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no-144444 · 23 hours ago

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the oscars- o.piastri

꩜ summary: you bring your own oscar to the oscar's!

꩜ pairing: married! oscar piastri x actress! fem! reader

꩜ a/n: just realised i never posted this and it has been sitting in my drafts for over a month and a half ish lol

I want you to come with me.

Those words had run through his head like a fucking jack-hammer for weeks. What did that even entail? Acquiring a tux, sure. He could do that. Learn all the names of the people he could potentially meet, any celebrities or old co-stars he’d probably met but didn’t remember. Again, he could do that. Sit beside you all night and let you be your wonderful self as he got a first class seat and bragging rights about the fact that he was yours, he did that all day everyday.

So why did this feel so different? He’d been to award shows before. Not the award show, but motorsports ones. You’d come as his date. The world knew about you two. He’d gone to the BAFTAs with you one year. He should be fine. He knows he’s just there to hold your hand all night and make sure you don’t forget to eat something, but this just feels… different. This was the Oscars. The one night all of Hollywood steps out in their very best, hoping to get something back. And you were nominated in 3 categories.

“Fix your bowtie,” Hattie fussed over him as he rolled his eyes. You’d even invited his whole family. You weren’t super close with yours and they hadn’t really supported your career, but the Piastri’s had. Nicole went to every premiere you offered her, sometimes flying last minute just to be there to support you. He remembered how touched you’d been when she showed up at your Cannes debut, you called him crying that night, not even knowing what to do with yourself because you thought it was just so nice. You were 14 then, but you were 24 now, and you weren’t just his girlfriend, you were his wife. You were officially part of the family, even though you had been from the moment he’d brought you home. He started playing with his ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up since getting married.

“It is fixed,” he snapped back as she fiddled with it. “Mum said it looked fine-”

“I wasn’t looking at you when I said that!” she called from the other room. Oscar rolled his eyes again.

“Your eyes are on swivels today,” Mae teased, looking up from her phone. Oscar fought back rolling them again, and instead went for a scoff.

“I’m the only reason you guys are even coming,” he scoffed, Hattie still fixing his tie. Mae’s jaw dropped in offence.

She gasped. “Excuse you! I think Y/n would still invite us even if you guys got a divorce.”

A shiver went up his spine at that thought. Leaving you? He couldn’t do it. He knew in his bones he’d adore you until he was old and grey, and probably a while after that too.

“She definitely would,” Eddie added, walking in. “Plus, she’s dressed now, if you want to see her.”

Oscar tried to pull away from Hattie, but he just got choked by his bowtie, resulting in a fit of coughs and a gaggle of laughter from his sisters.

He heard a chuckle he knew all too well and he turned his head. You were radiant. A burgundy formal gown, your hair exactly the way you loved it, and that wonderful look in your eyes. The one he saw when he woke up next to you. The one that made him blush no matter how long you’d been together. “You alright there?” you questioned.

He chuckled and Hattie finally finished with his bowtie, so he turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours as he lifted you off the ground- just slightly. You grinned against his lips and he felt the panic that had been building completely subside. You pulled back as your feet reached the ground again, and chuckled. “Do I have lipstick?” he asked, a question he asked most days. You nodded, but Mae got up to take a photo, giggling at her brother with you. It didn’t bother him. You finally just wiped it off and smiled at him.

“What do you think?” you asked, pulling back and giving him a spin. You showed off the low back and he knew he’d be ripping this dress off of you tonight. He swore the breath was knocked from his lungs every time you looked at him, but truly, you were breathtaking.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. He nodded.

“Oh yeah.”

The Red Carpet was as overwhelming as usual, but he enjoyed watching his sisters interact with the few fans of theirs that were there. He watched you with so much love and pride in his eyes, so much so that Tim had to nudge him to remember to walk on and not just stand in the back of your photos looking at you lovingly. When you finally finished up, you grabbed his hand as he led you into the auditorium.

“You still have my speeches?’ you questioned. He tapped his chest, signalling that it was in his breast pocket. You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he smiled back. “Forever.”

As soon as your moment began, it ended, because Nicole pulled you away to go talk to people and fucked off to the dinner table. He watched as you worked the room, animatedly speaking to people as he watched on from his seat at the table, thoroughly enjoying his food.

It was his dad who pulled him out of his daze, asking how he was feeling.

“I’m fine,” he nodded, only slightly lying.

Chris smiled. “She’s going to win ‘em, I bet you.”

“She will,” Oscar nodded. “Her work has been incredible this year.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckled. “I cried for three days over the Outrun.”

Oscar laughed out loud as his dad shook his head. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, Oscar caught your eye from the other side of the ballroom and you smiled at him, waving. He waved back. You were a vision in burgundy. He swore to go he was going to get heart palpitations from how beautiful you were.

“Starting soon now,” Tim clapped his hands on Oscar’s shoulders. “Better be ready with those acceptance speeches.”

Chris smiled at Tim. “Took the words out of my mouth,” he chuckled. “Also have to practice your shocked face. Even though we all know she’s going to win every single one of them,” Chris tapped his leg. “Like how she pretends to be shocked when you win.”

Oscar laughed, his cheeks going red. Why was he being embarrassed by his own father and step-father at the Oscars right now? He wanted you back, you could always calm them down, make them less… whatever they were.

“Busy?” you asked, coming up to the table, your question directed at him. He stood up immediately.

“Not at all,” he shook his head, the boys behind him chuckling like schoolgirls. He took your hand and you led him to the foot of the stage, squeezing his hand.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, leaning to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

“I'm so proud of you,” he smiled, his hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer. He loved this. These quiet moments between all the hustle and bustle of your own lives. The room melted away behind you as you both stared at the stage you hoped you’d end up on tonight, but he knew you would. “I’ll always come.”

You chuckled. “You said cum.”

He rolled his eyes, the soft moment between the two of you, now abruptly over due to his choice of words. He looked down at you and you laughed at his unimpressed stare. “I love you?” you offered, cupping his cheek.

“I guess I love you too,” he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours gently, but quickly- as to not get lipstick all over his mouth.

“And the nominees are; Anora, written by Sean Baker. The Brutalist, written by Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold. A Real Pain, written by Jesse Eisenberg. , September 5, written by Moritz Binder, Tim Fehlbaum; co-written by Alex David. The Substance, written by Y/n Y/l/n,” the crowd cheered and he felt your hand squeeze his just a little tighter. “And the winner is… Anora, written by Sean Baker!”

Despite the loss, you stood and clapped for him. Oscar joined you, though he thought you should’ve probably won. You both sat back down as his speech began and he took your hand again. “You alright?”

You nodded beside him, your eyes fixed to Sean and his speech. “There’s still like 4 hours left, don’t worry.”

He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hand. Ever the positive person.

“And the nominees are; Anora, Sean Baker. The Brutalist, David Jancso. Conclave, Nick Emerson. The Outrun, Y/n Y/l/n. Wicked, Myron Kerstein,” you tensed beside him. “And the winner is… Y/n Y/l/n, The Outrun!”

And the room stood for you. He felt like he was in slow motion. You both stood up at the same time, a bright smile on your face (he was sure he looked ridiculous), and you turned to him and you hugged him.

“Holy shit,” you whispered. He smiled back, nodding.

“You fucking did it,” he cheered as he pulled the speech out of his pocket. “Go accept it.”

You nodded and started your descent down the stairs. The entirety of Hollywood was on their feet for you. You’d been working in the industry since you were a kid. Everyone knew how wonderful you were. Only he got to see it everyday. He watched, pride practically spilling from every pore as you stood up on that stage, taking the award in your hand, the sheet of paper in your hand. You looked up, a teary smile on your lips. “Wow,” you breathed out, looking at the room, but your eyes immediately met Oscar’s, and you both smiled again. “Hello, and thank you,” you started. “Umm… alright, speech- yes!” you unfolded the piece of paper in your hand and took a deep breath. “Well… first of all, I’d like to thank the academy, because this-” you held up your award. “Is incredible. And next, I’d like to thank my family. Nicole, Tim, Chris, Hattie, Eddie, Mae,” Oscar was already tearing up, and he was sure his mom was at the floodgates stage of it all. “You’ve been so incredibly kind to me over the past decade. You took me in when I was just a random 14 year old your son or brother was dating, and you gave me a family, and I'll always be grateful. Next, I’d like to thank my husband-” he felt a tear fall down his cheek and he knew there were about twenty cameras on him. There were a few cheers from the crowd. “- Oscar, you’ve made me insanely happy, and you’re my everything. But you’re also the only person I’ll ever let in my editing room. I love how curious you were at the start, and now, how effortlessly you help me. Truly, this is half yours-” you chuckled, and so did he. “No matter what. Whether you were coming in from a race weekend, totally exhausted, or just come back from a run, you’ll sit beside me in silence and help me make it all work. I don’t think you understand how much that means to me, so, thank you. I love you all, thank you!” you finished off, just wiping the small tear that had fallen away, as the crowd rose for you again. Oscar was a goner, tears falling freely as he tried to wipe them away. God, you were too kind. He adored you.

The night ended at 3am, you walked away with two Oscar awards, and one Oscar. He was grinning the whole time, too. Couldn’t stop. You won Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. His family were elated and you giggled on the way back tot he hotel as you watched videos of them react to you winning, since they weren't sitting beside you.

Both you and Oscar were exhausted, so you fell into bed, immediately tangling with each other and knocking out.

He ran a hand through your hair as he lazily closed his eyes. "Y/n?"

You hummed against his skin, sign enough that you were slightly conscious.

"I adore you," he whispered, the silence of the room seeming even quieter in the dark. You looked up at him through tired eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

"I feel it," you smiled. "And I love you too."

Best night ever.

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star-5truck · 2 days ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy

Sypnosis: Blue Lock men getting jealous! Characters: S. Nagi, R. Itoshi, S. Itoshi, M. Kaiser

Jealous - Nick Jonas

Cause you're too fuckin' beautiful

And everybody wants a taste

That's why (That's why)

I still get jealous

Nagi Seishiro

-Reo and you are the only people he hangs out with. But you and reo are closer than he thought.

-he trusts reo, he trusts you, so why is there a pit in his stomach?

-The feeling doesn’t go away for DAYS and he can’t stand it

-Ends up going to isagi for advice

-Isagi just looks at him confused “You mean your jealous, right?”

-Jealous? But reos his friend??

-Gets the balls to talk to you about it.

“Reo?” You said, a look of confusion on your face as you looked over at your boyfriend. “I mean, he is a nice guy. But I’m dating you, Sei.” You give him a kiss on his cheek, making his ears tint the slightest bit of red.

“Jealousy is a hassle.” He murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holds you tight. He settles in the crook of your neck, sighing in content. “I trust you angel. ‘m sorry for feeling that way.”

He feels your body shake from your giggle, he’s about to ask why before your hands are raking through his hair. “It’s fine. Jealousy is normal.” That’s all the reassurance you both need.

Itoshi Rin

-Gets jealous when you ask one of his TEAM MATES to teach you soccer.

-He’s right here??

-Worst part, he found out about it through said team mate. You didn’t even bring it up with him.

-Keeps thinking about it every second now

-Did you not deem him a good enough teacher?

-He knew he was harsh with words but that was only SOMETIMES (It really isn’t)

“Rin?” Your voice brought him out of his thoughts, making him look up at you.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring again. Something on your mind?” You’ve noticed he’s been quieter nowadays. Staring off into nothing like his thoughts were so important- which they could be. But you’d like to help him in his predicament.

“Do you not want to spend time with me?” He asks suddenly, making you blink in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I know you asked Shidou to teach you soccer.”

Your face is immediately red. He wasn’t wrong, anyway, it’s just that Rin took it the wrong way. You’d asked Shidou to teach you soccer because you wanted to spend more time with Rin. You just wanted to impress him. Rin tells you that’s a stupid idea. Immediately makes you stop your lessons with Shidou.

Itoshi Sae

-First of, Sae doesn’t get jealous. He’s perfectly comfy with how your relationship is and knows you wouldn’t cheat on him.

-Never fucking mind

-Who does this waiter think he is asking for your number?

-Sae is literally sitting infront of you on a DATE

-Gives the guy the worst stare you’d ever imagine

-Of course, you don’t give the guy your number but it still irks Sae.

“We should stop going to that restaurant.” Sae says after he starts the car and you’re on the road. You look at him surprised. Considering Sae’s the one who suggested you eat there in the first place.

“What? Why? Isn’t this one of the few restaurants that consider your diet?

“I don’t care. The staff there aren't that friendly.” He’d rather DIE than admit he’s jealous. He might even crash this car right now if you decide to push it. He’d ask you to step out before crashing the car, of course.

“Sae are you sure-?”

“That place doesn’t have [favorite drink] right? Thought so. We should go to places with more variety anyway.”

Michael Kaiser

-You’re at his game, like always, of course.

-And like at every game, there is a kiss cam.

-See, Kaiser makes sure to get you VIP tickets so you don’t end up there.

-That fails when another VIP sits next to you, and the kiss cam lands on you both.

-The guy is already leaning in and Kaiser is already fuming.

Every player on the field actually stops playing out of shock. Considering the fact Michael Kaiser is the biggest opponent for BOTH teams. They all watch as he runs over to the VIP seats, jumps over the railing, and curtly flips off the camera and the guy. He kisses you, it's quick, but the stadium still erupts in cheers. “There’s a kiss for you.” He says to the camera, making another round of yells come.

“Micha, WHAT do you think you're doing?” You tell him baffled by the events that had just passed.

“Showing them you’re taken, what else?”

You now wear one of Kaiser’s jerseys every game.

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lilianne-tarot · 3 days ago

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PICK A CARD: How will your future spouse pursue you ⋆˙⟡

✧˚. How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you—go ahead and read both!

✧˚. If you enjoyed this reading, get your own personalized paid reading here!😊🦋

✧˚. For personalized 18+ readings, click here!

✧˚. My Ko-fi link: here 🫶🏻

✧˚. My Masterlist🫶🏻

��˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PILE I

Cards Pulled: king of swords, knight of cups reversed, king of pentacles, the sun, the tower, 2 of swords

This spread is literally chef’s kiss, like, it starts cute, dips into delulu, explodes your world, then somehow ends up in wholesome husband material land?? I’m SCREAMING. Okay.

Right off the bat, you’re gonna think this person is cold. PERIOD. I’m sorry, but King of Swords as the first card, this ain’t some gushy softie sliding into your DMs with heart emojis and “wyd baby.” Nah, theyre giving emotionally disciplined, calculating, and “I only let three people see the real me and you’re not on the list… yet. YET” they might come across lowkey intimidating at first, like, the kind of person who’s quiet in group settings but throws out that one sarcastic comment that’s so sharp it makes everyone laugh and feel personally attacked. 😭💀

BUT TRUST ME, they’re watching you. Like… a hawk. They’re the type who is taking mental notes on your coffee order, your laugh patterns, the way you furrow your brows when you’re deep in thought, stuff even you don’t know you do. But honesty love….. they’re into you from day one, but they plays it off like he’s unbothered. Classic King of Swords move. Strategic af. Theyre lowkey fighting himself. Like, internally they got this soft, romantic, borderline poetic thing brewing, he fantasizes about running into you by “accident,” planning the most aesthetic dates, imagining you in his hoodie😭but he’s actively repressing it. Because vulnerability? He’d rather eat glass, thanks. He doesn’t want to be obvious. He’s convinced if he lets on how deep he’s feeling this, he’ll lose the upper hand or get hurt. So what does he do instead? Weird passive-aggressive things. Acts uninterested one minute, then gives you eyes across the room like he’s trying to telepathically undress your soul the next. Sir. Pick a lane. He doesn’t chase, he builds. He slowly starts showing up for you in the most tangible, grounded ways. Need help with something? He’s already on it. Mentioned your favorite snack in passing? It just “randomly” appears next time. The way this man provides?? You’ll be SHOOK. He’s not flashy about it either. He’s like, “I got you” and means it. That’s when you start going: “Wait… are they… serious?” Because once this person is IN, he is IN. Like, no games, no pullbacks. Suddenly it’s "have you eaten?" and "text me when you get home" and "do you want me to fix that thing?." Husband mode activated.

BUT THEN. Omg. THE TOWER. 😭 Baby this is where it goes OFF. Something will shift drastically. And honestly, You might be the one who triggers it, ofc we are talking about you here so. Like maybe you call him out for his hot-and-cold vibe, or you walk away ‘cause you’re done playing Guess Who: Feelings Edition™. Whatever it is, it SHATTERS his cool-boy facade. The Tower is giving “omg I fumbled” realness. He suddenly realizes how much he could lose and spirals. Might even go quiet for a second, lick his wounds, have a whole emotional breakdown. But then… boom. THE SUN. This is where the magic happens. The pursuit becomes warm, honest, and loud. He stops hiding. He owns it. Like, “Yeah, I like you. Actually, I love you. Actually, I wanna grow old with you and argue about what brand of detergent we’re using.” You’ll feel seen, adored, and finally safe in this connection. It’s that post-breakdown glow-up. He starts expressing himself clearly, no longer scared to let you in.

But now. Girl. YOU are gonna be the one hesitating now 😭. That Tower moment hits you, too. You start overthinking: “Can I trust this sudden 180? Was he always this into me and just hiding it? Do I want someone who couldn’t be vulnerable from the start?” Like, your brain starts weighing everythings. And that’s valid! It’s hard to unsee someone’s walls once you’ve bumped into them. So how do you perceive him throughout this journey? At first, cold and confusing af. Then… weirdly magnetic. Then dependable and lowkey daddy-coded. Then chaotic and heartbreak-y. Then sunshine and deeply, deeply sincere. You’ll feel like you’re watching him peel back layer after layer, and each one gets softer, realer, and more him.

His hints would be subtle but intentional. He remembers small things. He lingers a bit longer in conversations than necessary. He suddenly shows interest in the things you love, even if they weren’t his vibe before. He gives you those “you’re the only person in this room I care about” eyes. He’ll NEVER say it first… until he breaks. And when he does? You’re done. Stick a fork in you. Soul snatched. Game over.

I am seeing like he might dream about you before things really pop off. He might tell you later like ,“I had this weird dream we were married lol” and laugh it off, but internall,y he’s BLUSHINGGG because the dream felt real. Also… idk why I’m seeing like… rain or some stormy weather being important??? Maybe the Tower moment literally happens during a stormy day and you both cry under the rain like a movie scene? (i mean…..idc… if i am getting me personal main character moment. It’s all part of the process, i guess💁🏻‍♀️).

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⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PILE II

Cards Pulled: the tower, king of wands, 5 of pentacles, queen of cups, 8 of pentacles, 10 of pentacles

PILE 2, Okay but… why does this feel like a well written kdrama with 16 episodes??? I mean i could literally make a movie out of this pile 😭 my reaction to the cards were literally: oh, OH, ahh—, TF, Oh. My. GOD.😭

The drama. The rawness. The "I didn’t see this coming, but now I literally can’t look away" energy is off the charts. And I’m already obsessed. So let’s talk about how this chaotic yet painfully magnetic future spouse of yours is about to come stomping into your world like they own the place, with all their trauma and broken broken parts and this weirdly hot charisma that shouldn’t be attractive but is. And somehow?? You fall for it. But like… respectfully 😭.

this person doesn’t approach you like your average person in love would do. No flowers and shy glances. Nope. It’s giving, "I just burnt my life down and now I’m rebuilding from scratch and oh look, you’re here too," vibes. Like you know when someone walks into a room and they don’t say much but their energy is SCREAMING "I’ve been through the trauma you couldn't even imagine"? That’s them. Tower card energy straight up. Something’s just collapsed in their life—could be a major breakup, a career flop, family drama, or literally an existential crisis. Honestly? Feels like all three, let’s not lie 💀. But instead of moping around, this person grabs that chaos and turns it into… ambition. Swagger. Power. This is someone who knows how to lead. They pursue you like they’re chasing their next purpose. With intention. With clarity. And this lowkey intimidating confidence that says “I know what I want, and it’s you.” But let’s not pretend it’s smooth sailing here. Bc 5 of Pentacles? Babe. This person has been abandoned, emotionally iced out, or felt major rejection in the past. Like it’s giving "I’ve loved and I’ve lost and now I trust NO ONE but my dog”. And because of that, Their way of pursuing you is… messy. Not in a manipulative way, but in that "I’m trying to be a lover while still patching up my own wounds" type of mess. So expect mixed signals. Hot and cold. Deep talks followed by withdrawal. And you’re gonna be like, “Sir?? Do you like me or do you need therapy??” honestly: it’s both 😭.

Queen of Cups as the next card is where things get interesting. You. Literally you. You're intuitive AF, emotionally intelligent, and probably catch onto their emotional damage in the first week and are like “Yup. You’re hurt. But I see the softie under all that wreckage.” And here's where it gets wild: they know you see it. That’s what makes them pursue harder. You’re the first person who doesn’t just want them for their outer confidence and King of Wands hotness, you want to know their soul. Their weird inner child. Their guilt. Their hidden sadness. And that?? That shakes them. In a good way. You start noticing little things. Like how they’ll work on themselves just to be better for you. They start showing up. Maybe it’s slow, but you’ll see them trying, healing their abandonment issues, learning to communicate, showing effort in tangible ways. Like planning little dates, asking how your day was (and ACTUALLY listening….woah rare, ngl), sharing parts of their past without you asking. They might even pick up new skills or hobbies because you like them. A little "if she likes books, I read books now" moment?? 😭😭 Despite how mature and scarred and big-boss they may appear, at their core, they’re a newbie when it comes to actual healthy love. Like yeah, they’ve loved before. But not YOU kind of love. Not “you see me even when I’m not performing” kind of love. And that humbles the hell out of them. They're awkward about it. Like, "I wanna give you the world but I also don’t know how to wrap a gift box correctly." 😭 It’s so endearing, you can’t help but melt. They pursue you like someone relearning love from scratch—and you become their soft place to land. They’ll stumble. They’ll overthink. But babe, they’ll try. And that’s what makes them fall harder. Because this ain’t about seduction. It’s about growth. They're not gonna outright confess their feels in the beginning. It’s gonna be hidden in acts of service. Like fixing your broken lamp. Or sending you a meme with a weird caption like, "reminds me of u" Or casually saying “I don’t talk to many people like I do with you,” and then acting like it wasn’t a full-on emotional proposal. Their love language is subtle till it’s not, okay?? But your intuitive self picks up on every damn sign, and you’ll know before they even open their mouth. That’s the connection here, psychic soulmate level. You’ll feel their love way before it’s said.

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⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PILE III

Cards Pulled: king of wands, 3 of cups, knight of swords reversed, the devil, 8 of cups, the star

OKAY, PILE 3 is here and… GIRL this pile has such strong, “Dark romance” vibes and also that “enemies to lovers but we’re obsessed with each other” trope energy like NO OTHER 😮‍💨🔥. Your future spouse? It’s that person who shows up outta nowhere and instantly throws your life into disarray because the connection is too much, too fast, too real. They pursue you like they’ve waited lifetimes to find you and now that you’re finally here, they’re not gonna risk losing you—even if it means accidentally traumatizing you with their intensity first 😭.

So let’s start with the vibe of this person, okay? Immediately I’m seeing someone who is dominant AF in presence, the type of person where the second they walk into a room, your attention shifts without your permission. But they’re not all flash and no depth, this person has that charismatic, “traumatized but make it aesthetic” confidence LOL. Think: the guy who’s lowkey too cool for everyone but gets soft for you 🫠. But it’s not just charm. It's calculated. They choose to pursue you. Like, they spotted you from across the damn soul contract timeline and were like, “Yep. That one. Mine.” LMAO.

Here’s where it gets juicy though, this person doesn’t make their pursuit clean or safe. We’ve got the Knight of Swords reversed mixed with The Devil and 3 of Cups… BABY. I’m not gonna lie, their approach is gonna have you shook. This isn't some slow-burn "lemme get to know you" type of chase. Nah, it’s giving intoxicated obsession. Like they’re coming at you way too fast, might say things they haven’t thought through (hello chaotic confessions??), maybe even making moves when you’re like “Wait… tf is happening?!” . And I SWEAR this person gives off the vibe of someone who might try to "just be friends" first… but they absolutely fail at it. Like... you’re not slick, sir. The way they look at you? Not very "friendly." More like "I wanna pin you to the wall in a meaningful way." 😭 it’s like you look into their eyes once aand you are going inot their crib TONIGHT.

BUT. Their pursuit of you isn’t just lusty and impulsive, it’s coming from a place of deep yearning and soul ache. You’re literally the star they’ve been trying to find after walking away from a bunch of superficial crap. I’m getting that they’ve already been through a lot emotionally, they’ve had to let go of people, addictions (literal or emotional), maybe even success that wasn’t fulfilling. So while their approach is messy and extra (like “sir pls chill”), it’s coming from a place of craving real healing, real light, REAL connection. And guess what? That’s what you are to them. Their fkn North Star. And trust me, they don't even realize it at first, like they’re thinking they’re chasing a thrill, but gets, spiritual awakening outta nowhere. Bestie… you’re gonna think they’re too much. 😂 Straight up. You’ll be like “This person is hot, sure……but wtf is this energy??” It’ll feel like you’re constantly trying to decide between “should I kiss them or block them?” Energy chaotic AF. You’ll clock them trying to play it cool, but their eyes? Screaming "I'm feral for you." It’s also possible they’ll show up when you’re trying to move on from someone/something else, and you’ll be hesitant because you’re finally healing, vibing, living in peace, and here comes this walking temptation in human form, knocking on your aura like “hey 😏.” i mean really this emoji is the perfect example of how i am imagining this person. There’s definitely a karmic undertone here, like you two have danced this dance before in past lives but it was let uncompleted. So now, they're NOT playing around. And the way The Star closes the reading? OOF. After all the chaos, the push/pull, the temptation, and messy little love games… they want peace with you. You are the peace. The wish. The endgame. But it’s not gonna come pretty.

Okay so their hints are not actually hints. They’ll accidentally drop the biggest signs , forgetting they’re supposed to pretend. They’ll joke about being obsessed with you? Deadass. They’ll mention you in every convo “by accident.” They might post quotes on their stories or make weird comments like “If I ever fall in love, it’ll be someone like you” 🙄, SIR. STOP. WE SEE YOU. The 3 of Cups energy is also giving “I’ll use mutual friends to get close to you,” like casually showing up at a party where you just happen to be?? Please.And listen, not everything will be smooth sailing. That Devil energy is LOUD. There will be moments where you’ll wonder if you’re drawn to them because it’s fated… or because it’s toxic. But that’s part of the growth arc. They’re not here to ruin your life, they’re here to crack your heart open with messy hands. And once they realize that they can’t control you? That’s when the real magic starts. That’s when they fall so damn hard, they start building a whole new version of themselves just to be worthy of your light.

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Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

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cadelinhadaromanoff · 3 days ago

Text

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Sumary: When Natasha finds herself missing your presence, she realizes just how much her life has changed. What once felt like an afterthought now feels essential. She never imagined how much she’d come to need you, and how much better life is with you by her side.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic!Avengers

Word count: 7410

Warnings: A very soft Natasha, bad Mood, Dry jokes, saudades. +18 content.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Author’s Notes: Part three is finally out!! Thanks for all the love you guys are sending to this work. Feel free to send me an ask so we can talk about our mini family—please do, I’m dying for this 😭😭😭

゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🍼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨♡୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᡣ𐭩 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꩜　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ✧ 　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ 　　　˳ 　　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　୨୧　　　₊　　 ˚₊

There were worse things than waking up happy. Natasha just wasn’t used to this version of it—the soft kind. The kind that came in slowly, quietly, like sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains. It didn’t blaze or demand. It settled.

You’d already come and gone that morning—something about Stark needing a schematic review—but you’d left behind your usual trail of affection: still-warm coffee in the red mug she always pretended wasn’t hers, a brown paper bag with her favorite pastry, and the faintest trace of your perfume clinging to the pillow beside hers. She didn’t need any of it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who needed. But damn if it didn’t make her want more.

Ana was still asleep in her little bed across the room, curled under the corner of Natasha’s old hoodie, breathing soft and even. Natasha sat at the table barefoot, coffee in hand, half-smiling to herself without realizing it. This wasn’t a fairytale. It was better. It was real.

You hadn’t said anything official, neither had she. But somewhere between the flowers once a week and the lazy mornings on her couch with your head in her lap, something had clicked into place. A silent agreement. You were hers. She was yours. And neither of you were going anywhere.

You were at her apartment almost every day now. Sometimes just to nap. Sometimes just to exist in the same space. But most nights, after Ana was asleep, it turned into something more—long, drawn-out kisses on the couch, tangled limbs in the low glow of the TV, your mouth on her skin like you were trying to learn her by heart. Natasha didn’t let many people get close. But you didn’t try to break her walls down. You just made her feel safe enough to lower them on her own.

