#i've had like. no energy to write or draw

[skyfallscotland]

Professor Riorson (Remi's Version)

"Remi for once can you please—" "Be an attentive student?" I widen my eyes. "Pay attention in class?" I just my lower lip out. "Of course!" My lips curve up. "I'm so excited to have a new teacher, Vi."

Hello! After what we shall henceforth refer to as the Onyx Storm Incident, I did not know if I would ever write for this fandom again (yes, that was three days ago, I know, shut up).

Anyway, I figured I should try and push through my reservations early instead of letting my disappointment linger, so I set out to write a little palette cleanser. As usual I tried to write smut and ended up with four thousand words of feelings first 🤦🏼‍♀️

This is set in some sort of alternate (completely unbelievable) universe where Xaden never gave in to Remi's flirting when she was a first-year at Basgiath (oh and he's not a venin) everything else is irrelevant, just go with it.

It's also basically straight up erotica, so explicit content! Not for minors! Minors DNI or whatever the fuck they say over here (I really should be posting all these on AO3, but that's for another day).

Finally, I'm sorry to all the teachers out there, I hate this kink too but it's minimally emphasised (they're still them) and it was what my girl Remi deserved—why should Violet get Professor Riorson and not her, the Queen of Tyrrendor, the Angel of Death? So here we are.

PS. Justice for chairs! Hopefully you can all visualise what's going on here 😂🪑

Professor Riorson (Remi's Version)

Fraternisation between cadets and those serving in higher chains of command, including the aggregate leadership cadré at Basgiath War College, is strictly forbidden. —Article Eight, Section One, The Dragon Rider’s Codex

I tap my foot against the floor, levitating my pen above my hand almost subconsciously as Professor Devera informs the rest of the cadets just how fucked we actually are. "Welcome to the new face of battle, where we are not only outnumbered in the sky but now equally matched on the field in terms of the skill of our opponents."

Equally matched? We're not equally matched, we're absolutely fucked. It's hard to find the energy to care anymore, knowing what awaits us. Maybe if I had a signet like Violet's, I would be in with half a chance at survival, but mending? Yeah. I'm screwed.

Heads drop in the rows ahead of us, like everyone else is reaching the same conclusion.

"With that in mind, the nature of challenges will change under the supervision of Professor Emetterio to include wielding in order to better prepare you for actual combat. Death is no longer an acceptable outcome when you face your classmates. The days of settling your scores on the mat are over. We need each and every one of you to survive to graduation.”

I scoff aloud, drawing more than one person's attention. Death should never have been acceptable. The military, the system gains nothing from it, it's just a senseless waste of life.

“Easy to say when you’re not facing Sorrengail,” Caroline Ashton calls out.

My lips tilt up. I hope she ends up facing my sister.

“We aren’t going to throw you to the wolves,” Devera tells her. “The third class you’ll be adding will be a hands-on approach to prepare you for signet-against-signet combat. You’ll have a rotating roster of professors to benefit from all signet types, and the Eastern Wing has temporarily loaned us their most powerful rider to start your instruction.”

Violet stiffens beside me and I frown, glancing over at her. The Eastern Wing…wouldn't that mean…

“And on that note.” Devera gestures to the door at the back of the room, and slowly, I turn. “Look who just arrived—everyone, welcome our newest member of your leadership team. Professor Riorson.”

My heart skips a beat and my lips begin to curve into the most self-satisfied smirk I've worn in a while. This is going to be fun.

Friday comes far too slowly for my liking, but finally it's our turn to head out to the Infantry Quadrant's outdoor amphitheatre. There's a skip in my step as we descend the stairs and Violet groans, eyeing me with disapproval.

"Remi for once can you please—"

"Be an attentive student?" I widen my eyes. "Pay attention in class?" I just my lower lip out. "Of course!" My lips curve up. "I'm so excited to have a new teacher, Vi."

Ridoc snorts, bumping me with his hip as he passes.

I glance up from my feet, taking in the man standing dead centre in the base of the amphitheatre, his impatience clear. His arms are crossed over his chest and his usual dark stare is ever-present as he watches us, waiting.

"This is incredible." Sloane is saying ahead of us, commenting on the weather and the temperature inside the amphitheatre's wards. It is warm in here and as Professor Riorson's eyes dart up to lock with mine, I shrug my arms out of my flight jacket. My pulse jumps at his continued attention and slowly I shake the snow from my braid.

"You're right, Sloane." I smile, running my hand over my hair. "It's so warm in here." I reach for the bottom of my shirt and draw that up too, pulling it over my head to leave me in just my leather pants and armoured corset.

"Remi!" Violet hisses and I smile innocently.

"What?" I lift a brow. "You don't want me to pass out, do you Vi?" She grumbles something about knocking me out, which I promptly ignore, dropping my things in the first row of stone seats beside our classmates.

If there's one thing my sister has always hated, it's my infatuation with Xaden Riorson. I suppose that's fair, given she shares a mind with him at times, but it does nothing to discourage me. If I see something I want, I go after it and I've wanted Xaden Riorson ever since I first laid eyes on him all those years ago at parapet.

Too bad he doesn't want me just as badly.

“Welcome to your first session of Signet Sparring, in what I like to call the pit.” He announces as we reach the base of the steps.

"Ominous." I mutter.

“Those who can wield, keep your feet on the rock but—and I cannot stress this enough—off the mat. Those who cannot, take a seat in the first row.” He gestures to the terraced stone behind us.

I assume it has something to do with the warding, so when Aaric and Lynx move to take a seat in the rows behind, I stand to follow.

"Remi Sorrengail!" Riorson calls. "I know you can wield."

I pause, turning slightly to arch a brow. "My signet is neither offensive nor defensive, sir." The slightest, most minuscule twitch jolts his shoulders at the word and I show him my teeth. "You wouldn't want me to get hurt, would you?"

An ember of desire flickers to life in my gut and I bite my lip, letting my eyes drag over him slowly from head to toe. The tight-fitting sparring gear is reminiscent of what he always wore in the quadrant when he was our wingleader, but the swords strapped across his back…they really add to it. It's doing something for me. A lot for me.

"I'll make sure you don't get hurt, Cadet Sorrengail." He reassures. "Take a seat. Now."

I hold his gaze for a moment, wishing he could read my mind and understand exactly what that tone is doing for me. For a second his eyes flare and then it's gone; his stony, unaffected mask falling back into place as he gestures to the first row where my sister waits.

"Whatever you say, sir." I simper, flopping down onto the stone.

"Sickening." Imogen mutters, rolling her eyes from my other side, and I grin. She's never liked my obsession with him either.

First wing begin to filter in, taking their places on the adjacent seating and Riorson's eyes dart left, then right. “Let’s go. It shouldn’t be this hard to sort yourselves out."

"You can sort me out—" All the breath rushes out of me in a wheeze as Imogen's elbow plants itself in my gut. "Ok." I cough, "understood." Violet stifles a laugh.

“You done gossiping among yourselves?” Riorson eyes First Wing with what I'd classify as menace.

“We were just saying that we’re not sure someone who graduated less than a year ago makes the best teacher.” Loran Yashil folds his arms.

I laugh aloud, drawing the attention of everyone in the amphitheatre. "Because you've been doing so well with Carr." I comment. "How many dark wielders do you think he's fought? Hiding back here behind the wards like a coward?"

"Remi!" Violet groans, though the chastisement holds no sting—I know she agrees with me.

What follows is perhaps the hottest display of power and dominance I've seen in a long while. He barely lifts a finger taking the third-year down and then proceeds to do it all over again…and again, and again until there's no one left but my sister and I.

"Sorrengail, you're up!"

Violet and I glance at each other and she lifts a brow. I wiggle mine in return. Quickly, we both leap to our feet and stride onto the mat.

"I meant—"

"You should have specified then." I cut him off, drawing my daggers from my corset.

"I didn't speak in plural." He all but rolls his eyes.

"Well that's just cheating, you can't both—"

I throw my blade to the side, never once breaking eye contact with Riorson. "Shut up, Caroline!" I call. Who asked her anyway?

Drawing another dagger to replace the one I'd thrown, I let my hips sway as I stride down the centre of the mat, coming to a stop directly in front of him. "If you're too afraid to fight us both, just say Professor." I taunt. "I don't mind if you want to have our session one on one."

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, a muscle in his jaw feathering slightly. "You're infuriating." He murmurs.

"I think you like it." I whisper, tongue darting out to wet my lips, and the ground rumbles. Lightning strikes overhead and he drags his eyes up from my lips, locking gazes with me as shadows rush out, blacking out the area entirely.

"Fuck." I mutter, taking a step back, entirely blind. I take another and another until I run clear into a hard chest and an arm brackets my middle from behind.

"What was the point of this, Sorrengail?" He asks. "If I were venin, you'd be dead right now."

"You're not venin." I counter breathlessly. "If you were, the distraction wouldn't have worked."

"The—"

Boom.

Lightning strikes mere centimetres to his left, shaking the ground, lighting up the arena. I tear myself free from his hold, ignoring the shadows that chase me, caressing my hair, my cheek—and grin slyly. "We win." I smirk as sunlight filters back through. "You'd be dead if she wanted you dead."

He frowns, like the idea of it is ludicrous. "You'd be dead. You would have died before me."

I shrug my shoulders. "And she'd be alive." I tilt my head. "Like I said. We win."

With that I turn and walk away.

"You really need to give it a rest." Violet sighs as she slings her pack over her shoulders, prepared to head down to Chantara with the others. "Remi, I'm…worried about you."

I huff, folding my arms over my chest. "Worried?"

"Worried." She confirms. "It's not healthy to go chasing after someone like this. He's not capable of loving you. There are plenty of people who—"

"Who said anything about love?" I interrupt. "I never said I wanted him to love me."

Violet looks at the ceiling like she's praying to Amari for patience. "You're you." She finally says softly, reaching out to take my hand. "I know you. You want love—and I know him—he's not capable of it."

I know she doesn't mean it critically, she's been orbiting him for quite some time now, her dragon being mated to his and all. So she knows him, better than I probably ever will as a result and she's probably right, but…

"Sometimes he looks at me and I think, just for a second…" I swallow hard.

Violet's expression softens. "I know, I see it too."

My face crumples. "Then why—"

"Because it doesn't mean he can, Rem." She squeezes my hand. "You've been chasing after him since the day you met and him liking you, doesn't mean he'll risk his heart and that's what he'd have to do—we're at war." My sister frowns. "It's all or nothing."

All or nothing.

"Fine." My voice cracks as I speak. "Fine. I get it."

My twin chews on her lip. "So you'll come to Chantara?" She whispers softly.

"No." I shake my head. "I'm going to see him, one last time." Violet's face falls. "I can do all or nothing," I whisper quietly, "but I need a chance to convince him it should be all."

