#literally ANYTHING to make up for the inconvenience. anything

[peachycheekz]

Take Aim

a/n: July 13th / Injury / "Don't ever do that again." My dog has been waking me up at five thirty sharp for the past three days and I feel like I'm on the brink of insanity. CW: Blood, Injury, Angst, Hurt/Comfort WC: 2.9K

read on ao3

You were never supposed to be there.

You were supposed to be back at the jet, behind your screens and tablets, your voice in his ear.

You were supposed to be safe.

"Dammit!" With gritted teeth Bucky pressed down on your abdomen, hands sticky and wet with your blood that didn't seem to want to stay in your body any longer no matter how desperately he tried to stop the flow. There was so much red covering your skin. Staining his hands in a frantic attempt to keep you alive.

Red like regret. Red like his past.

If he pushed any harder, he was afraid of doing more harm than good.

If he stopped, you would die. And it would all be his fault.

How did this happen?

"Come on now, doll." Your eyes fluttered shut slowly. "Don't you dare do this to me. Don't you dare!"

How could he let this happen?

⌯⁍ ⌖

Sometimes you wondered why you even had to come on field missions when all you did — all you were good for — was track the team on your mobile surveillance station from the relative safety of the jet and give direction when needed.

You were a guiding voice in their ear, at times a source of steady comfort when a mission went to shit. You always had a solution up your sleeve, even when everyone else thought they had run into a complete dead-end. If there was one thing the Avengers could count on, it was your ability to get them out of a tight spot when even earth's mightiest heroes drew a blank.

Or whatever else Steve liked to pull out of his ass when the seeds of doubt Bucky kept planting in your mind with his derogatory remarks and his derisive glares took root. You never knew a person could unravel your self-confidence with just a sideways glance until you met Bucky Barnes.

To him you seemed to be nothing more than an inconvenience. A civilian playing dress up with the big important hero people. Bucky saw you as a liability. He looked down on you (literally), managed to make you feel inadequate with nothing but a well timed, irritated huff and absolute, stony silence.

He didn't want to have you on the team and he was making it painfully obvious at every opportunity. In pointing out your lack of experience, with snarky comments about your posture during training, by completely and utterly disregarding anything you said to him.

Sometimes you even thought he muted his coms on purpose just so he wouldn't have to listen to your voice during missions.

Steve said to give him time, that he was just wary of you because he didn't know you well enough yet. You weren't so sure about that. But compared to what everybody else was saying when you confided in them about the relationship — or lack thereof — between you and the emotionally constipated super soldier it was at least somewhat comforting.

Wanda had only made a vague comment about his thoughts regarding you and you hadn't bothered prodding. What else could he possibly think of you besides how your very breathing grated on his nerves? Nat, who you thought was probably the only person that could give you valuable insight on the grumpy old man's internal workings, had only smirked suggestively and what Tony had proposed you do to get in Bucky's good graces, you didn't bother thinking about twice.

And you made a mental note to never ask the billionaire for advice again.

If you were honest you'd given up on getting him to see you as anything more than the dirt beneath his feet. That was like trying to light a fire in a thunderstorm. At sea. With a soaked pack of matches.

The last attempt, you made at Christmas last year. You put a lot of thought into what to get him, something personal, something helpful but he never even opened it. Had just stared at the wrapping like it personally wronged him.

The present was gone from beneath the outrageously decorated Christmas tree the next morning and you guessed he probably tossed it.

From then on you stopped trying. No more coffee ready for him on the rare occasions you were up before him. He didn't need the caffeine but you knew he liked the taste. And continuity. No more soft smiles and offering to listen, knowing fully well you were the last person he would ever entrust with something as guarded as his issues. But you liked to believe he appreciated having the opportunity if he ever wanted to.

You even quit carrying around an extra pair of leather gloves in your purse when the team went out or had to do press conferences. Bucky misplaced his like clockwork and even though he was much more comfortable with his vibranium arm now, he still tended to get uncomfortable about it in crowds.

He simply didn't like you and no amount of plum tarts baked at three am because he was having a terrible week mentally was going to fix that.

Squirming in your seat you tried to get comfortable as the Quinjet soared through the sky. Natasha and Steve were conspiring about something in the cockpit but the few words that filtered back to you were so wildly thrown together you had absolutely no idea what the topic was.

Something about spinach, piñatas and hand lotion.

Clint was napping, completely unbothered.

And the psychologically unstable man fighting tooth and nail against any act of kindness like it was a crime committed against him? Staring.

Looking at you like you were the cause of all his more recent issues. The root of whatever new evil it was he chose to fight instead of allowing himself a bit of peace of mind.

Sometimes you did wish to know what he was thinking about when he looked at you like that.

For someone with a multitude of conflicting thoughts breakdancing behind his skull at all times, Bucky was a man of few words. In fact, he was a pretty big fan of silence and not speaking. At all. Ever.

Especially not to you.

He was seventy-eight point nine percent sure he'd slip up and actually thank you for the weighted blanket you gave him for Christmas. The present he pretended he didn't want but had come to love so much, sometimes he didn't want to put it in the washer because it helped more than he would ever be ready to admit. And the first couple nights he slept with it, it had still smelled like you. Like comfort.

Or confess to something equally as ridiculous.

Like the time he caught you baking in the dead of night and had watched an embarrassingly long amount of time from the shadows because the way the dim kitchen light illuminated the soft features of your face and the humming of a tune he didn't recognise captured him in a way little else ever had.

And if he wasn't so uptight about his own feelings, he'd apologise to you for being such a dick. Unfortunately he feared the walls he spent endless years raising around his mind, his heart, had become insurmountable.

The Quinjet lurched in the air, Nat mumbled an apology before setting the aircraft down gently. You looked a little green in the face, Bucky noticed. And your tactical vest hung around your frame too loosely for his liking.

While the others got ready, checked their gear, went over intel again (and again), you set up your mobile surveillance station. Computers whirred to life, screens flickered on. Your fingers flew across the keyboard so quickly it made Bucky wonder if you were even pressing any keys. And that damn vest. Too big on you. It irked him more than Steve obsessively reciting the mission outline like a prayer.

You had smiles for everyone but him while you handed out the tech stuff, reminded the team to keep the coms on at all times — a subtle glance in his direction. Via the sensors on their suits you could keep track of their vitals, their location. Another subtle glance his way.

Bucky rolled his eyes, huffed quietly and fought like hell to not smirk back at you.

And then it was go time but his feet wouldn't follow behind Steve and the others. No, they dragged him right back to where you were fumbling with the zippers on your vest.

"Come here." You startled at the rough command, hands frozen mid-movement, eyes wide and holding too many questions Bucky wished he had the answers to. You took a beat too long to move so he reached out and pulled you impossibly close by the lapels on your vest. So close you were sure he heard the hitch in your breath and the uptake of your heartbeat.

His eyes were twin seas of solid ice daring you to put cracks in the immaculate surface.

"Too loose," he grumbled, fastening the vest in place with nimble fingers. Much gentler than you would've expected him to ever be with you. "There. That's better."

"Thank you," you breathed, baffled. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary. For one millisecond he looked like was going to say something he'd quite possibly regret. Then he stepped away, turned his back. He was almost down the ramp by the others when you remembered how to speak properly.

"Bucky!" He didn't turn, just stopped, shoulders straightening. "Be careful," you called out to him, "please."

When you finally took your place behind your screens to give everyone's vitals a quick once-over the indicator representing Bucky's pulse was a tad bit higher than it was normally.

Somewhere between the team touching ground zero and the arrival at the supposedly abandoned former Hydra base everything went to absolute shit.

One moment all was as going as planned, the next, one of the screens connected to a drone went out. Clint's vitals were flickering in and out of existence, Nat's tracker was showing she was currently in Iceland, which, if she hadn't spontaneously developed the ability to portal herself places, was impossible. Bucky wasn't responding on coms.

"Steve I don't know what's happening. " You were pacing frantically, trying every trick in the book to regain control over your system. There must be an interfering transmitter somewhere in that building messing everything up. "Steve? Cap? Hello?" Static was your only response.

"Oh no, no, no," you muttered frenetically. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. "Fuck!"

With shaky hands you tried one more time to get the picture back on the drone, what you saw when you finally did caused your heart to lodge in your throat.

The drone was honed in on Bucky's location. Nowhere near where he was supposed to be but you'd be mad at him for that later. If there was a later for him. What made your gut twist with anxiety was the sniper training his rifle on the back of his head.

The one he didn't see. The one you couldn't warn him about because none of your shit was working. Finger lazily hovering above the trigger.

Your headset clanked to the floor, the metallic echo drowned out by your boots drilling into the ground while you ran as fast as you could, hoping against all odds you could make it in time. You weren't prepared, didn't even have a gun on you. But you didn't care about anything else than preventing Bucky from getting his head blown clean off his shoulders. Not on your watch.

Not him.

Lungs burning, adrenaline pumping through your veins with a vehemence that robbed you of any clear thought, you rounded a corner. There was no time to skid to a halt, not enough breath left to form a scream. A warning. You pushed your body to the brink trying to get to the oblivious super soldier in time.

Every ounce of strength went into the next sprint, into a vain fight against a fugitive second. Into clinging to hope.

The moment before you collided with him felt like swimming upstream through a waterfall. Not a moment later you heard the rifle go off.

You hit the ground with a breathless scream and drowned in a world of brutal agony as the bullet ripped through your skin, through muscle and flesh.

⌯⁍ ⌖

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You didn't remember your alarm to be so annoying. Actually, you didn't remember setting one at all. And if you had why was it sounding so different?

A dull ache throbbed in every single muscle you tried to move and your eyes felt as if glued shut. Mouth parched, mind in a daze, you raked your tired brain for any clue of what had happened. Where you were. Every time you came up empty.

Somewhere a voice called your name but it sounded so far away. Familiar. Worried.

Again, with a voice like sandpaper. Closer this time. Something metallic curled around the hand that was clenched tightly around a blanket that was far too thin to be your own.

"Come on, doll." Bucky? You tried to speak but no words followed the effort. "Open those eyes for me."

Why would Bucky be waking you up? Maybe you overslept? Wasn't there a mission you had to leave for?

A mission…

The sound of a gunshot ripped through your mind like lightning, you gasped for air, then, with an effort far greater than it had any business being, you cracked your lids open.

Impossibly blue eyes stared back at you, wide and desperate and angry and relieved. You've never seen Bucky so emotional before. He seemed as if he didn't know what to feel first and what to better keep locked far away.

His vibranium hand was curled around yours almost tenderly, like you were something fragile. There was an infusion catheter in the other, connecting you to an IV drip. A monitor, too. The air reeked of disinfectant and hopelessness.

"Hi?" Your voice came out rusty, more like a half whisper. But it was enough to pull Bucky back to the present. He pulled himself together again, locked his walls back in place, leaned back in the uncomfortable visitor chair he dragged to your bedside.

"What were you thinking?" He snapped, eyes briefly flickering to your middle where you could feel bandages tightly wrapped around your stomach. "Running into the line of fire like that. Are you stupid?"

There were deep, dark circles beneath his eyes like he hadn't slept in days and his voice lacked any of its usual bite. Any of the malice you were sure he was trying to put in it. Bucky just sounded exhausted. Defeated. There were cracks in his icy exterior when his eyes found yours again. "You can't just…you almost died, okay? You almost fucking died. Don't you ever, ever, do that again."

His hands balled to fists in his lap and you thought you heard his voice splinter into a thousand tiny fragments. "Not because of me."

For a good, long moment you weren't sure how to respond to that. Did he really think himself unworthy of being saved? He would throw himself in front of danger for anyone without thinking twice about it, but him being the one protected he couldn't handle? A weight settled on your chest as you realised he actually didn't think himself deserving of what you did.

"Bucky." You extended a hand and to your surprise he took it. Scooted closer with his chair. "Especially because it's you." He opened his mouth in protest but you silenced him with a squeeze of his hand. His palm was rough against yours, but warm. Secure. "And I'd do it again, even knowing I could die." The corners of his mouth turned downward but he let you speak.

"You have no idea how panicked I was when our system crashed. I couldn't reach anyone and I didn't have a clue what was going on. I was so afraid, Bucky. Terrified. And then, then I saw that gun trained on you and I just - I just went for it. Not a second thought. I couldn't have lived with myself if I let you die."

"But I'm horrible to you. Like all the time." Absentmindedly his thumb traced the back of your hand in soothing strokes. He couldn't hold your gaze, there was too much affection in it and he felt far too ashamed.

"You are."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled quietly. "I don't know why I keep being an ass. I-it's…complicated." He raked his free hand through his messy hair, shoulders slumping. "Jesus, I thought I was losing you. And I-I don't want that to happen. Ever. I don't…I can't…"

Slowly, you took your hand from his, let it rest against his stubbled cheek instead. Bucky froze for the briefest of moments before his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the touch, exhaustion evident in every chiseled feature of his face. He sighed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Get some sleep, Bucky."

"…not leaving you," he muttered. His head dropped to rest in the crook of his elbow on the edge of your bed. He could barely keep his eyes open. As if he's kept himself awake just long enough to make sure you actually were alive. Maybe he thought he didn't deserve to rest until he had made absolutely sure you were fine.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered back, the words holding a far deeper meaning.

Gently your fingers tangled in the dishevelled strands of his hair. A low, appreciative hum was the last thing you heard from him before he finally fell asleep in the comfort of what he was longing for.

[yellowf1nch]

Minors do not interact, suggestive themes, themes of violence, potential spoilers

Follow up to the Date Everything lore post I made (I had more thoughts and some clarifications for how I personally interpret it)...

Edit: I finished speaking all the lore points in game, a more comprehensive and less speculative post can be found here.

There are two large ideas that are being tossed in my mind with all of this: the first I can imagine/have an explanation for, the other is still giving me pause.

The former is the idea of physical interactions with the dateables. Not just for intimacy, but the sensations of being grabbed/grabbing them, being hugged, holding their things, etc. It's clear there is some form of physical interaction... or is there? given that the dateviators essentially act as a bridge between realities, and Skylar's explanation on how percieved sexual encounters work, I'm under the impression that it's almost like dreaming, where your brain would simulate physical sensations without your body actually experiencing them. Interacting with the dateables/dateviators essentailly gives the dateables the ability to transmit wavelengths your brain can pick up on that would mimic sensations they can't actually perform. Some sensations, however, can be more or less real (like getting shocked at the breaker box from Eddie/Volt, burned by Dante, etc.). This would also mean that the dateables can't really seriously injure/harm you outside of the capabilities of their object; for example, if Abel were to try and hurt you, any pain he might inflict as a person would be limited to what your brain/nervous system could simulate by itself.

