#no i don’t care about the language barrier

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, detailed meltdown on-page, angst.

Notes — Another double update, go me! PSA: Our Amelia has a bit of a difficult time in this one. Take care of yourselves x

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

2019

WhatsApp Groupchat — The 2019 F1 Grid

Charles L. I have found an iPad in Ferrari hospitality. It is engraved with the initials A.B. Any ideas?

Lewis H. Does it have a bunny sticker on it?

Charles L. Yes!

Lewis H. That’s Amelia’s, then.

Lando N. lol I’ll come get it just gimme 10 mins im in a debrief rn 

Charles L. Sure no problem Amelia is Zak Brown’s daughter, yes?

George R. Yeah mate The smart one.

Sebastian V. Haha. She is the one Binotto wants? Brown hair, pretty smile?

Lando N. Bro.

Lewis H. @Sebastian — Mattia has tried to get her to Ferrari?

Sebastian V. Yes. He’s offered her some very lucrative opportunities. She has so far turned all of them down.

Carlos S. She’s loyal to McLaren. Leave her to us, yes?

Valtteri B. But if she ever decided to go elsewhere, Mercedes would make sense.

Lewis H. Yeah obviously 👍🏻

Lando N. ????????????

Lance S. If she was offered a million dollars to fix the Racing Point car, do you think she’d take it? Not a hypothetical. My dad wants to know.

Max V. Money won’t work. You forget she’s already the child of a millionaire.

Lance S. Damn it.

Kimi R. Is this the child always in Norris’ garage?

Lando N. Don’t call her a child we are literally the same age

Kimi R. That does not change the fact

Daniel R. But seriously, why was she even in Ferrari hospitality in the first place?

Max V. Ice cream.

Lando N. Ice cream 

Lewis H. Ice cream.

Sebastian V. I can confirm she was here for ice cream. Pistachio, specifically.

Charles L. I cannot believe I’ve still never met her. Is she really so smart?

Lando N. Yes.

Pierre G. Absolutely.

Max V. Smarter than you are capable of comprehending, Charles.

Charles L. Then I suppose I will just have to charm her into accepting Mattia’s offer 😌

Lando N. I will put in the wall, Leclerc.

Charles L. Oh! You are together with her, Lando? I didn’t know!

Lando N. No, we’re not together.

Charles L. Then I am confused.

Max V. Her father has practically forbade them from dating. Total nonsense if you ask me.

Carlos S. They are dating.

Daniel R. @Carlos 😳😳😳

Lando N. @Carlos NO WE ARE NOT STOP SAYING THAT

Sergio P. Mucho defensive…

Carlos S. He wrote his race number on her shoes.

Lando N. So what? That means nothing.

Daniel R. Oh brother….

Max V. Yeah, sorry, I can’t even back you on that one Lando. That’s a lot.

Kimi R. My wife had my number stitched into her shoes. We got married six months later.

George R. So Kimi is saying you’re basically engaged, bro.

Lewis H. Let’s stop talking about this. Before Lando has a full on meltdown.

Charles L. Too late. He has arrived for the iPad with a terrible attitude. 

Lando N. I hate all of you.

— 

Subject: Workplace Conduct Reminder ��� Inclusivity & Respect at McLaren

From: HR Department To: All McLaren Racing Staff Date: [Sunday, post-race, 10:42 PM]

Dear Team,

As the season continues and tensions rise both on and off the track, we’d like to take a moment to remind everyone of McLaren’s core values — collaboration, respect, and inclusion.

We are incredibly proud of the diversity across our team, from engineering to strategy, operations to communications. Every person is here because they bring something exceptional to the table — and that includes our colleagues who may experience or perceive the world differently than others.

We ask that all team members remain mindful of the following:

Neurodiversity is not a barrier — it is an asset. Please be conscious of language and behaviour that may unintentionally alienate or diminish the contributions of individuals who may process things differently. This includes members of our extended team, trusted advisors, and collaborators who work closely with us — regardless of job title or official role.

“Vibes” are not a metric — Judging someone’s energy, personality, or communication style is not only unprofessional but also unfair. Everyone representing or contributing to McLaren, formally or informally, deserves respect.

Support one another — Whether someone wears McLaren orange full-time or contributes behind the scenes, everyone here plays a part in our collective success.

Rumours are not culture — Let’s keep paddock gossip out of professional spaces. If you have concerns, we encourage you to speak directly to your manager or HR.

This message is not in response to any one incident but rather a gentle pit stop reminder: our team functions best when everyone feels seen, heard, and safe.

If you have any questions or want to speak to someone in confidence, please feel free to reach out to HR directly. We’re here to help.

Kind regards, The McLaren Racing HR Team [hr@mclarenracing.co.uk]

— 

iMessage — 11:40pm

Lando Yo, did you see the email?

Carlos Sí.

Lando Kinda hardcore. Glad Zak did something 

Carlos Somebody said something to Amelia?

Lando Yeah someone in PR idk I feel like I should know more about her stuff I feel stupid tho. Like I don’t know anything. Just that she’s Amelia yano 

Carlos I did some reading. Come to my hotel room. We eat pizza. I will teach you what I know and we can google the rest.

Lando Legend. Thanks, mate.

— 

The course he took her to wasn’t flashy — quiet, tucked away, the kind of place her dad’s friends would never be caught dead in. That was intentional. They weren’t exactly hiding their… friendship, but they weren’t trying to advertise it either.

Amelia stared down at the club he’d handed her like it was a piece of martian debris.

“This is very stupid,” she muttered. “Pointless, really.”

“It is,” Lando agreed, his lips twitching. “Just hit the ball.”

She squinted at the tiny white ball he’d settled on the grass in front of her. “Is it supposed to just… go?”

“Yes.”

“Like in a line?” she clarified, glancing at him.

He shrugged. “In theory.”

She swung. Missed.

Lando clapped anyway. “Incredible form. I’ve never seen such calculated failure.”

“It was bad,” she said seriously. “I didn’t hit the ball. I made a hole in the grass, Lando.” She stared down at the muddy crater with quiet horror.

He just gave her an encouraging nod, gesturing for her to try again.

She sighed, feeling the beginning of a stress rash creep along her neck. But she tried again. And that time, she hit it — not far, just a lazy roll across the grass — but enough to surprise herself. Lando caught the way her eyes widened, saw the exact moment the thrill overtook her frustration.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed her another ball.

They kept going like that for a while — her slowly getting the hang of it, him slipping in dumb jokes and patient explanations between swings. She never asked for help, but he noticed how closely she watched every move he made. Her eyes, always sharp, always calculating.

Eventually, she dropped to the grass with a dramatic sigh and said, “Why do people think this is relaxing? I’m hot and my legs are tired.”

Lando chuckled and sat beside her, kicking his legs out long. “I think it’s relaxing. Your dad likes it.”

“I don’t want to talk about my dad. It makes me stressed.”

“Yeah?” He asked.

She pulled at a blade of grass, rolled it between her fingers. “He told me again that it would be better if I stayed away from you. He said it would make things easier. For me. For you. For the team.” She continued. 

Lando let the silence sit for a moment before asking, his voice quiet and slightly unsure. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I want him to not worry. I want him to trust me. I want…” She hesitated, frowning at the grass. “I want to feel like I can make my own choices without feeling like I might wreck everything.” 

“You’re not wrecking anything,” Lando said. He tapped the ground next to her leg and she glanced at him, blinking. “I like hanging out with you.” He told her. 

She didn’t say anything, just flicked the blade of grass from her fingers and looked at the trees that surrounded the course. “I don’t know what I feel yet,” she said finally. “Toward you, I mean. But I know that I have liked this. Today. Not the golf. Being with you.”

Lando grinned — couldn’t help himself. Probably looked like a right knob, but he didn’t care. “Want to keep playing?” He asked. 

She gave him a look. “I might get fined for ruining so much of their grass.”

He handed her another ball. Shrugged. Smirked. “It’s fine. I make a lot of money.” 

She rolled her eyes.

— 

Amelia shut her bedroom door with more force than she meant to and leaned against it, breath caught high in her chest like she’d just ran a marathon. Her bag hit the floor. Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t know why. Except; she did.

Her body was full of something too big. Too much. A knot of heat and noise and confusion that had no exit. It felt like all the inside parts of her were pressing outward, like she might split open if she didn't stay still.

She pressed her palms hard into her eyes like she could push it all back in. But it was already too late. The thoughts were everywhere; spilled oil, tangled cords, static static static. Her brain wouldn’t quiet down. Wouldn’t give her space to think.

She’d had a good day. That was the worst part. 

Lando had been good.

He never looked at her like she was difficult. He didn’t act like she was hard work. When she didn’t catch onto something the first time, he just explained again. No sighing. No staring. No pretending. Things weren’t easy with him, not exactly, but they were lighter. Easier.

She sat hard on her bed and the tears came without warning; fast, silent, relentless.

She didn’t cry often. Usually she just shut down. Usually the wall slammed down before anything could spill out. But this time everything had slipped past it, and now she was sobbing, but it didn’t even feel like crying. It felt like her whole nervous system had shattered.

A knock at the door.

“Amelia?” her mum’s voice, soft. “We just got back. Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned her face away and wiped at it, even though the tears kept falling. Her skin was already stinging. Her chest was tight.

The door creaked open.

“I’m not upset,” Amelia said fast, panicked. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why I feel like this. No. I do. I do. I just don’t know what to do with it. And I don’t want to talk about it—except I do. I do, I just—” She broke off, swallowing hard.

Her mum sat on the edge of the bed, calm. Grounding.

“I went out with Lando today,” Amelia said, too fast. “To play golf. His idea. He said we should do something fun. So I did. And it was fun. I didn’t freak out or embarrass myself. I didn’t ruin it. I didn’t ruin it.”

She dug her nails into her palms. Her face was blotchy and sore.

“He makes me feel normal,” she whispered. “Not small. Not like a problem. Just… me. And now I don’t know what I feel. I think I want him to be my friend. Or maybe something else. I don’t know. And I don’t want to know, because it doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Her mum asked calmly.

Amelia blinked at her, and then, like someone flicked a switch, the anger surged. Hot and fast, like a fever.

“Because of Dad,” she spat. “Because he thinks that it would be a distraction. Because he thinks I’ll screw everything up just by being around. Like I’m some walking disease that’s gonna infect Lando’s entire career. I know that’s what he’s worried about the most.”

She was breathing too fast. Her limbs were twitching now, hands clenching and unclenching.

“I don’t have friends,” she said. “You know that. I’ve never had friends. Not ones that stay. I get too intense. Too blunt. Too weird. Too tired. And people always stop trying.”Her voice cracked. Her throat burned. “But Lando didn’t stop. He hasn’t stopped. And it’s still not enough. I still don’t get to have this one good thing without it turning into a problem.”

The sobs came back, messy and loud this time. She stood up too fast, swaying. Her hands started moving uncontrollably at her sides; jerky, uncoordinated. A warning sign. The meltdown was building and she couldn’t stop it, could never stop it. 

Her mum stood too, moving slow, blocking her path without touching her.

“Okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to think about any of that right now.” Her mom’s attempts to comfort her were useless against the onslaught of emotions she was feeling. 

“I’m so angry,” Amelia choked out. “I finally feel calm, I finally feel seen, and it’s not allowed. I’m not allowed to want something or feel something if it’s inconvenient for anyone else!”

She was trembling now. Her skin felt wrong. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. She wanted to rip it off. She wanted to scream and break things. Instead, she clenched her fists and shook and shook and shook.

“Do you want me to get your things?” her mum asked, voice calm, anchoring.

Amelia nodded hard. “Yes. My weighted blanket. And the golf ball. It’s in my bag. Lando bought it for me and I want to hold it. It’s yellow.”

“I’ll get everything,” her mum said gently.

“I’m not doing this on purpose,” Amelia shouted, the volume jarring even to herself. “I’m trying so hard. All the time. I’m always trying.”

“I know,” her mum said. “And I’m proud of you. Every day.”

Amelia slid to the floor. Her body folded in on itself, hands clawed into her sleeves, breathing uneven.

The noise in her head kept rising.

Usually, this was when she wanted her dad. Wanted him to sit next to her. Watch a race in silence. Be there without asking anything of her.

But not now.

Now, all she wanted was for him to stay far, far away.

— 

It was almost midnight.

Her room was quiet now; weighted blanket pulled up to her chest, lights off, only the soft blue glow of her phone screen lighting her face. The golf ball sat in her right hand, warm from where she’d been holding it for hours. She kept rolling it between her fingers, feeling the small ridges, the smoothness. Grounding.

She had stopped shaking, but her body was aching like one big bruised muscle. 

She stared at the message thread with Lando, her thumb hovering, retreating, hovering again.

She didn’t know what to say.

Everything in her head still felt too big. Too messy. But the quiet between them was worse. Not bad, not uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar. She wanted to talk to him. 

Finally, she started typing. 

— 

iMessage — 10:11pm

Amelia I didn’t enjoy golf very much. But I liked being with you. Thank you for inviting me.

Lando Norris I’m glad you came anyway We had fun though, right? I had fun :)

Amelia Yes, I had fun. It was confusing. But in a good way. I liked learning something new.

Lando Norris I liked today too You were kind of great We should do more new things together. Just us

Amelia Maybe. I feel strange tonight. My head is a bit loud.

Lando Norris That’s alright

Amelia Do you think if I asked you questions about your Formula Three races… you would answer them?

Lando Norris Absolutely I’d love that Haven’t talked about F3 in ages Might be nice to remember

Amelia Okay. What did it feel like the first time you won?

Lando Norris Like my hands knew before I did Like the whole world stopped for one second so I could catch up It felt… right. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be ya know 

Amelia Oh

Lando Norris: You okay?

Amelia: I forgot all the questions I had for you. Sorry.

Lando Norris That’s okay. Don’t worry. Your brain’s probably sleepy. It’s late Are you tired?

Amelia Yes. I got upset earlier for no reason and it’s made me tired I’ll go to sleep now. Thank you for texting me back. Goodnight.

Lando Norris You don’t have to thank me for that I like talking to you Feel better soon, yeah? Goodnight x

— 

The house was still, the kind of stillness that only came after a storm.

Tracy sat on the couch in the dark, legs curled beneath her, a half-cold mug of tea resting in her hands. She hadn’t moved since she’d come downstairs after leaving Amelia. The couch blanket was draped over her shoulders, but she still shivered slightly, not from the cold, but from the heavy weight of witnessing her daughter’s pain. 

Zak entered quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, tie loose, shoulders slumped, guilt etched deep into the lines around his eyes. After a long moment, he crossed the room and sat down beside her.

Tracy didn’t look at him. Just murmured, “She’s asleep now. I checked a minute ago.”

Zak nodded slowly. “She didn’t ask for me.”

“She didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t want help. Just needed space.” Tracy’s voice cracked, but she kept it steady. “She was barely holding on, Zak. I haven’t seen her like that in a long time.”

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he said too quickly. “I just… I thought I was protecting her.”

“I know you did,” Tracy replied gently.

Zak stared at the floor. “I didn’t think it would hurt her like this. I thought—” He faltered. “I thought keeping her away from Lando would keep things simple. Keep her safe. From getting hurt. Or confused. Or from people talking. From getting her hopes up.”

“You didn’t trust her,” Tracy said. Not accusing, just honest.

Zak exhaled hard. “No. I didn’t trust him.”

Tracy finally turned to look at him. “But he’s been good to her. You’ve seen that, surely.” 

“I have,” Zak admitted, tersely. 

“But it wasn’t on your terms,” Tracy said. “So you didn’t like it.”

Zak didn’t argue.

“She’s not a problem to solve, Zak. She’s our daughter. And she’s doing something incredibly brave. She’s opening up. She’s connecting. That’s huge for her.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “God, I know. I just…” He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been someone safer?”

“Because love isn’t safe,” Tracy said. “And friendship isn’t simple. And if you’re lucky enough to find someone who makes you feel okay in your skin, even just for a little while, that’s not a risk for someone like her. That’s a lifeline.”

Zak leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked hollowed out. “I feel like I’ve completely blown it.”

“You haven’t,” Tracy said gently. “But you will if you keep pushing like this. If you keep trying to prevent something that is starting to seem pretty much inevitable.” 

Zak was quiet.

“She loves you,” Tracy added. “But she can’t keep fighting you on this. Not when she’s also fighting herself. That kind of pressure… it’ll break her.”

That landed like a stone. He blinked against the sting in his eyes and nodded, slow and tired. “Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”

Tracy leaned into him and kissed the rough edge of his jaw. “You’re a good father, Zak. She knows that. She’ll forgive you.”

Zak didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the dark hallway.

“She didn’t ask for me,” he said again, softer this time. Raw. Frayed.

Tracy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “I know, honey.”

— 

The flat was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional thump of bass through the wall from the upstairs neighbours. Lando sat cross-legged on the sofa, eyes unfocused on the muted Rally Car stream playing on the TV. Max was in the kitchen, one sock on, microwaving some disastrous smelling leftover curry.

“You ever liked someone,” Lando said suddenly, not looking up, “so much that even the idea of them ruining your life doesn’t sound that bad?”

Max made a noise that landed somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Christ, mate. What brought that on?”

Lando shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve just been thinking.”

“About Amelia?” Max asked, already knowing. He padded over and dropped into the armchair opposite, bowl in his lap.

Lando exhaled slowly. “I really fucking like her. It doesn’t make sense. She’s, I mean— Jesus, I don’t know. Feels like I can breathe right around her, you know?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Just stirred the curry and watched the screen for a second. Then, gently: “Yeah. I get that. But... Come on, mate. You sure this isn’t a bit too much, too fast?”

Lando looked over. Frowned. “What do you mean?”

Max shifted, trying to find words. “It’s not just about liking someone. It’s about who she is. Like, she’s your boss’s daughter. That’s... not insignificant here.”

“I know that.” Lando bit back. 

“Okay. But do you really know what it means? If something goes wrong, if it ends, and ends messy, it’s not like you can just walk away. There’s no possibility of a clean break with her.” 

Lando was quiet, but his jaw tightened.

“I’m not trying to scare you off,” Max added quickly. “I just... I know how much you’ve worked for this. Since you were, what, six? Your whole life’s been about driving. Being the best. And now you’re closer than ever.”

“I’m not giving up racing,” Lando snapped, defensive before Max even finished.

“I didn’t say you were,” Max snapped right back at him. “I just don’t want you to stop being Lando Norris: F1 driver and become Lando Norris: the guy who fucked around with his boss’ daughter, you know?”

Lando stared down at his hands. He felt like a piece of shit as he said, “Zak’s basically said the same thing. So has my dad.”

Max nodded. “‘Cause we’re all thinking the same thing, mate.” 

Lando rubbed his hands over his face and pulled his hood up. “Maybe you’re right,” he mumbled. “Maybe this isn’t... good timing.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just went back to eating, quiet again.

And Lando hated that suddenly it felt like all of their reasons made sense.

— 

The air was different now. Cooler. Thinner. The sun still came through her window in the morning, but it didn’t cling to the walls the same way. The trees had started to shift, just barely, into that pre-autumn colour. And Amelia felt like she was holding her breath all the time. For something. For nothing.

She hadn’t spoken to Lando for days. Not since she'd sent him a photo of the coffee shop in town that had spelled her name wrong again, and all she got back was a laughing emoji. No reply. No question. Just that.

It felt like a door closing very slowly. 

She was sitting in the bay window of her bedroom, blanket around her shoulders, golf ball in one hand and her phone in the other. It was the fourth time she'd opened their chat and closed it again. The most recent messages sat there like ghosts. 

—

iMessage — 9:04am

Amelia Hope you’re not too tired from training. 

—

Read. Two days ago. No response.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to write that wouldn’t sound… needy. Or hurt. Or desperate. God, she hated the idea of being too much. It made her skin itch. She didn’t want to become exactly what people were always assuming that she’d be.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, her thoughts, her everything. But it hurt in a way she didn’t understand; this slow, quiet loss. It hurt in a way she didn’t have a name for. It felt a lot like emptiness.

“Don’t spiral,” she whispered to herself, rocking gently, rhythmically. “Don’t spiral. Don’t spiral.”

But it felt like she already was.

— 

Both McLaren cars DNF’d in Belgium; the first race back after the Summer break.

She’d written it down two hours before lights out — in the margin of an old notebook, under a page of technical notes she hadn’t meant to be looking at anymore. The exact reason. The probable lap. A strange little instinct that curled in her gut and told her today’s not going to go the way they want it to.

She closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer, and told herself it didn’t matter.

Nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever ask. Because she wasn’t in the garage. Wasn’t in the paddock. Wasn’t even watching from the hospitality suite like she always did, like clockwork.

She was in Woking. In her bedroom. As far from Lando’s garage, from the paddock, as she could possibly be.

And on the TV, when the Sky Sports commentator mentioned her absence like it was some small anomaly (“No sign of Amelia Brown in Norris’ McLaren garage today. Odd, considering she rarely misses a weekend”) she didn’t feel flattered or seen or missed.

She felt sick.

Like the air got thinner the second they said her name.

So she turned it off.

Just like that.

The screen went dark. The sound cut out. And for the first time in ten years, she didn’t watch the entire race.

Not because she didn’t want to. 

But because it hurt too much.

NEXT CHAPTER

[sebvvastian]

Starfire inspired male reader x mark and his variants 🙏🙏🙏🙏

Absolutely cause this is fire. Probably gonna write head canons for this cause I suck

Also the only ever starfire related media I’ve consumed is um teen titans go so bear with me here.

Tw : some nsfw? Or suggestiveness. A little tiny bit of rough stuff (mentions of possessiveness, manhandling)

Starfire inspired male reader x mark and his variants

Mainstream mark

At first he was kinda … weirded out by you. It was odd, a random person from a random planet just coming to earth for no reason, barely accustomed to the human culture (ok man)

But you grew on him, and fast. Sometimes he thinks it’s hilarious, how you talk, how you act, how you ... just, behave in general, sometimes he considers taunting you but that’s too cruel

Fucking died laughing at your grammar it’s so funny to him

Sometimes finds it kinda hard to keep up with your optimism. He loves you for it, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes he gets genuinely confused on how you can see the bright side of everything. It never fails to cheer him up whenever he’s down

LOVES how possessive you can be at times. It makes him feel loved, and with everything that’s happened to him, he doesn’t mind if the reminder is a little rough

He likes teaching you how to cook too. Mark’s a mama’s boy, and his mama’s an amazing cook. He shows you most of her recipes, even some he’s made himself (even though they aren’t as good as his mom’s, you still praise him to the moon and back). He likes how intimate cooking together can be, and he loves teaching you things about humans and their customs

DEFINITELY made you read seance dog, or some of his other comics. Sometimes he gets a little excited and geeks out to you about comics, sometimes comparing the both of you to his favorite comic couples, even one time getting the idea to make a comic based on the both of you. But ultimately, and unfortunately, his hands were a bit full.

He 100% taught you how to kiss and it was 100% awkward and giggly and silly fun fun

Sinister mark

Oh this guy hated you bruh

Genuinely wanted to rip his eyes out when he first met you. Got him on some tweaker shit

But upon your second interaction (more so, him watching you fight a villain with less than / equal to strength than you, and winning), got him bricked like a mad man

Went home and jerked his shit I promise you

Also thinks your language (?) barrier is hilarious. But unlike mainstream mark, he isn’t afraid to be mean about it. Just straight up mocks you sometimes. He thinks that because of your speech pattern that you’re dumber than him, less than him and that gets him going

Gets him going. To his bedroom so he can jerk off. Get it

Sometimes he says or does shit to intentionally piss you off just cause it gets a kick out of him watching you try to convey anger with that ‘silly accent’

Bruh’s just a dick

Can you tell sinister mark isn’t my favorite

Full mask mark ( I came here to find mom and bring her back with me )

His heart stopped when he first saw you. He Thought (knew) you where the prettiest boy he has ever had the fortune to lay his eyes upon

He’d bring you little gifts under the guise of ‘teaching you human culture’. Things like bringing you flowers ( “humans do this for one another to express gratitude” ), little snacks that he knows you like ( “this is an example of how humans show each other that they care about one another’s well being, by bringing them food, nutrients” ), or even occasionally one of his sweaters or shirts ( “this is to show I trust you with my belongings” ), hoping you’ll return the favor.

This man is a yearner, a lover. Before the both of you were even romantically involved, he’d come flying to your window and begging for attention after every fight like a kicked puppy (I mean, it’s not too far off).

So soft, so gentle with you like he thinks you’ll break if he handles you too rough.

Unlike the other marks, he doesn’t think you’re stupid for your accent. He thinks it’s beautiful and unique, and on a particularly good day, he’s telling you how much he loves your voice.

Sometimes he sits you down and makes you talk to him about your day purely because he loves your accent so much.

He lets you take control the first time you two have sex. He tries to teach you and talk you through it, but it’s hard to understand what he’s saying when he’s whimpering and moaning between syllables. But you aren’t complaining! The sound is music to your ears.

Straight up GOONED when he saw you fight for the first time. Seeing how tough you are, and how capable you are in meanings of self-defense and attack— it made him feel 100x more safe around you.

Viltrumite mark

At first, he only saw you as a compatible mate. A way to grow the viltrumite empire.

But boy, he fell in love. And he fell hard.

Being a viltrumite, and knowing nothing about foreign culture, especially Tamarian, it was a struggle for him to show affection towards you at first.

But he grew, and he learned. From longing ( and kinda creepy ) stares and brief touches, to sweet kisses that linger warmth for hours on end and gentle words of reassurance and love. Gentle, in public, at least

When the two of you are alone is when he can really prove his love to you.

Sex with him is downright filthy— messy. He’s a viltrumite, he has high stamina, and he’s cumming as many times as he sees fit.

Even if you can’t biologically get pregnant, it doesn’t stop him from trying. What’s a man for hoping?

He’s pressing your thighs down to the bed and thrusting in you like there’s no tomorrow, muttering filth in your ear about how he longs to see you carrying his young— how pretty you’d look with a little bump in your tummy, how warm and soft and absolutely fucking delicious you are and how he’s so thankful to have claimed you when he had the chance.

Kinda like full mask mark, he’s a lover. Like I said earlier, he might be less lovey-dovey in public, but you have to trust that after he learns how, he’s showering you in affection

It’s constant praise, little gifts he gets you that he knows remind you of Tamaran, sometimes even having your planet’s traditional cultural meals cooked up.

He’s kinda stupid though. At one point he tried to get you involved in like some ‘proper English’ class thingy and you took it as an insult and you locked yourself in the bathroom for a little. Quite hilarious

(( sorry this was kinda ass and I didn’t do a lot of variants. If you like this, I can make a part 2 ))

[pommunist]

i’m an atheist but thank you god for bringing bagi streaming minecraft rp back to me

[yanderedrabbles]

Foreign Yandere x Air Hostess Reader

He's beyond shady. Got connections and friends in all the lowest places. But you're just a little too slow to realise it.

