#real or not it's something that's special

[amethystarachnid]

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

“autistic people’s interests not ‘restrictive’ that be pathologizing language!!!” n then cue example of low support needs level 1 autistic with PhD n it’s like

so right now be in extreme fixation stage of something that stick around long enough be call special interest

extreme enough that it overrode my main special interest for 4+ years. just like that.

here what “extreme” mean:

am active do that special interest moment am wake to moment go sleep. constant. as non stop as possible.

sleep about 2-4 hours a day, n sleep at all because human body need sleep. this be 3rd or 4th night in row where do not go sleep until 6am, 8am, wake up at 10 AM, 12PM. AM NOT TIRED. just want do Thing (ppl who know me irl follow this account so shouldn’t admit this or else get concerned spam but brain even too occupy abt that right now. shh.)

btw this lack of sleep probably reason trigger my GI issues. n it really bad. it look like dysmotility, stomach, intestine, maybe, who tf knows. eat 2 bites for “breakfast” before feel like too full will throw up from be stuffed, but even by dinner time maybe stomach growling but not hungry n can’t eat more than another 2 bite. which then cause severe constipation. etc etc etc whatever. know my lack of sleep definitely contribute to it n idk if go catch up w sleep will fix it or if that be trigger worsen episode that gonna stay for while. even with these consequences, no, can’t go sleep. Can’t.

also my eyes blurry from constant use (bc need for do Thing) n lack sleep. will am be able go sleep? no.

basic activities of daily living (ones that can do) too boring to do. spend time eating chewing, that be time away from Thing. minute or two of go bathroom take too much time away from Thing n am almost rushing back so can do Thing. push off get help shower because that take precious time away from Thing. n upset about interruptions. can’t handle interruptions. can’t handle anything be pull out from my lil world of Thing. do those bADLs not pull me out my internal world of Thing. zero attention elsewhere. most ppl even level 1 & maybe even some of 2 autistics not understand what mean by “too bored by bADL to do them” n they think it just spoiled not want do it but no

this be busiest time of semester (online school). have 3 finals this week n already behind (haven’t studied for 2). it not matter. nothing got done. try listen to audio n 20 minutes later realize been zone out somehow thinking abt Thing again. try open up something link really just few clicks n spend 30 minutes because “oh website loading let me just go look at Thing real quick” n 30 minutes pass bc cant stop. my brain occupied. any information need memorize for school for other things simply not fit no space bc whole entire mode on Thing.

write this post fucking painful bc just NEED get back to think about this thing bc write this post be interruption n in fleeing moments (minutes) of can think about other things been thinking abt write this post. if post sound extra confusing or frantic that because am frantic get back. again reminder this blog (disability) be part of MAIN SPECIAL INTEREST FOR FOUR PLUS YEARS it just get kicked off like that. use to check tumblr multiple times day n now go DAYS without check tumblr. n coincidentally this be time be one of post escape containment so get constant notif one point to 2k before cleared it. now again probably another 2k

hope this post fucking make sense bc brain too occupy to think abt write anything that unrelate

haha fuck! me!

okay to reblog this incoherent post in fact please do bc autistic interest can be EXTREMELY restrictive. it can be this level of restrictive AND MORE. can make you genuinely not able do ADLs n cause health issues from things you not doing n you suffer from it but it not change anything

[betty-fran]

You believe me like a god, I'll destroy you like I am

Oh. This video, like some special kind of art, captures all this unspoken longing between the two of them. This is actually an interesting thing about TOS - this unconscious sense of doom that always lurks behind the absurdly strange plot, and doesn't really have any specific connection to it, but which becomes completely obvious when it comes to K/S interactions. It's something more personal, intimate, as both Kirk and Spock have such a similar inner tragedy, and while it's only shown to us in bits and pieces, moments from episode to episode, in the big picture, it leads us to understand that they are both much more alike than different. We talk about loneliness, and we talk about shame, and behind it lies a sense of one's own otherness, of the impossibility of being accepted for who you are.

I think the most important thing about the relationship between Kirk and Spock, regardless of how you perceive it, is its fatal absoluteness. There is no other person in the whole world but Spock for Kirk, and Kirk for Spock, who can fill this gaping inner emptiness inside, to fix this tragedy of otherness, rejection, wrongness, who truly sees him for who he is, who can understand, accept him completely without hesitations or doubts. This is why K/S, while not being canon, is so adamant, because if what happens between them is not love in its fullest form, then love doesn't exist at all.

But this unwavering closeness between them turns this story into a tragedy in the plane in which both TOS and AOS lie — there is no one else in each of their lives, no one more important, no one closer than K to S and S to K; only the last half steps remains between them, and if they cross these last half steps — everything in the world will finally fall into place, as it always was meant to be — but that never happens, those half-steps always remain unfilled between them, and even if someone third tries to take that place, it doesn't really work, because only the two of them can take it — there is no one else, never has been, and never will. This is also what Ursula K. Le Guin wrote about in Searoad: Chronicles of Klatsand 

I was thinking how Mr. Spock was never unbuttoned, never lolled, kept himself shadowy, unfulfilled, and so we loved him. And poor Captain Kirk, going from blonde to blonde, would never understand that he himself loved Mr. Spock truly, hopelessly, forever.