"You've had—"

"No." I shake my head, my heart clenching in my chest. "I've joked and flirted and watched him spend hours of his time dragging you around, but I never made it clear…"

My sister breathes in deep, her shoulders rising like she's steadying herself. "He knows." She whispers, the words leaving her in a rush. "He knows, Remi."

I sit with that for a moment and then slowly, I nod. "Ok." I accept, my throat tightening.

"Ok?"

"Sure." I turn around, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. "I think I'll stay here anyway." I try and force a smile, but I'm sure it comes out as more of a grimace. "You go, Vi. Have fun with the others."

Her eyes are worried, but a lifetime of arguments and tears has told her when to push and when to leave well enough alone, so she leaves well enough alone. It takes a moment to collect myself, to pick the pieces of my heart up off the ground and place them back where they're meant to be, but when that's done and I've managed to still the shaking of my hands, I stand from the bed and head for the door.

If he doesn't want me that's fine, but he can tell me himself, one final time.

All or nothing.

I throw on my jacket and make my way down the hall, heading toward the school's academic wing. Pretty much everyone is either training or enjoying some recreational time, so I don't pass many people on the way there and when I raise my hand to knock, the hall is empty.

The door swings open with the help of lesser magic and I slip inside, not bothering to announce myself—the presence of a shadow curling up around my ankle tells me he knew exactly who was at his door before he ever opened it.

"Professor Riorson." I lift my eyes to his and attempt to shore up my resolve.

"Cadet Sorrengail." He leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "To what do I owe this visit?"

My heart pounds against my rib cage and my pulse flutters like a caged bird. There's a desk between us and metres of clean air, but it may as well be nothing. The atmosphere in the room is charged and I absently wonder if Vi warned him I might be coming.

"I…"

He waits, lifting a brow. "Yes?"

"I'm failing!" I blurt, suddenly losing my nerve. "I'm going to fail your class and I don't know how to…" His eyes hold mine, gold-flecked onyx practically smouldering.

"Try again." He instructs, lowering his hands to the armrests on his chair. He splays his knees casually, leaning back while his eyes seem to stare right through me.

"I'm sorry?"

His lips tilt up, just slightly. "That's not what you came here for." He shakes his head. "Try again and don't lie this time."

My mouth runs dry. Suddenly every conviction I had, every ounce of bravado flees my body and I want to be anywhere but here because I know…this is about to hurt. Having your heart ripped out always does.

"I…came to ask for an extra credit assignment?" I try again, clinging to the minuscule hope he might believe me. It's nothing Vi hasn't done before. Well, before Basgiath, but still.

Riorson smirks. "And your suggestion?"

I frown.

"You're the professor. Don't you decide…?"

The hair on my neck stands on end and I shiver as something brushes the end of my braid. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He murmurs and my eyes blow wide.

"Uh…" His lips tilt.

"Not that it matters, you're lying again."

My mouth falls open. "Ok, you can't possibly know that!" I hiss. "You're not an inntinnsic, you have no idea what I'm thinking!"

"I know you." He counters. "You expect me to believe you, Remi Sorrengail, came here for an extra credit assignment?" He shakes his head.

"You don't know me!" I frown. "I've barely even seen you since you graduated." And not for lack of trying. I've personally been deployed up and down the Eastern Wing, but every time we've been at the same outpost he's miraculously busy. Violet however, sees him all the time. A fact I've always hated.

"Why are you here, Remi?" He tries again, looking more amused by the second and I can just tell—he knows. It shouldn't be a surprise to me. I've never made my interest a secret, I'm not ashamed of it, but that doesn't lessen the disappointment that even after all this time he'll refuse to give me the time of day when I know he's attracted to me too.

I lock my jaw and scowl. "Is there an answer you'll believe?" I finally utter, shame and frustration colouring my cheeks.

"Not extra credit."

I guess the all or nothing is going to be nothing then. How disappointing. I turn on my heel, refusing to waste a second more of my time on someone who clearly doesn't appreciate me.

"Remi." He calls sternly, his shadows tugging on my braid, and when the door won't open I resist the urge to stomp my foot like a sullen teenager—I want out.

My throat tightens. "Yes, sir?" I grit my teeth, glancing over my shoulder and his expression shifts like he's only now recognising the finality in the air. No more flirting, no more games, no more anything.

He closes his eyes and I recognise the minute twitches of his brow—he's talking to his dragon. I yank on the doorknob again but it refuses to turn, keeping me trapped in a mess of my own making.

When he stands from his chair and rounds the desk, my heart begins to flutter with panic.

"Sit down." He orders and I blink.

"No."

I'd have said it anyway, just to be contrary, but this time I mean it. I don't want to be here anymore.

"Sit. Down." His voice lowers, taking on a frustrated, threatening tone and my lip peels back from my teeth.

"No."

Before I can reach for a blade to defend myself with, his arms are around my waist and he's lifting me into the air, carting me back toward the desk like a sack of grain. He kicks the chair before it out of the way with his foot and deposits me on the desk's surface, sending papers scattering.

When I lash out with my foot, aiming to kick him somewhere painful, he catches my ankle between thick, powerful thighs. "Stop." He warns, his tone glacial. "Look at me."

Fuck you. I think, and when I glance up there's a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Sor—Remi." He corrects, leaning in. He plants large, calloused hands on my knees, keeping my thighs apart as he steps between them, ensuring I can no longer lash out at him with my boot. As his fingers curl around my knees, he leans in close enough for our jaws to brush, and I suck in a sharp breath.

"Sir?" My voice shakes and he all but groans.

He lifts a hand, tracing over my cheekbone with his thumb and my heart races. Each brush of his fingers, the feel of his stubble against my jaw, all of it—it sets my soul alight.

"Everything about this is inadvisable." He whispers, his voice gruff. "You are inadvisable."

I swallow hard. "So you've said." Never going to happen, he'd told me more than once while studying here.

"And yet…"

My muscles bunch, shoulders tensing. "…and yet?" I challenge, finally finding my voice.

He takes one breath and then another, and forces me to mourn the loss of his warmth as he steps away. "Article eight, section one—"

"You are not quoting the Codex at me!" I spit, eyes narrowing into a lethal glare as he takes another step. "You? Seriously?" Fury engulfs me, anger burning my chest with tendrils of white-hot rage. "You're a gods damned separatist, even now, Duke Riorson," I sneer, "and you're wedging the Codex between us?"

Of all things, of every excuse—

"You could be—"

"I'm exempt!" I throw my hands up, lashing out with my foot once more and growling with frustration as he halts it with his shadows. "Article eight, section one of the Dragon Rider's Codex states that calling cadets into active service in times of war may only be authorised by—"

"The Commanding General of Basgiath. I'm aware." He glares.

"So I'm no longer a cadet and I haven't been since July when they sent me to the front to mend." I point out.

"That's a technicality—"

"Oh so you're allowed to call technicalities and I'm not? Got it." I roll my eyes. "Just admit you don't want to fuck me professor and let's move on."

"In-ad-visable!" He yells, a deadly glare on his face and I jolt, rearing back a little. "If you were anyone else I'd have—" He seals his lips together and spins, facing the wall as he jerks a hand through his hair, gripping the dark strands roughly. I watch wide-eyed as his shoulders rise and fall, like he's short of breath.

"You'd what?" I whisper.

I don't dare move, frozen in place on the desk as I watch him, waiting with bated breath to see if he'll finally, finally tell me why. Why he refuses to see me as anything but Lilith Sorrengail's daughter, Brennan's little sister, Violet's twin. See ME, I want to scream at him. I deserve that.

When he turns, his eyes are dark and incensed. "If you were anyone else, I'd have bent you over that desk already and taught you a lesson."

My heart flies into my throat. "What?" It's barely more than a whisper leaving my lips.

He stalks back across the room, clearing the few feet he'd put between us, and slides his hand beneath my chin, long fingers curling around the back of my jaw to pull me in, tilting my face up to meet his. "You heard me."

Heat flushes my cheeks. "Wh…why not me?" I ask and embarrassingly enough, my voice breaks. "Why anyone but me? I'm—"

"Soft." His thumb drifts, brushing gently over my lips as he cups my jaw. "You have a soft heart, Remi Sorrengail, and I'm not the kind of man who can care for it."

I scoff, baring my teeth at him. "I'm a rider, same as you." I glare. "They don't call me the Angel of Death because I'm soft."

His hand slips, running back over my hair and down my loose braid. "Well they got the first part right." He murmurs, closing his eyes. I watch, taut as a bowstring as he takes one breath, then another. "Fuck." He mutters, face twisting up like he's in physical pain.

"Xaden?" I whisper, voice shaking.

"You have terrible timing." His hand tightens on my braid and then he's pulling, tugging me forward as he grasps my chin and seals his mouth over mine. My heart leaps into my throat and my chest tightens as he devours me, the hand on my hair sliding down to rest between my shoulder blades. His fingers splay as he pulls me in, holding me close.

His teeth nip at my lower lip and I gasp, tilting my head in submission as he slips his tongue into my mouth. Oh gods. I whimper, pressing myself further into his grasp as he kisses me thoroughly. A small sound of pleasure escapes my throat and he diverts his attention, nipping gently at my jawline.

His mouth moves right to the sensitive spot behind my ear, like he knows exactly where to nip, where to suck, where to pleasure to have me liquefy. His lips are warm against the shell of my ear as he whispers, "you choose now to take no for an answer?"

He worries the skin beneath it with his teeth and I moan, arching into him. "Y-ou didn't want me." I pant. "You've never—you—"

"I always want you." He growls. "You've been taunting me for years, angel." I gasp at the endearment, tilting my head to give him more access as he works his way down the column of my throat. "It's not a matter of want."

My fingers tighten on the timber of the desk behind me and I suddenly realise I no longer have to refrain from touching. Immediately I reach for him, slipping my hands beneath the leather of his flight jacket, running them up his sides to hold him to me.

"Then what?" I whisper, lifting a hand to rake through his hair, scratching my fingernails against his scalp as he sucks a mark into my throat. I want to touch him everywhere. "Xaden, please." I whimper, bringing my legs up to try and drag him closer. I need to wrap my thighs around him.

He groans, panting into my neck. "We should not be doing this." But he doesn't stop.

I gasp, arching upward so my chest brushes his as his fingers skate beneath the line of my corset. "You've yet to give me a good reason." I say, desire coiling low in my abdomen.

"I'm your teacher." He breathes, pulse skipping as I lock my ankles behind his lower back.

"And I'll be such a good girl for you."

Just like that, his control snaps. "Fuck, Remi." He pulls me forward forcefully, dipping his head to claim my lips once more. The kiss is deep and desperate, and I moan loudly into his mouth.

"So. Fucking. Tempting." His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling slightly on the silver-tipped strands and I moan again, heart pounding as my skin gets hotter and hotter.

