how you were feeling. And if your eyes weren’t going to tell him tonight, your cunt definitely was. You could feel yourself dripping onto his sheets. 

“I don’t think I have any condoms. I–” Jack’s eyes dance around his minimalistic bedroom.

“I don’t care. I’m clean, you’re clean. Please, I need it.”

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice. He lines himself up, groans at the wet spot on the bed. And then he goes in. One long, deep, thrust. He bottoms out. You throw your head back onto the pillows before you’re reminded of his ‘thing’. Your eyes snap up at him and he grins. A cheshire smile. One that you couldn’t forget if you tried. 

His cock curves inside you like you’re two puzzle pieces. You clench around him until he has to ask you to let up.

He sets his pace. Long, deep, hard. Jack wasn’t one to fuck fast. He needed to enjoy it. To soak it all in. To feel you, to remember every inch of your walls. He wanted to always remember each individual fuck. What sets them apart? How did you look when you came this time versus the other fifty times? He once told you he thought about starting a sex journal so he could become the best at getting you off. 

Jack has about zero thoughts in his head that don’t surround around making you finish. He wants it like a prisoner wants an escape. He feels like he just saw his parole officer and they set him free, or put him on house arrest, he’s sure he’s not completely out of the dog house, but none of that matters to him now.

He’s inside you, and you’re making the noises he’s dreamt about every night since you left. “That’s it, pretty girl. That’s it.”

You clench again, hard. “I wanna– fuck– be on top.”

He doesn’t respond, just flips you over.

You straddle his waist and he pulls you in closer, sucking on your pert nipple. Jack guides your hips up and down before giving into what he really wants to do. 

Instead of moving you, he holds you still, opting to drive his cock up into you. You hiss, make a noise between a groan and a squeal. You bury your head into his shoulder and it moves you impossibly closer to him. 

He shifts so that one arm has a hold of your waist. The other comes between your two bodies, searching for your clit. He finds it, without looking, and rubs sharp circles that follow his pace on it. Your head flies back. 

“Fuck I’m—”

“Yup, me too, honey. C’mon, let me have it. Let it all go.”

You gasp at the feeling. It rushes out of you almost as soon as you recognize the tight knot in your stomach.  You can’t control your noises anymore, and neither can Jack.

He comes with you, burying his cock into your heat. He groans, over and over, and then pants.

You hum against him, resting your sweaty forehead against his. He moves so he can place a kiss on yours, a sweet one, to tell you you’re okay.

Neither of you make any effort to move, pleased to stay intertwined after being separated.

“What was his name?”

“Here come the questions. Can’t you let me enjoy this?”

“Never,” Jack quips. He shoots you a look, waiting for his answer.

“His name is Jack.”

His face turns pale, all jokes leave his brain, “You went on a date with someone who has my name?”

“I thought it would make the transition easier! I was hoping you wouldn’t ask!” you shake your head in shame. 

“How old was he?”

“Oh my god. That I am not answering. It doesn’t matter. The whole time I just thought about you, and your bullshit excuses for ending it. Telling me I need someone younger, c’mon.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Forgotten. We’re here now. Just don’t ever fucking do it again. I hate working day shift.” your face lights up. “Is that how you found out? Did Robby say something to you?”

Your mouth falls open at Jack’s cackling. 

“So old men gossip too, got it. This is fucked.” 

Jack shakes his head at you, calms himself down. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here.”

“You don’t have to. I know.”

[desperate-gay]

Make You Mine

Alexia Putellas x fem!reader

SMUT 18+

summary: no matter what, you are always hers

a/n: i apologize guys. im such in a twd mood recently so ive been wanting to write for them but alexia putellas is always number one

“Mmm, why are you giggling?” Alexia husks, watching your hips grind on her lap.

“Who knew someone so focused on being team capitana and advancing to the finals would pack a strap?” You pant with a grin, lifting your hips so the head of the strap sits at your entrance before sinking back down.

“Maybe she wants to watch her puta desesperada writhe beneath her.” She states, one of her big hands palming the small of your back while the other grips your hip to guide you.

A sly smile etches across your face. “Then why am I on top of you, hmm?”

Before you can even tease her again, Alexia’s hands tighten around your hips, and with a low growl, she shifts her weight, flipping you onto your back in one swift, fluid motion.