Foreign Yandere who sees you for the first time on his first flight out of the country. He’s a sketchy guy, got a pack of fake passports in a hidden compartment in his bag, but you smile at him like you don’t see the tattoos, the scarred knuckles, the too quick hands.

Oh, you’re pretty. All the cabin crew are, but you’re something new. Exotic almost. Got him wondering exactly how different you are in bed too, got him wondering if you’d put up a fuss if he cornered you in the bathroom. Hell, you might like it. Folk always said foreign girls were down for so much more.

It’s a long-haul flight and your supervisor is bitchy about damn near everything you do. Passengers aren’t much better after twelve hours with their legs cramped up and only shitty plane chow to eat. He can see it wearing on you, can see the way your smile gets tighter after every too sharp complaint. Makes him want to beat their faces into a pulp.

His last straw comes at hour sixteen, when you’re clearly exhausted and one passenger just won’t let up. Practically screaming at you about not getting his specially ordered meal. You’re dealing with it as best you can, but everyone has a limit. He can see the tears starting to brim behind your waterline, can see you struggling to fight them back.

He stands so fast that his seat mate actually flinches. Comes to stand behind you and glares at the troublemaker. The man doesn’t let up, just switches his anger to him.

“You got a problem, huh?”

Foreign Yandere who doesn’t have a lot of English, but he knows a threat when he hears one. He leans down, shoots the man a smile filled with all the menace of a streetfighter.

“What did you say to me?” he asks, in his own language. It isn’t the standard dialect. It’s the regional kind, the type that’s as rough ‘round the edges as its speakers.

The man quails.

 “Sorry,” he mutters. But that’s not good enough.

Foreign Yandere who jerks his head at you, his message clear even across the language barrier.

Apologise to her.

The guy does. Red in the face, resentful about it, spitting his sorry through his teeth like an insult.

You look up at him, the foreigner with the hard eyes, and thank him. In his own language.

Your accent is thick, the pronunciation too rounded on the vowels. But he’ll be damned if it ain’t just fucking adorable.

“Anytime,” he tells you.

It’s not long after he’s back in his seat that you bring him a complimentary cup of coffee and a muffin. The good stuff too, not the swill that usually gets served in economy. He grabs your wrist before you can leave, grip just a little too tight without meaning to be.

“Can I see you again?”

Your grasp of the language isn’t the best, and it takes you a minute to puzzle out what he's asked. When you finally get it, you smile at him and shake your head. Rueful.

“Against company policy to meet the passengers after the flight ends.”

He lets it go. Sighs and says he understands, wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. A surprisingly polite answer from a man who looks like he never hears the word no without following it with a punch to the teeth.

But he doesn’t let it go. Not really. After the plane is deboarded, he skips lines and almost skips customs to keep his eye on you. When you get into a shuttle bus with the rest of your coworkers, he takes careful note of the hotel name scrawled on the side.

His business goes well - if you can call smuggling business that is. The boys he’s dealing with have their own plane to get him home. The kind of small jet that never lands at any airport marked on a map. He slips them all a little something extra under the table and asks if he can bring a guest.

“Will they be conscious?”

He grins. “Not if I can help it.”

Getting you is the tricky part. He borrows a suit and cleans himself up. Shows up at the hotel desk in the middle of the night and tells them he’s here to pick you up for an unscheduled early flight. He knows your name, your company, even your damn rank in the crew. Everything he says checks out. And if the receptionist that calls you thinks he looks a little rough to be a driver, she doesn’t mention it.

You show up with your uniform a tiny bit askew and a sock sticking out of your suitcase. You must have scrambled out of bed without even bothering to double check with your supervisor. Good. The less people that know the better.

He mostly keeps his back to you. Doesn’t want you to recognise him too soon. He shouldn’t have worried. You’re too jetlagged and blurry eyed to even recognise your own mother.

It’s only when you’re in his car and speeding down the wrong highway that you start to get suspicious. Start to come awake fully.

“Which company did you say you work for again?”

He doesn’t reply. You’re going to have to put more effort into learning and speaking his language. No point encouraging you by answering.

“Excuse me?”

You lean forward to get his attention and when he hears your little gasp, he knows the game is up. That you recognise him. Honestly, he’s a little offended that it took you this long. He could keep track of you through a sea of faces back at the airport after all.

“Listen, I don’t know why you’re here. But please stop the car.”

See? You’re speaking his language a bit better already.

“No chance sweetheart. You’re coming home with me.”

He can almost admire your guts when you go straight for the door, despite the speedometer showing over 200. Locked of course. He’s not an idiot.

When he finally arrives at the hangar, it takes him and two other thugs to finally hold you still.

“Fucking feisty thing,” one of them snarls when you land a good kick to his knee.

When he finally manages to prick the injection into your neck, you’re crying so hard that your mascara is running.

“You put up a good fight baby,” he comforts you as you go limp in his arms. “But I just want this more than you.”

His buddies smirk when they look at your body sprawled out on the seat.

“Nice catch. I’m mad I didn’t see her first.”

“You gonna be nice and share?”

That makes him grin. “We’ll see. If she’s too much to handle, well…”

That makes them snicker.

You shouldn’t assume someone’s a thug just ‘cause of the way they look. But in his case, those scars weren’t earned through gentle accidents.

And when he gets you home, someplace probably tropical, someplace where a missing foreigner isn't that surprising a thing, he'll show you exactly how dangerous it is to smile at a criminal and expect him to just let it go.

[hellobykittys]

𝐒𝐇𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ✦ 𝐎𝐏⁸¹

SUMMARY: You are Lando Norris’ twin sister and were completely obsessed with your brother’s teammate, but he was always avoiding you. NOTES: English is not my first language, so there might be some writing mistakes. I apologize for that, and feel free to point out any improvements. PAIRING: Oscar Piastri x Reader! Lando Norris’ Sister. WARNING: Hot scenes, but not explicit; use of Y/N; Oscar is very shy. WC: 4.7k

MASTERLIST | THE (IM)PERFECT PLAN SERIE

“You need to go a little easier on him,” Lando said as soon as he entered the small room, throwing his backpack onto the chair with a tired sigh. “Oscar’s shy, and you’re scaring the poor guy to death.”

You, leaning against the desk with your legs crossed and your eyes glued to your phone, ignored the first part of the comment. But the last part caught your attention.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, feigning disinterest.

“Oh, come on, don’t act dumb,” Lando shot back, crossing his arms with a smirk. “You’re cornering Oscar. I was going to let it slide because, honestly, it’s hilarious. But look, you’re going too far, and he clearly doesn’t know how to handle it.”

You realized denying it would be pointless. Lando knew exactly what you were doing, and probably the whole paddock did too. Maybe it was time to turn the tables in your favor.

“Did he complain about me?” you asked, now genuinely curious, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “Because, seriously, I don’t get it. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t care, but then, in the next minute, he acts like I’m the personification of chaos.”

Your voice carried a touch of frustration. Ever since you met Oscar last season, you had done everything to get his attention. Flirting, glances, little touches. But he always pulled away or acted like he didn’t notice. His shyness, which once seemed charming, was now starting to feel like an impenetrable barrier.

Lando laughed, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “You know what’s funny? You think you can melt anyone with that smile and some games. But let me tell you, Oscar’s different. He’s more… reserved.”

“I know that,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “And that’s exactly why I’m trying harder. He’s not like the others. It just makes it more interesting.”

Lando shook his head, incredulous. “You’re impossible, you know that? But look, if you keep this up, he’s gonna start running away from you. Like, literally. One day, he’s gonna abandon the car in the middle of the track just to escape.”

You laughed. “He already runs, just in a way less obvious than that. But he’ll get used to it. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Or a restraining order.”

“Funny,” you replied, giving him a sharp look.

After a brief silence, you decided to change tactics. “You could help me out!” you asked, in an exaggeratedly sweet tone.

“No way. Stay out of this, Y/N,” Lando responded quickly, as if he already knew where this was going.

“You’re so heartless!” you retorted, with a theatrical touch. “I come every weekend to support you, and this is how I’m treated? You should, I don’t know, compensate me for always being by your side.”

“Support? You’re kidding, right?” Lando laughed. “The whole team already figured out why you’re always here. And the only person who might not have noticed is Oscar himself.”

“What slander!” you snapped, placing a hand on your chest as if deeply offended. “I come because I like my brother. And I thought he liked me too, but apparently, he doesn’t care enough to help me with something so simple.”

Lando just laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Simple. Find out if he likes me or not. Easy, right?”

Before you could continue the discussion, someone knocked on the door, interrupting the conversation.

“Come in!” Lando replied casually.

The door opened to reveal Oscar. Your excitement was immediate. He, on the other hand… didn’t seem as thrilled to see you.

“I didn’t know your sister was here,” he said to Lando, hesitantly. “I didn’t want to interrupt. I’ll come back later.”

Before he could leave, you rushed to his side and lightly placed your hand on his arm, still covered by his racing suit.

“You don’t have to leave, Osc,” you said softly, your fingers purposely brushing against the fabric of his suit. “Lando and I weren’t talking about anything important. Feel free to stay.”

Oscar hesitated but eventually gave in. “Alright, if you say so…”

Oscar tried to pull away from your touch without being rude, and you, noticing his discomfort, decided to ease the tension and let him slip away.

“Well… I just wanted to ask about the car adjustments for tomorrow. But I guess I interrupted something…” He seemed genuinely uncomfortable, which only made you want to tease him even more.

“You didn’t interrupt anything,” you replied with a calm smile. “Actually, I’ll just sit here quietly while you two chat.”

With that, you sat down in a chair lost in the room, pretending to fiddle with your phone while you took the opportunity to observe Oscar. The way he spoke, gestured, or even furrowed his brow when something seemed confusing… it was fascinating.

The two of them spent a few minutes discussing technical adjustments for the car when they were interrupted again. This time, it was someone from the PR team, rushing in to inform Lando that they needed him for an urgent photo session.

“I’m on my way,” Lando said, standing up. But before leaving, he gave you a calculated look. “Oscar, can you stay here? Y/N was feeling a bit nauseous earlier, and I didn’t want her to be alone.”

Your heart skipped a beat. It was obvious he was making it up, but the feigned concern in his voice was flawless. You knew you owed Lando a big favor now, but it was worth it. For Oscar, everything was worth it.

“Seriously?” Oscar looked visibly surprised, casting a suspicious glance from you to Lando. “Alright, if she needs anything…”

“Thanks a lot, buddy,” Lando replied with a mischievous smile, giving Oscar’s arm a friendly squeeze before walking toward the door. “I’ll be back soon. Wait for me here.”

As soon as the door closed, you jumped up and practically ran to the couch, pulling Oscar down to sit next to you before he could even react.

“Thanks so much for staying, Osc,” you said softly, as if you were truly vulnerable. “I wasn’t feeling too great, you know?”

Oscar tensed next to you, clearly uncomfortable. He looked around, as if searching for an escape route. “Is everything okay now? Do you want me to get some water or something?”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s passed,” you replied, placing your hand on his arm. “I just needed some company. I feel better this way.”

Oscar let out a nervous, short laugh and looked away, clearly trying not to acknowledge the closeness between you two.

“You look cute when you’re nervous, you know?” you remarked, a mischievous smile appearing on your face.

He opened his mouth to respond but seemed to lose his words. Finally, he muttered, “I’m… not nervous.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, leaning in a little closer, until there was almost no space left between you on the small couch. Oscar seemed even more restless, the blush on his face now impossible to hide.

“I think… we don’t need to be this close,” he managed to say, awkwardly trying to pull away. But, poor thing, there was nowhere left to escape.

“Osc,” you started, in a fake hurt tone, looking down at your hands. “I think you don’t like me very much.”

He seemed surprised, the tension in his shoulders easing for a moment. “Why would you think that?”

“Because every time I’m around, you try to get away.” Your voice sounded almost like a lament, and you took the opportunity to glance at him before looking down at your legs. “Did I do something to you?”

When you looked back at him, your face was perfectly molded into a sad expression, your eyes slightly glistening, as if you were truly upset. It was almost impossible not to believe it.

Oscar hesitated, looking genuinely puzzled. “No… of course not. It’s just that…” He stopped, clearly trying to find the right words.

“It’s just that…?” you encouraged, tilting your head.

“You’re… too intense, Y/N,” he finally confessed, his voice low. “I don’t know how to handle you, that’s all.”

A triumphant smile threatened to appear on your lips, but you held it back, keeping up the act. “Intense? I just… like being around you, you know? Is that really so hard?”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not that. I’m just not used to… attention.”

“So, you’re saying I make you uncomfortable?” you asked, leaning slightly toward him, closing the space even more.

Oscar looked away, his ears turning even redder. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Before he could answer, the door suddenly opened, and Lando walked into the room with that typical mischievous smile you knew so well. “Did I interrupt something?”

Oscar practically jumped off the couch, creating visible distance between you two. It was almost comical, but at that moment, you could only curse your brother. He had ruined the perfect moment. You were so close to getting what you wanted!

“No, no,” Oscar quickly denied, the words tumbling out almost in a rush. “Now that you’re here, I… I think I’ll head out. See you before the next practice.”

And without giving anyone a chance to react, he practically bolted out of the room, as if running away from a fire.

You let out a loud sigh, crossing your arms and shooting a deadly glare at Lando, who was still standing in the doorway, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

“You did that on purpose!” you accused, frustration clear in your voice.

“Me? No way,” Lando responded, feigning innocence as he closed the door behind him. “But you should’ve seen his face. Poor guy, he looked like he was going to pass out.”

“He wasn’t going to pass out!” you retorted, throwing a pillow toward your brother, who easily dodged it.

“Alright, alright. But seriously, Y/N, you’re being way too hard on the guy.” He threw himself onto the couch, taking the spot Oscar had just vacated. “Don’t you think he’s nervous enough already? Every time you get close, it’s like he forgets how to breathe.”

You huffed, sinking into the couch next to him. “Maybe he just needs to get used to me. It’s not that hard, right?”

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “For you, maybe. But for him? Oscar is… different. He’s not used to someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” you repeated, intrigued.

“You know,” Lando explained, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’s not afraid to say what they want and go after it. Oscar’s more… reserved. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you, he just doesn’t know how to react.”

You were silent for a moment, processing Lando’s words. Maybe he was right. Maybe Oscar just needed a little more time. But giving up wasn’t an option. Not now.

“Okay,” you finally said, a mischievous smile appearing on your lips. “I’ll go easy on him. For now.”

Lando laughed, clearly amused by your determination. “Good luck, sis. You’re going to need it.”

The next day, you positioned yourself strategically in the garage, waiting for the right moment to find Oscar. When he finally appeared, talking to one of the engineers, you calmly walked over with a relaxed smile, pretending you had no agenda in mind.

“Hey, Osc,” you greeted, your voice light and carefree. “How’s everything after yesterday? You seemed in a rush.”

Oscar turned to you, and it was almost funny how hard he tried to appear casual, even though he was clearly uncomfortable. “Oh, yeah… I was just running late for something.”

“Of course, of course,” you responded with a soft smile. “Well, I hope things are calmer now. Maybe we can chat after qualifying?”

He hesitated, shooting a near-pleading glance at the engineer beside him, as if he was hoping they could save him. But this time, something different sparkled in Oscar’s eyes. It wasn’t fear or discomfort. It was curiosity, though still shy.

“Yeah… maybe,” he finally replied, his voice softer than usual.

You smiled, already considering that a small victory.

Unfortunately, finding Oscar after qualifying turned out to be impossible. Lando secured pole position, and you stayed to congratulate him, while Oscar, with a disappointing P5, was swept into endless conversations with engineers and mechanics.

By the time it was late, almost time to head back to the hotel, you went to Lando’s room to grab your things while he wrapped up the last commitment of the day. That’s when fate decided to be kind.

The door next to your brother’s room opened, and who stepped out but the exact person you’d been hoping to see.

“Osc!” you called out cheerfully, a bright smile on your face.

“Hey.” His response was much less enthusiastic. The tone of defeat and frustrated expression clearly showed that he was still upset about the qualifying result.

“Bummed about P5?” you asked, trying to start a conversation.

“It wasn’t what I expected,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “But I’ll make up for it tomorrow.” There was a forced confidence in his voice that you didn’t miss.

“I’m sure you will! And look, I’m calling the podium: Lando in first, and you in second. What do you think?”

You stepped a little closer, almost unintentionally, trying to minimize the distance between you. But for Oscar, there was nothing subtle about your approach. He clearly noticed.

“You’re optimistic,” he commented, trying to ignore how you seemed to invade his space without hesitation.

“I’m not optimistic, I’m realistic,” you shot back, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

Oscar looked away, clearly looking for an escape route, but you weren’t about to let him slip away so easily.

“Look, Osc,” you began, your tone softening as you leaned in slightly. “I really think you underestimate how good you are at what you do. You’ve got everything to be at the top. You just need to believe in yourself more.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard by your change in tone. You saw the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, and that was enough for you to close the gap just a little more, your smile now sweeter than mischievous.

“You really think so?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“I know it,” you replied, sincerity shining through.

Oscar still seemed hesitant, but he didn’t pull away when you placed a light hand on his arm, your fingers resting casually. “You just need to learn to relax more. Maybe I can help with that,” you said, your voice almost a whisper.

Oscar swallowed, his eyes finally meeting yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to give in. He seemed torn between wanting to escape and something he clearly didn’t want to admit. You leaned in a little closer, feeling you were on the edge of success.

“You’re really hard, you know?” he murmured, the words practically floating between you two.

Oscar opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. And just as you were about to close the distance even more, he took a step back, almost stumbling into the wall behind him.

“I… I need to go,” he said quickly, his voice shaky but firm. “Good night, Y/N.”

Before you could react, he was already halfway down the hallway, walking so fast it was almost a run.

You let out a frustrated sigh, but deep down, you couldn’t help but smile. Little by little, Oscar was starting to give in, even if he still resisted at the last second. It was only a matter of time.

And you knew very well that you had all the patience in the world to wait.

The paddock was a well-organized chaos, with mechanics, engineers, and drivers moving around frantically as the grandstands filled with enthusiastic fans. You, of course, were there, strategically positioned in Oscar’s team’s garage, pretending to be just casually walking around but with a very clear goal in mind.

He was there, adjusting his gloves while listening carefully to an engineer. He seemed so focused, he could have blended in with the rest of the team. Almost. You, however, always managed to spot him in the crowd.

“Hey, Osc!” you called, walking into the space without any hesitation.

Oscar quickly turned, his eyes widening slightly when he saw you there. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“I came to wish you good luck, of course,” you answered with a sweet but mischievous smile.

“Good luck?” He seemed suspicious, clearly aware that you rarely did something that simple.

“Of course!” You tilted your head slightly, looking at him as if his question was absurd. “You know I’ll be cheering for you too, right? First Lando, and then you!”

Oscar opened his mouth to respond but closed it again, a blush already creeping up his face. He looked around desperately, almost as if hoping someone would save him from the situation. But, as you’d already noticed, no one was paying attention to you two.

“You’re kind of tense, Osc. It won’t go well like this, you know?” You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice slightly, but still clearly teasing. “Are you nervous because of me?”

“No,” he quickly replied, although his tone and the blush on his face said otherwise.

“Hmm… funny,” you murmured, pretending to think. “Because it seems like every time I get close, you get a little… uneasy.”

“Y/N, we’re in the pit… in public,” he whispered, almost as if trying to make you stop.

“So what? No one’s listening, and we’re not doing anything wrong, are we?” you shot back, a smile mixing sweetness and mischief on your lips. “I’m here to support you, Osc. And, speaking of that, I have a proposition for you.”

He squinted his eyes, clearly suspicious. “What kind of proposition?”

“If you get on the podium today… I’ll give you a special gift,” you said, leaning slightly toward him, your voice low but filled with mystery.

“What gift?” He looked at you, nervousness clear on his face, but at the same time, unable to hide his curiosity.

“It’s a surprise,” you replied, winking conspiratorially.

“Y/N…” He sighed, clearly trying to keep his composure. “You know you didn’t have to come here for that, right?”

“I know,” you answered, your smile growing wider. “But what’s the fun in cheering from a distance? Besides, you might not know, but I’m great at picking out gifts.”

Oscar seemed like he was about to say something, but one of the engineers appeared out of nowhere, calling him for the final pre-race meeting. He sighed in visible relief, almost grabbing the opportunity to escape.

“I have to go,” he said quickly.

“Good luck, Osc,” you replied, not hiding your satisfaction. “I’ll be waiting on the podium. And after the race… the gift is all yours.”

He didn’t reply, just nodded quickly before disappearing toward the engineer. You watched as he walked away, even more flushed than before, and let out a soft laugh.

This time, he had no way of backing out of the promise. And, knowing Oscar, the thought of a “special gift” would be enough to keep him thinking about you the whole time—on or off the track.

The end of the race was electrifying. You, as usual, were glued to the screen, following the final minutes with the anticipation of someone on the track. The last lap was a mix of tension and excitement. Lando crossed the finish line in first, and you couldn’t hold back your shout of joy. But what really made you jump out of your seat was when Oscar secured third place, holding off a fierce battle until the final flag.

“Yes! I knew you could do it, Osc!” you murmured to yourself, smiling proudly as you watched the celebration on the screen.

Soon, you were following the team toward the podium. The paddock was a party, with team members rushing to celebrate their drivers. You blended in with Lando’s engineers and mechanics but kept your eyes fixed on Oscar as he got out of the car, exhausted but visibly satisfied.

The celebration on the podium was contagious. Champagne flew from side to side, and Lando’s smile was so wide it seemed to light up the entire circuit. But your gaze never left Oscar, who looked more shy than ever as he raised his trophy. Even amid the celebration, he shot furtive glances at you in the crowd, which only made your smile grow.

As soon as the ceremony was over, everyone went back to the garage. The team was euphoric, celebrating the incredible result of the race. You found Lando first, who came running toward you with his trophy in hand.

“So, what did you think?” he asked, still sweaty and covered in champagne.

“You were amazing! Doesn’t even seem like my brother,” you joked, laughing as he hugged you and got champagne on your clothes.

“And Oscar, huh?” Lando commented, winking at you. “Are you proud of your favorite driver?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “Don’t start, Lando.”

After the initial excitement, you began preparing to leave. Lando had some team commitments to take care of before heading back to the hotel, so you walked through the paddock, waiting for him. You bumped into Oscar, who seemed more relaxed, still talking to a few engineers.

“Congrats, Osc!” you said, with a genuine smile.

He quickly turned his head, as if he hadn’t expected you to appear there. “Oh, thanks,” he replied, a shy smile forming on his lips.

“I told you’d make it to the podium. Now you know what that means, right?” you teased, leaning slightly forward.

Oscar turned bright red, looking away at anything that wasn’t you. “I… think so?”

“Great.” You winked and walked away before he could respond, knowing exactly the effect you were having.

After a while, Lando finally appeared. “Ready to go?”

“More than ready.” You smiled, following him to the car that would take you back to the hotel.

Back at the hotel, the exhaustion from the race still lingered, but the excitement pulsed even stronger. Lando was sprawled on the couch in his room, talking nonstop about the race and, of course, the party that was about to happen.

“I need to get ready. What, you’ve got about 30 minutes before I drag you to the party?” you teased, grabbing your bag.

“Thirty? You’re being way too optimistic,” he laughed. “You wouldn’t be able to get ready in 30 minutes even if Oscar asked you to.”

“Oh, Lando…” You smiled slyly as you walked toward the door. “For Oscar, I’d do it in fifteen.”

Lando’s expression was priceless, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond. You walked out laughing and went straight to your room, already imagining how you’d make the night unforgettable. After all, a P1 for Lando and a P3 for Oscar was more than enough reason to celebrate in style.

You chose a stunning black Versace dress, fitting just right, and paired it with high heels from the same brand. But the special touch was in the details that no one would see—or rather, that almost no one would see: a papaya-colored lingerie set, matching the team’s colors, chosen especially for the occasion.

The team had reserved a table in the VIP section of a luxurious club. The atmosphere was pure euphoria—champagne, loud music, and laughter filled the air. As soon as they arrived, you made sure to sit strategically next to Oscar, who seemed out of place, unsure of what to do with all the attention around him.

“Osc, relax,” you murmured in his ear, smiling as you noticed he seemed more nervous than he had been during the race.

“I’m relaxed,” he replied, but the hand holding his drink was trembling slightly.

The conversation flowed with the team, but you made sure to provoke Oscar in little moments. You brushed your leg against his, made comments about how well he did in the race, and, of course, mentioned the “special present.”

“If I knew a P3 would make you this happy, I would’ve tried harder earlier,” he joked, trying to appear more confident.

“Oh, Osc, you have no idea,” you replied, smiling with an enigmatic tone.

As time went by, more people started to drift away from the table to dance or talk in other corners. Before long, it was just the two of you. That was your cue.

“So, Osc…” You leaned in a little closer, the loud music muffling the conversation. “About my present… do you want to know what it is?”

Oscar blushed instantly, looking away as he always did when he felt uncomfortable. “I… I don’t think I should ask.”

“Oh, you definitely should.” Your voice dropped low, almost a whisper, as your eyes challenged his. “I did something special to celebrate your P3. And maybe to encourage you to get more podiums in the future.”

He swallowed nervously. “I need… to go to the bathroom,” he said quickly, standing up before you could react.

You smiled to yourself. “So predictable,” you murmured as you followed him with determined steps.

Oscar looked genuinely surprised when you appeared in the hallway, blocking his escape route. “Seriously, Y/N? I just wanted a minute of peace.”

“No chance.” You took a step forward, cornering him against the wall, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “I followed you to show you my present.”

Oscar looked at you, clearly uncomfortable, but his curiosity won out. “I don’t know if I want to see that,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his curiosity.

You laughed softly, almost amused, and slid the strap of your dress down, revealing a glimpse of the papaya lingerie, the color of the team. “See? Something special for my favorite driver.”

For a moment, Oscar was speechless, his face turning a deeper red than usual. But something seemed to have shifted in him, as if the provocation had awakened something. He took a step forward, closing the distance between you. The look he had now wasn’t shy, but challenging, almost provocative.

“You like to tease, don’t you?” His voice was low but filled with a newfound confidence that you didn’t expect. “But you know what, Y/N? You can’t last three minutes when the roles are reversed.”

The smile on his face made you hesitate for a second, and he immediately seized the opportunity. Without saying another word, he pulled you closer, his hands firmly gripping your waist. The warmth of his body against yours made your heart race, and before you could say anything, Oscar’s lips found yours.