He kisses like a man possessed, holding me to him like he can't get enough and when we finally part for air again, it's all I can do to keep from begging. I grasp his hand, dragging it from where it rests on the side of my neck, down over my chest, past my stomach and to the button on my leathers.

He barely hesitates, slipping his hand beneath my waistband. I toss my head back, a small gasp leaving my lips as he slides his fingers over my clit and and back up again. "Gods," I whimper, "please."

"Please, what?" He whispers, slowly drawing his fingers through my arousal.

"Please, sir?" I gasp, leaning back to meet gold-flecked onyx. He chuckles.

"I meant what do you expect me to do with you, angel?" His thumb slowly circles my clit in soft, barely-there movements, "but the respect is a nice touch."

I swallow hard, a red flush spreading down my neck, but I have him right in front of me and I refuse to falter now. "Please make me come." I whisper and he groans, hips rocking forward reflexively. "I'll be good for you, I promise."

His eyes are so dark they're almost entirely black despite the light in his office, and he pushes my legs from his hips, spreading my knees further apart as he pulls me to the edge of the desk.

"These need to come off. Now." His hands are already moving, undoing the buttons and sliding my pants down over my hips, taking my underwear with them. I lever myself up on my hands as he drags them down and drops to his knees before me, fingers working on the laces of my boots.

He pulls them off one by one and dumps them on the floor, and when my pants are finally off and I'm half-naked on his desk, he tips his head back and stares. I flush deeper as he remains kneeling on the floor, slipping his hands up to cup my knees.

He rests his head on the inside of my thigh for a moment, his hair brushing my skin, and parts my legs further. Anxiety flares and I glance up at the door uncertainly, suddenly realising where we are.

"Is that door locked?" My heart skips a beat.

"Does it make you wet?" He murmurs, "the idea of being caught?"

I swallow hard. "No."

My heart flutters against my rib cage and his eyes soften, lips pressing gently to my skin. "It's locked, angel. No one's getting in." He places another careful kiss on my inner thigh. "No one can hear us. It's just you and me."

Something inside me settles and I relax enough to reach out, threading my fingers through his hair. "Ok." I murmur, admiring the silky strands as he moves closer, drawing in a sharp breath as he wraps strong arms around my legs and pulls.

"Xa-Xaden." I whimper as he lowers his mouth to my heat, parting his lips.

"What happened to sir?" He lifts a brow, glancing up at me, and my stomach swoops.

"Sir," I whisper, my voice shaking.

I watch as his mouth curves up in a smirk. "Better." He agrees, and lowers it to my clit.

"Oh, gods." I moan aloud as he seals his lips around it, wasting no time with foreplay. He flattens his tongue and I can't help but rock my hips, both my hands flying into his hair.

My back arches as he scrapes his teeth over me and I quickly slam one hand down behind me to keep from losing my balance, sending pens scattering everywhere.

"Look at you, making a mess." He murmurs between languid strokes of his tongue.

My chest heaves and I grip his hair tighter, trying to still the movement of my hips. "I'll make—a mess—of you." I pant, the last word pitched higher as he closes his mouth around me and sucks.

"Promises, promises." He murmurs as he drags his fingers along my inner thigh teasingly. "Are you going to come on my face, angel?" He asks, barely looking up as he slips a finger inside me.

I moan, arching as my heart pounds, desire coiling low and tight in my gut as I clench around his finger. "I—" I can't get a word out, entirely breathless as he sits back on his heels and waits, lips shining with the evidence of my arousal.

"Look at you." He whispers, lifting his thumb to swirl it around my clit. "So wet for me already."

"Yes," I breathe, curling my fingers tighter in his hair. "Always for you."

He drags his finger out and presses it back in again, eyes never leaving his hand. I squirm in place, wanting—needing—more. He thumbs at my clit almost playfully, finally looking up to watch my reaction and I whimper, screwing my own eyes shut.

"Can you take another for me?" He asks, moving his finger teasingly.

"I can take all of you." I whine, twisting with impatience. "I want your cock, please Xaden?" He lifts a brow and I already know exactly what he's going to say.

"Ask me nicely."

There it is. I swallow hard. "Please, sir?" I soften my voice, ignoring the embarrassment that flares in my chest. I'll beg if it gets me there. "I want to come on your cock."

"You will." He responds, stroking my inner wall with his finger. "Just not yet. Be a good girl and let me have my fun."

I manage to refrain from more than a single disgruntled whimper as he ignores my plea, starting circles with his thumb again. When he slides a second finger home beside the first and curls them up, I cry out, tugging on his hair to bring him close.

"Please, your mouth."

He flattens his tongue obediently and I gasp and whimper as he begins moving it over my clit in time with his fingers. He laps at me as he slides them in and out, curling them up to press against a spot that almost sends me over the edge.

"There! There, please!"

I decide I hate the desk. It's hard and uncomfortable, and it provides poor leverage, keeping me from rolling my hips or fucking myself against his face.

He swirls his tongue and presses his fingers up simultaneously, and the action takes me entirely by surprise, tossing me unceremoniously over the edge. "Xaden!" I cry out, jerking against him as I shatter, coming apart on his tongue.

His head is squeezed tightly between my thighs as I shudder, hips jerking, and he moans against me, sending my heart rate soaring as the vibration of it rumbles through my clit. I gasp, clenching my cunt down around his fingers.

I don't know where to look, what to hold onto as my pleasure rolls over me in waves. Sweat slicks my skin and when he finally pulls away, licking his lips in self-satisfaction, his eyes gleam. "I can't wait to get my cock in you."

I moan, tightening around the fingers still inside me. "You could have already been in me." I pant, whimpering as he finally rises to his feet, showing no signs of the difficulty I know I'd be experiencing if I were on my knees that long.

He slips his fingers free and brings them to his lips, holding my gaze as he licks them clean. My stomach swoops like I've done an aerial dive and my lips part, surprise and arousal no doubt written all over my face. Gods.

"Patience, cadet." He lectures, grasping my chin roughly. "You've been so good," he croons, leaning in to kiss me. "You don't want to ruin that now, do you?" When he slips his tongue past my lips, I can taste myself on him and I moan into his mouth, skin heating beyond comprehension. It feels like when I wield—all my power building up inside me, only now it's pleasure; building and building again until I'm ready to explode.

"We're going back to that?" I pant as we part. "You don't like your name on my lips?"

"I like you obedient." He fires back, his hand gripping the back of my neck. "You've spent years taunting me, having your fun at my expense. I think I'm owed some recompense."

I almost roll my eyes. Almost.

"You could have had me at any time." I whisper. "If you waited, that's on you." I tilt my head up, closing the gap between us myself for the first time as I kiss him sweetly. "Your room, mine, the sparring mats…" I murmur. "I've thought about us everywhere."

"And this…?" He asks, eyes heated. "What were you picturing when you came down here, all innocent, asking about extra credit?" His hands move to his own leathers and my heart skips a beat as he begins undoing buckles, removing his weaponry with quick, efficient movements.

"What were you picturing when you walked in here, Remi, and saw me sitting behind my desk?" He moves onto the button at his waistband, popping it open. I watch, breath hitching as he frees his cock, pushing his pants down slightly as he begins to stroke. "Was this what you had in mind?"

A small sound escapes me, more of a squeak than anything else, and I suddenly find myself at a loss for words. He's…sizeable. He grasps the front of my corset, dragging me up off the desk, levering me to my feet. I tilt my head back to look at him, but our eyes only meet for a second before he's pushing, turning me around and down.

I catch myself on my hands, palms flat on the desk, fingers splayed wide and gasp as he presses himself in behind me, a hand grasping my braid. He leans down, mouth warm against my ear and says, "be a good girl and spread your legs."

I obey on reflex, but I'm certain my skin is so red it looks like I've reached burnout. "Xa-Xaden…" My fingers tighten on the dark timber and I gasp as he presses down on my spine, forcing my back to bow, lifting my ass against him.

"You look so pretty like this." He murmurs in my ear and I jolt as he drags a finger up through my folds, adding a second to gently hold me open. I can feel his fingers on my skin, hear the stroke of his hand on his cock as he prepares himself, but all I can see is papers and tomes.

I gasp as the head of his cock presses against my entrance, heart fluttering wildly, and as he starts to slowly push inside, I panic. "Wait!" I call, reaching behind my back, searching for his hand. "Wait, wait, wait." I pant, anxiety thrashing in my chest as he freezes, holding completely still.

His hand closes over mine, fingers threading between my own and I squeeze tightly, trembling in place. "Not like this." I swallow hard, shaking my head. "Not—" Before I can finish speaking he has me on my feet, spun around and held against him, his cock pressing against my stomach as he spears his hand into my hair, guiding my eyes to his.

"Remi?" He asks seriously.

My lip shakes and a small, mortified sound escapes my throat. "I want to see you." I whisper. "The first time…I want to see you." I want to look into his eyes. I want to see the way his brows knit, the way his lips part in pleasure as he drives into me. I want him to see me and know it's me and no one else. I want all of him.

His gaze softens and he dips his head, kissing me softly, his movements slow and languid. It eases the pressure in my chest, the small part of me that thought speaking up might be a deal breaker, and when we part he reaches down and lifts me off my feet, carrying me in quick strides to the chair behind his desk.

"Tell me if you want to stop." He murmurs, pressing his lips to my cheek, my jaw, my throat.

My knees settle on either side of him and I hover in place for a moment, waiting for his eyes to return to mine once more. "I don't want to stop."

Slowly, I sink down on his cock, holding his gaze as I take inch after inch of him until I finally have to close my eyes, tipping my head back in rapture. "Gods, Xaden."

He exhales slowly and his voice is strained when he speaks again. "So tight, Remi." He murmurs, lips brushing my cheek. "So wet for me."

I moan, tipping my head into his neck as he jerks his hips up, pressing against all the right places. The stretch is just this side of too much and it's exquisite and entirely worth the wait. I reach around him, gripping the back of his chair as I lever myself up and drop back down again, squeezing my walls tight around his cock.

"Good girl," he praises, sliding his hands up my spine as he encourages me to move.

I blink my eyes open, kissing my way up his jaw, sucking a mark of ownership into his neck. I want everyone to know exactly what he's been up to in here—I want them to know he's taken. I lean back until I can see him properly—see every minuscule expression as I gyrate on his cock. "I've wanted this for so long." I gasp. "Wanted you."

He lifts a hand, brushing my hair from my eyes and the other palms my hip, encouraging me to move. "I know." He murmurs, shadows slipping free from his control. "I know everything, Remi. All your wants, your needs, everything." Wisps of black curl up around me, brushing my skin, disappearing beneath my clothes. "I'm just as fucking obsessed with you as you are with me." My stomach swoops.

"Are you—" I gasp, arching my spine as something cold brushes lightly against my clit. "Is—is that?" I can't even get the words out I'm so short of breath.