As far as the dateables experiencing physical sensations, a few more complications are introduced. We know they can interact with each other (outside of having the dateviators), given the number of intimate relationships we are made privy to and some of the personal histories (like Drysdale talking about his sexual encounters). Some of the interactions we have with the objects that could be painful/uncomfortable seem to be more along the lines of inconveniences or things that don't really bother them at all. Wallace voices no displeasure at having things being hung on him (though he does seem to be harmed by fire), walking on Stella/Florence isn't something that's brought up really at all. However, a number of characters do note that their physical well-being is tied to their physical objects (such as Daisuke, Rainey, Wyndolyn). In short, one could try and push around/hurt the personified version of the dateables, but it probably wouldn't do anything since that is more a projection-- their well being is directly tied to their objects (though, some things like stains, spills, etc. don't seem to be terribly harmful depending on who it is.)

What I personally have more questions about is how the dateables appear. [And once again, here is the taking a very literally "suspend-your-disbelief" lore far too seriously. I don't know if this is something Skylar explains, I don't believe I've gone through all her dialogue.]

Do they choose what they look like? Is their wardrobe/skin color/height/etc. predetermined with whatever object they are, or do the dateviators simulate that (Skylar does mention that everyone is considered hot, and explains the dateviators as a translator, though some of this is very clearly writers and developers making something fun and entertaining)? Is it like a character creator that they get to simulate what they think they look like when the dateviators are used? Once again, I bring up Dorian-- he has different appearances depending on what kind of door it is, but characters like Lux and Abel don't. This is why I believe that the appearance change for Dorian is more a personality aspect, but it still raises questions like: does Dorian choose for his hair to be brown? Do we ever change how a dateable looks by interacting with their objects? Taking off Phoenicia's case doesn't undress her, for example, but things like coffee stains or spills do seem to directly impact Abel and Florence. The few foreign objects you learn about through Gaia's quest talk about where they are from; and some, like Keith, know a lot about these places. Even with that, the dateables still don't have a physical form outside of the objects, so is it merely chance that they look the way they do, are there some cross-dimensional genetics at play, or is it that they can observe the people around them and approximate what they look like (basically making a human-sona)? [It's clear this was something meant purely for diversity, Gaia's storyline where you speak to the foreign objects and get some cool worldly facts was very entertaining, educational, and fun... but the lore????]

I like to imagine that the objects pull in the information of the world around them, sometimes including where some of their parts are from/where they were made to influence what they would look like if they were human. This goal of becoming human is something that Skylar says is a good thing that objects want, and anytime you mention Realizing a dateable they seem honored/excited. This would also explain why they are all "hot," since they're able to essentially get a good view of generally attractive features... not to mention, the dateable's Realized forms are almost identical to their object personifications... so... somehow things like skin/eye/hair color are true in spite of the objects not actually having skin, eyes, or hair.

[I have yet to finish the game so this may be something I return to.]

I apologize if my rambling has upset anyone, I simply have enjoyed playing this game and wanted to take the lore too seriously (in trying to rationalize meta-physical people that are tied to non-human counterparts).

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

love your wips right now and waiting patiently for updates on here as well as ao3! for 💔 i missed the perfect moment to start reading it on here, so i‘m waiting for the ao3 updates, but i‘m still gonna request it because i want you to get to the finish line! so my requests are:

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

and

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

Aww thank you so much!!

27 for 💔

---

In all his travels, all across the country and across the hemisphere, one place Buck had never visited was Minnesota. 

There’s no reason for that. No bias against it or anything. He wasn’t avoiding it. The truth is, during that time of his life, he went where opportunity and suggestion took him, and it never took him there. 

Not until now. 

Today Buck finds himself in a cemetery in St. Paul, after arriving late last night, on an inconveniently timed flight that appealed to Eddie’s economic sensibilities. The cemetery is beautiful, as far as cemeteries go. It’s verdant and green, glittering with a contrarian sense of life. It’s a gorgeous final resting place. Buck can see why Bobby chose it for his wife and children, and why Athena chose it for him. 

Though he came to Minnesota with Eddie, Buck came to the cemetery alone. Not because Eddie didn’t want to come or didn’t offer. On the contrary, they discussed it a lot. They both need to visit Bobby. It’s both of their first times here. Not an easy trip to make, after all. They’re each going to come alone. 

Buck’s up first. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the headstone. The one with all four names. Like Bobby never left them at all. The only hint he did is present in the eleven year difference in their dates of death. But he did a lot in those eleven years. He had a whole second life. And although he’s been returned to this one, Buck hasn’t forgotten. He never will.

---

27 for🪷

---

“I’m the reason all three of you died,” Howie says. “And now you’re all back.”

Kevin’s brain glitches a little at that. 

“What?” Maddie demands. “Howie, no.” 

“That’s absolutely not true,” Bobby adds. “We just talked about this.”

“Chim…” Buck looks at Howie with uncomfortably big, sad eyes. 

“It’s true,” Chim says. “I’m involved in all three.”

“Okay, wait a second,” Shannon says, putting her mug down on the table. “I was hit by a car. Were you driving the car?”

Howie frowns. “No, but-”

“Then it’s not your fault,” she says decisively. “There is literally no one to blame for what happened that day but the driver who plowed into a crosswalk full of pedestrians.”

Christopher looks a little green. 

“Is that person in jail?” Kevin asks. 

“Sadly, no,” Eddie says quietly.

“We should egg their house,” Kevin suggests. “Light to moderate vandalism, I think.”

Shannon considers this. “You know what? We should.”

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Still haven't messaged my mom back. And I don't think I'm going to.

[godblooded]

tfw i have heard ‘kat could talk to a wall’ my entire life and it sucks when sometimes it genuinely feels like an insult.

[greatestwizardofthisage]

the worst part of living with my parents is the complete inability to exist in any room other than my own

[fingertipsmp3]

Have we learned nothing. Have we truly learned nothing.

[aardvaark]

theories about why sophie claims she can’t play pool in leverage redemption:

she doesn’t really like being the pool player in cons so she just pretends she can’t play. i have the same theory about how she canonically went to pastry school and yet we’ve never once seen her help eliot in the kitchen: why would she let him know all that when she could keep getting eliot’s homemade meals without doing any work?

Sophie Devereaux (the alias) can’t play pool. but sophie (the person) can.

rashomon job part two: they all once ran into each other pre-leverage on a pool-related con, sophie is the only one who realises this, and she’s decided to avoid jogging anyone’s memory. she remembers how much they butchered her accent last time, she’s NOT giving them another opportunity.

the story of how she learnt to play pool that good can Never Be Told.

if the team knew she could play really well, they’d want to compete with her every time they went to a bar with a pool table. but when sophie’s at a bar, she just wants to have a drink and relax. this would have especially been a problem back in og leverage when nate’s condo/their HQ was literally on top of a bar with a pool room. so she just "can’t play". oh nooo, too bad, oh well, time for a glass of wine :)

making stuff up randomly = grifting practice session. she can’t let her skills get rusty!

in the job we saw in those flashbacks of her pool failures, she decided that her grift persona for the job should be incompetent at pool, despite that being very inconvenient. much in the same way she decided that the ridiculously valuable emerald necklace was something her persona in this episode would wear. she committed to the bit way too much and everyone got pissed at her so she had to pretend that she really is that bad at pool and it wasn’t just an acting choice (no one understands her artistic vision 😔 *dramatic sigh*).

it’s the reverse of her acting skills: she can only play pool when she’s playing for real, as opposed to how she can only act when it’s for a grift.

she will eventually make a bet with someone on the team about something, and whoever wins a game of pool wins the bet. it’s an extremely, unnecessarily long con she’s pulling, almost certainly for a petty reason. maybe she’s gonna ask parker to give her the stanley cup back lol.

lying is simply her hobby. god forbid women do anything.

[luna-azzurra]

Vibes for Characters #1

Who Are Angry, But Don’t Know Why...

(aka the ones who punch walls emotionally, even if they never touch anything)

☽ Clenched fists for no reason. Fingernails digging into palms. White knuckles. Always. ☽ Their jaw is sore, but they don’t realize it’s from grinding their teeth all day. ☽ Quick to snap at people who ask “Are you okay?”—because no, but they don’t have a map to what’s actually wrong. ☽ Laughs in the middle of an argument, but it’s that ugly laugh. That “God I wish I knew how to scream without breaking something” laugh. ☽ Gets weirdly emotional over small inconveniences. Burnt toast. Traffic. Missing socks. Not because of the thing—but because of everything. ☽ Hates being pitied more than being hated. ☽ Half the things they say sound sarcastic, even when they’re not trying to be. ☽ Walks too fast. Eats too fast. Always doing something like stillness might swallow them whole. ☽ Tells people “I’m just tired” when what they mean is “I don’t trust myself not to explode.” ☽ Picks fights with mirrors. Or themselves. ☽ Looks calm from a distance, but their energy feels like a storm about to break. ☽ The kind of person who storms out and comes back five minutes later because they weren’t done arguing with themselves.

Who Don’t Think They Deserve to Exist

(The “I’m fine, but I’m not supposed to be here” kind of characters. The ghost-in-their-own-body ones.)

☽ Flinches when praised. Freezes when complimented. Looks confused, like kindness is a foreign language they never learned. ☽ Keeps everything small. Their voice. Their handwriting. Their footprint in the world. ☽ Won’t ask for help, but apologizes for asking if they’re allowed to ask. ☽ Constantly feels like they’re taking up space they didn’t earn. Physically, emotionally, narratively. ☽ Will drop everything to take care of you—and absolutely cannot handle being taken care of in return. ☽ Fills silences with self-deprecation. Can’t stand being left alone with just their own breathing. ☽ Has entire imaginary conversations in their head about being a burden. Usually ends with them deciding to stay quiet. ☽ Smiles when they’re sad, because they’ve learned people like them better that way. ☽ Lives in survival mode, even in safe places. ☽ The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep. The kind of ache that doesn’t bruise. ☽ Doesn’t think anyone would miss them if they left—but still shows up for everyone anyway. ☽ Would literally sacrifice themselves for someone else’s peace, and not tell anyone they were in pain while doing it.

Who Would Rather Self-Destruct Than Be Vulnerable

(You know the type. “I’m fine,” they say, while bleeding emotionally in six places and making it your fault.)

☽ Has a six-sense radar for emotional intimacy and bolts the second they feel it coming. ☽ Jokes about their trauma before anyone else can ask questions. ☽ Flirts like it’s war. Gets emotionally close like it’s a death sentence. ☽ Hates silence because it feels like it might start telling the truth. ☽ Master of the “accidental push away” (says things like “You don’t really care,” when what they mean is “Please prove me wrong.”) ☽ Would rather burn a bridge than admit they actually want you to cross it. ☽ Says “It’s not a big deal” about everything, even when it obviously is. ☽ Responds to “Are you okay?” with “Define okay.” ☽ Thinks vulnerability is weakness, but secretly craves someone who’ll stay after seeing the mess. ☽ Their love language is sabotage. Their defense mechanism is charisma. ☽ Will talk you through your emotional breakdown with terrifying clarity—and ghost you the second you ask how they’re doing. ☽ Would rather be hated for who they pretend to be than be hurt as who they really are.

[slutforformulaone]

F1 GRID || doing the 'fellas grab your ladies if your lady fine' trend!

MAX VERSTAPPEN – suspicious from the second you say “tiktok” you tell him to stand in front of your phone for a sec and he just looks at you. “why?” “just for a video.” “what kind of video?” “max. please.” he sighs like it’s the biggest inconvenience of his life and steps into frame, arms crossed, not looking at the camera. the music starts and he glances at you immediately. “what is this?” you don’t answer. he listens. and then he hears it. he doesn’t move. but the arm comes around your waist in one smooth, automatic motion like it was always meant to be there. he doesn’t say a word. just stands there holding you, very still. very sure. "this is stupid," he mumbles, yet he doesn't let go.

OSCAR PIASTRI – is already regretting agreeing you’re like “stand there. it’s for a tiktok.” he just blinks. “what’s the video?” “don’t worry about it.” “that’s literally the worst thing you could’ve said.” still does it anyway. stands there next to you looking mildly confused but accepting his fate. when the sound starts he’s staring off into space like he’s trying to solve a rubik’s cube with his brain. the line hits and he just… tilts his head slightly, looks at you, and then slowly reaches out like he’s not sure if this is the right moment. wraps his arm around you awkwardly but affectionately. “was that the right part?” you’re laughing too hard to answer. he’s so polite about it.

CHARLES LECLERC – hasn’t seen the trend and is entirely unprepared he's sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling on his phone and you’re like “can you stand up for a second?” he doesn’t even ask why. just gets up. you hit record. the sound starts. charles gives you a suspicious squint. “what is this? why does the voice sound like that?” then the line plays and he just… makes a decision. hand goes around your waist without hesitation. slightly amused expression. “i assume this is the part,” he says under his breath, still staring at the screen. he’s not sure what the point of it was but once he watches it back, he smiles. “we look good, no?” classic.

ARTHUR LECLERC – has definitely seen the trend and is 100% ready to commit you say “can you stand in front of my phone for a sec?” and he immediately gives you that look. “is this the grab your lady if she’s fine thing?” you try to play dumb. “what? no. just listen to the sound.” he grins. “okay.” he stands there pretending not to know what’s coming. hands behind his back. nodding to the beat like he’s never heard it before. line hits and he spins you into him like you’re dancing at a wedding. way too dramatic. “arthur.” “what?” you show him the video, blushing like a schoolgirl and he shrugs. “you said i’m fine.”

GEORGE RUSSELL – takes direction very seriously “can you stand there for me real quick?” “what for?” “just a tiktok.” “okay. what do i do?” “nothing. just stand there and listen.” george nods. sets his stance like he’s about to do a presentation. the music starts and he’s staring at the phone like it’s going to give him instructions. you don’t say anything. the line plays and he does a tiny double take before stepping beside you and gently resting a hand on your waist like it’s some delicate ritual. when it’s done he just nods. “interesting trend. i like it.” acts like he just passed a test.

LANDO NORRIS – knew what was coming but still acts clueless for fun you’re like “come here for a sec.” “what for?” “just a tiktok.” he grins. “a tiktok?” you narrow your eyes. “yes. stand there. listen to the sound.” he hums casually, totally pretending he doesn’t already know what you’re doing. the music starts and he’s deadpan. arms crossed. then it gets to the line and he suddenly lunges forward, throws both arms around you and dips you like it’s a movie. you shriek. “lando—” “sorry,” he says, clearly not sorry, “the sound told me to.” giggling through the whole replay. wants to do it again.