It was an intense, heated kiss, as if he had been swept away by the wave of provocation you had started. Oscar's hands glided over your skin, as if memorizing every part of you, while you couldn't think clearly anymore.

When he pulled away slightly, his eyes glowing in a way you didn't recognize, you were speechless, your body still burning from his proximity and touch.

He leaned in again, whispering in your ear:

"Lost your voice, baby? Always knew you were just talk."

Your breathing was uneven, but you could only stare at him, completely lost.

He grinned to the side, satisfied with the effect he was having.

It didn't take long for him to attack you with even more intense kisses.

You were getting addicted to the taste, to the feeling of being touched by him.

One of his hands slid up your thigh, slowly rising inside your dress. He squeezed your butt firmly, and you couldn't contain a moan. He played with the waistband of your panties, starting to pull them down.

"What are you doing?" you asked, breathless. "Someone might see."

"Now you're afraid of being seen?" he continued, dragging the fabric down your leg. "You never cared before."

He knelt down, completely removing the piece of lingerie.

"But don't worry, baby!" He stood up, pressing his body against yours again.

"I'm not going to do anything here."

He kissed you quickly and pulled away, looking into your eyes while slipping the piece into his pocket.

"If you want it back, find me in my room later."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you there, completely speechless and hungry for more.

[imoved-starbitsun]

something i never see anyone talk about is how lonely autism can be. not because we don’t fit in or whatever, but because our love languages are so fundamentally different from the rest of the world.

i won’t always hear it when someone tells me they love me. i won’t always understand it when someone shares a kindness with me. sometimes it hurts to be touched. sometimes i interpret genuine care as mocking or insincere because i’ve been burnt so often, and i have no way of knowing otherwise.

when i spend time in my room engaging in interests i enjoy, but i leave the door open to let my friends come in and out and interrupt as they please, that’s love. when i send someone a long ramble about something i care about, that’s love. when i let someone hug me, that’s love. when i try a food even though it’s not a safe food, because my friend made it and is very proud of it, that’s love. when i take the time to tell you when i need space and that i’ll come back when im able, that’s love.

i don’t think people hear me when i tell them i love them. i don’t know if i can hear others when they say it either. i feel very alone most of the time, like there’s a glass barrier between me and the rest of the world. i can see them mouthing, i love you, i love you, but how can i believe them? they’re nowhere near me. no warmth and no life in it.

[moonstruckme]

Hey Mae, you wrote a Spencer smut blurb a while ago about him helping reader speak up in the bedroom and at the end it mentions him using his handcuffs on reader. Just wondering if you would write a followup to that heheh 🌚

Thank you for requesting babe ;)

cw: smut mdni, bondage, slighttttt dom spencer but not really it's a collaborative effort haha

Spencer Reid x afab!reader ♡ 652 words

You make an involuntary whimpering sound. 

Spencer lifts his head to look at you. “You okay?” 

“Y…yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Very sure.” 

Your boyfriend’s look softens. “Okay. Try not to sound so distressed, please? It makes me think you’re not having fun.” 

“Sorry.” You want to tell him that you’re not having fun, but you are, really. The bite of metal into your wrists is a welcome, if frustrating, restraint. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, sweetheart,” Spencer assures you, voice turning slow as he lowers his lips back to your shoulder. The brush of his knuckles against your inner thigh is enough to make another whimper rise in your throat. 

The handcuffs were your idea. You don’t think bringing work into the bedroom would have ever crossed Spencer’s mind, but your stomach had flipped excitedly when he’d locked them over your wrists. He was careful not to make them too tight, told you to say something if they started to rub your skin wrong, but you sort of enjoy the pressure of them each time you tug against the bed frame. 

Spencer’s curiosity is just as fervid in the bedroom as it is out. He takes his time with you, cataloguing each movement and sound. Your breath hitches, and he tilts his head, an academic. Scientific fingers explore every curve and bend. 

You’re seeping arousal from between your folds before he even gets there. 

“Spence,” you plead.

“Hm?” 

“Can you just—” You can’t say it. You know Spencer appreciates plain language, but you can’t make yourself. You push your hips up, hoping he gets the hint. 

He does. He smiles, the asshole. “Can you be patient? I’m getting there.” 

“Today?” 

“Okay, fine.” Spencer laughs as he pushes two fingers into you, their path slick and easy. You gasp in surprise. “Is this what you want?” 

“Please.” 

“I told you I was getting to it.” His voice gentles. He touches his lips to the side of your throat, fingers moving slowly in and out of you. Curling. Gently, so gently. “You know you do better when we build up to it.” 

You almost miss the days when Spencer was still shy around you. When sex made him nervous, when he didn’t know your body quite so well or feel so confident in how to make you tick. 

He’s right, of course. 

“I’m—ahh…”

“Yeah, I know.” Spencer kisses the flat of your chest. Doubtless feeling your erratic heartbeat. “You never like it when it’s happening, but you’re happy afterward. You’ll thank me.” 

It’s not violent, your undoing; Spencer takes you apart gently, with careful fingers, and then swallows the cry that escapes you like it’s his favorite flavor. 

Your wrists are lined with agitated circlets when he pushes into you. You’re well worked open by then. Time is lost to you. You gasp and roll your hips, desperate to grab him, your fists curling around nothing. 

“Hey.” Spencer’s thumb presses over your pulse, a barrier between you and the cuff. “Relax. Be careful with yourself.” 

His lips are parted, pupils blown but eyes soft with concern. You love him. It’s not the first time you’ve thought it, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said it, but suddenly you feel it achingly, urgently, tearily. You love him you love him you love him. 

“Come here,” you beg him in as nice a voice as you can. 

Spencer listens, because he always listens to you, really, even when you’re all tied up and helpless and probably a little delirious. His mouth covers yours with reassuring warmth. 

“Still okay?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“Yes.” You press towards him, kissing his chin, his jaw, his sweaty cupid’s bow. “Oh my god, yes.” 

“Okay.” Spencer links his fingers through yours. Pushing you back, but staying close to you. You shudder at the contact. “We’re okay.” 

“Just stay here, please.” 

“Where do you think I would go?” 

[lnfours]

* ✰. — first place serotonin | l.n

summary: your best friend just won the miami grand prix. and what better way to celebrate then telling you he’s in love with you?

warnings: friends to lovers!au (..shocker), overall happiness and fun times, language, confessions, also a bit rushed because i wanted to get something out to you all asap 🧡 happy lando first win!! here’s to many more!

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

everyone around you was silent. watching the gap between lando and max grow higher and higher with each passing second. your nerves were shot, anxiously waiting for either lando to cross the finish line in first or for max to inevitably overtake the boy in papaya and reclaim first as his.

but he didn’t. lando held on, everyone cheering and celebrating as he crossed the line in first place. winning his first ever grand prix, a dream that sometimes felt impossible to achieve, now unfolding before everyone’s eyes.

aarav and ria pulled you into a hug, the three of you laughing and cheering before aarav spoke, “c’mon! let’s go!”

the three of you headed towards the paddock, laughing and joining the sea of papaya. the three of you made your way into the crowd. everyone let the three of you towards the front, just in time to see him place his helmet on the ground before he started to run over.

he pulled everyone into hugs, but when it got to you, he felt a wave of something different. the way you looked celebrating him and his win, the way your smile lit up your entire face, the way you ignored the happy tears rolling down your cheeks. he was so in love with you, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“c’mere!” he smiled, you opened your arms, fully expecting a hug. but when he lifted you off the ground and over the barrier, you couldn’t help but squeal. once your feet were placed back onto the ground, the sounds of the mclaren team whistling towards the two of you teasingly was drowned out by how close he was.

he smiled softly down at you, “i had this whole thing planned, but right now seems like a better idea, and i don’t know if that’s because of the adrenaline or what but i just can’t keep this to myself anymore,” he started, “but i’m so fucking in love with you, y/n. i always have been, and i don’t want to pretend like i’m not anymore.”

you smiled at the boy dressed in papaya, shaking your head and laughing softly, “i’m tired of pretending like i’m not in love with you, too.”

that was all he needed to hear before he was leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. everyone around you cheering and yelling excitedly, happiness radiating through the crowd. you smiled against his lips, uncaring of the cameras around you capturing the moment because the only thing you had your mind on was the man in front of you.

you pulled away and happily pulled him into another hug, head nuzzled in his neck. you didn’t care about how damp he was, drenched in sweat. the way this moment felt was definitely going to be engraved into your brain for a lifetime.

“i’m so proud of you,” you smiled, pulling away from the hug. your moment was cut short by andrea and zak yelling his name, telling him that it was time to head up to the podium. he turned back around to face you, almost like he was asking if it was okay if he went.

you nodded your head, “i’ll be here when you get back.”

he smiled, leaning in and pressing one more kiss to your cheek before walking backwards, still facing you as he called back to you, “got any plans tonight!?”

you laughed, shaking your head, “is this you asking me on a date?!”

“will you say yes if it is?!”

“definitely, yes!”

and with that he smiled, turning around to walk with andrea to head up to the podium. but not without one more glance your way.

aarav and ria were smiling, happy that their friends had finally caved in and realized that you both were meant to be.

everyone found their places to watch the podium celebration. you smiled and cheered happily as he took the top step for the first time, and certainly not his last.

he looked down at the crowd under him, his eyes only searching for one person. and when they found you, he smiled. a smile so bright it made your heart clench before you watched the way his mouth moved to silently say those three words.

‘i love you’.

[kiwriteswords]

Finer Things [Aaron Hotchner x High-Maintenance!Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 6k|| AN: Here we are! This took a little longer than expected, but I think I like how this one turned out!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, canon-typical themes, high-maintenance reader, female reader, progression of relationship, simp!Hotch, feminine reader, Jack exists but is only briefly mentioned, BAU reader, materialistic reader, Garcia the helpful friend, flirty banter, mild language

Summary: You're a stylish...arguably high-maintenance BAU agent who unexpectedly falls for your straightforward and grounded partner, Aaron Hotchner. As you both tackle cases and life’s surprises, you learn to blend your love for the finer things with his practical approach, discovering a deep and enduring connection.

Hotch’s office door clicked softly as you knocked, barely audible over the hum of the precinct around you. The frame filled almost instantly with your form—pristine as always, from your flawlessly styled hair down to the heels that added an effortless grace to your every step.

“Got a minute?” you asked, your voice as smooth and composed as the latte you held in one hand, the steam still curling lazily up from the cup.

Hotch stepped aside, allowing you entrance. “Of course,” he said, though he knew his afternoon was already crammed with meetings and reports. For you, though, he made time—something the rest of the team had noticed and often teased him about. But what could he say? Aaron Hotchner, stoic and steadfast, had indeed developed a soft spot for you.

As you settled into the chair across from his desk, Hotch couldn’t help but admire the meticulous way you organized your space on the table. Your designer bag was set precisely to the right, not a strap out of place. He often wondered how someone so particular could thrive in the chaotic unpredictability of the BAU.

“So, what did you think of the profile?” you began, breaking into his thoughts. Your eyes were bright, lively—a stark contrast to his own, which often carried the weight of the job.

“It’s thorough. You have a knack for getting into the unsub’s head,” Hotch replied, his voice firm yet carrying a hint of warmth reserved mostly for you.

Your smile widened, pleased. “I do try,” you quipped, stirring your latte leisurely. “But I think it could use a bit more… je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what would you suggest?”

“Well,” you leaned forward, the light catching your earrings just so. “If I were him, I’d be more careful about where I left my clues. Too sloppy. Maybe he needs a lesson in organization from me.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound more natural than he intended. “I think he’d be horrified at the idea.”

“Good,” you grinned, sitting back with satisfaction. “Then he’d know how I feel about unorganized data.”

Moving to the round table, the rest of the team began to filter into the office for the briefing, and Morgan threw a teasing glance your way. “Looks like Hotch is getting his daily dose of high maintenance,” he commented, a playful smirk on his face.

Prentiss elbowed him lightly, smiling in your direction. “Leave them alone. If anyone can get Hotch to lighten up, it’s her.”

Hotch cleared his throat, signaling the start of the briefing, but he couldn’t deny the truth in their observations. You brought a lightness to his often too-heavy life, a splash of color to the monochrome routine.

As the meeting progressed, your contributions were not just insightful but infused with a vibrancy that lifted the somber mood typical of these sessions. Each time you spoke, Hotch found his attention drawn not just to your words but to the way you expressed them—with a confidence and a flair that was uniquely yours. When you directed a comment towards him, accompanied by a playful raise of your eyebrows, there was an underlying challenge there, as if you were coaxing him out from behind his well-constructed barriers.

Your laughter, light and unguarded, filled the room at one point when you poked fun at the unsub’s choice of hideouts, suggesting even you could find a better hiding place during your shopping trips. The team chuckled, and even Hotch’s lips twitched into a smile—your cheer infectious, your presence undeniably compelling.

As the team began to disperse, you lingered over your notes, your meticulous nature evident as you aligned your papers and recapped your pens with a precision that spoke of a deeper need for order—a trait Hotch could appreciate, perhaps because it mirrored his own.

Hotch watched you, the way the light caught the highlights in your hair and the meticulous care you took with even the smallest task. He remained in his seat, an internal debate raging within him. He was the Unit Chief, always in control, always composed. But around you, those walls he meticulously maintained seemed less formidable, more permeable.

Finally, he stood, his decision made, propelled by a force he hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. Approaching you, he noted the slight surprise in your movements as you looked up. His voice, when he spoke, was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something more, something deeper.

“Dinner tonight?” he asked, the invitation hanging between them, heavier than the casual manner he attempted to portray.

You paused, a pen still in your hand, and met his gaze. The flicker of surprise was quickly replaced by a slow-spreading smile that warmed your eyes. “Trying to keep up with my high standards, Hotch?” you teased, the challenge back in your voice, but this time it was laced with an unmistakable warmth.

“I think I’m ready to try,” Hotch replied, his voice low, honest. The corners of his mouth turned up in a rare, genuine smile that seemed to reach his eyes, softening the usual hardness there.

“Then it’s a date,” you declared, your voice light but carrying a weight that filled the room with a promise of something new, something thrilling.

As you gathered your belongings and left, your heels clicking assertively against the floor, Hotch watched you go, a sense of anticipation building within him. It was a feeling foreign yet exhilarating, stirring something within him that had lain dormant.

He realized then, as the distance grew between you, that what the team jokingly called his ‘weakness’ was perhaps his most profound revelation. In you, Aaron Hotchner found not just a challenge but a vibrant counterpart who could match his steps in life’s intricate dance. With you, the future seemed less daunting, more vivid—colored by the finer things, in every possible way.

Since that first dinner, a subtle shift had occurred in the dynamics between Hotch and you. What started as a casual outing evolved into a series of clandestine meetings, each encounter deepening the bond that was swiftly becoming an integral part of his daily life. The secrecy was necessary—not just for the sake of professionalism within the team but to preserve the unique world that had begun to flourish between the two of you.

Hotch found himself anticipating your texts, which often popped up on his phone with playful emojis and witty remarks about everything from case files to the peculiar habits of their local barista. You managed to make even the mundane seem amusing, and Hotch, ever the stoic leader, found his day brightening with each notification.

One evening, as Hotch returned home from a particularly grueling case, he found a small package at his doorstep. Inside was a high-end espresso machine—a gift from you, complete with a note: "For your home office, so you can enjoy a proper latte without braving the outside world. Think of me when you use it." It was both a luxurious gesture and so quintessentially you, blending high maintenance with thoughtful consideration.

Hotch couldn’t help but smile as he set up the machine in his kitchen. It wasn’t something he would have ever purchased for himself, but now, brewing a cup in the quiet of the morning, he found a new appreciation for the ritual. It reminded him of you—how you’d insist on the perfect temperature, the ideal foam-to-espresso ratio, details he’d once overlooked but now found endearing.

At work, these small infiltrations into his life were becoming more apparent. You had taken to adjusting the small things around him, straightening the papers on his desk, sometimes replacing his usual stark office supplies with items that had a bit more personality—a stapler in polished chrome, sleek and efficient like the espresso machine, or pens that wrote so smoothly he found excuses to handwrite notes he would typically type.

Hotch had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that your influence was a welcome one. It was as if you were slowly coloring in parts of his world that he hadn’t even realized were so monochrome. And when you both sat down at the round table, reviewing case files together, the subtle touches—the way your knee would gently brush against his, or how you’d share a quick, knowing look over a shared inside joke—added layers to their days that Hotch hadn’t anticipated but found he no longer wanted to go without.

One afternoon, caught in a rare moment of downtime, Hotch found himself at the local shopping center, standing before a display of designer ties. He remembered you commenting on how a splash of color could brighten his usual ensemble of dark suits and somber expressions. With a critical eye, he selected one that was a soft shade--something that would match your eyes, he thought, a private acknowledgment of the space you were coming to occupy in his life.

That evening, when he wore the tie, the team didn’t miss the change. “Look at Hotch, finally taking some fashion tips from the best,” Morgan teased, nudging you as you both arrived for the briefing.

You shot Hotch a playful wink, and he responded with a slight nod, a silent conversation passing between them. Yes, you were changing him, but perhaps, Hotch considered as he adjusted the new tie subtly, this change was not just inevitable but necessary.

For Aaron Hotchner, known for his rigor and restraint, the gentle invasion of your high-maintenance habits into his disciplined life was less a disruption and more a revelation. Each new preference, each shared secret, wove a richer tapestry into his days. And as he looked across the table at you, he realized with a clarity that surprised him, that these threads, once so foreign, were now essential to the fabric of his life.

The rarity of a day off was not something Hotch took lightly, especially with Jack away on a Boy Scout trip. He had considered a quiet day at home, perhaps catching up on some reading or simply enjoying the peace. However, as he was contemplating his solitary plans, you texted him about your own plans for the day—getting your nails done, a routine you indulged in every few weeks.

"I’m off to maintain my high standards," your message read, accompanied by a laughing emoji. "Care to join me for a change of scenery?"

The invitation was unexpected. The thought of spending his day off in a nail salon was not something Hotch would have ever considered before meeting you. Yet, the idea of accompanying you, of sharing in something that was a part of your routine, held an appeal he couldn’t deny.

"Sure, why not?" Hotch texted back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagined your reaction.

At the salon, you greeted him with a bright smile and a quick peck on the cheek. "Never thought I’d see the day Aaron Hotchner steps into a nail salon willingly," you teased, leading him inside.

The salon was a buzz of activity, a stark contrast to the usual seriousness of his work environment. You introduced him to your nail technician, a friendly woman named Lisa who greeted him with a warmth that seemed to radiate throughout the room.

As Lisa started on your nails, you chatted animatedly about the colors and designs. Hotch found himself pulled into a conversation about the merits of various shades—a discussion he never thought he’d have, yet here he was, weighing in on whether 'Midnight Blue' was a better choice than 'Stormy Grey'.

"You know, you could get something done too. A manicure perhaps? It’s quite relaxing," you suggested, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, considering it. "What would the team think if I showed up with polished nails?"

"They’d think you’re embracing the finer things in life," you replied with a laugh. "But maybe just a clear coat. We wouldn’t want to give Morgan too much ammunition."

Surprisingly, Hotch agreed. As Lisa began to work on his nails, he found the experience unexpectedly soothing. The gentle handling, the focus on something so trivial yet intimate, was a stark departure from his day-to-day life.

"So, how does it feel to be pampered?" you asked, watching him with an amused expression.

"Strangely relaxing," Hotch admitted. "I can see the appeal."

As Lisa finished, you both sat under the nail dryers. Hotch looked over at you, taking in the relaxed ease of your posture, and the genuine smile on your face. It was these moments, he realized, that he cherished deeply—the simple pleasures shared, the barriers between professional and personal blurring into something beautifully ordinary.

"You know, I’m glad you invited me," Hotch said, his voice soft amid the hum of the salon. "It’s nice, sharing this part of your world."

You reached over, your hand finding his. "I’m glad you’re here, Aaron. It means more than you know."

As they left the salon, Hotch felt a lightness he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The day had been uneventful by most standards, yet for him, it was a precious insight into the everyday joys of the person who had unexpectedly become his closest confidant.

The team's discovery of his relationship with you was as inevitable as it was unintended. It began one morning when Garcia, ever observant, noticed the faintest of smiles on Hotch’s lips as he read a text from you. It was nothing overt, just the subtle lift of his mood, but it was enough to pique her interest.

“Spill it, Hotch. You’ve been smiling more these days,” Garcia prodded as they gathered in the briefing room, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Hotch, caught slightly off-guard, managed to maintain his composure. “It’s just been a good morning,” he replied smoothly, hoping his nonchalance would deflect further inquiry.

Garcia, however, was not so easily dissuaded. “Uh huh,” she hummed, giving him a knowing look but dropping the subject in the presence of the rest of the team.

The next clue came unintentionally from you during a case briefing. You were discussing a particularly challenging aspect of the case when you casually mentioned a small detail—a detail that Hotch had shared with you in confidence during one of your dinners together.

As you spoke, Reid’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing in that characteristic way when he was putting pieces together. “That’s an interesting observation,” he remarked, glancing between Hotch and you. “Not many would’ve caught that.”

Hotch met Reid’s gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Reid’s expression softened into a subtle smile, and he nodded slightly, turning his attention back to the files in front of him.

Morgan and JJ were the next to catch on. It happened in the field, during a tense moment when you instinctively reached for Hotch’s hand. It was a brief touch, meant to be reassuring, but Morgan and JJ caught the action from the corner of their eye.

Later, as they regrouped at the SUV, Morgan clapped Hotch on the shoulder. “You know you can tell us, right? We’re family here,” he said in a low voice, his look pointed but friendly.

Hotch simply nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “I know, Derek,” he said, grateful for the support he knew they would offer.

Prentiss figured it out during a late-night coffee run when she saw you both at a small cafe, your heads close together, laughing softly over shared stories. She didn’t approach, respecting your privacy, but the next day, her smile was a bit wider when she greeted you both.

“It’s good to see you happy, Hotch,” she said quietly as she passed by his office, her words meant only for him.

By the time Rossi found out, it seemed that most of the team had already accepted the new dynamic with characteristic adaptability. Rossi, ever the father figure, simply raised his glass to Hotch during their next team dinner, a silent toast that spoke volumes.

“You’ve got a good thing, Aaron. Don’t let the job get in the way,” Rossi advised later, when they were alone, his voice low and earnest.

Hotch appreciated the wisdom; knowing the balance between personal happiness and professional duty was a fine line to walk.

As the team gradually discovered the relationship, what surprised Hotch most was not the fact that they found out, but the ease with which they accepted it. Their teasing was gentle, their support unwavering, and in their acceptance, Hotch found not just confirmation of his feelings for you but also a deeper appreciation for the team he considered his second family.

In this newfound openness, Hotch realized that his relationship with you did not weaken his leadership; rather, it enriched the very fabric of his life, both at work and beyond. With each passing day, as you both navigate the complexities of a relationship built amidst the demands of the BAU, Hotch found himself not just accepting but embracing the vibrant color you brought into his once-monochrome world.

The integration of your meticulous routines into Hotch's daily life was gradual, almost imperceptible at first, until one day he found himself deeply enmeshed in the particulars of your high-maintenance habits. What began as playful observations soon became cherished moments of his day, each routine offering a glimpse into the meticulous and vibrant world you inhabited.

Every evening, as you both prepared for bed, Hotch would lean against the bathroom doorway, watching as you engaged in your elaborate skincare routine. The array of creams, serums, and tools was impressive, and he'd often raise an eyebrow in mock incredulity as you explained the purpose of each one.

“Do you really need all of this?” Hotch would ask, his tone light and teasing as you applied a night serum with precise, practiced motions.

“Absolutely,” you’d reply without missing a beat, your reflection in the mirror smiling back at him. “It’s about maintaining standards, Aaron. You of all people should understand that.”

“I thought we were just going to bed, not preparing for a photo shoot,” Hotch would retort, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile.

“It’s called preventive maintenance,” you’d say, tapping the side of your nose with a finger. “One day, you’ll thank me when we’re both ninety, and I still look seventy.”

Hotch couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the soft notes of the evening. He had to admit, there was a certain peace in these nightly rituals, a tranquility that had seeped into the crevices of his once rigid routine.

Sometimes, you would catch him watching and pull him into the routine, applying a bit of moisturizer to his face with gentle, coaxing motions. “You’ll feel better,” you’d assure him, and he’d comply, not because he believed in the miraculous claims of the products but because it meant more moments shared with you.

On weekends, the rituals would extend to mornings. You’d take your time selecting an outfit, coordinating accessories and makeup with an artist’s eye for detail. Hotch would sit on the bed, coffee in hand, offering the occasional nod or hum of approval as you held up two nearly identical pairs of shoes, asking for his opinion.

“What do you think? The matte or the glossy?” you’d ask, holding them up for him to see.

“The matte,” Hotch would decide after a moment’s consideration. “It’s subtler.”

“Subtle,” you’d repeat, considering this. “I like it. Subtle but effective. Kind of like you.”

The routine wasn’t just about vanity or upkeep—it was a dance, a way of you expressing yourself and inviting him into your world. Hotch found himself missing these interactions whenever you were at your own apartment. The bathroom felt too empty, the mornings too quick and utilitarian. He missed the scent of your skincare products, the sound of your voice explaining the benefits of jasmine oil, or the way you’d ask his opinion on things he’d never considered before.

Even his morning routine had adapted; where once a quick shave sufficed, he now found himself opening your moisturizer, the scent a comforting reminder of you. It was a small concession to the routines you loved, a way of keeping you close even when miles apart.

Through these shared routines, Hotch learned more than just the importance of exfoliation or the difference between matte and glossy finishes. He learned the value of slowing down, of savoring the quiet moments together before the chaos of the day set in. Each ritual, each routine you shared, wove deeper connections between them, turning mundane moments into cherished memories and in doing so, seamlessly blending his life with yours.

With your birthday on the horizon, Hotch was well aware of the intricacies involved in selecting the perfect gift. Your independence and flair for purchasing exactly what you wanted, when you wanted, left little room for him to dazzle you with something unexpected. Yet, the desire to surprise and delight you was strong; he wanted to be the doting boyfriend who could still manage to sweep you off your feet.

One morning, as he was choosing a tie for work, you playfully suggested one that would "match beautifully with my purse—if I had the right shade." The comment was offhand, perhaps even forgetful of the collection you already owned, but it sparked an idea in Hotch's mind.

Later that day, armed with determination, Hotch sought out Garcia. He found her busy at her workstations, screens flickering with data.

"Garcia, could I get your help with something a bit more... personal?" Hotch began, hesitating slightly as he ventured into unfamiliar territory.

Garcia swiveled in her chair, her expression instantly shifting to one of eager attentiveness. "Of course, Hotch! What do you need? Secret admirer codes cracked? Background checks for mysterious suitors?" she quipped, her tone light.