We're left with this sense of doom every time Spock looks at Kirk, and when Kirk looks at Spock, never and always touching and touched. This is the reality in which they exist, they can't be apart from each other, but they also can't get close enough to be truly happy, because they can't be with anyone else, no matter how hard they try, and that leaves them in a vicious circle, where their happiness is only half a step away, but they can't take it. This is their real no-win scenario. Not Kobayashi Maru. It's the two of them.

Reading the K/S conflict in TOS more broadly, it's not just about homophobia, it's about the rejection of any otherness, queerness, or neurodiversity that permeates their entire reality. This is what I read in TOS from my own experience as an autistic person. Both Kirk and Spock are too complex personalities to truly fit in and meet expectations, none of them ever really feel like they're part of the society they live in, and the only place in each of their lives where they truly feel like they belong is on the bridge of the Enterprise, next to each other, what really makes the dynamic of their relationship what we love so much, and what we never fully get, because the 23rd century is really no different from the 60s, just as it is no different from today. And that is why TOS is actually a unique phenomenon, because while being a product of the stereotypes and limitations of the 60s, it also poses a real challenge to them (perhaps not always consciously), forcing us to think about what we really want to see our future as.

p.s. @anghraine honestly, I started this blog just to write about how much I enjoyed reading your thoughts about TOS, and because it inspired me to get back to my own journaling

star trek is about. .,the sixties

[pukefactory]

⋆༺𓆩 LONG TIME NO HEAT 𓆪༻⋆

✸ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Fire Spirit Cookie X Reader

✸ Character(s): Fire Spirit Cookie (Cookie Run)

✸ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

✸ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

✸ Image Credits: @Devsisters

ৡ He doesn’t ask you to follow him. He just glances back from the edge of Dragon’s Valley—molten air warping around his silhouette, cloak snapping in ember winds—and says, “Well? You comin’ or not?” Like it’s a dare. Like if you don’t keep up, you’ll be left behind with the smoke and the stories. (Spoiler: he’d still come back for you.)

ৡ He has a habit of picking fights with beings ten times his size just to impress you. “You see that guy? That guy looked at you weird, I swear.” You sigh. “He’s a mountain.” “A mountain that’s about to get charred.” Later, you patch up the scorched edge of his cape. “You’re lucky I like dumb ideas,” you mumble. He grins. “Lucky me, huh?”

ৡ Fire Spirit Cookie claims he doesn’t do “feelings.” Too soft. Too mortal. But when you’re hurt—even a scratch, even a bruise—his expression goes blank. Not angry. Still. The kind of stillness a wildfire has just before it leaps from the trees. “Who did this?” he asks, voice low and flat. He doesn’t wait for an answer. You’ve never seen the sky so red.

ৡ You once asked him what he really is—what happened before the Red Dragon’s Bead, before the power. He just laughed, flames flaring wild for a second. “Tch. You wanna know what I was before I burned bright?” He paused. Looked at you like no one else had ever asked. “…No one special. Just cold. Cold all the time.”

ৡ He gets jealous in the weirdest ways. Not possessive—more like competitive. You laugh too hard at someone else’s joke? He sets a nearby tree on fire by accident. You say you like stargazing? He tries to burn a constellation into the sky. “What? I’m just making it prettier,” he huffs. His bead pulses warmer when you call him ridiculous and kiss his cheek anyway.

ৡ His idea of romance is flying you through the lava flows of Dragon’s Valley at terminal velocity, cackling while shouting, “THIS IS SCORCHIN’ LOVE, BABY!” You scream the whole way. He has never looked happier. Later, he lets you ride on his back through calmer currents, hair like wildfire around your face. “You alright?” he asks, voice quieter. You nod. “Good. You’re the only one I’d let hold on this tight.”

ৡ When he’s exhausted—when even gods burn low—he finds you. Always. Doesn’t matter if you’re asleep, or halfway across Earthbread. You wake up to the smell of smoke and warmth curled beside you, his head on your lap, cloak strewn like shadows. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t go out, alright? Just… stay warm. Just for a while.”

ৡ He has scars. Real ones. You weren’t even sure fire could scar. You touched one once, and he flinched—actually flinched. “You shouldn’t…” he muttered, pulling away. But when you kissed the burn instead of asking what caused it, he stared like you’d just changed gravity. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered. “You make me want to be seen.”

ৡ Sometimes he flies too close to the edge. Seeks out chaos just to feel something. You’ve had to pull him back more than once. “Why do you care?” he sneers, every time, every time. “You shouldn’t care.” And every time, you do the same thing: take his hand, hold it tight, and say, “Because you’re not just fire, Fire Spirit. You’re light too.” His flames shudder. “Tch… That’s not fair.”

ৡ You’re the only one who’s ever made him hesitate. The only one who could say “Come back” and have him actually stop mid-flight. “…You’re serious?” he asks, hovering over a world he could reduce to cinders. You nod. No flames. No threats. Just you. He lands. Slowly. “…Guess the fire’s not done with you yet,” he says, but his eyes soften. “Guess I’m not.”