OLLIE BEARMAN – 100% has seen the trend and is trying not to laugh you ask him to stand in front of your phone and he’s like “is this one of those trends?” “just listen to the sound.” “mhmm.” he's already smiling. when the voice hits, he doesn’t even move for the first second. then just reaches behind him, finds your hand, pulls you in without looking. “you think you’re so slick,” you mutter. he shrugs. “it worked, didn’t it?” you play it back and he watches like a proud director. “perfect timing. we should do another one.”

CARLOS SAINZ – immediately suspicious, immediately dramatic you tell him “stand in front of my phone for a sec.” he squints. “what is this?” “just stand there.” “but what am i doing?” “carlos.” he sighs like he’s being dragged into the worst job of his life. stands in frame with his arms crossed, watching the screen like it's going to betray him. the beat starts and he already doesn’t trust it. the lyric hits and he goes full latin soap opera mode — dramatic hand to the chest, steps forward like he’s rescuing you from danger, pulls you into a full-on slow sway. “i am the gentleman,” he mutters. you’re laughing too hard to finish the video.

ALEX ALBON – chaotic neutral “stand there for a second. just listen to the sound.” alex mumbles, “oh no. you’ve got that tone.” you blankly stare back at him, “what tone?” “the ‘i’m gonna do something you won't like’ tone.” he stands there anyway, half-smiling, arms at his sides like his life is about to ruined by a tiktok. the sound starts. he listens. nods along. the lyric hits and he flings an arm around you like he’s in a sitcom. does a dramatic lean and whispers “my lady…” then bursts out laughing. “wait wait, that was good. did we get it? lemme see.”

LOGAN SARGEANT – has no idea what’s going on, tries his best you say “logan, stand here for a tiktok.” “oh god. do i have to dance?” “no. just… listen.” he steps up, shoulders tensed like he’s bracing for something to jump out of the screen. the sound plays. his brow furrows. he hears the lyric and just sort of looks at you. “...is that my cue?” “yes.” he puts an arm around you like he’s posing for a picture with a fan. doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. “was that right?” you nod. he exhales. “thank god.”

DANIEL RICCIARDO – knew the trend before you even finished your sentence “stand here, i’m filming something—” “is it the trend where you grab your fine-ass girlfriend?” you stare at him. “it is. don’t lie.” he’s already grinning. steps into frame, tugs you in beside him before the sound even starts. “do the thing where you pretend not to know what’s happening.” you glare at him before muttering, “you’re ruining the authenticity.” “i am the authenticity.” he grabs you dramatically when the line hits and yells “YEEEEEAHHHHH” like a hype man. you have to redo it three times because he keeps doing a different weird pose every take.

LEWIS HAMILTON – is confused but respectful you ask him to stand in front of your phone and he’s like “sure” without a single question. you say “don’t ask, just listen.” he chuckles. “alright, mystery girl.” the sound starts. he’s bopping his head a little, waiting for the vibe to drop. then the lyric hits. he pauses. raises an eyebrow. then just… gently reaches for your hand and pulls you close with a little smile. “i see what this is.” you ask if he’s seen it before and he goes “nah, but the music said what it said.”

[sinsofsummers]

keep quiet

1.3k words | logan x fem!reader

summary: logan can smell how much you need him as soon as you enter the room. what kind of man would he be to let you go unsatisfied? warnings: all smut. literally nothing else. dom!logan, he's kind of mean, hint of a humiliation kink, hair pulling (m receiving, logan asks for it), the cat ears get a lot of love, oral (f receiving), fingering, pure filth. if i miss anything pls let me know. note: andddd i was trying to write a full length fic. i ended up here instead. it's so rushed i apologize. pls logan let me give u a full litter.

He can smell it on you as soon as you walk into the room, and you can see the switch in his body language almost immediately. His shoulders tense, and his hands twitch into loose fists. His jaw ticks. 

You’re meeting Logan at a party. He’s been there for a bit already, but you came late. You can’t even remember what the party is, what it’s for, or who’s there. You can only see him. The way he’s got his thighs spread, one foot propped up on the coffee table in front of him, leaving a wide — and perfect — spot for you on his lap. Just like always, Logan’s dripping in sex appeal.

You’ve already been having…a day. All you want and need is his touch, his tongue, his everything. But here you are, trying to keep it a quiet afterthought as you stare at his lap, wishing you could put your lips over his cock and let it grow in the warmth of your mouth.

“Hey,” you say breathily, the syllable hardly leaving your mouth before Logan’s on his feet.

You can’t even register who else is in the room; his broad chest already blocks your vision and he drags you down a hallway, into the laundry room not far from the earshot of the living room.

You’re pretty sure the other party guests share an awkward chuckle at what they think is about to occur, but you can’t tell. Logan’s cologne is all over you, and you think you might slip your own hand into your panties if he doesn’t give you what you want right now.

“Here,” he snarls, “gimme these.” He’s got you shoved up against the washer, the perfect height to sit atop the cool metal.

He grabs your wrists roughly and shoves them into his hair. His teeth are gritted menacingly, but you’re practically keening at the sight of it. You know what’s about to follow. He can be cruel when he’s like this, but you know you’re about to get what you want.

“Now,” he hisses, leaning close to your face. “You’re gonna keep quiet. You’ve already made it obvious enough how fuckin’ desperate you are.”

You whine softly, and his eyes darken. “I wasn’t even here for more than—”

“No, no, no,” he growls. “None of that.” He lets go of one of your wrists, reaching up to squeeze your cheeks together in one hand, hard enough to make the heat rise in your face. 

He likes to see you like this — humiliated.

“You’re gonna keep quiet,” he repeats. “Anytime you wanna make a noise, you’re gonna pull.” 

He uses the hand still locked onto your wrist as a demonstration. His eyes are hard, and his mouth is still pulled back in that scowl that makes your core weep. 

“Pull hard, pup. You know I can take it.”

You try to squeeze your thighs together at the nickname, but he’s standing between your opened legs. It’s so animalistic, so filthy. You never last long when he’s like this.

But all you can see in front of you is Logan, his cruel face just a centimeter from yours.

You lean closer, wanting a kiss, but he denies you as he moves his hands to your hips, digging roughly under the hem of your shirt to unbutton your pants and yank them to your ankles. He lifts your legs so he can slip closer to your core, your legs resting atop his strong shoulders. 

Any other day, he might have teased you, might have drawn out your orgasm until you were a whimpering mess beneath him. But this Logan isn’t playing around. He doesn’t have time for this, as he’s made clear enough. 

Only in moments like this does he make your desire feel like an inconvenience, like he’s mad at you for being so desperate for his touch. Such a dumb little pup, huh? 

But as soon as he sinks his nose into your pussy and inhales the scent of your desire straight from the source, you know he needs this just as badly. That his every thought is plagued with the reminder that your pussy ruins every pair of panties you own because of him.

His tongue goes to work quickly; he’s brutal in his ministrations, and you tighten your grip in his hair. 

Bless these fucking cowlicks, you think. Or you might have, had you any mind to form coherent thoughts. 

“Insatiable,” he takes a breath and rolls his eyes as he looks up at you, but the sight of your wetness on his beard and nose takes away the exasperation. You can see how his pupils are blown wide.

You open your mouth to let out a moan, but he grunts. “No,” he demands. “Pull.”

So you do. Hard. Your hands card through the rest of his head of thick hair as he dives back to your clit, swirling tight circles around the sensitive bud, practically drinking your arousal right out of you. 

Your abdomen tightens, and you know he’s going for speed over anything at this point. He wants to get you off, and do it fast. You claw at his head, and relish in the deep groans that vibrate through your slick folds like an electric shock. 

“Logan,” you whisper, “I’m—”

“Yeah, yeah. I fuckin’ know, you dumb slut.”

Your eyes widen and you see white at the edges of your vision, your mouth hanging open as you catch some of his shoulder under your nails, dragging your hands across his skin. 

If anything, it spurs him on more. Two of his fingers play at your entrance, and — the mean fucker — he shoves them into your pussy without caring to stretch you out like he normally does. 

But it doesn’t matter. He knows you can take it. The stretch is something you chase, something you cherish every time. You reward him with a particularly strong yank on his hair, afraid you might pull it out of his skull.

He starts to let out a groan so loud it might come off as a roar, but then he catches himself and pistons his fingers in and out of you, his dark eyes lifting to hold onto you as he shoves you over the edge and into a leg-shaking orgasm.

Your hands twist in his hair and you just barely hear the high-pitched whine that falls from his lips. It’s almost feline coming from him.

Logan sits still for a second, his eyes still on you as he laps at your pussy softly, an amused smirk on his face when you shiver at the overstimulation. 

Finally he stands, feeding his fingers to you, nodding as he watches you lick your ecstasy off his digits.

You catch your breath, still feeling wobbly. Your eyes catch on the bulge in his jeans, and you reach a tired hand for his belt.

He chuckles, and it’s almost like he’s mocking you. “Oh, you wanna help me out, sweet pea?”

“Yes, please.” You hope you sound coherent, like you’re apologizing for not being able to make him feel good yet, but you can’t even keep your eyes on him. The treat in his jeans is too tempting. Your tongue absentmindedly darts out to wet your lips.

Logan lifts your chin roughly with one hand, forcing you to look at him. His hair is wild, and you bite your lip at the sight of how disheveled you’ve made him. 

His beard still shines with your release as he shakes his head. “Should have thought of that before you showed up like you did. Can’t control yourself, even in public.” He pulls you to your feet and helps you pull your pants back on. His roughness starts to subside, and left behind is the gentle giant that you recognize.

“You’re gonna wait til we get home,” he says with a gentle kiss to your forehead. But you don’t ignore the tension in his promise that follows: “Then you’re repaying me, bub.”

-

ANYWAYS! i'm crying like a bitch in heat for this man feel free to send me any and all thoughts u have on logan pls

see u for the next one! i hope u enjoyed :)

[alinathinkstoomuch]

PINK MATTER

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiance!reader (she's literally just a girly!fashion!reader atp & no longer the fake fiancee lol) summary: hotch comes home and finds you passed out with a vibrator and takes matters into his own hands when you tell him you didn't finish.....gags are used, based on this & this request. warnings: smut 18+ MDNI, use of sex toys, panties used as a gag, mentions of masturbation aka r making hotch tell her what he jerks off to and he somehow manages to make it romantic, aftercare, established relationship, praise kink. word count: 2.7k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

All of Aaron’s limbs felt like they’d been replaced with concrete. Or maybe with the entire weight of the jet itself, as if the thing had disintegrated the second they stepped off it and reformed inside of him. Normally, he’d head straight home after a case, especially one that dumped him back in D.C. at such an ungodly hour.

But tonight? Your place was closer. And the only thing keeping him semi-conscious through the last of the paperwork was the image of your bed, your warm bed, with you in it, and the promise of sleeping in.

And maybe… maybe he was getting slightly used to your swanky apartment building. The one that offered cooled water, had a coffee machine in the lobby, and always smelled faintly like something expensive he couldn’t name. 

The doorman gave Aaron a polite nod, they were on nodding terms now, which felt serious, but Aaron skipped the chitchat. It was the middle of the night, and unless the guy could teleport him directly into your bed, there wasn’t much to discuss.

But, as with all good things, there were downsides. The main one being your new neighbour. A woman in her late sixties who seemed lovely at first, right up until she decided to file a noise complaint after the two of you got particularly…vocal one night. 

The complaint, of course, went absolutely nowhere. You’d lived there longer than she had, sent thank-you cards to building staff, never forgot any birthdays, you were the model tenant, dare he say.  But still, the damage was done and now you both were on the receiving end of vicious glares that not even Aaron could match. 

So, he did his best to slip inside your apartment as quietly as humanly possible, hoping not to set off either of your two living alarm systems, Gus or the neighbour with a grudge and a questionable grasp of tenant law. 

The second he stepped inside, he could almost feel his stress stripping away layer by layer just by being in a place that was yours. Not to mention the way he felt something in his tummy at the thought of actually seeing you. He never thought butterflies were possible for a man his age, and yet there he was, kicking off his shoes with the urgency of a love-sick teenager.

Though once he heard the sound of paws against hardwood floor, he knew he was going to have to wait just a little longer, because he’d have to pay the inconvenience tax to your most prized possession first. (Yes, you would scold him if you heard him calling Gus anything other than your son.)

The furball plopped himself by Aaron’s go bag, knowing that when Aaron walked through the door past midnight, there was a treat–or two– in it for him. Aaron crouched down, his knees cracking in protest, and scratched Gus behind the ears. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered. “Is your mom asleep?”

He already knew the answer. 

You’d sent him a flood of pictures of your night out with a few girlfriends from work, posing with fruity cocktails in various states of full. He figured you’d be passed out by now in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of false lashes on the bedside table. He stood with a grunt to grab the treat bag from the side and handed over the expected payment which Gus took to the sofa, officially losing all interest in the spare human. 

Once his suit jacket was hung, he made his way to your bedroom, spotting the glow of your lamp through the cracked door. He nudged it open silently, fully expecting to find you tucked beneath the duvet fast asleep. But instead? You were sprawled on top of the covers, bare-legged and wearing his faded FBI shirt. One hand was flung overhead with your phone hanging in it and the other–

Oh.

Oh.

Aaron paused in the doorway, eyebrows lifting as the scene registered. Well. That explained the last ‘when r u home?? 🥲’ text you sent.

He exhaled through his nose, lips twitching in a silent laugh he didn't fully form. You were unbelievable, utterly impatient and completely endearing. He made his way over to your side, lowering himself to gently slip the phone and vibrator out of your hands, setting both down next to your earrings on the bedside table, shaking his head in amusement. 

You made an inaudible noise, your brows scrunching like your body had picked up on his presence before your brain caught on. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching you keenly. Smiling at the way your hair was still half done from your night out, but the baby hairs had slipped free, framing your face in almost an angelic halo kind of way. 

He knew better than to disturb you while you were sleeping, never wanting to wake you if he didn’t have to. But his hand reached for your thigh, to the strip of skin exposed where his shirt had ridden up on your hip. It felt almost magnetic, the urge to touch, drawn in by the spill of stretch marks across your skin, like little moonlight streaks he just had to feel.

“Mmmn…” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You're home.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Yeah. I’m home.”

Your hand reached for him blindly, curling around his wrist as you opened your eyes. “Good,” you breathed. “Missed you.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing towards the vibrator he’d just retired from your grip.

“Don’t judge me. You said midnight.”

Aaron let out a quiet laugh. “You fell asleep mid-attempt.”

“I was tired,” you defended, yawning mid-sentence. “Long day.”

“Sure. Looked exhausting.”

You tugged him closer by his tie. “Didn’t even finish…”

“Would you like to?”

“You’re not tired?” you asked, seeming much more awake now.

“I’m exhausted,” he said simply. “And I still want to take care of you.”