"Actually, I need advice on buying a purse," Hotch admitted, and briefly explained the situation.

"A purse? Oh, for you know who?! This is going to be fun!" Garcia clapped her hands, her earlier levity shifting into focused enthusiasm. "Okay, first things first, we need something as unique and classy as she is. Let’s dive into the world of designer handbags."

Garcia guided him through various high-end brands, explaining the appeal of each. "These are timeless," she pointed out, scrolling through an array of sophisticated designs. "But knowing our girl, something with both function and a high fashion quotient would be ideal."

Hotch listened, absorbing details about textures, colors, and what each brand symbolized. They finally narrowed it down to a few choices, each one reflecting a different aspect of your personality and style.

"This one here," Garcia pointed at a sleek, modern satchel with minimalist design but luxurious detailing, "seems like it could be the perfect accessory for her. It’s stylish but not ostentatious, much like how she approaches her work and personal style."

"It looks great," Hotch agreed, imagining how it would look draped over your shoulder. He made a mental note of the bag and the brand, deciding to do a little more research before making the final purchase.

"Good luck, Hotch! She's going to love whatever you choose because it's from you," Garcia smiled warmly, giving him a thumbs-up as he thanked her and left.

Back at Hotch’s apartment, as you both moved through your evening routine, Hotch found opportunities to subtly probe for more of your preferences without giving away his intentions.

"So, if you were to splurge on something frivolous, what would it be?" Hotch asked casually as you were both settling down with a glass of wine.

"Frivolous?" you chuckled, giving him a playful look. "Isn’t everything I buy somewhat frivolous to you, Mr. Practicality?"

"Perhaps," Hotch conceded with a smile, "but indulge me."

"A purse," you said after a moment, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. "A really good, outrageously and stupidly expensive purse that makes me feel like a million bucks when I carry it."

"Sounds like a worthy investment," Hotch replied, his tone teasing but thoughtful. Your eyes met, and there was a spark of something that went beyond the casual banter—a shared understanding and appreciation for these little confessions.

Hotch tucked away every piece of information, each helping him build towards the moment he would present you with the perfect birthday gift. It was more than just a purse; it was a symbol of his attentiveness to your desires and his wish to celebrate everything you were.

But the birthday Hotch had planned for you was supposed to be special, a day to celebrate you in style, with every detail tailored to your liking. Instead, duty called in the form of a particularly tough case that dragged on much longer than anyone had anticipated. The hours turned into days, and by the time it was over, everyone was exhausted, physically and emotionally drained.

As the team began packing up, you sighed heavily, the weight of the last few days evident in your slumped shoulders. "I just want to go back to my apartment," you murmured. "I ran out of clothes, and I forgot half my skincare stuff in the rush out."

Hotch, who had been hoping to salvage what was left of the day, felt a twinge of disappointment. "You could grab what you need and come back to my place," he suggested, trying to keep his tone light, though concern etched his features. He’d go to your place if he could, but Jack was waiting for him. 

You shook your head, fatigue lining your face. "I'm just so tired, Aaron. Let’s just celebrate tomorrow, okay?" Your voice held a note of finality, but also a plea for understanding.

He knew he should let it go…give you the space you needed, but a part of him—the part that had been quietly contemplating a more significant step in your relationship—spoke up. "I was going to bring this up over dinner," Hotch began, his voice steady despite the chaos of the day, "but maybe this is the right moment. You and your... elaborate routines should just move in with me."

Your fatigue momentarily gave way to surprise. "Do you know what you’re getting into? My high maintenance might take over your space," you teased, a faint smile playing at your lips despite the exhaustion.

"Yes," Hotch said firmly, his gaze intense. "I know exactly what I’m getting into, and I love it. I miss it when you’re not there."

You looked at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, your smile grew, and the weariness seemed to lift slightly. "You really want me and my half a suitcase of skincare products moving in?"

"Every last bottle and brush," Hotch confirmed, his voice softening. "It’s part of who you are, and I want all of you every day. Not just on good days or birthdays, but every challenging and tiring day too."

Your eyes softened, and you stepped closer, leaning into him slightly. "Okay, but we’re getting a bigger bathroom cabinet," you stipulated, your tone light but sincere.

"It’s a deal," Hotch agreed, wrapping an arm around you. The case had taken much from you both, but at this moment, a new door was opening—a commitment that promised to blend your lives in ways beyond shared cases and briefings.

As you both headed back, the weight of the case still lingering, there was a new undercurrent of hope, of shared futures and bathroom cabinets, a testament to the resilience of your bond.

You decided to pick up a few essentials from your apartment and spend the night at Hotch's place--now your place, too, despite your tiredness. Hotch, feeling a mix of relief and excitement, drove you to your apartment, waiting as you gathered your things.

Inside, you moved efficiently, albeit with a tired grace, packing your cherished skincare products and several outfits. Hotch leaned against the doorway, watching as you filled a small suitcase with what seemed to him an elaborate array of potions and tools. Each item was carefully selected, a ritual that he found both fascinating and slightly amusing.

“You sure you’ve got enough there for just one night?” Hotch teased lightly, his eyes twinkling with humor.

You glanced over your shoulder, a playful smirk on your lips. “This is the streamlined version, believe it or not. You might have to rent the apartment next door.”

“I’ll consult the landlord tomorrow,” Hotch quipped, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile.

Back at his apartment, as you began setting out your skincare products in the bathroom, Hotch watched for a moment, his mind returning to the gift he’d carefully hidden away—something he hoped would make your day a little brighter after the tough case.

“Hey,” Hotch called softly, capturing your attention as you meticulously arranged your items. “I have something for you. I was saving it for a proper celebration, but I think tonight is as good a time as any.”

Your curiosity piqued, you followed him to the living room, where he retrieved a small, elegantly wrapped box from a drawer. Handing it to you, he watched as your eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and anticipation lighting up your features.

You unwrapped the box with a gentle precision, and as you lifted the lid and saw the purse—a beautiful, designer pocketbook that perfectly matched the sophisticated style you cherished—your expression transformed into one of sheer delight.

“Aaron, this is beautiful,” you breathed out, carefully pulling the purse from the box. You admired the craftsmanship, running your fingers over the smooth leather and the detailed stitching.

“It reminded me of you,” Hotch said, his voice sincere. “Elegant, practical, and incredibly stylish. Happy Birthday.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining not just from the beauty of the gift but from the thoughtfulness behind it. “I love it,” you said, stepping closer to wrap your arms around him in a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you; this is the best end to a rough day.”

Hotch held you close, his heart swelling with the joy of seeing you so happy. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you smile like that,” he murmured into your hair, feeling the weight of the case and the fatigue of the day finally begin to lift.

As you pulled back slightly, still holding the purse, you teased, “Does this mean I get a new purse for every rough case?”

“Birthdays,” Hotch corrected with a gentle smile, his gaze softening as he added, “You make it incredibly hard for me to spoil you more than I already wish to.”

You laughed, a sound that Hotch had come to cherish deeply. “I’ll try to be less self-sufficient in the future,” you quipped, clutching the new purse a little closer as if it were a treasured award.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about your independence,” Hotch replied earnestly. “It’s one of the many things I admire about you. But allow me the occasional indulgence of spoiling you, especially on days like today.”

The purse, an elegant and thoughtful gift, lay between you on the coffee table, symbolizing not just a celebration of your birthday but of the new phase in your relationship. The evening settled into a comfortable rhythm, the earlier tension from the case dissolving into the background as you both enjoyed the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

With the challenges of the case behind you and the warmth of your shared space around you, Hotch felt a profound sense of contentment. This was more than just a birthday celebration—it was a reaffirmation of your partnership, a testament to how deeply your lives had intertwined.

As you both relaxed into the sofa, the conversation drifted from light teasing to deeper, more introspective topics. Every so often, your hand would brush against the purse, a physical reminder of Hotch’s affection and attention to what brought you joy.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you said again, your voice lower, more reflective as the night wore on. “For understanding me, even when I think I don’t need anything.”

Hotch reached over, his hand finding yours, squeezing it gently. “You don’t need to thank me for that,” he murmured. “It’s just another part of our journey together. And I’m grateful for every step we take, side by side.”

The purse remained on the table, a beacon of new beginnings and mutual understanding, as you both shared the quiet comfort of knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns

[brainddeadd]

Protective Instincts

You’re standing in the lobby of the arena, waiting for Quinn to finish his post-game interviews. The energy of the building has started to settle, and the noise from the locker room has faded, but there's a buzz in the air. Most of the team has trickled out, leaving only a few stragglers, including a guy from the opposing team who seems to have lingered a little too long after the game.

You’re scrolling through your phone when you feel his presence before you see him. He’s standing way too close for comfort, leaning against a nearby pillar, his eyes scanning you in a way that sends an uncomfortable chill down your spine. He leans forward, trying to make conversation, but you feel his intentions before he even speaks.

“Hey, I saw you in the stands. Pretty cute, huh? What’s your name?”

You take a step back, instinctively feeling the tension building in your shoulders. You don’t know him, and you don’t want to. Your gut tells you to walk away, but before you can say anything, you hear a calm, familiar voice behind you.

“She’s with me.”

The words are firm, unwavering, but not angry. There’s a quiet strength in them, something that immediately makes the guy step back, his posture stiffening as he meets Quinn’s eyes. Quinn is standing just a few feet behind you now, his body relaxed, but there’s a protectiveness in the way he stands that is unmistakable.

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between you and Quinn, realizing quickly that whatever his intentions were, he won’t get away with it tonight. He mutters something under his breath, avoiding Quinn’s gaze, and walks off without another word.

You breathe a little easier, but you don’t say anything right away, not sure if you should feel thankful or surprised. Quinn doesn’t move from his spot behind you, but his presence is comforting, like a silent barrier between you and whatever world outside you don’t want to deal with.

“Are you okay?” Quinn asks quietly, his voice low, but there’s concern in the way his eyes flick to you, scanning you for any signs of distress.

You nod, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything more, but he steps closer, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he gestures toward the exit. The quiet reassurance in his actions makes you smile, even though you feel a little embarrassed by how rattled you were.

As you walk out together, the cool air of the night hitting your skin, Quinn falls into step beside you, his body language still subtly shielding you, as though making sure nothing else could possibly harm you. You know he’s not the type to make a big deal out of things, but the weight of his unspoken care wraps around you like a shield, keeping you safe in a world that sometimes feels too chaotic.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly, glancing at him.

Quinn simply shrugs, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I know.”

But he doesn’t need to say more. You can tell by the way he’s looking at you—like nothing could get past him, and you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Quinn’s got your back, no matter what.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, mentions of an autistic meltdown, Lando being horrendously down-bad.

Notes — I love to ramble with ya’ll about my fics, so send me as many asks as you want!

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

2018

Amelia liked it when the pit garages were like this. Tools neatly racked, screens idle but ready, the scent of fresh tire rubber still hanging in the air — not yet burnt.

Fernando sat on a workbench, sipping his espresso.

She was perched on the same tire she always chose, butter-yellow water bottle in hand. There was enough ice inside to keep her drink cold all day, even under the Abu Dhabi sun. She wore a white cotton dress that would probably be stained with oil by the end of the day — she didn’t care.

"You are thinking too much," he said eventually, voice low, words shaped by the curl of his accent. "I can hear them.”

She turned the bottle slowly between her hands, listening to the ice crash against the insulated metal. “You can’t hear thinking.” She told him. 

"I can when it is this loud," he replied. She frowned, staring at one of the stickers on her water bottle. Either there was a language barrier — or Fernando was some kind of mind reader. “You are worried about the new boys, yes?”

She rounded her shoulders up to her ears in response. 

He shifted slightly, the sound of his espresso cup touching down on the metal bench. “You worry they will not like you. Or not understand you. That they will say stupid things.”

“I don’t care if they like me,” she said automatically, but her voice was too tight around the words. “I just… I don’t want to make them uncomfortable. Because I don’t act the way they will expect, since I’m their boss’ daughter. Or because I don’t always know how to—”

He cut her off with a short sound — not quite interrupting, just catching the sentence before it turned into something more self-deprecating than necessary. “Mi niña,” he said. “You are not responsible for the comfort of two boys. Especially not ones who still trip over their own feet getting into the car.”

She didn’t smile, but the edges of her thoughts softened.

“They come into your garage. You were here first. You are a very helpful addition.” He paused. “And you are never unkind. This is more than most.”

She tightened her grip on her water bottle. “I make people uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed, and his honesty was nice. People always tried to lie to her in a silly attempt to make her feel more normal. “But only the ones who do not listen properly to what you say.” He picked up his espresso again, then added, “And if they do not listen, I will teach them.”

Amelia glanced toward the open garage, where footsteps passed in rapid beats and voices moved in bursts. It was the last race of the 2018 season. Lewis had already secured the Drivers’ Championship. She’d sent a big cake to his house with Well Done for Being Fast written on it. He’d posted a picture on his Instagram, which meant he’d appreciated the gesture.

She glanced at her phone and started chewing on her bottom lip.

Thinking about Lewis only reminded her of the email — unread, unacknowledged — sitting in her meticulously organised inbox.

Toto Wolff had taken it upon himself to email her. From his personal address, not his work one — no “Mercedes” anywhere in sight.

She’d taken one look at the subject line (Unconditional Job Offer / Employment Opportunity) and promptly launched her phone across the room. Miraculously, the screen had survived.

Lewis had warned her more than once that his team principal was interested in her talents. She’d assumed it was flattery. Apparently not.

If her dad ever found out about the email, he’d have a full-blown meltdown — the kind usually reserved for her. A rival team trying to poach his daughter wasn’t just a personal affront; it was a declaration of war.

“Amelia,” Fernando said. 

She didn’t look up right away. 

"Yes?” She asked. 

"Do not worry so much,” he said, tapping the side of his cup. "It ruins the coffee."

— 

The MTC was half-empty, lit with the flat grey light of a British winter morning. Most people were still on holiday. Lando wasn’t most people anymore. 

He tugged at the sleeves of his new team jacket as he walked the corridor past engineering, sneakers squeaking just slightly with each step. It still felt surreal; being here. Not as a junior, not as a maybe, but as a full-time McLaren Formula One driver.

He was so wrapped up in the thrill of it that he nearly walked right past her.

Amelia Brown was crouched beside a cart of sorted telemetry tablets, scanning each one like she was decoding a puzzle, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed unhappily. Her white trainers were smudged, her dark hair pulled back loosely, and her signature butter-yellow water bottle was sat beside her on the floor.

Lando stopped.

“Hey,” he said, a little too loud for how quiet the corridor was.

She looked up, blinked once, then gave a small nod. “Hello.”

Not cold. Not warm either. Just… Amelia. 

“I, uh… I set two alarms now,” he blurted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “So I’m never late anymore. Not even accidentally, you know?”

She turned her attention back to the tablets. “Okay.” She mumbled, hardly eligible. 

He waited. 

Right. That was it. 

Just okay.

“You know,” he tried to remind her, smiling because he wasn’t sure what else to do with his face, “because you said I lacked discipline and wouldn’t get the promotion if I kept being late.”

“I did say that,” she said, tapping on one of the screens and letting out an almost silent sigh when the screen remained black. “It was a problem.” 

Still nothing. No smile. No teasing. 

Lando cleared his throat. “Right. Well. It’s not a problem now.”

“Good,” she said.

A pause stretched between them. 

Lando rocked back on his heels. “Cool. Alright. I’ll just— I’ll see you around?”

Still, she didn’t look up. “Highly likely.”

He gave a quick nod and turned to go, cheeks warm.

He’d always thought of himself as pretty likeable. People laughed when he wanted them to. He was decent at reading a room — usually. But clearly, none of that meant anything to Amelia Brown. 

As he walked off, he glanced back without thinking. And, like an absolute idiot, he stumbled a little when he saw her absolutely beam at one of the tablets as it flickered to life, screen lighting up her face like something out of a bloody PC World advert.

Jesus Christ. She was fucking pretty.

Not in a flashy, look-at-me way. Just… quietly, properly pretty. The kind of pretty that made his stomach do something proper dodgy. He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering to himself. “Yeah. Sick. Nice one, mate. You’ve got no chance.”

— 

iMessage – Tuesday, 19:47

Lando mate she’s well fit 

Max F. bro 💀

Lando can’t stop staring at her she probably thinks im a right creep

Max F. yeah probably who are you even talking abt

Lando zak’s daughter

Max F.

are you actually brain dead?

you can’t fancy your boss’s daughter, mate

Lando she smiled today not at me but i saw it 

Max F. get a grip

Lando shut up you don’t get it

Max F. it’s a miracle you’ve still got a job 

Lando is this a safe space or what??

Max F. absolutely not you’re delusional, mate she’s so off-limits it’s not even funny

Lando 

🖕

— 

The Browns didn’t really do Christmas — not in the traditional sense. No matching pyjamas, no big family gathering, no chaos in the kitchen over a turkey no one actually wanted. They kept it simple: jazz music, good coffee, and her dad’s usual schtick — “I forgot to buy you anything this year.”

Which was a lie. Obviously.

She found it parked just outside on the driveway. A muted grey, weather-worn 1974 BMW 2002. 

Amelia stood and stared at it for a long time. Long enough that the cold bite of English winter started to seep in through her socks, and the tips of her fingers began to sting.

“Don’t just stand there,” her dad called from the doorway, hands tucked into his dressing gown pockets. “Take a proper look. She’s all yours.”

She took a slow step forward, then another. The car was old, but solid — just the way she liked things. A little rust, some scuffed chrome. It was beautiful. She crouched next to the front fender and ran her hand along the edge, careful, reverent.

“You hate shopping,” she said, still staring at it.

“I didn’t shop,” her dad replied. “I emailed a man named Clive and paid way too much to have him do all the work for me.”

There was a long silence.

She stood, glanced at him, tried — really tried — to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

He gave a small nod. “You’ll need new tires. And probably a carburettor.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her sleeves, but this time it wasn’t nerves — it was barely-contained energy. Her thoughts were already whirring; parts lists, toolkits, diagrams, weekends in the garage with grease on her hands and her favourite playlist playing on repeat.

“I— I can order those online,” she said, already calculating delivery times in her head. “And the belts. And the spark plugs. And—” She stopped herself.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled into his coffee mug that said ‘Worlds Best Dad’ and stepped back inside, leaving her alone with her new car and barely contained excitement.

Her hands started moving at her sides — flapping, stimming, too fast to stop once they began. She shoved them into her pockets, fists clenched tight against the fabric. Closed her eyes.

She took a breath. Let it out slowly.

Old habits died hard. Years at school had taught her to mask her reactions — even the harmless ones — because they made her stand out. Because they made her weird.

She hadn’t just been ignored. She’d been mocked. Not always loudly, but enough to stick. The way she flapped her hands. The way she didn’t make eye contact. The way she talked too much about one thing and not enough about everything else.

There was a reason she’d chosen not to go to university, even though she loved learning. Even though engineering made perfect sense to her in ways people often didn’t.

She could get a degree. She’d probably be good at it.

But it would drain her — the social minefields, the unspoken rules, the overwhelming noise of lecture halls and shared spaces and trying to be something she wasn’t just to fit in.

She’d spent so long trying to pass as normal. To not stim in public. To not talk too much. To not be too much.

Once, a girl in her class had said, in a tone that Amelia guessed was meant to be kind, “At least you’re pretty. You wouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve got, you know… issues.”

She still thought about that sometimes.

How it was supposed to be a compliment.

How it hadn’t felt like one at all.

— 

2019

The lights were off in her dad’s office. Just the soft hum of the monitor on standby, the gentle click of the old wall clock, and the warm, familiar scent of coffee baked into the furniture. She curled up on the old leather couch, knees tucked close to her chest, head resting against the arm. She had her weighted blanket on. Her yellow water bottle was beside her, half-full. The room felt like a safe haven. 

After yesterday, that was all she wanted.

The meltdown had come on fast — she’d been too hot, the lights too bright, someone had changed the layout of the front-desk without warning her, and it had all just spiralled. She hated how quickly she lost herself in the emotions. Hated the looks people gave her when she couldn’t hold it all together.

She’d apologised more than she should have. Her dad told her that she never needed to apologise for being who she was.

The office door opened.

She didn’t move, but her eyes flicked toward the sound. Her dad stepped in first, deep in conversation, and behind him were Carlos and Lando.

“I told you, she’s probably curled up somewhere charging like a phone,” her dad said lightly, then saw her. His voice softened. “Ah. There she is. Amelia — this is Lando. And this is Carlos.”

She blinked. Sat up a little. “I already know Lando.”

Lando almost tripped over his own feet. “Yeah! Yeah, we’ve, uh— run into each other a few times. Around. Just, like—hallways. And stuff.”

He scratched the back of his neck. His face went bright pink.

Amelia stared at him for a moment before she turned her attention to Carlos. “Hello.”

He gave her a small smile. “Hola,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a small pause.

Her dad cleared his throat, cheerful as ever.

“Carlos is one of the good ones,” he said. “No nonsense. I like that in a driver.”

Amelia nodded once. That made sense. She respected no-nonsense people, too.

She tucked her knees back under her chin. “Okay,” she said quietly.

Carlos smiled again, just a little wider this time. Still cautious, but less unsure.

Amelia didn’t return the smile — not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t always remember that she had to. Instead, she reached for her water bottle and unscrewed the lid. 

“You retired in Australia,” she said. 

Carlos blinked, then gave a small laugh. “Yeah. Not the best start to the season.”

“It was the power unit,” she shrugged. “Renault engine. Unreliable. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her dad gave a low chuckle. “She doesn’t miss much. Reads through race data like it’s the morning newspaper.”

Carlos tilted his head slightly. “You work with the engineers?” He asked her. 

“I don’t work anywhere,” Amelia said. “But I sometimes sit in on meetings. And I fix things when they’re wrong. Fernando used to let me be in his garage. He said I was very useful.”

“You are useful,” her dad said automatically, from across the room.

She didn’t respond. Compliments were difficult — they always made her feel like she was meant to do something with them, and she never quite knew what.

She looked at Lando. He was already watching her.

She blinked. His eyes widened a little.

She let out a quiet sigh through her nose. She hated not knowing what expressions meant — what came next, what was expected.

“Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” Carlos said, breaking the silence.

Amelia took another sip of water. The right words settled on her tongue this time.

“You overshot Turn Nine,” she said, turning back to Lando.

He coughed. “I—Yeah. I know.”

“You let off the brake too early. You always do that when you’re nervous.”

Carlos let out a small, choked sound.

She frowned at him. 

Lando shifted. “I don’t always do that.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “You did it at Monza in 2018.”

“Okay.” He said. His neck was going red. 

“But you’re getting better,” she added. “You were twelfth. That’s good, considering the partial engine fault.”

He looked at her for a second too long. She didn’t know why. Then he said, “…Thanks.”

She nodded once, and then tugged at her blanket. 

There was a quiet pause — the kind Amelia usually didn’t mind. Lando shuffled his feet. Carlos glanced toward the door, then back to her.

“Right then! I’ll come find you later,” her dad said to her. “We’ll get something nice for lunch.”

“Okay.” She agreed. 

Carlos gave her one last polite nod. “See you around, Amelia.”

She didn’t say goodbye, just looked at him, then at Lando. “You should eat more complex carbohydrates before qualifying sessions,” she told him. “You looked quite pale.”

Lando stared at her. “I—yeah. Alright.” He paused, then added quickly, “It was, uh, nice seeing you again.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips pressed together in a way that, for her, was close to a smile.

— 

iMessage – Thursday, 10:51

Lando i’m fucked like properly fucked

Max F. bro come on

Lando she’s unreal and actually insanely smart

Max F. mate this is such a catastrophically bad idea

Lando she remembered i locked up into turn 9 in monza like three years ago i think i’m in love

Max F. you’re not in love you’re having a breakdown

Lando can’t it be both

Max F. lando i’m staging an intervention where’s jon⁉️ does he know you’re acting like this

Lando jon just keeps saying i should be stretching more he doesn’t care about my emotional wellbeing

Max F. he’d start to care if he found out you were thirsting after zak browns daughter 

Lando gonna make her my wifey 😏

Max F. fucksake lando 

— 

Amelia stood behind the screens at the back of the McLaren pit garages, fingers looped through the sleeves of her jacket. She’d already organised the weekend’s tyre allocation list by compound, colour-coded the data feed to match, and adjusted the ride height figures twice. Not because she needed to — just because she could.

It was her first race of the year.

The first time back since before the winter break. 

The new chassis looked better in person than it had in the renders. She liked the way the papaya paint caught the light.

“Amelia,” someone said softly.

She turned her head slightly. One of the engineers — Greg? Grant? She still hadn’t learned his name. She was terrible at remembering names. 

“Telemetry’s live when you’re ready.” He told her. 

She nodded once and moved closer, careful to avoid the cables that trailed across the floor like snakes.

The numbers lit up on the screen in front of her. Speed. G-force. Delta times.

She exhaled, long and slow. 

“Morning.”

She looked up. Lando.

He was already in his race suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair a mess and half-damp. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly after his shower.

“Hello,” she responded.

“You’re here,” he said, smiling. Then quickly added, “I mean — yeah, obviously. It’s only the third race. But still.”

She tilted her head. “Yes. I’m here.”

A pause. His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, then closed again.

“Okay, cool,” he said finally. “Sick. Um. Good luck out there.”

“I’m not driving,” she frowned at him.

“Right.” He turned and walked straight into a support beam.

Amelia blinked, then returned her attention to the screen.

Lando’s throttle trace was spiky again. She’d make a note of that.

— 

The garage was quieter now. Not silent though. It was never fully silent. Engineers were keeping their voices low. Tools clinked still, but in a less urgent rhythm. Some of the pit crew were already sweeping up debris from the floor. Wiping away a mess that no one wanted to talk about.

Amelia stayed where she always did, behind the screens, legs crossed on the floor like it helped anchor her in place. Her yellow water bottle sat by her knee, half-empty and warm now. She hadn’t drunk much since the race started.

DNFs always left a strange taste in the air. Bitter. Like metal.

She hadn’t seen the full replay yet, but she didn’t need to. Lando’s car had made it twenty-eight laps before something failed; she’d seen the warning signs creeping into the data before the radio call was made. His voice had been clipped. Tired.

The flap of the garage partition opening made her flinch. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

It was obviously Lando. His helmet was gone, race suit peeled halfway down, sweat-damp fireproofs clinging to his arms. He stopped just beside her.

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice cracked a little. “In case anyone’s, you know. Wondering.”

Amelia didn’t respond.

He hovered.

She tapped the edge of her tablet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Kind of was.” He dropped onto the floor beside her with a groan, back against the wall. “Clipped the kerb weird coming out of six. Probably jarred something.”