[softtdaisy]

soooo thinking about bodyguard Hotch (as always) and inspired by the latest fic, I wondered what other characters think of how close Hotch and reader are getting when he's still "on the case"?

I'm a sucker for outsider perspectives and I'm sooo curious if the BAU gang suspects anything or maybe even the stalker's perspective on Hotch and reader 👀

keep on teasing me / Aaron Hotchner

summary. 5 times someone teased Hotch about the case, the one he did the teasing

words count. 4 593

what to expect. the team is here but nothing except for that

a/n. thank you so much for your request sweetie!! i didn't see the BAU as The BAU in this series i picture them more some kind of agency or i don't know but they're here and it was sooo fun to have them around so hopefully you love this 🤍

bodyguard masterlist | criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

1. the team meeting

“Agent Rossi, but you can call me David. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You watched as David extended his hand, only to take yours and give it a kiss. “Well, the same goes for you, David,” you replied with a soft laugh.

You noticed Hotch rolling his eyes next to you, and you pinched your lips not to laugh even harder. 

After you received yet another letter in your mailbox, the bureau decided to add new cameras and a security system to your apartment. Meaning, you had to leave for the day. Something you weren’t quite sure you understood, but you still agreed to.

Then again, you didn’t really have a choice when Hotch was literally pushing you outside this morning.

“It’s a great occasion for you to meet everyone,” he justified in the car while driving you to his office for the very first time. 

You didn’t realize you had never seen where he was supposed to be working until today. How funny he knew every single centimeter of your place, and yet you didn’t even know what type of wood his desk was made of. Or if he had pictures on it. Pictures of whom? That was another question. 

But he was right. You got to meet everyone. Seeing the real Derek, Emily, and Spencer you’ve seen on screen during the weekly meeting. Getting to meet the bubbly Penelope that was sending mail written in pink to organize every event you had to go to. You already knew Jennifer, the one who stayed with you when you had to get ready for a special occasion—after Hotch did once and left the room with cheeks redder than your lipstick.

“Maybe one of you can finally answer my question,” you said, your arms crossed on your chest once you were all in the meeting room. All their eyes landed on you, curious to see what could be on your mind. They were hiding many things from you—you didn’t need to know about the wannabe stalkers and those that defended you. 

You put your hands on the desk in a very professional way, bending over. Just enough for Hotch’s eyes to fall on your back and your ass for a second. Something that didn’t go unnoticed by David.

“Why can’t I be here while you put cameras all over my place?”

“Because” Spencer started in a low and calm voice that he could say anything, you would believe him. “It’s safer that you don’t know about all of them in case something happens. We know that people tend to look at things that could put them in danger when they feel threatened. And if your stalker comes into your place…”

“Which he won’t.” Hotch interrupted him.

“Well, yes, but in case he does, you won’t be looking at the cameras because you won’t know where they are, and there is a smaller chance that he will notice them.”

You nodded; his explanation was fair, and your first thought was right: you tend to believe everything this man said. “But if I walk around naked, that means you will all see me?” 

Sure, they laughed. You did too. It was a genuine question, but the situation was rather funny considering your case. Even Hotch let out a laugh, but mostly to hide his embarrassment at the idea. 

Nobody answered your question in the end, and the discussion went to other subjects: the following weeks, the events, the organization… always the same movie playing on repeat in the end.

After the meeting, the girls offered to get you a coffee, and you gladly accepted their offer to change your mind. And discover the office. “And I’ll show you Hotch’s desk!” was a very good argument too. 

Did he hear it? Yes. Will he stop you? No. 

He was ready to accept your teasing about his bland and boring office if it made you happy.

Instead, he stayed in the meeting room to organize the latest proofs and stuff they collected. 

“She has a point,” he heard in his back.

When he turned around, he wasn’t surprised to see David leaning against the door. 

“What if she walks around naked and doesn’t know where the cameras are?” he added with a cheeky smile. Because that wasn’t his main concern. That wasn’t what he really meant. “But now that I think about it, you’re always around, so if she walks around naked…”

“Stop it,” he groaned, turning his back to him again. If he couldn’t see his amused face, he could hear his laugh. And again, the heat grew on his cheeks. It happened already; he almost saw you in your underwear. When you left your room and forgot that your bodyguard was always around.

Or you didn’t forget at all? 

2. the recording studio

“One more take!” 

You happily nodded, putting your headphones back on your ears to get ready to record again. 

This was the first time since your case started and Hotch had been watching over you that you went back to the recording studio. You had been asking multiple times in the past. But until the team couldn’t secure a place, they kept refusing. More than once, Hotch offered that they build their own recording studio at your place. 

“The whole point is that I don't get to work alone, Aaron.” You told him over dinner one night when he put the offer on the table again. “I know what I can do, sure. But I also need some artistic view, and as much as I appreciate you, you’re not an artist.”

And so after meeting the team you were used to working with and talking with your producer a couple of times, Hotch finally agreed to bring you to the studio. On one condition: he was going with you. Something you immediately said yes to because “you’re going to see me in my best element.” 