You hummed, legs rubbing together, chasing friction you weren’t even trying to be subtle about. Aaron stopped you gently, his hands gliding down to your calves as he guided your legs apart. He lifted one over his thigh, nudging the other to the side, opening you up.

He watched the way your hips shifted, pressing into the mattress, that visceral response you always had when you were worked up and needed undoing. He saw how your eyes tracked every movement he made, already wide and glassy, how your lips parted, how your ribs expanded with every breath.

He reached for the vibrator, switching it on, the room filling with a quieted buzz. He let the toy trail slowly along the inside of your thigh as he made his way up, catching the whimper that staggered in your throat, seconds away from reaching his ears.

“Remember what we spoke about?” Aaron asked, dragging the vibrator over your clothed cunt.

You tensed immediately, a moan slipping out. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet. Promise. Wouldn’t want Greta to—ah—” 

Another sound tore from your throat as he pressed the toy higher, right over your clit, the thin cotton of your underwear doing very little to buffer the sensation.

“That’s not quiet.”

“Don’t think I can,” you managed just as your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “N-not with you watching.”

He was beginning to feel his slacks tighten almost painfully at the sight. 

Then the toy was gone. 

Your head snapped up immediately. “Aaron?” 

His hands were already at your hips, fingers sliding under your underwear. “Up.”

You lifted your hips as he tugged them down and you exhaled with relief, assuming he just wanted better access. But then his other hand was under your chin, fingers curled, holding the bunched up panties in the other. 

“Open,” he instructed, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. You did exactly that, opening your mouth and granting him access to stuff the fabric inside.

“Much better now, don’t you think?”

All you could do was nod and watch the way he reached for the toy again. He lowered it between your legs, his other hand grabbing your knee. He paused just for a second, watching the way your back arched, pleading for some sort of contact.

The moment he pressed it to you, your response was immediate, mouth falling open against the panties, the cotton soaking up what was more breath than voice and he could tell that this was exactly what you’d been waiting for. 

“You always get like this,” he whispered, adjusting the angle, “when I’m gone too long.”

You let out another muffled sound, hips twitching beneath his hand.

“Too worked up to wait. Try to do it yourself…but you never get all the way there, do you?”

You shook your head, thighs closing in on his hand. He didn’t scold you, just let out the smallest laugh, the kind that made your skin prickle in the best way as his hand moved to nudge your thighs open again. 

He began moving the toy in circles and you felt the speed pick up.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your hip. “Breathe.”

He saw the way your stomach tightened, the shirt rumpling with the telltale sign of exactly how close you were. Your jaw flexed around the fabric in your mouth, blocking another sound before it could risk a second complaint. 

You never took long with a toy, he figured that out early on and never minded. He wasn’t the type to take it personally. If anything, he liked it. Liked knowing what worked, liked that it was his hand making it work.

“Getting there?” 

You nodded, eyes shut tight, hands fisting the sheets.

“Thought so.” He pressed it a little harder, adjusting the angle a little higher. “Go ahead, honey.”

The moment he gave you permission, your hips bucked up, the toy stuttering slightly against your skin with the movement as you squirmed, clenching around nothing. Aaron kept it pressed against your clit, despite the way you couldn't keep still, until your hands found his wrist, gently pushing it away.

He switched it off, abandoning it on the bed so his hands could return to you, one on your thigh, the other reaching up to remove the makeshift panty gag from your mouth. You watched him pull the fabric out slowly, a slick string of drool catching on your lip. Aaron wiped it away with his thumb, like it was nothing at all.

“That better?”

“Much better, thank you,” you let out a laugh, still a little breathless. “This is exactly why you can’t leave. Like, ever.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up to Strauss the next time we have a case,” he said, lifting your thigh to kiss your knee before gently lowering it from his lap. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Mmmkay,” you yawned, letting your eyes close for a second. But when they opened you caught sight of the situation happening in his pants. Your lips curled slowly. “You sure you don’t want help with that?”

Aaron laughed, undoing his tie. “You need rest.”

“I could do it lying down,” you offered sweetly. “It’s very efficient.”

“I’m going to shower,” he repeated but you swore you could make out the flush in his cheeks.

“Ah, is that code?”

He paused, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “Code?”

You nodded, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Code for getting off in the shower alone.”

“It’s code for needing to rinse off hours of jet sweat, and—”

“So…yes,” you cut him off with a lazy grin.

He shook his head, already heading for the bathroom.

You stretched out on the bed, far too smug for someone who’d just had her panties in her mouth and needed permission to come. “Can I watch?”

Aaron paused. Like, actually paused.

Your voice dropped, softer now, more curious. “Have you ever… touched yourself…while thinking about me?”

He turned to face you and you raised your brows. “I have,” you admitted with a shrug of your shoulders. “Did it tonight, but clearly thinking of you wasn’t enough.”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, a pleased smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah? What do you think about?”

He exhaled slowly and you could practically see the debate happening in his head. You just gave him your best lazy, post orgasm smile, like this was just casual pillow talk. 

“You really want to know?”

“I would do unspeakable things to know.”

He came back to the bed, settling beside you again. “Sometimes I think about your thighs. How they feel when you wrap them around my waist when you want me deeper, like you’re trying to keep me there forever. Or the way they twitch… not when you come, but just after.”

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“I think about your voice,” he went on, eyes fixed on your face. “Not the moaning, not what most people would imagine. I think about the way your voice trembles before you say my name, like your body’s surprised by how much it needs it.”

He paused, his eyes drifting to your hands. 

“I think about the way your fingers shake when you undo your jeans for me,” he added. “You try to hide it. You always look me dead in the eye like you're so calm… but your hands always give you away.”

You felt suddenly exposed, and yet cherished. He had been watching, really watching, like every part of you was something worth remembering.

“But there’s one thing you do and you probably don’t even realise.”

“What is it?”

“You laugh.”

“I–what?”

“After you finish, you let out this laugh. Like you’re embarrassed by how much you felt, or like it surprised you, or like it snuck up on you and now you’re overwhelmed and happy and trying not to show it.”

“I do not laugh,” you tried to argue.

He let out a breath of air, a laugh of his own. “Trust me, sweetheart, you do. Because it's exactly what I think about to finish.”

You furrowed your brows, completely taken back by his casualness. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he replied, still smiling. “You wouldn’t notice it. But I do.”

“And that’s really what you think about? Out of everything?”

He nodded, hands reaching for your ankles, pulling them back on his lap again.

“Why?”

“Because it means I gave you something.” His thumbs stroked lazily over your skin as he answered. “Something that made you feel so much it had to come out somehow.”

You didn’t know what to say, your chest felt too full and your throat too tight. So you flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, grabbing the nearest pillow and pressing it over your face, mostly to muffle the ridiculous, overwhelmed noise clawing its way out of your throat. Equal parts sob, squeal, and scream.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered into the pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You asked.”

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him, your face hot and burning. “Yes. Because I thought the answer would be something like my ass in denim shorts. Or when I wear that pink push-up bra.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “Those rank very high.”

“How high?”

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs “Top five.”

“Five?” you gasped. “My ass in denim shorts is five?”

“Baby,” he murmured, hands sliding higher,  “you have so many top-five moments, I had to get creative with categories.”

Before you could ask what those were, his hands reached and squeezed your bare ass, a laugh tumbling out of you without warning.

His eyes flicked up to yours instantly. “There it is.”

You froze. “No.”

He grinned. “Don’t deny it.”

“That wasn’t the laugh.”

“It was close enough,” he argued, hands wrapping around your lower back as he pulled you into his lap. You landed there with a gasp, knees straddling his thighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the real one out of you again soon.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hands snaking around his neck. “Think the shower needs to hear it, don't you?”

“Oh, absolutely the shower needs to hear it,” he agreed, standing with you in his arms. “So does the wall. And the mirror. And probably the floor.”

“Oof, sounds like it's going to be a long night then.”

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[corkinavoid]

DPxDC The Witch and The Ghost

On the subject that came up in my recent post, in my head, Sam and Danny are constantly having beef with each other. But never seriously.

The thing is, Danny has a lot of issues with a lot of things. He is not dead and not alive and then somehow both at the same time. He lives with parents who literally hunt him for sport, even if they are shit at it. His godfather is another can of worms that he refuses to touch entirely. On top of that, there's school, and occasional bullying, and hormones acting up, and ghost problems to deal with.

Which is why Danny is frustrated most of the time. He does a good job at keeping it at bay and not snapping at people for the tiniest inconveniences - partially, it's because he knows that his mild snapping can possibly leave the recipient frozen in a block of ice and humans are prone to hypothermia.

So, Danny is putting a lot of effort into staying reasonable and calm. And he is doing a good job at it!

And then, there's Sam. Sam is used to arguing with her parents at any given moment over literally anything. Sam is an activist who can and will insist on coming out victorious out of any fight she picks at, be it the choice of a salad dressing or discussion of global warming. Sam has opinions and is not afraid to share - more like enforce, actually - them. What's more, Sam is liminal, and she can withstand a lot more blunt ghostly force than any other human being.

Sam and Danny are friends, there's no doubt there. They love each other, they support each other, they will quite literally tear the world apart for each other.

They also argue about every fucking thing on earth. They fight over whose turn it is to pay for burgers every time they get them - which is at least thrice a week - and over the best phrase to teach a pet parrot, and the difference between 'affect' and 'effect' used in context. They put some discussions on pause just in order to find and provide research, and then they slap each other with piles of said research across the faces and get into a fist fight over water pollution.

Sam treats it as a fun activity and maybe a test run for her other fights and discussions with other people. She doesn't mind Danny's frustration and his occasional violence in the slightest, knowing perfectly well that he is no danger to her, and if she asks, he would stop at once.

Danny, on the other hand, gets a great outlet to vent and release all his pent-up emotional baggage. Sure, sometimes their fights get gruesome, and sometimes they hold grudges for days, and sometimes they can barely tolerate seeing each other because of it. But he also knows that in the end, they are friends, they are fraid, and he is safe with Sam no matter what he says or how offensive something sounds to her. Because in the end, it doesn't really matter to her. Not more than him.

Tucker is just very chill with both of them. He doesn't bother sticking with any of the sides of the arguments, switching between them or not taking part at all. He knows they are fine. He knows they just like fighting, for some weird reason. To be fair, he also picks an occasional fight or two with Sam just for the fun of it.

Gotham in general, and Batfam specifically (or Justice League, if you want) are so not prepared for the three of them when they move out of Amity. Especially if there's also Dani and/or Jazz thrown in the mix to spice things up. None of them truly bother to keep from using their powers, albeit mildly: some little hex and jinx here and there from Sam, a frozen patch on the pavement to make someone slip from Danny, some minor hacking from Tucker, a prank or two using the intangibility from Dani.

It leads to a lot of very confusing situations.

Like Batman showing up to the recent Riddler scheme to find two random teens loudly arguing over the answer to the puzzle while Riddler himself looks completely given up on getting their attention back to the important thing. The important thing being a bomb with a ticking timer on it.

Or Robin finding two siblings brawling on the rooftop, growling and screaming, rolling around and kicking their feet. He is not quick enough to catch them from falling off the edge of the three-story building, but when he peeks down, the siblings are still fighting down on the street, seemingly not even noticing the fall.

Or Red Hood having his guns miraculously stolen midfight because three kids have decided to have a sharpshooter competition with the goons acting as target practice. He honestly can't bring himself to mind, though, they really are great at hitting all the kneecaps within range. He is rather grateful they haven't included his own kneecaps in the heat of it. At least their responsible adult - a very pretty redhead - had apologized and returned his guns back.

Spoiler absolutely loves it when, right as she is about to get caught in Poison Ivy's trap, two teens show up to simultaneously wrestle with the mad greenery with their bare hands and lecture Ivy on the imprint she is leaving on the ecosystem of Gotham.

However, Red Robin absolutely hates that someone keeps getting through all of his firewalls just to leave a few cheeky comments on his recent case files. It doesn't matter that they leave some valuable intel and provide a good conclusion as well, it's the principle of the thing.

All in all, Danny and Sam are the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object, but they trade and switch places constantly and they are most definitely enjoying themselves while at it.

Everyone else, though? That depends on the circumstances.

[thatonegrimm]

Hi, Grimm ! I hope you’re doing well !

If you don’t mind, I would like to request Saja Boys (separately) with an s/o reader who’s a workaholic and a pushover, like they never refuse taking someone else’s shift, doing someone else’s work and barely getting credit, and they barely sleep so they have deep eye bags they try hard to cover up and are running on four hours of sleep, coffee and sheer willpower.

I hope it was clear and that you like the idea

Have a great day/evening/night !

I do like the idea and don’t worry, it was super clear! 🥹 Go reader for having such wonderful boys to look after them lol. Here you go! 💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Overworked, People-Pleasing Reader

You told them it was fine. You told them you could handle it. But even demons have limits—especially when it comes to you.

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

🧿 Jinu 

Jinu noticed it in the little things.

How you barely ate. How you flinched every time your phone buzzed. How your concealer didn’t fully hide the deep shadows under your eyes.

One night, you nodded off mid-sentence—sitting up, laptop on your thighs, your hand still on the touchpad.

He gently took it away.

When you blinked awake, bleary-eyed, he said softly, “You haven’t looked at me properly in days.”

“I’m just busy—”

He closed the laptop and set it somewhere you couldn’t reach.

“I looked at your calendar,” he said. “You’re covering six shifts this week that aren’t even yours.”

You flinched. “They needed help.”

“So do you.” His voice wobbled—just a little.

You were quiet.

And when he sat beside you and held your hand, thumb rubbing circles into your wrist, you didn’t fight it.

He didn’t ask you to quit. He just said, “Please let me take care of you too.”

And for once… you let him.

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

💪 Abby 

You came home barely standing.

Abby caught you stumbling toward the fridge at 1 a.m., wearing your uniform backwards, mascara smudged like war paint.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “how many hours of sleep have you had this week?”

You mumbled, “Some?”

He stared. “That’s not a number.”

Next morning, he marched into your workplace with two iced coffees, a protein bar, and a spreadsheet titled “WHY MY BABY IS NOT YOUR DOORMAT: A Presentation.”

You tried to stop him. He smiled and locked the breakroom door.

“I just had a little chat with your boss,” he said later, handing you a smoothie. “And also your coworkers. And the one who guilt-tripped you into three shifts? He’s not allowed to text you anymore.”

“Abby—”

He kissed your forehead. “No one takes better care of people than you. But that includes you.”

Your phone buzzed. Abby snatched it, read it, and muttered, “I will eat that man.”

You weren’t sure if he meant literally.

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

📚 Mystery

You didn’t notice right away.

But the printer started “malfunctioning” whenever someone tried to drop extra paperwork on your desk.

Your emails mysteriously bounced back when people asked you to cover shifts.