"Me." He whispers, thrusting harder. "All of me, all over you."

I groan, tipping my face back into his neck as I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding on tight. I could interpret that very differently. "Do you want it harder, angel?" He murmurs, teeth nipping at my earlobe.

I nod furiously, panting as he snaps his hips up, pulling me down at the same time. "Please, Xade."

He sets a quick, unrelenting pace, slamming home inside me with the same desperation I feel, like he needs it—like he's a man starved. "You're so perfect, Rem." He praises, breath rattling out of him as his shadows circle my clit. They endless and determined just like him, slipping low beneath the neckline of my corset as he drives his cock into me over and over again.

"Are you going to come again for me?" He pants against my ear as I tighten around him. "Let me come inside you? Fill you up?"

"Yes, yes, yes—" The coil of pleasure building in my abdomen bursts and I cry out, holding on tight as fire floods my veins, nerve endings lighting up like a shooting star. "Xaden! Xaden—" I gasp and shudder, curling into him as he continues thrusting, chasing his own peak.

I'm so over-sensitised I can't help but whimper against his throat, my fingers tightening on his arms with every stroke. His thrusts grow less and less controlled as he hurtles toward the same cliff I'd just toppled over, and I clench down tight around him, sucking another mark into the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

"Fuck!" He curses, teeth lodging in my dragonscale armour as his hips give one final jerk and he spills inside me with a groan. His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath my cheek and I smile softly to myself, keeping my eyes down. "Gods." He rests his head on my shoulder, arms curling around me to hold me close, and I do the same to him, my heart swelling in my chest.

I lie my cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he presses a kiss to the back of my neck. His breathing begins to even out, pulse slowing but I hold onto him just as tightly still, keeping him close.

My knees are beginning to ache and the width of his hips isn't exactly comfortable for mine, but I don't dare move, knowing the second I do this will be over and I'll have to face reality again—awkward, uncertain reality.

I'm just as obsessed with you as you are with me, he'd said—but is he really? That seems unlikely.

"Remi." He murmurs, his arms falling from my sides, and I bite down hard on the inside of my lip, throat tightening. "Angel, we can't stay like this." He chuckles.

"Yes we can." I murmur petulantly into his neck, not loosening my grip an inch.

"I have a meeting in ten minutes." He replies, hand firm in the centre of my spine, "and while I'm happy to work with my cock inside you, I don't share."

A barely audible sound of surprise lodges in my throat. "Share?" I ask quietly, a tendril of hope curling in my chest.

He tugs gently on my braid, encouraging me to lean back so our eyes can meet. "You're mine, Remi, and I don't share my things with anyone." He says sternly.

That kind of possessive alpha bullshit should not fly with me. If it were anyone else, I'd probably punch them square in the nose for their insolence and tell them I'm not an object, but he's not anyone else and for him…

"Yes, sir." I whisper, cheeks flushing, and he groans, hips stuttering below me as his body makes a valiant attempt at an encore.

"Remi!" He chides and my lips curl up in a smirk, emboldened.

"Was that enough for extra credit, Professor Riorson? Am I passing your class?"

"Fuck." He mutters, mostly to himself. "If anyone finds out—"

"I'm happy to warm your cock while you work," I murmur, "if you still think I need extra instruction."

"Remi!" He groans, lifting me off him completely. "You're going to be the death of me." I guess he wasn't kidding about having a meeting to go to.

He sets me on my feet and I stare up at him innocently, chewing on my lower lip. "I feel so empty without you inside—"

"For fuck's sake!" He curses, sending a shadow to curl around my mouth. I go to speak further, to taunt him again, and find the dark mass blocks all sound—I can't so much as whisper in his direction for as long as he can wield. I pout, staring up at him with wide, wet eyes.

"How important is this meeting?" I sign, hands moving rapidly in the air. "I'll be lonely without your—" Shadows zip forward, swirling around my wrists to lock them tight together, binding my hands.

He finishes buttoning his pants and folds his arms over his chest, staring at my half-naked form in the middle of his office, completely unimpressed. "I suppose insecure Remi is gone then?" He asks, striding forward to cup my jaw with his hand.

That scores a direct hit and I guess he somehow knows it, because his fingers gentle as they tip my chin up. "Torment me in public and you won't like the punishment."

I'm absolutely certain I will.

Almost as if he hears my thoughts, his eyes narrow and he scowls. "I promise you won't, angel. I'll bring you to the edge over and over again and leave you there, bound and desperate while I get myself off—every day until you've learned your lesson."

I swallow hard.

"Thought so." He hums. "But if you're good, I'll help you come—on my face, on my hand, on my cock…over and over and over again." Onyx eyes glitter. "It's your choice, baby."

Baby. The word hits me like a punch in the gut and my chest tightens. "I can be good." I blurt the second his shadows disappear. "I promise."

"Good girl." The hand around my jaw curls up and he drags me in, dipping his head to place a soft, reverent kiss on my lips. "Go clean up and I'll see you tonight, Cadet Sorrengail."

I breathe in deep, a small smile touching my lips as I reach for my pants, hands shaking with relief. "Ok." His hand skates over my back as I finish dressing and he guides me toward the door to his office.

"And Rem?" He calls, halting me when my hand is on the doorknob. "That technicality is bullshit—it's not flying with anyone in leadership and you know it, so for fuck's sake keep this to yourself until this posting is over."

I bare my teeth in a grin, a joyful laugh bubbling past my lips. "Whatever you say, sir."

Who knew academia could be this satisfying?

[poppitron360]

Big “I’m Back, Bitch” post after my Hiatus.

Hello All!

This is kinda just intended for close moots or anyone who was worried about me or is interested in Poppi’s Personal Life Lore, just to keep you guys up to speed on how I’m doing after some time away and what to expect from me in 2025.

SO MUCH has happened in the two months I was away from Tumblr so for starters, here is a brief list of updates I have about My life/Fandoms/General shenanigans in no particular order

- The Ithaca Saga came out and it was AMAZING. I completely ignored my stockings that Xmas morning and instead just listened to it. By the time Christmas day was over I’d already listened to it about six times.

- Yes I was at the watch party along with 206,000 other people. It was truly historical.

- The Helluva Boss sinsmas special came out and almost made me cry. It’s been a while since I was posting about that show, but dw I still watch it

- I’m now on book 3 of Magnus Chase and YES YOU WERE ALL ABSOLUTELY CORRECT I LOVE ALEX SO MUCHHHHH. Expect some Alex Fierro/Fierrochase/Jack x Riptide content from me soon

- The Star Wars Disney+ shows are better than they’ve been since Mandolorian Season One.

- HAPPY 2025!!! This can’t be a real year. 2017 was still last year. No way we’re halfway through the 20s already.

- I had a BIG LIFE UPDATE that for personal reasons I can’t share online but it was BIG and also GOOD and I’m really proud of it. It was also unexpected and not the reason I took time off for. Idk why I’m including this bc I can’t really say anything about it but I need y’all to know that something good happened. It seems like when I vent about personal stuff here I only talk about the bad but good stuff does happen sometimes too.

- I got a weighted blanket for xmas. It’s so cozy and I love it.

- I have started getting into making OCs. Some for fandoms, some not.

- Penelope is now my favourite character in Epic.

- I’ve been writing this fanfic about the children of Percabeth, Solangelo, and Valgrace going on a TLT-style quest together so stay tuned to either read that or watch me give up on it and then just infodump about the plot I would’ve written if I’d had the energy

- I’m finally caught up on The Amazing Digital Circus

- I’m finally caught up on Agatha All Along (I still have the last episode to watch)- I think Joe Locke is stuck playing Sad Gay Baby-bois for the rest of his carrer now.

- Joel Smallishbeans won Wild Life and Grian is making 7hr Hermitcraft videos now.

- I performed in a play

- I have a 133-day streak on Duolingo!!

- Technically my one year Hyperfixation anniversary of Percy Jackson! I count it as the first Wednesday after Christmas as that’s when I watched the TLT musical for the first time. Because of this, whenever I doodle an SPQR tattoo on my arm when I’m bored, I will now draw two lines under it instead of one.

- Less than one month into 2025 and I can already predict that “The Challenge” is gonna be my top song of the year on Spotify

- Overall, I’ve just been trying my best to relax and take it easy, and I think I succeeded, which is good because that’s what I needed.

Now for the slightly less lighthearted stuff. I need to set a few things straight, for myself more than anything.

Firstly, I want to clarify that mentally I'm fine. I realise my leave was sudden and might’ve worried some people, and I apologise, but I am safe. You don't have to worry about my health or wellbeing.

This too will pass, and you'll get more dedicated, hyperobsessed Poppi back again once this has all blown over. Although, the aforementioned “BIG GOOD LIFE UPDATE” might complicate things.

Holidays are a stressful time for me, as I’m sure they are for you. With that on top of work and life stuff I needed to shed some mental load and unfortunately Tumblr was the first thing to go. And it will be the first thing to go again when something else stressful shows up. Adulting is hard you guys.

I've made it no secret that I've had some stressful stuff going on in my life these past few months. Yes, I am back from hiatus. Yes, I'm taking the time to rest and take care of myself. But I do not have the physical capacity to fully administrate a Tumblr blog on top of everything else right now.

So from now on, things are gonna be a little bit different around here. I won't be making posts every day and I won't be writing large fanfics or working on any complex fanarts.

I will need to take more hiatuses as things pile up.

I don’t know when exactly, but consider it a fact (unless I say otherwise) that this will happen again.

I know a lot of you will be understanding but I want to set these rules for myself so I don't feel any pressure from my brain to provide for you all. As I'm sure most of you will relate, I have a kinda all-or-nothing attitude to my interests, and as of this point in my life I can't afford to give my all to my blog. So expect a lot less from me these next few months.

Also, still nothing on the Autism Assessment Application stuff, in case anyone was wondering about that. This is the reality of living under the NHS. But by talking to people I’ve still been able to get the help and support that I need regardless of a diagnosis. And I also have a bunch of fidget toys now!!

Anyhoo, sorry for the ramble. I neither assume nor expect everyone will bother reading this so thank you for taking the time if you did. I wanted to put all of this in one post so I don’t need to keep talking about this and boring y’all with personal details in case you’re not interested. On with the fun fandom fiascos!!

I thank you all for your patience and being so kind and considerate while I needed some rest. I could not hope for a more awesome corner of the internet to exist on. Love you all. Stay safe. I’ll see you soon!