Derek came with him, mostly to protect you from the fans when you would leave. They were already a lot when you arrived; they can’t imagine the number after the session. And two bodyguards were better than one. 

Meaning, on top of looking after you, Hotch had to look after his own reactions looking at you. Because you were right, you were in your element, and there was something magical in the way you lit up when you sang. You were living for your music. The words you wrote these past weeks were the happiest, which it wasn’t hard to understand why. 

More than once, he got lost in the beauty of the moment. Like there was nobody else in the room except for you and him. Like most of the time you spent together, to be honest. But it was…different. These felt more like a dream than the reality of what you were going through, putting the reason why Hotch was by your side all the time. He wished it would never stop.

When you started another song, this felt like another dream beginning. Another movie to start. The next episode of his favorite show. 

And the truth was, Hotch wasn’t even paying much attention to the words you were singing.

But Derek was.

“They couldn't have me, and they never will. And sometimes I hold you closer just to know you're real.”

“Wait a minute.” Derek whispered. Hotch immediately perceived the amusement and especially the teasing in his voice. “She wrote this song lately?”

Hotch didn’t move, or maybe just a little when he crossed his arms tighter against his chest. But his eyes didn’t leave you. Not for a second. “How am I supposed to know?” he replied in a sharp tone that would indicate he didn't want to talk about it more. 

Yet, he knew Derek Morgan more than anybody on this team. When this man had an idea in his head, there was little to nothing that could be done to change his mind. So he wasn’t surprised to see him make a step closer to the producer to put a hand on his shoulder. Neither was he when he heard him ask what the name of the song was.

“Bodyguard.”

You called that song Bodyguard. As much as he tried to stay focused on you, Hotch noticed from the corner of his eyes Derek turning his head to him and giving him a proud look. “Bodyguard,” he repeated, so low it was almost unhearable.

You sang the whole song, talking about the need to protect each other and being ready to do anything for their safety. And if it was more true on Hotch's side, it was the whole reason he was here in the first place. He could tell that there was some truth for you too. He knew that you had defended him already, for fun, when his teammates showed amusement about the situation and your complicity. For real, when you heard some people from outside questioning him—his ability or even his look.

He never felt unattractive, nor did he think he was the most handsome man in the world. But hearing you say there was no man you would rather have by your side than him built his confidence back. And having you sing it in a song that would probably be on your album was on another level. 

“I think I understand now why you don’t want to get rid of this mission.” Derek finally said when he walked back to Hotch.

Hotch, who rolled his eyes again and sighed, said, “Shut up.”

And Derek laughed again. Except this time, Hotch couldn’t contain his smile when you looked at him after finishing your verse. With a sweet smile, like you were waiting for his approval. Asking if he had understood what you were trying to say.

And his simple nod was the answer you both needed to say he knew. He understood. And he felt the same. 

3. the teasing 

“You know everything will be fine, right?” 

You found it ironic that you were the one reassuring your bodyguard.

You were sitting cross-legged on your sofa, watching as Hotch kept going back and forth between his room and the living room. Clearly more stressed about leaving than you were.

Sure, you did have anxiety about him leaving in the past. And sure, you loved having him around and wished he didn’t have to leave.

But Hotch had to work, and the girls offered to stay for the night. It could have sounded sexist that they were two when usually one man was enough. But JJ was doing the bodyguard job; Penelope was just looking for a good excuse to spend time with you. And a pajama party never hurt anybody.

He gave you a side look after putting his bag down on the floor. “How can you be so sure, exactly?” 

Was he being unfair? Yes, and he knew that. Hotch trusted his team with closed eyes. He never doubted them in any case. And he wasn’t even doubting them now.

But he couldn’t help the feeling that he was the one that could treat you the best. Maybe it was above the case situation. 

“Because the girls will be there, we are just going to talk and eat and drink wine.” You were enumerating each element with your fingers. Before opening your hands to show your outfit. “And I'm wearing my favorite pajamas; nothing can happen to me.”

Hotch rolled his eyes. Because he knew that fucking pajama too damn well. A pastel-colored tank and shorts that were showing too much skin for his own good. You had been wearing it many nights around him already. And his eyes couldn’t help but fall on your naked legs anytime you would sit by his side. And his mind was hoping silently that the fabric would go higher and higher on your thighs. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he mumbled in his breath before walking back to his room. Your feet were so light on the floor that he didn’t hear you either getting up or following him.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you laughed in his back. But he didn’t turn around, didn’t see you lean against the door or cross your arms on your chest, putting the almost see-through fabric against your skin. “Are you running away because of my pajamas?”

You smiled when you heard him laugh. “Yeah, sure, they are my next enemies after your stalker.” 

“Ouch, stalker mentioned before leaving? Not nice, Aaron.” You put a hand on your heart, pretending to be more hurt than you actually were. The reality was there, and you couldn't fight it, so at least you could laugh about it. When he turned his head slightly, just enough to give you a look, you noticed the amused smile on his face from your whole comedy. 

But you weren’t done with him. Not when he had the audacity to leave you for the night. Not when a low, low voice in your head was reminding you that you were scared Hotch could forget about you as soon as he closed the door—something that could never happen if you could actually read his mind.