Every time you tried to reply, your laptop restarted itself.

Mystery didn’t say a word.

Until one night, you sighed and whispered, “I’m just… so tired.”

And he quietly sat next to you, slid a mug of warm tea across the table, and said:

“They don’t deserve your exhaustion.”

You blinked at him.

“I didn’t do anything serious,” he said calmly. “Just enough to make it mildly inconvenient to abuse your kindness.”

You couldn’t help laughing. “You shadowblocked my inbox.”

“I shadowblock for love,” he said, sipping your tea.

You didn’t fight him on it.

And when he curled around you that night, tucking his chin against your shoulder, you finally—finally—slept more than four hours.

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

💋 Romance 

“You didn’t have to wait up,” you yawned, stumbling into the apartment.

Romance was on the couch, candlelit and pretty, your favorite blanket in his lap.

“I absolutely did,” he said, wrapping it around your shoulders. “Because you’re running on three espresso shots and pure trauma.”

You groaned. “They really needed someone to close.”

“You always say that. When’s the last time someone covered your shift?”

Silence.

He smiled. “Exactly. Now shush and let me baby you.”

You opened your mouth. He pressed a finger to your lips.

“Nope. No arguing. You can’t even see straight.”

He guided you into his arms, soft and warm, your head resting against his chest.

“I’ll romanticize the hell out of your recovery arc, babe,” he murmured into your hair. “Just let me love you while you burn out less.”

You fell asleep before you could argue.

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

🔥 Baby 

You were halfway through yet another 10-hour shift when Baby appeared at your workplace door, hoodie half-zipped, eyes glowing faintly.

You blinked. “How did you even get in here—”

He walked over. Scooped you up like it was nothing. Started carrying you toward the door.

“Baby, you can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he muttered. “You’ve had four hours of sleep and two energy drinks in 36 hours. I’m not letting you die like this.”

“Put me down!”

“Nope. You’re on demon-mandated rest.”

“But my shift—”

He kicked the door open. “Should’ve thought of that before you stopped acting like you mattered.”

At home, he shoved you into bed, stole your phone, and locked the bedroom door.

“You’re grounded,” he said.

“…From what?”

“Capitalism.”

You cried laughing.

And then you slept.

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

M-List

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Hi, I love your writing, anyway I have a request: could you maybe write something like reader is the passenger princess and like even though she has a drivers lincense (or not) he won’t let her drive or give up her seat as passenger princess, or just being overly overprotective, of course only if your comfortable and want to write this. You choose what driver. No pressure to write it it’s just a thought.

Thanks xoxo

-🐨

Passenger princess

Author note : thank you so much for your request, I twist the story a little bit because apparently I can't write a story without a little bit of drama... but hope you still like it :)

Summary : She has a license. She knows how to drive. But Lando has made it very clear: as long as he’s around, she’s not touching the wheel because he refuses to let the girl he loves be anything other than his passenger princess. He likes taking care of her, driving her everywhere, holding her hand at stoplights and making sure she never has to worry about a thing.

But when she asks for the keys one day, everything shifts.

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Genre : fluff, oneshot, request, slight angst

Main Masterlist

Lando had one single rule :You. Do. Not. Drive. 

Not when he’s around. 

You could have a Formula 1 Super Licence and it wouldn’t change anything. Lando Norris has made it his personal mission that his girl does not lift a finger, especially not to reach for a steering wheel. 

You still remember when he declared it officially. 

You were six weeks into dating, sitting in his car after a dinner date in Monaco. You pulled out your keys and offered to drive back because he’d had two glasses of wine. He just looked at you with the slowest blink of disbelief. 

“Absolutely not, you’re not driving.” 

“And you can?” 

“Well I’m Lando Norris.” 

“That doesn’t make you immortal.” 

“Maybe but it makes me your designated driver. Forever. Passenger princess duties are now legally binding. Sorry.” 

He meant every word. 

From then on, he opened every car door for you, insisted on picking you up and dropping you off even if it was wildly inconvenient, and responded to your attempts to drive with various tactics, including distraction kisses, key theft, or physically lifting you out of the driver’s seat like a cheeky menace. 

You eventually gave in. 

Not because you couldn’t drive, you actually were a good driver but because there was something stupidly endearing about the way he’d reach for your hand across the center console, or check your seatbelt like a paranoid dad, or mutter under his breath about how “princesses don’t worry about traffic.” 

But there comes a day. A very specific day where you needed his car.

“Can I take the McLaren to Nice?”  The words leave your mouth casually.

Lando is in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, dressed in a McLaren hoodie and shorts, spoon halfway to his mouth with a bowl of yogurt and granola. He freezes. 

You can literally hear the information processing in his head. 

“Sorry?” he says slowly, as if you’d just asked if you could drive his F1 car to the grocery store. 

You tilt your head, resting against the doorframe. “I have that appointment in Nice this afternoon. It’s a beautiful drive. I don’t want to take a taxi.” 

“So I’ll take you,” he says instantly, standing straight. 

“You can’t,” you remind him, amused. “You have a team briefing remember.” 

“I’ll skip it.” 

“You won’t.” 

He narrows his eyes. “You want to drive the McLaren? Wich one ?” 

“I don't care I just want to drive a nice car,” you say, playful but firm. “But preferably the 720S. It’s got that nice citrus interior and the top-down roof feels very main character energy.” 

“You are the main character,” he says without blinking. “But you can’t drive her.” 

“Her?” 

He winces. “The car.” 

“Oh my god, you called your car 'her'?” 

“No. I just… she’s delicate.” 

You cross your arms, biting your lip. “Delicate? Are we still talking about the car or me?” 

He sets his spoon down slowly. “Do you even know how to drive that car, you've never driven it before.” 

“Because someone has control issues and God complex.” 

Lando raises a hand, jaw clenching. “She has 710 horsepower. Twin-turbo V8. You so much as sneeze wrong, and she’ll take off the road.” 

“Exactly,” you grin. “Sounds fun.” 

He stares at you, horrified. “Baby.” 

You step closer, dropping your voice into something sweet and slightly dangerous. “Lando. I love you. I respect you. But you know I'm actually capable of driving right ? Just trust me. ” 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. 

You know that look. It’s the same one he gets when he’s arguing with his engineer but knows he’s wrong. He tries to rally. 

“You could take the Audi instead.” 

“No.” 

“The Fiat Jolly?” 

“God no, it will make me look like an idiot.” 

You soften, step closer, brushing your fingers through his curls. 

“Please, baby? Just for today. One little drive. I’ll bring her back with not a scratch. I’ll even fill the tank.” 

He groans like it physically pains him. 

“I have to go,” he mumbles, already backing toward the hallway. “The meeting start in 10. I don’t have time to talk you out of this insanity.” 

“So it’s a yes?” you say brightly. 

He groans again, louder this time and disappears down the hall. But not before you hear him yell over his shoulder: 

“If there’s a single scratch, we’re breaking up!” 

Not so long after, you’re standing in the garage, keys in hand. 

The car looks like something out of a dream, sleek, silver with blood-orange leather and enough power to make the air around it hum. You slide in, adjust the seat, and you’re smiling like a lunatic. 

From the garage door, you hear a thud. 

Lando is standing there with the most worry expression on his face. 

“I have to admit, you actually look hot in that car,” he mumbles, pained. 

You blow him a kiss. “See, driving look good on me too!” 

He sighs, walking over slowly.

“I left you a route,” he says. “No tunnels. No mountain roads. No overtaking anyone. Please just go to the speed limit.” 

He watches you like he’s not sure if he wants to cry, laugh, or beg you to switch seats. 

“I love you,” you say softly. 

He exhales. “Love you too. But please be carefull.” 

“I won’t. I’ll drive her like she’s made of glass.” 

“She’s made of carbon fiber, but thanks.” 

You laugh and start the engine. 

The car roars to life. 

Lando flinches. 

And then you’re gone. 

The Côte d’Azur has always looked like a painting, seafoam catching light like glass, mountains folding into the horizon, the road ahead carving through it all like a silver ribbon. The sky is impossibly blue. The kind of day where it feels like nothing can go wrong. 

You were almost in Nice. 

The road had opened up, smooth and gently curving, an occasional coastal breeze slipping through the open cabin of the car. You had the roof down, sunglasses on, one hand lightly resting on the wheel. 

You can't belive he trusted you. He gave you the keys. 

And for a long stretch of road, you felt something close to joy. Real, effortless joy. 

Until the corner. 

A left-hander. Nothing dramatic. Just one of a thousand bends like it, except this one comes a fraction tighter, your line slightly too wide, your rear wheels clipping the gravel at the edge of the asphalt. The car responds with the fury of something alive. 

You feel it. 

That split-second shift, grip lost, control slipping. Then an impact. 

You never even have time to scream. 

The sound is what stays with you first.  A tearing. A shattering sound. 

The howl of carbon fiber being ripped apart, metal crumpling like paper, and glass exploding as your side window bursts inward. The car spins once, maybe twice and then crashes nose-first into the side of the mountain wall with a force that throws your body against the seatbelt so hard your lungs collapse on the first breath. 

Then, silence. 

Not true silence more like the absence of motion. The engine is dead. Smoke coils faintly from the front. Your ears ring. Blood is sliding down your forehead and into your left eyebrow, warm and disorienting. 

You don't move. Can’t. 

You blink slowly, registering only fragments: The bent steering column. The shattered passenger-side window. The trembling in your own fingers. The sky above, warped and off-center. 

Then pain. Dull, but growing. A deep ache in your ribs. Scratches on your arm. A tightness in your chest you can’t immediately place. 

You bring one shaking hand to your head and feel blood. It’s not gushing, but there’s enough to paint your fingertips. Your breath catches. Your vision swims. 

But that’s not what breaks you. 

What breaks you is the sudden, sickening realization: you crashed his car. 

The McLaren. His McLaren. 

You crashed it. Ruined it. 

Your throat tightens. The pain behind your ribs isn’t just bruising anymore, it’s anxiety blooming like rot. 

What is he going to say? 

The car, his car, is wrecked. The front end is completely folded in, the hood smashed in on itself, like a fallen lung. The windshield is webbed with cracks, already splintering inward. Bits of the headlight are scattered across the asphalt like broken teeth. 

You try to sit up straighter but your body disagrees. Your seatbelt is locked so tight you can barely breathe. 

You don’t even know if you’re crying, everything is wet: your eyes, your face, your brow. You can taste blood on your lip, iron and salt, and it makes you feel nauseous. 

You fumble for your phone. 

Your hand shakes so badly you nearly drop it. 

You consider not calling him. Maybe call an ambulance. Maybe disappear off the side of the earth before he finds out. Maybe vanish into the sea. 

But then you see his name in your recent calls and your thumb moves on instinct. 

It rings once. Twice. 

He picks up on the third. 

“Hey, everything good?” His voice is casual, smiling. Unaware. “You make it there already...” 

“I crashed,” you whisper. Your voice sounds strange. Far away. 

“What?” 

You inhale, shakily. “I lost it. On a corner. I’m, I’m okay. I think. But the car, it’s...” 

There’s rustling on his end. The sudden sharpness in his voice makes your stomach twist. 

“Where are you?” 

You give him your approximate location, your voice barely audible. He doesn't say anything else, just hangs up. 

You sit there, barely moving.

Then omeone stops, a couple in a rental car, asking if you need help. You nod, numbly, and they call emergency services even though you told them it's not needed. They stay nearby, give you water, tell you not to move too much. 

But nothing reaches you. Not really. 

All you can think is: He’s going to hate me. 

And that thought alone cuts deeper than anything else. 

Lando’s POV

Her voice was small. 

Too small. 

It came through the phone distorted, thin and trembling, soaked in panic, but Lando had heard enough of her to know: this wasn’t nerves. This was fear. Real, shaking, breathless fear. 

“I crashed.” 

Two words. Quiet. Flat. But in the center of them was something that lit his entire nervous system on fire. 

His engineer shouted something after him while he exit the meeeting. Zak called his name. Someone mentioned media waiting downstairs, some nonsense about schedule, structure, protocol but it didn’t register. Nothing did. 

Lando ran. 

Straight out of the building, down through the tunnel under the Monaco paddock, into the garage where his car was parked. He slammed the door behind him, yanked the gearshift like it had personally offended him, and peeled out onto the street with a screech that echoed between the buildings. 

His hands shook. 

Because he was scared. 

Not for the car. 

Not for the damage. 

Not for insurance or press or the reputation of a McLaren driver’s girlfriend crashing a hypercar on the Riviera. 

No, he was scared for her. 

Because he knew her. Knew her well enough to understand that if she said “I think I’m okay,” it meant she was covering up how bad it really was. That her first instinct wasn’t to cry or scream, it was to call him to tell the car was ruined.

The coastal road stretched long and sharp before him, curves blurring past as he pushed the car harder than it was ever meant to go. He barely registered the scenery.

His GPS pinged her location from her phone. 

It took twenty-seven minutes to reach her. 

Twenty-seven minutes of clenching the wheel so tight his knuckles ached, replaying the sound of her voice over and over in his head, trying not to imagine the worst. 

He rounded a long bend near the mountain wall, and then he saw it. 

The McLaren was facing the wrong direction, its nose crumpled violently into the rock face. The front end was mangled. Glass littered the pavement. The left wheel was completely detached, folded under like a snapped ankle. 

And there she was. 

Leaning against a rock barrier a few feet from the wreck. Blood smeared across her temple, hair matted, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was trying to physically hold her body together. There was a couple beside her, clearly the ones who’d stopped, standing nearby but giving her space. 

She wasn’t looking at the car. Or the view. Or anything, really. 

She was staring down at her hands. 

And she was crying. 

Lando didn’t remember getting out of the car. 

One minute he was behind the wheel. The next, he was running. 

“Hey, hey!” he called, breath already catching in his throat. 

Her head snapped up. And when she saw him, something in her face cracked wide open: relief, shame, fear, all of it tangled together. 

He didn’t stop to process it. He just dropped to his knees in front of her and grabbed her face gently, cupping it like it was something fragile. 

“Where does it hurt?” he asked instantly. His voice was already hoarse. “Talk to me. Right now.” 

“I’m okay,” she whispered, barely audible. 

“No, don’t do that. Don’t say that. Are you dizzy? Can you breathe? Did you hit your head?” 

She flinched slightly when his hand brushed her temple. That’s when he saw the cut, shallow, but bleeding more than it should, streaking down into her brow. 

His stomach clenched. 

He turned to the couple who’d stayed with her. 

“Did anyone call emergency?” 

“Yes,” the woman nodded. “They’re on their way. She didn’t want to move much.” 

“Good. Thank you. Seriously.” 

Then he turned back to her. 