“No,” she said. “You were nursing a power unit issue from lap seventeen. You did what you were supposed to.”

He looked at her, then away again, picking at the velcro on his gloves.

She watched him for a second. Tried to decide if she was supposed to say something else. If there was something people usually said in moments like this.

Nothing came.

So she offered the only thing she could give. Facts. “You did better than the data predicted.”

Lando glanced at her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

She squinted at him. Hadn’t that been obvious? “Yes.”

He smiled a little. Just with the corner of his mouth. “Cheers.”

They sat there in silence for a while. A few people came over to touch Lando’s shoulder and offer him sympathy. His jaw got tighter every time. 

Eventually, she picked up her tablet and started rewatching his onboard. Then she angled it toward him. 

“You’re going to tell me exactly what I did wrong, aren’t you?” he asked.

She nodded.

He let his head thump back against the wall. “Brilliant.”

—

The motorhome had quieted after media duties and the two-hour race debrief. Lando sat slouched on the drivers' lounge sofa, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling. Carlos was across from him, arms folded, watching with a look Lando had come to recognise: the I know something you don’t want me to know look.

“I need to ask you something,” Carlos said, tone casual. But the accent gave it weight — Som-theeng.

Lando didn’t look up. “No.”

Carlos chuckled. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say, coño.”

“I do.” Lando groaned. “And the answer is still no.”

Carlos leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You like her.”

“What? No, I—” Lando paused, brow furrowed. “Like who?”

Carlos tilted his head. “Come on. Don’t play dumb, amigo. Amelia. You like Amelia Brown.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “Nah. We’ve barely talked.”

Even he could hear the lie in his own voice.

Carlos raised a silent eyebrow.

“I’m just being respectful!” Lando snapped. “She’s—she’s McLaren royalty, basically. And she knows more about my car than I do half the time.”

Carlos shrugged, eyes sharp. “Sí, she’s smart. And I like her. But...” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You need to be careful, cabrón.”

Lando’s jaw tensed. “Why? Do you like her? Is that what this is?” The words came out sharper than he intended, something hot and ugly twisting in his gut. Jealousy. Stupid, immediate, and impossible to hide.

Carlos blinked. “Ay, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lando didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said he wasn’t convinced.

Carlos sat back, arms folding again. “She’s not a paddock flirt, okay? She’s not like the grid girls or the influencers who want a selfie and a race pass. She is your boss’ daughter. You screw that up, it’s not just her you lose — it’s your job, your reputation, and the respect of thr whole damn garage. If you haven’t already lost your seat.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “Why does everyone act like I’m some... idiot teenager with zero self-control?”

Carlos held his gaze. “Because you are a teenager with zero self-control.”

“I’m nineteen!” He argued. 

“Exactly.” Carlos exhaled through his nose. “So, listen to me. If you’re serious? Fine. But don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “I’m not a total dickhead, y’know.”

Carlos gave him a long look, then nodded. “Bueno. Just remember what I said.”

Lando muttered under his breath, “Still worth it.”

Carlos groaned, grabbing a cushion off the sofa and chucking it at him. “Ay dios mío. You are so getting yourself fired.”

— 

Amelia was sat on the low wall outside the McLaren hospitality unit, sipping from her water bottle, tablet balanced on her knees.

She heard him before she saw him — Lewis never really moved quietly. Valtteri was beside him. 

“Morning, little genius,” Lewis said, slowing to a stop.

She looked up, blinked once. “Good morning.”

Valtteri gave a small nod. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m fine,” she said, glancing back down at her tablet. 

There was a pause. 

She sighed softly before looking up at them both. “You can tell Toto thank you,” she said, tone even. “For the offer. I appreciate it, but I’m not interested.”

Lewis blinked. “Offer?”

“Yes. The job.” She paused. “I assumed he’d told you.”

Valtteri and Lewis exchanged a glance; surprised, a little caught off guard.

“He didn’t,” Valtteri said slowly.

Lewis folded his arms. “He reached out to you directly?”

She nodded. “From his personal email. Not the Mercedes one.” That felt important.

Lewis let out a low whistle. “Damn. That sneaky bastard.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Amelia went on. “And I’m staying with my team. With my dad. Loyalty is important to me.”

Valtteri raised his brows. Lewis looked at her for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. “Well, he’ll be disappointed,” he said, voice lighter now.

Amelia shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

“Guess we’ll just have to beat you on track then,” Valtteri added, grinning.

She frowned down at her tablet screen. “You have a significantly better car than us.”

Lewis laughed. “Yeah. Guess we do.” 

— 

“Miss Brown, I’d like a word.”

She turned, blinked, and then frowned.

The team principal for Renault smiled at her, a little too wide — it was off-putting.

“I’ll just jump straight to it. I think you could be a great asset to our team. We’d love to have someone with your brain power. I could offer you a very generous employment package.” He said. 

She blinked at him. She’d been getting these exact kinds of propositions ever since the season started. Every team, it seemed, was suddenly interested in her ‘brain power’. She wasn’t sure what had changed. Maybe they had followed her on Twitter. 

“I am happy where I am,” she said flatly. “Thank you.” 

The man was still smiling, though it was starting to fade just a little. “Are you sure? We’d be willing to work out a very appealing arrangement for you. It could be a great opportunity.”

She wasn’t interested. She didn’t need to be polite. It didn’t take a lot of effort to walk away from the conversation. She took a step back, her fingers clenching around her yellow water bottle.

As she moved past him, she heard him call after her, but she didn’t stop.

Gosh, she thought to herself, as she made her way back to McLaren motorhome. Could none of them find anyone better than a 19-year-old without a degree?

NEXT CHAPTER

[jinmindeulle]

spanish lessons | kim mingyu

“You’re joking”

“Well…”

“Babe!”

When Mingyu groaned, you had to giggle. You loved seeing your boyfriend becoming a big baby, rolling over his side of the bed to look at you, so you could clearly see his pout. 

You had told your parents that Mingyu had woken up feeling sick, so you had to call off your family lunch to take care of him. ¡Oh no! Espero que mejore pronto. ¡Qué lástima! Tu papá y yo teníamos muchas ganas de conocerlo al fin. (Oh no! Hope he gets better soon. What a pity! Your dad and I were really looking forward to finally meeting him) — was your mum’s answer to your early text. 

“I was really excited” he shook his head, disappointment all over his puffy face. “I even had Spanish classes for this!”

You knew that Mingyu wanted to make the best impression possible on your parents, and the language barrier had made him nervous, even before you told him they had finally asked to meet him.

“I know, I know” you nodded, getting closer to his naked chest and tracing abstract shapes on his bicep “But I’m ovulating”

“Oh”

That’s all it took for him to get the hint. By that point, he knew you like the palm of his hand, and that could only mean one thing. You. Were. Needy.

So when he gave you that flirty grin, you could only react by sliding on top of him and leaning down to kiss him properly. His cock was starting to grow hard against your core when a call to your phone interrupted your favorite morning activities.

“Damn it” you groaned, stretching to get it from your night table without leaving Mingyu’s lap. “¿Sí, mamá?” (Yes, mum?)

“¿Será que podemos ir a verles? Es que preparé mucha comida y no quiero que se eche a perder, hija” (Could we go see you? It’s just that I cooked so much food and I don’t want it to go bad, honey”)

“Ahora está muy mal, ma, pero puede que para la tarde mejore y sí pueda atenderles.” (He’s not okay now, mum, but maybe by the afternoon he’s better and we can welcome you). 

The quizzical look in his eyes as he caressed your waist with his big hands made you smile, and the thought that you couldn’t wait for him to be inside you crossed your mind, heating up your cheeks — your mother was on the other end of the line, Jesus Christ!

“Bueno, me avisas ¿sí? Mándale un beso a Mingyu.” (Okay, you let me know, yeah? Send Mingyu a kiss)

“¿Y a mi?” (What about me?) you giggle, feeling said man’s dick throbbing harder and harder as you spoke.

“Y a ti también, tontita” (You too, silly)

“That was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me” Mingyu stated matter-of-factly, sitting up to devour you in a kiss. 

You moaned against his mouth, chuckling when he pressed your back against the mattress in a single move, caging your body with his.

“Make me yours, goddamn it” you mumble in between pecks, and when he stopped to look at your naked frame under his, he gave you a lusty smile. 

“Español, por favor” (Spanish, please)

Mingyu was going to put those classes into practice.

spanish being my first language... mingyu AND spanish together... i needed to publish this asap

¸.·✩·.¸¸.·¯⍣✩ seventeen masterlist ✩⍣¯·.¸¸.·✩·.¸

[gpcwsl]

Reader is Spanish, moving from Atletico and struggles to understand everyone, specially Katie's accent. Katie develops a crush bit literally can't communicate or get closer to reader. Reader is insulted during match and doesn't understand but Katie does and deals with the other player. Angsty all around but happy ending for both

Katie McCabe x Spanish!Reader

Communication is the key

WC: 606

MasterList

Warnings: Language Barrier/Miscommunication, Strong Language, Rough/Inappropriate Behavior in Football, Protectiveness/Possessiveness, Suggestive Thoughts, Flirting/Teasing, Angst & Frustration, short.

Song: Te Amo - Rihanna

You’ve been in London for a year now. Twelve months of cold rain, confusing slang, and a constant struggle to decipher the whirlwind of accents around you—none more perplexing than Katie McCabe’s.

The Irishwoman speaks like a storm, words tumbling out fast and thick, letters swallowed and sentences clipped. Even some of your teammates—who have known her for years—still hesitate when she talks.

You? You’re still learning, still tripping over the language barrier that sometimes feels like a wall between you and everyone else.

But you’ve adapted. Your English is better now—though not perfect. You can hold conversations, understand tactics, laugh at jokes (most of the time).

And despite the miscommunication, Katie has always been kind. Protective. A presence you find yourself drawn to, even when you can’t quite keep up with her words.

Katie, for her part, has found herself hopelessly enamored. She doesn’t need to understand every word you say to know she’s in deep. Your laugh—bright, uninhibited—makes her stomach twist.

Your accent, the way you stumble through English with careful deliberation, makes her want to hear you say her name in Spanish, soft and drawn out.

And your body—Christ. She’s spent too many nights thinking about how your jersey clings to your skin after a match, how your legs move, powerful and precise.

She wants you. But she can’t tell you.

Because how can she, when she’s convinced you can barely understand her?

The match is brutal. From the first whistle, Leicester targets you.

You’re fouled again and again—clearly, deliberately. You hit the pitch hard, dirt clinging to your skin, frustration brewing in your chest. The ref doesn’t call it. The insults come next.

“Fucking hell, can she even understand us?”

“Go back to Spain.”

“She’s useless, anyway.”

You don’t catch all of it, not completely, but you know the tone. The sneers. It’s enough to set your teeth on edge.

Katie hears everything.

She sees red.

Before you can react, Katie is on them. In their face. Her voice cuts through the air, sharp and vicious.

“You think you’re fucking funny?” she snarls. “Targeting her because she’s better than you? Can’t handle her, so you foul her instead?”

The Leicester player stammers, caught off guard. Katie doesn’t let up.

“Pathetic. You’re a joke.”

The ref pulls her away before she can say more, but the damage is done. Leicester backs off after that. And when the final whistle blows, Arsenal wins.

You find Katie outside the locker room, still buzzing with adrenaline, hands still clenched into fists.

You smile at her—soft, grateful. “Gracias, Katie.”

She blinks. Her name in your accent sends something warm curling inside her. She clears her throat, suddenly nervous.

“I—uh—” She scratches the back of her neck, suddenly aware of how stupid she sounds in her own head. “Do you wanna—uh—hang out?”

You tilt your head, curious. She panics.

“So we can teach each other our language?”

The moment the words leave her mouth, she cringes. Jesus Christ, that was embarrassing.

But you—oh, you just laugh. A real, genuine laugh. And fuck, Katie’s heart nearly stops.

“Sí,” you say, still smiling. “I’d like that.”

She exhales, relief washing over her. Then—

“Eres tan linda cuando estás enojada.”

Your voice is lower now, teasing.

She doesn’t know exactly what you said, but she hears the shift in your tone, the way your accent wraps around the words, slow and deliberate. The way your eyes flicker down to her lips before dragging back up.

Jesus.

She swallows hard, forcing herself to stay composed.

Yeah. She’s absolutely screwed.

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (v)

FIVE - CHECKMATE

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, graphic violence, smut, rough sex, minimal aftercare, oral (f receiving), p in v, overstimulation, HEAVY angst

You love Rhysand, with all your heart. He welcomed you into Velaris when you had nowhere to go. He gave you not only a home, but a family—and a loving one, at that. But if there’s one thing you can’t stand about the highest of High Lords, it’s his incessant, never-ending, mind-numbing nagging. If patience is a virtue, then he’s a vice.

Any news, my little liaison?

You can sense the question coming before his talons so much as tap on the cobblestone barriers of your mind.  

Not since the last five times you’ve asked.

You know it’s rude, but frankly, you don’t have the energy to hide the irritation laced so clearly in your tone. In your defense, Rhys has doubled the frequency of his daily check-ins, and between the lack of information you have to share and your feelings for Eris that you can no longer ignore, you’re seconds away from winnowing back to Velaris just to give the High Lord a piece of your mind.

Someone’s feisty today.

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes your skin crawl with agitation.

Very. Now if you don’t mind, I have a book to get back to, you snap.

He swiftly replies, Need I remind you that daily check-ins are part of your employment, and that your income is contingent on you doing your job?

You are so going to punch him when you get back.

Don’t pull rank on me, asshole. I’ll get the job done.

The cobblestone barriers go back up and you stare down at the book in your lap with a sour taste in your mouth. Your reading session has effectively been spoiled. But as much as it pains you to admit, Rhys’s incessant nagging doesdrive you into gear. 

After several attempts snooping through the Forest House, you’ve concluded that whatever Eris is hiding isn’t there. So, that leaves one place: the cottage by the waterfall. 

You’ve been putting it off—ever since the night Eris took your virginity. If your emotions were conflicting before, they are at bloody war now. You no longer want any part in this scheme—not when you care for him so deeply, it hurts. But you know that if you return to Velaris now, empty-handed with a week left in your mission, you’ll have no ground to stand on when the accusations come rolling in.

With a long sigh, you set the book down and haul yourself from the comfort of your bed. You don’t want to go to that cottage. Searching it feels like an afront to Eris. However, if you don’t, then the nagging seed planted by the High Lord of the Night Court himself will continue clawing through your thoughts. So, you reluctantly pull on your boots and drape your cloak over your shoulders before winnowing away from that ransack cabin you’re quickly growing to love.

 The kaleidoscope of colors and crashing sounds of the waterfall are just as breathtaking as they were the first time you visited. But they don’t hold the same serenity—perhaps they sense your ulterior motive, somehow dimming their magic. As you make your way to the watermill, you don’t allow yourself to indulge in the natural beauty of this place, or the memories of what transpired the last time you were here. You have a job to do, and it requires searching every inch of that little cottage—if not to quiet Rhys’s nagging, then to satiate your own budding curiosity.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It's much easier said than done—letting the mind’s rationality dominate the body’s desires. All those ancient philosophers were fools for thinking that the two entities could be separated, when they are so inherently intertwined.

You weren’t surprised that there was nothing to be found in that little cottage. With a heavy heart, you find yourself perched atop a boulder at the peak of the waterfall, just inches away from the ledge. It feels poetic—physically placing yourself on the brink of crashing down just as your inner sense of self teeters on the edge. 

This place, in all its magnificence, has changed you. Whether it’s for better or for worse, you’re unsure. But you know that you won’t leave Autumn as the same woman who came. Not when you’ve experienced so much. It’s not the sights you’ve seen, or the raw nature you’ve lived in. Rather, it’s the unification of your mind and body, fused together by an otherworldly force you’ve only read about. 

The thought of leaving, of losing that piece that’s been missing for 70 years, makes your chest ache. You don’t want to lose Eris—you can’t. But staying means continuing to live a lie until he finds out who you really are. Staying means losing him indefinitely. 

As you stare out at the falling water, you plead for some kind of clarity. Something to push you in the right direction. The red and golden trees which remind you so much of your mother billow softly in the wind, rustling in a hushed whisper. Your chest tightens with a different kind of pain. It’s now, more than ever before, that you need her here. You don’t even need to hear her voice, just the warmth of her embrace. So, you close your eyes and relax each muscle in your body, from your head to your toes. You focus on the whispers of the trees, the grumblings of the water, and allow light to take you. You can feel it extending from your fingertips, wrapping around your body just as she would. It’s warm—just like her. And as your eyes flutter open, her light flooding your vision, the answer comes to you.

You can’t leave Eris behind with the memory of a female who doesn’t exist. Nor can you stay here, waiting until he figures you out for himself or Rhys comes looking. If you come clean, Eris won’t be forgiving. But at least this way, with all your metaphorical cards laid out on the table, you’ll both have the peace of mind to move on, for better or for worse.

The light surrounding you rushes back into your fingertips and you take one last glance at the beautiful scenery before you, imprinting it in your memory, before winnowing away without a second thought. The dusty cabin greets you as it always does, and you move with purpose towards the pen Eris had once left you on your bedside table. You hastily tear a page from one of Nesta’s books, and scribble onto the back.

Can I see you tonight? 

You pause in thought, before adding,

My filthy little romance books are becoming a bit boring.

A satisfied smile curls onto your lips, and you neatly fold the page in half before setting it back down on the table. Despite the raging storm looming ahead, the little bit of light heartedness puts your poor nerves at ease. You find yourself unable to sit still as you pace around the cabin, your eyes never leaving the note. Goosebumps erupt along your arms when the piece of paper vanishes with a crack. You hold your breath as you wait for a reply—but it doesn’t come. You stare, unmoving, at the spot where the note once sat. You stare at that dusty table until the gold of the setting sun floods through the windows, until it eventually leaves, until you’re left with only the flickering flames behind you lighting the bleak space.

Frustration bubbles in the pit of your stomach. You’ve barely seen Eris since that fateful night in his room. Sure, you’ve had a few visits to the Forest House library since, but they’ve been brief—cut short by his work. Aside from a few passing kisses and fleeting embraces, you haven’t been with Eris in the same way in nearly a week now. As you watch the empty spot on the table, you’re forced to consider the possibility that he may not receive your message, let alone reply; and you have no Plan B if he doesn’t.

To keep yourself from spiraling, you reluctantly tear your eyes away from the table and resign yourself to the kitchen. You redirect your attention by busying yourself with preparing a small dinner. As you rifle through the sparce number of ingredients in your cabinet, you decide that cabbage and potatoes will have to do. You work leisurely preparing your food, all the while keeping an eye on the bedside table in your peripheral. 

Just as you turn the heat off on the stove, a pair of hands grip your waist. Fear courses through you as you whip around with a scream and a knife in your hand. Amber eyes wink back at you, unfazed by the weapon inches away. Your shoulders sag in relief, but you don’t lower the knife as your eyes narrow into slits. Eris plucks the sharp object from your hand.

“I thought you wanted to see me, Little Bird,” he muses, running a finger along the pointed edge.

Your glare deepens, “A little heads up would have been nice. I’ve been waiting hours for a reply.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth as he twirls the blade in his hand. Your lips part as he raises the knife to your face, tracing the dull edge down your cheekbone, along your jawline, before finally settling under your chin. He tilts it slightly, forcing your chin upwards so your eyes meet his. His jaw is clenched and the typically playful glint in his eye is replaced with something slightly more sinister, exuding a cruel beauty you’ve only caught glimpses of before.

“I know you’re drawn to shiny toys, Little Bird, but you should be careful playing with such sharp things,” he drawls, pressing the blade deeper against your skin, “Haven’t you heard that curiosity killed the cat?”

You gulp as a chill prickles your skin. Despite the impish smirk on his face, there’s something more than mere teasing to his words.

“But satisfaction brought it back,” you quip.

A cinch forms between your brows as you try to decipher the hardness of his features. But just as suddenly as the mystery was there, it’s gone. He lowers the knife and sets it down, stepping away from you. He leans against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He quirks a brow and jerks his head towards the pot of food on the stove, “Well don’t stop on my accord.”

You reluctantly tear your eyes away from his and turn back towards the steaming pot of cabbage and potatoes. You work in a mechanical manner, acutely aware of his penetrating gaze burning holes in the side of your head. Tension is thick in the air. Something is off; your mind screams at you to ask him what’s wrong, but an even greater force keeps the words contained in your throat. He watches as you walk towards the cupboard, standing on your toes to reach the plates on the top shelf. You can hear him shift behind you as you grab two plates and walk back over to the stove. You scoop a modest serving onto one plate, and just as you’re about to scoop out another onto the second plate, his sharp words slice through the silence.

“What are you doing?”

You pause and cock your head towards him. 

“Serving you food,” you stumble, taken aback by the trepidation in his widened eyes, “I made more than I can eat. I know it’s not much, but I figured—”

He strides forward and wraps his hand around your wrist, forcing you to drop the small pot back onto the stove. You wince at the loud clatter of the metal and turn to face him fully. Your eyes are wide with incredulity, irritation blazing.

“What in the world has gotten into you? Have you lost any semblance of manners?” you hiss, yanking your wrist out of his grasp.

His jaw shifts as he grinds his teeth. Eris stalks closer to you, grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. You weakly try to push him away, but his grip is firm.

“Did you forget your little note? I thought you wanted me here for a reason,” his demeanor shifts as he speaks in a low rumble, tracing the tip of his nose along your cheek. He rubs circles onto your waist and trails open-mouthed kisses down the expanse of your face, your neck, purposefully avoiding your lips.

“I do,” you gasp as he nips at a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, “But we need to talk.”

He presses your further into the counter, “I’m not in the mood.”

You frown, “But—”

His lips crash against yours, effectively cutting you off. Your mind is spinning, yet you can’t help but melt into his touch. The kiss is fast and sloppy but addicting all the same. His tongue swipes along your lower lip, and your mouth parts without hesitation. His lips leave yours and he redirects his attention to your neck, giving you a moment to breathe, a moment for the fog in your head to clear.

“Eris, I—”

“Please,” he groans against your skin and raises his head. He presses his forehead against yours, “Please just let me have this.”

For a split second, his hardened exterior falters and you catch glimpse of a sliver of vulnerability—of pure desperation. The pleading look in his eyes tugs at something deep in your chest, urging you to nod once.

“Okay,” you whisper.

 His lips are back on yours quicker than your rapid heartbeat. This time, you hold nothing back, giving yourself to him entirely. You match his fervor, driven by that sorrowful whisper in the back of your mind that this will be the last time. And if tonight will be your last, then you selfishly wish to leave with this last memory of him. So as your lips slide against his, you memorize every part of him: the tickling sensation of his chapped lips, each ridge of his biceps, the silk of his crimson hair.

“You said you wanted me to let loose last time,” he mumbles into your mouth and yanks the zipper of your dress down, “So I’m letting loose.”

He shoves the material down your shoulders and walks you back towards the bed. You let him lead you and match his rhythm, never missing a beat. Your knees buckle as you hit the back of the bed, and you collapse onto it together in a heap. Eris doesn’t waste a second as he unclasps your bra, and you just as eagerly pull off his shirt. You whine when he abruptly pulls away, but your protests catch in your throat as he moves down your body to your breasts. Your eyes flutter shut, and you tangle your hands in his hair as he kisses, sucks, and nips every inch of your flesh. Your back arches as he swirls his tongue around your peaked nipple and flicks his thumb over the other.

You jolt as he strokes his other hand along the side of your breast where black ink is etched into your skin, hidden from his view by your glamour. Heat pools in your gut as his lips trail down your body, your heartbeat accelerating as he inches towards the trim of your panties. Amber eyes flick up to you. He hooks his fingers underneath the band of your panties, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his pupils blown wide with desire. 

“Talk to me, Little Bird. Use that sharp tongue of yours,” he rasps.

Your teeth sink into your lower lip to contain your whimper as he stretches the band before letting it snap back harshly against your skin.

“I want you between my thighs. I want your mouth on me, your hands all over my body.” He pulls the flimsy material down and you spread your legs, baring yourself to him entirely. Your voice trembles, but you continue, “I want my lips wrapped around your cock. I want you to fuck me into oblivion. I want it all.”

You gasp as he slides a finger through your slick before circling it around your clit.

“Greed is a sin, Little Bird,” he purrs.

Eris slides his other hand up your thigh, wasting no time as he thrusts a finger inside you. A muffled moan escapes your lips as he curls his finger, all the while continuing his ministrations on your clit.

Even with your mind scrambled you still manage to bite back, “Good thing I’m dealing with the devil himself.”

You’re unable to stifle your cry as Eris lurches forward. He dives right in, his lips wrapping around your clit. He continues curling his finger, hitting that delicious spot deep inside you, as his tongue moves skillfully over the swollen bud. He uses his free hand to spread your legs even wider, giving him complete access to the most intimate part of your body. You tangle one hand in his hair, the other grasping the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. You arch your back as he alternates between sucking and flicking his tongue. He quickly picks up his speed, foregoing any teasing, and sinks a second finger into you.

You clench your thighs around his head as you feel the pressure rapidly building in your gut. You tug harshly on his hair in a wordless command to stop before you can finish, but he ignores you. Instead, he buries himself even further, shaking his head as he devours you.

“If you don’t stop, I’ll—”

His teeth graze over your clit, and that’s all it takes for the coil inside you to snap. A pitiful moan escapes your lips as you reach your climax, the orgasm wracking your body so hard you can feel it in your bones. Eris continues flicking his tongue over you, his fingers still moving as he rides you through your release. Unlike last time, he doesn’t stop when your thighs start twitching violently, or when you yank on his hair. A pained cry bubbles in your throat as he keeps going. It’s too much—the overstimulation burns, and your vision starts to blur.

“Eris, please,” you pull again on his hair and he growls against you, “It’s too much.”

He keeps going, even as your thighs close tightly around his head. Black spots dance in your vision, and just when you think you’re about to slip from consciousness, he abruptly pulls off. A sigh of relief passes through your lips and your limbs fall limp. You glance down at him through hooded eyes, watching as he sucks his fingers into his mouth before moving up your body. His tongue flicks out to catch a tear trailing down your cheek.

“I thought you were sinning tonight, Little Bird. Have you a change of heart?” he taunts.

You jolt as his hand reaches down between you and rolls over your clit, swollen red. You grasp his biceps in protest, and he sucks and licks at your neck before pulling his hand away reluctantly.

“I wanted to finish with you inside of me,” you mutter bashfully, a flush crawling up your neck at how quickly he pulled an orgasm out of you.

“Don’t worry, darling. I plan on it,” he mouths at the corner of your lips and rolls his hips against yours, “We’re being greedy tonight, aren’t we?”