— Poppi <3

@lavenderfairiez @ginnyluna @groverapologist @echo-stimmingrose @demigod-shenanigans @keefessketchbook @sleepyycapybara @123letsgobestie @fairytalesociology @four-leafed-queer-gal @child-of-helios @puzzled-pegasus @ollieisanerd @twomanyfandomshelp @lokiwiiiiiii @yoshuko-ew @frayna-of-the-hollow @via-rant @hadeslegacyhephgirl @pjowasmy1stfandom @thetourturedwritersclub @m-for-now @inky-void @deciduowl

[pekoeboo]

man. I've been reworking a lot of content involving Act II of Home Is Where You Are and like. ugh. it'd work so freaking well in novel form but I just Do Not have the dedication or the drive to start from scratch and rewrite everything that happens.

idk how else to share the updated version of that part of the story with y'all tho, considering that Khalan's journal is insanely outdated now and isn't entirely canon anymore, so I'll probably just have to accept that I likely won't ever be able to update the story for y'all in the way I wish I could. >n<;;

[ragsy]

my fallout brain parasites have returned and i've been struck with the need to make a fallout au of my ocs, including detailed character portraits, attributes, skills, and perks, and i know for a fact that i'm not doing ALL of that but maybe if i post this here i'll hold myself accountable.

[somegrumpynerd]

I'm eating your art

It tastes like marshmallows and sweet /vpos

Eeeee thank you!! That's so sweet oh my god <3 I hope it tastes good and you don't make yourself sick!!

[wyn0rrific]

where. did yall come from.

[forcedhesitation]

*wheeze* slowly, but surely, working on art of them all

[seaofreverie]

I actually made 9 drawings in 2 days

[keeps-ache]

drink on the bed to my left. we know where this is going, but

[beastblade69]

I cannot describe how much I fucking ENVY people who can write a story/dialogue w already existing characters and it won't seem even slightly off the character. LIKE GUYS UR INSANE HOW ARE Y'ALL ABLE TO DO THAT, IT'S SO COOL

[safyresky]

Back at work this morning which is gr8 bc I can steal scraps to finish mine scrimblies espesh since I left the outline for number 51 ON MY DESK lmao

[theonottsbxtch]

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.

[always-just-red]

I've been lookin for a writer who takes reqs for lnds 😭 Can i req sfw hcs/one-shot (choose which one u prefer more) for sylus & fem/gn reader?

I remember there was one call for zayne x mc where mc called zayne accidentally because mc was drunk & mc called zayne (accidentally) instead of booking a cab (mc did book a cab but w/ a wrong destination).

Can i maybe req what if the scenario is like that but it's w/ sylus instead? Feel free to tell me if this req is too much or if u wanna decline it, thanks a lot!

My first Sylus fic! Yay! (Don't look at me Rafayel 🥰) Anon your mind is so powerful! This prompt was so much fun to write, so thank you, hope you enjoy!

Wrong Number

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way...

Genre: fluff, kinda ends on an angsty note (sorry 😇)

Warnings/Additional tags: drunk reader, some swearing, humour, uses of 'sweetie' and 'kitten', threat of violence/death at the start, a slight bit of suggestion (it's Sylus, ok? He's having ✨fun✨)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Mr. Sylus, please! It was an honest mistake— almost indistinguishable from a genuine protocore, I swear!”

Sylus is lounging back in a plush leather armchair, feeling thoroughly short-changed as he turns about a fake protocore with his fingers. He’s been listening to this noise for almost a full minute, growing awfully impatient, though he did like the last excuse.

“Say that again,” he drawls with a sinister smile.

“It was an honest mistake,” the black-market dealer stutters, tripping over his words. “It was almost indistinguishable from a—”

“Almost indistinguishable…” Sylus confirms. “Almost. Almost.” He’s savouring each syllable— tasting them like wine.

“It would have fooled almost anyone!”

“Almost anyone?” Sylus laughs, and it’s a wicked, dangerous thing. “Well yes, I rather think that’s the point. But it didn’t fool just anyone, did it? It fooled you.”

His smile is gone in an instant, his hand closing around the fake protocore, splintering it with a crack. He drops bloodied, sapphire fragments from his palm, red and blue, red and blue, and they skitter across the hardwood floor like rain.

“Please, Mr. Sylus!” the dealer pleads, desperate. “I’ll do anything! I will! I’ll make it up to you!”

“No, thanks.” Sylus studies his palm as it heals. “I’ve had my fill of fake protocores.”

“Sylus!”

The leader of Onychinus stands, drawing his gun with a customary apathy. Dark energy manifests, twisting around the dealer’s limbs, holding him still, while a lone tendril crawls around his mouth, holding him silent. He’s struggling, but he should know better. He should have known better from the very beginning. With a wistful smile, Sylus levels the gun with his head, and—

Something rings.

His red gaze shoots up, instinctively seeking Luke and Kieran, but they shrug from their station at the other side of the room. The sound is closer than that, anyway. Glaringly more familiar. Sylus’s spare hand goes to his pocket, and he draws out his phone.

“Mmm?” he greets, thumb sliding across the screen as he puts it to his ear.

There’s only one person who calls him at this time of night.

“Where are you?” your voice echoes from the other side of the line.

“That’s a question I prefer not to answer without knowing what motivates it.”

“Wha— Sylus?”

“Yes, sweetie,” he drones.

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit.”

It’s not the reaction he aspires to, but you sound agitated, so he’s going to let it slide. There’s a loud crackle from the speaker, followed by a few, harsher sounds, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. His eyes are trained on the man at his feet, but he lowers his gun, distracted.

“What are you—” he begins, but then he identifies the sound. It’s a finger— your finger— jabbing away at a screen. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Hunter, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“No…” you deny too quickly. It’s still there: the tapping. Like Mephisto, pecking furiously at a locked window from outside. A few more jabs, and then…

The call cuts out.

Sylus scoffs, looking down at his now silent phone in disbelief. He flops back into his chair, tossing his gun onto a side table before hitting the button to call you back. You know he’s not a patient man, but you don’t pick up the first time, and so he has to try again. He can be patient for you— he tells himself— as he thinks up some creative ways for you to return the charity. Speaking of charity…

His gaze drops to the dealer. “Get out,” he sneers.

The man doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet as his blood-dark bindings retract, practically throwing himself towards the room’s exit. Luke pushes open the door, the intense music of the nightclub beating through the gap, but Kieran’s being less helpful. He steps into the doorway, blocking any escape. He feints right. Then left. Behind the masks, both men are laughing.

Eventually Kieran steps aside. He shoves the dealer the rest of the way through the door as Luke kicks it shut, and they exchange a high-five.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. His call connects.

“Hello?” You’re back. “Finally! Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“Still me, sweetie.”

“Sylus?” you actually whine. It’s adorable. “Why is it you? Go away.”

“No,” he lilts tunefully, and then he’s coaxing: “I want to help you, kitten. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me, who are you trying to call?”

Frustration spills from you— fake, exaggerated sobs tearing themselves from your throat. “The taxi, Sy,” you whine again. “The stupid taxi, ok? It’s not here. It’s meant to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Ha!” you exclaim like you’ve evaded a masterplan, and not a casually asked, run-of-the-mill question. “No. Nice try, but no. You wanna help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then leave me alone!”

With— he can imagine— some sort of theatrical flourish, you deliver your phone a final, decisive tap. It beckons a fateful silence. Sylus brings his phone in front of his face, unmoved by the moment’s gravitas. There’s a pop-up on the screen. Kitten: requesting video chat.

He smiles to himself. Then accepts. “Hi sweetie.”

Your face is lighting up his screen, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed, and your eyes sharp with determination. “Why can I— wait, why can I see you? Get out of my phone, Sy!”

“My, my,” he tuts, but he’s smiling still, “look at you— the illustrious Miss Hunter. It is a relief to know the fate of Linkon rests in such… reliable hands.”

“What d’you mean?” you mumble.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!”

He chuckles. “And there’s that infamous wit.”

You bite your lip as you ignore him, still fixated on trying to end the call. It occurs to him that you will eventually succeed; even a broken clock is right twice a day. “Listen to me, sweetie. Are you alone?”

His tone is sober enough for the two of you, and your exasperated eyes meet his. “Yeah.”

“Then be a good girl and send me your location. You remember how to do that, right?” He carefully enunciates each word of his plan. “I’ll come and get you, but I need to know where you are. Don’t go with anyone else. Wait for me, ok?”

You’re nodding away, the odd ‘mmhmm’ escaping your lips, but you’re not at all listening. He catches on after a minute. Trails off— realises your gaze is too vacant, and your focus? Wandering. You’re cradling your phone with both hands. His view is interrupted as your thumb passes over the camera; you’re… stroking the screen?

“You’re so pretty, Sy,” you murmur breathlessly.

His gaze softens. He sighs, “You’re pretty too.”

Then you make a sound he’s never heard before: you squeak, the phone’s audio almost cutting out. A blush is spreading through your cheeks, so much darker than the alcohol’s afterglow, and gods he wishes your face was in his hands. The vision is short-lived, however, because suddenly you’re gone.

There’s a circling view of a dark street, split by streaks of white light, as your phone careens through the air. It strikes concrete a moment later, stuttering to a stop, and Sylus’s grimace deepens with each jarring crack. Your screen has gone black, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. He’s face down, apparently— subjected to an unexciting view of the pavement.

“Oh, shit!” He hears you gasp.

Though your voice is far away, your phone is in your grasp again in no time. You’re turning it over, peering down at him, tracing the outline of his face with worry. “Sorry, Sy. Are you ok?”

“I’ll survive.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you wanted to throw me around, you only needed to ask.”

His voice has dropped, and he loves watching you notice. You stand from your crouch with a smirk, bringing him with you— a dark idea in your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

Before he can protest, he’s looking at the back of your head. Your arm is stretched behind you, gearing up to send him on another short flight.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, panicking briefly, but you’d never detect it with all your wits about you, let alone none. He’s brought in front of your face again, and you’re frowning oh so sweetly. “I asked you to do something, remember?”

“You told me to do something.”

So pedantic. “What did I tell you to do, sweetie?”

You don’t say anything. There’s a short huff as you blow hair from your face, and then you’re concentrating. You have that look he likes: the one you get when you’re whittling away at your paperwork like a good little hunter. The same stubborn resolve, too, that makes you lean over it when he or Mephisto are conveniently behind your shoulder.

Your location comes through with a ping and his smile widens. He’s up in a heartbeat, telling you he’s on his way— that you did such a good job— and that you need to stay on the phone with him, ok? He spins his fingers as he passes between Luke and Kieran, a gesture they’ve long grown accustomed to and can easily translate.

I'm leaving. Clean this up.

…

“So then Xavier, like— well, you know Xavier— he was all, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ but he never did, Sy! Off he went, leaving Nero and I to do all the paperwork, and I asked Nero, and Nero was like, ‘ask Xavier yourself’, and I was like, ‘I literally just did!’, and he just shrugged, and it’s… driving me crazy, you know? Because where does he even go? Tara and I have this bet going, she thinks it’s because he—”

Your anecdote comes to a sudden stop.

“What does Tara think, sweetie?”