“You’re gonna be alright, okay?” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, ignoring the blood on his hands. “They’re coming. You’ll be looked at properly. It’s just a few cuts. You’re here. That’s what matters.” 

But she was still shaking. Her lip trembled. Her eyes weren’t on him. 

They were fixed on the car behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and it shattered him. 

“What?” he frowned. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, more desperately this time. “I didn’t mean to, I just, the corner came too fast, I didn’t expect the back wheels to kick and...God, I didn’t mean to...I tried to correct, I swear...” 

“Stop, hey!” He moved closer, hands gripping her shoulders now, gentle but firm. “Stop. Look at me.” 

Her eyes met his, swimming in guilt. 

“Are you apologizing for crashing the car?” he asked slowly. 

She blinked once. 

Then nodded. 

Lando let out a breath, long, pained, and almost disbelieving. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice so quiet it nearly broke, “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about the car.” 

She froze. 

“I love that car, yeah,” he went on, cupping her cheek again. “But it's just carbon and wires and leather. And you’re you. My girl. My everything.” 

Her bottom lip trembled. 

“I’d burn ten of those cars if it meant keeping you out of pain for five more seconds,” he said. “There is nothing that matters to me more than you walking away.” 

Her tears spilled freely now, silent but relentless. He didn’t stop them. 

“Baby, you’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re here. That’s all I care about.” 

She leaned forward without warning, pressing her forehead to his chest. And Lando held her instantly, wrapping his arms around her as if trying to shield her from the world itself. 

“I thought you’d hate me,” she choked out. “I thought you’d be furious.” 

“Never.” 

“I ruined it.” 

“You didn’t ruin anything.” 

He pressed a kiss into her hair. 

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly. “But not because of the car. Because the idea of losing you… I can’t even...” 

His voice cracked. He stopped. Swallowed hard. 

“I was so fucking scared,” he said into her shoulder. 

They sat like that until the medical team arrived, Lando never once letting go. 

Not even when they tried to clean the blood from her face. 

Not when they insisted on taking her vitals. 

He stayed close, his hand gripping hers the whole time, his eyes locked on her like she might disappear if he blinked. 

And even after the car was hauled off the mountain road, even after the sirens faded and the adrenaline left his system in a crash of its own, Lando couldn’t forget the image of her, sitting alone, bleeding and crying, staring down at her hands like she’d just destroyed everything that mattered. 

And how wrong she was. 

Because the only thing that mattered to him in that entire moment… was her heartbeat still ticking beneath his fingers. 

The hospital released her just past sunset. 

A mild concussion, a bruised rib from the seatbelt, a handful of superficial cuts and a bottle of prescription-strength painkillers she wasn’t thrilled about. They’d patched her up, poked and prodded, asked the same questions a dozen different ways but eventually, they’d deemed her fit to leave. Stable. Out of danger. 

Still, Lando hadn’t stopped hovering for a second. 

Not in the exam room. 

Not while the doctor spoke. 

Not in the hallway while she signed discharge papers. 

He walked two steps behind her with a hand lightly resting on her lower back like he thought she might shatter if he let go. And she didn’t complain, not once, because his touch anchored her. Grounded her. Reminded her that even if her body was still sore, her heart was in one piece. 

Outside, Monaco was quieter than usual, the sea dark and reflective beyond the hills. His car waited just outside the private entrance, doors already unlocked. Lando opened the passenger side without a word and crouched down like he had a hundred times before. 

But this time, when he looked at her, it wasn’t teasing. 

“Can you sit okay?” he asked softly. 

She nodded. “Yeah. Just a little stiff.” 

He didn’t move. Just watched her, as if trying to read something she hadn’t said yet. 

“You sure?” 

She smiled faintly. “You ask me that again and I’m going to start charging you per reassurance.” 

That earned her the smallest, quietest curve of his lips, the first real smile of the night. 

He helped her in, buckled her seatbelt for her even though she could do it herself, then pressed a light kiss to her shoulder before closing the door gently. 

He circled the hood, climbed in on the other side, and started the engine. 

Silence stretched for a few moments. Not heavy, not awkward, just full of thoughts neither of them quite knew how to unpack yet. The radio was off. The windows fogged slightly at the edges. 

Finally, she looked over at him. 

“You haven’t said anything smug about being right.” 

He blinked. “What?” 

“About me driving. About how I shouldn’t have.” 

A beat passed. 

Then he shook his head, eyes still on the road. “That’s not what I’m thinking.” 

“No?” 

He let out a breath. Slow. Careful. 

“I’m thinking how grateful I am that you’re sitting next to me right now. That’s it.” 

Her throat tightened. 

Lando glanced over briefly, then back at the road again. 

“You know,” he said, softer now, “I’ve been thinking about it. Why I never let you drive.” 

She smiled weakly. “Because you have control issues?” 

He huffed. “Fair. But no. Not really.” 

She watched him, his grip on the wheel, the gentle twitch in his jaw, the way he blinked more than usual like he was thinking too hard. 

“It’s not that I don’t think you can drive,” he said. “You’re smart. You’re capable. You’ve always been independent. That’s part of why I fell in love with you.” 

She stared at him, warmth stirring in her chest even now, even after the worst day. 

“It’s just…” He hesitated. Then laughed once, softly. “When I drive, and you’re next to me, I know you’re okay. I know where you are. I know you’re not out there in the world where something can go wrong.” 

“Like crashing a car into a mountain wall?” 

“Exactly like that.” 

He smiled, but there was something behind it, vulnerability. The raw kind he only ever let her see when the world had quieted down enough to make space for it. 

“It’s not about control,” he said. “It’s about care. I like driving you. I like knowing you’re safe. I like you beside me, legs tucked up, stealing my hoodie, humming to the music while I make sure you get where you’re going.” 

She swallowed. 

“I like you as my passenger princess,” he finished, glancing at her again. “Not because you can’t drive but because it’s the one time I get to take care of you without you arguing.” 

She let out a breath that caught somewhere in her chest. 

And then, slowly, she reached over and laced her fingers through his. 

He took her hand easily, like it was second nature, thumb brushing over her knuckles like he always did. 

“I thought you’d be mad about the car,” she admitted, voice soft. 

“I will never be mad” he said. “I don't care. Not one bit. It’s just a car. I can buy another one.” 

He looked over again, eyes steady and full of the kind of love that didn’t waver in the face of fear. 

“But I can’t replace you.” 

The rest of the drive was quiet. 

Comfortable. Peaceful. 

Lando took the turns slowly, one hand still in hers, his focus sharper than ever. When they pulled up to the house, he killed the engine and didn’t move for a moment , just sat there, the engine ticking as it cooled. 

Then he turned toward her fully. 

“You’re home,” he said gently. “Safe.” 

She smiled, tired but warm. “Thanks to you.” 

He leaned over and kissed her, softly, not rushed, not panicked, not full of adrenaline like earlier, just slow, and sure, and safe. 

She sighed against his lips. Let herself be held. 

And in that moment, she understood. 

It had never been about the car. Or control. Or rules. 

It was always about love. 

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[butterflybuckethat]

Operation: Seduction

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader (8k words) - Jake is your older brother's best friend. So when he lets you live with him to get out of your childhood home, you're dying for him to see you as more than the 'kid sister.'

Warnings: This actually ended up being kind of filthy! mdni!

Note: Somehow, this took me three weeks to write. I think I'm happy with it but it took a few rounds of edits so who even knows. I hope you like it <3

🦋 Masterlist 🦋

You and Jake had been living together, in relative domestic bliss, for nearly eight months when you decided that you needed to bring him to his knees. 

When you moved in, you hadn’t seen him since his flight school graduation. Your older brother Aaron insisted you all go to support Jake, not that your parents put up much of a fight–growing up, he’d been at your place more than he’d been at his own. He was relatively the same, if not broader, tanner, and more sure of himself if that was at all possible. 

You had always had a familiar relationship and fell back into that pattern relatively quickly when you moved in, desperate to leave Texas. It may have been possible that you had the teeniest crush on Jake when you were teenagers (what sixteen year old, wouldn’t? Handsome, kind, athletic Jake who ate your waffles and bought you ice cream to make up for it.) So, one evening, when you were wrestling for the remote–he wanted to watch the taped Cowboys game, and you wanted literally anything else–you casually said, “What if I flash you? Then can we watch Love Island?”

It was a joke, mostly. And it had become a secret pastime of yours to try to make the cocky aviator blush. So far, you had only succeeded once: when he threw you over his shoulder when you tried to walk into the second Sephora that day. But you were wearing a mini dress and you shrieked that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. He dropped you so fast, his cheeks a bright red that only subsided after minutes of your cackling and a peek at your bike shorts.

He was laying on the couch and you were on top of him, teasing him with your fingers around the hem of your shirt. You were expecting him to roll his eyes or push you off like he had hundreds of times before, so it surprised you when he scoffed out a “Please.”

You sat up in his lap, arms crossed, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” Jake brought his large hands up to your hips to steady you but you slapped them away. 

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated slightly exasperated. “In my mind you still have headgear.”

“I never had headgear.” You frowned and got off his lap, no longer interested in being in his proximity. He was messing with you. Intellectually, you knew he was messing with you but you couldn’t stop yourself from reacting.

“Didn’t you?” That evil glint that you knew so well resurfaced in his green eyes. 

“No!”

“But you get my point.” He only spread out further, taking up the space you were once in.

You were standing, sleep shorts scrunched in your fists. This was so ridiculous but you were angry, angrier than you had ever been at Jake’s jabs. And his amusement only made it worse. “Just fucking say it,” you spat. 

“Say what?” he asked, folding his arms behind his head. 

“Say it, Jake.”

He heaved a sigh, like this conversation was an inconvenience. “I don’t find you attractive.”

And you decided, right then, that you would break him. 

–

“So, what’s the plan again?” Natasha asked. The two of you and Bob were sitting at her dining room table surrounded by Chinese takeout. You were closest to them of the rest of the Dagger Squad and when you asked to convene an emergency meeting, Nat immediately offered her place.

“To make him beg for me,” you said simply. They were well aware of your borderline antagonistic relationship with Jake and had given up on trying to understand it a while back. She even said that it “explained a lot about him.” 

It hadn’t always been this way. In school, when your brother and Jake were thick as thieves, before Aaron got himself a wife, baby, and medical degree, Jake was nearly reverent of you and your family. He would help with dishes and offer to go grocery shopping, and even dropped you off at soccer practice a few times. But as the two of you got closer through your regular correspondence during his deployment and his time staying at your house when he was on leave, the relationship became more…playful. It didn’t really matter that no one else understood it, because you and he did.

“No, I got that part,” Natasha said. “ I just don’t understand how we get there.”

“Be sexy,” Bob said with this awkward grimace on his face. “I assume.” It took you a little longer to get close to Bob but after weeks of snapping back at Jake for him, you eventually wore him down. He was the one that was able to get you a job with one of the civilian contractors on base.

You were honestly so grateful for, really, the entire Dagger Squad who had taken you in as one of their own when you had spent so long feeling trapped and alone at your parents’ place. 

“He already said he didn’t find you attractive,” Nat said. “Which is crazy by the way.”

“Thank you,” you said, mouth full of egg roll.

“So what are you going to do? Single White Female all his exes?”

Your eyes blew wide. “Natasha, you’re a fucking genius!”

“I’m on it,” Bob said, already starting his research and ignoring Nat violently shaking her head. 

Jake had had very few actual girlfriends, maybe five altogether but that’s all you needed. 

Candace 

Candace was Jake’s most recent girlfriend and the only woman to make it onto his instagram grid (besides you). You had only interacted with her once in the first week you lived with him until she unceremoniously disappeared from his life, but the picture was still up. She was in a strappy red bikini sitting on Jake’s lap. Bob found the exact one online and you were now wearing it underneath your clothes for the team beach day. It was flattering, if a little annoying to put on—it’s structural integrity completely dependent on a series of bows you tied that morning. 

“You still mad at me, baby?” Jake smirked, dropping himself into the beach chair next to yours. He was still panting from touch football, his golden abs glistening with salt water and sweat but you weren’t paying any mind to that.

“Of course, baby.” You batted your eyelashes. “Why would I be mad?”

“Maybe because I–”

“Just hold that thought,” you interrupted him, turning your whole attention to Javy who wanted someone to go into the water with him. You readily agreed and stood, casually angling your body to face Jake and took off your shirt. You worked slowly and turned away to give him the most advantageous view of you shimmying out of your shorts. If you weren’t so set on revenge, you might have felt embarrassed but when you looked at him, in all your bikinied glory, you absolutely relished in his eyes scanning your body.

“What were you saying, Jakey?” you asked as innocently as possible and left him a stuttering mess. 

You stood in the surf, wanting to remain as elegant as possible to emulate Candace and avoid a drowned rat look. Javy, bless him, eased in also, talking animatedly about the John Wick movies that you admitted you had never seen. “We should do a movie night,” he said resolutely. He peeked behind him at the rest of the group, but did a quick double take. “Incoming,” he warned.

You barely had enough time to turn around when Jake hauled you in a fireman carry, bringing you deeper into the ocean.

“Jake!” you wailed. “What the hell? Put me down!”

“And swim alone?” he asked but it came out breathless, as he tried to keep you contained despite your squirming. 

“You’re an adult, aren’t you? Maybe act like one.” You were panicking a bit. It had taken you an hour to get your hair into the perfect breezy but sexy updo and the water would totally ruin it.

“You first,” he said and dropped you.

The rest of the day went by smoothly, hanging out with your friends and drinking spiked seltzers. That is until you left completely dehydrated and with the most awkward sunburn of your life. 

You hissed as Jake helped you out of his truck, your tender skin sticking to the leather seats.

 “I know.” He frowned, leading you into your shared apartment. “I think I have aloe in one of these drawers.” He immediately began rummaging, first in the junk drawer and then in the bathroom cabinets. You followed him, carefully removing Jake’s oversized shirt that he leant you.

“I think I just need a cold shower.” 

“Just let me do this first.” He spoke softly, squeezing a glob of gel on his fingers and delicately rubbed it on you. “Isn’t this usually why you wear a rashguard?” 

“I just wanted to try something different.” You held the bikini top to your chest, letting him pop the knots at your shoulders so he could gain better access. The fabric gave immediately, falling limp at your fingers.

“Is it because of what I said?” he asked. You were facing away from him now and couldn’t see his expression. But his cool fingers across your back felt heavenly and you couldn't help but close your eyes. 

“No.”

“Why is it so important to you?” Jake spoke barely above a whisper. 

You whipped your head around to look at him now and flinched from the pain of it. Your eyes narrowed, “It’s not.”

“Does baby have a crush on me?” You saw challenge in his eyes and if anyone was going to rise to it, it would be you. 