You arch your body into his, as if drawn by some magnetic pull. He grinds his hips against yours once more, and you can feel his painfully hard member against your thigh. You throw caution to the wind and wrap your arms around his neck, slotting your lips against his. He responds eagerly, groaning into your mouth as you palm him through the fabric of his pants. You fumble with the fastenings and Eris helps you push the material down in record time, his lips never leaving yours. You slip your tongue into his mouth and simultaneously shove against his shoulders. He flips onto his back, gripping your hips to pull you on top of him. You sink your teeth softly into his bottom lip before pulling away. Eris watches you intently as you gaze down at his throbbing cock sitting proudly against his stomach. He sucks in a breath as you wrap your hand around his member, rolling your thumb over the tip. 

Your eyes light up as an idea crosses your mind, and you lock your eyes with his. His jaw falls slack as you run your fingers through your folds before wrapping your hand around him once more. You use your own dripping arousal as lubricant to move along his length, setting a steady rhythm with the twisting of your wrist. 

“Fuck,” Eris groans, “You truly are sinful.”

You swoop down and wrap your lips around the tip of his cock, but before you can take him completely into your mouth, he hooks his arms underneath yours and yanks you back up his body, as if you weigh nothing. He props himself up with his back against the headboard, forcing you to straddle his lap. You pout at his rough handling but can’t contain the moan that pours from your lips as he jerks his hips upwards, rubbing his cock between your folds.

“Playtime’s over, Little Bird,” Eris pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it harshly before releasing it, “I’d rather see you ride my cock like the sinner that you are.”

Something about the low grumble of his words, the way the syllables roll off his tongue, stirs something deep inside of you. You raise your hips up slightly, hovering back and forth over his dick in a teasing maneuver. You snake a hand up his shoulder and around his neck, sinking your nails into the skin of his nape. 

“Those who play with the devil’s toys will be brought by degrees to wield his sword,” you whisper sensually against the corner of his mouth.

He grips your hips tightly, steadying you so your entrance hovers directly above the tip of his dick. His blunt nails scrape against your skin in warning, and he bites back, “Speak of the devil, and his horns appear.”

A strangled cry escapes your lips as he forcefully pulls you down, impaling you on his cock. Your head spins at the burning stretch, the overwhelming fullness of being seated directly on him. Gone is the softness, the reverence of your first time with him, and in its place an unsatiable beast. He barely gives you a minute to adjust.

“Go on then,” he grunts, blunt nails still digging into your hips.

You force yourself to breathe through your nose as you steady yourself on his shoulders before rising up slowly, until just his tip remains. He pulls you back down again, impatient, and you moan in unison at the spine-tingling feeling. Your brows cinch together in concentration as you repeat the movement, slowly becoming accustomed to the new position. His hands guide you, and you fall into a steady rhythm bouncing on his cock. A spark of pleasure rolls through you each time you bottom out, your clit rubbing against his abdomen.

You throw your head back as Eris’s hands snake up your waist and caress your breasts which bounce with each rise and fall. You increase your speed, but your thighs are beginning to tremble. The sweat on your palms makes your hands slide from his shoulders as you fuck yourself on his cock, struggling to chase that high you both so desperately seek. Sensing your exertion, Eris wraps his hand around your neck in a stabilizing maneuver before bucking his hips upwards. You gasp at the sensation, your rhythm faltering. He does it again, and your hands slip from his shoulders completely. He hits you so deeply, you’re sure that there’s a bulge in your stomach.

A long string of moans passes through your lips as Eris continues bucking his hips wildly. You collapse into his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder as he fucks up into you so quickly your vision spots. 

“Can’t handle the heat, Little Bird?” he pants, “Didn’t think you’d be so quick to give up.”

You whine in protest but remain pliant in his arms as you let him use you. He alternates his pace, switching from long, deep thrusts to short, shallow ones that build up your high before stripping it away in a torturous manner. 

“Fox got your tongue?” he taunts.

You sink your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your cries as he continues his punishing pace. He suddenly stills, but before you can even raise your head from his shoulder, he flips you over so your back is against the mattress, hair splayed across your pillows. Eris pulls out completely, and your cunt clenches at the emptiness. He raises your legs, draping them over his shoulders and pulling you flush to his body. For a split second, everything stops, and all you can see, think, touch, and taste his him. The sweat beading on his brow, the rosy flush over his freckled cheeks, and the distant look in those amber eyes you so desperately want to wipe away. Just as suddenly, he plunges back into you with brutal force. 

A string of incoherent babbles falls from your lips as he drives into you, hitting your g-spot over and over again. You scramble for purchase as he straightens his back and pulls your thighs flush to his chest. A tear slips from the corner of your eye at the back-breaking angle.

“Come on, Little Bird,” he grunts as he drives into you, “Talk to me.”

He leans forward, caging you between his elbows as he folds your pliable body in half. The constant switching of angles is dizzying, and you splutter for words through cries of pleasure.

“I can’t,” you all but sob as you desperately claw at his back.

“Yes you can,” he pushes, “Tell me how much you love this.”

He snakes a hand between you and begins rubbing circles over your throbbing clit in perfect time with the force of his thrusts.

“I—I love it,” you gasp, writhing underneath him as the pleasure rapidly builds to a breaking point.

“I know you do,” he moans, his forehead dropping against yours, “No one else can make you feel this good, can they? No one else can absolutely ruin you.”

Your walls flutter around him as your high looms, just seconds away. You shake your head, tears rolling freely down your cheeks.

“Only you,” you cry, “Ruin me, Eris.”

The wave comes crashing over you so violently it feels like drowning. You have no control over the incoherent syllables stringing from your mouth, the convulsing of your thighs, as for the first time in your life, your body separates completely from your mind. Eris crashes his lips against yours as he quickly follows, spilling into you with a guttural groan that shakes you to your core. He continues thrusting into you in a languid manner, coaxing out both of your orgasms and filling you to the brim. You barely manage to move your lips against his, but he strokes his thumb over your cheek in a gentle, soothing manner—a contrast to the roughness with which he’s handled you tonight. You gradually sink into the kiss as you come down from your high and run your hand through his crimson hair, matching his soft touch.

You breathe each other in, relishing in the taste of him. As the ecstasy of your orgasm subsides, another bone-shattering force takes its place: the bitter reminder that these will be your last moments with the male who has so effortlessly turned your world upside down.

Your chest tightens as he detaches his lips from yours, not ready for it to end. His eyes lock onto yours in a fleeting moment of vulnerability before trailing down to the tears still streaming freely down your cheeks. He avoids your gaze as he wipes them away, one by one, with a tender touch. You raise a shaky hand and brush back his tousled hair in a silent plea for him to look at you, to reveal the storm stirring behind his eyes. Instead he pulls away completely, and eases his softening cock out from inside of you. You wince at the combination of physical overstimulation and emotional dejection.

Eris flops onto his back beside you, his chest still heaving. You tentatively peek at him through your peripheral, and find him staring up at the ceiling blankly. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, head spinning as you debate whether or not to break the heavy silence. You divert your gaze to the flaming fireplace in front of you.

“Eris?” you whisper meekly.

He merely grunts in response.

You wet your lips before continuing, “I have to tell you something.”

The sheets don’t so much as rustle; the only sound that fills the quaint little cabin is the crackling of embers. Still, you continue.

“I’m not who I say I am,” your voice trembles. 

Silence. Blistering, gut-wrenching silence.

You turn onto your side, and your heart drops at the sight before you. His eyes are fluttered shut, long lashes gracing the tops of his cheekbones. His swollen lips are parted slightly, and his chest moves steadily with each deep breath—dead asleep. You squint your eyes shut, fighting the urge to scream with frustration. This was not how the night was supposed to go. You were supposed to come clean, to end things in the best way possible given the complexity of your circumstances. But it seems the universe has something else in store for you.

You stare blankly at Eris as he sleeps, silently willing him to stir. Instead, his breathing only slows further, and soft snores start to sound from his lips. Anxiety creeps up your arms, threatening to swallow you whole. The thought alone of waiting a second longer to confess is all-consuming—but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. As you stare at the strong bridge of his nose, you try your best to reassure yourself. Just one more night, and it will all be over.

You crawl underneath the covers, the chilliness of the cabin prickling your skin, and resign yourself to sleep. But even with the warm comfort of the crackling hearth, sleep doesn’t come kindly—not with your racing mind. You try slowing your breaths to match the steady rise and fall of Eris’s chest. You even try counting imaginary sheep in your head, but each time you reach the brink of consciousness you’re abruptly ripped away, leaving it just beyond your reach. With a huff, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You shiver as your bare feet touch the dust-covered floor. Even with the blazing fire in the corner, the chilling autumn winds seem to sneak through the cracks in the walls of the ransack cabin.

You wrap your arms around your bare body and hastily pull on Eris’s tunic before padding towards the kitchenette. The food you’d prepared for the two of you sits on the counter, untouched. The cabbage and potatoes are cold and bland without the proper spices but do the job, temporarily relieving you from the onslaught of your thoughts and the hunger pains from missing your dinner.

 As you eat, you can’t help but study Eris’s sleeping form. Something was off with him tonight. More than just off—looking into his eyes made you feel like a stranger. After your revelation by the waterfall, continuing with your mission wasn’t even an option in your mind. But after tonight…something’s changed. Eris was so detached, so emotionally distant in a way he’s never been before. 

For the first time during your stay, you saw a sign, a confirmation that he is hiding secrets. Beron’s were hidden in plain sight, albeit contained by a magical ward. But Beron is a hubristic male. Eris, on the other hand, is more covert, more sly and cunning—he is, after all, the Fox himself. It wouldn’t make sense for his secrets to be hidden in the Forest House, where his father could get his hands on them, or anywhere Beron knows about, for that matter. But Eris is far too paranoid to leave them hidden out in the forest or the town, where anyone could stumble upon them. He would keep his secrets somewhere only he knows—somewhere he trusts. Or rather, with someone he trusts.

The fork clatters against the counter and your hand goes limp. A chilling realization dawns over you, your eyes widening and lips parting in disbelief. You are the only person in Autumn Eris trusts. Beron has no idea who you are, let alone where you live. You have no real ties to this court. 

They’re here. His secrets are hidden in this dusty, little, ransack cabin.

The initial shock fades and the loud clatter of metal finally registers. You squint at the male in your bed, watching carefully for any changes in his steady breathing. He must be a deep sleeper, you surmise, as the sound of his soft snores still fill the room. Your heart pounds in your chest as you stand from the stool and glance around the small room. Your revelation is so profound, you have no idea where to start.

With trembling hands, you start searching the kitchenette—opening every drawer, inspecting the bottom of the sink, turning over each mug in your cabinet. You move slowly to temper the adrenaline surging through you, careful not to wake the male sleeping in your bed. As you redirect your search to the bathroom, you don’t leave a single spot unturned. And with each possible hiding spot that comes up empty, your hope diminishes a little bit.

Frustration bubbles as you crouch down underneath the bed, only to be met with an empty, dirty floor. Whatever he’s hiding has to be here—there’s no alternative. But after checking every piece of peeling wallpaper, every pocket of your skirts and cloaks, there’s nothing to be found. You plop down in front of the fireplace with a long sigh. You’re technically a genius. Your IQ score is off the charts. But the Fox has you completely and utterly stumped. How hard is it to find a damned hiding spot? You glance up at the red bricks of the fireplace, asking the Mother for some sort of sign. Just a small indication that you’re on the right track, a little—

That brick wasn’t always jutting out.

Your lips part as you study the piece of brick poking out ever so slightly from the rest of the wall. You rub your eyes with the heels of your hands, but it’s still there. Bingo.

You rise on shaky legs, peering behind you to make sure Eris is still asleep. The brick is high, but just within your reach when you stand on your tip toes. Your heart pounds in your chest as you grip the edges and pull. It slides out of the wall like it was never meant to be there. Your stomach lurches as you nearly drop the brick, not having prepared yourself for the weight of it. You set it down quietly on the mantle and look up at the hole in the wall. The sight of parchment peeking out wages a war of conflicting emotions inside of you.

On one hand, you’re elated that after three weeks in this court, just when you were about to give up, you’ve finally found something. But on the other, a part of you was hoping you would find nothing at all. The same part that has grown to care deeply for the male sleeping soundly behind you. The same part that dreads having to leave this place, even in all its cruelty.

You take one last look at the crimson-haired male behind you. He hasn’t moved an inch—in fact, he seems to have sunk deeper into the mattress. With a steadying breath, you rise on your tip toes again and pull out the stack of papers. Your hands are trembling so violently, you can hardly read the letters in front of you.

The first piece of parchment contains notes tracking Koshei’s possible whereabouts, his movements throughout the courts. You read through the scribbled handwriting several times, hoping to imprint it in your memory. Eris doesn’t seem to know more than Azriel has been able to surmise with his shadows, but you store it in your mind, just in case. The next is a series of correspondences with an herbalist in the Dawn Court discussing a variety of deadly poisons. Eris seems to be interested in purchasing an odorless one, undetectable even by his highly trained smokehounds. You presume this to be part of his plot to assassinate Beron, but still make note of the names of the herbs and ingredients to report back to Rhys. 

The third, and final, item in the stack is a neatly folded piece of parchment. You set the other papers down and slowly unfold it, careful not to make any noise. Your heart catches in your throat as you smooth it out and turn it around. There’s one word, written with a sharp precision that contrasts the messy scribbles in his other notes. 

Checkmate.

A stitch forms between your brows as you read the single word over and over again. Checkmate? Your tight grip on the paper loosens, blood rushing from your face. You whip around, and bile rises to your throat at the sight of an empty bed. 

Your fight or flight instinct kicks in and you make a run towards the door, but not quickly enough. You cry out as a force throws you against the wall, your head smacking hard against brick. Your legs give out and you crumple to the ground, but strong arms haul you from the floor and pin you against the wall. 

“Stupid little girl, you really thought you could outwit me?”

You squint through blurred vision, and the deadly look in Eris’s cold eyes makes you wish it had been a killing blow. Scorching flames wrap around your wrists, pinning them to the wall. A wave of nausea rolls through you at the unmistakable scent of your burning skin, but you grit your teeth to keep from crying for mercy.

“Answer me,” he seethes, flames crawling up your arms.

“You figured me out,” you hiss at the unrelenting pain, “What do you want me to say?”

Your eyes shoot wide open as he wraps his hand around your throat.

“I want you to look me in the eye, and repent,” he spits, “And maybe I’ll spare you.”

“I have nothing to repent,” you speak sharply, even with his hand wrapped tightly around your throat, “I meant everything I did. Everything I said.”

You gasp as he squeezes your windpipe, forcing a rush of blood to your ashen face, “You think me a fool?” he bellows, “You think I believe a word that comes out of that filthy mouth? You’re out of your depth, Little Bird.”

The nickname that once made you swoon suddenly holds a new meaning. You splutter as his grip tightens, black spots dancing in your vision. You barely register the fire wrapped around your wrists anymore as you feel yourself slowly slipping from consciousness. But before you go, you focus on his eyes once more.

The amber you so love is gone, and as you look into their void, you picture the sweetness of the honey that was once there. If this is your end, you wish to leave with that memory. You shut your eyes tight, and the fire around your wrist transforms into his gentle grip, holding your hands above your head as he makes love to you slowly. The pressure on your throat isn’t his crushing hold, but the words you always wanted to say and never had the chance to. 

You’re fading quickly, but before you go you open your eyes once more. And just when you feel the tips of your fingers going numb, you feel an unmistakable tug, deep inside your chest—a single, shining thread of gold tying him to you. 

“Mate,” you gasp through blue lips.

Suddenly, you can breathe again. The pressure on your throat ceases, the flaming binds on your wrists vanish, and you crumple to the ground in a heap. You cough and heave violently, but nothing comes out. You don’t dare look up from the dust-covered floor beneath you, and you tremble when you see Eris’s knees bend in your peripheral as he crouches down. He hooks a cold finger underneath your chin, yanking your head up to his.

Gone is the fiery anger in his eyes, and in its place, nothing at all. They’re empty—hauntingly so. His voice is level, void of emotion as he speaks.

“It’s time to run back to your master like a good little bitch. If you ever step foot into this court again, I’ll arrange for a long-awaited family reunion with your loving father.”

The shining thread of gold quivers as your heart splits in two. 

You barely register the second-degree burns on your wrists as you twist the silver ring off your thumb and blindly slide it onto his middle finger.

“Beron knows you’re up to something,” your voice is so scratchy it’s barely recognizable, “He keeps logs of your whereabouts in the second drawer of his desk.”

His hand drops from underneath your chin, and with one last look into those empty eyes, you use the little strength you have left to winnow away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You land in the House of Wind just as you left the little, ransack cabin—in a pathetic heap of sorrow. The golden thread pulls taut in protest, and you yank at the neckline of Eris’s shirt—as if doing so will snap that damned string apart. Uneven breaths leave your lips as you rip the fabric down the middle so you can claw at your bare chest. You need to get it out, need to the break the thread, need to not feel him.

Tears finally spring to your eyes, and sobs wrack your body as you pull, kick, scratch, anything to get rid of it. You barely register the panicked voices around you, the darkness enveloping you as Azriel wraps his wings around you to shield your nude form. You can only see clouded tears. You can only hear your pounding heart. And you can only feel that stupid fucking thread.

 Hands wrap around your arms, pulling them from your chest. You kick your legs, trying desperately to free yourself from the vice-like grip. 

“Get Madja. Now,” Rhys’s stern voice sounds like its miles away.

You yank your arms free and keep scratching at your bloodied chest, but just as quickly as the grip was gone, it’s back again.

“I need it out. Get it out. Please. Cut it, break it, burn it, I don’t care. I can’t feel him,” you don’t recognize your hoarse voice as you blubber through sobs.

 Another pair of arms wrap around your ankles, halting your thrashing legs. More hands join, holding the ripped tunic closed over your chest. When another pair of hands holds your head steady, you think you might implode.

Get off, stop touching me, leave me alone, you scream, but nothing comes out. Are you drowning? You can feel the water rushing, flooding your lungs as you desperately try to swim to surface. This must be Death, coming to save you from your miserable existence.

Suddenly, a flash of blinding light fills the air, and you can breathe again. The tears stop, and with your vision clear, you look around the room to assess the damage left in the wake of your storm.

Azriel, Rhys, Feyre, and Madja stand wide-eyed on the opposite end of the room, your outburst having sent them flying backwards. You stare back, eyes cloudy in an almost dream-like state. It feels like floating—your post-breakdown haze. You don’t feel the bond tugging in your chest. You don’t feel anything at all, really.

“Y/N,” Feyre’s tone is soft, like coaxing a child, “You’re hurt. Madja needs to take a look at your wounds.”

You shake your head and croak, “I’m fine.”

“Your hands are burned to crisps and there’s blood all over your head,” Rhys deadpans, earning an elbow in the ribs from his mate.

You raise a hand to the back of your head and feel something wet and sticky. You pull it back to see scarlet red coating your fingertips. A humorless laugh passes through your lips at the sight. You felt the burning on your wrists, the crushing of your throat. But the cracking of your head seemed to go undetected—you suppose you really do have a hard head, as Cassian always says. Your lips stretch into a wide, sinister grin, and your humorless chuckle transforms into a manic laugh. You must look like a madman, driven to the brink of sanity. 

Your laughter halts abruptly and the grin falls from your face as Azriel takes a step forward. You simply stare at him, no emotion in your big, doe eyes. He takes another step forward, and when you make no move to stop him, he continues approaching you like one would a wild, rabid animal.

You don’t protest this time as he crouches down in front of you and unfurls his wings, concealing your body once again. His hazel eyes search yours desperately for some sort of feeling—but there’s nothing there.

“Can I take you somewhere more private for Madja to take a look at you?” he whispers.

The pity in his eyes leaves a sour taste in your mouth. But you don’t protest—nor do you respond. He takes your silence as permission and moves slowly again as he wraps an arm underneath your knees and behind your back. You simply stare up at the ceiling as he rises to his full height with you limp in his arms. Azriel’s shadows dance frantically around him, his wings still curled around your exposed form, as he walks you towards the door of the living room.

You can hear Feyre and Rhys mumbling amongst themselves, but choose to block them out. You can see Azriel’s shadows swirling in your peripheral, checking on your wounds before reporting back to their master. But you don’t so much as blink an eye. You continue staring blankly at the ceiling, even when he sets you down. You let him remove the tattered tunic and wrap a silk night robe over your nude frame. You don’t so much as twitch when he places a soft kiss to your head before leaving you to Madja. 

Madja works quickly, but thoroughly, sensing your itching desire to leave. She asks many questions, to which you either shake your head, nod, or shrug your shoulders. The healer explains what kind of care each of your wounds will require—you think you remember her saying something about a concussion. You all but run out of the room the moment she finishes with you, but regret your decision instantly when you swing the door open.

Big, brown eyes stare back at you. 

You can’t look at her right now. If you look at her, let alone speak to her, then you might feel again. And you can’t risk feeling.

So, you don’t stop. You brush past Mor, the hurt in her identical eyes not registering in your mind. She reaches out to wrap a hand around your wrist but pauses at the layers of bandages covering them. The sound of her protests is muffled by the grain of your haze as you continue down the hallway. You can feel them all staring, but you look at no one, and they leave you be. 

Your room is exactly how you left it: crumpled sheets, books strewn about, and a crackling hearth. But you’re not the same person you were three weeks ago. And you can’t look into that damn fire without losing it all over again.

You sit on the edge of your bed, as far away as possible from the fireplace. Even on the opposite side of the room, you can hear the popping embers, feel the warming rays. You shut your eyes tight, bounce your leg, anything to distract. But it’s still there, taunting. You can’t stay here, in this room. You can’t stay in this house, for that matter—not when everything is a bitter reminder of who you used to be, of what you’ve lost. 

Stone-faced, you rise from the unmade bed and grab a bag from the depths of your closet. You mindlessly throw in a mess of clothes, the rainy-day cash you’ve saved up, and a couple of necessities. You grab a piece of parchment from your desk and scribble a note.

Need to leave for a while. I’ll be back—not sure when. Don’t worry about me.

Simple, but effective. You don’t even recognize your own handwriting as you set the pen down beside the note. The crackling embers of the fire seem to be growing louder by the second, so you hastily grab your bag.

You shut your eyes tightly and will the world around you to twist and fold. You don’t have any particular destination in mind. You’re not sure where you’ll end up—hopefully somewhere far away from here. And as the air contracts around you, you don’t dare look back at the place that once felt like home.

taglist:

@lilah-asteria @goldenmagnolias @myromanempiree @i-know-i-can @hannzoaks @olive-main @lilylilyyyyyy @batboygirlie @stuff-i-found-while-crying @moni-cah @6000-fandoms @melsunshine @roseodelle @rcarbo1 @paliketerson @ktz-bb @l-adynesta

due to a bug, tumblr only lets me mention the first five people in my taglist :( I'm hoping the issue will be resolved at some point soon!

[marsmaximoff]

🪩; club pentagon 𖦹₊⋆☾

content warning: ‘long haired’ fem!reader. suggestive. drugs, alcohol.

word count: 1.4k 💜

author’s note: y’all idk what’s happening to me. like i swear when i watched the show i didn’t care about him. in fact i didn’t even like him. and now i can’t stop thinking about his hot face and hands 😔 expect more fics to come cause i’m going crazy. btw, i apologize for the possible mistakes as english is my third language. enjoy <3!

divider by @strangergraphics <3

the colorful lights create a shiny veil over the club. the music reverberating throughout the place, accompanied by loud, excited screams and intoxicated voices, acts as a barrier to the real world.

while i wait for my friend to come back from the bathroom, a guy catches my eye, separated from the rest, in a corner. he must be around my age, a bit older. and i don’t know what it is exactly, but something immediately lures me in. something about his aura, his vibe.... maybe it’s the dark hair, or the tattoos on his arm, the way he’s talking to the man next to him like he’s important... 

he looks hot. and like a total dick too. 

“you like him?” your friend inquires cheekily, noticing your stare. “i haven’t seen him before.” you don’t forget someone like him. his tall frame and dark clothes adding to the arousing pull i’m feeling. “he’s the reason we’re here. i found the club through him; he promotes it.” “do you know him?” there’s a growing curiosity inside of me, to know more, “not at all”, to get closer. “he looks like a playboy,” she declares, to which i can only agree. “an attractive one, tho.”

on cue, as if he had heard us -impossible given the distance- he takes his eyes from that man and locks his gaze on mine, sending a flutter through my stomach. but i don’t shy away, seeing his eyes go down my body, checking me out, unashamedly. a hussy grin accompanies the action while i keep the intense eye contact going for some time before turning around and heading back to the dance floor. as i do, i feel his gaze slide over my body and smile to myself, satisfied, trying to sensualize my walk a bit.

the night continues as usual: drinks, dancing, some flirting here and there, all that still carrying a boost of confidence from that previous interaction. 

eventually, i take a break sitting by the counter, and almost in no time, a smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and something else surrounds me. 

“hey” he speaks with confidence and a certain ego; the grin is back where it had been before. he leans on the bar and studies me, daringly, carefully. that seems to fuel my boldness, because my hand moves almost instantly towards his face, slowly. he doesn’t back away or stop me; he doesn’t even flinch. i gather the remaining white powder from the warm skin right over his upper lip with a finger and lower it, showing it to him. “oops, my bad,” he says playfully while grabbing my wrist. then, he brings it to his mouth and licks it off my fingertip without one of us breaking eye contact for a single second. holy. fuck. afterwards, he laughs softly, my heart rate going crazy, “want some? i only have the best.” i shake my head, choosing to keep my drifting lucidity. 

my gaze travels down his body until reaching his tattooed arm. “you like ‘em?” “i dont see many people around who have them” “yeah…bunch of pussies. these didnt hurt at all, you know.” the smugness of his words an obvious sign of his eagerness to impress. “you got more?” “oohh, someone’s interested…” i scoff finding his teasing annoying, yet unable to deny the way i have to press my lips together to hold back a smile. “i love tattoos” “yeah? wanna touch?” his comments come off so nonchalantly, flirting a natural habit of his. “i mean, you've already gone for my mouth...” his voice lowers a bit, having the clearly much-expected effect on me, and i give in, my yearning taking my fingers to his arm. the smooth and steamy flesh welcomes me with a satisfying shiver, and the hitch of his breath makes me slow down, caressing softly, seductively. 

i don't know if he's trying to contain himself, or enjoying it too much, but i see him biting his lip, and it feels so good to find a tiny crack in his confident facade, the growing heat in my belly seconding it. the initial trace of ink becomes a search of his now more prominent veins, up and down. “i like how it looks.” i give him a final graze, but this time it’s my hand that strokes his arm all the way down his slender, ring-adorned fingers which i hold and toy with before letting go to replace them with my drink, leaving him all greedy for more. his skin on fire. 

he’s affected now, trying to break the spell, attempting to somehow regain control while his breathing’s all over the place. cute. 

the drink sugars my senses, but it’s not nearly as sweet as the feel of him. 