So you walked to him, slowly. “Actually,” you started, sitting on his bed right in front of him. Perfectly in his sight, with your hands resting behind you, so his eyes would fall on your neckline. “I don’t think my pajamas are your enemies.”

And it did. His eyes fall on you and the trail of skin from your neck to your chest. “Are we seriously having the conversation?” he sighed. 

“I think,” you pursued, making your eyes go down on him very slowly. “That you actually loved them a lot. Maybe they are the reason why you have a hard time leaving tonight.” 

The clench on his jaw. The way he bit his lips. Or the way he turned his head to try to get rid of the thought that appeared—the one where he threw everything away to lay you on this bed and took these pajamas away from you. 

You knew you hit right.

“Hotch?” you heard from the living room.

The girls were there. The game was over, for now.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Hotch finally replied, pointing to you and the room and basically everything that was driving him crazy. He tried to gain composure back, pretending he was mad about your behavior.

But your only answer was a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure we will,” you continued laughing before joining the girls.

Giving Hotch one last look at your ass in these goddamn shorts that would last with him all night. 

4. The Stalker

It started as a beautiful and calm day.

Nothing planned. No meeting. No event. Nothing.

Just you writing a new song and Hotch working in his room. Sometimes you tend to forget these types of days could even exist, but they did. And you loved them.

You were lying on a rug, your legs on your sofa, listening to a melody you had composed a few days ago to find the perfect chorus when you heard Hotch’s door slam suddenly. “That son of a bitch.”

It was in these moments that you realized how much you trusted Hotch with your life. Because you didn’t even flinch a little as it was a sudden and loud reaction caused by God knows what. You simply waited for his figure to appear.

And he did. Oh, you almost forgot he had his glasses on when he was working on his computer. This explained the little smile on your face when you saw him, with faded blue jeans and a dark grey shirt that looked very nice on him.

“Something’s wrong?” you asked, looking at him from above. And he did look a little disappointed by your lack of reaction. But could you blame him? He was mad enough for two.

But instead of speaking, he handed his tablet to you. 

And you saw the reason for his anger—a very justifiable one now that you could see the cause.

A picture of you two in the street from three nights ago when you had a sudden need for Italian food. You had binge-watched a whole cooking competition on TV, and you were craving pure Italian food from the restaurant down the street. The thing was, they didn’t take online orders. Even when you were a famous singer or a convincing bodyguard.

So you and Hotch went there yourself to order too many dishes that you shared the very same night. 

Turns out, your stalker had been waiting for you. And made sure you knew about that.

“Your boyfriend looks pretty, but not as pretty as me, my love.”

Hotch turned his head suddenly. “Are you laughing?” But it was a dumb question. He could perfectly hear your sweet laugh in his ears, even from how far you were from him in this position.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized, putting your hands up in the air while getting up. You had a hard time finding your breath again. “I can’t help it.” 

Hotch waited. And waited. Until you finally calmed down. But he was the one to freak out a little. When you landed your eyes on him. And when you put a hand on his arms, patting your fingers on his biceps. “He thinks you’re pretty.” 

That was the point that made you laugh. That he was pretty. And the worst part was that Hotch knew why. You had a whole discussion the other day on the difference between pretty, beautiful, and gorgeous. “You, Aaron Hotchner, are gorgeous,” you said in a very serious tone. 

You tried to explain that he wasn’t cute or pretty, not with his dark figure and the intensity of his look. He could be considered beautiful when he looked softer, like when he was relaxing. But he mostly looked gorgeous. You even said you wanted to put him in a music video because “that would make it work so much better.” 

So you laughed about the pretty part.

Not the boyfriend part.

“You realize how dangerous it is that he saw us?” he finally added, trying to get away with the idea that being called your boyfriend sounded satisfying for the both of you. 

You simply shrugged at his question. “See the positive side of it; at least he won’t approach me when you’re here. And you’re here all the time.” 

And just like that, you made it sound like it was a normal thing for him to be considered your boyfriend by others.

Hotch could clearly get used to it. Or make it real someday.

5. the jealousy

“I don’t like that.” Hotch said in his breath. It could have been missed, almost inaudible.

If Emily and he weren’t in the same room, in total silence.

She turned around, her hand still full of the chips she was eating. “You want me to grab something else?” she asked, her brows furrowed from the confusion. She asked him what he wanted to eat during the tailing tonight. He had a real nerve to complain now.

But Hotch turned around, even more confused than Emily was. “What?” He looked down at the chips bag in her hands and let out an amused sigh—at least he wasn’t too angry to forget how to laugh. “I’m not talking about the chips, Prentiss.”

“Oh,” she replied, taking another handful. “Then what are you talking about, Hotch?” 

She had to wait again. Because suddenly the idea of saying out loud what had been on his mind all day wasn’t as genius as he thought it was. He was being an idiot, ridiculous, he would even say. That was his job. That was everyone’s job. And he had no right to say it wasn’t a good idea or that he wasn’t happy about “Oh, it’s about Derek taking care of her tonight, right?”

A groan. That was all Hotch could answer at the moment.

And a laugh. That was the only reaction Emily had to the situation.