There were still moments when it hit her hard. When she’d glance across the room and see you with Ana—sharing snacks, playing with puzzle pieces, carrying her on your hip like she belonged there—and Natasha’s chest would tighten in a way that almost hurt. Because this wasn’t a dream. This was real. And somehow, it was hers.

She’d never imagined she’d get this. Not the child. Not the quiet mornings. Not you. And yet, here she was. Drinking her favorite coffee, in her apartment that didn’t feel lonely anymore, with the sound of her daughter breathing peacefully in the background and the ghost of your kiss still lingering on her lips.

Natasha Romanoff, international spy, ex-assassin, former Avenger… was in love.

And for once in her life, it wasn’t complicated. It was just right.

Natasha had never planned on falling in love. Especially not with someone younger. Much younger.

She told herself that in the beginning. Repeated it like a prayer, like a defense: you were twenty-three. Brilliant. Reckless. Overflowing with the kind of fire she thought only existed in people who hadn’t been broken yet. And yet—you chose her. You chose them.

You stayed. Through all the chaos. Through Ana’s tantrums and midnight wake-ups. Through Natasha’s silences, her scars, her tendency to shut down instead of open up. You brought flowers when she was having a bad week and didn’t want to say it out loud. You brought chocolate when Ana was teething and neither of them had slept in two days. You brought yourself—unapologetically, completely.

The first time you left, Natasha barely flinched.

Three days. That was the length of your mission. A simple extraction, routine enough that even Fury hadn’t been concerned. She hadn’t made a big deal of it—kissed your temple before you left and made some half-hearted joke about bringing her back something interesting. And that was it. She’d spent the first evening watching cartoons with Ana curled up on her chest, the second one organizing files in the quiet of her room, and by the third morning, you were back, carrying pastries and that tired grin you always wore when you pushed yourself too far.

She remembered thinking it was fine. She didn’t miss you. Not really. Not in any way that was abnormal.

But then it happened again.

A month later, another three-day mission. Longer distance this time. Minimal contact. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal again. She’d survived years without attachment—three days without you shouldn’t even register. And yet…

This time, there was a shift.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth naming. But the silence felt heavier at night. She lingered longer by her phone, her thumb hovering over your name more often. She still had Ana—her anchor in everything—but there was an odd, persistent restlessness underneath her skin. She snapped at the coffee machine one morning when it jammed. She cursed a little louder when she stubbed her toe. Nothing big. Not enough to call it anything.

She didn’t realize it for what it was. Not then.

She thought she was just tired. She told herself she’d been too used to sharing space with you, that maybe you’d spoiled her by being around so much. That was all. Nothing serious.

But then came the third time.

Present day. And this time?

It was bad.

You were gone. Again. And everything felt off. Off-kilter. Wrong. The apartment felt colder, and Ana—sweet Ana—was crankier than usual, refusing naps, pushing her food around on her plate, clearly missing you in her own small way. Natasha tried to hold it together, but this time it wasn’t just silence—it was absence. It was the absence of your coffee cup in the sink. The lack of your music humming from the bathroom. No sarcastic quip about her black ops hoodie or shared glances over Ana’s head when she did something ridiculous.

Natasha was fraying. Worse—she knew it.

And she hated that awareness.

She tried to channel the frustration into something useful. Clint had agreed to run combat drills with a new batch of recruits, and Natasha threw herself into it with the kind of sharp, violent precision she hadn’t leaned on in years.

She didn’t hold back.

The gym floor was already slick with sweat, and the sound of fists hitting pads echoed like thunder between the high ceilings. The new recruits—bright-eyed, fully trained, and supposedly ready for fieldwork—were scattered across the mats like a massacre had just taken place. Natasha paced in front of them like a wolf in black leggings, half-sane from too many hours of sleep deprivation and too few texts from you.

“Again,” she ordered flatly, and a collective groan rose from the group.

One of the girls—Elena, maybe? Or Eliza? Natasha didn’t bother remembering—wobbled to her feet and tried to correct her stance.

“You’re favoring your left. You do that on a mission, you’ll lose a kneecap.”

“I—uh—okay, Agent Romanoff.”

“‘Okay’ isn’t gonna regrow your kneecap, sweetheart.”

Clint snorted from the corner, arms crossed, chewing on a protein bar like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“You know,” he said casually, “some people call this mentoring.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, looking entirely unimpressed. “Some people have standards.”

Clint raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment. I just don’t think Stark’s daughter would’ve survived your version of boot camp.”

“She wouldn’t have whined this much,” Natasha shot back, already circling the next recruit—tall, cocky, abs for days, too much gel in his hair. She jabbed at his shoulder with two fingers. “You flinch like that again, and I’m gonna have Steve run you through shield drills until you cry.”

“I—I’m not flinching.”

Natasha stared him down. “You blinked when I said ‘Steve.’ That counts.”

Clint laughed outright now, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been extra scary lately, Nat. Should I be worried?”

“Just bored,” she muttered, even though they both knew that wasn’t the truth.

“Bored?” Clint raised a brow. “This is your version of bored? I can’t wait to see what happens when you’re in a bad mood.”

She shot him a dark look that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll put you on the mat.”

“Oh no, anything but that,” he said, hand on his heart, mock-fear in his voice. “Whatever will I do if my bestie breaks my spine in front of Gen Z?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barton. I’d let one of them do it.”

One of the recruits whispered, “We can hear you,” and Natasha turned just enough to give them a slow, feral grin.

“Good. Maybe it’ll motivate you.”

They looked like they wanted to cry, She didn’t care.

Because if she stopped moving, stopped teasing, stopped being this barely tethered version of herself—then maybe the ache in her chest would start catching up.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not yet, You were still gone.

Natasha Romanoff was a force in the training room. Everyone knew that. But even she had her rhythms — the way she sized someone up, tested their footing, let them learn through a bruise or two without destroying what little confidence they had. But not today. Today, she was sharp. Clinical. Unforgiving. Every correction came with a hit, every mistake was pointed out with the flick of her staff or the slam of a mat.

By the end of the session, half the recruits were limping and the other half were trying not to look like they were on the verge of crying. They weren’t rookies. All of them were somewhere in their early twenties, eager and just green enough to think they had something to prove. Normally, Natasha would break them down with precision, then build them back up.

Today, she left them scattered across the floor like discarded chess pieces.

“Alright, go,” she finally said after a bit more of torture, waving a hand like she was shooing pigeons instead of a group of elite S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees. “You’re all free to cry in the showers. Debrief’s in two hours. Don’t be late or I’ll actually try.”

The room cleared out faster than a fire drill.

Clint, who’d spent most of the session leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his mouth shut, finally raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said. “That was brutal.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “They’re fine. They signed up for this.”

“They signed up for basic tactical sparring, not full-contact therapy.”

She gave him a look, but there was no venom behind it.

Clint stepped forward and offered her a bottle of water, which she took without a word.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on or should I wait until you start decapitating punching bags?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. This is different.”

She stayed quiet. Long enough that Clint didn’t think she was going to answer. Then��

“I’m not used to being alone anymore.”

That surprised him. Not the words, maybe, but the way she said them. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was a diagnosis she didn’t quite know what to do with.

“I mean, I can do it,” she added quickly, like that mattered more. “I’ve done it most of my life. I know how to keep Ana on routine, I know how to make sure the bills are paid, I know how to function—”

“But you’re not sleeping.”

Natasha glanced at him.

“I know that look,” Clint said. “You’ve got it under control on the outside, but inside you’re counting every creak in the apartment.”

She didn’t answer, which meant he was right.

He softened his tone a little. “This the third time?”

Natasha nodded. “First time was fine. Just a three-day recon. Ana missed her, I missed her, but I kept busy. Second time was about a month later. Same length. But it hit differently. I was irritated all the time, couldn’t explain why.”

“And now?”

“I’m snapping at everyone,” she muttered. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep without checking the door three times. I wake up every hour thinking I heard something. My body feels like it’s stuck in defense mode.”

Clint tilted his head. “She make you feel safe?”

Natasha let out a dry laugh. “Isn’t that ironic?”

Clint smiled gently. “Maybe. But not surprising. You’ve spent your whole life being the safe one. The one with backup plans and exit routes and eyes on every angle. No one ever stuck around long enough for you to want safety.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t even notice,” she said after a moment. “That it was happening. I just… slept better. I rested. When she was around, I wasn’t bracing all the time. I started drinking my coffee while it was still hot. I didn’t flinch every time Ana made a noise in the middle of the night.”

“Must be weird.”

“It’s terrifying,” Natasha said, but there was a hint of a smile there now. “Because I didn’t think I was missing anything. I wasn’t unhappy. I had Ana. I had work. Everything was fine.”

Clint didn’t interrupt. He could see the thoughts still arranging themselves behind her eyes.

“She’s young,” Natasha said eventually. “Bright, loud, stubborn. She walks into a room and everything wakes up. And then… when she leaves, it’s like the apartment forgets how to breathe.”

Clint grinned. “Wow. You’re really down bad.”

She smacked his arm.

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “That sounds like someone who’s trying real hard not to use the word love.”

“I’m not saying it to you.”

“But you’re saying it.”

Natasha looked away, then back, then sighed.

“She’s only been gone for a week” she muttered. “And I already feel like my skin’s too tight.”

“Yeah,” Clint said softly. “That’s love, Nat.”

She didn’t reply. Just stood there with her arms crossed, jaw tight, like she was trying to keep the storm in her chest from spilling out across the floor.

And Clint didn’t push her.

Because he knew her. And she’d say it when she was ready. But until then, he’d be there. And maybe, if the world played fair for once, she would be back soon too.

She just left without saying a word to him and wandered to the kitchen, chasing the illusion of calm in a cup of coffee. A desperate attempt to reset, to claw her way back to something that resembled her usual mindset. Useless? Absolutely. But still a valid attempt.

She used what little spare time she had to chip away at the paperwork piling up on her desk, going through the motions while her brain begged for a break, but she couldn't bring herself to stop

When the clock finally pushed her toward the inevitable, she made her way to the meeting room. It was still quiet—mercifully so—and she let herself enjoy the silence for what it was: the last moment of peace before the incoming storm of idiocy.

Clint arrived not long after.

“Ready to deal with them again?” she sighed, barely turning her head to look at him. “It can’t get worse, right?”

It did.

After snapping through training drills and watching half the recruits nearly cry from a simple sparring critique, Natasha thought she’d reached the peak of her frustration. She thought the fire had burned out enough that she could sit through something as low-stakes as a mission planning session without needing a punching bag. She was wrong.

They were in the meeting room, a stack of files spread across the table, and the only thing more painful than their blank stares was their awful strategy logic. It wasn’t even an actual op—they were just meant to propose a plan, something clean and professional, basic protocol. But somehow they managed to turn it into the most chaotic, disjointed mess she had seen since Clint tried to microwave a steak.

One of them suggested a twelve-person infiltration team for a two-man job. Another thought a decoy explosion in a civilian area was a “good distraction.” Natasha stared at that one for a long time. Said nothing. Just let the silence hang until he cleared his throat and tried to backpedal.

It was hell.

They were hell.

And the worst part was, she couldn’t even find the energy to get mad anymore. She just wanted to be anywhere else.

She found herself thinking about your hands.

How they moved when you spread files across her table. How you always started a plan from the middle and worked backwards like it made more sense that way. How your theories were messy, but your execution was precise. How your dumb croissants always left flakes on her floor, but your coffee? Always perfect.

God, she missed you.

These newbies were making her feel ancient.

And somehow… you never did.

Which, in that moment, made her realize something even worse, She wasn’t just used to your presence. She had started to rely on it.

And now? With your chair empty across the room and a dozen voices talking over each other like toddlers playing spy?

She’d never wanted to quit a debrief so badly in her life.

She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, lips pressed in a flat line as she watched one of the recruits confidently draw a completely backwards tactical map on the whiteboard. The entrance and exit points were the same. The safe zone was placed inside the potential combat perimeter. And their plan to extract intel involved “grabbing the briefcase and hoping for the best.”

Natasha blinked. Slowly.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t laugh.

She just watched. With the dead-eyed stare of someone whose soul had left her body approximately five minutes ago.

Clint was sitting to her right, trying—and failing—to stifle his amusement. She caught the edge of his grin in her periphery and didn’t bother to hide the glare she shot back.

“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered under her breath.

“Immensely,” Clint whispered, taking a casual sip of his water. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

She let her head fall back against the chair with a quiet groan. “I’ve trained toddlers with better tactical awareness.”

Clint chuckled. “You did train a toddler. Yours has better instincts than these guys.”

She exhaled sharply, the corner of her mouth twitching despite the ache behind her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

They watched another recruit stand up to add on to the plan, immediately contradicting the first half of it. Natasha let her eyes close, counted to ten, reopened them, and still nothing made sense. The files were sitting right there, everything they needed laid out in plain detail—but they weren’t reading, they weren’t thinking, they weren’t you.

You would’ve solved this in five minutes flat. Coffee in one hand, smug grin on your lips, and a completely insane but functional plan in front of her before she could even finish skimming the brief. You made chaos look elegant.

And you were so damn good at what you did.

Not just in the field. But with Ana. With her. With everything.

She missed the way you filled the space beside her. Missed the balance of it. The peace of knowing you were close enough to lean on, even when she pretended not to. She hadn’t realized how much calmer she’d become until you left—and now every breath felt too loud. Every second dragged.

You made things quiet. Inside her head. Inside her chest.

And without you there, she felt like her entire body was clenching around silence. Like she couldn’t relax. Couldn’t trust the stillness.

The room buzzed with voices again, someone suggesting parachutes in a low-rise recon op. Natasha stood up sharply, scraping her chair back.

“All of you,” she said flatly, “out.”

A beat of silence. Then chairs shifting, people scrambling, a few mumbled apologies.

Clint didn’t even try to hide his laugh now.

“You’re brutal.”

“They were parachuting into a building with three floors, Barton.”

“Bold,” he agreed, nodding.

Natasha rubbed her temple, tiredness dragging across her features like the weight of three sleepless nights. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the table, at your empty seat, at the untouched coffee cup across from her that she’d placed there without thinking.

And Clint watched her. Quiet now.

“You okay?”

She let out a breath. “No.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he waited.

“I’m tired,” she said, not looking at him. “Not physically. Not really. Just—on edge. All the time. Like I’m waiting for something to go wrong and I don’t even know what it is.”

Clint watched her carefully, but she didn’t return the look. Her fingers tapped against the file in front of her, slow and bitter. She wasn’t trying to sound dramatic. She was trying not to sound like she was one sleepless night away from losing it.

“And don’t start with the maybe-you-just-need-a-break crap,” she added, her voice dry as dust. “I swear to God, Barton, if one more person tells me to go meditate or do yoga, I’ll throw someone off the balcony just to feel something.”

Clint raised his hands, surrendering with a little whistle. “Wasn’t gonna say a word.”

“Good.” She closed the file with a hard snap. “Because the only thing I’m doing is going back to my apartment, taking a damn hot shower, and snuggling with my daughter until the tension in my spine lets go or I pass out trying.”

“You sure you don’t want to join the rookies for round two?” Clint teased, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder with the kind of aggression that suggested something—or someone—was about to be strangled.

Natasha shot him a look that could peel paint. “Those idiots wouldn’t know a mission plan if it hit them in the face with a blueprint and a crayon.”

“Sounds like a no.”

“It’s a hell no.”

She pushed the chair in with a sharp movement and started toward the door. She was already picturing it—Ana’s small body curled under her arm, the smell of baby shampoo still lingering in her hair, the weight of something real and safe grounding her. The apartment would be warm. Familiar. You wouldn’t be there, but Ana would. And maybe that would be enough to stop her from unraveling further.

“I’m going to go cuddle my toddler,” she muttered as she walked away, mostly to herself. “In an attempt to soothe my fucking nerves before I kill someone.”

“Love that for you,” Clint called after her, smirking. “Tell Ana I said hi.”

But she didn’t answer. She just kept walking—jaw clenched, back stiff, heart pounding louder than it should.

And maybe that was the part that scared her the most.

It was getting harder to calm down without you.

She should’ve gone to her own apartment. She meant to. But in the elevator, her finger pressed your floor instead of hers. She stared at the button, thought about fixing it—and didn’t.

It wasn’t on purpose. Just muscle memory, maybe. Or something quieter. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

She ignored the unspoken rules of social decency—the ones about personal space, about waiting until you’re invited, about not letting yourself into someone else’s apartment when they’re not home. But rules had never done much for her. Not when her chest felt like it was pulled too tight, not when every inch of her skin ached to be somewhere that felt less.

So she walked in like she belonged. Because maybe she did.

The scent hit her first. Your perfume, soft and clean, still lingering in the air like you’d left only minutes ago. Her shoulders relaxed before she even realized it. The knot in her back didn’t go away, but it loosened, just enough for her to breathe. She scoffed under her breath, irritated with herself. This is ridiculous.

She wasn’t supposed to be the kind of woman who felt safe just because of a smell. That was something for romance novels and bad TV dramas. And yet here she was, sinking into it like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Pathetic.

But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she walked to your bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into your shower. The water pressure was—of course—better than hers. Much better. The kind of steaming hot that instantly blanketed her skin, wrapped around her ribs, and made the world feel like it could fade for a few minutes. She let her forehead press to the tile and made a mental note: Have her install one of these in my apartment. Perks of being your… something.

Natasha let herself fold. The heat hit her hard, softening the edges of her muscle, but not the ache underneath. That, only you could reach.

She braced a hand against the tile, eyes shut, water cascading over her back. Her other hand moved across her body, every touch of her own hands washing away the grime taking deep sighs and low whines come out of her mouth... she is a needy mess. the week, the endless static of a life too sharp lately. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t you.

Her fingers stilled at her collarbone, and all she could think about was your hands—gentler than she expected, steady, unhurried. The way you touched her like you had all the time in the world. The way your thumb had traced her hipbone once without even noticing, and it had made her breath catch like a damn teenager.

She wanted that.

God, she wanted you.

Not just your mouth or your body or the heat of your skin against hers—though she wanted that too, badly—but the presence. That anchoring calm you carried, the ease in your laugh, the way you never flinched when Ana clung to your chest or Natasha woke up gasping in the middle of the night. You were steady. You were safe.

And she missed you like hell.

The water rushed down her back as her palm curled against the tile. Her breath hitched—not from the steam, but from the ache in her chest. This wasn’t just about the day. Or the week. This was you, absent in a way she hadn’t let herself admit she wasn’t handling well.

She needed your hands. Your weight behind her. Your mouth pressed to her shoulder whispering sweet things on her ear... bringing her to a lazy orgasm, your fingers trusting inside her exactly how she likes it, that type of orgasm that made her bones melt. She needed to feel claimed—wanted—in the way only you managed to make her feel.

She let the water run until her skin turned pink and her legs felt a little less steady. But not weak. Just—softer.

She wrapped herself in your towel, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked at her reflection. She felt ridiculous—needy in a way that made her wince. Two years spent living something close to celibate, and now she couldn’t make it through a week without you.

“Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath. And yet, she didn’t leave.

She wasn’t ready to leave.

Not when everything in this apartment smelled like you.

Not when your presence lingered in the sheets and the steam and the air she breathed like a promise.

Not when her skin still craved you more than the water could soothe.

Wrapped in your robe—still warm from where it had hung by the bathroom—Natasha felt like she was wearing a secret. The collar smelled like you. The sleeves hung past her wrists just enough to feel wrong on her body and right in every other way. The plush fabric swallowed her frame, soft where her skin was still pink from the shower, grounding her like only you managed to do.

She padded barefoot into your bedroom, towel-drying her hair lazily as she reached for your phone. You weren’t home, but she didn’t need permission. Not anymore. Not after the way you’d held her the last time she’d fallen apart. Not after the way your hands had memorized her.

She dialed the tower’s daycare.

It rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello—Avengers Tower Child Services, this is—”

“I need Ana.”

There was a pause, just long enough to signal the woman on the other end had recognized her voice. “Oh—are you coming down to pick her up?”

“No,” Natasha cut in, her voice low and dry. “Have someone bring her to Ms. Stark’s apartment.”

Another pause. Sharper this time.

Natasha didn’t usually pull rank. She didn’t like making people uncomfortable if she could help it, didn’t like reminding people of who she was unless she had to. But today? Today she didn’t give a fuck.

The silence on the other end of the line cracked into a gasp—the kind someone makes when they choke on air but try to hide it. “Ms. Stark’s apartment?” the woman repeated, barely managing to keep her voice steady. “But she’s—uh—she’s currently away on mission—”

“Exactly,” Natasha replied, cool and calm as ice. “I’m in her apartment.”

She hung up before the woman could recover, before she could come up with something else polite to say. The truth was already in the air. No taking it back now.

And maybe Natasha liked that a little more than she should.

Still barefoot, she wandered into your kitchen and opened the cabinet where she knew you kept the coffee mugs—second shelf, left side, tucked behind that one chipped one you never threw away. She picked your favorite, poured the last of the hot brew into it, and cradled it between her palms like it might warm her deeper than the robe already had.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of your pajama bottoms—soft, a little too big, cinched at the waist with a lazy knot. your robe, draped over it. She smelled like your shampoo. She moved like someone who belonged in your space.

When the elevator dinged, she didn’t rush to meet it.

She walked slowly, casually, letting the scent of your coffee cling to her like another layer of you. She opened the door just as the delivery woman was adjusting Ana on her hip.

And the look on her face?

Priceless.

Natasha didn’t smile. Not really. But her mouth did twitch in a way that let the woman know she’d seen it. That she understood exactly what this looked like. And that she wasn’t about to explain herself.

She reached for Ana, who immediately threw her arms around her mother’s neck, cheek pressed into her shoulder with a tired little sigh.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, expression unreadable but voice polite.

The woman mumbled something in return, eyes flicking once more to Natasha’s clothes—your clothes—before she stepped back into the elevator.

And that was that.

Natasha smiled to herself, something smug curling in her chest, her mood instantly lighter—as if claiming you, even in a silent, indirect way, had flipped a switch in her head. The robe still smelled like you. The coffee was yours. The space was yours. And now, so were they.

She looked down at Ana, who was content and warm in her arms, still sleep-dazed with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Mama made it pretty clear,” Natasha murmured, voice full of dry satisfaction. “She’s ours.”

Ana made a little sound—a soft gag, half-laugh, half-yawn—like she agreed in her toddler way, and Natasha huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Exactly,” she said, brushing her lips over the crown of Ana’s head. “I didn’t even have to say it out loud. That poor woman nearly fainted.”

Ana mumbled something incoherent and tucked herself in tighter, her small fingers wrapping into the edge of Natasha’s robe.

Natasha carried her toward the bedroom, her hand cupping Ana’s back instinctively. She still had her coffee in the other hand, warm and familiar. “You know,” she said softly, talking more to fill the quiet than anything else, “you and I—we make a good team. I don’t even have to say what I want, and you go ahead and make me look all possessive.”

Another little sleepy gag came in response, and Natasha smirked.

They reached the bed.

It was still unmade from your morning rush—covers half thrown back, your pillow slightly indented. Natasha settled in like muscle memory, stretching out with a soft sigh as she adjusted the blankets over them both. She took one last sip of coffee before setting the mug on your nightstand.

Ana curled on her chest, tiny limbs draped naturally over her like she belonged there. Natasha’s hand moved up and down her daughter’s back in a rhythm she didn’t think about.

Everything smelled like you.

Everything felt like you.

And wrapped in your robe, in your bed, with Ana’s heartbeat against hers, Natasha let herself close her eyes for the first time that day and just breathe.

This—this was hers. And she wasn’t sharing.

Ana fell asleep fast—unfairly fast, in Natasha’s opinion. One minute she was blinking slow against her chest, the next, completely knocked out, tiny fingers still curled in the fabric of Natasha’s borrowed robe.

Natasha looked down at the peaceful little traitor and sighed through her nose. “Such a simp,” she muttered, mock-scolding, brushing her knuckles gently against Ana’s red hair. “You know that, right? One whiff of her and you’re out like a light. No standards.”

Ana didn’t respond, of course. Just let out a soft snore, drooling slightly onto Natasha’s chest.

“Gross,” Natasha added affectionately, then shifted with a little grunt of effort, sliding out from under her daughter with the practiced ease of a mother who’d done this dance too many times. She tugged the robe off her shoulders, tossing it to the chair by your desk, then pulled the duvet up to cover them both. It smelled heavenly. Like you. Of course it did.

She rolled her eyes—at you, at herself, at this whole situation she never thought she’d be in.

“Great,” she muttered as she settled in beside Ana again, tugging the duvet tighter around them. “She has turned both Romanoffs into complete idiots. Well done.”

The bed was warm. The room was quiet. Ana’s breath was slow and steady, pressed into her side now. Natasha tucked her arm around her daughter and let herself relax.

It didn’t take long before she was out too.

Simp, indeed.

It was, without a doubt, the best sleep she’d had all week. No tossing, no restless half-wakes at every small noise. Just warmth. The kind that wrapped around her bones, settled into her skin. The kind that whispered safety without needing to say a word.

Natasha was sleeping like a log, dead to the world. But even as she stirred, something felt different. Not wrong—no, not at all—but new. Or rather… familiar in a way she was beginning to crave.

There was an extra weight draped over her waist. Not heavy, but grounding. And then the scent—yours—undeniable, curling around her like a second blanket. It was the only reason she didn’t jolt upright like usual, the only reason her muscles stayed loose instead of tensing on instinct. She blinked, adjusting to the low light filtering through the room, and looked down.

Your hand.

Delicate, sure. But firm in its claim, wrapped around her as if she were something fragile and rare, something to be protected. Treasured. As if you knew what she tried to hide and wanted to shield her from it anyway.

She didn’t know how to breathe for a second.

She didn’t feel weak. She didn’t feel small. She felt… like yours.

Carefully, quietly, she rolled onto her side, slow enough not to disturb Ana, still asleep by her side. Her eyes met yours. Warm. Soft. Tired in the same way hers were.

You leaned in first. Or maybe she did. It didn’t matter.

Your lips brushed hers in a slow, unhurried kiss—lingering just a second too long to be casual, just deep enough to say I missed you without either of you needing to say a word. There was something sacred in the silence. Something steady in the pull between your mouths.

Longing and relief, tangled together in the stillness.

The kiss faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to, but because the moment demanded breath—words. Familiar rhythm. Something to tether the weight of the morning to something more manageable. You stayed close, noses brushing, your hand still resting over her waist.

“God, you look terrible,” you whispered, the corners of your mouth tugging into a sleepy grin.

Natasha let out a soft huff of amusement, half-heartedly rolling her eyes. “Thanks, printsessa. Nothing like brutal honesty to start the day.”

You blinked at her, incredulous. “Day? Darling, it’s fucking 22:00. How did you manage to destroy your biological clock like this?”

You brushed a strand of her messy red hair off her cheek, your fingers deliberately slow, teasing. “No, really. Hair like a bird nest. Dark circles. You look like someone tried to cosplay insomnia.”

She smirked, biting back a laugh that might wake Ana. “I’ve been busy not murdering anyone this week, thanks to someone disappearing again.”

“I was working,” you said, mock-defensive, shifting just a little so your leg hooked around hers. “Some of us have very important things to do, you know.”

Natasha scoffed. “Right. And I’m sure the fate of the world depended entirely on your ability to drink five espressos and ignore my texts.”

You grinned, nose brushing her temple. “Six espressos, actually. And I wasn’t ignoring. I was… emotionally unavailable.”

That earned a soft laugh from her—real and unguarded. She tilted her head back just enough to meet your gaze fully, her expression still dry, but touched with affection. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned wider. “And yet here you are. Wrapped in my sheets. Wearing my clothes. Sleeping in my bed.”

She pressed a quick kiss to your chin, her voice lower now, almost fond despite her teasing. “Yeah. Must be losing my edge.”

You pulled her closer again, arms snug around her waist. “Nah. You just found better edges to soften against.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let herself melt into you, breathing easier than she had in days.

She was quiet at first, her body still heavy with sleep as you brushed your fingers lazily down the slope of her waist. Her hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they slowly adjusted to the light.

You let your hand slide up, resting it on her ribs. “A little bird told me you weren’t exactly… thriving this week.”

She stilled slightly. “Clint?”

“Mmhmm. Said you almost impaled a trainee for calling you ma’am.”

“They earned it.”

You grinned. “You told one of the analysts she had the tactical sense of a door.”

Natasha grunted.

You snorted softly. “You’ve been stomping around the tower like a sleep-deprived dragon.”

There was a long pause before she finally sighed, low and quiet. “I don’t sleep well without you.”

You didn’t tease her for that one. Not this time.

Instead, you shifted closer, curling around her a little more, letting her breathe you in. Her shoulders softened. Just a little.

“I mean, if this is you at thirty-three, I can’t imagine the chaos when you’re sixty,” you said gently, your lips brushing her hair. “You’ll be throwing people out of windows for breathing too loud.”