“Shh shh shh! Wait a second…”

You clutch your phone to your chest like it’ll somehow suppress Sylus’s voice. You’re sat, leaning back against a chain-link fence, but you rise as a black car pulls up in front of you. The windows are tinted. You squint, leaning forward to try to look through them anyway.

“I don’t like this, Sy,” you frown as you plant a hand on your hip. “There’s a car here.”

“Oh?”

“Shh!” you hiss again. It’s not the only car parked on the street, but it is the only one alive. The engine purrs and its lights are glowing like angry embers, refusing to be snuffed out by the dark. You take a step closer, then the engine cuts out. You take a bigger step back.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Sylus asks, his tone so thick it’s practically bleeding through your phone. “Is a big, bad man trying to get you?”

“Well I don’t know what they look like, Sy. The windows are tinted, and I— AH!” you gasp.  

A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, lifting you from the ground. “Got you, sweetie,” Sylus chuckles in your ear as tell-tale crow feathers settle around you. His breath is hot on your neck and it tickles, turning your panicked shrieks to laughter.

“Sylus!” you squeal as you attempt to wriggle free. You don’t think you’re trying very hard.

The man lowers you back to your feet, but his arms stay around you and he dips his head, resting his chin on the curve of your shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.” For a little word, there’s so much fondness.

“Let’s get you home to bed, ok?”

You nod compliantly with a yawn, swaying a little as his arms retract and you’re having to stand on your own again. He chuckles as he steadies you— placing a hand on the top of your head— and you pivot, drawn by the sound. His crimson eyes find yours and they’re dark with something that stirs you, even with your mind swimming and nothing really making sense. You’re not sure of anything at all, except—

No-one has ever looked at you like that before.

And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Come on,” he prompts, nudging you towards the car, and you start to walk, though you’re dragging your feet. “I want to hear all of the association’s dirtiest secrets while I still can.”

“Tara has a crush on the new weapon specialist, you know.”

Sylus blinks, then laughs— a tender, comfortable thing. Completely enthralled. “You don’t say,” he beams.

No, you won’t remember it tomorrow.

[pyrriax]

what if i just waited to post stuff until i've got my current three Ideas written

just post em all back to back and then sleep for a week

[ !! venting in the tags !! ]

[ssahotchnerr]

Could you write something where someone compliments Hotch for "babysitting" and "helping out" when hes out with his kids and he gets all 😑😑 do you mean parenting my children?

standard parenting

omg LOL cw; dad!aaron, reader is referred to as mom, a ton of domestic fluff, very light suggestiveness (hehe reader and aaron are soo in love <3) wc; 1.2k

"Jack." Aaron moved forward, spotting his son as he climbed up a curved ladder, at the ready if he were to suddenly slip. "Careful."

"I am." He took the last, big step, his hands gripping the supporting bars and landing on the platform safely. "I've done this two times already Dad."

"Help your sister down the slide, okay? I'll meet the two of you at the bottom."

"Okay." He confirmed, beelining down a rattly bridge in the direction of Ellie.

It was approximately 3 pm on a Tuesday, the park filled with the afternoon rush of children freshly out of school. A doctor's appointment had brought Aaron out of the BAU early, and after picking up Jack from school, Ellie from preschool, he figured there was no better way to burn off energy than the playground.

Hopefully it allowed for a quiet, relaxing night at home, with both kids in bed at a decent time.

Aaron stood at the bottom of the slide, peering upwards and squinting - he had regretfully left his sunglasses in the car. Ellie stood at the top, looking a bit lost once her turn was next, the slide intimidatingly large for a newly four-year-old.

"Jack's coming, honey."

It took some convincing; Aaron reassuring her he was right there, there to catch her if she overshot into the mulch. Jack would be right behind her. Further hesitation on her end: Do you want Jack to go first? No. Are you sure you want to go down? Yes.

Finally down came Ellie, giggling profusely and not paying a mind to the static the slide caused (Aaron mentally winced at the sound). Jack followed soon after.

"See, there you go." Aaron praised, hands moving to his hips.

"Again, please please please." Ellie whined gently, looking up at Aaron with her identically adjacent brown eyes. It was something she was beginning to master, the puppy dog look that could cause him to cave within seconds.

He was in for it.

"Sure pumpkin." Aaron grinned down at his little piggy-tail headed daughter. "Just a few more times though, Mom's waiting at home."

"C'mon Ellie. I'll race you." Jack suggested, kicking up dirt as he bolted off without waiting for a distinct answer. She ran after him, as fast as her small legs could carry her.

Aaron called out after him, "The stairs, Jack."

"I know!"

"Cute kids."

A mother - Aaron inferred - commented, falling alongside him. Aaron's eyes continued to track the two of them, ensuring they remained together and stayed far away from any arched ladders. They dashed up the stairs, into the depths of the play structure.

Aaron offered her a friendly smile in return, "Thank you."

"It's nice to see someone so attentive for a change." She huffed, notably an impressed breath. "Most babysitters just sit on the bench on their cell phone."

Aaron's expression dropped; a mix of confusion and dumbfound, his smile gradually fading. The only thing going through his mind: I'm sorry, what?

"Well, I'm not like most babysitters." He frowned, pressing his lips together and eyebrows drawing into a line.

"Good for you." She commended, not taking the hint. A child called out to her, causing her to move forward. "See ya."

She left, but scowl on his face stayed.

It hadn't put him in a bad mood, but rather, a dulled mood. The inference could've been an honest mistake, it most likely was, but it settled funny within him.

Only at Ellie's, 'Daddy look!' did his face brighten up. For them.

-

"Hi Momma!" Ellie bounded into the kitchen, nearly crashing into you and smiling from ear to ear. "We're home!"

Jack added to her status report, voices intertwining. "Dad took us to the park!"

"It looks like you two had fun." You grinned, using the pad of your thumb to swipe away an unblended bout of sunscreen on the side of Jack's nose. You also took note of his grass stained sweats, and the dirt scuff on Ellie's knees.

"We did! Jackers helped me down the slide and Daddy pushed me on the swings-"

"No one pushed me on the swings." Aaron commented, his hand finding the small of your back momentarily as he brushed past.

"That's 'cause you're big." Ellie made a face at her father.

"Can we go again on Saturday?" Jack asked, "I wanna bring my soccer ball."

"We'll have to see what we're up to, bud," Aaron answered, also fetching him a cup of cold water. The car ride consisted of Jack stating how thirsty he was, and how he refused to drink the lukewarm water his bottle held. "But I don't see why not."

Meanwhile, Ellie plopped herself onto the floor, pulling off her shoes and dumping the remnants of lingering mulch onto the floor.

"Hey hey hey let's not do that." You said, your nose scrunching lightly too; the normal kid-stink that followed after an afternoon spent in the sun. "And baths, both of you. Go on, I'll be there in a second."

Ellie's voice carried as she ventured up, something along the lines of bringing her mermaid Barbie in the tub with her. You ruffled Jack's hair gently as he passed, pressing a kiss to his sweaty head.

"You know what someone said to me today?" Aaron asked, turning towards the sink to wash his hands.

"Aren't you forgetting something first?"

He stopped, a knowing smile forming on his face. "How dare I."

Aaron moved forward, hands finding your waist to pull you near, placing his lips onto yours for a few seconds. Albeit how short it was, you savored it; coming home after a long, long day.

Satisfied, "Enlighten me."

He paused to actually wash his hands, flicking the water droplets off once he finished. You tossed him the hand towel that happened to be nearby.

"Someone mistook me for a babysitter."

"What?" You snorted out a laugh.

"Left me speechless." He exasperatedly rolled his eyes, wiping his hands and throwing the towel back onto the counter. "Can you believe that?"

"Well, you know how some people can be." You shrugged. Your statement wasn't much help, but what could you do.

"Oblivious?"

"What prompted it?"

"Standard parenting. I was simply keeping a close eye. The slide made Ellie nervous, Jack was being a bit adventurous today, and the playground itself was a nightmare. Everyone had the same idea I did, it was packed."

You hummed in response, dumping the neglected water from Jack and Ellie's water bottles out. Aaron continued to ramble on.

"And she saw the two of them. Jack - he resembles Haley a bit more, sure. But Ellie?"

"Your twin."

"Exactly." Aaron scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Babysitter. How in the world does that title come to mind before Dad?"

He shook his head as his eyes found the ceiling; utter disbelief.

"You know," you raised an eyebrow, regaining his focus, "you're hot when you're fired up."

"Am I?" Aaron smirked, pulling you in again just as he did before, arm winding behind your back.

"Mom!"

A whine drifted from upstairs, Aaron pulled away from your lips with a comically heavy, defeated sigh.

You shoved him at the chest playfully, grabbing a laugh from him, heading upstairs.

"She, huh." You teased, "Are you sure it wasn't some strategically formed ploy in hopes you were unmarried? Wouldn't be the first time."

He trudged up the stairs behind you, a chuckle shaking through his chest. "I doubt it. She seemed genuine."

"And you would know." You quipped, ends of your mouth turned upwards.

"With my profiling expertise?" He bantered back, playfully patting your behind as you reached the second level. "I'd hope so."

[rootedinrevisions]

What's Mine

SUMMARY: After months of secretly seeing each other, you and Tyler find yourselves caught between professional boundaries and personal desires. When a flirtatious rival pushes Tyler's jealousy to the surface, he claims you in a way that leaves no doubt about your relationship status-to you or anyone else.

A/N: sorry that these requests are taking so long! I appreciate everyone's patience as I try to juggle writing with Thank you to the person who sent the request for this one in. This one came from the prompt “I’m not the jealous type, but what’s mine is mine.” I've had this one mostly done for a while (like a week or so) but the scene at the end just wasn't coming together the way I wanted it to. But I think I'm finally happy with the final result. Hope you like it! xx

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. Cursing (I assume, I'm not positive though). Smut (P in V, Unprotected)

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell: Himself (RPF), Characters He's Played

Twisters: Tyler Owens, Boone, Scott, Javi

Top Gun: Maverick: Rooster, Hangman, Bob

Marvel/MCU: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

WWE/Wrestling: Cody Rhodes, Corey Graves, Damian Priest, Drew McIntyre, Finn Balor, Jimmy Uso, Jey Uso, Kevin Owens, L.A. Knight, Pat McAfee, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins (if there is someone you're thinking of from WWE and they aren't on the list feel free to ask! There are so many guys on the roster that these were the ones that came to mind.)

The bar was alive with energy, the hum of conversation and laughter mixing with the low strains of a country tune from the jukebox. Boone, Dani, Dexter, and Lily were engrossed in a heated pool game, their competitive banter rising above the noise. You and Tyler had claimed a small table near the edge of the room, tucked away just enough to let you watch the chaos unfold.