“Are you jealous?” she finally asked after a moment. And maybe he was quick to reply that he wasn't. Too quick, he didn’t sound sincere at all. “Ok, you’re completely jealous.” 

It was a decision they made all together. Hotch was the very first to agree. After the stalker’s latest letter and the proof he had perceived the chemistry between Hotch and you himself, the team thought it would be safer to ask Derek to bring you to the premiere instead of him.

New face, new man, an easy way to confuse the stalker. And made him believe his threat was working.

Choosing Derek out of anybody was a good strategy. Sure, Spencer was good-looking but not as confident as his colleague. The girls would have been a great support, but they wouldn’t have made him jealous. And David was a great father figure, less of a lover—even if he was still talking about your compliments. 

Hotch had all the proof the team made the right decision when he saw the flash crackle when you walked the red carpet, with Derek following you closely.

The good option, right? Young, good-looking, funny, smiling…

“For what it takes,” Emily started again. And if she hoped he would put his eyes away from the view of you, looking so beautiful with your dark-colored dress and your hair up—in a way he could imagine his fingers brushing your neck—she was wrong. “She’s not with him like she is with you.”

No answer. But a sigh. A very subtle sigh that was a sign of relief. Because Hotch noticed it too, honestly. 

When Derek put his hand on your back, you didn’t take a single step back to cuddle against it—like you did with Hotch.

When Derek told a joke in the car, one they all heard and that made some of the team laugh, you didn’t laugh as hard as you did with Hotch—with your eyes showing your amusement, your head falling back, and a hand hitting his chest.

But mostly, anytime Derek was looking at you—definitely not in the same way Hotch was, but still—you weren't looking at him for as long as you did with him. Because anytime you were looking at Hotch, you were appreciating every single feature in his face like it was the last time.

“Oh boy.” Emily laughed, and this time, Hotch turned his head in disappointment. “You’re so falling for her.”

“Shut up.” Hotch finally replied. He saw the way Emily bit her lips, trying to contain her smile and mostly her laugh from his reaction.

And he was fighting too. Because she was so right. 

+1 

“I refuse!”

Running after Hotch wasn’t too hard in your apartment—it was big but not that big. Yet it felt like this man had a little too much fun making you run in a circle and going room after room without stopping walking. Will he even stop walking one day?

Well, yes, he did. Right in front of you. Meaning you stopped too, but only by hitting his back. “You don’t want me to do my job?” he asked with a soft laugh.

“That’s not what I mean!” You hit his chest—it was an easy target, right in front of you. But Hotch was quick to turn around and grab your wrist before you gave him another punch. Or whatever you were trying to do. 

“Just not with somebody else, hm?” You didn’t reply, but you frowned your brows so hard, in a way he was the master of, that he had his answer. 

Hotch had been called for a mission with a young woman, the ex-wife of a high politician that didn’t want to go alone to some charity event. For your defense, you stopped listening after you heard Aaron Hotchner and the name of another woman in the same sentence. It was a one-night thing; he would be back in the morning. Nothing very unusual from your routine.

Except for the fact it was Hotch with another woman.

And the idea of seeing a picture of him looking like a god—because you knew he would, he always did—with someone else was… “maybe,” you finally answered in a mumble that made him laugh harder.

Hotch could have been angry. If it had been any other client, he would have reminded them that they had absolutely no opinion to give about his job. His job was, indeed, his job. Actually, he already had dropped a case because of a jealous client. So yeah, he could have been angry.

First, if it wasn’t you. At this point, he would be stupid to not accept you as a client. You were…you. A great and wonderful woman that made his day much better, a friend that he wanted to cherish for as long as he could. And, well, whatever you were, that justifies your place in his head and heart. He could only accept your jealousy after being jealous himself seeing you with Derek. 

Second…well, because he wasn’t going to this case after all. He was called for it, and he had done the meeting, the organization. Everything was ready. And until a few hours ago, he was still on it, ready to spend another night with politicians—the thing he probably hated the most in his job. But he quit at the last minute. Spencer would go for him, and he would do a much better job at pretending to be interested in what these idiots would say—mostly to contradict them.

“That’s funny.”

You opened your mouth only to close it. And opened it again. “You think I’m funny?”

“Everyone kept teasing me about this case, saying I’m too involved with you, that my reactions are too much, that I’m too possessive. You teased me about not wanting to leave you.” It was hard to concentrate with his big green eyes stuck in yours and his fingers brushing your wrist like that. “But you are the one who refuses to see me go somewhere with someone else.”

You stayed like that, in silence, for a few seconds. You, frowning and pretending to be hurt. Him, with his proud smile that was only making you angrier. 

But in the end he was right.

It was fun to tease him about his feelings when yours just hit you in a quite violent way. 

So you took a step back, then another, before turning your back. “Blame a girl for being jealous,” you said in your breath before walking to your sofa and lying down. Pretending that stupid and arrogant—and many other adjectives you could find to describe Hotch that weren’t true—had already left.

But he hadn’t.

He looked at you. 

He could have told the truth.

He could have told you he wasn’t going there and he was just playing with you.

But instead he said, “You win.”