Natasha let out a tired, amused sound. “That’s optimistic. I’ll be worse.”

You kissed her jaw. “Cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You’re so cute when you’re cranky and secretly in love with me.”

She turned her face into your neck, mumbling something unintelligible, but you could feel the smile there.

Natasha was still tangled in the last traces of sleep, Ana’s little body sprawled by her side, her scent mingling with the faint sweetness of your perfume that lingered on the pillows. The calm wouldn’t last, she knew that. It never did. But for now, she allowed herself to rest in it—until you stirred beside her and she felt your fingers brushing her side softly.

“I have some news,” you said, voice low and close to her ear, carrying the weight of something important, but softened with warmth.

Natasha’s body tensed the smallest bit. It was instinctive, like a defense mechanism. That tone—it meant change. She shifted, careful not to wake Ana, and met your eyes. “What kind of news?”

You sat up slightly, propping yourself on your elbow, and smiled. “Good news, I swear.”

Still, she didn’t smile back. Not yet. She just waited, studying your expression. She’d learned to read people deeply, and you—God, you were the only person who ever made her forget how.

You reached up, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Fury said I’m not necessary here in the Avengers anymore, so I can go back to England.”

Natasha blinked, just once—but it was enough. That word again.

England.

It was always there—hovering like a shadow behind your name, your work, your laughter. The place that could take you back. The place that wasn’t here.

Her throat tightened just a bit. “So… you’re leaving?”

You heard it. You always did. The tension behind her words. The shift in her breathing.

You leaned closer, your forehead nearly touching hers. “But I’m also not necessary in England either. So I chose to stay here.”

Natasha blinked, unsure. “Wait, what?”

“I said I had good news,” you cut her off gently, your thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You’re looking at the newest member of the Avengers. Apparently one Stark wasn’t enough, so now they get to deal with two.”

That earned you a blink of surprise—and then, slowly, a breath of relief. Natasha didn’t smile, not quite. But the way her shoulders eased, the way her fingers curled slightly tighter around Ana, spoke volumes.

Still, you could tell her mind was spinning.

“So… you’re staying here?” she asked quietly, as if she didn’t quite trust the answer yet.

You nodded. “Fury said I could go back if I wanted. But I don’t. I want this. I’ll be living here. In the Tower. With you. With Ana.”

And that was the moment everything shifted.

You weren’t just dropping in and out of her life anymore. You weren’t a fleeting miracle or a reprieve between the chaos. You were staying. Permanently. Part of the team. Part of them.

A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding left her lungs all at once, and she couldn’t help the way her hand slid up to cup your cheek, holding you close as if anchoring herself to reality.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

You grinned. “Completely. They’re stuck with me now.”

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Poor bastards.”

You tilted your head. “That wasn’t very supportive, Romanoff.”

“Oh, I’m supportive,” she said, leaning forward to kiss your jaw. “I’m just also a realist.”

You chuckled, but even you couldn’t hide how full your chest felt—because you knew. You knew what this meant to her. To all of you.

“I missed you too, you know,” you added after a moment, a little softer now. “Don’t think you were the only one close to losing your shit. They paired me with this guy in his thirties—had more field experience than me but didn’t even know how to operate an advanced interface system. Almost blew up the whole thing trying to sync it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “At one point I had to take over and told him to step back before I sent him to basic training again. I’m pretty sure I growled.”

She smirked, drawing circles against Ana’s back absentmindedly. “Sounds like you were channeling me.”

You smiled and leaned down, resting your forehead against hers. “I think I just missed home.”

That word hit. Home.

And somehow, this—you, her, Ana, this bed—had become exactly that.

Natasha sighed, curling her fingers in the hem of your shirt. “Well… I hope you like shared showers and stolen hoodies.”

You chuckled. “It’s part of the contract.”

She smiled against your mouth. Finally. And maybe this wasn’t perfect. Maybe the world would keep throwing chaos their way. But at least for now, there was one solid truth Natasha could finally hold onto:

You were home. And you weren’t going anywhere

#ladies and gentlemen natasha romanoff is very gay #natasha romanoff x reader #gay love #marvel mcu #mothernatasha romanoff #natalie rushman #natasha romanoff #soft natasha #milf!natasha #lesbian #gay #pride #baby!fic

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verstappenverse · 2 days ago

Text

Crash Into Me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After a crash lands you in the hospital, Max finally says those three words he's been holding in far too long.

2.1k words / Masterlist

You never thought the sound of your own heartbeat could be this loud. It’s almost deafening, especially when it’s paired with the sterile beeping of the hospital machines. White walls and the lingering smell of disinfectant aren’t exactly comforting, but what else could you expect from an emergency room?

Your leg throbs under the thick layers of bandages and painkillers, the medication takes the edge off, but not enough to make you forget what happened. You cringe at the memory, the screeching tires, the jarring impact. The instant panic that followed, Max shouting your name, the rush of people around you, hands on your arms, your back, trying to get you out of the twisted mess of metal and plastic.

It was supposed to be a fun day, just you and Max at the karting track, racing for the fun of it. He'd grinned at you before the start, all cocky confidence and teasing remarks, swearing he’d go easy on you. And you, always stubborn and competitive, told him not to dare.

Now here you are stuck in this hospital bed with a broken leg, a bruised shoulder, and an ego that’s just as bruised. You feel stupid, and the worst part is the guilt, because the look on Max’s face when he reached you, when he saw you lying there in pain and bleeding, that look might haunt you longer than the pain ever will.

As if on cue, the door swings open and Max walks in. His tousled hair is a mess, and his blue eyes are shadowed with worry. He’s still wearing his AlphaTauri hoodie, the navy fabric wrinkled and stretched at the cuffs like he’s been tugging on the sleeves.

“Hey how’s the patient?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light and teasing, but you can see the strain beneath it.

“Alive,” you mutter, forcing a half-smile. “Though I think my pride might be dead.”

Max chuckles under his breath, but it’s short, dry. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He walks over and sinks into the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles go pale. He leans in slightly, just close enough that you can see the tension in his jaw, the twitch of a muscle there, the way he won’t quite meet your eyes right away.

“You scared the hell out of me you know that?” he says, and this time his voice is quieter.

“Didn’t mean to,” you reply with a small wince as you shift your position.

Max flinches at the movement, his hand twitching towards you instinctively before he pulls it back, curling it into a fist on his knee. “Yeah, well next time try not to crash into the barrier at full speed,” he mutters, trying again for stern but missing by a mile and there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Maybe don’t try to overtake me on a corner like that either.”

“You would’ve done the same,” you retort, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t pretend you’re so innocent Verstappen. I’ve seen you on the track. You’d overtake your own grandmother for the win.”

Max huffs, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “True,” he concedes. “But I’m not the one lying in a hospital bed am I?”

“Touché.”

A moment of silence falls between you, the kind that’s somehow both comfortable and unbearably heavy. Like you’re sharing something without actually speaking. The beeping of the machines fades into the background as Max leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, hands rubbing together restlessly. His eyes flicker to yours, then away just as quickly, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to begin.

“Max,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “I’m okay. It’s not your fault.”

He lets out a humourless breath, almost a scoff, and shakes his head. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel that way.”

You open your mouth to reassure him again, but he keeps going.

“I should’ve told you to slow down. You were going way too fast and I saw you getting too close to the edge, hell, I knew it but I just…” His voice cracks slightly, and he clenches his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek like he’s punishing himself.

“But you what?” you ask gently.

Max meets your gaze, eyes glassy. “It’s so stupid, I just... I didn’t want to make you feel like I didn’t believe in you. You’re so damn good, and I didn’t want to be the guy who cuts in and tells you to ease up like I know better. I wanted to show I trust you to handle anything… and I hesitated.”

You manage a small, breathy laugh, though it stings a little with the effort. “Max let’s be real, you know I probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.”

That earns a real reaction from Max, a soft, helpless huff of laughter, but there’s still a weight there.

“Yeah. I know.” he chuckles.

There’s another pause, and you can’t help but notice the way Max keeps fidgeting, his leg bouncing slightly, his hands restless. You’ve known him for long enough to recognise when something’s eating at him.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “Max, it was karting. It wasn’t life or death, I made the call and it was an accident please don’t let this weigh on you. I was being reckless.”

“Yeah but I let you,” Max says, and suddenly his voice is fierce with emotion. “I was right there. I could’ve done something, and now you’re in a hospital bed because I didn’t do anything, I didn’t protect you.”

You watch him for a moment, then reach out and touch his hand, fingertips brushing his knuckles lightly. “Max you’ve always pushed me to be better. That’s why I trust you so much."

His eyes fall to where your fingers graze his hand, and he flips his palm over, catching your hand in his like it’s instinct. Like he needs to feel your pulse, your warmth, your aliveness. He holds it tightly as if to remind himself you’re still here.

And for the first time since the accident, the silence feels just a little lighter.

“So…” you drag the word out, stretching it with as much faux drama as your bruised ribs will allow, “how long do I have to endure your babysitting services?”

Max’s eyes snap to yours, and he blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “As long as you need me,” He leans back in the chair, a wry smile tugging at his lips, finally easing the tension in his face. “Not that I’m complaining… it’s kind of nice having you stuck in one place for once.”

“Oh yeah, because I’m so helpless,” you say with mock seriousness, gesturing to your bandaged leg. “Just a poor, broken soul. What would I do without you?”

Max snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too comfortable playing the victim. You’re still going to owe me for all this.”

“Owe you?” You raise an eyebrow. “For what, exactly?”

“For the emotional trauma,” he replies, trying for levity, but his voice wavers and suddenly you see his demeanour shift more serious again. “Watching you crash like that… hearing the medics… I don’t think I’ve ever felt that kind of fear before.”

He runs a hand through his hair again, fingers threading through the mess. “It sucked. I hated it. You didn’t move for a second, and I thought…” He stops himself, biting down on whatever awful thought had formed.

You look at him, really look at him, and realise how shaken he actually is. Max, the guy who’s fearless on the track, who takes risks for a living, who brushes off danger like it’s just part of the job, is truly shaken. And it’s because of you.

“Max,” you say softly, the word catching in your throat.

His eyes snap to yours immediately, like the sound of your voice pulled him back from wherever his thoughts had drifted, and for a moment something fragile and electric settles in the space between you. He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out at first just a shallow breath.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, and this time the words come fast, unfiltered. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been that scared before, it’s different when it’s you.”

The admission hits you like a punch to the chest. The hospital room feels smaller all of a sudden, like the walls are closing in. You don’t know how to respond, your throat tight as you try to process what he’s saying.

“Max…”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression clouded as he glances at the floor, his jaw clenching slightly. “I—” He pauses, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I’ve never been great with this kind of stuff, you know? The… feelings part.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” you tease lightly, hoping to ease the weight of the moment.

He lets out a soft, shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar nervous way. “I’m trying,” he admits. “But after today, seeing you like that... it’s been messing with my head.” He swallows, his throat bobbing. “You scare me… because you matter more than anything else.”

Your heart starts to beat faster, not because of pain or fear, but because of the way Max is looking at you, like he’s standing on the edge of something terrifying and wonderful all at once.

“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice soft, laced with anticipation and something else, hope, maybe. Or fear. It’s hard to tell the difference right now.

Max meets your gaze, and for a second, everything around you disappears. The hospital room, the pain in your leg, the beeping machines, it all fades into the background, as if the universe knows this moment is too important for distractions.

“I’m saying…” he starts, then falters, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against yours, and he exhales.

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper, but the way he says it, it’s everything, a confession, a promise, and a plea all wrapped into one. “I know we haven’t been together that long, and maybe it’s too soon, or maybe I should’ve waited for a more romantic moment, but after today…” He trails off, eyes flicking down like he’s afraid of what he’ll see in yours. “God, I just—” He presses his fingers to his lips briefly, trying to keep his composure. “I couldn’t live with the thought that I might never get the chance to tell you. I love you. And I needed you to know.”

For a moment you forget how to breathe. Not because you don’t feel it too, you’ve known for a while that you love him, but hearing it like this, so raw and honest in the middle of all this chaos it takes your breath away. Your heart swells so fast and so full it almost hurts.

“Max…” you breathe, your voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Your eyes sting, but you’re smiling, overwhelmed by the honesty in his face. “I love you.”

The words fall out of you like they’ve been waiting their turn. “I think I’ve known it for a while,” you add, grinning through the tears that threaten to spill. “I just didn’t expect it to come out because I crashed a damn kart.”

Max’s mouth curves into an adorable smile warm, crinkled, a little teary and for the first time all day the fear in his eyes fades. “Of course,” he says, chuckling as he squeezes your hand. “Leave it to you to nearly take yourself out just to get to this moment.”

You laugh, shaking your head as a tear escapes and slides down your cheek. “Hey, if it works, it works.”

He leans in slightly, his other hand reaching up to gently brush the tear away with the back of his knuckle.

“I love you,” he says again, quieter this time. Like he just needed to say it one more time to make sure it was real.

You smile up at him, heart thudding hard beneath your bandages and bruises. “I know.”

And in that moment, everything else pain, fear, uncertainty, melts into the background. Because you said it. He said it. And now it’s out there, tangible, pulsing between you like the steady rhythm of something solid and true.

The kind of love that doesn’t wait for perfect timing.

The kind that shows up even in the chaos.

The kind that stays.

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pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language.

Notes — Welcome to the Radio Silence universe! This chapter is mainly devoted to introducing Amelia as a character, but does have a bit of Lando in it too! Hope you love it.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2018

Amelia Brown stared at the new plaque on her dad’s office door.

Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing.

She hated it.

Not because she wasn’t proud of him. Of course she was — her dad was brilliant, and he’d worked for years to get that title. It made sense. It was logical.

But the words looked wrong. Off-balance. Too sharp.

The old plaque had been there for years. Zak Brown, Executive Director of McLaren Technology Group. She knew the exact spacing of the letters, the way the light hit the brushed metal in the afternoon. She’d memorised it without meaning to. It had become part of the hallway, part of the routine. Safe.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers twitching at her sides.

It wasn’t just a new title. It was everything.

The MTC felt different now. The air had a new kind of buzz to it — louder, sharper. People looked at her differently, talked to her like she was someone else entirely. Like being the CEO’s daughter had changed her, too.

The rules had changed, and no one had told her what the new ones were.

—

Her father had been a Formula One fan for as long as she could remember.

V10 engines were her lullaby as a baby; the high-pitched scream of them a strange kind of comfort. Over time, the sound had settled into her nervous system, familiar and grounding.

By the time she was eight, she couldn’t fall asleep without it. Old races playing softly on the TV, the steady rhythm of the commentators’ voices, the roar of the engines, the tension winding through each lap.

One night, when she was ten, the power had gone out during a storm. No TV. No white noise. Just silence and the wind scraping at the windows.

She’d curled up in her bed, fists pressed tight against her ears, trying not to cry.

Then came footsteps in the hallway. Steady. Familiar.

Her dad’s voice followed, soft but certain. “Hey, kiddo. Got something for you.”

He stepped into her room with a dusty old laptop under one arm and a tangle of wires in the other.

Ten minutes later, her princess-themed bedroom was filled with the warm flicker of a grainy screen. The 2005 Japanese Grand Prix. One of her favourites.

She knew the race by heart. Raikkonen’s last-lap pass on Fisichella, the way Alonso danced through the field like he could see gaps before they even opened. She mouthed the commentators’ lines without realising, her breathing slowly syncing with the rhythm of the engine notes.

Her dad didn’t say anything. He just sat on the floor beside her bed, legs stretched out, back against the wall, holding the laptop steady for her to see.

Eight years later, Amelia thought about that night a lot.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what Formula One had meant to her dad before she was even born. But somewhere along the line, it had become more than just his dream. It had become theirs.

For Amelia, it wasn’t just a sport. It was everything.

Formula One was her special interest; the thing that clicked in her brain in a way nothing else ever had. The stats, the strategy, the evolution of car design, the sound of a perfectly timed downshift… it all made sense when so much of the world didn’t.

It gave her a framework, a rhythm, a language that felt natural.

While other kids played games she didn’t understand, she memorised engine configurations. While teachers scolded her for “zoning out,” she was mentally replaying the 2002 Brazilian Grand Prix, lap by lap.

She could list every World Champion from 1950 onward before she could properly tie her shoes. At recess, when the others were pretending to be superheroes or princesses, she was mapping out imaginary circuits in the dirt with a stick, narrating races in her head with full commentary — down to the tire strategies and pit stop windows.

She tried sharing her passion with her peers, once.

In third grade, she’d brought a die-cast model of a 1998 McLaren MP4/13 to class for sharing time. She’d practised what she was going to say all night, rehearsed the facts in front of the mirror until the words felt smooth. Recited the specs; V10 engine, Adrian Newey’s aerodynamic innovations, Mika Häkkinen’s championship run, over and over.

But when she stood in front of the class, the words tumbled out too fast, too detailed, too much. She was halfway through explaining the brake-steer controversy when a boy in the front row yawned so loudly it echoed, and someone in the back let out a snort-laugh that made her ears burn.

After that, she stopped trying.

Except with her dad.

With him, she never had to translate. She could go on about tire compounds or telemetry data or how ridiculous it was that certain drivers still didn’t know how to defend a corner, and he never told her to slow down or “talk normal.” He just nodded, asked questions, matched her pace.

They didn’t need eye contact or hugs or long emotional talks. They had race weekends. They had side-by-side silence on the couch, watching onboards and live timing feeds. They had post-race debriefs at the kitchen table over scrambled eggs, like it was the most natural thing in the world for an eight-year-old to have such strong opinions about power unit reliability.

It was how they communicated. Racing was their shared language.

Her mom didn’t get it; not really. The noise overwhelmed her. The rules confused her. She once referred to Sebastian Vettel as “the one with the baby face and the weird flag thing,” and Amelia had almost burst into flames on the spot.

But she tried.

She printed out colouring sheets of cars when Amelia was little, even though she could already draw them from memory. She learned to set the TV volume just right; high enough for Amelia to hear the engines clearly, low enough not to overwhelm her. She made snacks on race days and never once complained when qualifying ran late into the night.

Her mom didn’t understand the obsession. But she understood Amelia.

—

Amelia walked into her dad’s office and froze, staring at the shelf lined with trophies, framed photos, and mementos from his years in motorsport. It had been that way for months now, ever since he’d taken the CEO position at McLaren, and every time she had to look at it, her ears burned.

Because the items on the shelf were never in the right order.

The memorabilia was all haphazardly placed; drivers she didn’t like sitting too close to ones she admired. There were racing helmets, but the scale didn’t make sense; one was huge, another tiny, a third just slightly off-centre.

There were photos, too, of her dad with the team, with Fernando Alonso, with the McLaren execs, but none of them were lined up properly.

The shelf, she thought, should be perfect. But it wasn’t.

Reaching up, she slid the first photo frame to the right, just enough to make it parallel with the others. Then the helmet, she shifted it slightly, aligning it with the edge of the shelf.

One by one, she adjusted the frames, the objects, the odd little pieces of her dad’s world that had once felt like a steady part of her life.

She wasn’t sure why it was bothering her so much today. Maybe it was the way everything felt out of sync.

When she reached the second shelf, she noticed a small figure of a car. A McLaren MP4/4. Her dad had given it to her when she was younger, one of the few gifts he’d ever picked out himself. She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the model before she set it down exactly in the middle of the shelf, just below the first row of photos.

For a very brief moment, it was perfect.

Just a small fix. A temporary escape from the feeling that everything else was slipping out of her grasp.

“Wow. Looks much better.”

Amelia tensed at the sound of her dad’s voice from the doorway.

She hadn’t heard him come in. For a moment, she considered turning on her heel and leaving the room, pretending she hadn’t touched anything. But her dad was already smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn’t look upset. He never did; that was the problem. She could never tell how he was really feeling because his face always stayed the same. It was like his expressions were stuck, and no matter how hard she tried to figure it out, she couldn’t read him. It made it hard to know if he was happy, worried, or anything at all. Everything just felt... flat.

“You know,” he continued, stepping further into the room, his hands in his pockets, “I’ve never been great at this stuff. Never really noticed how... messy things can get in here. But I guess you’ve got a better eye for it than I do.”

Amelia couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride.

She nodded quietly, her gaze flicking back to the shelf. There was a strange sense of uncertainty creeping in, though. “Is it still okay, though?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean... Does it still... feel like yours?”

Her dad glanced at her, then back at the shelf, his smile fading just a little. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “It still feels like me. And it’s you, too, right? Made you feel better to change things up a bit?”

She just stared at him, unsure how to answer that.

He stepped closer, running a hand through his hair. "I know things feel... different now. I guess I'm still getting used to it, too," he admitted quietly. "But it’s still... McLaren. It's still our world, kiddo."

Amelia’s stomach clenched. She wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. She only nodded, her gaze travelling back to the perfectly aligned shelf.

Her dad placed a hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing over her skin like a quiet reassurance. She made a small noise of discomfort. He paused, and then tightened his grip. So tight it might make a normal person wince. It just made Amelia let out a relieved breath of air, the pressure good, good, good.

It wasn’t that she hated touch, it was just that it had to be right, had to be just the right amount of force, of contact. Too light, and it felt like nothing at all. Too much, and she’d start to feel overwhelmed, like the weight of the world was pressing in. But this... this was perfect. His hand, firm on her shoulder, grounded her in a way nothing else could.

“Thanks for tidying up,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “I think I might leave it just like this for a while. Feels... good.”

She nodded, the pressure of his hand still there, steady, and it was like she could finally breathe again.

—

The McLaren pit garages smelled of oil and rubber. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, and she could still hear them even through the noise-cancelling headphones on her ears. Amelia moved through the space quietly, sharp eyes scanning the flurry of engineers, tire changers, and data specialists working with practiced urgency. Her hands were clasped behind her back, fingers pressed tight against her palms, and her gaze flicked between the monitors, the car, and the teams as they hustled to prepare the MCL33 for its next session.

Her favourite part was always the data. The telemetry displayed on the screens had a rhythm, a language that felt like it belonged to her more than anyone else. The raw numbers, the graphs, the fine-tuned fluctuations of the car’s performance; it all made perfect sense. She knew what to look for.

Her feet carried her forward. She found herself standing near Fernando Alonso’s MCL33, just a few feet away. The car was a beautiful mess of carbon fiber, heat shields, and wires, and it was just sat there, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Before the season had even started, Amelia had memorised every part of it, from the aerodynamic tweaks to the engine specs.

One of the engineers noticed her as she lingered, her posture attentive, her expression unreadable beneath the headphones. Everyone knew who she was. Zac’s daughter. A genius, in a multitude of ways.

He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her. He’d noticed how her eyes narrowed when too many voices clashed together at once, or how she shrunk when people got just that little bit too close.

"Hey, Amelia," he said, his voice calm, not wanting to intrude. She turned toward him, her face still slightly blank, but he could tell by the way her eyes focused on his that she had heard him. “You good?” he asked, motioning toward the telemetry screens just behind her.

Amelia nodded, then hesitated. Her hand hovered for a second before she slowly, cautiously pointed at the screen. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, careful. “I... I think the tire pressures on the front left might be a little too high for this circuit. The temperatures are different compared to last year.”

She didn’t look at the engineer as she spoke. Her eyes stayed fixed on the data, like if she focused hard enough, she could disappear into it. She knew she was right, she was almost always right when it came to this, but the memory of past times, of laughter or dismissal, tugged at the edge of her confidence. She didn’t want to make it sound like she thought she knew more than the team. She didn’t even have a degree.

The engineer just blinked. “I’ll pass it along,” he said, eventually.

Amelia gave a small nod, then quickly turned her focus back to the car, to the numbers flicking past on the monitors. She adjusted her posture slightly, shoulders curling inward, trying to take up less space.

As she focused on the intricate lines of the MCL33, another engineer approached her. He was holding a tablet with a telemetry feed of his own, and without speaking, he offered it to her. Amelia looked at the data for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed the figures and readouts. Then, her finger gently traced over the tablet’s screen, pointing to a particularly complex graph of the car’s acceleration over the course of a lap.

“Right there,” she said, her voice soft but clear, though it was a bit muffled by the headphones. "You need to adjust the mapping."

The engineer hummed, impressed but not surprised. “I’ll have the team look into it,” he said, before turning to relay her suggestion to the others.

Her dad was always there, of course, close, watching from a distance, his presence a quiet comfort. But Amelia didn’t need him right now. She just needed the machines, the numbers, and the freedom to study it all.

The engineers moved around her, respecting her space. Always careful not to brush against her, even though she was technically in their way.

When she finally did look up from the data screens, Fernando had stepped into the garage, just a few feet away, in his racing suit, helmet tucked under one arm. He glanced at her, then at the engineers who were quietly working around her.

He approached with a calm, easy presence that didn’t press too hard, didn’t demand anything. “Ah. How is the car feeling, pollita?” he asked, voice light but kind.

Amelia gave a small nod, gaze trained on the Spanish flag on the neck of his fireproofs.

Fernando smiled. Then he turned to the engineers, who were already passing along her observations.

“If she said it,” he said, tone warm and without a trace of doubt, “then yes—keep an eye on the turbo mapping. She is the smart one.”

—

She walked around the paddock often. The garages were fun —fascinating, even— but it could all very quickly become too much. The noise, the flashing lights, the overlapping voices, the sudden bursts of motion.

So she’d slip away. Not far. Just enough.

There was always a McLaren staff member trailing after her. Not hovering, not bothering, just keeping a quiet distance. Just far enough to give her the illusion of independence, a false sense of freedom she chose to believe in. She didn’t mind. As long as they didn’t try to talk, or worse, touch, she could almost ignore them entirely.

She wandered with a purpose that only made sense to her, eyes fixed ahead, headphones still on, the rest of the world muted and manageable. She liked it that way. The paddock, in the quiet bubble of her own world, was peaceful.

That’s when she spotted him.

Lewis Hamilton stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sunglasses perched on his nose. Roscoe was with him, tail wagging lazily, nose in something that probably smelled like food. Amelia stopped walking, blinked a few times, then changed direction.

Lewis noticed her before she got too close. He smiled, lowering his sunglasses slightly. “Hey, Amelia,” he said, crouching a little as Roscoe trotted forward to sniff her shoes. “Been a while. You good?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crouched carefully, reaching a hand out to Roscoe but not touching him until the dog pressed his nose into her palm. Only then did she give a tiny nod.

Lewis waited, patient. He was always nice like that.

“How’s Roscoe?” she asked finally, her voice soft and low. One time, somebody told her that she spoke like she wasn’t sure she had permission to do so. Always quiet. Mumbling, if she could get away with it.

Lewis just smiled, warmth radiating in that easy way of his. She liked Lewis a lot. “He’s good. Living his best life. Had a spa day last week. He’s spoiled.”

Amelia looked at the bulldog again, and her tight jaw felt softer. “Good.”

There was a pause. She didn’t move, didn’t say much, but she didn’t walk away either.

“You ever want to walk him sometime, just ask,” Lewis offered, still crouched.

Amelia looked up, eyes wide, the corners of her mouth twitching in what might have been the start of a smile. She gave a small nod.

Then she stood, gave Roscoe one last pat, and turned to leave.

The McLaren staffer fell into step a few paces behind her, still pretending not to be watching too closely.

Amelia looked down at her hand. Grimaced.

Her chest tightened. The feeling started crawling up her skin.

“I need sanitiser,” she said, voice rushed and clipped, a little too loud, a little too sharp. Her hands hovered awkwardly in front of her like she didn’t want to touch anything, even herself.

The staffer blinked once, then immediately fished a small bottle from his pocket and offered it to her without a word.

Amelia snatched it quickly, not too fast, not rude, she told herself, and squeezed a dollop into her palm. She rubbed it in with fast, focused movements. Between every finger. Around every nail. Up her wrists. Twice.

Only when the last of it had dried, leaving that slightly tacky residue behind, did her shoulders drop. The tension in her jaw loosened. The hum in her head began to fade.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. She turned back toward the paddock walkway, pressing her clean hands flat against the sides of her jeans, grounding herself in the texture.

—

The MTC’s glass corridors were quiet, filled with the soft echo of Amelia’s footsteps. She liked walking here early in the mornings, before the building filled with noise and movement. The lines were clean, the light was even, and everything had its place.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone moving fast; backwards, clumsily trying to zip up his hoodie while juggling an apple and his phone.

Lando Norris. FIA Formula 2 championship runner-up, member of the McLaren Young Driver Programme, widely considered one of the brightest rising stars in motorsport. She knew all of this about him.

He skidded to a stop when he saw her, eyes widening slightly. “Oh, hey. Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

Amelia stared at him for a beat, saying nothing.

“You’re late,” she said plainly.

Lando blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Kinda running behind this morning. Slept through my alarm. Happens sometimes.”

She tilted her head, studying him like he was part of a data set, eyes narrowed into thin slits. “You’ll never get promoted if you’re always late.”