Tyler sat back in his chair, nursing a Budweiser. His long fingers tapped idly against the glass bottle, his eyes scanning the room with the kind of quiet intensity he always carried. You were close enough to feel his presence, that steady, grounding calm he exuded without even trying. But far enough apart to not draw suspicion from the rest of the team.

Your drink was nearly gone, and you stood, brushing your hand lightly over his shoulder. “I’m getting another. You want one?”

He glanced up at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, darlin’.”

You nodded and made your way toward the bar. It was busy, and a line was forming as people crowded to get the bartender’s attention. You leaned against the counter, letting out a soft sigh as you waited.

“Hell of a storm today, huh?”

The voice came from your right, smooth and friendly. You turned to find a man standing beside you, his elbow resting on the bar. He was tall, with a confident grin and a storm-chaser logo stitched onto his jacket—a rival team.

“Yeah,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but neutral. “Definitely one to remember.”

“Bet you’ve got some good footage from it,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in slightly. “You’re with Owens’ team, right?”

You nodded, not bothering to hide the pride in your voice. “That’s right.”

“Lucky guy,” he said, his gaze lingering just a little too long. “I mean, you guys have a solid team. And... well, looks like you’re not just good at chasing storms.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile tight. “Appreciate the compliment.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Tyler. He was still at the table, but his body language had shifted. His posture was no longer relaxed; he sat forward slightly, his fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of his beer bottle. His sharp green eyes were locked on you, his expression unreadable but intense.

The man at the bar didn’t seem to notice. He continued, his voice low and smooth. “If you ever get tired of running with Owens, maybe you should give our team a shot. We’ve always got room for someone like you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Thanks but I’ll pass. I’m pretty happy where I am.”

The man didn’t back off, his grin turning slightly smug. “Well, if you ever change your mind—or just feel like grabbing a drink sometime—”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you cut him off firmly, turning back to the bar as the bartender handed you your drink.

You glanced over your shoulder toward Tyler. He was still watching, his jaw tight, the muscle ticking in his cheek. His eyes flicked briefly to the man beside you before returning to yours. There was no mistaking the tension radiating from him.

You gave the man a polite nod before stepping away, leaving him at the bar as you made your way back to Tyler.

As you approached, Tyler’s gaze never left you. He set his beer down, his fingers drumming once against the table before he stood.

“Everything good?” he asked, his voice casual, but there was an edge to it—a quiet undertone that only you would catch.

“Fine,” you replied with a small smile, though you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, his expression neutral, but his eyes gave him away. “No reason.”

You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim of the glass. His attention briefly flicked past you, toward the bar where the man still lingered. Tyler’s jaw tightened again, and he looked back at you, his gaze steady.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smile. “You sure? Because you look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Tyler didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leaned in. “Let’s dance,” he said, his voice low and firm.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Dance?”

“Yeah,” he said, already guiding you toward the dance floor. His hand stayed on your back, the contact warm and steady as he maneuvered you through the crowd.

The dance floor was dimly lit, strings of lights crisscrossing overhead and casting a warm glow over the couples swaying to the music. The song was slow and soft, a welcome contrast to the energy of the bar. Tyler stopped just at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face you.

“Here?” you asked, feigning nonchalance even as your heart gave a little leap at the intent in his eyes.

“Here,” he confirmed, sliding his hands to your waist.

He pulled you closer, the motion smooth and confident, and suddenly the crowded bar felt a lot smaller. You placed your hands on his shoulders, your fingers brushing against the soft, worn fabric of his flannel. The scent of him—faint cologne, beer, and the outdoors—wrapped around you, grounding you in the moment.

The two of you moved together, the rhythm of the song dictating the slow, deliberate steps. Tyler’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against the hem of your shirt where it met your skin. His other hand rested lightly on your back, keeping you pressed against him.

But there was something in the way he held you tonight—something different. His movements were just a little firmer, his grip a little more possessive. You felt it in the tension radiating from him, in the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You’re tense,” you teased, tilting your head to study him.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice a little too even, his expression unreadable.

Your lips quirked into a small smile. “You sure? Because you’ve been glaring at the bar like it owes you money.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter from him, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze flicked past you, just for a moment. Curious, you glanced over your shoulder and spotted the storm chaser from earlier still lingering at the bar, his eyes darting toward you and Tyler on the dance floor. When you turned back to Tyler, his jaw was tight again, his green eyes darker than usual.

“Oh my God,” you said, the realization dawning. A grin spread across your face. “You’re jealous.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “No, I’m not.”

“You so are,” you teased, leaning in just a little closer. “You’ve been staring him down ever since I got back.”

Tyler’s hand on your waist slid a fraction higher, pulling you tighter against him. His voice dropped, low and rough. “I’m not the jealous type,” he said, his eyes locking on yours, “but what’s mine is mine. And I didn’t like how he was looking at what’s mine.”

Your breath caught at the intensity in his tone, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook so easily. “What’s yours?” you asked, your voice light but laced with challenge. "Not sure I know what you mean."

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your back, his other hand combing up and his thumb brushing along your jawline. The touch was intimate, deliberate. “You know exactly what I mean,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You smiled, though your heart was pounding. “Do I? Because last I checked, there’s no label on this... whatever this is. We’re just keeping things casual, remember?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement breaking through his tension. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“Am I?” you countered, tilting your head as if to test him. “Because I’m thinking maybe I’ll let him buy me my next drink. He seemed nice. Even offered to let me ride with him if I want.”

Tyler’s grip on you tightened, his jaw clenching visibly. “You better watch that mouth of yours,” he warned, his voice low and steady, “before it gets you into trouble.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. Leaning in closer, you let your hand rest on his chest, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel. The touch was casual enough to appear innocent, but the way his eyes darkened told you he didn’t take it that way.

“What kind of trouble?” you asked softly, your voice teasing but edged with genuine curiosity.

Tyler’s lips twitched into a small, almost dangerous smile. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “If you keep running that little mouth of yours,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m gonna take you against the nearest surface I can find. And trust me, darlin’, I’ll make sure everyone—including him—knows exactly who you belong to. So unless you want us both taking a ride for indecent exposure tonight, I'd suggest you knock it off.”

A shiver ran down your spine, his words leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could recover, the song shifted, transitioning into a faster tempo. Tyler pulled back, the satisfied glint in his eyes unmistakable as he saw the look on your face.

He grinned, spinning you out in a smooth twirl under his arm before pulling you back against him. His confidence was infuriatingly attractive, and you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself.

And then, without warning, he dipped you low, his hand steady at your back as he leaned in and kissed you. The kiss was firm and unapologetic, a silent claim that left no room for doubt to anyone looking.

When he pulled back, his hand still cradling your back, you blinked up at him, your breath uneven. His gaze softened slightly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“So,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Are you done being a brat, or do I need to make things even more official?”

You laughed softly, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” you teased, still catching your breath. “I kind of like seeing you jealous.”

Tyler’s hand stayed firmly on your back as he guided you off the dance floor, weaving through the clusters of people. You were still reeling from the kiss—your lips tingling, your heart racing. His confidence had left you breathless, but there was also something grounding about his presence, his solid grip on you as though letting go wasn’t an option.

As you reached your table at the edge of the bar, Tyler pulled you into a quieter corner where the music softened to background noise. His hand lingered on your waist, his thumb brushing idly over your hip as if staking his claim.

“Subtle,” you teased, leaning against the wall. “You think that was enough for him to get the message?”

Tyler’s lips twitched into a small smirk, his green eyes glittering with amusement. “Don't care. I wasn’t doing it for him,” he said, his tone low and deliberate.

For a moment, you forgot the noise of the bar, the crowd, and even the guy who had been flirting with you earlier. All you could focus on was Tyler—his steady gaze, the way his hand still rested on your hip, and the unspoken promise in the way he stood so close to you.

“So, what was that all about then?” you asked, tilting your head, your voice softer now.

Tyler leaned in slightly, his free hand bracing against the wall beside your head. The proximity was intoxicating, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“I told you,” he murmured. “What’s mine is mine. I don’t care who knows it.”

Your heart did a little flip at his words, but you weren’t ready to let him off the hook just yet. “But we're still not official, though,” you pointed out, your tone teasing.

Tyler exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” you shot back, your eyes glinting with challenge.

Tyler pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand resting on the side of your face as he caressed your jaw. “You want official? Fine,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk, but his eyes held something more—something tender.

Tyler leaned in, his forehead brushing yours as he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Call me whatever you want—boyfriend, lover, or just Tyler—but as long as you call me yours, that’s all I care about.” His thumb traced the line of your lips, and the weight of his words settled around you like a promise.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again, fierce and tender all at once. He kissed you slowly, his mouth lingering over yours, as if sealing the words he’d just spoken with a kiss that spoke louder than anything else. His hand cradled your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

Tyler’s lips pulled away from yours, but his forehead stayed pressed against yours as he looked into your eyes, that mischievous spark returning to his gaze. He traced his thumb gently over your cheek, as though savoring the moment.

“So,” he said, a teasing smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, “was that official enough for you, or are you gonna make me actually say it?”

You tilted your head, matching his grin, letting your fingers lightly graze the back of his neck as you gave him a playful challenge. “I think I kind of want to hear you say it,” you teased, your voice soft but laced with amusement.

Tyler sighed dramatically, his eyes rolling with mock exasperation, but it was clear he was enjoying this little moment just as much as you were. He leaned back slightly, a chuckle escaping him as he gave you a mock-serious look.

“Darlin’,” he began, his voice dripping with affection and a touch of humor. “Will you please be my girlfriend?”

You burst into laughter, the sound light and carefree, as Tyler grinned at you, clearly pleased with himself. His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer as his lips quirked upward.

“See?” he teased, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I sounded ridiculous, didn't I?”

You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of the moment settle in. "I don't know...I kind of liked it,” you replied, a hint of sweetness in your voice. “Thank you. I know you probably think it was stupid, but it was nice to hear.”

Tyler leaned in, brushing his lips over your forehead in a soft, affectionate kiss. “Darlin', I'll do whatever makes you happy. If that means saying it, then I'm happy to do it,” he murmured, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer again.

Your chest tightened at the honesty in his tone, and for a moment, all the teasing and banter fell away. This was real—so much more real than you’d expected it to be when the two of you started this quiet, undefined thing.

The moment hung between you, charged and intimate, until the sound of laughter from your team broke the spell. You glanced over Tyler’s shoulder to see Dani and Boone watching you from the pool table, their expressions ranging from amused to downright smug.

“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” you said, your lips quirking into a small smile.

Tyler turned to follow your gaze, his hand dropping back to your waist. “Good,” he said simply. Then, louder, so the rest of the team could hear, he added, “Yeah, we’re together. Anyone got a problem with that?”

The table erupted into laughter and a chorus of good-natured teasing, but no one seemed surprised. Dani shot you a knowing look, and Boone raised his beer in a mock toast.