You gasp, the sudden change making your head spin, but the wicked glint in her eyes pins you to the mattress even more than her hands do.

“Enough games.” She mutters, voice rough with want.

Her hands roam your body, possessive, reverent, like she’s memorizing every inch. Then she grabs your thighs, spreading them wide, settling between them with a dominant roll of her hips.

“You wanna be fucked properly, eh, mi amor?” Alexia rasps, dragging the head of the strap along your soaked entrance, teasing, not giving you what you need just yet.

You nod quickly, whining when she still doesn’t push in.

“Words.” She demands, low and commanding.

“Yes, Alexia, please.” You breathe out desperately, hips chasing hers.

Smirking, she finally thrusts into you in one deep, steady stroke, making your back arch off the bed.

Her pace starts slow but purposeful, each snap of her hips forcing a moan from your lips as she leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“That’s it.” She whispers, voice like velvet and smoke. “Let me hear you, cariño.”

Your hands scramble against her shoulders, nails digging into the solid muscle there as she thrusts into you harder, deeper, setting a brutal rhythm that has you gasping with every roll of her hips.

“Fuck, Ale.” You whimper, the feeling of being so full, so owned, making your stomach tighten with heat.

Alexia smirks against your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your skin, biting just hard enough to leave a mark.

“You take me so well, mi vida.” She purrs, dragging her teeth along your collarbone. “So desperate, so fucking pretty when you’re underneath me.”

Your hips jerk up to meet hers, chasing every delicious grind of her body against yours. It’s messy now, frantic with the way you’re both losing yourselves in each other.

When you clench around her, a strangled groan rips from Alexia’s chest.

“You gonna cum for me already, cariño?” She teases, slowing her thrusts to an agonizing grind that makes you sob for more.

“Please, Alexia, don’t stop.” You beg, voice cracking.

Alexia pulls back enough to look at you—hair wild, pupils blown wide—and the way she looks at you makes you feel like the center of her whole world.

“Then be a good girl and take it.” She growls, grabbing your hips and fucking into you so deep and hard you see stars.

Your orgasm builds fast, unbearable, ripping through you with a sharp cry as Alexia rides you through it, never letting up until you’re trembling beneath her, your nails scratching helplessly at her back.

Only then does she slow, lowering herself to kiss you, soft and tender, her hands cradling your face like you’re something precious she never plans to let go of.

“Mi princesa.” She whispers against your lips. “Always so perfect for me.”

You’re still panting, your body boneless and trembling under her, when you feel Alexia’s hand slip between your thighs again.

You let out a shaky whimper, instinctively trying to squirm away from the overstimulation, but Alexia just shushes you, a wicked glint flashing in her eyes.

“A dónde crees que vas, mi amor?” She murmurs, voice low and dangerous, pinning your hips down with effortless strength. “I’m not finished with you.”

Alexia rolls her hips forward, the strap still buried deep inside you, making your whole body jolt with sensitivity.

“Too much.” You whine weakly, but even you can hear the way your voice trembles with need more than protest.

Alexia smirks knowingly, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your throat—slow, deliberate kisses meant to lull you into surrender.

“You can give me one more.” She coaxes, her fingers finding your clit and circling it with devastating precision. “Be good for me, cariño. Just one more.”

Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing her touch even as you whimper for mercy.

She sets a relentless rhythm, thrusting into you again, slow but deep, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from your already wrecked body.

“You’re mine.” She breathes against your ear. “Only mine. Say it.”

“Yours.” You choke out, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it feels—her, everywhere, inside and out, her body, her voice, her hands, her everything.

“Good girl.” Alexia grunts, her hand speeding up on your clit, hips driving into you harder.

Your second orgasm crashes into you without warning. A raw, wrecked sound tearing from your throat as your body convulses around her.

Alexia groans low in her chest, riding out your high, her touch unrelenting until you’re crying from the intensity, your nails leaving angry red marks across her back.

Only when you completely collapse beneath her, trembling and spent, does she finally slow down, gently pulling out and cradling you against her chest.

She peppers soft kisses along your temple, whispering soothing words in Spanish you’re too blissed-out to fully understand, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

And even then. Even as your eyelids grow heavy and your body gives out, you can still feel the possessive press of her palm on your hip, as if she’s making sure you remember you belong to her.

You can’t help but wonder what will happen if she wins the finals.