The words came out blunt, matter-of-fact. She wasn’t trying to be rude, just honest. Patterns mattered. Timings mattered. Discipline mattered. Racing was full of rules, and being late was not acceptable.

Lando laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh—do you really think I won’t get promoted?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly, not in judgment but in analysis. She was already calculating, recalling his lap times, consistency, tyre management, race-craft under pressure. She’d watched his F2 season. Not just watched; studied it. He was aggressive under braking, a little rough on tyres mid-stint, but his spatial awareness was excellent, and his adaptability in changing conditions put him in the top percentile.

He was a good fit for McLaren, in her opinion.

“Are you fast?” She asked him, despite already knowing the answer.

Lando blinked. Let out a short, awkward laugh. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.”

She nodded once, satisfied. “Then you’ll be fine.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her stride quick and purposeful, the conversation already filed away in her mind, concluded.

Lando stood there for a second, caught off guard. Smart. Intense. Kind of pretty, too. But brutal. “Right,” he muttered to himself, watching her go. “Cool. Fast. Got it.”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on her bed in her family home in England, the room quiet except for the electrical hum of her phone charger. Her mom was downstairs, making chilli for dinner, and her dad was still at the office.

She was scrolling through Twitter, quietly, methodically, as she did most evenings. She didn’t get involved much. A few retweets here and there. Articles, stats, insights. She had a good number of followers, mostly people who’d seen her on race broadcasts or encountered her race-day tweets.

But then, her thumb hovered. Lando Norris had tweeted earlier that day. She followed him, of course. She followed every McLaren adjacent account.

She clicked on his profile.

She knew him. Had obviously studied his race-craft.

She scrolled through his timeline, her eyes tracking his tweets one by one.

"Is it just me or does everyone have a friend who thinks they know how to cook but really just know how to burn toast? 😂"

Amelia blinked. She didn’t get it. Was that supposed to be funny? She wasn’t sure that incompetence was amusing.

She continued scrolling, her eyes scanning through the odd mix of jokes, memes, and race-day updates. None of it made any sense. She was used to tweets that were precise, purposeful — like her own. Her posts were methodical, always carefully planned, always factual. Data, analysis, insights. It was how she communicated with the world.

Another tweet.

“Just watched a documentary on the moon landing. Now I’m convinced I could be an astronaut. 😂”

Amelia frowned. There was no mention of racing, no insights into strategy, no talk of lap times or tire degradation. Just... this. She scrolled past it quickly, her thumb moving with a steady rhythm as she returned to her own timeline, where everything was neatly laid out, logical, and to the point.

Maybe she should talk to Lando about using his social media more usefully. After all, he already had such a large following. He could share insights, data, something valuable for his fans. He was a professional driver, for goodness' sake. It could be a way to connect with people, educate them, make them appreciate the intricacies of racing in the same way that she did.

She bit her lip, feeling a small knot form in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she could just tell him to change. That would be... strange. Maybe even rude.

Two hours later, Amelia sat at the dinner table, poking at her food absentmindedly. Her mom was talking about her day at work, but Amelia wasn’t really listening.

Her dad, always quick to pick up on when something wasn’t right, glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kiddo?”

Amelia hesitated for a moment, rolling the words around in her mouth. She wasn’t sure why it was bothering her so much, but the thought of Lando’s Twitter kept circling in her mind, unresolved. “Lando Norris is a terrible tweeter. He needs a social media manager.”

Her dad stared at her for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Ah, that’s just Lando! Fans love him for it. He’s... unpredictable, keeps everyone guessing. People follow him because they like seeing the real him. Jokes and all.”

Amelia didn’t find anything about this situation funny.

She fiddled with her food, the tension in her chest tightening. Why did nobody seem as concerned about this as she was?

Lando was good. A good racer. A worthy driver.

Late. He was always late. He could fix that, though.

Fix, fix, fix.

She clenched her hands in her lap, staring at her plate, her thoughts spinning.

Her mom set her fork down, leaning forward slightly. “Amelia, is it really bothering you, honey?”

Amelia’s gaze snapped up, her eyes wide. “Yes! I don’t understand it. He could be doing so much more—he’s just... joking around all the time. He never posts about his telemetry or his tests. It’s such a waste!”

Her mom nodded patiently. “That’s what you would post about?” she asked, her tone gentle.

Amelia nodded, feeling her thoughts settle into place. “Yes. It’s all there, the numbers, the data. It shows his skills. It’s... more useful.”

Her dad hummed thoughtfully. “I could have a chat with him. Tell him to post more of his racing stats. They are impressive. But I won’t tell him to stop being himself. That’s working well for his image.”

Amelia wrung her hands together under the table, taking small, even breaths. It helped calm her, but the unease was still there.

“I think…” she started, her voice softer now, the edges of her frustration ebbing away. “He is a good racer.”

Her dad smiled at her, a little amused. “You care about his success, huh? Well, that’s sweet.”

Amelia nodded. Then she frowned. Sweet? Why was that sweet? She cared about the success of all the drivers in her dad’s team… not just Lando.

Her mom reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re not the only one who wants him to do well, honey. But maybe let him be him. It’s working for him in his own way, even if it’s not how you’d do it.”

Amelia hummed thoughtfully, picking up her fork. She liked chilli. It was comforting. Simple. Consistent.

She missed the look her parents shared — half concerned, half understanding.

—

Fernando would leave Formula One at the end of the 2018 season.

Amelia didn’t know how to feel about it, or if she should feel anything at all. The news came as a whisper first; just a passing comment she overheard in the MTC, a conversation between her dad and one of the engineers. At first, it didn’t seem real. Fernando had been a fixture of the sport for as long as she could remember. The idea of Formula One without him felt... wrong. He wasn’t just another driver; he was Fernando.

And then, one afternoon, her dad sat her down in his office and confirmed what she had been dreading.

Fernando was leaving.

She found herself pacing around the house, her mind spiralling as she thought about the future of F1 without him in it.

He’d always been so nice to her, letting her into his garage whenever she wanted, no questions asked. There was never any judgment in his eyes when she stared at data screens for hours or rambled on about telemetry. He just... let her be.

He had understood her in a way few people ever did.

She would miss him.

—

Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz. 2019 McLaren Driver Line-up.

She’d expected it. She knew it was coming. Fernando was leaving. So was Stoffel. She’d already processed that. But somehow, seeing it laid out in front of her, seeing it confirmed in black and white, made it feel much more real.

Her dad had sat her down earlier on in the month, his voice soft but steady. He’d said it was a new chapter for McLaren, a step in the right direction.

She put the phone down, the buzzing of it faint in her ears, and stared ahead. The news sat like a heavy weight in her chest. Lando and Carlos. McLaren’s new driver pairing.

—

iMessage — Lewis Hamilton & Amelia Brown

Amelia Brown

I would like to see a photo of Roscoe.

Lewis Hamilton

*insert photograph of Roscoe*

You doing okay, kiddo? Lots of changes happening over there at McLaren.

Amelia Brown

I am fine.

Lewis Hamilton

You're always welcome at Mercedes if you need a breather, yeah?

Toto thinks very highly of you.

Amelia Brown

Because I am so smart?

Lewis Hamilton

Exactly.

—

Amelia sat in the kitchen, scrolling through Twitter as she sipped her coffee. Her nineteenth birthday had come and gone, quietly, without much fanfare.

Her gaze drifted across the screen.

Lando had posted something that caught her attention.

"Why do I feel like I need a vacation, but I also can't leave my bed?"

Amelia blinked at the tweet, trying to make sense of it. She tilted her head, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard. She didn’t understand. Was he… hurt? Why couldn’t he leave his bed? He was supposed to be racing a Formula One car in a matter of months.

With a worried sigh, she typed out a simple response to his tweet.

What does this mean?

She hit send and waited.

A few minutes later, Lando replied.

It’s just one of those random thoughts. You know, like when you’re too comfortable but you also want to escape, but you don’t really? Classic conundrum lol

Amelia stared at the reply, processing it slowly.

She... still didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to leave a comfortable bed just to go somewhere else?

She frowned at the screen for a moment, her eyes scanning the thread, and then she noticed the replies.

“Lando is so sweet to explain it! 💕”

“Aw, he’s always so patient with everyone ❤️”

Amelia’s brows furrowed. Sweet? Patient? She didn’t understand. He was just explaining himself and his terrible analogy. Had nobody else been confused?

She stared at the replies for a moment longer, the confusion deepening. It felt like there was something she was missing.

She felt a small twist of discomfort, the kind she always got when emotions felt too complicated, too layered.

Amelia clicked away from the thread, unsure what to do with the strange tugging sensation that lingered in her chest.

—

That night, Amelia sat on the edge of her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. She glanced over at her mom, who was measuring her bedroom window. Amelia had asked for black-out blinds, now that the days were getting brighter again.

“When my chest gets tight— and I’m thinking about somebody, and then I see other people saying nice things about them... and it gets, um, uncomfortable— what does that mean?”

Her mom paused, turning to face her. “Well. It can be a lot of things, honey. Depends on the person. Maybe you’re feeling protective, or it could be jealousy. Sometimes, we can feel a lot of emotions physically, and they don’t always have to make sense.”

Amelia blinked, feeling something stir inside her that she couldn’t quite name. The word felt almost too big to say. “Jealousy?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mom nodded, sitting down next to her. “Jealousy isn’t always bad. It’s just a feeling. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Amelia’s mind spun. The word echoed in her head, uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

Jealousy.

Something about it seemed to fit.

NEXT CHAPTER

453 notes · View notes

cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

Text

drew starkey and younger!ditzy!reader going to coachella part two!

wc: 1,047 — a/n: part one is here!

you find it by accident.

you’re lying belly-down on the hotel bed post-coachella, legs kicking lazily in the air, your hair still braided and a tiny smudge of glitter stuck to your temple. drew’s in the shower. you’re just scrolling—mindlessly tapping through stories—when you see it.

deuxmoi: SPOTTED—drew starkey’s “barely legal” girlfriend causes a scene at coachella. sources say drew was “visibly annoyed” with her the entire time. still cute though?

and then:

“she looks like she needs a babysitter, not a boyfriend.” “imagine being drew starkey and ending up with THAT.” “she probably thinks coachella is a drink.”

your stomach sinks. it feels like you’re watching your reflection crack. like your glitter’s turned into something ugly. your chest gets tight and your eyes sting before you even realize why.

the thing is, they’re not saying anything new. you know what people think. that you're young, ditzy, clingy. that you're not smart enough. that you just float around in your own little world, and drew.. drew is too calm, too serious, too grown for you.

and now you think—maybe they’re right.

you slip off the bed quietly, wipe your eyes, and grab your bag.

you’re halfway out the door when he calls out, towel around his waist, wet hair dripping onto his chest. “where are you going?”

you freeze.

“back to home,” you mumble, not turning around.

he’s behind you in two seconds. “what? why?”

“i’m just… i’m tired,” you lie, fingers curling tight around the strap of your purse. “and i don’t wanna keep embarrassing you.”

“embarrassing me?” his voice drops. “where the hell is this coming from?”

you turn slowly, eyes red and puffy. “i saw the tweet.”

his jaw flexes.

“they’re right,” you whisper. “you’re always fixing my top, or babysitting me, or explaining things, or covering for me, and i—i’m just... too dumb for you.”

he exhales sharply, stepping closer. “don’t you ever say that.”

“i don’t want you to feel stuck with someone who’s always messing things up,” you say, swallowing a sob. “and i don’t want you to hate me one day because i’m not good enough.”

his hands are on your cheeks before you can run, before you can hide. “you think i’m stuck with you?” his voice is low, but you know. “you think i cover you because i’m ashamed?”

you sniff. “aren’t you?”

he kisses you. hard.

you’re breathless when he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours.

“i cover you because i want to protect you,” he says, voice rough. “because i know how soft you are. and i’d rather the whole world see me as annoyed than ever see you cry.”

you hiccup softly. “but you were annoyed…”

he chuckles—gently this time. “yeah, because you were about to flash a crowd full of dudes with their phones out. not because you’re dumb. you’re not dumb. you’re just... you. you’re soft, and sparkly, and ask me what time zone we’re in at least twice a day—"

“i-i get confused!” you whimper.

“—and i love that about you,” he cuts in, brushing a tear off your cheek. “you’re not too much. you’re mine.”

you crumple into him, burying your face in his chest. “i thought you didn’t love me.”

“i’ve been in love with you since you asked if hummus was dairy.”

“…it’s not?”

“baby…”

you’re curled into his lap like a kitten, legs draped over his thighs, your cheek pressed against his chest. one of his hoodies is swallowing you whole, sleeves dangling past your fingers. you haven’t said much since you cried—just little sniffles, pouty silence, and an occasional “mmh” when he kissed the top of your head.

he knows you’re still hurting. so he pulls out his phone and opens his camera roll.

“wanna see something?” he murmurs.

you peek up at him, lips still trembling. “what?”

he swipes once, then flips the screen so you can see.

it’s a video of you from earlier that day—standing in the middle of the grass at coachella, sun blaring, flower crown crooked, and you’re bouncing on your toes with a popsicle in one hand and your tongue bright red. you’re yelling over the music, trying to get his attention:

“drewwww! babe! look at me, i match the popsicle! i am the popsicle!”

he snorts, and so do you, just a little.

you let out a small, wobbly giggle, cheeks heating up. “i sound so dumb.”

he presses a kiss to your temple. “you sound adorable.”

then he swipes again—another photo. this time it’s the two of you backstage, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carries you because your sandals “felt like knives.” your lips are pressed to his cheek, and you look like you don’t have a care in the world.

he shows you more—candid shots of you twirling in your sparkly skirt, one where your sunglasses are way too big for your face, another where you’re mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. and then a video from the hotel that morning, you dancing while brushing your teeth, hair all crazy.

“you took that?” you whisper.

“yup,” he says, scrolling. “you don’t even know how much i take.”

you peek up at him, bottom lip still a little pouty. “because you’re trying to collect evidence of how annoying i am?”

he gives you a look. “no, baby. because i don’t ever wanna forget how happy you make me.”

you blink. your lip trembles again—but this time it’s not from sadness. “you’re so mean to me,” you whisper dramatically, flopping against his chest.

he grins. “mean?”

“you make me cry, and then show me cute pictures of myself and kiss me on the forehead, and now i feel dumb for being sad.”

he shifts, laying back with you still curled into his arms. “you’re not dumb for being sad. but i’m gonna remind you every time that i don’t care what deuxmoi or whatever the hell it’s called or twitter or some troll behind a screen says.”

you nuzzle into him. “even if i say things like... are cucumbers baby pickles?”

he sighs playfully, tightening his arms around you. “especially then.”

you grin into his chest. “and you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

“i still wanna marry you.”

you freeze.

“w-what?”

“nothing,” he says quickly, kissing your forehead. “eat your gummy bears, baby.”

“drew?!”

772 notes · View notes

goorgeousz · 3 days ago

Text

overtime | aaron hotchner

18+

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!female!reader

summary: based on this request! hotch calls you into his office after hours about a missing report but you know the real reason behind it

content/tw: unprotected sex, p in v sex, office sex, semi-public sex, use of y/n, dom!hotch, sub!reader, hotch puts you on a headlock (sexually), choking (reader being choked),

word count:

a/n: this was supposed to be a porn without plot situation but I’m a whore for background story… anyway, thank you for submitting, my requests are open <3 I hope you enjoy it!

after hours au masterlist (aaron hotchner x reader series)

main masterlist

This had to come to an end.

This thing between you and Hotchner — whatever that was — had been going on for months now. The mutual pining, stolen glances, longing touches.

You liked it. At first, it was too subtle. The rush of trying to get a moment alone. The butterflies in your stomach not knowing if it was real or happening just in your head. ‘Did he want to touch my waist or was it an accident?’ ‘Did he get coffee for everyone else or was it just me?’ ‘Was he looking at my lips or I’m seeing things?’

But enough is enough. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. And even though the longing were fun and exciting, it had to come to an end, otherwise would be just torture. Fantasy.

You were stubborn, you’d admit it. But Aaron? That man was a fucking wall.

A few weeks ago, you thought he was going to break. It was a dinner party at Rossi’s. A lot of wine later, he offered to give you and JJ a ride. He let her home first, and you were alone in the car. Your dress had slipped up, you could see his eyes staring holes at your thighs from the driver seat. But as you waited for him to make the first move, he just parked and offered to walk you to the door, not even waiting for you to invite him to come in.

And then, in the last case you had, you felt him uneasy. He was shifting on his seat, fumbling with his fingers, his tie seemingly too tight, and he stared at you more than usual. Late at night, on the plane home, after everyone was asleep, you asked him what was wrong. He was nervous, but he was going to tell you. He really was. Finally. But the jet entered a turbulent area, and it woke everyone up. When you arrived, after packing your things to go home you went to talk to him again. Just the two of you. But the moment was gone, and he’d become distant again.

That’s when you decided: today was the day.

You didn’t typically wear tight outfits, or anything remotely short. Your day to day outfits were consistent: pants and a shirt. Maybe a sweater, maybe long skirts. You valued a good closet, choosing carefully your clothes — you loved feeling well dressed —, your goal to be the most comfortable possible.

But it was summer, and hotter than usual. You didn’t think much of it, just picking that dress because it was possibly the only item you owned that wouldn’t overheat you. It wasn’t anything inappropriate, really. Just not what you usually went for.

It was a tight dress, stopping mid thigh, with a v-neck and ¾ sleeves. Nothing fancy, but it hugged your curves just right. You felt beautiful walking out, but you didn’t think people would notice it.

Man, were you wrong.

It started with Morgan, who playfully barked as soon as you walked into the bullpen. You laughed at him, playing and giving him a twirl. They all complimented you, and only then you realized you could use that to your advantage.

The team had a meeting, and you made sure to arrive early at the conference room, to be alone with Hotch and see if he would give you a reaction.

A reaction was given.

Hotch looked up from his papers when he heard your footsteps approaching the conference room. You smiled politely, greeted him with a good morning and grabbed a cup of coffee, making sure to spend as much time standing as possible.

More than seen, you felt his gaze on you. He looked at you like a man starved, not even bothering to greet you back. His eyes roamed your whole body, his breath hitching when you swayed your hips, walking slowly to sit next to him.

He didn’t pretend he wasn’t looking at your chest, your breasts pushed together under the cleavage, making him thirsty. His eyes found yours, and you realized you had him.

Before anything could happen, Spencer and Emily walked into the room, followed a few minutes later by the rest of the team. The interruption didn’t bother you in the slightest. You leaned back, trying not to grin too wildly while he started the meeting, not so subtly averting his eyes from you.

…

It was a matter of time. You didn’t know when, you didn’t know how. But nonetheless, you knew.

Not even 10 minutes after, you got a text. Before you even got your phone, you knew it was coming.

From ‘Hotch’: Y/N, come to my office as soon as possible.

Feeling all too pleased with yourself, you chuckled and stood up, fixing your already perfectly smoothed dress, and climbed the stairs leading to Hotch’s office.

You knocked at the door and waited for a response. He authorized you to come in, his voice muffled by his soundproof walls.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, managing to seem oblivious.

“Yes.” he nodded, grabbing one of the files at his table. “It’s about your paperwork.”

“Is there something wrong?” you asked, knowing damn right there was nothing wrong.

“Not with the ones you submit. There are a few reports missing.”

“Yes, I was going to do them tomorrow, when I’ll have more time. Since they’re too important, you know? Didn’t want to end up messing them up.” you explained, crossing your arms.

“I understand. But I’ll ask you to start doing those first.” you arched an eyebrow at that “It’s important to improve your production organization, just as much as the work itself. For example, if tomorrow we end up having a case, your focus should be on the case, not on the previous paper work. Even though there are only a few reports missing, they are the most relevant ones. So I suggest…” he interrupted his speech, clearly annoyed at you “I don’t see this is so funny, agent.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, sir.” you said, trying and failing miserably to suppress your grin. You didn’t even bother to sit.

This was ridiculous.

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows at you.

“Care to explain?”

“It’s just that… I’m waiting for you to tell me the real reason you called me in here.” he looked dumbfounded at you.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not that what you’re saying isn’t important, it is. Very much so, I understand that. But you never told me about it. Not once, since I joined the team. I’ve always managed my paperwork just fine, never missed a report. Case or no case. And it didn’t affect my performance in the field, not in the slightest.” you explained, resting your hips at the back of the chair before you, glancing at him on the other side of the table.

“This is not true at all.” he said, fixing his tie. You laughed.

“It is. You know it.” he did. But he wasn’t ready to admit it. “So you called me in just to talk about my reports?”

“Precisely.”

“And you had to wait for everyone to leave to talk with me about my reports?” you got him.

“I didn’t realize it was that late.” at that you laughed.

“Come on, Hotch. I see you staring. You can’t keep your eyes up. You try to, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s a very serious accusation, agent.” he muttered.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply stating facts.” you sighed “It could be so much easier if you just admitted.”

“How so?” he didn’t deny, so you took it as a sign he was close.

“You and I both know what’s going on. And neither of us want to break first. But I know I don’t just speak for myself when I say it’s becoming unbearable.”

“I don’t know if I agree.” he said, but his voice sounded hoarse and his pupils dilated.

“Oh but you do.” your tone a mocking sweetness “I bet you spent hours just figuring out a way to call me here. Something reasonable enough so it would be pathetic. It didn’t worry, did it?”

“Are you calling your unit chief pathetic, agent” he arched an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I’m calling pathetic men who let pride stop themselves from getting what they truly want. Are you pathetic, sir?” you asked, blinking your eyelashes at him.

Whatever smile he may have vanished at that.

He sat up straight, his eyes darkening with something dangerous.

“Careful.” he warned, scolding.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. You thought this was over. It was starting to piss you off.

Any amusement you may have felt just vanished.

You were so over this. It wasn’t funny anymore. It was ridiculous, humiliating. This game you two were playing was long overdue.

That’s when you decided to give up. It was now or never.

“Fine, Hotch. Do you want me to leave?” you asked, looking at him blatantly, your emotions displayed openly in your eyes like they were a shining outdoor.

He hesitated.

That motherfucker.

Hotch looked at you in the eyes once more, deeply. Like he needed to confirm something before he chose his next move. Like a chess player. Pacient. Deliberate. Analytical. Whatever he was looking for, he found it. And he made his move.

“No.”

No.

How could a single, monosyllabic, two-letter word could carry the weight of the whole world?

One word that changed everything.

It was a crime. A sin. A dream.

Everything you ever wanted, but not nearly enough.

You really wanted to say you remember everything, every detail. But your mind must’ve blanked out, because you had no idea of how and when you moved, but the next second you were standing right next to each other.

His hands reach out to you to pull you closer, like you weren’t fast enough, and he needed you now. Out of all times, now. He held you by your waist, you gripped tightly on the lapels of his expensive suit. He stopped for a second. Without hesitation, but reverence. Like he wanted to savour every single detail of this, of you. You wanted too. Wanted to feel him, to see him.

To enjoy the last seconds of the before. Because after that, nothing would ever be the same.

Despite the strength of his grip, when he kissed you, it was gentle. Kind. Devoted. Like he waited long for this (he did). You hoped, dreamt, fantasized about it even. It didn’t even compare.

His lips were gentle, kind, steady. It grounded you, it brought you back to this moment. He tasted like coffee and mint. Weird on the paper, but felt like heaven. He kissed you languidly, like he wanted to devour you. Like he was starved, and you were his only saving. He was an expert – of course-. It was surprising but not really. He was so good at it, but again, he was good at everything.

His hands rested on your waist and on your lower back, touching you like you were his holy grail.

You pulled back slightly, just to look at him again. To check if this wasn’t another cruel joke of your mind, a fantasy developed by your subconscious to punish you for its lack of rest.

It wasn’t.

You smiled at him breathlessly, biting your lower lip in delight. You stared at his wet lips like they held the secret of life behind them. You tasted it, you knew what he felt like. It was sweet, caring, and beautiful. Something to tell your kids, your grandkids. But still, not enough.

So you leaned in again, hungrier this time. So determined he was caught by surprise, stumbling back a little. He held you tighter and balanced his stance. He hummed in delight, you swallowed the sound like it was water.

“God” you muttered between kisses, and you felt his lips turning into a smirk.

“Wrong.” he teased, racing his hand lower and gripping tightly on your hips. You hummed in satisfaction, gripping the hair on the back of his neck and pulling on it. He groaned, pressing you closer against him. “So pretty.” you chuckled.

“If I knew all it took was a tight old dress I would’ve worn it way sooner.” you teased, biting on his lower lip. He stiffened. His grip remained strong, but he wasn’t pulling you into him anymore.

“You think that’s what this is about? Your dress?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. He was confused, a bit worried even.

“You can’t fool me, I saw you staring.” you gave him a pointed look. He arched an eyebrow at you.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was. But this is not about your dress. Or none of your… attributes.” he said, glancing at your chest while sliding his hands to the curve of your ass. You held your breath unconsciously. “It’s about your eyes.”

Huh?

“What?” you managed, your voice hoarse. He smirked. The bastard. “The way you looked at me today. So determined. You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” He was right, of course.

Normally, you would’ve lied, teased. But the attentive gaze he held you under didn’t let you. He was so close, his brown eyes staring so deeply into yours that you knew you couldn’t lie to him. Even if you wanted to.

“Yes.” you breathed. His smirk only grew. “You knew it all along. Played me like a toy.”

“No, I- I wouldn’t say that…” you stuttered. He chuckled, amused. “Thought your little dress would make me crumble, right?” he teased, leaning in, his lips brushing your ear “I was already long gone. But nice try, sweetheart.” you moaned – actually, moaned – at the sound of his voice.

He could’ve laughed at you. He should’ve. Damn it, you would’ve laughed at yourself, if it wasn’t for the crushing desire burning you and all your moral thoughts inside out. But apparently, he was suffering just the same, because your moan just ignited something in him. Like a switch, his teasing demeanour vanished, taking its place an animalistic one. He wasn’t tasting you anymore. He was taking from you, taking everything you had to give him. Your lips, your teeths, your tongue. Oh, your tongue. He sucked on it, licked it, grazed his teeth along it. He played with it like a pro, and you were ready to cut it off and hand it to him on a silver platter, if he asked you to.

Hotch grabbed your hips and crashed them onto his, and you could feel his hard-on right under his expensive suit pants pressed against you. Both of you hummed at the contact, thirsting for more.

He started to back you up against his desk, your thighs pressing the edge of the dark wooden desk. He leaned over while kissing you, pushing you firmly until you were seated on his desk. Fully seated, you opened your legs for him to stand between them. You pulled back, batting your eyelashes to him.

“Aren’t you going to push the files off the table?” you teased the cliche setting. He smirked, leaning closer to bite your neck “I’m taking you over right on top of it.”

Thank God you were sitting, otherwise you would’ve felt down. Now that would be humiliating.

“Hotch” you murmured, hooking your fingers to the waistband of his pants, pulling him closer “Please”.

“Anything you want, Sweetheart.” he said in fake compliance “Just have to tell me what it is.” he grinned, wickedly. You groaned, needy.

“You, Hotch.” you said. He chuckled, “I’m right here.”

You rolled your eyes, but he held you closer, placing his hands on your thighs and squeezing them harshly. It didn’t hurt you, the sting going straight to your core. You moaned in response, instinctively arching your back and spreading your legs further apart.

He kissed you hungrily, pushing up the hem of your dress until it barely covered up your cunt, groaning every time your nails grazed the nape of his neck. You wrapped your legs around his hips, grinding into him like your life depended on it. He held your hips steady, stopping you from moving, making you huff in frustration. With his other hand, he held you by your jaw, his hand easily covering it entirely.

You looked up at him, his hand holding you in place. Metaphorically and physically submissive for him. It turned you on so bad.

“I’ll ask again, Sweetheart.” he whispered, trying not to grin too much “What do you want?”

You didn’t hold back in the slightest “Fuck me, Hotch. Please, just fuck me.” you begged. He smiled slowly, predatorily. Leaned in gently and left a chaste peck on your lips. It confused you. Until it didn’t.

In a mere of seconds he stepped away, stood you up and spinned you around, pushing you again against the dest, making you lay in your stomach, your ass pressed directly into his crotch.

He pulled the rem of your dress up, letting the fabric mound around your waist “Of fucking course” he muttered at your navy-blue lacy panties. His hands roamed around you, your back, your asscheeks, your thighs. He kissed it, licked it, sucked on your flesh like he needed it more than he needed to breathe.

You pushed yourself back, needing him so much it was starting to ache “Hotch, please” you whined, not even caring if you sound desperate – which you did. Surprisingly, he heard you, standing up and unbuckling his belt. The sound made you moan in anticipation, all your bossy facade disappearing completely.

You glanced back, ogling at the sight of him pulling himself out of his briefs, hard, long and ready to fill you up. He looked at you, smugly smirking at you. He squeezed the red tip, groaning with the feeling, and stroked himself once, and then twice looking at your cheeks thrown at him. You made sure he had the best view, arching your back and pushing it back in his direction. He held your hips and spanked your cheeks with his shaft, chuckling to himself at your neediness.