“you like the club?” he goes back to his usual self, his comfort zone, something he can proudly show off. “yeah, i like the ambience”  “i can show you around…this place’s my second home.” i know what he's doing, using an excuse to move this somewhere quieter, more private, more comfortable…. but i decide to play a bit with him. “i don’t know… i'm really enjoying this area.” he smirks, “and it only gets better, we don't leave the best within reach of just anyone”, getting closer. “so you’re saying you'll make it worth my time?” he pokes his cheek with his tongue, turning me on even more. fucking tease. “in fact you'll regret it if you don't come.”  “mmm…im not sure…maybe i need a preview….” his face is mere millimeters from mine, giving me a perfect view of the mischievous look that takes over his. then, he grabs a small bag from his pocket -more white powder- and pushes my hair away from my shoulder, the contact leaving goosebumps everywhere. when the bareness pleases him, an unfamiliar feeling covers my skin. and then i realize, he’s pouring it on me. jesus christ. he leaves a shivery trail up to my neck, molding it to get a perfect line. his hot breath is getting me dizzy, his hand enveloping the other side of my neck, his allure a dangerous mix with the alcohol. he snorts the line in one, the tip of his nose tickling my burning skin. “yesss, shit baby”, he groans huskily underneath my ear, adding a bit of pressure with his hand, and i feel my wetness starting to become uncomfortable. 

he’s laughing when he pulls back, “how’s that for a preview?”, finishing rubbing the remains of his nose. but i can only focus on his fingers, fuck. i need more. “not bad” i try so hard to think of something witty, flirty, to keep the back and forth going, but i can’t. my brain is foggy, my body is flaming, and my belly is killing me with all those damn backflips. “not bad? that’s not nice of you….imma have to do something about that attitude of yours…” i stand up from the stool, suddenly desperate to get out of there. “maybe i do need that tour, a change from the loud music and everything” god i’ve truly become pathetic. and it seems to amuse him, “yeah? i thought you liked the ambience here….” “and i thought you said you’d make it worth my time” i make him smirk again, what a damn sight, and before i know it he’s taking me who knows where.

the moment the door closes behind us, my back is pushed to the wall, his arms caging me. this time, his eyes stay on my lips while he bites his. “fuck, you’re so hot” i can’t hold it anymore. the praise gets to him and makes him snap, harshly pressing our mouths together. the kiss is rough, desperate, as if we were running out of time. i let out a muffled moan as he brings me closer to his warm body and slides one hand towards my neck, adding some pressure. i’ve never had such a messy, intense kiss before, it makes my legs weak. he keeps asserting dominance the whole time, and bites my lip before pulling back and heading towards my neck. 

my moans get louder as i feel him leaving hickeys all over my skin. “it’s namgyu”, he corrects me, hovering over my flesh. but the blood is already pounding in my ears. “huh?” 

 “i want you to know what to moan”

[tteotlma]

Trust in the Tension

--buried impulses flare into a fierce, unspoken surrender that no barrier can contain

"Nurse"!Logan x Patient!Reader (11.5kwc)

tw; 18+ MDNI; nsfw, power imbalance; caretaker/patient dynamic; dubcon (dubious consent); explicit sexual content; oral sex; choking; hair-pulling; biting; rough physicality; coarse language; mention of mental health struggles; tears/overwhelm.

a/n: PLS BE AWARE THIS IS A PIECE OF FICTION. (I AM DEEPLY AnD GRAVELY AWARE OF THE SEVERITY OF THIS SITUATION IRL BUT again THIS IS FICTION JUST HAVE FUN or skip.) i also didn't intend for this to be so long... but its been a month since my last fic

not edited entirely; pls like & reblog

Your vision pulsed to the sound of your heartbeat as you took in the scene around you.

You hadn’t asked to be here. 

The facility was nice— too nice. Plush furniture, warm neutral tones, windows big enough to let in the light but so obviously locked for safety. Despite the place feeling more like a high-end retreat, than a mental health facility that didn’t stop the feel of the walls caving in. 

Still in an unknowing state of shock you sat stiffly in the common room, arms crossed, back rigid, posture so straight it was almost defiant. It wasn’t lost on you that you were the only one not participating in whatever exercise the group facilitator had planned. 

You clenched your jaw as you stared straight ahead at the painting of random splatters on the far wall, the rest of the people fading away in the background. The painting, an aggressive array of white, red, and black splatters meticulously painted to convey some sort of emotion provided you a great sense of comfort. You couldn’t put your finger on what that feeling was but you could feel it— deep in the pit of your stomach. You felt the facilitator's eyes on you, but you ignored it trying to wrap your head around how you got here in the first place. 

It wasn’t voluntary, that's for sure. No, you were here because your parents begged, pleaded, and finally pulled out the we’re worried about you, sweetheart card. They’d finally worn you down, leaving you too exhausted to fight. 

Not that exhaustion was new to you. 

Professional Burnout was the sanitized phrase they’d slapped onto your file. As if snapping at a coworker who spent months undermining you somehow made you unstable. As if the outburst wasn’t deserved. 

One crack, you thought bitterly, and suddenly I’m the problem. 

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted your brooding. You glanced up just in time to see a man step into the room, a clipboard in hand and a toothpick hanging lazily from his mouth. He was tall and rugged, with broad shoulders that stretched his uniform and thick sideburns that framed his jaw. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here—on a construction site, maybe, or some smoky dive bar.

His eyes caught yours, sharp and assessing. You didn’t look away, narrowing your gaze in return.

He stood there for a moment, the toothpick rolling between his teeth, sizing you up like he’d already figured you out. You hated it.

“Logan,” he said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was deep and gravelly, with a rough edge that matched his rugged appearance. He tapped the clipboard against his thigh, tilting his head slightly. “You got a name, or are we just gonna keep starin’ at each other?”

“Why do you care?” you shot back, folding your arms tighter across your chest.

His lips quirked, just barely. “Keeps things polite. But hey, if you’d rather I call you ‘sunshine,’ that works too.”

You glared at him. “It’s [Y/N].” 

“[Y/N],” he repeated, his tone deliberate, like he was committing it to memory. “Alright then, [Y/N]. Here’s the deal. I’m the orderly assigned to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t go stir-crazy or claw anyone’s eyes out.”

You scoffed. “Charming.”

“Thanks,” he said, completely unfazed. “Let’s try something new—how about you actually join the group? Sitting there like a statue ain’t doin’ you any favors.”

“I’m fine right here,” you replied flatly, eyes drifting back to the splatter painting.

“Fine,” he echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the tiled floor. The closer he got, the more imposing he seemed, like he took up all the air in the room. “But here’s the thing, sweetheart. You can act all tough and keep everyone at arm’s length, but it doesn’t make the time go by any faster.”

You finally looked up at him, bristling at the way he loomed over you, like he was daring you to challenge him. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” he said, leaning in just enough to lower his voice, “is that I’ve seen plenty of people like you. Wound so tight you’re about to snap. Keep it up, and you’ll be stuck here a hell of a lot longer than you need to be.”

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. “Maybe I like my space.”

His grin was infuriatingly small, almost imperceptible. “Sure you do. Let me know how that works out for you.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off, leaving you fuming. You weren’t sure if you wanted to yell at him or sink deeper into the chair just to spite him. Either way, you had the distinct feeling that Logan wasn’t going to make this easy for you.

—

Later that day you found yourself sitting in another goddamn plush leather seat. You sat stiffly in the chair, arms crossed and jaw tight as Logan settled into the seat across from you. He had the same clipboard as earlier, only now he looked far more official—still rugged and casual in demeanor, but with a sharpness in his gaze that said he wasn’t here to play around. 

“Alright (Y/N),” he started, clicking his pen. “This is just a standard intake. I know you did it before coming here, I just gotta get some background myself, so we know how to help you.” 

“Help me,” you muttered under your breath, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Logan raised a brow but didn’t take the bait. “First question: How are you feeling?”

You scoffed, leaning back in the chair. “Fantastic. Couldn’t be better.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied dryly, jotting something down on the clipboard. “We’ll circle back to that. What about your usual stress levels? On a scale of one to ten?”

“Zero.”

He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “And what do you usually do to blow off steam?”

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Work. Run. Avoid people.”

Logan hummed thoughtfully, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “Not exactly workin’ out for you, is it?”

Your glare could’ve cut glass. “What’s your point?”

“No point,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk. “Just gettin’ to know you.”

He finished scribbling and set the clipboard aside, leaning forward slightly. “Last question. You think you belong here?”

You faltered, his sudden intensity throwing you off balance. “What does it matter what I think? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But if you’re gonna be here, might as well make it worth somethin’. Otherwise, you’re just wastin’ your own damn time.”

The weight of his words hung in the air as he stood, gathering his clipboard and pen. “That’s it for now. I’ll see you around, sunshine.”

As he walked out, you couldn’t help but feel like Logan saw more of you in that brief exchange than most people ever did—and it unnerved you.

—

You felt the weight of Logan’s questions long after the session ended. Sure they were simple questions but it’s not like it wasn’t anything he couldn’t look up himself if he tried. The way his eyes had fixed on you, intense and unyielding, had unsettled you more than you cared to admit. You tried to shake it off, but it lingered like a bad taste, gnawing at the back of your mind. 

When you walked back to the common room, the group session was finally finishing up. Everyone slowly filtered out, but you stayed behind. You didn’t want to be around people—didn’t want anyone to see how much you were clenching your fists or how your jaw was tight enough to bruise. 

Sitting back down in your (un)claimed seat, you crossed your arms over your chest and leaned back to stare at the painting on the far wall. Your mind kept drifting back to Logan’s words, his calm, almost knowing demeanor. You hated how easily he had gotten under your skin. 

It wasn’t just the questions. It was the way he looked at you, like he understood everything without you saying a word. You didn’t want to think about that, either.

You stood abruptly, deciding a walk through the facility might clear your head. But when you stepped into the hallway, you saw Logan leaning against the doorframe to the lounge, a smirk barely hidden behind his usual indifference.

“Lost?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

You didn’t answer, trying to walk past him. You didn’t need another interaction, especially with him. But he moved just enough to block your path.

“You think you’re just gonna keep brushing me off, huh?” he said, voice low and amused.

“You really love to push buttons, don’t you?” You didn’t bother hiding the irritation in your voice.

His grin widened, but he didn’t press you further. Instead, his gaze softened, almost unreadable. “I don’t push buttons. I just call it like I see it.”

You glared at him, biting back a retort. But when he finally stepped aside, giving you space to walk past him, you couldn’t help but feel a weird mix of relief and frustration. 

—

The next time you saw Logan, it was in another session. Group therapy again. You’d kept your distance as much as possible, staying silent while the others participated. You weren’t interested in talking about your feelings—not to strangers and definitely not to Logan.

As the facilitator guided the group through an exercise, you sat stiffly, arms seemingly permanent crossed. You tried to block out everything and everyone, focusing on the wall in front of you. 

You were here, just like your parents had wanted. That should be enough. 

Logan had been observing you quietly, and when the session ended, he was the first one to walk over.

“You gonna keep that scowl on your face all day, or are you gonna get over yourself?” His voice was sharp, but there was an edge of concern underneath, like he was watching you closely.

You didn’t want to feel anything anymore, didn’t want to stay caught up in the mess of emotions or the frustration building inside you. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you, and you could see it in his eyes. “You sure about that?”

Before you could snap back, the door to the group room swung open, and the others filed out. Logan stepped closer, his presence so commanding that you felt the air grow heavier around you.

“Why don’t we step outside for a second?” he suggested, his voice low and steady, like he was trying to coax you into something you didn’t want.

You glared up at him. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

But something in his eyes—some unspoken understanding—made you pause. Against your better judgment, you followed him out into the hallway.

Once the two of you were out of earshot from the others, Logan stopped and turned to face you. The air between you was thick, charged with something you couldn’t name.

“You’re acting like a kid,” he said bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah? Well, maybe I’m just tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m not,” you shot back, your voice sharp and biting. The frustration you’d been holding in for days boiled to the surface, your words barely contained.

Logan’s gaze softened, but there was no judgment in his eyes. He was too used to dealing with people like you. “Yeah, I figured. You’ve got a lot of tension in you, huh?” His eyes trailed the length of your body. 

You didn’t respond, the anger started to bubble up again, your hands clenched at your side but something about his steady presence seemed to disarm you. Maybe it was the way he didn’t back off, didn’t try to force anything.

He only took a step closer, and for the first time, you didn’t flinch. His hand moved to your shoulder, the touch firm but gentle.

“I’m not here to push you, [Y/N],” he said, his voice low. “But you gotta know—holding all that in? It’s gonna eat you up.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to control the wave of frustration that threatened to overwhelm you. “I don’t need advice,” you muttered, feeling vulnerable in a way you hated.

“I don’t need advice,” you repeated, except the words coming out sharp, and defensive this time. You hated the way your chest felt tight, the vulnerability creeping in from where Logan’s hand rested on your shoulder. 

The warmth from his touch spread across your skin, and for a moment, it felt like it was sinking into your bones, grounding you in a way that made your stomach twist. You didn’t need anyone grounding you. You didn’t need him to make you feel this way.

Logan’s eyes softened just a fraction, but his expression remained steady, like he was waiting for you to crack. “You sure about that?” he asked again quietly, his tone almost too calm.

You felt it then, the tension pooling inside you, the anger at yourself for even considering his words. You were independent. You didn’t need anyone to fix you. You hadn’t needed anyone before to figure things out. And you especially, didn’t need some wannabe shrink to start telling you how to manage your life.

Without thinking, you grabbed his hand and removed it from your shoulder. You did it quickly, as if his touch burned you, trying to ignore the way his heat lingered on your skin. You told yourself it was about reclaiming your space, but deep down, you couldn’t deny the way you resented the way his warmth had made you feel—like you weren’t enough on your own, like you needed him, and it made you bitter.

You didn’t meet his eyes as you moved away. The weight of his gaze felt like too much, like he could see right through you. “I’m fine,” you muttered for what seemed like the umpteenth time, turning away before he could say anything more, before you could let him see how much you were feeling.

Each step you took away from him was deliberate, quick. You weren’t going to let him break you down, weren’t going to let him see how much you wanted the relief he might even be able to offer. You didn’t need him. You’d never needed anyone, not like that.

The hallway stretched out in front of you, a quiet reminder that you could handle this—you could handle this.

—

The next few days passed in a haze. Every session, every group exercise felt like you were just going through the motions, barely containing the storm brewing inside you. You could still feel Logan’s hand on your shoulder, the way it had made you feel both furious and small, and it gnawed at you. You told yourself you were fine, but the anger lingered, thick like smoke in your lungs.

You were sitting in the group room again, the usual chatter around you fading into white noise. Your focus was elsewhere—just trying to survive the hour without having to say a word. You were about to tune out completely when you heard it.

“She’s just another fucking drama queen.”

The voice came from across the room, a low murmur between two of the other patients. You didn’t need to hear more. You already knew they were talking about you. The words were sharp, cutting through the air with a venom that dug deep into you.

You snapped your gaze in their direction, fury immediately surging through you. The mocking tone, the casual dismissal—it was too familiar, too reminiscent of the shit you’d put up with at your last job. You could feel the rage flooding your chest, hot and suffocating. It was a sensation you knew too well, one that had always pushed you to the edge before.

And now, it was back.

The room started to shrink around you. The noise of their laughter, the snickers, the sideways glances—all of it evaporated as your anger took over. Your fists clenched so tightly your nails dug into your palms.

You didn’t care anymore. You needed to make it stop. You needed to hit something. You tried grounding yourself, but it was too late. Your body had already taken over. Your legs were pushing you forward, jumping over your seat in a split-second decision. You saw red, your entire body screaming for release, for someone to just stop dismissing you. But before you could close the distance, a firm hand shot out, grabbing you mid-air.

“Hey!” Logan’s voice cut through the chaos in your mind—or in the room, it was hard to tell—his voice sharp and commanding.

You felt his strong arms wrap around your waist—hard, like steel, pulling you back. You let out a shout of frustration, trying to twist free, but Logan’s grip didn’t falter. It was like he was two steps ahead, as if he had already anticipated your move, as if he knew exactly what was about to happen. His voice was in your ear now, low and unwavering.

“[Y/N], enough,” he said, his tone hard but not cruel. “This isn’t the way.”

Before you could even process what was happening, Logan yanked you backwards with a force that left you no room to fight it. In an instant, he’d pulled you out of the room, dragging you down the hallway with such speed that no one could have comprehended what just happened. There was a stunned silence behind you as you were pulled out of the room, your feet barely touching the ground as Logan kept a firm hold, his steps echoing through the hallway.

“Let me go!” You tried to struggle, to twist your way free, but his grip tightened, holding you firmly as he pushed you further from the group.

“No,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Not until you calm down.”

You were breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing through you. Your pulse was a drum in your ears, and you could feel the heat of your anger radiating off you in waves.

“I don’t need you to babysit me,” you spat, still trying to break free. “I don’t need your fucking help!”

You tried to tear his arm away, but Logan’s grip tightened, his body pressing into yours as he moved with precision, dragging you down the hallway without a word. The moment you realized what was happening, the reality of it hit you like a punch to the gut. Your anger, your rage—it all crashed down as you found yourself being physically restrained, the helplessness burning in your chest.

He didn’t say a word as he pulled you down another hall, his face impassive, but you could feel the tension in his body as if he was just as ready to snap as you had been moments ago. But he wasn’t letting you. He wasn’t letting you lose control.

“Let me go!” you snarled, struggling against his grip, but again, Logan didn’t even flinch. He kept moving, keeping you contained, his presence too overwhelming for you to break free from.

When he finally stopped, it was in a hallway, somewhere far enough from anybody that no one would hear you—no one would witness how you’d almost cracked. He barely released his hold on you, but not before pushing you back against the wall, his body still towering over you, blocking your every escape route.

“Take a breath,” he said, his voice low and steady, like he was speaking to someone who might break apart at any second.

His grip on your arm softened, but only just enough for you to feel the tension in his hand. He wasn’t letting go, but he was giving you space to breathe, to calm down if you could.

“You’re better than this. So stop acting like a fucking fool, [Y/N].” He said, his voice lower now, almost like a warning.

Your chest was still heaving, your body still tense with frustration, but hearing him say that—hearing him treat you like more than just a hothead, like you were capable of something better—suddenly made it all feel worse. The tears you’d been holding back started to burn at the back of your eyes, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that you felt so weak, so fucking out of control.

But Logan wasn’t looking at you like you were broken. He wasn’t judging you, even though you knew you deserved it. He was just… there. Silent. Waiting.

You wrenched yourself out of his grip (despite both your dismay) and took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain some composure.

“Just… don’t touch me,” you muttered, your voice raw and unsteady.

Logan said nothing. He didn’t have to. The silence between you was thick with something unspoken, something neither of you could easily put into words.

But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t let it matter. Not now.

You turned and walked away, not looking back. 

You barely took a few steps before the frustration began to bubble up again. You had only just started to walk away from Logan, but the moment you stepped around the corner and out of sight, it felt like the world was pressing in on you again.

The laughter from the group still rang in your ears. “Drama queen.” The words clawed at your skin, digging into you like a constant reminder of everything you hated—being dismissed, being belittled.

You were done. You couldn’t keep holding it in. Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms as you spun on your heel, slamming your hand against the wall. The sharp sound of your palm against the cold surface echoed in the hallway, but it wasn’t enough. The rage, the helplessness—it was all too much.

“Fuck!” you hissed, breath coming in sharp bursts as you stared at the spot where your hand had just struck the wall, feeling the dull sting radiating through your knuckles. 

You couldn’t keep it together anymore. It was too much. You were tired of being on the edge, of trying so damn hard to be perfect at everything—at work, at life, at keeping it all together. Everyone depended on you to do everything. Always being there, and put together.

But right now? You didn’t want to be. You didn’t want to hold it in anymore. Your body was shaking with the weight of it all—the frustration of being forced to be something that was overwhelming, the anger at yourself for letting it all pile up until you exploded.

You wanted to break. You wanted to let go—but you knew you couldn’t. You couldn’t afford to. You’d kept it locked away for so long, keeping everything in check, trying to make sure no one saw the truth behind the mask. Who knew what would happen if you let yourself slip away, even just a smidge. You were already forced to be somewhere you didn’t want to be, you couldn’t risk losing anything else. But the anger… the helplessness… It was too much. You were suffocating, and you couldn’t breathe anymore.

And that’s when it hit you: This is why you were here.

You couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t keep pretending that you had it all together. You were falling apart at the seams, and the pressure—the pressure of trying to control everything—was finally breaking you.

You spun around, not knowing what you were doing, just feeling the surge of emotions all crashing in. You needed to hit something again, harder. You needed to feel something, anything, that would make it stop. But before you could even move an inch, a voice cut through the chaotic storm inside your mind.

“[Y/N]?”

It was Logan.

You didn’t even turn to look at him. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Hell, you didn’t even want to see yourself like this.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” you snarled, voice hoarse as the tears welled up, but you fought them back. Not yet. Not here. Not now.

But Logan was already there. In an instant, his hands were on you, trying to turn you, pulling you against him, his arms firm and unyielding. You tried to twist, to pull away, but his grip was too strong. And it wasn’t that you didn’t want to break—because you did.

But you couldn’t let him see it. You couldn’t let anyone see how much you were falling apart. You were so fucking tired of pretending to be fine, you were ready to break but not in front of him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Logan tried to pacify your struggles, as his hold on you failed to waver. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t about controlling you. His presence was heavy—comforting in a way you hadn’t let yourself experience in so long.

The tears came the more you struggled in his grip, despite all your efforts. Hot and fast, they burned your face, dripping onto the linoleum floor, and there was nothing you could do to stop them. You wanted to stop them. You hated it. You hated feeling this weak.

But Logan just held you as your body went slack. His grip tightened, pulling you into him. Not to silence you, not to force you to do anything, but to hold you steady, to keep you from falling completely apart.

“I told you not to touch me,” you choked out through the tears, voice breaking as you finally let yourself give into him, your body shuddering against his. You were shaking—not just with the anger anymore, but with the helplessness that had been buried so deep.

You tried once more to push him away, weakly, but it was like fighting against a wall. His chest was too solid. His presence was too overwhelming. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t want him to see the cracks.

But there was no escaping it now. The reality of everything you’d been holding inside came rushing at you, and it hurt. It hurt more than you could even process.

Logan didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just let you break in silence. His arms around you were steady, not demanding. They didn’t try to pull you back from the edge. They simply were. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself breathe as you were.

When he finally loosened his grip and you finally pulled yourself away from him, still sniffling, you couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes. You couldn’t look at him like this.

“Please, don’t touch me anymore,” you muttered, voice shaky, and with that, you turned away, your feet dragging as you walked down the hall. You didn’t look back. Not once.

But you knew, in that moment, something had shifted between you. Something in you had cracked.

And Logan knew it too. He didn’t stop you this time. He didn’t chase you. He just let you go.

The silence in the hallway hung heavy in the air after you walked away. Logan stood there for a long moment, the weight of the last few minutes settling over him. He hadn’t expected the tears, the rawness that tore through you, but the way you’d fought it all—fought him—made something click in his mind.

He didn’t follow you. He didn’t try to force anything. Instead, he gave you space. Because deep down, he understood.

He didn’t move from where he stood immediately. He wanted to give you time. You needed it. Needed to process it all.

When he finally did move, it was slow. The hallway was too quiet now, too empty. His hand rested on the wall, his mind replaying the moments that had just passed, trying to piece everything together. What did you need? He hadn’t known before, but now? Now, something was different.

—

It had been a few days since you’d broken down in the hallway. Logan hadn’t pushed you since, letting you process things on your own, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. About you. About the way you’d finally let your guard down, even if just for a moment, before retreating again. He’d stayed close but careful, offering support in quiet ways, waiting for you to let him in.

You walked into your room, your steps slow, your mind racing. As you sat on the edge of your bed, you couldn’t stop the image of Logan holding you from replaying over and over in your head. The warmth of his embrace still lingered on your skin, even though you had pushed him away.

A soft knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You knew who it was but, if you looked at him again, you weren’t sure you could hold it together. You needed space. You needed time.

Another knock. A little louder this time.

You dragged a shaky breath into your lungs, wiping your face with the back of your hand. You hated this—hated the fragility of it all. But the pressure inside you hadn’t subsided. You could feel the ache in your chest, the pull to break again.

“[Y/N]?” Logan’s voice came through the door, low, steady. “Can I come in?”

You stayed quiet. You wanted to tell him to leave you alone. You wanted to shut him out. But you couldn’t. You knew deep down you didn’t want him to go away. Not now. Not after everything.

The door creaked open slowly, and Logan stepped inside, his eyes cautious. He didn’t push, didn’t say anything. His presence was still heavy, but it wasn’t demanding. The door shut behind him with a soft thud, followed by a small discernible click. 

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t offer any words of comfort. He just watched you, letting the silence hang between you. You felt the familiar heat rising in your chest, the uncomfortable feeling of being seen too clearly, but this time, it wasn’t like before. He wasn’t trying to fix you.

You could feel the distance between you. He was there, but he wasn’t pushing.

He shifted, taking a step closer, but not too close. It was a subtle offer, a quiet invitation.

The silence stretched between you like a taut string, every breath you took loud in the otherwise still room. Logan didn’t rush you. He just stood there, his hands loose at his sides, his presence calm, steady, like an anchor in the storm of your thoughts.

“I thought I told you to leave,” you said, your voice wavering despite the steel you tried to inject into it.

His lips twitched, a barely-there smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You didn’t say a word, sunshine. Just figured you might need someone who’ll stick around—Help take care of you.”

You hated how much his words hit the mark, hated how the rawness inside you stirred at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Logan took another step closer, his boots soft against the floor. The click of the lock earlier seemed louder now, echoing in your mind.

“You’re my nurse,” you whispered, like a warning, but your words lacked conviction.

“I am,” he agreed, his voice low but even. “And that means takin’ care of you, even if you fight me on it. Especially if you fight me on it.” The tone in his voice emphasizing the last part—as if the fight you put up brings a rush to his blood. 

You scoffed, your instinct to push him away rearing its head. “This feels like more than taking care of a patient.”

His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Maybe. But does it matter? You’re not by yourself anymore—not in here. You don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine when you’re not. Let me help you.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words sinking in. He saw too much, and yet, you didn’t feel the urge to run. You felt… understood. The wall you’d built around yourself since arriving finally cracked, just enough for his steady gaze to slip through.