“And if I did?” Your tone was firm, not giving away a single thing. You squared your shoulders and tightened your jaw, portraying confidence despite being half naked and bright red. 

Jake’s eyebrows raised. He took your face in his hand and inspected it. Your breath caught at his close proximity. After what felt to you like a minute but was probably no more than a few seconds, he released you. “Stop fucking with me,” he mumbled, smirk firmly in place. 

Athena

According to Bob, Jake and Athena dated for two months and the only reason they knew it lasted that long was because of the lingerie she left hanging in his bathroom. When it was gone, they knew, so was she.

Your Saturday morning was spent with Natasha in Victoria’s Secret (Bob, understandably, passed on this excursion). Your burn had faded but your relationship with Jake hadn’t healed similarly. You weren’t sure if he’d intentionally been giving you the cold shoulder or if he’d just been having a busy work week but regardless, you hadn’t seen him more than ten minutes.

“Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” Natasha asked after you had explained your last interaction with him. “I mean, it seems intense.” She held up ruffled pink boy shorts eliciting a laugh from you.

“It’s always intense,” you shrugged. “It’s kind of our thing.” You started digging through a drawer for the matching black lace thong to the bra you already had.

Nat made a face. “That looks so itchy.”

“I don’t exactly have to wear it.” You flashed her a devious smile before moving to the next one.

“Did anything ever happen between you two?”

“Are you kidding? Aaron would never have let that happen.” Much to your teenage annoyance, your brother was very protective of you. The only boyfriends you had in high school were secret, sneaking kisses underneath the bleachers or in your room before he got back from football practice. You remembered one afternoon in the tenth grade when Aaron and Jake came home early and caught a boy sneaking out your window. Jake held you back, stroking your hair as tears streamed down your face, while your brother chased him down the street. No one got near you after that. Even after they graduated. 

“Jake did come back to take me to prom,” you said. “He got special dispensation and everything.” 

“That was sweet of him. Maybe–”

You shut that down immediately. “It was practically punishment for scaring off anyone else who would’ve taken me.” Unfortunately for you, Jake left a lasting legacy.

“I need to see those pictures.”

“You definitely don’t.” You laughed and poked her in the side.

Before Jake got home from the gym you washed your new lingerie in the sink and hung it on the shower rod to dry. Despite Natasha’s reservations, you were feeling giddy. You kept your bedroom door ajar, waiting with bated breath to hear the familiar jingle of his keys in the hall.

You snuck a peek at him, taking in his disheveled hair and rippling back muscles as he stripped walking into the bathroom. Jake had always been gorgeous, even when you were kids all the mothers would coo over him. The boy could get anything he wanted with a smile and a “ma’am.” It was infuriating but you couldn’t say you didn’t understand it.

When he got out, you were bundled up in a blanket on the couch. He ran a towel through his hair and you watched his deft fingers push each button through its respective hole up his fly and followed the line up his happy trail to his face, looking straight at you. You were certain you blushed.

“Hey.” He cleared the gravel from his throat before continuing, “Are you going out tonight?”

“Just to the Hard Deck with y’all,” you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. “If that’s okay.”

“Can you be ready in twenty?”

When Jake ducked into his room, you tip-toed over to the counter, swiped his car keys into the sleeve of your sweatshirt to keep them from making noise and set them down in the bathroom. It was steamy and smelled like his body wash. You noticed your lingerie set had been carefully moved to the counter and you were nearly giddy. You brought them with you into your room to get ready.

You took a deep breath outside the double doors of the Hard Deck. Jake went in but you took a beat to smooth your hair and apply lip gloss. You wore a white summer dress with little pink rosettes all over it and a high slit up the thigh. It was the perfect night for it with a fantastic breeze, if only you could keep it together. You tried to wear the lingerie beneath it but Nat was right, it was not comfortable. 

You shouldn’t have been this nervous, you were walking into a bar that you had walked into a million times before, but the look Jake gave you after he retrieved his keys from the bathroom kept replaying in your mind. Judging by his sharp intake of breath, the way he jerked his hand back like you burned when he led you out the front door, he must have noticed the empty space next to the sink.

You forced your shoulders back, fixed your face into the confident girl you were and pushed the doors open with a bang.

The bar seemed to stand still, all eyes on you, as you paused in the entry for the moment, feigning that you were searching for your people (you knew exactly where the Dagger Squad was, in the same spot they always were) while you let the wind blow through your dress to flash a little leg.

Penny called you over and handed you a beer, “Don’t you look gorgeous!”

Before you could rebuff, the man next to you leaning against the bar interrupted: “That you do.” He introduced himself as naval officer Danny. He wasn’t bad looking by any means with his big biceps and flashy smile, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Jake.

You giggled as he twirled you to show off the dress. “What other tricks you got?” he asked with a raise of his brow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You winked at him. It felt great; clearly this had potential.

“I think we’d all like to know.” Jake was here to break up your party.

“Christ, Hangman. Why do you always ruin a good thing?” You couldn’t even see Danny with Jake standing between you two. You knew Jake meant this little intrusion as a bucket of ice water, but it had the exact opposite effect. You were practically thrumming.

“Fuck off, Danny.” Jake asked Penny to put your drink on his tab before dragging you away by the wrist.

“Bye, Danny.” You couldn’t resist waving at him because it meant more of Jake’s hands on you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, tight like you might escape.

“Bye, sweetheart.” Danny gave you a lascivious smile.

You laughed at the scowl on Jake’s face. You, reluctantly, escaped his grip and turned to face him. “Aw Jakey, you can twirl me too.” You wrapped your hair around your index finger. “If you want to.”

He pulled you back so close to him. “Maybe later,” he sneered but you ignored it.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you said and sauntered over to your friends.

You and Jake certainly had your soft moments too. He cooked you dinner more nights than not and always asked about your work day and you did the same, keeping him company in the kitchen and making sure that he had everything he needed. You knew everything about each other and enjoyed being around one another–even when one of you was being annoying as hell.

You weren’t very good at pool, but that didn’t matter when you leaned over the table, letting Jake get an eyeful. He beat you, easily, but not without a few unforced errors. You caught him a few times staring hard at your dress, as if he was trying to see through it.

“Lost your edge, Bagman?” Natasha joked.

“What could I have lost when I won?” You liked Jake when he was so sure of himself, it's what made him so fun to mess with, to flap the unflappable man. 

“Your dignity.” You smiled sweetly.

“I have it on good authority that I never had any.”

You squeezed into the booth between Bradley and Jake. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this dressed up,” Rooster said between sips of beer.

“I just thought it was time to get out of my work clothes.”

“And thank god for it!” Reuben called from across the table.

You flipped him off, only making him laugh harder. You enjoyed the easy banter between the Dagger Squad, the companionship and in-jokes. You had never really experienced that before, being a part of a tight knit group, and you loved it.

After the third brush of Jake’s knuckles on your bare thigh, you thought you would give him an opening. “You coming on to me, baby?” You kept your voice low so only he would hear.

“Why?” he asked, smirk blooming on his face, giving you exactly what you wanted. “You want me to, baby?”

“Can’t a girl just want a little male attention?”

“Not when she’s you.”

You recoiled, ready to fire back but you didn't want to argue with him in public. You fought every instinct in you and decided to extricate yourself, “Let me out.”

“Where are you going?” Jake asked, not moving an inch. He was infuriating.

You schooled your features, being careful not to betray how upset you actually were, and said, “I want another drink.” When he still didn’t move, you got up on your knees and straddled his hips. It was your intention to quickly maneuver over him but he stopped you before you could get out on his other side, his hands automatically moving to your hips. 

“I could get it for you,” he said, thumb caressing your hip bone through the thin material of your dress. 

You hated the way heat pooled at your core and how your eyes flicked to his lips. You leaned forward even closer, taking the opportunity to ruin his night, nearly pressing your chest to his, “What the fuck are you doing, Seresin?” 

His hands couldn’t have left you faster; Aaron calls him that, Mav calls him that, not you. And you left him before the shock wore off.

You made a beeline to the bar, asked Penny for a shot of tequila, and downed it ignoring her concerned look.

“Hangman let you down, honey?” Danny asked, still in his exact spot. 

“Something like that,” you mumbled.

“I promise, one night with me and you’ll be wondering what his name was again.” He reached out to grab you but you were too quick.

“Fuck off, Danny.” You tried keeping your voice light but your head was swimming and you really just needed some air. But Danny followed you. He was clearly drunk, swaying a bit as he stood.

“Don’t be cute,” he said. You kept walking but he grabbed your wrist, “You can’t wear a dress like that and not expect a man to–”

It happened in an instant. Danny on the ground and Jake looming over him with a swollen fist.

“Sorry, Penny.” Jake looked almost sheepish before turning to you. He touched your face and inspected your wrist. “Are you okay?”

You could only nod.

Penny gave him a towel full of ice and ushered you both into a back room, letting Javy get Danny in a cab.

You watched Jake, he didn’t betray that his hand hurt but you knew it did. “Sorry,” you said. “I was on one tonight.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Those are usually more fun for me.” He passed you his scotch to sip. “It’s fine, he deserved it.”

You fell into a comfortable silence, sharing Jake’s drink, until he opened his mouth to speak. Then, he shut it.

“What?” you asked but he just shook his head. “Are you shy?” You were teasing but, for perhaps the first time in his life, he actually did look shy.

It took him a second but he finally asked, “Why did you dress up tonight?” Once the words were out, his nerves disappeared like you had imagined them. A total blip.

“I wanted you to think I was pretty,” you said honestly. 

He blushed and it felt like a win, even if he responded with a quip. “Is it my birthday?”

Cassandra

The only time Jake accidentally sent you an email that was meant for your brother was about Cassandra. Endless paragraphs waxing poetic about the nightgowns she wore; thin and silky and revealing…

Javy’s John Wick movie night was taking place at his studio apartment. It took some wearing down but he eventually agreed to making it a sleepover and everyone was going to be there. You even borrowed Jake’s sleeping bag. 

Bradley brought what could only be described as a fuck ton of beer and Mickey dumped out a duffel bag full of boxes of candy and microwaveable popcorn on the coffee table. 

“Where’s your sleeping bag?” Reuben asked him. 

“You have it,” Mickey said. 

“No—“

“Yeah, when we were at Walmart. It was in the shopping cart and I was holding the candy and I asked you…” He trailed off, the crease between his brow only getting deeper. 

“No, you didn’t.” Reuben’s arms were crossed but his expression betrayed his sadistic glee. 

“Fuck! Javy?”

“Yeah, we can share my bed.” He rolled his eyes. This was the first team event Javy had ever hosted and you had a feeling it would be the last. 

Before the first movie started, you and Nat squeezed together into Javy’s tiny bathroom to change into your PJs. 

“Show me,” Natasha nearly giggled as you reached for yours. It was an ivory silk nightgown that stopped barely at mid-thigh and a little pair of matching bloomers. The fabric was thin but opaque so you didn’t feel totally exposed. “He’s going to lose his mind,” she said. 

You and Nat settled into the spaces on either side of Jake on the couch and Javy pressed play on the movie. You did miss Jake’s double-take when you came out in the nightgown—and neither did Nat who gave you a wink. 

Honestly, it may have been the quietest the group had ever been. You were the only one who hadn’t seen it and yet they were all rapt. Even Jake’s focus was completely captured, the only time he looked away was when you reached over him to grab a handful from Natasha’s popcorn bowl. 

Reuben fell asleep first. 11:30, right on the dot. That was his schedule and he was notorious for sticking to it. The rest of you got into your sleeping bags shortly after, unable to concentrate on anything but his snoring. 

You tried getting comfortable but it just wasn’t happening. You had no choice but to lie there and watch Bradley scroll through his phone in the next sleeping bag over. 

“Any progress?” He whispered. 

“Some,” you said, inching closer to him. 

“He’s stronger than I thought. I for sure would’ve cracked by now.” He looked at you, smiling face illuminated by the glow of his screen. “I mean, who sleeps in that?”

You punched his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Bradley chuckled but stopped quickly when Jake got up to get water. He urged you to go with him, practically unzipping your sleeping bag. 

“Alright!” You rolled your eyes. 

The kitchen wasn’t much more than a wall of cabinets and appliances and a tiny island. The corner of Jake’s mouth lifted when he saw you. “You hungry?” He asked, head in the fridge. “Javy’s got celery.”

“Anything else in there?”

“Nope,” he said and closed the door, enveloping you back in darkness. He handed you his glass of water and you took a few sips before handing it back. This wasn’t unlike what the two of you did when you were at your own apartment except it usually devolved into the both of you passing out on the couch to the sound of the Food Network. 

“Where’s Guy Fieri when you need him?”

“Tell me about it,” Jake mumbled as he refilled his glass. He walked you back to your spot on the floor. “Is this new?” He asked, rubbing the material between his fingers. 

“Kind of,” you said, glad for the darkness. 

There was a long beat of silence. You were waiting for him to say something about the emails or Cassandra. But he didn’t. 

“It looks good on you,” he said and headed quickly back to his own spot on the floor. 

Warmth bloomed in your chest, encouraged by the compliment, and you didn’t want him to leave just yet. “Hey, Jake,” you called. “Do you want to go to that diner in the morning?”

“Absolutely,” he said and took a few steps toward you. “I would kill for those blueberry panca—“

But he didn’t see Bradley stick out his foot and he tripped, his full glass of water landing all over you. 

You gasped. The fabric clung to your skin, cooling you down to freezing. 

Jake swore. He apologized profusely and ushered you into the bathroom. “Maybe Coyote has a hair dryer.”

He flicked on the light and began rummaging under the sink. You were totally blinded, your eyes weren’t able to adjust to the sudden change in light with any speed. 

You heard Jake stop before you saw it. When your vision came into focus, he was staring up at you slack-jawed. The nightgown had gone completely sheer. He could see everything. 

“Jake!” You shrieked, wrapping your arms around yourself. This was too much, even for you. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” He ran out of the bathroom and came back with his hoodie, offering it to you. 

“Well, turn around!” Once his back was turned, you stripped off the wet top. It landed on the tiled floor with a smack. You languished in Jake’s hoodie, it was warm and soft and smelled like him. Next thing you knew, he had taken off his sweatpants and was helping you step into them. He crouched down, only in a t-shirt and briefs and pulled the drawstring tight around your waist, tying it into a neat bow. 

“We can go home,” he said, his expression holding nothing but concern. 

“I’m good,” you promised and scurried back to your spot next to Bradley, at a complete loss for what just happened. You were breathing heavily despite not having exerted yourself. 

“How’s that for progress?” He whispered. 

“You’re such a fucking douche.” But every time you closed your eyes, there was Jake with an unmistakable hunger in his. 