Hotch eventually took pity on you, spreading your legs further apart by nudging your feets with his. He slides your underwear down, taking it off and hiding it his poked with a grin. His fingers teased your entrance, spreading your wetness and pushing one finger in. He thrusted in you a few times, your moan confirming to him you were ready for a second finger. And then a third. When you were clenching around his fingers, needy and ready for him, he took all of them off. You whined while he used his wet fingers as a lub, stroking himself again and aligning his shaft with your entrance.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse. You hummed. “Words, please.” “Yes, Hotch. Damn it, I’m…” your bickering soon turned into a strangled moan as he thrusted in you, his length and girth stretching you deliciously. He slowly bottomed out, his breath heavy and shallow, trying to control himself.

The moan he let out when you pushed your ass back, thrusting into him, was guttural. Animalistic. Feral. He held your hips and started thrusting into you, his tip reaching your spot so many times it made your head light.

“Doing so good for me, sweetheart.” he praised. You moaned. “S-so good.” you managed to say, your words cutting short by his thrusts. He chuckled “So monosyllabic now. Cat got your tongue?” “Fuck you” you muttered “Is that the way to speak with your boss?” he teased, tangling a hand on your hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulling you towards him, your back sticking to his chest.

The new angle made him reach even deeper, both of you panting in sensibility. He reached one hand to your clit, pressing tiny and light circles in it, making you moan even louder. With his other hand he roamed at your body, pulling your breasts out of your cleavage, squeezing them. The callus in his hand adds to the addictive feeling, and pushes you further on the edge.

Hotch kissed and sucked your neck, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and licking right after to sting the pain. It was hell and heaven all at once. So many sensations, his cock deep inside you, his breath hot on the shell of your ear, whispering praises and groaning until you couldn’t hear anything but his voice and the sinful sounds of your wetness being filled by him.

His hand climbed up at your throat, squeezing it gently.

You tried to hide it, you truly did.

You weren’t embarrassed about your moaning, your begging. You were way past that.

But to have your boss knowing how much you got off on being choked — the very same way you saw people get killed on a daily basis — was a different kind of humiliation.

So you tried to hide, to muffle. But your body got the best of you, clenching and letting the most pornography moan you could at the minimum pressure on your throat.

He laughed. Not smiled, not chuckled. Laughed. Pleasantly. Like he found a treasure, the key of the universe.

And honestly, he felt like he did.

He gripped on your hair tightly, pulling you harder with one hand and using the other to spread across your stomach, keeping your body flush against his.

“Got you.” he hummed drunkenly right next to your ear, biting it hard. The hand on your stomach lowered until it found your clit, pressing his thumb on your bound tightly. You were close and he knew it.

With his free arm he did the unthinkable. He engulfed you on a one-arm hug, putting you on a headlock, his biceps squeezing you deliciously. You clenched around him, pushing your hips out and fucking him back.

“Hotch… So… Close” you warned him between huffs, your lungs failing you. The burn makes your eyes water and your legs shake.

“I can feel just how much you’re enjoying this. Clenching me so fucking tight.” he grunted, his own thrust becoming erratic and clumsy “That’s all you wanted all along, right? Teasing me for months just to be choked by me. Next I’ll choke you with my cock down your throat.” he hissed, and you felt your orgasm coming.

“Hotch, I’m…” you couldn’t finish it, your orgasm hitting like a truck.

“So pretty coming around me. ‘M gonna fill you up so fucking good.” and just like that you felt his dick twitching inside you, spurting his seed deep on your cervix.

He thrusted until you stopped shaking, too sensitive for any more contact. With a hiss, he pulled out of you, chuckling with the sight of your juices combined sliding down your leg.

He cleaned you up, peppering your face with kisses. He fixed your dress, your underwear long gone — you couldn’t find it in yourself to care — and redid his pants, almost like it never happened. Besides the hairs clinging on his face with sweat and the blush of his cheeks. And you, lying lazily on his lap like a renascent painting.

“So… next time, huh?” you teased, trying to ease up the tension — created by your own intrusive thoughts only — and lightly bring up the question that lingers on your head as soon as any coherent thought managed to linger on your mind for more than three seconds:

Was this a one time thing? You glanced up at him, and relief rushed through your bloodstream. If the relaxed, adoring and glowing smile he had on his lips meant anything, you had nothing to worry about.

434 notes · View notes

street-smarts00 · 2 days ago

Text

Wish You Were Sober

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary: The four times you confessed to Spencer while drunk, and the one time you did it sober

WC: 8.0 k

Tags/warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, lot’s of mention of alcohol consumption, regretting things said while drunk, drunk flirty reader, reader is emotionally constipated and doesn’t want to feel her feelings at first

A/N: chat I’ve been sitting on this for MONTHS it’s been marinating in my google docs for a while so hope you enjoy! I lowkey picture this happening in earlier seasons Spence but picture whatever you like ;) Beta read by the lovely @whats-yesterday00

The first time it happened, your feelings were just starting to peek through the surface.

You tried your hardest to shove them back down. Trying to convince yourself that developing the beginnings of a crush was absolutely not happening. But the alcohol opened the door you tried to close.

The whole team went out for drinks on a friday night. After multiple shots with Derek and JJ, plus the drinks you had before that, you were feeling quite a buzz. A buzz that always left you more flirty and courageous than normal.

You were busy dancing amongst the crowd with Penelope and JJ. The music was flowing through you all as it blasted throughout the bar. The movement and crowd caused the temperature to rise exponentially.

You wiped the sweat forming on your forehead and paused your dancing.

“What’s wrong?” JJ asked.

“I’m melting,” you answered, fanning yourself. “I gotta go sit down.”

Penelope blew you a kiss and said, “be back soon!” as you made your way to the table. You of course blew a kiss back to her.

After weaving through the mass of people, you approached the table housing the rest of your coworkers with a heavy sigh.

“You done partying already, pretty girl?” Derek teased.

“No, not yet. I just need a breather. It feels like 1000 degrees right now.” You sat down across from him and next to Spencer.

Derek’s attention was pulled towards someone behind you. A smirk grew on his face, “Oh Reid look, it’s that girl from earlier she’s back.”

Spencer’s face flushed at Derek’s remark.

“What girl?” you asked intrigued. You hated the taste that question left in your mouth.

“It’s nothing,” Spencer tried to brush off before Derek interrupted.

“She was flirting with him when he went up to the bar.”

“She was not!” Spencer squeaked.

Derek chuckled, “oh yes she was,” his eyes turned back to you. “She was definitely into him. And judging by the fact that she keeps looking over here, I think she wants to talk to him again.”

Spencer hid his face in his hands and quietly groaned.

“Why don’t you go over there? Go talk to her,” you encouraged while silently hoping he doesn’t leave the table.

Spencer lifted his face from his hands. His face was scarlet now.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but cut himself off. He saw your eyes staring back at him and felt his palms getting sweaty. He swallowed and stuttered on his words. “Because I wouldn’t know what to say. I can’t flirt.”

Derek leaned back in his chair, dissatisfied with his answer. “That’s bull.”

“It’s not bull.” That was probably the closest you came to hearing Spencer curse. “I’d probably make a fool of myself and say something stupid.”

“Spencer, you say a lot of things,” this earned a chuckle from Derek across the table, “But I don’t think you could ever say something stupid.”

Spencer tried to resist the smile spreading on his face from your compliment.

“Still doesn’t change the fact that once I open my mouth, she’ll lose all interest in me.”

A small pout appeared on your lips. “Well, I don’t see how a girl wouldn’t find you endearing.”

“Really?” He didn’t believe you.

“Yes! I thought you were so cute when I first met you,” your eyes brightened. “The day we met, I remember you were rambling about something and I just sat there amazed.”

He swallowed as his ears turned crimson. “You thought I was cute?” his voice cracked at the end of his question.

“Sweetie, I think you’re more than cute,” your voice lowered as you locked eyes with him.

“Morgan calls you pretty boy for a reason,” you continued with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer’s heart damn near stopped. He knew your playful demeanor was from the amount of drinks you’d consumed, but still seeing you so openly attracted to him was making him delirious.

Morgan, of course, found the whole interaction to be the most intriguing thing he’d seen all week. The growing amused smile on his face was telling enough.

“Wow I think that girl from the bar has got some competition,” he teased.

You shrugged in response to his comment. “Maybe,” was all you gave as your answer. You stood up from your chair with Spencer's eyes still beaming at you.

“I’m gonna go dance some more,” you turned to the man next to you. “You wanna come with, pretty boy?”

Spencer struggled to get the words out for a few seconds. “I can’t. I don’t know how to dance.”

You tried to hide the disappointment on your face but the gleam in your eyes had dimmed.

“Maybe next time,” you replied before making your way back to the girls.

Spencer watched you walk away and disappear into the crowd. He then received an extensive amount of teasing and questions as to why he didn’t say yes from Morgan for the next 20 minutes while you were gone.

Over the weekend, the hangxiety set in. You layed in bed staring at the ceiling as the memories from Friday night flooded your mind.

The anxiety followed into Monday as you stood in the elevator. The doors opened to the sixth floor and you reluctantly dragged yourself to the bullpen.

Your hands tightened around your bag as you approached your desk. Spencer’s eyes lingered on you as you set your things down

“Morning,” he greeted with a small smile.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

You fidgeted with your hands and stepped closer to his desk.

“Listen Spence, about Friday night… l’m sorry I was flirty with you.”

His cheeks turned a dusty rose at the memory. “It’s alright.”

This still didn’t ease your worries. “Are you sure? The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable around me. Especially because of something I did.”

His eyes softened when he noticed just how nervous you were.

“I don’t, I promise,” he reassured.

“So we’re okay?”

He nodded with a small smile and the weight started to lift off your shoulders.

___________________________________________

The second time it happened was a few weeks later.

It was Derek’s birthday. The whole team went out to dinner followed by a trip to the bar to keep the night going.

Spencer stayed behind at the table, watching you order drinks and chat with Emily at the bar. He also tried to ignore the angry green feeling surfacing as the bartender flirted with you.

“So, are you finally gonna dance with her tonight?” Derek asked the young man as he sat down beside him.

Spencer sighed as he kept his eyes trained on you. “I don’t know.”

His friend patted him on the back, “Come on man. Consider it my birthday present.”

Spencer turned his attention to the man beside him. “I already got you a present.”

“Kid,” Rossi interjected from farther down the table, “in my professional opinion, when a woman asks you to dance, you dance.”

This brought out a smile from Hotch.

“Even if you think you’ll look like a fool,” Rossi continued.

“Like two weeks ago when that woman asked Morgan to dance,” Hotch teased, which brought out an annoyed expression from the man in question.

“Hey! I was not that bad,” Derek defended.

“You looked like a bird doing a mating dance,” Spencer now joined in.

Derek looked appalled from the younger man’s joke.

Soon after you approached the table with Emily. “What’s so funny?” You asked the table.

”Morgan's attempts to woo women,” Rossi joked.

Emily took a sip from her drink and rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh where do I begin?”

Derek stood up from the table shaking his head and smiling. “Well, I’m gonna go dance with people who appreciate my moves.” He then made his way to the open area where Penelope and JJ were.

Back at the table, before you could sit down, the speakers of the bar started to play Maneater by Nelly Furtado. You gasped and a bright smile filled your features.

“I love this song!” You squealed.

You set your half consumed drink down on the table and looked at Spencer, “Do you want to go dance?”

He looked at you surprised. “Me?” He squeaked.

You giggled, finding his reaction cute, “Yes you!”

Spencer started closing in on himself. Before he could come up with the excuse he used last time you said, “I can teach you. It’ll be so much fun!”

You were oblivious to the knowing looks from your other team mates at the table. Your focus was only on Spencer. Staring deep into his golden eyes and finding nothing but comfort.

“Okay,” he agreed with a small smile.

You beamed with excitement, “Yay! Let’s go.” You offered your hand to him. He took it and found you pulling him up from his chair and towards the dance floor.

He followed you through the people in the crowd until you found an open space to settle. You held onto his hands as you swayed to the beat.

Spencer tried to follow you but was still noticeably tense. He was also less focused on his dancing because he was too enamored by your movements. Watching you sway so effortlessly with the rhythm.

“Look at you Spence! You’re getting the hang of it,” you praised.

He appreciated the compliment but cringed, “I feel awkward.”

“That’s not how dancing should feel. You should feel free and loose.” You let go of his hands and spun around.

A real smile spread on his lips, “I’m surprised you’re this coordinated with how many drinks you’ve had.”

“Oh, I guess you missed when I almost stepped on you.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, “I guess I didn’t.”

The song ended and changed to Don’t Stop The Music by Rihanna. Your jaw dropped and your face filled with excitement.

“You like this song?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.

You grabbed his hands once more and grinned, “Yes!” You resumed dancing with his hands in yours. This time you were mouthing the lyrics of the song.

I gotta get my body moving, shake the stress away you heard from the speakers and shook Spencer's hands.

“You gotta shake the stress baby!” you cheered at him.

He bashfully laughed watching you drunkenly shout. And hearing you call him baby, but that’s beside the point.

As the song played your hips and shoulders moved to the rhythm of the music. He wasn’t as successful as you when it came to swaying his hips but he could move his shoulders and copy you.

Who knew that you’d be up in here lookin’ like you do?

You took a step back and gestured to him as the song said. Spencer shook his head and pulled on your hands to bring you back closer to him.

Do you know what you started? I just came here to party

You took him pulling you back as a way to sneak your arms around his neck.

But now we're rockin’ on the dance floor actin’ naughty

Spencer’s cheeks started to turn red at the closeness.

Your hands around my waist, just let the music play

You retracted your hands to grab his and place them on your waist.

We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face

By the time your arms returned wrapped around his neck, his ears were crimson. With your arms around him your shirt raised slightly. His hands met the gap of your skin that was exposed.

Even though he felt like his insides were going to melt, he kept his hands on you and kept dancing. Spencer followed the steps you took, the way you moved back and forth. He was finally starting to let the music flow through him.

You definitely took notice. It only made you more eager to dance with him.

As the song continued into the next verse you grew more confident.

Don’t you feel the passion ready to explode?

Your hands moved to his shoulders. You moved in closer, and with a playful smirk sang along the words so Spencer could hear.

What goes on between us, no one has to know

Just when Spencer thought the fluttering in his stomach couldn’t get worse, you leaned in close to his ear and whispered the next lyric.

This is a private show

The air between you was magnetic. It felt like you were in your own little world. Like the rest of the bar goers were gone. Suddenly, it was just you two on that dance floor.

Spencer’s face was inches away from yours. You were so close you could count the freckles on his pink cheeks.

“You look so cute, all flustered,” you muttered.

He licked his lips nervously, “I’m not used to dancing like this with someone.”

“Are you having fun at least?”

“Yes,” he answered instantly.

“Well then, we should do this more often,” you offered with a sweet smile.

As the song came to an end you leaned up and left a kiss on Spencer’s cheek. You took a step back to fully look at him. His eyes slightly widened and his lips parted from your peck on his cheek.

“I love dancing with you,” you released your hold on his shoulders. The ghost of your touch was still hot on his skin. “Hopefully we can do this again.”

His eyes shined as he looked at you, “I’d like that.”

________________________________________

The third time it happened, Spencer got a phone call at 12:04 am.

He was resting on his couch, nose deep in a book, when he heard his phone buzz. He breathed a sigh of relief at the caller ID revealing it to be you instead of Hotch with a new case.

When he answered, he heard loud music and faint voices in the back.

“Hello?”

You quickly answered back, “Spencer! I didn’t wake you, did I?” Your voice had a higher pitch than normal.

“No, I was just reading. What’s up?”

“I went out to a bar for girls night but…I had one too many drinks,” you whined.

He sat up straighter, “are you alright?”

There was a pause before you spoke again. “The room is spinning. I’m really dizzy and everything is overwhelming,” you mumbled. Hearing you sound so scared and small made his heart hurt.

“I didn’t want to bother the girls because they’re having so much fun and none of them can drive right now.”

Before you could finish your statement, he was already standing up and walking to find his shoes and jacket.

“Do you want me to pick you up?” He knew the answer.

“Please. Can you?” you begged.

Spencer was grabbing his keys and out the door in a heartbeat. “Of course, I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot. He walked inside and looked around the crowded room. A few meters away, a hand rose from a booth and waved him over.

He followed it and found Emily, JJ and Penelope keeping you company at the booth. You rested your head in your arms, which were folded on the table.

JJ carefully tapped your arm, “hey, your ride is here.”

You slowly lifted your head up and beamed at the sight of him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he said softly.

“They found me,” you said pointing to your friends. “They said they would babysit me until you showed up.”

He chuckled and lightly rubbed your shoulder, “You okay? You think you can walk to the car?”

You nodded and slowly stood up.

“Text one of us when you get home safe,” Penelope announced.

You gave a lazy thumbs up in her direction and turned to Spencer, “Can you remind me to do that?”

The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. “Of course. Come on, let's get you home,” he nodded towards the door.

You waved and said goodbye to the girls before Spencer led you through the crowd with his hand in yours. You grasped his hand like it was an anchor in the over-stimulating environment.

When you stepped outside, the cool breeze caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. The fresh air and dulled sounds were already starting to help you feel better.

Unfortunately, your balance was still screwed and you managed to trip over air. Before you could fall to the ground, Spencer swiftly reached out and caught you. He helped you stand back up and wrapped an arm around your shoulder.

“I got you, you’re okay,” he muttered close to your ears.

Him being so sweet was going to make your stomach twist.

The rest of the walk to the car he kept his arm around you. Your body instinctively leaned into him and used his frame to keep you upright.

When you reached his car, he opened the passenger door and let go of his hold on you. You almost whined at the loss of contact.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” you spoke quietly as he helped guide you into the car.

Before he closed the door and headed to the driver's seat he offered a kind, “You’re welcome.”

The beginning of the car ride was quite aside from the hushed music on the radio. You leaned back, slouching in the car seat.

You watched Spencer’s hands on the wheel instead of the rapidly changing view of the windshield. Your fuzzy mind was trying to focus on anything that wasn't the dizzy spinning feeling that couldn't go away.

Of course your thoughts were jumbled with images of the man next to you.

“You’re so nice,” you said with a fond look.

He looked at you with brief confusion over your random declaration. “Thanks,” he returned his eyes to the road.

You shuffled in your seat to face him.

“No you’re really nice,” you huffed, frustrated he somehow didn’t understand the full scope of what your drunk brain meant. “You’re so kind and sweet to everyone. I love it.”

An amused smile grew on his face. “I try to be,” he returned.

“You are.”

He quickly glanced over to see your figure leaning against the seat. Or more like the seat holding you up. Your eyes occasionally felt heavy, leading to your eyelids fluttering every so often.

“You look half asleep,” he teased.

“I feel half asleep.”

“Then why are you so chatty all of a sudden?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know, just feel like talking.”

You forced your eyes open to get a better look at him. “I like talking with you.”

Spencer tried not to think about how your voice was much more soft and melodious than normal.

“I like talking with you too,” he affirmed.

He suddenly went down a mental rabbit hole of your previous conversations with him. How often you conversed over coffee early in the morning. All those plane rides home where you both had to stifle your laughter so as to not bother the others. Or the dozens of times he rambled to you about endless topics.

“I’m surprised I haven't bored you yet with how much I talk.”

“Oh sweetie, I could never get bored of you.”

His ears started to turn red at the flirtatious tone in your voice.

“I could listen to you talk for hours. Even about things I don’t understand. I’ll always listen to you,” you continued.

“Really?” He muttered with a slight voice crack. His heart rate was steadily growing.

“Uh huh,” you confirmed sweetly.

His eyes darted to yours for a fleeting moment. You looked completely and utterly enraptured by him.

“Your voice sounds like honey.”

Spencer's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He kept his gaze trained on the road ahead.

“We’re almost at your apartment,” he deflected.

Your smile fell slightly.

The air in the car was growing stale by the seconds. Neither of you spoke until he pulled up to your building.

As you reached for the door handle, he whispered for you to “wait one second.” You complied. He got out of the car and walked to your side. He opened the passenger door and held out a hand for you.

“What a gentleman,” you said with a smug grin.

He chuckled and made sure you didn’t stumble as you stepped out of the car.

“I try,” he replied.

“You succeed.”

As you walked together to your apartment, neither of you let go of the other's hand. At your door, you fumbled with your keys. Spencer tried to offer to open the door himself but you shooed away his hand and mumbled, “I got it, I got it.”

After fighting with the lock, you stepped inside and practically threw your bag on the couch. You were seconds away from falling on the couch yourself before Spencer calmly grabbed your shoulders.

“Come on, let's get you to bed.”

You whined but didn’t object. He guided you down the hall to your room. In the dark, he reached for your lamp and turned it on. You plopped down on your bed and yawned.

“Where are your makeup wipes?” He asked, looking around the room.

You pointed towards the dresser, “In the top left drawer.” He followed your directions and returned to your bed, handing the pack to you.

“See I told you. You’re so nice,” you complimented while lazily cleaning your hours old makeup off.

“Why because I got you your makeup wipes?” He joked with a playful tone.

You giggled in response. The sound made Spencer feel like he was the intoxicated one. He would never get used to the way you laughed.

“No silly, not just that. The fact that you’re still here.”

You tried and failed at getting your lipstick and eyeliner off. Instead you smeared the deep colors around your face.

Spencer’s lips formed a thin line, trying not to smile at you smearing your makeup. He grabbed a fresh wipe and kneeled down in front of you. “Here let me help,” he mumbled. With careful hands, he pressed the damp wipe to your face to finish the job.

“Of course I was going to stay with you,” he acknowledged your previous comment. “I’m not going to just drop you off. I wanted to make sure you were safe and feeling okay.”

You tried not to smile because his hand was so close to your mouth. Your brain was going to short circuit at the closeness. His face mere inches away. His hand and the skin of your face are only separated by a tiny piece of cloth.

You watched intently as he used his thumb to wipe off the last bit of lipstick. His movements were desperately slow as he handled you with care. Like you were a fragile statue he couldn’t let break.

The action made your chest tighten and your heart race. If you had consumed another drink or two back at the bar, you would’ve jumped at the chance to kiss him.

But instead, you stared deeply into his eyes as he checked your face for any more makeup residue. His pupils were wide. You assumed it was from the dim lighting of the room.

You may not have been drunk enough to kiss him, but you were drunk enough to joke about it.

“What if I just kissed you right now?”

His eyes widened and his lips parted in shock. “What has gotten into you?” he questioned in a lighthearted tone.

“What? it’s not just me! You’re also staring at my lips!” you put your hands up in defense with a mischievous grin. “Just say you wanna kiss me.”

He chuckled at your antics. “Because I’m taking off your makeup. And what about you staring at my eyes?”

A grin spread on your face. “I can’t help it. They’re beautiful. Nice to look at.”

“They’re not that nice.”

“I beg to differ gorgeous,” you returned with a wink. “I could look at them all day.”

Spencer smiled as his cheeks turned pink. He looked between your eyes and your lips before his expression faltered for a moment. Like he was mentally stuck on something.

However, because of your dizzy mind and vision, you didn’t pick up on it.

He stood back up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You think you’ll be okay?”

You nodded, “Yeah. Thanks again for … everything.”

“You’re welcome.” He started walking towards your bedroom door but before he left the room, he paused. “Don’t forget to let the girls know you got home safe.”

Your jaw went slack and a hand flew to your forehead, “oh my god you’re right.”

He fought back a grin from your reaction. “Goodnight,” he offered before he left.

You waved and said goodnight as his frame left your bedroom. The sound of the front door shutting soon followed.

Before you passed out for the night you texted penelope you got home safe. But you didn’t see her reply until the morning.

Penelope: yay!

Penelope: hope you feel better my sweets <3

Thanks :) I have a raging migraine so I better feel better soon

Penelope: :(

Penelope: oh btw, how’d it go with boy genius???

Ugh

I flirted with him AGAIN

Penelope: you’re kidding!

Penelope: What did you say?

I can’t remember all of it but at some point I said his voice sounds like honey

Penelope: OMG

Oh no it gets worse

He helped me take off my makeup and I said I wanted to kiss him. And THEN I pointed out how he stared at my lips and I said “just say you wanna kiss me”

Penelope: oh girlie

Penelope: I think you have to throw in the towel

Penelope: you love him

You stared at the words on the screen before your hands could even type a reply. Mentally fighting with yourself about the subject.

No way

I can’t be in love with him

He’s my friend I can’t do that

Penelope: I don’t think you have much of a choice

You sighed and turned off your phone. As you reached for the aspirin bottle, you prayed you wouldn’t do something stupid like this ever again

You were wrong.

______________________________________

By the fourth time it happened, almost a month had passed since you asked him to pick you up.

To celebrate the success of a case, his coworkers and friends wanted to go out for some down time. He thanked them for the invitation but kindly rejected it saying he had previous plans to attend some film festival. In reality, he had been on the fence about attending the film festival and ended up spending the evening at home.

As much as he wanted an excuse to spend time with you, he couldn’t go through another evening of you flirting with him.

Normally, it’d be his dream to have you flirt with him and call him sweet names. To hear how much you liked his voice, his eyes, and the way his brilliant mind worked. But the more it occurred, the more confused he felt.

At first, he assumed you were just a flirtatious drunk and there was no meaning behind your advances. But as time went on, he saw your actions and affectionate words had so much desire, so much longing that he started to suspect they were based on real feelings.

Yet, it was only reserved for the version of you that had multiple drinks running through your system.

He’d almost given up on asking you how you felt. Almost.

Something that gave him a glimmer of hope was a voicemail he received.

In an effort to actually get some sleep, he took a late night shower. When he returned to his bedroom, he found his cell phone had received a voicemail. He checked and saw he missed a call from the very person he was anxiously avoiding.

With new clean pajamas on, he grabbed his phone and sat down on his bed ready for the possible plea for him to pick you up. He clicked the message and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hi Spence! I wanted to talk but it looks like you’re busy,” your voice sounded sweet and bubbly. He deduced you might have already gone home at this point given the fact that this time there was no loud background music or voices.

“I missed you tonight. I wish you came with us. I know that isn’t always your favorite place to be, but I still kinda had hope. I love spending time with you. I don’t care if it’s at work or off the clock, it makes me so happy to see you.”

His heart felt warm from the way you talked about him. Your voice sounded giddy and occasionally you would slur your words.

“It’s kinda silly but when we don’t have work or plans, I will literally count down the days until I get to see you again. Isn’t that silly? I spend like five or six days of my week with you and when I don’t see you, I’m thinking about when I’ll see you again.”

Spencer found familiarity in what you were saying. For the last few weeks he found his thoughts were constantly revolving back to you. Whether intentionally or not.

“I pretty much think about you all the time. It’s becoming a bit of a problem. I don’t mean you’re a problem! The problem is how much I like you. I’ve never liked someone as much as I like you.”

There was a brief pause in your message. He almost thought the voicemail was over until your voice returned softer than before.

“I’m probably falling in love with you.”

“And that’s really scary to think about because I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. You’re different Spence, when I’m around you I feel-“

You were cut off by the time limit of the voicemail. Spencer stared at his phone screen with wide eyes. His heart was beating so fast it could’ve jumped out of his chest.

He finally got an answer to the question that plagued his mind. You loved him back.

You loved him.

His whole body was filled with adrenaline. He almost grabbed his keys and drove over to you at that moment. But he knew he had to wait. He couldn’t have this conversation with you while you were still intoxicated and would probably fall asleep by the time he got there.

Spencer on the other hand, could barely sleep. He was too busy on cloud 9 to come back down and let sleep overtake him.

The next morning he was practically buzzing with excitement. He got up earlier than normal for work so he could stop by your apartment.

He nervously knocked on your door. He kept fidgeting by fixing his tie and cardigan while he waited for you.

When you did open the door he saw you were still in the process of getting ready. You had on dress pants and an old college t-shirt.

You looked surprised to see him of course since he didn’t announce he was going to come over. “Spencer? What are you doing here?”

Suspicion started to creep its way into his mind. For now he ignored it and pushed on.

“I thought we could commute to work together. I figured you would be hungover and not in the best mood to drive.”

Your eyebrows raised and lips turned up. “That is so sweet of you,” you beamed. You opened the door wider, suggesting he was welcome. He followed and walked inside your apartment

“You’re absolutely right by the way. I feel like shit,” you groaned. “My head is killing me, I’m exhausted and I have this massive bruise on my leg.” You waved your hand over your right thigh indicating where the injury was.

“I have no clue how I got it. I probably fell but I'm not sure. Most of last night is fuzzy, I barely even remember how I got home,” you joked with a chuckle.

The suspicion Spencer felt turned into a pit in his stomach. With furrowed brows he asked the million dollar question. “Do you remember calling me last night?”