“You don’t get it,” you muttered, shaking your head, your hands clenching the edge of the bed. “I’ve always had to hold it together. Always. If I let go—” Your voice broke, a sharp crack in the stillness.

“You won’t fall apart,” Logan interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh. He crouched down in front of you, his hands resting on his knees, his body just close enough to block out everything else. “You’ve been doin’ this on your own for too long. Let someone else shoulder some of it.”

His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you didn’t. His fingers brushed against yours where they gripped the edge of the mattress, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

“Logan…” Your voice trembled, a mix of warning and plea.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “Just let me help.”

You closed your eyes, trying to pull yourself together, but the heat radiating from him was impossible to ignore. The way his thumb traced over your knuckles was gentle, but there was an unspoken promise in his touch.

He shifted closer, his legs brushing against yours now. The tension in the air thickened, your pulse quickening as his steady gaze roamed your face. There was something in his expression—something deeper than concern. His job might have brought him here, but the way he looked at you was anything but professional.

“Logan,” you said again, this time softer, your voice barely a whisper.

He leaned in slightly, the rough edge of his voice brushing against your skin. “Let me in, sunshine. Just this once.”

Your walls wavered, the vulnerability threatening to spill over. The ache in your chest was unbearable, the pull to let go stronger than your fear. He wasn’t just offering to help; he was offering himself.

Your breathing grew shallow as his hand slid up, his fingers curling lightly around your wrist, pulling your hand away from the bed and into his. You opened your eyes as you let him guide you, avoiding all chances to truly look him in the eyes, his movements slow, and deliberate, until your hand rested against his chest.

He shifted and his other hand found your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a slow, grounding motion. “Let me take care of you. All you’ve gotta do is trust me, sunshine.”

Your lips parted, words caught in your throat as his thumb slid lower, grazing your bottom lip. You froze, your mind racing, but Logan didn’t push further—he just waited, his touch firm but patient.

The shift was subtle, but it was there—the change in the air between you. He wasn’t just offering comfort anymore. He was asking for surrender, for trust in the most intimate way.

And God help you, you were ready to give it to him anything he asked for. 

The tension between you crackled, thick and electric, but his touch remained steady, grounding. Logan’s thumb brushed the curve of your cheek, slow and deliberate, before tracing the edge of your jaw. His movements weren’t hurried—there was no rush, no demand—just an unspoken invitation.

“See?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, like he was coaxing you down from a ledge. “Ain’t so hard to let someone else take the reins for a bit, is it?”

Your breath hitched as his fingers trailed down, brushing the side of your neck. The warmth of his palm lingered, the weight of his hand firm enough to quiet the chaotic swirl in your mind, but not enough to drown out the muffled sounds of people passing by your door.

“I… I don’t know how,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Logan huffed a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Yeah, you do. You’re already doing it.”

His fingers shifted, sliding to the back of your neck, and you leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. He drew you closer, just enough to feel his presence envelop you entirely. Your knees brushed against his thighs where he stood in front of you, and the heat radiating off him was impossible to ignore.

“Relax that jaw of yours,” he said, his tone still light but with a teasing edge. After caressing the nape of your neck his hand comes back to your jaw and squeezes until your lips part.  “You’ve been clenching it so tight, it’s a wonder it hasn’t locked up yet.”

You blinked at him, caught between embarrassment and curiosity. His eyes, dark and steady, met yours, and for a moment, you swore he could see straight through you.

“C’mere,” he murmured, tugging gently on your wrist until you slid closer towards him.

The shift brought your bodies even nearer, his hands bracketing your thighs now, his thumbs brushing circles over the fabric of your pants. His touch was careful but deliberate, testing your boundaries while coaxing you further out of your shell.

“Let me take the lead,” he said softly, his voice dipping lower, more intimate.

You swallowed hard, feeling the ache in your chest ease as something entirely new unfurled in its place. Trust. Need. A quiet kind of surrender you didn’t know you were capable of.

“How?” you finally gave in and asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s lips quirked into a small smirk, but his gaze stayed steady, unwavering. “Like I said… starting with that jaw.”

His hand moved, knuckles grazing your chin as his thumb pressed gently against the corner of your mouth. The motion was slow, teasing, giving you plenty of time to pull back. You didn’t.

“Open up for me,” he murmured, his words a low rumble that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

The command was quiet, laced with care, but the underlying edge of authority had your pulse spiking. Your lips parted instinctively, your breath shaky as his thumb slid along the inside of your bottom lip.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise slipping out like it belonged there.

The words hit you harder than you wanted to admit, warmth pooling in your chest—and lower.

Logan shifted closer, his other hand steadying your jaw as he studied you, his expression unreadable but intent. “We’ll take it slow,” he said, his thumb retreating as he brought his hand to the hem of his pants. “Just let me guide you.”

Your breathing hitched as your eyes flicked down to his hands, the way his fingers deftly worked the knot of his drawstring pants. The quiet rustle of the fabric filled the space between you, a sound that felt louder than it was.

Logan’s movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he was waiting for any sign of hesitation from you. When your gaze lifted to meet his, you saw no rush, no impatience—just the same steady calm that made it impossible not to trust him.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, his voice grounding you even as it sent your pulse racing.

You swallowed hard, your jaw relaxing further at his words, at the way his presence seemed to envelop you completely. His hand returned to your chin, tilting your head up slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin.

“Atta girl,” Logan praised softly, his lips curving into a faint smile, as his thumb caressed your skin. “That’s it. Just breathe for me.”

The tension that had coiled so tightly in your chest loosened a fraction as you exhaled shakily. His fingers traced along your jawline, the touch soothing and deliberate, coaxing you to focus on him and nothing else.

When his drawstrings tangled free, Logan leaned in closer, his free hand bracing against the edge of the bed beside you. His proximity was overwhelming in the best way, his warmth and scent filling your senses.

“This ain’t just about me, sunshine,” he said, his voice low and sure. He takes one hand, and brings it to your neck. His thumb finds the pulse point beneath your jaw and he brings you in closer. “This is about you learning to let go. To stop holdin’ on so tight it hurts.”

You nodded faintly, swallowing against his palm, your body responding before your mind could catch up. There was no space for second-guessing, no time for overthinking—not with the way Logan looked at you, like he already knew exactly what you needed.

“Good,” he murmured again, his tone like gravel smoothed by honey. “We’ll go slow, but I need you to trust me.” He nuzzled the side of your head, his breath tickling your skin as he slowly let go of your throat. 

Logan’s hands moved, sliding down to catch yours. His touch was firm but not forceful, the rough calluses on his palm grounding you as he pulled your hands away from your lap. He brought them up, pressing them flat against his chest.

“Feel that?” he asked, his voice low and steady as your fingers splayed over his warm skin through his shirt. His familiar heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your touch, grounding you, centering you. “That’s all you gotta focus on. Just me. Nothing else matters right now.”

You nodded faintly, the tension in your shoulders coming to a still as he kept your hands there for a moment, letting you adjust.  Suddenly, a loud slam down the hallway caused you to jump and turn towards the door. He quickly grabbed your chin forcing you to look at him. “What did I just say?” He quirked, all you could do was look at him, heat blooming from your neck up. 

Then, slowly once he made sure you weren’t looking away, he began guiding your hands downward.

The motion was deliberate, unhurried, as though every inch was a silent reassurance that you could stop at any time. His hands covered yours, his thumbs brushing the backs of your knuckles as he slid your palms down the planes of his torso, over the firm muscle beneath his shirt, until they rested against his hips.

Logan gave you a beat to take it in, his gaze locked on yours. His breathing was measured, but you could see the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw, the restraint he was holding onto so tightly.

“Still good?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, rougher now.

“Yes,” you murmured, barely trusting your voice as heat pooled low in your belly. You unconsciously squirmed, in anticipation, in heat who knew.  

Logan nodded, his lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile but carried the same weight of approval. He waited, giving you one last chance to back out before guiding your thumbs to join his, beneath the elastic of his scrub pants.

“Easy,” he murmured, the word a quiet reminder as he guided your hands to push the fabric down slowly, exposing more of his skin. The sliver of skin burned against your fingers as you ghosted them along his body. His abdomen tensed under your touch, his breathing shifting slightly as he exhaled through his nose.

Logan let the pants hang low on his hips, one hand trailing up to cup your jaw again, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “We’ll go nice and slow,” he said, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth again. “No rush, sunshine. Just follow my lead.”

With that, he took your hands again, guiding them lower until they brushed the waistband of his boxers. His movements were steady, deliberate, as though showing you exactly where he wanted you without rushing you.

“You feelin’ brave?” he teased softly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes held nothing but warmth and patience.

You nodded again scooching closer to the edge of the bed, and the brink of insanity, your chest tightening with anticipation. His smirk deepened, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Then show me, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me see what you can do.”

Logan eased back slightly, just enough to give you room to move, but his hand lingered on yours, a steadying presence as he guided your touch. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his waistband, and with a deep breath, you pushed the material down further, revealing more of him inch by inch.

The air between you grew heavier, the tension palpable as his arousal became impossible to ignore. Logan’s hand left yours, but only for a moment, trailing up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face before cupping the back of your neck.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart.” he murmured, his voice warm and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His thumb traced lazy circles at the base of your skull, grounding you as his other hand rested atop your forearm, giving you control but silently encouraging you to keep going.

You shifted slightly, your hands trembling as they moved to rest on his hips again. Logan watched you closely, his gaze steady but dark with something you couldn’t quite name. His chest rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm, as though he were holding himself back, letting you set the pace.

When your hands brushed the bare skin of his hips, Logan inhaled a shaky breath, a faint sound escaping him that made your pulse spike. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over your temple as he murmured, “Don’t overthink it. Just take what you can, sunshine. I’ll guide you through the rest.”

Your fingers curled into his skin as you leaned forward, your breath brushing against his lower abdomen. Logan’s hand slid from your neck to your shoulder, a subtle but firm anchor as he shifted slightly, giving you better access.

“Atta girl,” he praised, his voice barely above a whisper. The words sent a wave of warmth through you, and you felt your hesitation ease, replaced by a quiet resolve to follow his lead.

Logan’s hand moved again, this time to rest over yours as he guided one of them lower. He didn’t stop until you were cradling the solid weight of him. Your touch lightly teasing the ache that pulsed beneath your trembling hand. Logan guided your hand to palm the rigid heat beneath his clothes,  wrapping your fingers around him. A sharp inhale escaped his lips, and you felt the faintest tremor in his muscles as your touch sent a jolt through him. 

“Slow,” he reminded you, his voice tight but still soft. “Just like that.” 

The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife, every shift of his body, every measured breath, drawing you further into the moment. Your fingers trembled as they traced the contours of his arousal, the fabric of his boxers doing little to disguise the heat and weight beneath. Logan’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly, not in impatience but as a subtle reassurance, his silent way of telling you that you were doing exactly what he wanted.

His hips shifted just barely, an almost involuntary reaction to the way your hand brushed against him. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. His thumb traced another soothing circle at the base of your neck, the grounding motion a stark contrast to the fire building between you. “You’ve got me, sunshine. Just keep going.”

Emboldened by his words, you pressed a little firmer, your palm smoothing over the outline of him, taking your time to explore every inch. The way he exhaled sharply, the muscles in his abdomen tensing beneath your other hand, made you feel a surge of confidence. You dared to glance up at him, and what you saw made your breath catch. His head was tilted back slightly, his jaw tight, the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. His eyes, though darkened with desire, never left yours, his focus sharp and unwavering.

“You’re taking  your time, huh?” he teased, his smirk returning, though it was tinged with a rawness that made your chest tighten. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You swallowed hard, your hand faltering for just a moment before finding its rhythm again. His reaction—the way his body leaned into your touch, the low sound he made in the back of his throat—was intoxicating. It spurred you on, your fingers brushing the waistband of his boxers again before slipping just beneath, your fingertips meeting bare skin.

You felt him twitch ever so slightly, and your cheeks twinged with excitement. There was something happening inside of you that you weren’t quite sure what to think of it. You knew what Logan was doing would’ve been demeaning as hell anywhere else, but here, now… all you wanted to do was give in, succumb to whatever it was he wanted you to do. He asked you to trust him, and so far he hasn’t shown you a reason not to. 

Your heart thudded in your chest as the realization hit you: you wanted this. More than anything, you wanted to give yourself over to him, to see what it felt like to let someone else carry the weight for once. If his touch—barely there—was enough to leave you trembling, what else could he make you feel? What more could he show you?

The thought sent a rush of heat through you, your breath quickening as your fingers finally curled around the rigid, throbbing length of him, pressing more firmly against his strained need. Logan’s soft groan rumbled through the air, stirring something deep in your chest—a quiet, unfamiliar hunger that threatened to consume you. You let yourself sink into it, letting the weight of the moment guide your movements, every brush of your touch unraveling a part of you you didn’t know existed. 

“Good,” Logan murmured, his voice warm and gravelly, the rough edge of it sending a shiver down your spine. “Just like that, sunshine. You’re doin’ perfect.”

You inched closer to the edge of the bed, the pull to be nearer to him overwhelming, almost instinctual. Kneeling now, you practically sank toward the floor, chasing the heat radiating from his body like you couldn’t bear the space between you.

Logan shifted, and before you could fully close the distance, he was pulling back. The loss of contact jarred you, a quiet whine of protest nearly escaping before you caught yourself. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, firm but gentle, stopping you in your tracks.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and steady. In one smooth motion, he grabbed a pillow and tossed it to the ground between the two of you, the soft thud breaking the tension for only a split second.

Your gaze snapped up to meet his, eyes wide, blown out with something you couldn’t quite name—but it was there, raw and undeniable. The way he’d stopped you, how casually he’d thrown the pillow down, like he knew exactly what you needed before you did—your chest tightened, and your jaw slackened just slightly. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry, yet you swore you could taste the heat rolling off him.

Logan’s eyes flickered down to your throat as you swallowed, the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He let out a low, rough chuckle—one that felt like gravel and smoke—and before you knew it, his hand was cradling the back of your neck, fingers splaying out against your nape and jaw in a way that had you forgetting how to breathe. The strength in his grip was tempered with something careful, deliberate, and when he tugged you forward, you melted into it willingly, chasing the pull like it was magnetic.

His lips found yours in an instant, the kiss deep and consuming, all heat and desperation that made your head spin. Logan kissed you like he was trying to unravel you, his mouth moving against yours in a way that left you pliant and eager, gasping against him. With every subtle pull of his hand, you followed, inching forward without thought, his control and your surrender melting together.

When you opened your eyes again, you were on your knees on the pillow, face to face with the aching strain beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. You blinked up at him, lips kiss-swollen, as the realization coursed through you, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Logan watched you closely, his thumb brushing slowly along your jaw where his hand still lingered, as though grounding you there—reminding you that this was him, guiding you, coaxing you forward.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice dark and edged with something thick and raw. His thumb dragged along your lower lip, smirking when he noticed you shiver. “Go on. Hold me again, sweetheart.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Your hands trembled slightly as they curled around him once more, this time with more confidence, more purpose. Logan’s gaze stayed locked on yours, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths, though his voice dropped to a whisper when he spoke again.

“Good. Now, let me feel those soft lips of yours.” He guided you closer, the weight of his palm on the back of your neck a constant, steadying anchor as you leaned forward. Your lips brushed along the shaft first—tentative, testing—as though learning every inch of him. Logan’s breath hitched, and when you pressed a lingering kiss to the tip, his reaction shattered any lingering doubt.

A deep groan spilled from his chest, half a breathless chuckle, half a helpless sound that made your stomach twist in the best way. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the sound shaky as his muscles tensed.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he muttered, his hand tightening at your nape. You swore you felt him tremble for just a moment before his voice turned low and rough again. “Sorry, baby. Can’t help myself.”

Before you could process what he meant, his fingers slid into your hair, fisting just tight enough to make your scalp tingle, and with a gentle but deliberate motion, he pushed the tip past your parted lips. The first inch of him filled your mouth, the taste of him flooding your senses, and it was enough to make your mind blank entirely. 

He stilled, his hands firm yet tentative as they guided your gaze up to meet his. The look in his eyes sent a wave of heat coursing through you, pooling low in your belly and making your thighs clench involuntarily. A faint whimper escaped your throat, and you squirmed, trying in vain to adjust the soaked fabric pressing against your folds.

“Oh, pretty girl,” Logan murmured, his chest rising and falling heavily, his voice low and rough with restraint. “You’re makin’ this real hard for me.” He paused, his thumb brushing along your jaw, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You trust me to take good care of you, right?”

You nodded without hesitation, a small, ragged sound catching in your throat as heat prickled across your cheeks. You felt obscene—completely undone under his gaze—but the way Logan looked at you chased away every last shred of doubt.

“Good girl,” he breathed, his hands sliding up to cradle the sides of your neck, a gentle yet possessive hold that left your pulse fluttering wildly. Slowly, he guided you closer, his touch steady as he coaxed your mouth open.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” he whispered, his thumb sweeping over your jaw, encouraging it to drop further. A strained exhale left his lips as he eased in deeper, until the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. “Oh, yes—” Logan’s voice broke into a rough, shaky breath as he bottomed out, and your eyes fluttered shut as you adjusted to the weight of him.

“Come on, baby. I know you can take it,” he urged softly, his voice laced with both praise and challenge. Your hands rose instinctively to grip his thighs, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his pants as you let out a muffled moan around him.

The sound seemed to undo him further. Logan groaned low in his chest, his hand shifting to the back of your head to hold you there just a moment longer, as though savoring the feeling. You tried to quiet yourself, but the excitement coursing through you was impossible to contain—soft, needy noises escaped despite your efforts, vibrating against him as he held you still against his body.

Logan’s grip tightened at the nape of your neck, his restraint snapping like a taut wire. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly, “fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.” His hips began to move—slow at first, testing your limits—before he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He bucked into your mouth with a sharp, unrelenting rhythm, his breath coming harder and faster with every thrust. The sound of his low, guttural groans mixed with the wet noises of your mouth, the lewdness of it only spurring him on. “So perfect,” he praised, his voice cracking as he drove himself deeper. “You were made for this, weren’t you, baby? Look at you—”

The words tumbled out in a broken mix of curses and praise, his hold on you steady but possessive as he guided your head to meet each snap of his hips. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your throat constricting around him as your nails dug into his thighs, but the way he sounded—so utterly wrecked—sent waves of pleasure through you, making you moan around him.

“Fuck,—oh, baby, just like that—” Logan’s voice was strained, raw, his head tilting back as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. He was on the brink, his movements growing more erratic as he neared his edge, but before he could lose himself completely, his hand fisted in your hair, yanking you back with a sudden, desperate motion.

You gasped, panting heavily as your lips parted, your chest heaving as you blinked up at him. His eyes were blown wide, dark with hunger, his lips slightly parted as though trying to catch his breath. Without a word, Logan hauled you upward, crashing his mouth onto yours in a heated, sloppy kiss. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming every inch of you as he groaned against your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue.

The kiss was frantic, all teeth and heat as he walked you backward, his hands gripping your waist before spinning you around and throwing you onto the bed. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you, his hands tugging at your clothes with a singular focus, stripping you bare with rough, hurried movements.

“Goddamn,” Logan muttered under his breath, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin as he sat back just long enough to yank his own shirt over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles taut and flexing as he moved—sent a fresh rush of heat pooling between your thighs.

Logan’s hands were on you in an instant, his lips crashing down against your neck as he kissed, nipped, and licked his way down your body with a ravenous intensity. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer, his grip firm and possessive as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

“You’re somethin’ else, sunshine,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and low, vibrating through you. His teeth scraped over your collarbone before his tongue soothed the mark, leaving you gasping beneath him.

His lips trailed lower, his hot breath teasing against your chest as his hands slid up, cupping your breasts with a firm, deliberate squeeze. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Logan grinned against your skin when you arched into him, his lips wrapping around one taut peak as his fingers rolled the other, coaxing a breathless moan from your lips.

“Look at you,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips glistening. His eyes burned with unrestrained hunger as his hands roamed your body, exploring every inch with rough, greedy caresses. “Already fallin’ apart for me, huh?”

You barely managed a nod, your head spinning as his mouth moved lower, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. His hands gripped your thighs, prying them apart as he settled between them, his gaze locked onto yours. The sight alone—Logan on his knees, his broad shoulders pinning your legs open, his lips glistening as he licked them—made your breath hitch.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he rasped, his voice thick with reverence and desire. He dipped his head, his stubble brushing against your inner thighs as his tongue flicked out, teasing along your folds. The first swipe of his tongue sent a shudder through you, and Logan groaned deeply, the sound reverberating against you.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmured, his lips wrapping around your swollen clit and sucking lightly, drawing a sharp cry from you. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands as he worked you over with unrelenting precision.

Logan alternated between long, slow strokes of his tongue and quick, teasing flicks, relishing every sound you made, every twitch of your body beneath him. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place as he buried his face deeper, his nose brushing against your sensitive nub as his tongue dove inside you.

“God,” he growled against you, his voice rough and dripping with approval. “You’re so fuckin’ sweet, sunshine. Can’t get enough of you.” He pulled back slightly, his lips and chin slick with your arousal as he grinned up at you. “Look at you, practically undone for me already.”

You writhed beneath him, your body trembling as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, his fingers replacing his mouth to keep the steady rhythm against your clit. “Logan,” you whimpered, your voice high and desperate, your thighs trembling as heat coiled low in your belly.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice like velvet, his eyes dark and intense as he watched you. “Let go for me, baby. I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You were barely holding onto a thread of sanity, your head spinning, your breath hitching as Logan’s relentless tongue and fingers pushed you higher and higher. Your nails scraped against his scalp, and Logan groaned in response, the vibration sending you tumbling over the edge.

Your body arched off the bed as the pressure inside you built to an unbearable peak, every nerve ending ignited under Logan's expert tongue and fingers. The pleasure crashed through you like a tidal wave, your thighs trembling violently as you cried out his name, your hands fisting in his hair.

"That's it," Logan growled against you, his voice dark and dripping with satisfaction as he continued to devour you. "Let it all out for me, sweetheart."

Your orgasm tore through you, so intense that your vision blurred, your entire body trembling as if it couldn’t contain the raw ecstasy coursing through you. Logan didn’t let up for a second, his tongue working you through the aftershocks, prolonging every wave until you were left gasping and shuddering beneath him.

Before you could catch your breath, Logan was on you, his body a solid weight over yours. His hands gripped your hips, and in one swift motion, he buried himself inside you, stealing the remnants of your orgasm and turning them into something even more feral.

“Fuck,” Logan rasped, his voice rough as his hips snapped forward with an unforgiving pace. “Still so tight, baby. I’ve gotcha—just let me take care of you.”

The sensation was overwhelming—his thick cock filling you completely, his relentless rhythm pushing you further into the mattress with every thrust. Your cries mingled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your nails clawing at his back as he moved with a desperate hunger, biting and sucking at your neck, leaving marks that burned and thrilled in equal measure.

“You feel that?” he murmured darkly against your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe before his lips trailed down to your jaw. “This is what you were made for—bein’ mine. My perfect little thing, takin’ me so damn well.”

His hand slid up to your throat, his fingers wrapping around it with a possessive grip that sent a shiver through you. He applied just enough pressure to make your head spin, his eyes locked onto yours, burning with raw intensity. “Look at you, sunshine,” he praised, his voice low and gravelly. “So fuckin’ beautiful when you let go—when you give yourself to me.”

Your moans turned into gasps as he choked you lightly, his thumb brushing along the side of your neck, coaxing you to surrender completely. Logan’s lips found yours again, devouring your cries as his hips slammed into you, his movements erratic and desperate as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

His teeth sank into your shoulder, a primal growl rumbling through his chest as his hand slid down to your thigh, gripping it tightly to spread you wider for him. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, and the sheer force of him sent you spiraling again, your body clenching tightly around him.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it,” Logan groaned, his voice breaking as he felt your walls flutter around him. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect, so good for me. Gonna make you mine all over again.”

You cried out as another orgasm overtook you, this one more intense than the first, leaving you trembling and incoherent beneath him. Logan’s movements didn’t falter; if anything, they grew rougher, more possessive, his thumb pressing into the base of your throat as his teeth found the tender skin of your collarbone again.

"That's my girl," he growled, his voice sharp with pride and need as your body writhed beneath his. "Look at you, squirtin’ all over me—so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your body gave out beneath him, your vision blurring as the pleasure consumed you entirely. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your cries filling the room as Logan’s relentless pace pushed you to your limits.

Logan’s hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head back as he kissed you deeply, his tongue dominating yours as his hips drove forward with punishing intensity. His free hand roamed your body, squeezing, groping, claiming every inch of you as he chased his own release.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and possessive, his breath hot against your ear as he gave a final, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. His body tensed, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he came, his hips rolling through his climax as if he couldn’t bear to leave your warmth.

Logan collapsed over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing against your temple as he murmured softly, his voice still tinged with raw need. “So fuckin’ good, sunshine. My perfect girl.”

Logan’s grip tightened around your waist, his breath ragged as he held you in place, your body still trembling beneath him. His chest heaved, his lips brushing against your ear as he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, savoring the feel of you around him. His voice was low, a dark satisfaction lacing every word.

“See how good it feels to let go, sweetheart?” he murmured, his lips curling into a smirk as his eyes bored into yours. "I told you, just had to trust me."

You didn’t respond with words, your gaze locking onto his as you fought for breath, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. The only sound in the room was your uneven breaths and the faint, rhythmic pulse of his dick still buried deep inside you.

His hand found the back of your neck, pulling you forward with unrelenting force. The kiss he claimed you with was messy and possessive, his tongue dominating yours, tasting, owning you in every way. His grip on your neck tightened slightly, making it harder to breathe, but you didn’t care. You were lost in him, completely, mindlessly, heart in your throat as he claimed you like this.

You were on top of him now, your body straddling him, both of you entwined in a messy, raw dance that didn’t need words—just the wet slide of your lips, the heat of his skin, the desperate shallow thrusts that made everything blur. His kiss was greedy, ferocious, as though he needed you to know that you were his—his plaything, his perfect girl.

You moaned into the kiss, the sensation of him still deep inside you enough to keep your thoughts scattered and incoherent. Logan didn’t pull away. He kept you close, his tongue in your mouth, tasting, owning, until you could barely keep your eyes open, your body consumed by him —sloppy, messy, and completely possessive, as if the world could end and all that mattered was this. All that mattered was you, beneath him, in his arms, on top of him, held and claimed by his every touch.

And as you melted into the kiss, body trembling and mind slipping into a daze of pleasure, everything else faded. All that remained was the feel of him, the sound of his breath, and the heat that still burned between you.

---

a/n: smooches! (reblog pls)