You didn’t even turn around. Didn’t even move. Which made him laugh even harder because he knew you were simply pretending not to care. But when Hotch walked closer to you, enough that he could put a hand on the sofa and tilted his head to look at you, he saw the smile on your face. The one you were trying to hide but couldn’t contain at the idea of him being by your side.

“I’m staying with you.”

And you both knew these words had more meaning than they were pretended to.

He was staying. Tonight. Maybe longer. Maybe forever. 

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife (if you want to be in it, ask me and I’ll be happy to add you x)

[hearts444norris]

My Kink Is Karma

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After a turbulent break up, Max left you all alone, dealing with the pain from his poisonous words. He was thriving, having the time of his life, and you were determined to see his downfall.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex (don’t do that), degradation, Mean!Max, Mean!Reader, they are both toxic to each other, revenge sex, hate sex. All the good stuff

I’m on my Max kick later, specially since the last race. Hope you guys can enjoy my freak with me!!

Three months, twenty eight days since he left. Actually, since you left. No, even worse, since you were kicked out of his stupid cubicle of an apartment. Why is every goddamn apartment in Monaco so small either way? It’s like millionaires have a kink for minimalism or something. There were still a couple of his t-shirts hanging around, shoved down the back of a drawer you never opened. You contemplated burning them down, one by one, or selling them on e-bay, you would probably make a lot of money with it. However, the anger was still boiling hot in your bones, picking up anything with his scent on it would cause world war three, and you didn’t want that. Not because you don’t hate him, you do, wholeheartedly, but you would rather see the universe handle it, slowly, sadistically, because you always believed in karma, plus, he didn’t deserve any type of reaction from you.

However, almost four months is a whole lot of time of waiting for Max Verstappen to get something bad coming his way. Somehow, that blue eyed man is always on top. McLaren had the fastest car and he was still dominating, pole position, podiums, even fucking won a race against all odds. Max Verstappen not only defied your beliefs around love, but your beliefs in general. He tested your faith. Because in this wednesday afternoon, sitting on your plane sit, next to a crying baby and an exhausted mother, you were wondering if the universe gave a flying damn about how much that man hurt you. Gods? Are you listening over there? He left me with no direction, no sense of belonging, stole my pride, joy and clothes. I was left empty. So why the fuck is he the one thriving?

That’s why you decided to make matters with your own hands. Karma isn’t real? No problem. You would create karma and shove it down his throat. Max Verstappen is not going to hell when he dies? Then, you will make sure he lives through hell while you are around. And the plan starts with a suitcase and an economic class ticket to Bahrain.

The city was scalding. The complete opposite of an early spring in Monaco. Too many people, a legion of tourists who were there for the Grand Prix. You looked around, analyzing the environment, but he was everywhere. In t-shirts, flags, posters, dolls. “The flying dutchman”, “The Dutch Lion”. That was the worst one. A lion? That motherfucker was just as coward as a toddler being confronted by their angry parent.

Hey. Just landed. Where was the place I was supposed to wait for the driver?

Max: Gate seven. He’s already there.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t deserve an answer. On the other hand, if the plan was going to work perfectly, you needed him to believe you were desperate for him. Because Max has an ego, he craves the attention. It’s Machiavellian, but any current pain is worth the final result. What even is a single text message compared to seeing Max Verstappen’s downfall live and in bright colors?

You walked towards gate seven. Sure enough, the man was there, holding a little white plank with your surname written on it. As if it was needed, since to his left, there he was, wearing his stupid red bull cap, white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Classic Max. You weren’t taken by surprise, at the end of the day, Verstappen was as predictable as playing chess with a child, at least to you. You knew he was going to be there, just to torment you, prove, somehow, that he never left, his scent, manners, soul, were all surrounding you, everyday since that rainy tuesday when all hell broke loose.

As you approached both men with a confidence acquired from whatever cheap wine they offered on the flight, you could swore you saw a glimpse of relief in his arctic blue eyes.

Max was relieved. Seeing you, full shape, materialized in front of him like a dying man’s last vision, as beautiful as ever, maybe even more, left him with a feeling of immense relief. Because ever since the break up, he never saw or spoke to you. He didn’t even understand how the hell that was possible, considering Monaco was just a big gated commune. He had no idea, however, that for those three months you barely left your bed, purposefully avoiding him. The funny thing is, Max could’ve swore on his career that he saw a different type of glimmer surrounding you, because as you gave him a shy kiss on the cheek, shivers went down his neck, all the way though his spine. There was uncertainty in his mind if, at that moment, you were a salvation from heaven or his worst nightmare.

“I didn’t actually think you would come?” He couldn’t control the excitement in his voice. To you? Pathetic.

“You know Bahrain has always been my favorite circuit.” Lies. “Plus, I really wanted to talk.” More lies. Oh, weren’t you just the best pretty little liar?