You stared at the ground as you tried to shuffle through the vague images of the night before. “No I don’t. What did we talk about?” you asked innocently.

His grip on the strap of his satchel tightened. “We didn’t. Talk. I couldn’t pick up the phone and didn’t realize you had called me until this morning. That’s why I wanted to stop by. To make sure you were okay.” He topped off his lie with a flat smile.

”Thanks for checking up on me,” you sweetly replied, not yet aware of the internal mess he was experiencing.

“It’s no problem,” his voice almost cracked.

“I need to finish getting dressed and brush my teeth but I’ll be ready to leave in like five minutes.” You speed walked back to your bedroom.

It wasn’t until he heard the door close that he finally let the storm of emotions rip through him. His chest was getting tighter by the second. It felt like he was suffocating.

You don’t remember.

You told him you loved him and you don’t remember it at all. The best news he’d heard in months was a blip in your memory. Was late night drunk babbling.

He felt so foolish. So stupid for thinking you might really reciprocate his feelings.

One part of himself that was still holding onto hope tried to remember that “drunk words are sober thoughts.” But that’s not always true.

He knew studies have shown intoxication can lead to someone misinterpreting their own thoughts or feelings. Leading to them impulsively expressing things that they don’t really believe.

Unfortunately, the factual and heartbroken part of his brain was overwhelming compared to the sliver of hope he had left.

“Alright, I’m good to go,” you snuck back into the living room. Your voice brought him back to the present.

You grabbed your purse off the couch and walked towards the front door. As you put on your jacket you noticed the sudden change in Spencer’s demeanor.

“Spence, you okay?”

”Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded and answered with a light voice. But you could see right through it. His eyes gave it away. They looked so full of hurt.

”Spencer-“

”I promise, I’m fine,” he interrupted. He offered you a fake smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He walked to your door and tightly held his bag. “We should go before we hit traffic.”

You observed him for a few seconds longer than he liked. The profiler side of you wanted to pry but you knew it was a bad idea to push your friend.

The drive to work was agonizingly quiet. It was odd for you two to barely speak when in close quarters. Instead, you both let the tension hang in the air, ignored and untouched.

Spencer sat with his feelings for most of the drive. He didn’t want to be hopeful anymore. He didn’t want to be confused if it was real anymore. At this point, he just wanted to give up.

Now, he’d have to keep a tight lid on his feelings for you. Leave it to fester and wear away at his heart.

Like that would do any good though. He couldn’t stop loving you no matter how hard he tried.

____________________________________

The following days felt like a dream to you. But not in a good way.

It felt like one of those dreams where you know something is off, but can’t tell what it is.

Spencer had been closed off ever since he picked you up for work. You couldn't wrap your head around why. He seemed so happy and eager when he arrived at your apartment that morning.

That was the last time you saw him act normal around you. Now there was an underlying bitterness in the words he spoke. Everytime you tried to ask him if he was okay, whatever excuse he gave you left a sour taste in his mouth.

You weren’t the only one to notice either. Everyone could sense the air go stale when you entered a room he was in. How his eyes no longer lingered on you. Or how it almost pained him to even look at you.

His sudden change in behavior was starting to drive you insane. You were overthinking and overanalyzing every single interaction you had with him, leading up to that day in your apartment. Every move you made around him was calculated. You were terrified one wrong word or move would make him hate you.

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Penelope swung around in her chair to face you. “I think it’s impossible for him to hate you.”

You shook your head, “but still he won’t talk to me Pen. He’s always been so open with me and the last few days he’s been shutting me out. He hasn’t been weird around you guys at all.”

She twirled a sparkly purple pen in her hands as she watched you sulk. “You said it started on Thursday last week?”

“Yeah, the day after our last case.”

Penelope sat back in her chair thinking. “Do you think the case bothered him? Could that be why he went home instead of going out with us?”

“No, I don't think so. The next morning when he showed up at my apartment he was in a good mood. A great mood even,” you folded your arms in frustration. “But when I left the room and came back he looked like a sad puppy.”

Penelope tapped her pen against her chin. “Why was he at your apartment before work?”

“Apparently, I called him the night before but he didn’t pick up so he stopped by to check up on me and assumed I’d be hungover.”

“Awe, that’s sweet,” she cooed before her confusion crossed her features. “Wait, you apparently called him? You’re not sure?”

You cringed as you explained, “I don’t remember calling him. I was really drunk.”

She tried to hide the amusement on her face but failed. “Why did you call him?”

You stared at the floor trying to piece together what happened after you got home that night. “I remember missing him. I wanted to talk to him, but I’m not sure what about.”

“It’d pay good money to hear whatever voicemail you must’ve left him,” she chuckled with a cheeky grin.

“Right!” You started to chuckle with her until vague memories of talking on the phone came to light. Your face fell as your drunk declarations were pulled out of your long term memory.

“Oh god,” you said barely above a whisper.

Penelope filled with concern, “sweetie what’s wrong?”

“I did leave him a voicemail. He must have listened to it while I was changing,” your eyes widened and anxiety started flowing through your veins.

Before she could ask what you said in the message, you interrupted. “I have to go,” you alerted as you remembered Spencer already left the office. “I’ll text you later!”

You practically ran back to the bullpen to grab your things and tell Hotch you were leaving for the night.

The car ride to his apartment was agonizing. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white.

This was all your fault. He couldn’t stand to be around you and talk to you anymore because you drunkenly told him you loved him.

You ruined your friendship.

The least you could do was go to his apartment to try to make things right. Try to fix whatever you have broken.

You couldn’t lose him. Not Spencer. Not the first man you ever actually truly wholeheartedly loved. Even if he didn’t love you back the same way. You’d rather live with the soul crushing pain of unrequited feelings, than lose one of the most important people in your life.

The walk to his apartment was even worse than the drive to his building. With every step you took, your heart grew heavier. By the time you weakly knocked on his door, your eyes had started to water.

When Spencer opened the door, his face fell with concern.

“I remember,” you whispered before he could ask what was wrong.

A look of realization dawned on him. He stepped to the side and opened the door wider, “come in.”

You followed and stood awkwardly in his living room. You’d been here hundreds of times before. But now it feels different. Even though you were welcomed inside it still felt like he was miles away.

“Spencer, I am so sorry.”

“For what?” He already knows what you’re talking about, you can see it in his eyes.

“The voicemail.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re sorry for sending it?”

“Yes, no!” you stuttered fidgeting with your rings. “I meant what I said. Every bit of it. I just uh- I wish I had told you all of that when I was sober. Maybe I could’ve phrased it better. Not come off so strong.”

“Why didn’t you?” he inquired, a hint of desperation in his voice.

He took a single step closer to you. “You could’ve told me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at him, “wait, you’re not mad about what I said?”

He mirrored your confusion, “what do you mean?”

“All week you’ve been acting weird. I thought you were mad or uncomfortable with me because I said I love you.”

Spencer raised his hand to his face as he realized. “I would never be mad at you for that.” His voice raised slightly in frustration, almost a wine, as he continued, “I was upset because by the time you sobered up, you forgot about it.”

“Oh,” you whispered —if you could even call it that— under your breath.

He lied. He listened to the message before he showed up, was going to ask about it, and you forgot like an idiot.

“You only flirt with me or show interest in me when you're drunk. I couldn’t tell what was real or not,” his expression showed more pain as he spoke.

“Spencer, I promise I really do have feelings for you.”

His lips formed a flat line as he stared back at you. “Then why did you only show it when you were drunk?”

“Because I was scared!” your voice raised. You spoke with your hands as you got louder. “How do you tell your best friend you fell in love with them? You can’t! It just doesn't work. I thought I was going to lose you.”

“I’m in love with you.”

You deadpanned at him, “Spencer, I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he said louder than you.

The weight of his confession finally settled. Time stood still. The world stopped turning. The hands on the clock stopped ticking.

His voice was quieter this time when he said it. He spoke in the gentlest tone you’d ever heard from him. Like the words dripped right from his arteries, carrying them away from his heart and to you.

“I love you.”

“You do?”

You don’t know why you asked that. It seemed to be the only thing that could leave your mouth. How could you not believe him when he said those three words like that. Like it was his purpose. That he was put on this earth to love you and only you.

The realization of what his confession meant started to dawn on you.

“That’s why you were at my apartment. So you could tell me. And I-“

You stared at the floor with wide guilty eyes and sat (more like fell) on his couch. The guilt started to creep into your blood. It started to crush your bones.

“Oh I screwed up everything,” you buried your face in your hands.

He sat down next to you, “no you didn’t.”

“Yes I did. You have every right to be mad at me.”

”I'm not,” his hand landed on your back, his thumb slowly caressing you.

You looked up at him, “really?”

“Yes.”

You stared back at him, looking unconvinced.

He surrendered and shrugged, “okay I was kind of crushed about it. But I know now that you really did mean it.”

“I still hurt you,” you returned meekly. The tears started to return back to your eyes and you blinked them away.

“I’m so sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”

His thumb stopped its movements on your back. With the same hand, he pushed back the hair that had fallen in your face. He looked into your eyes like he wanted to see all of you. See every little crack and crevice of your soul you tried to hide from him in fear of judgment, in fear of him running away.

He could never run away from you.

“Tell me everything you wished you could say when you were sober.”

You sat up straighter and turned to fully face him. After taking a slow deep breath, you said what you’d wanted to say to him for months.

No liquid courage. Just the pure, raw, unadulterated you.

“Spencer, I’m in love with you. I couldn’t tell you when I was sober because I was afraid. I was in denial for so long. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t falling for you. And it’s not because I don’t want to have feelings for you. It’s the opposite. I love you so much it scares me.”

You started to play with your rings again. “I’ve never been in love before. I’ve never said it and been sure that I really meant it.”

“I mean it when I say it to you. I know I mean it because I want to spend as much time as I can with you. Doesn’t matter if it’s sitting quietly next to each other on the jet or dancing in a crowded bar. I know I mean it because I’d do anything for you. I’d listen to anything you want to ramble about. I’d drive you anywhere you wanted to go because I know you’re not the biggest fan of driving.”

You swallowed down the lump you didn’t realize formed in your throat.

“I always find myself crawling back to you when you’re not near.”

It was only now you really noticed Spencer's expression. His eyes were soft and dilated so much there was barely any brown left in them. His waterline threatened to spill with tears.

Before you could even dare to say anything else, he reached to the back of your neck and pulled you closer. His lips mixed with yours in a long awaited dance.

The kiss wasn’t overwhelmed with passion. But also not too slow and careful. The only way you could describe it was perfect.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

Every aching moment of yearning and longing leading up to this.

After kissing for what felt like forever —although you’re pretty sure you could kiss him for forever— you laid down on the couch with your head on his chest. Your arms wrapped tightly around him as if he could disappear at any moment. His one arm wrapped around your waist while the other was playing with your hair.

“You can stay the night if you want,” he nonchalantly tried to offer without explicitly asking if you would stay over.

“Do you think we’ll have time in the morning to stop by my apartment to get me fresh clothes?”

“If not, you could borrow one of my sweaters.”

You chuckled, “Imagine their faces when we show up to work together and with me very clearly wearing your clothes.”

He smiled at the thought of you wearing his clothes to work. The image of you proudly showing off that he was yours. “Yeah I can imagine it.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid hurt/comfort

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ninisdollie · 3 days ago

Text

Just for the glory - Sim Jake 𓈒ིུ ❤︎ ˖ ݁

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .demigods series

Synopsis: Jake Sim, son of Hermes and captain of cabin 11 at the camp halfblood, is known as the best swordsman of his generation. With his swordsmanship and unshakable confidence, his life seems perfectly under control, until you, challenge him to a sword duel. In front of the entire community, Jake accepts the challenge, confident in his victory. However, he soon discovers that you are not just a beautiful face, but a formidable warrior with skills that surprise him. Amid the fierce competition and growing tension, you two are caught by an unexpected spark. As your hearts begin to intertwine, Jake will have to face a new kind of battle: the duel between pride and love.

Content: +18MDNI fem! reader x jake, pjo au, hermes! son jake x aphrodites! daugther reader, jake is a little cocky i based his character on my man luke castellan ok, violence (sword duel), cursing, sexual tension, oral sex (f recieving), praising, worshipping, dirty talk, explicit sex.

Word count: 10.2k (a bit long but so worth it i swear)

taglist at the end, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

In camp Halfblood, everybody knew who you were.

Or at least, they thought they knew.

You were the ideal Aprhodite's daughter. Sweet, always soft-spoken, smiling with a kind word for everyone. You helped your sibilings braid their hair before every meal, the younger ones seeing you as an older sister who they always could count on, the older having the necessity of taking care of you. You left little handmade gifts in front of every cabin, just because, and remembered the name of even the shyest campers. You were grace in motion, impeccable manners in every movement, the very picture of your mother's legacy.

Didn't raise your voice, didn't loose temper. You didn't need to. People naturally flocked to you, drawn in by your calm presence and genuine warmth. Your reputation was spotless, your charm unmatched. No one had ever seen you in a real fight. You were considered the peace, where every demigod landed when they were feeling tired, struggling with the heavy air of the camp.

You wore vanilla scented perfume, braided your hair in beautiful, creative ways, decorating with flowers and colorful petals, your clothes always placed beautifully over your body, enchancing your figure. Your hands were gentle, soft fingers with perfect manicure as you helped wounded demigods and waved at the little kids that looked up to you as a mother they never had. A soft, wide smile in your lips, always glistening with lip gloss.

And to be honest, you liked it that way.

"Your strength is in your beauty, and your charm" your mother had said to you once, through a dream, when you first got claimed "Make me feel proud."

Nobody expected anything from you, beyond being lovely and helpful, but that was good, because you were free to move in silence. And although you enjoyed the vision people had of you, you took that into advantage, even if you and your siblings weren't taken very seriously, you wanted to feel powerful, to reach glory. It's what every demigod truly desired, and you weren't the exception.

You were hungry for it, ambition became your dna.

So you let them see only what you wanted.

They didn't see the girl that trained secretly until sunrise, even when you hated early mornings, the girl that read and memorised love poetry but dreamt about the battlefield, the girl that watched Ares kids closely to learn about their movements and strategies, the girl that hurt herself a lot of times trying to perfect her skills with the sword, the arch, and every other existing weapon. You had your own powers, the ones your mother had blessed you with (charmspeak, cursing) but you wanted more.

You didn't really had to prove yourself to anyone, everybody already loved you, but you did it because you could, because you wanted to. Because love isn't always soft, it's protective, fierce, and sometimes it required a blade.

In the moonlight, you drew your hidden blade, an elegant shortsword, delicate-looking, but perfectly balanced. You began to move, each step practiced and precise. Your form was fluid, flawless. There was no hesitation in your strikes, no wasted movement. You moved like water, graceful, calm... deadly.

Few knew about this side of you. You didn’t train to impress anyone. You trained for yourself. For the day someone would push too far. For the day someone would need protecting. For the day you’d have to prove that love isn’t weakness.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The morning sunlight spilled across Camp HalfBlood like golden syrup, warm and slow. At the Aphrodite cabin, everything was already in perfect order. Beds were made, mirrors sparkled, and the scent of roses and vanilla drifted lazily through the open windows.

You sat on a velvet couch, humming softly as you helped your youngest sister adjust a flower crown on her beautiful, long hair.

“There.” you said with a gentle smile, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind the little girl’s ear. “You look like a dryad princess.”

Your siblings adored you, and you enjoyed spending time with them like this, quiet, calm, just like you always were. They were like the little family you never had.

Your little sister turned and hugged you “You’re the best, Y/N.”

You kissed the top of her head. “Go get dressed, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the moment of peace shattered.

The cabin doors burst open with a loud bang, doors crashing the walls as your younger brothers came in running and heavy breathing, eyes opened wide.

“Y/N!” Sunoo, one of you brothers shouted breathlessly, his chest heaving, hair wild. “You gotta come see this, the Hermes kids are going at it in the sparring field! Like, full-on duel style! It’s insane!”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes with amusement. Hermes kids, they had the second place as the messiest ones in camp, just under Ares kids, of course. The whole cabin gasped, fluttering around the room with curiosity.

"Wait, like, real swords?" Your sister stared with big, surprised eyes, and you placed a hand on her head, trying to calm her down.

"It's Jake again, i knew someone would challenge him one day"

You blinked slowly, brushing invisible lint off your skirt. Of course, Jake Sim was the main character of today's exciting event.

Jake Sim had the kind of reputation that walked into a room before he did.

The moment someone said his name, you’d hear it all: "Best swordsman at camp," "Captain of Cabin 11," "Hermes' golden boy." He was fast, blindingly so, with reflexes sharper than his blade. Some swore they’d seen him disarm an opponent in under three seconds. Others claimed he could steal your weapon mid-swing and hand it back with a wink.

He wasn’t just skilled. He was annoyingly skilled.

Jake had that effortless swagger, half grin, half smirk, full confidence. He could talk his way out of trouble, into hearts, and across borders. Born to the god of thieves and travelers, Jake carried that legacy like a badge of honor. He never stayed in one place too long, never let anyone too close, but somehow, everyone still wanted to be around him.

Even campers from other cabins, rival cabins, wanted to be his friend, or at the very least, seen near him. He was the kind of demigod others watched on the training field and thought, Yeah, that’s who I want to be when I stop tripping over my own sword.

He was cocky. No, scratch that, he was infuriatingly cocky. But the thing was... he could back it up. Every time.

Jake didn’t take most things seriously, except sword fighting. That was his sanctuary, his art. He trained like he had something to prove, even if no one could figure out what it was. People said he was strong enough to lead a quest on his own. Strong enough to beat a child of Ares in single combat. Strong enough to never lose.

So when someone mentioned a duel with Jake Sim, everyone came running. Because when Jake fought, it wasn’t just a match, it was a show.

"I'm telling you, sister, he's gonna chop that kid's head off"

You rose gracefully, smoothing down your perfectly pressed blouse. Your voice was calm, almost amused. But the sentence made you frown your eyebrows, you were always looking after the kids, so you naturally worried hearing your brother’s words.

"Well, if he's fighting a kid, i must go take a look then"

You quickly put your shoes on, not wasting time before heading out of the cabin.

The air outside was brisk with early morning chill, the kind that made your skin tingle and your senses sharper. You walked calmly across the training grounds, your footsteps light, unhurried. A few of your siblings trailed behind you, excited whispers bouncing between them.

When you reached the edge of the sparring field, the crowd was already thick. Campers from nearly every cabin had gathered in a wide circle, forming a loose ring around the action. You stepped between two taller demigods, murmured a soft “excuse me,” and looked toward the center of the field.

There he was.

Shirt slightly rumpled, curls tousled from the fight, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was enjoying himself just a little too much. His bronze sword flashed in the sunlight, fast and fluid, spinning in perfect arcs. His opponent, a short, golden haired son of Apollo, was panting, wild-eyed, struggling to keep up.

Jake wasn’t even sweating.

He dodged each swing with ease. Not out of necessity, out of amusement. His stance was relaxed, movements smooth, measured. He looked like he was playing. The boy lunged again, desperate, and stumbled.

Jake stepped aside, caught the boy’s wrist mid-swing, and twisted gently, not enough to break anything, but enough to send the sword clattering to the dirt. Then, with a flick of his own blade, he tapped it against the kid’s shoulder.

“Better luck next time, champ,” he said, voice light, teasing. “But maybe wait until you can hold the sword without it shaking, yeah?”

A few campers laughed. A few others didn’t.

Your brows knit as you stepped forward through the crowd. Of course he would find fun in fighting a younger, inexperienced boy, it only fed to his ego. Your heart shattered at the little boy's expression, that protectiveness nature in your eyes.

Your voice was soft, but it carried, clear and unmistakable.

“I expected more from you, Jake Sim.”

The laughter faded like a snapped string. Heads turned. Even the Apollo boy froze, eyes wide.

He hadn’t realized you were there. And yet, there you stood, poised, polished, and completely unreadable. The very picture of Aphrodite grace in a soft cream blouse, sunlight catching in your hair like a halo.

“Oh?” he said, lifting a brow. “And what exactly did you expect?”

You walked toward the center, graceful as ever. You knelt beside the boy first, murmured something too quiet for the others to hear, and gently helped him to his feet. Jake watched, his eyes following you slowly, and he swallowed, of course the first thing you’d do would be check on the boy. You gave him your handkerchief, embroidered, of course, and sent him off with a smile that was more comforting than any healing spell.

Then you straightened and turned to Jake, your tone polite, serene, and yet somehow sharper than any blade.

“A real swordsman knows the difference between a challenge and an easy win,” you said. “He doesn’t swing his pride at someone half his size just to prove he’s still the strongest.”

The crowd let out a soft ripple of ooooohs, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even raise your voice.

Jake’s jaw tightened, barely. His fingers flexed on the hilt of his sword. She’s calling you out. Not just for the fight. For everything. The showboating. The ego. The fact that you saw right through it, and weren’t afraid to say it.

For the first time all morning, Jake didn’t have a clever comeback ready. He studied you, this sweet, delicate Aphrodite girl with a quiet voice and ribbons in her hair, like he was seeing you for the first time. He knew you, but like every other demigod in camp, only your facade.

And he didn’t know what to make of you.

You tilted your head slightly, that same gentle smile on your lips.

"What could you know about it, princess?" His tone was sarcastic, teasing, his hand now resting on his hip.

Of course he would say that, always underestimating your lineage, you were used to that, but that didn't mean it didn't strike the wrong buttons in you.

You flipped your hair, lifting your shoulders into an almost lazy expression.

"I don't know, hero." an eyebrow lifted in your face "To be called the best swordsman here, i think that was kind of lame. Your evident hunger and overwhelming pride, you make them too obvious when you're fighting" You kept smiling, and you saw how his jaw clenched a bit. "It's going to be your downfall one day."

A fire lit in him, and you almost laughed, cocky men like him were so easy to get.

Then his smirk returned, slow and full of challenge.

“Careful, sweetheart. That sounded dangerously close to a challenge.”

Someone needs to stop him. Someone needs to remind him that strength isn’t just speed or skill. It’s restraint. It's knowing when to put the sword down.

You looked around.

No one moved.

Then, with a deep breath, you spoke.

"Maybe it was."

Challenge, delivered like a bouquet of roses with a blade hidden in the center. Jake felt something twist in his chest, something like adrenaline, but deeper. Like interest. Like curiosity.

He stepped forward, lowering his sword, just slightly. His eyes met yours, and the grin he gave you now was slower. Less cocky. More intrigued.

“Well,” he said, voice rich with anticipation. “Guess I finally found someone worth my time.”

Your hands stayed at your sides, calm as ever. But your eyes were sharper than glass. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Jake chuckled, confident.

“Are you?”

You didn’t answer, just winked at him gracefully before turning around, taking the boy’s hand so you could go and help him get clean, all of your siblings following you, lips parted, still processing what just happened.

Camp’s best swordsman stayed there, watching you as you walked away, eyes lingering to you figure, half smirk still on his lips. Intrigued, curious. A little offended, to be honest.

But it didn’t matter. Revenge would be so sweet.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

“Are you out of your divine mind?!”

The room was a flurry of perfume, silk, and frantic hands as you stood calmly in the center, arms raised slightly as one of your sisters laced your bracers with delicate precision.

“You’re dueling Jake Sim.” Minjeong, your loudest sister, paced dramatically. “Jake. Sim. The golden boy of the entire camp. The guy who once beat two Ares kids in one match without even messing up his hair!”

“I heard he fought a drakon on a solo quest,” another added, wide-eyed. “With a stick.”

Of course they were worried, no other camper had dared to challenge him into a full, real duel, less say an Aprhodite kid, you guys weren't for the fight, it wasn't in your true nature. But you were different, and he was about to see that.

You gave them a soft smile.

“You forgot the part where he’s cocky, overconfident, and clearly underestimates me.”

“Babe, we all underestimate you. That’s the problem.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a hair behind your ear. “Good. That’ll make it more satisfying.”

Your siblings paused, blinking.

Then Minjeong narrowed her eyes. “Okay. Who are you and what did you do with Y/N?”

On the other side of the camp, Hermes cabin was buzzing.

“Dude, you are so dead,” one of Jake’s brothers laughed, slapping his shoulder as Jake tightened the straps on his armor.

“Nah,” another chimed in, flopping onto the bunk beside him. “He’s got this. It’s just Y/N.”

Jake didn’t look up. He was focused on adjusting his grip tape, his fingers moving fast. “Exactly. It’s just Y/N.”

But his jaw was clenched.

He wasn't just thinking about the duel itself, he was thinking about you. How you dared to call him out in front of everybody, not even raising your voice, not even making any expression. Just that damn, calm smile in your beautiful face, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. It made him burn, not only with anger, ego already hurt, but with something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

“Yeah, but she called you out in front of everyone,” Jay pointed out with a grin. “Like… burned you alive and smiled while doing it.”

“Did you��see her face?” a younger Hermes camper piped up. “She looked like she was about to give him a compliment and then murdered him.”

Jake snorted, finally cracking a grin. “She’s got teeth under all that sugar, huh?”

The others laughed, but Jake’s mind wasn’t entirely on their banter. He kept replaying your voice in his head, calm, soft, but piercing. The way you’d looked at him. Like you already knew exactly how this would end.

It wasn’t just your challenge. It was the fact that you hadn’t been angry. Or scared.

You’d been sure.

Jake had never gone up against someone like that before.

And it was messing with him.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The field felt different that morning.

Quieter, somehow, like the entire camp was holding its breath.

Campers crowded along the perimeter, perched on rocks, benches, fences. Even a few nymphs had slipped out of the forest to see what the hype was about. Someone had dragged out a banner from last summer’s Capture the Flag game and hastily painted over it in red: JAKE SIM VS. Y/N – BEAUTY VS. THE BEST

Laughter. Shouting. Betting. It was a storm of noise.

Jake was already there, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders. His sword gleamed at his side, and his hair caught the sun in just the right way, it was almost unfair how good he looked in a fight.

He looked up as soon as he felt you enter.

You stepped through the archway into the field like you weren't walking to a duel, more like you were entering a ballroom. Light-footed. Graceful. Composed.

Your armor was pale gold, custom-fit over soft rose-toned leather. Subtle floral engravings decorated the trim, and the sheath on your hip sparkled faintly with celestial bronze. Your sword was delicate and elegant, thinner than his, but no less dangerous.

For a second, the crowd went quiet again.

Jake couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. You looked like a real life goddess, ready for war, but the delicacy, soft aura that sorrounded you still untouched.

It made his brain tickle, his throat dry. But he played it off.

“Didn’t know they made armor with perfume built in.”

You stopped a few feet away, tilting your head. “Didn’t know they made egos that big without divine intervention.”

Oof. That got a few laughs. You came with these type of comebacks so easily, never seemed touched by his comments, never letting anyone get under your skin.

Jake raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair.”

His gaze was locked into yours, heavy, lit up, burning with something more than challenge or anger, it was an intense look, as if he was trying to figure you out, trying to look right through you.

A heartbeat passed.

Chiron stepped between you, tall and regal, his voice booming with authority. “Campers. This is a friendly duel. Training blades only. No fatal blows. First to disarm wins.” He looked between the two. “Understood?”

Jake gave a nod. “Sure.”

You smiled sweetly. “Of course.”

Your swords were exchanged for dulled celestial bronze training versions, enchanted to sting like Hades but not kill.

As Chiron backed away, the air thickened. The noise from the crowd melted into the background.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You just watched each other.

Jake’s smirk faded into something quieter, measured. Curious. You stood with your blade at your side, calm and unmoved, like you were waiting for him to decide when the dance would start. The crowd was roaring behind you two, but Jake barely heard it anymore. You stood across the ring, your sword loose in one hand, eyes locked on his like you were the only two people in the world. Yours shining, sparkling with hunger, he could tell you’d been waiting for this, he just couldn’t understand why exactly.

Then the real game started.

You began to circle. Slowly at first. Measuring. Watching.

Jake’s feet moved in perfect rhythm, fluid, confident. He tilted his head slightly, sizing you up.

“You sure you’re not just here to impress your cabin?” he teased, voice low.

You smiled softly. “You sure you’re not just afraid to lose in front of yours?”

The way you said it, light, airy, like a flower petal on the breeze, made the jab land even harder.

Jake’s smirk twitched. Okay. Cute. You were cool. Calm. Unshaken.

But he knew how to break through that. He always did.

He feinted to the right, quick and sharp.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, your blade rose fast, just enough to parry if he committed. You didn’t overreact. You didn’t fall for it.

Interesting.

Jake took a step in and you mirrored it.

Two more steps.

Then Clash.

Your swords met in a flash of bronze, the sound ringing out like thunder. Your strike was fast. Faster than he expected. Not wild, not emotional, precise. Controlled. You pivoted on your heel, angling your body to minimise target space. Your movements were so clean, so deliberate.

Jake caught the blow, just barely. Your faces were close now, blades pressing, arms trembling with tension.