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly as you turned back to Tyler. “You're as subtle as a freight train,” you teased.

He grinned, leaning down to brush a kiss against your temple. “You love it,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

And he was right—you did.

As the night eased into a comfortable rhythm, the initial teasing about you and Tyler began to fade—well, mostly. The team had always been a tight-knit group, and now that the two of you were officially “out,” it seemed like fair game for them to poke fun.

Dani was the first to pounce, sidling up to your table after winning yet another round of pool. She leaned her cue against the wall and smirked. “So, is this why you always rode shotgun with Tyler on every drive?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Boone joined in, raising his beer. “Oh, I get it now. ‘I’ll navigate.’ ‘I’m the best with maps.’ Sure, that’s why,” he said, making exaggerated air quotes.

Your face burned, but you couldn’t help laughing. “I am good with maps,” you said defensively, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Dexter, usually the quiet one, chimed in with a rare grin. “Guess that explains all the ‘extra stops’ you two needed on those long drives. Thought it was weird how often you needed coffee breaks.”

You groaned, hiding your face behind your hands. “Oh my god, you guys are impossible.”

Tyler, on the other hand, was taking it all in stride. He leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually around your shoulders, the very picture of smug confidence. “Jealousy’s a bad look on y’all,” he said, his lips twitching into a smirk.

Dani rolled her eyes. “Please. We’re not jealous. Just annoyed it took you this long to admit what we all already knew.”

Boone nodded in agreement. “Seriously, the way you two looked at each other—like a damn Nicholas Sparks movie. We were just waiting for the dramatic kiss in the rain.”

Tyler grinned, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.”

You shot him a look, though you couldn’t hide your own smile. “Interesting is one word for it,” you muttered, leaning into his side despite yourself.

As the team’s attention shifted back to their game, you stole a moment to glance up at Tyler. His green eyes met yours, and for a second, the noise of the bar faded away. He gave you a small, almost private smile, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.

When it was finally time to call it a night, the group began gathering their things. Dani slung her bag over her shoulder and paused by the door, looking back at the two of you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hey, lovebirds,” she called out, her voice carrying over the music. “Try to keep it down tonight, okay? Some of us would like to actually get some sleep for once.”

Your cheeks went bright red as the rest of the team burst into laughter. “Dani!” you protested, your voice high with embarrassment as you hid your face in Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler, however, was completely unfazed. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. He tightened his arm around you, giving the group a lazy grin. “No promises,” he said, his tone teasing but dripping with that cocky charm you both loved and hated.

The laughter grew louder as you groaned again, playfully smacking his chest. With his arm still wrapped around you, Tyler guided you out of the bar, his hand resting securely on your hip as you stepped into the cool night air. The laughter and teasing from your teammates still echoed in your ears, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“Think they’ll ever let us live this down?” you asked, glancing up at him.

Tyler chuckled, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Not a chance,” he said, pulling you closer. “But as long as I’ve got you, I don’t really care.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder as the two of you walked toward his truck.

The drive back to the motel was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional murmur of a country station playing on the radio. Tyler had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on your knee, his thumb idly brushing over the fabric of your jeans. Every so often, he’d glance over at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

But your mind was racing, and as much as you wanted to let yourself get lost in the warmth of his touch, you couldn’t shake the doubt creeping in. Was what happened back at the bar real, or was it just Tyler getting caught up in the moment?

When you pulled into the motel parking lot, the tension was still simmering beneath your skin. Tyler parked the truck, turned off the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open your door like he always did. You followed him up the stairs to your room, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you turned to face him. “So…” you started, your voice careful, testing the waters.

Tyler paused, halfway through pulling his flannel shirt off. He tilted his head at you, a playful smirk teasing his lips. “So?” he repeated, his tone light.

You crossed your arms, shifting on your feet. “What happened back there… at the bar,” you said, avoiding his gaze. “Was that real? Or are you gonna wake up tomorrow and tell the team it was all some big joke? Just you messing around for some laughs?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you regretted saying anything. But then Tyler stepped closer, his flannel discarded on the back of a chair, leaving him in just his plain white t-shirt that clung to his frame in all the right ways.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, his voice steady, “do I look like I’m joking to you?”

You glanced up at him, searching his face for any hint of hesitation. But all you saw was certainty.

“I meant every word I said tonight,” Tyler continued, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you a step closer. “You’re mine. And I don’t care who knows it.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his voice. “But… you said we needed to keep things low-key,” you reminded him, though your voice wavered.

“That was before,” he said simply, his thumb brushing along your side. “Before I realized how much I hated watchin’ someone else try to take what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill down your spine, but it was the tenderness in his eyes that made you melt.

“Tyler…” you whispered, but whatever you were going to say next was lost as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It started slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. But as you kissed him back, threading your fingers through his hair, it deepened, his grip on your waist tightening as if he couldn’t get close enough.

Tyler walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, the curve of your jaw—each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his forehead resting against yours.

“Does that feel like I’m jokin’?” he murmured, his voice rough and low.

You shook your head, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “No,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his.

He grinned, that familiar cocky charm flashing through for just a second. “Good,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again.

The kiss deepened as Tyler pressed you back onto the bed, his hands trailing down your sides with a possessiveness that sent shivers through you. His touch wasn’t rushed—no, Tyler Owens was deliberate, savoring every moment as though he had all the time in the world to prove his point.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. The sight of him like this—raw, unguarded—made your heart race. He sat back on his knees, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. He tugged it up and then peeled it up over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His hands roamed your bare skin, his touch warm and grounding, but his eyes were what made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice roughened by desire. His thumb traced along the edge of your bra, just barely brushing your skin. “All mine.”

His words sent heat coursing through you, and you couldn’t help but arch into his touch. Tyler leaned down, his lips brushing the column of your throat.

“Every inch of you,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “belongs to me.”

He kissed his way down, his lips teasing, his hands skillfully finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it with ease. As he slid the straps from your shoulders, his gaze was reverent, almost awed.

“My girl,” he said, his voice low. His hands moved to your waist again, hooking into the band of your jeans.

As the cool air hit your skin, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. Tyler noticed immediately, his sharp gaze flicking up to meet yours. His head tilted slightly, and his lips curled into a smirk that sent a wave of both heat and embarrassment through you.

“None of that,” he said, his voice firm but teasing. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, coaxing it free from your teeth. “They all know now, sweetheart. No need to hide.”

Your eyes widened, and you gave him a look that was part incredulous, part exasperated. “Tyler, we can’t …what if we get a noise complaint!”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich as his hands slid down to rest on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, maddening circles.

“I don’t care about a noise complaint,” he said, leaning down until his lips were barely an inch from yours. “The team knows. Hell, everyone at the bar knows. But now…” His smirk widened, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Now it’s time every chaser in this motel knows who you belong to.”

“Tyler,” you started, but before you could get another word out, his mouth was on yours again, silencing your protest. His kiss was commanding, his hands sliding over your body in a way that left no room for doubt about his intentions. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with something primal.

“Now,” he said, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. “Who do you belong to?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could, he shifted, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear. His tongue flicked against your skin, and the combination of his touch and his words sent a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

“Tyler,” you moaned, his name spilling from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, that infuriatingly smug smirk firmly in place. “That’s right, baby,” he said, his voice like a low growl. “Say it again.”

You glared at him, your face heating with both embarrassment and arousal, but the challenge in his eyes only spurred you on. “You,” you said breathlessly, your voice trembling with need. “I belong to you.”

His grin softened slightly, turning into something warmer, something that made your chest ache. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and when he pulled back, his hand slid to the small of your back, holding you close.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, and the possessiveness in his voice was tempered by an unmistakable tenderness.

As he kissed you again, deeper this time, your earlier doubts and insecurities melted away. Tyler wasn’t just claiming you—he was showing you, in every touch and every word, that he meant it.

Tyler’s hands moved over your body with a slow reverence, his touch igniting sparks wherever his fingertips lingered. The playful smirk that had been on his face earlier softened into something else—something deeper. His eyes locked on yours, his gaze steady and intense as if he wanted to commit every detail of this moment to memory.

He finished undressing you as he slid your panties agonizingly slow down your legs, letting them fall away as his hands brushed your hips. The air felt charged like you were both standing on the edge of something bigger than either of you could name.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky but carrying a weight of sincerity that made your chest tighten.

Your hand found its way to his face, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw. “Tyler…” you whispered, but you couldn’t find the words to finish. The look in his eyes—unwavering and full of something unspoken—was undoing you.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, and then the tip of your nose. Each kiss felt like a promise, slow and deliberate. His hands framed your face as he kissed you fully again, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that took your breath away.

He shifted, guiding your body beneath his as he shed the last of his clothing, his movements unhurried but purposeful. The heat of his skin against yours was electric, but it was the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—that had your heart pounding.

Tyler paused for a moment, his weight braced above you, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. 

“I need you to know,” he said, his voice low but steady. “This isn’t just…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “This isn’t just about wanting to fuck you. It’s more than that.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw vulnerability in them wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. You reached up, your hand tangling in his hair as you pulled him down into a kiss, your lips conveying everything you couldn’t put into words.

When he finally started to push inside you, the moment felt like time had stopped. His movements were slow, measured, as if he were afraid of rushing it. This wasn’t like the other times you’d been with Tyler before. Every time before had felt like it was just physical. Practically ripping clothes off of each other and hot and heated kisses him getting inside of you as fast as he could.

But this time…this time his touches were just a little softer. His kisses were just a little deeper. And the way he was holding you, like he was cherishing you made you swoon.

As he moved with you, his hands roamed your body. He murmured your name like a prayer, each syllable dripping with affection. And when your hand gripped his shoulder, your nails digging slightly into his skin, he leaned down to kiss you again, his lips lingering as if he couldn’t bear to pull away.

You couldn’t stop the small sounds that escaped your lips, your body responding to his in ways that felt like second nature. But it wasn’t just physical—there was something so much deeper in the way he held you, the way his hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as though he needed to feel connected to every part of you.

It wasn’t long before the tension building between you both crested, your body trembling in his arms as your climax washed over you. Tyler held you close, whispering soothing words in your ear. When he followed moments later, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the quiet groan that escaped his lips sent another shiver down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing the only sound in the room. Tyler finally shifted, rolling to his side but pulling you with him so that you stayed nestled against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as though letting go was not an option.

He pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering there as he murmured, “I meant it, you know. You’re mine.”

You looked up at him, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “And you’re mine,” you said softly, the words feeling like a vow.

His lips curved into a soft smile, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your back. “Damn right, I am.”

As you lay there, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the weight of the moment settled over you. This wasn’t just another night, another stolen moment of passion. This was the start of something new—something real.

And as Tyler held you close, his breathing evening out as sleep began to claim him, you couldn’t help but think that for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly as it should.