Kennedy McMaster

Kennedy was the only of Jake’s girlfriends you knew personally. She was your next door neighbor, head cheerleader, and his longest high school relationship. He took her to his prom. Your strongest memories of her were her glaring at you when he drove her home after their dates and the cloying scent of her pink sugar perfume that lingered on all his clothes.

You were determined not to let your last encounter deter you. It was shocking and something you were not at all prepared for but it, ultimately, served your mission. Now you knew with near certainty that he was attracted to you, he just needed a little push to admit it.  

Your boss was out of the country this week so you were working from home and Jake’s truck was in the shop the last few days so you’d been driving and picking him up in your old Jetta without temperature control to make up for Maverick’s disappointment at seeing his bruised knuckles. 

“Don’t you think these women are exes for a reason?” Nat asked under the spray of the shower. You and she often FaceTimed when she was alone in the women’s locker room. She was one of the bravest people you knew, but even she was better safe than sorry.

“I mean, yeah. But he was dating them for a reason too.” You were squeezing yourself into an aesthetic that could only be described as “yummy mummy”--it was the closest thing to wearing a cheerleader uniform as an adult. You wore leggings, a matching little zip up jacket, and a brightly colored sports bra. “The goal is for him to think I’m attractive, not for him to fall in love with me.”

“You sure?” Nat asked but you didn’t hear her, distracted by an incoming text.

~ Bob: I can’t believe you made me do this but it’s done

You squealed–you tasked Bob with spraying your perfume into Jake’s flight suit while Mickey and Reuben ran interference. 

“He fucking did it?” Natasha laughed incredulously. “I for sure thought he would chicken out.”

“And we still would have respected him for it.”

“As if.”

You laughed but even to your own ears it sounded nervous. 

By the end of the week, Jake was so looking forward to getting his truck back and you were ready to go back to wearing sweats, even though you were enjoying Mickey’s comments every time he saw you in the tight athleisure: “I wouldn’t even mind driving a minivan if it came with you.”

When you’d arrived on base to pick Jake up, you’d been informed that he was being held back for extra drills. Mav, not wanting you to die of heat stroke in your shitbox car, had invited you to enjoy the A/C inside. It was a particularly hot day and, even without the jacket, a sheen of sweat had developed on your body.

You sighed when the light breeze coming through the hangar hit you but the scene you walked into made you want to go back to your sweltering car. Maverick stood above a panting Jake, having just finished doing push-ups.

“Again, Seresin,” Maverick said. “You’re distracted. Making stupid maneuvers.” 

By the dark green stains on Jake’s flight suit, you could tell he’d been doing them for a while. But he kept his expression neutral, taking his lashings.

“How many times do I have to say it?” Maverick’s arms were crossed. “You’re not alone out there.” Jake faltered a little. “Keep going,” Mav urged.

The rest of the Dagger Squad fell in line beside you, watching. 

“I think you took it too far,” Javy said. You blushed, not realizing that he knew.

“Dude.” Reuben hit his arm.

Javy waved him off. “If you didn’t want me to know, you shouldn’t have fucking told me.” He turned back to you, eyes soft but firm. “It’s too much. You’re everywhere. He can’t concentrate. He’s making dumb mistakes and…” He trailed off, clearly trying of the right words. “That comes with a high cost in this line of work.” 

You were fighting back tears, not wanting them to feel like they had to comfort you when you were the one who fucked up. “I’m so sorry,” you said to everyone. “I got carried away and involved you all in something that should never have happened in the first place. It was stupid and I’m sorry.” You took a deep shaky breath. “I’ll apologize to Jake too.” Just thinking about how you were going to explain all this to him made you severely nauseous.

“Don’t apologize to Hangman!” Mickey said.

“Yeah, he doesn’t need to know,” Reuben added, swinging his arm around your shoulder and giving you a squeeze. “Maybe just keep it out of work.”

You felt terrible the whole ride back to your apartment but Jake seemed happy as a clam. He asked to drive, so you let him, and he was humming along to the radio. He seemed more relaxed than he’d been in a while.

You were nearly home when he asked, “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your perfume?” 

You practically jumped out of your skin. You analyzed his face, looking for any hint at how much he knew. He wore his same smug amusement. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said. 

“I didn’t think you would,” he laughed. 

“Maybe you’re having a stroke.”

“Must be.” He nodded with pretend thoughtfulness. “Why else would my flight suit, which is always in my locker unless I’m literally wearing it, smell like you?”  

You looked at him, grateful he had to keep his eyes on the road. All the windows were down, the breeze whipping through his hair. Even exhausted and covered in sweat, he looked incredible. “Is it such a bad thing?” You practically squeaked that out. 

“Not unless you consider thinking about you instead of my training exercise a bad thing.” He threw his hand over the back of your seat to back into the parking spot to make it easier on you in the morning and, despite the heat, you shivered. When he had successfully made it into the spot, he stayed close to you for a beat longer. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Then you know how to make it stop.” You leaned impossibly closer. It wouldn’t take much for him to kiss you. He licked his lips and couldn’t tear his eyes off yours. 

Your heart thundered. This had to be it. 

“I should call Aaron.” He backed away. He couldn’t even meet your gaze. “He always takes forever to respond,” he mumbled. And in an instant, you were alone in the car. 

Giulia

Not wanting to rely on the team, you dug back through your emails with Jake to find information. All he wrote was that she was a flight attendant from Milan who made insane baked goods. It was a single line in a single email dropped in the middle of a long-winded anecdote about starching vs. not starching his service uniform.

You were going to bake a pie. You had prepared the night before by watching Claire Saffitz videos and calling your mother, but your last meeting ran long and you were late coming home from work. You tried being quick but the custard curdled and the crust burned and this was all so stupid, you couldn’t even remember what you were doing it all for in the first place. You would’ve sobbed but you didn’t even have enough energy for that. 

You ordered a pizza and thought about changing out of the ridiculous outfit you wore to work—your knee-length pencil dress looked flight attendant-esque, especially with the twilly scarf tied around your neck. But by the time it had arrived, you ran out of time. Jake was already at the door. 

He sat down beside you at the counter and dropped his head in his hands with a deep sigh.

“You want a slice, baby?” But you asked softly, without the usual teasing associated with the nickname.

And he followed suit, “More than anything, baby.” The exhaustion resurfaced his home-grown twang exactly how it sounded in all your memories. The nickname thing started after Aaron had gotten his first girlfriend. He was in the eighth grade and they would hold hands and end each sentence calling the other “baby.” Jake had only started doing it with you because he was a little jealous of losing his best friend’s attention, not that he would’ve ever admitted it. But it was everything to you, to have an inside joke with him.

He didn’t even use the plate you set out, devouring half the slice in a single bite. “You look cute,” he said, tugging on your neck scarf a little. “You're usually in sweats already when I get home.”

“I tried baking you a pie.” You couldn’t even look at him. Somehow this felt so much more vulnerable than anything you had done thus far. 

“You did?” His face broke into the goofiest grin.

“I burned it.”

“What was it supposed to be?” He squeezed your shoulder. 

“Lemon.”

“I love lemon.”

“I know,” you demurred. You contemplated making lemon bars but making shortbread seemed much more involved than a cookie crust. Idiot. 

“Do you remember the tiramisu you made for your parents anniversary?” He laughed, throwing his head pack. “How you managed to burn a dessert you don’t bake, I have no idea.”

“I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to bake it!” You cried, a grin resurfacing on your face. 

“How–”

“The recipe was vibes based.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Yeah, whatever that means.”

You smiled at one another, both of you feeling more lively. 

The two of you finished the pizza before deciding to get into more comfortable clothing. You contorted yourself trying to get at the invisible zipper until you eventually gave up. You didn’t really want to ask Jake because you were done teasing and torturing him. You were done with this entire endeavor. You didn’t need him to decide you were worthy of dating as long as you got to spend time with him and, in truth, you were quite certain that you’ve been hurting yourself more than you’ve actually had an impact on him. 

But the dress didn’t fit over your head and the dumb little TikTok Shop magnet contraption broke after its first use, zipping up the dress that morning. So, after a great deal of effort, you padded over to his side of the apartment and knocked softly on the door. He let you in, dressed in navy briefs and a worn t-shirt. His room was neat as a pin with no clothes on the floor and hospital corners folded in his sheets.

“Can you unzip me?” You moved your hair to expose the zipper to him, watching his reflection in the mirror leaning against the wall.

You watched him sink his teeth into his bottom lip. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please,” you begged. “I’m stuck.” You were starting to feel claustrophobic, scenarios of wearing that dress forever clouded your mind. 

You shivered when he hooked his fingers under the collar of your dress. Jake took his time dragging the zipper down, trailing his fingers down your spine.

He pushed apart the seam of your dress and splayed his hand against your skin, the tips of his fingers ducking just beneath the strap of your bra eliciting a gasp from your lips. Like a man possessed, he continued, a dark look crossing his face. 

“Jake,” you moaned, as he snuck his hands around your hips, inside your dress and grazed the lacy trim of your underwear. You felt like you were on fire, every bit of you alight under his half-lidded gaze. 

Jake traced the line of your jaw before tilting your chin up just the slightest bit, angling you just right to give him access to the knot of the scarf around your neck. You could have wept when he pulled his last hand out of your dress but the moment the scarf was gone, his hands were back dragging you flush to him. 

“Say my name again,” he demanded, voice like gravel. 

“Jake,” you moaned louder, having forgotten the ability to regulate. You were lost to the anticipation. And before you had a chance to gain any sense of composure, he drove his tongue into your pulse point. 

Your whines turned breathy and knees weakened but he only held you tighter so he could continue his onslaught of nipping and sucking down your shoulder. 

You arched your back, wanting to do more, feel more. And you watched him nuzzle into the line of your hair, hissing when you grazed his erection with your ass. Jake’s lips parted, flush, and you were sure he was going to say something. 

His phone started to ring, and you cringed, an old picture of Jake arm in arm with your brother lighting up the screen. Jake unceremoniously removed his hands from you. “One sec,” he said and answered the fucking phone. “Yeah buddy, what’s up?”

You looked at him with shock and disdain but he was sitting at the foot of his bed. Your heart sank and you tried to step away but he latched onto the back of your dress and gently pulled you down to sit on his knee. His grip wasn’t tight, you could’ve left. But you didn’t. Instead, you sat there, uncomfortable in your freezing wet panties.

You could only hear Jake’s side of the conversation, he was hesitating and if you didn’t know him better you might have said he was nervous. “Look,” he said, “I was wondering…” He glanced at you, an expression you couldn’t read on his face. “How would you feel if I asked out your sister?”

You may have blacked out. You saw his lips move and the smile on his face but you couldn’t decipher the words, not when excitement, love, and rage were all rushing in your ears. 

Jake tossed his phone, beaming, and slid his hand up your thigh. That seemed to snap you back to the moment because you stood, backing away from his touch. “What the fuck was that?”

He stayed sitting and spoke very calmly. It was infuriating. “I don’t have much in the way of family. You and your brother are everything—”

“So you have to ask him permission to fuck me?”

“Is that what we were doing?” He asked with this dopey look in his eyes. Butterflies erupted in your stomach. 

“Don’t be cute,” you said, willing yourself to stay angry. “I’m not some fucking plaything—”

“But it’s fine to toy with me, right?” He stood, then. “That’s why I’ve been half-cocked in my jet all week.” He didn’t raise his voice or move closer when you took an instinctive step back, and you lost all of the moral high-ground you may have had. 

Your back hit the door, you hadn’t realized you were so close to it. He followed you this time, resting his forearm above your head, fingers trailing up the back of your thigh to where your dress was nearly hiked up leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. With how close he was now, you were sure he could hear your heart thumping.

“Would you have stopped if he said no?” 

“No.” Jake crashed his lips to yours. The kiss was sloppy and imbued with so much longing. It was everything you had wanted for as long as you can remember.

He pressed open-mouth kisses down the column of your throat and dragged your clothes down with him. 

The dress hit the floor and he sank to his knees. “What do you want?” he asked. 

“I-I don’t know.” You were completely overwhelmed, hot beneath his touch.

“You’ve been working me for months.” His smirk was salacious. “I can’t imagine you didn’t have something in mind.”

“Say it,” you demanded, regaining lucidity. 

“What do you want me to say?” He laughed bitterly. “That you’re always on my mind? That you only get more beautiful every time I see you? That, every night, I think about you in that fucking nightgown?” He wiped his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been trying not to think about you this way?”

You knelt down, slotting your legs on either side of his thigh. He brought his hands to your hips immediately, helping rock you back and forth across his hard muscle. He kissed your neck and you sighed, “I love that you do.”

“I want to watch you cum like this,” Jake mumbled. 

“I’m not sure I can,” you panted, fully enjoying the friction but certain that it would not be enough to get you there until he yanked your cotton panties up, increasing the pressure on your clit. 

A wave of pleasure shot through you. Jake deafened your moans with his kiss, keeping you steady as you moved your hips faster. 

“Ja-ake,” you moaned, pleasure building in your core. 

“Yeah, baby.” He flicked your nipple through the unlined cup of your bra and it sent you over the edge. His hands returned to your hips to help you ride out your orgasm. 

You collapsed onto the carpet in a fit of giggles. This was so unbelievable. Even at the beginning, you never thought it would end this way. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said and the look of pure genuine love in his eyes took your breath away. 

You pulled him down on top of you, kissing his cheeks and lacing your fingers in his hair. “Your turn?”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” He teased, brushing the hair off your face. 

“Do you have a condom?”

He reached over you to his jeans and took one out of his wallet. 

“Aren’t we ambitious,” you said, already kicking off his briefs. 

“And here I was, hoping you’d jump me in a supply closet.” Jake took his time removing your undergarments, taking you in as he teased your folds with his dick.

You groaned together as he pushed himself into you. “I’m not going to last that long,” Jake breathed into your skin and it only made you hotter. This man, who you’d been so taken with, was also incredibly taken by you. 

You hooked your leg over his waist and he drove deeper into you. You ground your hips but he held you still to rub your clit in tiny dizzying circles. 

A guttural moan erupted from your throat as you spiraled into your second orgasm. Jake kept going, rubbing and thrusting until your legs shook and the aftershocks became so intense that tears welled in your eyes. “Jake,” you cried, unable to take it anymore, and he came, nipping at your collarbone. 

Once your breathing slowed and Jake disposed of the condom, he lifted you onto his bed. “Can I get you anything?” He asked with a kiss to your bare shoulder. 

“Water.” He sat up to grab it and you followed. 

“Darlin’, as long as I can help it, you will not be leaving my bed,” and Jake planted a long mind-numbing kiss to your already swollen lips. 

As you sunk back into his pillow, watching the man you very nearly loved shirtless in the kitchen, you decided that wouldn’t be so bad.