You were faster than he expected, stronger too. Your swords clashed again, ringing across the field, but Jake barely registered the sound. His focus narrowed, locked on the girl in front of him.

He’d never really looked at you before, not like this. You were always… in the background. The picture of perfection. Helping younger campers with their braids, organizing picnic tables, smiling like nothing in the world could touch you.

But this girl?

This girl moved like a storm pretending to be a breeze.

Every strike you threw was elegant, but lethal. Every step was soft, but deliberate. You were poetry in motion, graceful and deadly. And you weren’t just matching him, you were challenging him.

Jake gritted his teeth and swung again, forcing you to block high, then low. You countered with a fluid pivot that nearly knocked the blade from his hand.

The air was hot, the sun high in the sky, every eye on you two, on the fight. Long minutes passed between swings and hits, where neither of you seemed to be surrendering for now.

He was sweating, like actually sweating.

And you, gods, you still looked serene. Focused, unrattled. It should’ve pissed him off, it did a bit, but instead something in his chest twisted. Tight.

How the hell did he not notice you before?

You could feel his strength in every strike. The way he moved, clean, sharp, confident. There was a reason why they called Jake Sim the best swordsman of his generation.

You spun to the side, narrowly dodging a brutal downswing, and countered with a quick jab towards his side. He blocked it in time, but you saw the flicker in his eyes, surprise.

You weren’t playing anymore.

There was heat in his eyes, not just from the fight. Not from frustration, it was something else. Like curiosity, like awe.

You took a deep breath, and stepped back, reseting your stance. So did he. You were circling again, both breathing harder now, both sweating, neither smiling anymore.

The way you moved, each strike fast and precises, calculated like a chess player five moves ahead. You were good.

But Jake’s eyes kept drifting.

The curve of your shoulders as you pivoted. The way your braid swung behind you, like it was dancing with the wind. The way your perfect skin glistened beneath the sun and the sweat, a few strands sticked to your beautiful face, your makeup still perfectly applied, the way your body seemed to shine. Your armor, subtle, elegant, hugged your body like it has been made by Aphrodite herself. Which, honestly? Wouldn’t been shocking.

And then there were your eyes, focused, glowing, locked on him like a pretador pretending to be a prey.

You stepped into him, swung high. He blocked, but his grip slipped a little, the crowd gasping.

Pull it together, for fucks sake. He thought, tilting his head, chest moving up and down, lips parted as he caught his breath. But for some reason he couldn’t, not when you were this close, not when you smelled like roses and wildfire, sweet and soft. It made his skin shiver even if the day was hot beneath the burning sun. The sweat on his forehead falling along his whole face until it was dripping from his neck.

You spun again, graceful as a dancer, and your leg brushed his as you passed him. His mind scrambled for focus, he tightened his grip and turned, eyes locked on your back for a split second before you twisted around, blade raised. And smiling.

He was so in trouble.

You could feel it, the shift. Jake was still fighting, fast, precise, sharp like always. But there was something different in the way his sword moved now. A half second slower, a little less direct, his eyes weren’t on your blade anymore.

They were on you.

You ducked under his swing, twisted behind him, and let your fingers graze his side, not a hit, just barely a touch. And he froze. Then you stepped back into position, sword up again, and let your gaze flick down his chest, then back up, slow, enough for him to notice, fast enough to pretend it was accidental. This was a different game now, something unspoken.

Jake’s breath hitched.

“You okay there, Sim?” you asked sweetly, voice like honey and silk.

He scowled, but it was weak. His lips twitched like he wanted to smirk.

“Just adjusting.” he muttered, circling again.

You let your shoulders relax, body fluid as you moved. Your braid bounced with each step, catching the sunlight, you could feel his eyes on it. On you.

But you struck again, quick, sharp, letting your body press just a bit too close in the follow-through. He caught your blade, but his footing slipped, just slightly. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, his arm brushing your waist, his breath was right there, hitting your cheek. It was now your skin’s turn to shiver.

You leaned in, whispered just loud enought for only him to hear.

“Still think this is just a friendly spar?”

His eyes met yours, heated, locked. Fire beneath them.

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. There was something floating between you two now, something more than just challenge. It was lust, intrigue, desire.

Jake was losing focus, and he knew it. Everytime he got close, you’d look at him like that, eyes calm, soft, but hiding the fire behind them. Like you knew you were pulling his strings and were enjoying every second of it.

He swung low, fast, but you danced out of range like you could read his thoughts, your movements were too smooth, too deliberate. You were baiting him. Then he circled to the left, feinted, struck high, and you caught it. Your blades locked again, faces inches apart, breath mingling.

Your lips were slightly parted, glistening, cherry lip gloss still perfectly applied.

Jake’s chest rose and fell with each breath, sweat slid down the back of his neck, and still, he couldn’t stop looking at your mouth.

You tilted your head, just slightly, close enough to be a whisper.

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m not.” He answered quickly, too quickly.

So you smiled. “You are.”

Your swords scraped as you held the lock, muscles trembling.

“Are you gonna try to kiss me, or are you gonna fight me?” you murmured, so low only he could hear.

And he blinked, just once. And in that exact half-second, you dropped your weight, twisted under his blade, and swept his legs out from under him with one clean, beautiful spin.

Thud.

He hit the ground, flat on his back, sword flying from his hand and skidding across the arena floor, eyes wide open as if he couldn’t believe it.

Then, the crowd exploded. Cheers, gasps, laughter. Your siblings jumping, hugging each other, kids from other cabins going crazy.

You looked around, getting an early hint of that glory you so much desired, that moment, where everyone seemed to be worshipping you, admiring you, you felt something you couldn’t describe. This was what demigods were made for, what you were born for. And today, today you proved it. You smiled at the crowd, bowing gracefully like a ballerina who just finished a perfect show, your siblings throwing pink, beautiful flowers at you, a few getting stuck in your hair.

Jake groaned and blinked up at the sky, still trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Then you stepped into his field of vision. You stood over him like a goddess in battle armor, your sword pointed gently at his chest, just where his racing heart was, one eyebrow raised in that maddening, perfect smile.

“Disarmed.” you said simply.

He stared up at you, breathless. Not because of his obvious lost, but because of you.

“Remind me never to underestimate Aprhodite’s kids again.”

You tilted your head, same sweet grin in your lips.

“We’re full of surprises.”

And then you offered him a hand, he stared at it for a few seconds, thinking, his head spinning, going circles, not because of the fall, not because he had been defeated, but because your smell was taking over all the air around him, and for some reason, he wanted his lungs full of it.

He finally took it, sweaty, hot palms against each other. Your fingers were warm, strong, and when you pulled him up, you were close, closer than before. Not just physically.

And suddenly, the duel didn’t feel like the end. It felt like the beginning of something much more dangerous.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

It had been three days. Three days since the duel. Since you, sweet, soft-spoken, perfect little Aprhodite’s daughter had knocked him flat on his back in front of half of the camp and walked away like it meant nothing.

Jake placed the edge of the training arena, jaw tight, arms crossed. The sun was setting behind the trees, casting long shadows across the field where he’d lost. Where you had disarmed him, humiliated him, and smiled while doing it.

His fingers twitched like they were still reaching for the sword you’d knocked away.

And fucking gods, it still pissed him off. Not because he lost, okay, a little bit.

But mostly because you hadn’t even looked surprised. Like you knew all along that you could take him down. Like it was easy. It was the way you looked at him while you fought, calm, focused, like you’d seen through every layer of swagger and charm he wore like armor.

And worse, it was the way he had looked at you, every curve of your body, every flick of your wrist, every step, graceful, purposeful, dangerous. How your figure moved, how your face stayed calm all the time, looking beautiful, perfect. His whole body shivered just at the memory. You hadn’t just beat him in duel.

You unraveled him.

Now he didn’t know what the fuck he wanted. Part of him wanted a rematch, part of him wanted to kiss you just to see if you would let him, part of him wanted to grab his sword, drag you back into the arena and lose on purpose just to feel that thrill again.

You’re Jake Sim. Son of Hermes. Captain of cabin 11. Everyone looks up to you.

How could he just walk up to the girl who beat him, who toyed with him, and say “Hey, i haven’t stopped thinking about you. You got under my skin and i don’t know what to do with that.”

It felt like surrender. And he never, never did that.

But what terrified him more than bruised pride, was the thought of never seeing you like that again. The thought of you walking away from whatever the hell this was.

Jake looked down at his hands, strong, calloused, steady. But for the first time, he didn’t know what to do with them.

The Aprhodite cabin was glowing in the afternoon light, sun filtering through silk pink curtains, the scent of jasmine and rosewater drifting in the air as some of your sibilings had a relaxing, spa day.

You sat on the edge of your sister’s bed, weaving ribbons through a braid with steady, practiced hands. Your touch was soft, gentle, perfect, as always. You smiled when your sister thanked you, gave her a quiet “Of course” and rose to help another camper fix the hem of a dress.

Your movements were calm, graceful.

But your thoughts? Nowhere near calm.

They were back in the arena. Back with the weight of Jake’s body hitting the ground, the way the crowd roared, the he’d looked up at you, surprised, winded, and just a little bit wrecked.

A thrill sparked in your chest all over again.

You did that.

For once, your strength hadn’d been hidden behind beauty or kindness or smiles. You’d shown it. Proved it. And not just to the camp, but to him.

And gods, the look on his face.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the grin creeping onto your lips as you adjusted a camper’s hair clip.

He’d looked at you like he couldn’t decide wether to fight you or fall for you. And if you were being honest with yourself, you kind of hoped it was both.

Because as much as you were proud of your win, of the way you’d flipped him on his back in front of everyone, you couldn’t stop thinking about the tension in his jaw. The heat in his eyes, the sweat falling from his neck, his dark hair sticked to his forehead, his plump, perfect lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. The way his voice dropped.

There had been something there. Not just in the way you two moved, but in the pause between your strikes. The almost-touch, the almost-kiss. The hunger for something unspoken that wasn’t just glory.

He hadn’t spoke to you since then, not once. Was it pride? Or was he trying to stay away from you?

The idea of him thinking about you, fighting with the same pull, made your chest tighten in a way that was far too satisfying.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

In the armory, the air was thick with the scent of oiled leather and iron. Faint dust danced in golden rays of afternoon light cutting through the narrow windows. It was quiet. Undisturbed. You decided to go there to pick a few new weapons for this year's Capture the Flag, after all, you were the camp's new favorite warrior.

But then Jake Sim walked in.

His boots echoed slightly against the stone floor. He didn’t speak at first, he just watched you.

You stood with your back to him, delicately running your fingers along the line of dagger belts laid across a wooden table. The soft curve on your neck, the gentle sway of your hair, Jake’s eyes followed every detail like it was dangerous.

Because it was.

His heart was racing and he knew exactly why, it was because of you, because of the thoughts he had been having about you, about what you did to him and what he wanted to do to you. It was driving him crazy.

“You always this graceful picking out weapon straps?” he finally said, voice just low enough to carry.

You turned, slowly, as if you’d known he was watching all along. His raspy voice echoing, you suppressed a smirk. He was wearing the camp shirt, tightened around his chest because of his muscular body, veins popping under the slightly tanned skin of his arms, hair perfectly slicked back, that same, cocky, confident smirk in his lips. It made you want to kill him or jump right onto him an devour him.

“Only when i know someone is staring.” you said with a smile so subtle it felt like a secret.

Jake’s heart kicked hard in his chest again.

You were dressed simply, white tank top and cotton shorts, your usual camp gear. But the way you stood there, confident and completely at ease, made it impossible to look away. Your lips were glossed with something soft and pink. Your eyes sparkled, playful, unreadable. Your beautiful, long eyelashes decorated with perfectly applied mascara, a soft red blush on your cheeks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here”. You said, drifting closer to the display, tracing the edge of a bronze buckle.

Jake leaned against the nearby bench, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered. Trying.

It was the first time you two were talking after the events in the arena, the first time you two were alone, in a room, with those drowning feelings that none of you had put the finger on, it was like a recipe for disaster. And you were about to fall inside of it, deep.

“Didn’t expect you to haunt my thoughts either, but here we are.”

Your eyes lifted. And there it was, that flicker of fire beneath the calm, sweet surface. Made him want to forget all of his pride and kneel down in front of you to worship you.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” A shiver went down your spine when he smirked, cocky out of habit, but inside he was drowning.

“You beat me in front of everyone. It’s hard to forget something like that.”

Was it just that? Or something else? Something heavier, deeper, hotter. You didn't know. Jake was a cocky man, pride showered him like a second skin, you knew it was hard for a demigod like him letting those words leave his mouth, and for some reason, it was satisfying.

“Mmm.” You murmured, stepping a little closer. “I think you liked it.”

Jake didn’t respond, he couldn’t. You were closer now, not enough to touch, but gods, it was close. He could see every detail of you, the way your lips parted as you breathed, the faint blush rising to your cheeks, the slight rinse and fall of your chest, you beautiful, perfect body.

And you were watching him, really watching him. Not just for his words, but for every breath he took. The air filled with tension, desire, something unbereable.

“You’re tense.” You said softly, eyes dropping to his clenched jaw.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You took another step forward, the tips of your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt, not enought to count as a touch, but just enough to promise one. His body tensed, his gaze locked with yours, intense, deep.

“You’ve been acting like you’re unaffected. But i see the way you look at me, Jake.”

His throat went dry, he didn’t move. If he moved, he wasn’t sure he’d been able to stop himself. He was a man with ambition, who always followed his desires. And right now, they weren’t innocent desires.

You tilted your head slightly, he fucking loved when you did that, when you acted all innocent and pure, and maybe you were, but now he was seeing right through it, and your lips now were barely a breath from his.

“Say it.” You whispered, challenging him, once again, doing the thing that drove him crazy.

Jake stared at you, jaw clenched, heart hammering. His pride screamed to hold back, to play it off, to make a cocky comment. But the desire? The desire had been clawing at his insides since the second you’d walked into his life.

“You’re driving me insane.” He said finally, low, deep voice as he spoke “And i don’t know if i want to kiss you or throw my sword at your head.”

And you laughed, soft and slow, your whole body twitching a his confession. Because you felt that too, you’d been wanting, all of it, too, to fight him again, to win again, to kiss him, to feel him.

“You want to kiss me.” You said simply.

Then, finally, he moved.

One hand reached up, cupping the side of your face. His strong, calloused thumb brushed along your jawline, slow, reverent, fingertips tickling. His other hand found your waist, fingers flexing against the fabric of your tank top. He looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight or surrender.

“Tell me to stop.” He whispered, voice rough, shaky, hot breath against yours.

“Don’t you dare.”

And he kissed you.

Not rough, not rushed. But deep, like he’d been starved for you and didn’t know how to go slow. Your hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer. You kissed him like you knew exactly how long he’d been holding back, like you’d been holding back too.

The room spun, the rest of the world fell away.

There was only the heat of his mouth, the press of his body against yours, the way your breaths tangled like you were trying to inhale each other. Your lips were moving above each others at a slow, almost teasing pace, like the one you had in the battlefield, dancing while little sighs left both of your mouths, hot breaths colliding. His lips were soft, plushed, and he tasted sweet, it made you tremble and you had to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer, deeper. Jake whimpered, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue, exploring your mouth with it and tangling it with yours, sending that familiar shiver down your spine.

He slid his hand from your waist to the small of your back, pulling your flush against him, your fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. He let out a soft sound in the back of his throat, frustration, relief, desire.

When you bit gently at his lower lip, he growled.

“Gods.” he muttered into your mouth. “You’re going to ruin me.”

And you laughed against him.

In one smooth, desperate morion, he lifted you, hands gripping under your exposed thighs as you gasped, and set you up on the workbench behind you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking him in. The bench creaked beneath you, old wood protesting, but neither of you cared.

Your hands then slipped beneath the edge of his shirt, palms pressed to his warm, tanned skin. You felt the tension in him, tight and coiled like a spring ready to snap. Jake kissed you like he’d been starving, like every second of restraint he’d shown since the duel had been building to this one moment. His hands were everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, memorising you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips swollen, lip gloss ruined, your eyes dark and bright and locked on him like he was something you couldn’t quite resist either.

“I tried not to want this.” He admitted, breath ragged.

You touched his face, gentle, detailing every inch of his gorgeous features. “I didn’t.”

He exhaled a soft laugh, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Of course you didn’t.” He murmured, smiling against your skin. “You’re too damn perfect.”

You slid your fingers through his hair again, dark brown strands between them, nail grazing lightly at his scalp. “Still think i’m just a pretty girl?”

Jake pulled back to meet your eyes again.

“No.” He said, voice low and sure “You’re dangerous, and i want more.”

And then he kissed you again, deep, slow, like he really meant it this time. Like it wasn’t just heat or revenge or rivarly anymore.

Like it was want, it was real.

And you let him, opening your mouth and recieving his wet, warm tongue, sucking it and letting out little sounds that only made him kiss you harder, his rough hands now caressing the skin of your thighs, gripping a little tight like wanting to mark his fingers, his kiss becoming sloppier, needier, he wasn’t holding back anymore. The stubborness in you had faded away, since the moment he put his lips above yours, and right now, you were going to let him do as he pleased, because you wanted that too.

So you slid your delicate, smooth hands beneath his shirt, now touching the bare skin of his abs, tracing the perfectly built lines, thanks to his training, then his chest, then down again, deleiting yourself with that soft skin, that was burning beneath your fingers, and he whimpered again, biting your lip so hard that it stinged a little, but you didn’t care, you just moaned, low, softly, and he lost his mind. Because his hands now traveled to your covered ass cheeks, squeezing them tight above the cotton of your shorts, shamelessly groping as if he’d never touched anyone before, because the sound that left his throat was different this time. And you squirmed, the shiver that once was settled on your spine moving down all the way to your core, ending up in a wetness that you couldn’t ignore.

He broke the kiss, but only to bring his face to the curve of your neck, kissing there, sucking, licking, hot and wet tongue against your skin, and you tilted your head, giving him more space, eyes closed as you sighed.

“Fuck, this damn smell.” He whispered with broken voice, lust being the only tone in it “It’s been driving me crazy.”

You bit your lip when he caught your skin between his teeth, biting, marking, slightly arching your back, your covered breasts making contact with his chest, and he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, practically breathless.

“You want this, right here?” he asked, deep in his heart wishing you’d say yes.

And of course, you nodded, fluttering your eyelashes in that way that made his knees weak.

So he wasted no time, grabbing the hem of your tank top and lifting it over your shoulders, sliding it out of you with desperation, your bare, perfect breasts in front of him, nipples hard the second the air made contact with them. And his face, he looked completely wrecked as he admired you. Dark, lustful but shiny eyes taking in every inch of your body. He was sure that you were Aprhodite herself brought to life.

His face buried in your chest, hand cupping one of your breasts and tongue licking and sucking into the other, and you moaned high pitched, arching your back again and gripping his hair wanting to feel him closer, your whole body shivering, the wetness between your legs now completely impossible to ignore. The sound of his mouth against your skin combining with your whimpers, your legs trembling, no man had ever touched you like that before, like worshipping you.

“J-Jake…” you moaned, biting your lip, eyes sparkling filled with need and desire and hunger.

“You’re a fucking goddess.” He whispered, not letting go of your nipple, hand squeezing. “I’d let you ruin my whole life.”

That was the hottest thing someone had ever said to you, and you whimpered, stretching your hand so you could touch him again, helping him slid out of his shirt, this one ending up on the floor along your tank top. And the sight was breath taking, his glistening, tanned skin, his toned abs, his pumped chest, the veins in his arms. He was a god too, you were sure about that. Your hand ended up sliding beneath his cargo pants, palm making contact with his already hardened member, and he growled again, thrusting his hips needfully to meet with your touch. He was thick, hard, throbbing through his boxers, and you whimpered again when he did the same to you, manly hand finding your clothed pussy, rubbing his fingers against you, your wetness noticeable through the thin, laced fabric of your underwear.

"Do you taste just as sweet as you smell?" He whispered, in your ear, teeth biting your earlobe, you didn't respond, not being able too, your whole body feeling like it was on fire.

Your legs threatened to close, but he kept his other hand on your kneee, forcing you open, thumb rubbing circles against your swollen, clothed clit. Then, in just a second, your back crashed with the wall as he slid down your shorts, and underwear, throwing them on the floor and just taking a second to admire you. Your face was red, you were now naked, there, in the armory, in front of him, and the look in his eyes was completely different. He was broken. His gaze trailed down your body, your breasts, your torso, between your legs, your beautiful, heavenly pussy in front of him, dripping, wet, glistening, needy.

He didn't say anything, he couldn't find the words to even try to describe you. So he knelt down, like a mortal in his favourite goddess altar, hands gripping your thighs, tight, he wet his lips with his tongue, and your hands found his hair again, he closed his eyes as you caressed him. Few seconds passed, and he leaned in, face buried between your legs, looking so gorgeous, but so fucked. And then, a long, soaked, warm lick, his tongue traced a slow line in your folds, and you screamed, throwing your head back. And the sound he let out, was almost unnatural.

Jake kept his eyes closed as he sucked your clit, tongue tracing circles before starting to suck you, tasting you, swallowing you, devouring you. He ate you out like an starved man, spitting and licking and whining against your soaked pussy, nose rubbing with your aching clit, and you could only whimper and moan, rocking your hips into his face, begging him to never stop. And he wouldn't dare, because you were the sweetest thing he'd ever put in his mouth, in that moment, he wanted to die between your legs. His face was a mess, chin soaked in your arousal, cheeks red, eyes still closed. One finger found your entrance, sliding between your walls so good and your pussy clenched around it, the wood beneath your body completely soaked, sticky with your sweat and fluids.

"So sweet." He whispered, his hot breath crashing with the skin of your inner thighs, and then he opened his eyes, dark gaze locked with yours.

His finger thrusted inside and out of you, lips wrapped around your clit, and you whined, your legs shaking, twitching, trembling, sweat starting to fall down your forehead. Second finger slid, curling inside of you, stretching you so good, brushing teasing your g-spot.

“G-Gods.” You whined, pulling strands of his hair.

Jake then stood up again, cleaning his lips with his palm before devouring your mouth again, and you could taste yourself in his hot mouth, your dripping pussy still pulsing, clenching around nothing. But not for too long, because he slid two of his fingers inside of you again, deep, hard, rough, now really fucking you with them, curling them and bumping them into your g-spot over and over again, spreading your walls, soaking them with your fluids.

“Fuck, you’re leaking.” his voice was so weak, so broken. “Can’t wait to feel you. Been wanting this since you called me out with that beautiful face.”

Palm was crashing with your clit, fingers moving in and out fast, the wet sounds and moans being the only ones in the hot, barely illuminated room. Your whole body tensed, showered in pleasure.

Then Jake pulled them out, and you whined, teary eyes looking at him like really full of desire, of want, of need. And he couldn’t hold back anymore, not when you were so perfect, so gorgeous. So made for him.

So he finally, finally took his member out, throbbing, thick, hard, veins popped up, red tip leaking, he was full of need too. And your eyes shined, your mouth watered, the lust taking you over. He didn’t wait much, he couldn’t, so he stroked himself a few times, jaw clenched and hisses through his teeth, he rubbed his tip between your folds, teasing you and himself, one hand gripped to your waist, marking. And then, he slowly slid in, and you grabbed his shoulders for balance, because the feeling crushed your brain and body, his thick length stretching you as good as his fingers, deep, slow, you watched as it disappeared inside of you. And he groaned, low, eyes sticked to yours, thrusting his hips a few times, still at a slow pace, like not wanting the sensation to go away so fast.

“Fucking hell” he bit his lip, moaning. “You’re so tight, this is the most perfect pussy ever.”

You let out a cry once his thrusts became faster, rougher, skins crashing making an obscene sound as his cock disappeared inside of you, his eyes sticked to your face, not wanting to miss any of the expressions you were making, your beautiful, perfect face ruined by the pleasure. But he was no different, his jaw tight, his eyebrows frowned, hisses leaving his parted lips as he moaned and growled like an animal. The once perfectly made braid in your hair was now messy, a few strands sticked to your face, your eyes teary, your forehead full with sweat, your lips sore because of how much you were biting them.

One hand cupped your breast again, squeezing hard, as if he couldn’t keep his hands off of you, of your perfect body. And the other found your aching, swollen clit, messy circles at the pace of his thrusts, he rolled his hips harder into you, going so deep, you could feel him in every inch of your insides, the pleasure showering you, your brain completely shut down. You moaned high pitched, hiding your face in the curve of his neck, eyes closed as you saw stars.

“You like it?” he asked, a smirk in his lips, his cocky nature still in him, breathless, between thrusts “Tell me, please, need to hear you say it, princess.”

The nickname wasn’t sarcastic anymore, it was affection in it, worship, devotion.

And you whined against his skin, filling your lungs with his sweaty, manly smell, nodding, desperate, needy.

“Y-Yes. Please don’t stop.”

So using his incredible strength, he pulled out, but he made you put your feet on the ground, flipping you over so your chest was now against the wood of the counter, and he slid in again, grabbing your hips, bumping deeper thanks to the new position, head of his cock reaching your g-spot immediately, and you cried against the surface as tears rolled down your cheeks, ruining your mascara. His thighs crashed against your asscheeks, his movements now sloppier, erratic, he was really fucking you now.

But to be fair, you fucked him first, just in a different way.

He kissed down your back, everywhere, sucking too, wanting to mark every inch of your soft skin, and you arched your back, thrusting backwards meeting with his hips, nails scratching the wood beneath you.

This wasn’t just fucking. This was him discharging all of his frustration and anger in you, but not in bad way, in a i fucking trust you and worship you as a goddess way. And it was driving you crazy, you had the strongest man in camp moaning your name and mind-fucked and wanting to die inside of you.

Jake’s hand placed your braid over your shoulder, now kissing your neck again, whispering sweet words in your ear, voice wrecked and weak, crushed by his own moans and groans.

“You’re so perfect. I wanna worship you all my life. I want you to see me, to humiliate me again, i don’t care, i’d fight with you all the time just to keep your eyes on me.” He was mumbling, completely pussy drunk. But you were too, because he stretched you so good, because the warmth of his weigth was just too much, you sniffed through your nose, whining.

“J-Jake…” you moaned again, the knot on your lower belly starting to built. And he understood, because his fingers brushed your clit again, fast, rough. Your legs were trembling, your knees weak, the air so hot, you felt like you were about to pass out.

He grabbed your throat, not hard enough to choke, just to hold, to make you raise your head so he could kiss you again, dirty, sloppy, angry. His tongue explored your mouth once again, and his movements were completely erratic, senseless, he was close too. A few drops of his sweat soaked your face, combining with the saliva falling from the corner of your mouths. The way we kissed you, the way he touched you, the way he fucked you. Not only made you whimper because you were an Aprhodite girl, not only because it flattered you, but because it was him.

And you broke, body completely wrecked, back arched as you screamed so high pitched and came all around his cock, the orgasm taking you over, your pussy dripping, clenched tight around him, your heart racing, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He came too, because the look of your climax was just the peak of perfection in his eyes, and he didn’t hold himself back, guttural groan leaving his throat as his orgasm made him leak inside of you, warm, creamy fluids filling you up, thrusts becoming slower, weaker, his pulsing cock discharging all of his pleasure.

Neither of you spoke for a few seconds, he didn’t pull out, didn’t move, part because he couldn’t, part because he didn’t want to. You felt his lips on your cheek, sweet, slow, his breath making your skin jump. But you couldn’t move either, you didn’t feel like yourself, the whole room was spinning, your body felt like floating. You sighed deeply, trying to regain balance.

Then Jake finally pulled out, slow, and his cum dripped between your folds, and down your legs. His eyes sparkled, the view just so perfect for him to handle.

“Are you ok?” He asked softly, grabbing your waist so you’d stood up, his eyes were still lit up.

You cleaned the sweat of your face with your hands, trying but failing to fix your hair. Then you smiled, same sweetness as ever. Even after he literally fucked you.

“I think you broke me.” You joked, voice still weak, but your eyes were sparkling too, something new awakened inside of you, and him. Between you two.

Jake chuckled, still a bit breathless, but he started to pick up your clothes, shaking them because of course, you could never wear something dirty.

“Well, princess. Call that a rematch.”

And you rolled your eyes, pushing his chest surprisingly strong, he almost tripped. Then you both laughed.

He kissed you again. Sweet, soft, and you didn’t want him to stop. Ever again.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

“How long are they gonna keep going with this?” Sunoo groaned, rolling his eyes and resting his head on your little sister’s shoulder, her smiling, amused by the scene in front of them.

The sun hung lazily over camp Halfblood’s training field, glints of sunlight off polished bronze blades. A few kids crowded at the edge of the ring, sitting on logs and leaning over the rails, whispering at each other.

“They’re still going.”

“Twenty minutes.” A Hermes camper confirmed, eyes locked on the fight. “And they haven’t stopped once.”

You stood across from Jake, your sword poised gracefully, a bead of sweat running down the side of your face, your stance was perfect, shoulders relaxed, chin lifted, eyes sharp.

Jake… was smiling.

“Tired, princess?” He asked, circling you slowly.

“You wish, hero.” you shot back, shifting your grip. “I could do this all day.”

“Yeah?” Jake twirled his sword lazily “You gonna keep staring at me or actually fight?”

“Hard to fight someone when they’re too busy admiring themselves”

Your sisters went oooh. And Jake smirked.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Your blades met with a clash, steel, sparkling, footwork fluid and fast. But it wasn’t just training. You had a rythym now, a dance you both knew by heart. Teasing swipes, parried blows, a spin that brought you two almost chest to chest.

“You’re holding back.” Jake whispered low enough for only you to hear, breath brushing your cheek.

“So are you.” you whispered back, voice like silk. “What are you afraid of?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he lunged, and you spun. Your blades locked high, too high. One step, a slip. Your foot caught the edge of the sand pit, Jake reached out instinctively, grabbing your waist.

You fell.

Right onto the training mat, you landing on top of him with a surprised gasp, tangled up in his limbs and laughter.

Neither of you moved.

You hovered over him, bracing your hands on his chest, his heart pounding beneath your palms.

“You ok?” You asked softly.

“Perfect.” Jake breathed, but his eyes were fixated on your lips.

There was a beat, a long, electric pause. No teasing, no taunts. Just tension, want. Something warm and stupid and real blooming in his chest.

And then he leaned up, meeting you halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, just a brush of lips, like a secret shared in plain sight. But then it deepened, slow and certain.

Until you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Jake rested his forehead against yours.

“Still think we’re just sparring?” you murmured, teasing smile in your voice.

Jake grinned. “Definitely not.”

From the sidelines, Jay, one of his brothers shouted.

“Get a cabin!”

But Jake reached up, brushed a strand from your face, and smirked. Eyes sparkly, lost, completely in love.

“I told you i’d win.”

“I let you fall.” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get cocky.”

taglist

@gulicore @bussolares @vixialuvs @berryloveseunghan @lilifiedeans @m1kkso @usuallyunlikelyfox @jayjw16enxp @starfallia @bellsjakesgf @zuwishii @cutehoons02 @immelissaa @nyxtwixx @kayjiguki @emisluvr @k1ttyjwon @koizekomi

thank you so much for reading!! hope you enjoyed <3 it would help me a lot if you liked/repost but i’m happy knowing that someone even read this !!

heeseung’s drabble next !!

#enhypen x reader #enhypen drabbles #enhypen imagines #enhypen jake smut #enhypen jake #enhypen smut #enhypen writer #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #jake sim smut #jake sim #demigods series x ninisdollie #ninisdollie writes !!

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submergedinmadness · 3 days ago

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yk what I'll also do this get to know your mutuals cuz I thought bout it for a bit and I think I have to or I'll explode

get to know your mutuals♡

if you could be any animal which one would you choose to be? (can be fictional) (and you can explain why if you want to)

what would you choose when you're in a hurry and have nothing to wear?

are you a witch, vampire, fairy, dryad, siren or a mermaid and why do you think so?

what is your style?

regular milk or plant based milk?

which one do you put first milk or cereal?

fav way to kill someone? (idgaf if you never thought of it now you have to think of something and make it at least a bit cool I'm begging)

and I'll go first cuz I can

girl I wrote kinda a lot in these answers but I just had to brag about my fav way of killing people🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ and okay maybe it's kinda stupid that I'm also doing this game even tho I made it for others but who cares?

I can't choose but either a phoenix or a wolf cuz the allegory of both of these animals absolutely stole my heart

anything in my wardrobe that looks good (and it's almost always not adequate for the cold weather, I literally can wear a mini skirt when it's like 2°C outside and there are times when I am wearing a mini skirt and a crop top when it is 0°C and even when it was -3°C I don't care)

something in between vampire and a dryad cuz I feel like I would be a good vampire I don't know how to describe it but I just know and that's it and also a dryad cuz when I think of them they give me rather a messy and chaotic vibe which is def how I act and overall express myself so I'd say that I'm sometimes both sometimes one and sometimes the other

I'm goth so my style is overall gothic and / or cunty

regular but only 1,5% fat

CEREAL

sooo this is my fav way, first - pepper spray in the face so they can't see and therefore they can't run away, second - start scratching their legs with a pocket knife as hard as possible and try to find an aorta and cut there (making it even harder to run away), third - stick the same knife into all of their fingers (why not), fourth - knock out their teeth with a knuckle duster and finally - when they open their mouth trying to catch a breath from the blood and saliva running into their throat pour fluoroantimonic acid into their mouth and it's done! and I'll add that fluoroantimonic acid is called the most corrosive acid in the world ans if it touches the skin it causes huge damage and if poured into someones throat it'll burn the insides and kill. I think I'm really creative cuz I came up with this when I was writing one of my books and now I'm obsessed

tags: @n1eprzytomnadesperacja @niketas-s @r4tkisses @dawkacynizmu @gothicm0rph @slowacki006

and with question 7 rn I'm mostly thinking about one bbg ( @dawkacynizmu I'm looking at you ) cuz a bit after I came up with this question I thought that you might have an interesting answer

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girlgenius1111 · 14 hours ago

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different when it's me

barcelona femení x reader you've had a secret for a really long time, one that is getting harder and harder to keep. your friends and teammates know that something is wrong, but they aren't sure how to get you to talk when you seem so insistent on keeping it all to yourself. basically, r is struggling with her sexuality, and her teammates try to help. angst, fluff, you know the drill. cw for internalized homophobia

—

For as long as you could remember, there had been rules. Rules that applied to you, even if they didn’t apply to anyone else. Like how you weren’t allowed to yell at your parents, but they could yell at you. Or how you weren’t allowed to see your friends on school days, but your brother could.

Even as you’d gotten older and moved out, the ‘you’ rules remained. Some of them were entirely self imposed. It was alright if other people took time off training when they were sick, but you couldn’t. It was okay if Vicky left a dish in the sink instead of washing it right away, but if you did that you’d have felt like a terrible roommate.

And then there was the biggest rule of all. It wasn’t even a rule, really. It was just… how things were.

Other people could be gay. Your teammates, your friends. Anyone else, that was okay. You’d stand by that, you’d fight for it.

But you couldn’t be. You just couldn’t.

Maybe it was your parents, or maybe it was the hours you’d spent in church, hearing the priest casually slip into his homelie comments about men and women and Leviticus 18:22. Whatever had kickstarted the shame and guilt within you, it didn’t matter that much. It was there.

Every time a pretty girl smiled at you in public, or when the cute barista would draw a little smiley face on your coffee cup. Every time you instinctually frowned and stepped away from a man who was looking to make a move on you. Every time you noticed a girl’s smile or the color of her eyes, the soft skin of her hand as it brushed yours.

Shame.

And you tried, tried so hard. To imagine the perfect man, the perfect wedding, the perfect life. But it just wasn’t right. The longer you spent away from your parents, away from the catholic church you’d grown up in, you started to wonder. The longer you spent around your friends who didn’t even blink when Jana announced she had a new girlfriend, the standard you set for yourself started to crumble, no matter how tightly you tried to hold onto it.

You’d find yourself daydreaming. The domestic life you’d always been so sure you didn’t want would flash in your mind, except this time, it was a lot more appealing. A wife, instead of a husband, and your stomach didn’t turn. For so long, you’d thought that there was no option to accept what you knew, knew really deep down, to be true. You’d rather die than accept it, if life in the closet was so miserable, you’d rather die.

But acceptance began to start without you even telling it to. Like your brain was so tired of the shame, it started to reject it.

So what? It would say. It had never felt like that before, and you were beyond terrified.

—

What kickstarted everything was a visit home to your parents. As it often went, 90% was nice. Home cooked meals, the feeling of not having to be responsible for anything, just for a little while.

It was good. Or, at least, it was alright enough that you could convince yourself it was good. You could pretend everything was okay.

And then, your mother had asked the dreaded question. Do you have a boyfriend yet?

You could tell as time passed, as you got older and never brought home a boy, your parents grew more and more worried. Whether that was worry that you were going to die alone, or worry that you weren’t into guys, you didn’t know.

But they always asked. And when you’d shake your head, say no and give the excuse that football kept you too busy to think about that, they’d always respond the same.

Well, don’t close yourself off! The perfect guy is out there.

You really doubted that. Normally, it stopped there, but this time, your father took it a step further. Said something that made your stomach twist and your palms sweat.

The perfect man, he’d emphasized. I know how your teammates are. Don’t get any ideas.

It was an off handed comment, probably didn’t mean he suspected anything. Logically, you knew that. Illogically, though… not so much.

You spent the whole drive back from their house crying. Disappeared into your room as soon as you got home, shaking off Vicky’s concerned questions. You didn’t emerge until the next morning for training, and you didn’t feel any better.

There was this weight sitting on your chest. It felt like everyone knew, everyone was staring at you, thinking things about you that you were barely able to admit to yourself. It was the weight of obligation; to your parents and to yourself, pulling you in opposite directions.

It was tearing you in half.

—

No one would ever describe as quiet or withdrawn. You hung around with the louder portion of the team, and you were no exception to that group. You were loud and unrestrained and goofy most of the time. Of course, you were serious when you had to be, but normally not a day passed at Ciutat Esportiva where the sound of your laughter wasn’t bouncing off the walls of the locker room, audible to anyone walking through the hall.

That is, until today.

It wasn’t obvious, not to everyone. There were so many players, so many of you messing around that it didn’t raise alarm bells for any of your older teammates. But for your friends, your best friends, they knew something was wrong the second that you didn’t crack up at Jana’s ridiculous story about Ona falling asleep on her couch and rolling off onto the floor. You gave a weak smile, one that was barely there and very fake.

And immediately, your teammates were giving you a closer look. They noticed bags under your eyes, the distant look on your face as you stared off at the wall. You were wound tightly, it seemed, every muscle in your body tense as you waited to walk out onto the pitch with your friends. It didn’t even occur to you that they’d think you were acting any different, but though they could be absolute clowns, they were also observant, intelligent people.

They could tell, without question, that something was wrong. Jana and Claudia exchanged glances, before turning to Vicky, who could only offer them a shrug in response. She’d known something was wrong since last night, when you’d come home from your parents. You’d barely said two words to her, though, and she was fairly certain you weren’t going to talk if anyone tried to get you to.

But Jana was Jana, and soon she was meaningfully looking between the rest of your teammates and the door, a not so subtle nod for them to give the two of you a moment. For your part, you didn’t even notice them walk out the door. You didn’t notice Jana stay behind, gazing at you worriedly. You were stuck in your head, a billion questions racing through it even as you tried to push them out and focus on the training session ahead of you.

Would your parents hate you?

“Are you okay?”

Would they disown you?

“Huh?” You replied, only half hearing your teammate. You should tell them. Just get it over with. But tell them what? You weren’t even sure. No, of course you were sure, but there was always the chance that you were wrong?

“Hey, amiga.” Jana’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and this time you looked up at her.

You couldn’t tell. It would ruin everything. Absolutely everything.

“Yeah, yeah, what’s up?” You murmured, voice quiet. But how could you keep this to yourself? How could you live with a secret for the rest of your life? You couldn’t.

Jana was really concerned now. You looked destroyed, almost, like you were being ripped in two. Something was really, really wrong.

“Did something happen?” Jana wondered. She had such a calm, soft demeanor. Her expression was so open, and so concerned, it was hard not to break.

It only took a moment for her question to register, and it was as if your brain had detected some kind of threat and instantly drawn all your walls up. You sat up straighter, your eyes clearing. Gone was the look of anxiety and sadness. In its place, you just looked determined. Your face was wiped of any emotion and you stood, giving Jana a half smile.

“Nope! Sorry, I’m tired today. Everything’s fine. Let’s go?”

With that, you turned on your heel and walked towards the door. Jana followed you after, slowly, studying the back of your head as if it would give her the answers.

She wasn’t sure what the hell that was. But she knew, she knew that you were hiding something, and that you weren’t okay. And that wasn’t okay with her.

—

They watched you all throughout training. You could feel their eyes on you, too, and it only strengthened your resolve to act normal. But your friends weren’t having it. They didn’t leave you alone for a second. If it wasn’t Claudia pairing up with you for drills when she normally was always with Patri, it was Esmee standing right next to you during a water break. If it wasn’t Vicky taking the spot right next to you at lunch, it was Jana following you to the bathroom even though she’d just been.

It wasn’t that you blamed them for being worried; you knew you’d been weird upon arriving that morning. Since then, though, you’d made a very strong effort to appear as though you were fine.

Your friends didn’t buy it, but apparently your captains did, because Jana tried to tell them something was up, but they just brushed her off.

Jana explained to Alexia, Irene, and Marta that something was wrong. That you seemed like you were somewhere else entirely that morning, barely fighting back tears.

Vicky had told them how weird you’d been acting since coming home from seeing your parents, and how she could have sworn she heard you crying in the shower that morning.

Claudia told them you didn’t even blink when she took a few blueberries off your plate at lunch, even though you were notorious for being bad at sharing food.

None of them thought anything of it.

Even when Patri told them you hadn’t made any jokes about how she’d worn her shorts inside out for the first half of training, Alexia just shook her head with an amused smile.

“She’s growing up, then? Being more mature?” Alexia asked.

“You’re complaining that she beat you to it, are you?” Irene chuckled.

“The girl doesn’t pull a prank and suddenly she’s been replaced by an alien.” Marta grinned.

Your act was too good; you’d put on a very strong façade since slipping up that morning in the locker room. You had everyone but a few of your best friends convinced you were fine.

—

Annoyingly, no one seemed to be giving up on worrying about you. It continued for the next couple days. Even as you acted normal, completely fine, you could tell you were being watched by one of your friends at all times. They were waiting for you to break, again, which was an unsettling feeling and only made you more determined to be fine. You’d pushed the issue from your mind entirely. Wouldn’t think about it, wouldn’t even name it. It was just the issue, and you’d decided it didn’t matter. You couldn’t handle thinking about it while still pretending to be fine, so you didn’t think about it. If your friends caught even the slightest slip up from you, you knew you’d be cornered and interrogated. And above all else, you couldn’t tell them.

They couldn’t know. No one could know. That was what you lived on, the mantra that kept you going when all you wanted was to curl up into a ball on the ground and cry. No one could find out.

You thought that you’d maybe have a respite when Vicky announced she was spending Thursday night at home with her family as it was one of her brothers’ birthdays. But almost as soon as she’d given you that information, your phone was buzzing with a text from Jana.

We’re coming over to watch a movie tonight, because you have the biggest TV. We’ll bring snacks. 8:00. :)

Your TV simply was not the biggest one, that was a blatant lie. But what could you do?

No, Jana, you can’t come over, I have plans of self loathing and sobbing into my pillow until I fall asleep.

So, there you found yourself, curled up on the couch next to Patri as a movie you couldn’t even recall the name of playing on the average size TV hung on your wall. It was harder at night, for some reason, to block everything out that you refused to think about. Mostly, you were picking at your nails and trying to keep up with the plot of the movie so you could appropriately laugh and not bring attention to yourself.

Claudia and Jana were each in an armchair, both of them annoyingly angled so they could see you out of the corner of their eyes. It was impressive, honestly, how committed they were to this. One or two odd moments, and they’d become an investigative team.

You supposed, though, being with them and pretending to be happy was better than being by yourself and feeling it all.

One second, you were holding firm. You were laughing at the funny parts and smiling when you had to. You were holding it together, and you could almost feel your friend’s worry for you dissipating as you acted like yourself.

It felt like you there was a collapsed building sitting on your chest in doing so, but you were doing it.

But of course, the universe wasn’t on your side. Of course the movie that Patri had put on had a scene where a character came out to their parents. Who knows, maybe Patri had her suspicions about what was going on with you, and the movie choice was intentional. Maybe it was entirely unintentional.

Either way, you were crying before you could even try to stop the tears. It wasn’t even a negative scene; the character’s parents were accepting. Loving. They hugged the kid, told him they loved him no matter what.

It was a happy scene, yet all you could think about was that you would never ever have that. There would be no acceptance. No love. There would be tears, but they wouldn’t be the happy kind. It would be the end of the world as you knew it, and that felt so fucking unfair.

You didn’t want to be like this. You wanted to be normal, but you couldn’t. You just couldn’t, and you were going to lose your parents as a result. There was nothing you could do to change that.

So, you cried. Tears silently tracked their way down your cheeks. So quietly, in fact, that it went unnoticed for a minute. Until Jana peeked at you briefly, as she’d been doing all evening, and caught the shine on your cheeks and the tremble of your lip. Most of all, she noticed the devastated look in your eyes, and she was moving before she even knew what she was doing.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” She murmured, sitting down beside you and pulling you into her. You went willingly, or at least you didn’t resist. You let Jana hug you nice and tight, just for a minute. You felt Patri’s hand on your back, not unlike how she’d approach you when you’d get hurt in a match and stay down.

And now…now you were hurting. But not in a way that any of them could fix, you were sure. You wouldn’t let them try, anyway.

The movie was paused when you pulled away from Jana, hastily wiping at your eyes. You could feel the gaze of all three of your teammates on you, insistent and concerned. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to convince them you were fine this time.

“What’s going on with you, hm?” Patri asked gently, nudging your shoulder until you looked at her.

“You’ve not been yourself for days, chica. Talk to us.” Claudia chimed in, moving to perch on the coffee table in front of you. The three of them surrounded you, and maybe it was meant to feel comforting, but all you felt was suffocated.

The walls were closing in in every aspect of your life. You couldn’t hide anymore. Not from your parents, and not from your teammates. That didn’t stop you from trying. Didn’t stop you from clawing at the walls as the room got smaller and smaller, forcing an exit into existence even though there wasn’t one in reality.

“Nothing.” You replied, looking down at your hands fidgeting in your lap. You couldn’t look at them. Not at Claudia’s normally happy face, pinched with concern. Not at Jana, who was surely biting at her lip like she did when she got nervous. Not at Patri, who you knew was studying you closely, brows knit together. You felt transparent, like eye contact would tell them everything, so you didn’t look up, not even when they began to speak.

“Nothing is wrong?” Jana repeated incredulously. You just shrugged in response. “You just started crying in the middle of the movie for no reason.”

Patri shifted closer, slinging her arm around your shoulders. “Vicky said you’ve been acting weird since you came home from your parents. If something happened with them, you can tell us. You can trust us, nena.”

“Nothing happened, I swear.” Finally, you looked up, and it was Claudia’s eye that caught yours. Surprisingly, she looked frustrated… almost stern.

“I don’t believe you.” She said simply.

A flash of frustration washed over you at how insisted they were being. Though it was for your benefit, it made you inexplicably annoyed; they couldn’t just let it go. They couldn’t understand that you didn’t want to talk, that they couldn’t fix this for you. Every push on their part made it harder and harder for you to pretend to be okay. If you broke, fully, not cracked like you did just a few minutes prior, it would be their fault. If you broke and everything came spilling out and your whole life fell apart, it would be on them.

Maybe if that frustration hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have reacted in the way you did.

Instead, you stood, forcing a scowl onto your face. “Well, that’s not my problem. If something was wrong, I think I’ve made it very clear I don’t want to talk about it.” You snapped.

All three of your teammates blinked up at you, stunned. They’d never heard your voice sound like this, angry and raspy and devastated all at the same time. They’d never felt your anger directed at them, not really.

“Chica–”

“No. You all just keep pushing and pushing no matter how many times I tell you to back off. Leave me alone! I didn't ask you to hover over me, and I didn’t ask you to come over tonight. So please. Go.”

Before you could second guess yourself, before you could let the string of apologies waiting on the tip of your tongue out, you turned and stomped down the hall to your room.

Shame had been your constant companion for a long time. But now, as you lay on your bed listening to the sounds of your teammates quietly leaving your apartment, it burned through you in a way you weren’t used to. Normally, you directed everything at yourself. Every negative emotion was your problem and your problem only. People didn’t see you angry or sad, not even your closest friends.

Something had to give, though. You couldn’t keep going the way you had been, pretending you were fine when it felt like your brain was eating you from the inside out. Like the monster of self loathing inside your head would consume you if you didn’t open your mouth and let it out.

That didn’t stop the guilt.

The apartment was quiet in your friends’ absence. It was quiet, yet the silence was thick. You dragged yourself out of bed, threw on some pajamas and went to brush your teeth. All the while, your head was spinning. Because the way you’d acted tonight might have gotten them to leave for now, but there was no way they’d let this go. You’d been rude and harsh and unkind. All things very out of the ordinary for you. In your attempt to push them back, you’d given them exactly what they needed to know, to prove that you weren’t okay.

You didn’t remember going through your nighttime routine at all, really. Your clothes for the next morning laid out, your water filled and placed on your nightstand, the doors locked, the fan on the correct setting. It was all right, but you didn’t remember doing it.

You did remember curling up under the covers and pulling your childhood teddy bear close. You did remember the text you sent to your friends.

I’m sorry about tonight. There’s no excuse. I’m really really sorry.

It wouldn’t help your case at all, really, but you were a bit resigned to that now, and if your parents had taught you anything other than to despise who you were, it was that you didn’t treat friends the way you had that evening. Not all of their lessons were bad, you supposed.

As soon as you placed your phone back down on the nightstand, the silence was broken with a buzz. Another buzz. And another. You picked your phone right back up, reading the three texts.

Jana. It’s okay, chica. We love you.

Patri. We’re here if you need to talk. Day or night.

Claudia. You aren’t alone, okay?

You pictured them in their own homes, probably already texting Alexia and Irene. All three of your friends, all of your team really, looked to them for guidance on practically everything. They were wise, seemingly all knowing. It shouldn’t have been a comfort that they’d been on your case next, but somehow it was.

Because for all you talked about wanting to be left alone, for all the pushing away you did, you didn’t really want to do it by yourself. Deep down, you wanted someone to come and stay and not let you self destruct. It was really just a matter of which part of you won out; the terrified you or the desperate you. Terrified of honesty and truth and being you. Desperate for someone to tell you that everything was going to be okay.

—

You didn’t expect your teammates to act as quickly as they did. The team had the weekend off, and you thought you’d have a day or so before someone came busting your door down. But Jana, Claudia, and Patri must have called Alexia and Irene and woke them up, because your friends had left after your captain's bedtime.

And so, at just barely past 9 the next morning, your doorbell rang. Whoever was at your door probably thought they were giving you a nice lie in, but it felt like the middle of the night to be woken then on a day off. You pulled a sweatshirt over your head, unable to even form a thought on who was at your door and what you would say to them in your groggy state.

You opened your door, internally sighing when you saw Irene standing there. A part of you was surprised it was just her, more surprised when she didn’t ask to come in. Instead, she handed you a paper bag full of tupperware containers.

“Hi, chica. This is for you.”

Taking the bag, you gave her a confused look, not quite awake enough to talk.

Irene looked a bit frazzled, like she was in a rush. She was in mom mode, three stray stickers stuck on the front of her shirt, though you were sure she wasn’t aware of them. Even so, she softened for a moment, leaning against your doorframe.

“Jana called me last night. Your friends are worried about you, and I am too. We all are, really.” She paused, her very wise eyes searching yours. “Lucía and I are taking the weekend off to go see her family, but I couldn’t leave without stopping by to check on you. And Lucía heard what happened, and she cooked you dinner. Because that is how she solves things.”

At this, Irene rolled her eyes, but did so fondly. You noticed the light in her eyes she always got when she talked about her wife, and you tried to ignore the deep pang inside your chest. Would you ever have that?

“Anyway, I brought food and this.” Irene stepped forward, wrapping her arms tight around you. You were frozen for a moment, unsure how to react. Would giving in and hugging her back be admitting that something was wrong? Maybe you were passed that point. Either way, you allowed yourself to lean into the older woman, letting the momentary comfort wash over you.

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.” Irene told you. She squeezed you tight one more time before releasing you and stepping back. “Oh! Alexia will be over later. Prepare yourself to talk, because this whole silent thing is not going to fly with her.”

With that, Irene was walking briskly back down the hall. You watched her go, a little dumbfounded. If the defender’s intentions had been to throw you off, it had worked. All you could think was that you hadn’t said a single word to Irene, yet you felt like you’d confessed everything.

She had three more stickers on the back of her shirt, you noted as she turned the corner and walked out of sight. You couldn’t even really be amused, your brain too busy already anticipating Alexia’s visit.

Alexia… Alexia was going to make you talk if it took all day. She was stubborn like that.

Irene was right. You did need to prepare yourself.

—

The apartment was spotless, Alexia noticed. She looked around, gingerly leaning against your kitchen counter.

It was spotless. You’d channeled your anxious energy into cleaning, and besides; your parents had always taught you to clean for guests, and Claudia had somehow spilled popcorn all over your chair so you had to vacuum anyway.

Alexia was very quiet. She’d shown up at your door, not bothering to explain why she was stopping by. You both knew the reason. You’d let her in, and she’d followed you into the kitchen as you got her a glass of water. It was an awkward silence that filled the room, an awkward silence that was making you antsy.

Alexia, on the other hand, was relaxed. Like she’d cleared her calendar and had all the time in the world. Knowing her… she probably had. She wasn’t waiting for you to talk, necessarily. She was just waiting for the right opportunity to get at what was bothering you.

And when she noticed the picture frame facedown on the shelf above your counter, she knew she’d found what she was looking for.

“Thought you had a picture of your family there.” Alexia commented casually. She actually wasn’t sure what picture had been there, but she was making an educated guess. Judging by the way pain flashed across your face, it had been a good guess.

You could have lied, and say the picture frame had broken. Could have lied and told Ale that you’d knocked it over and forgot to pick it up. You could have played it off defensively, kept yourself closed up like you had been for days.

All morning, you’d been trying to decide how to go about this. Ultimately, you couldn’t get over everyone being worried about you. Nothing felt worse to you than being a burden on other people. Jana was worried. Claudia, Patri, Esmee, Vicky, Salma. They were all worried. Clearly Alexia and Irene were too. You knew what you should do. You just didn’t know if you’d be able to do it when the time came.

Yet when you sighed, nodding your head at Alexia’s statement, your decision was made. And once it was made, it was like the truth had been waiting for a moment of weakness to force its way out.

“I’m gay.” You burst out.

Alexia blinked. That was not what she was expecting. She was a bit confused; she’d come over here thinking you were depressed or something. She’d prepared for that, or something similar. She wasn’t prepared for this, and for a moment she was frozen, searching for the right words.

You, on the other hand. You were about to fall to pieces.

You’d never said it out loud before. Had barely even let yourself think it. But now it was out there, and you couldn’t inhale your words back in. You couldn’t go back, and that knowledge had your hands trembling and your breath catching.

“Oka-” Alexia began, nodding her head and taking a cautious step closer to you.

“I like girls, and it’s going to ruin everything, Ale. My parents are going to hate me, everyone is going to hate me. Everything… everything is going to be so hard and I don’t think I can do it!”

You were crying, by now, a steady stream of tears running down your face. Alexia’s expression was one of deep empathy and concern. She looked like she would have done anything in that moment to make you feel better, but you weren’t sure there was anything to be done.

“And I know it shouldn’t matter, but it feels like it does. It feels like it matters because it’s me. It’s different. It’s different and I don’t know what to do, I don’t want to lose my family.”

For the second time that day, you were being wrapped up in a tight hug. So tight it almost hurt. You clutched onto your captain just as tight, pushing your face into her shoulder and letting the weight of what you’d admitted wash over you. Alexia just held you for a minute, her sweatshirt soft as you pressed your face into it, her hands warm on your back. It felt almost safe.

“It’s not different, nena. It’s not. Not because it’s you. You’re not bad, you’re not weird. You’re still you, and anyone who deserves to know you will understand that.”

You cried harder, but not in a bad way. It was just… exactly what you’d needed to hear for so long. Maybe for your whole life. And someone was finally telling you, someone you loved and trusted. Someone you respected.

“It’s okay. It’s all okay, I promise. I know it feels terrifying, but you’re not alone. We’ve all got you, pequeña.” Alexia murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Thank you.” You choked out. You weren’t sure if you were thanking her for knowing exactly what to say, or for showing up at your door practically the minute she’d realized something wasn’t okay. You had a lot of people to thank, you realized. “Thank you, Ale.”

Alexia just shushed you, running her hand up and down your back. She didn’t let go, and you didn’t either. Because for the first time in so long, you felt like you were safe. You felt like maybe you’d be okay. Maybe.

—

i know this one has been very anticipated, so i hope it lives up to expectations :)

i kind of have an idea for a part two, but i'm not sure if anyone wants that or not.

anyway. enjoy 🙂❤️‍🩹🥰

#woso x reader #woso imagine #barcelona femeni x reader #woso fanfics #woso one shot #barca femeni x reader #barça femeni x reader #alexia putellas x platonic reader #alexia putellas x reader

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