‘I agree”

Max had no idea of what you planned. With all the innocence of a little boy in love, who fucked up, he believed that you wanted to try again, that you were able to give him another chance. If for three months you were crying underneath the shower steam, he was begging via text messages, voicemails, red roses and handwritten notes to talk to you and sort things out. In his mind, his words were bad, a disaster. “Your career isn’t important, you can’t keep crying over this shit.” Actually, the words were bad, but the context was even worse. To be fair, you were crying over a minor problem, a grain of sand in the midst of long beach, still, that was the result of a build-up that lasted weeks, days having to suffer countless abuse in your job, burnout was imminent. Haven’t you been breaking down, releasing every tension from the stress of your career, you could have actually forgiven him. In contrast, the coldness and nonchalant in his voice when saying “your career isn’t important” was what actually got to you. “So, I can’t cry over my boss raging at me from mistakes he made, but you can cry whenever your stupid little car isn’t 0.5 seconds faster than another car? Why? Because being a Formula 1 racer is the only job that matters? Huh, Max?”

That whole argument spiraled to a rabbit hole of pointing fingers and repressed emotions. Deep down, you knew you hated your job, you wanted to leave every time you stepped a foot in that building, but Max didn’t need to know that. And he had no right assuming that it wasn’t important.

Arriving at his hotel, the boy next to you handled a room key. 405.

“It’s right next to mine”

You gave him a look, the one that said “well, obviously.” Another predictable move. God, if any other driver paid enough attention to him, you were convinced he wouldn’t be called Mad Max at all, because, in reality, Verstappen was as clear as a crystal glass.

The whole way up to the room, Max was a gentleman, carrying bags, hands on your lower back, guiding the way, walking in front. Just like you never stopped being his girlfriend. Maybe, in his mind, you never did.

The room was brightened with yellow lights, contrasting to the cold of the atmosphere between both ex-lovers. Even though you were trying your best to not give anything away, Max wasn’t stupid, he could read you with eyes closed, he knew there was an unsettledness in your movements, he just couldn’t point exactly why or what is going on.

“Do you want me to leave? Or do you just want to get it out of the way?” Max didn’t quite know what he meant with “it”, whatever it was, it has been filling his lungs with deep anxiety. And you knew he was suffering. For a man who was used to get anything he wanted, whenever he wanted, being completely lost in the matters of the heart, hurt his pride and gave him tremendous affliction.

“I was hoping we could catch a nice dinner, properly talk with some good food and wine. What do you say?” The words came off of your tongue spontaneously, as if you didn’t rehearse them 300 hundred times during that 11 hour flight.

“Sure, yeah, fine. Even better with people around… That way you won’t have the courage to kill me.” You could hear the tension in his words when he joked, and he could hear the mockery in your chuckle just as well.

“Pick me up at eight?”

The fact that you made no comment around his stupid joke bothered him to his core. Which is the reason he just nodded and left the room without saying anything else. Just as soon as that door closed, you rushed to the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet. You couldn’t say what the fuck you were feeling, nausea, pain, anxiety, shame, guilt, rage. You should just open the door, go to his room, throw things around, break glasses, throw his suitcase on the hotel pool, tell the press he is leaving red bull and get on a plan, never look back. Having to wait for revenge to be served cold is what drives everyone insane, and no one talks about that.

Countless of hours later, after two long crying sessions, and screaming, and burning pages of your journal, you were ready. Dressed up casually. You wouldn’t give him too much, because you knew he was expecting to show up as beautiful as ever, Lady Di in her revenge dress, so the fact that you were just dressed as his Y/N, raw, honest beauty, broke his heart. Because when he opened the door to your room, he was taken by your perfume and your pure self, just like he did for three years every time he came home from a race weekend and you were waiting for him on the couch.

“Come on, Max, you don’t need to give this look.” You were surprised by how effective flirting was in maskaring hate.

“What look?”

“Like I’m your long lost childhood love you encountered 20 years later.” He shook his head, slightly.

“You’re something like that.”

Something like that. What the fuck did he mean?

“We should go.” You said a little bit more desperate than you hoped. Maybe due to the fact that you were dying to leave. “Lead the way.”

*

God. Wasn’t middle eastern food the key to all your problems? Maybe if the scent of blended spices and dates filled your nostrils before, there would be no reason for any of this.

For the past couple of hours, you were focused on trying to enjoy the delights Sakhir had to offer. Notice the word trying. Because with Max Verstappen looking like a god sent angel in front of you, no amount of cloves and cinnamon would be able to erase the scent of wanting that was emanating from him.

Max was paying extra attention to you. Every time you looked excited about whatever you were tasting, he could catch a proper breath. However, one look into your eyes later and he has filled with thousands of questions in his head.

“So, what is the strategy for this weekend?”

“Do you actually want to talk about my racing strategies for the weekend?” Yes. You did. How were you supposed to ruin his life if you had no clue what was going on with the only thing that mattered to him. “You said you wanted to talk, Y/N.”

“We are talking.” He raised his eyebrow. You sighed, stomach twisting in ten thousand knots. “Fine…”

Before you could select which carefully constructed phrase you compartmentalized for this very moment, Max, with his usual quickness, took the upfront.

“Please, come back to me.”

It’s not that you weren’t expecting that he would say something like this, you just weren’t expecting how much your internal organs would fire up as a response. In that particular moment, you could swore you forgot all of the lines of the plan you spent one month obsessing over. He broke your character, for just a slight of a second, a fraction.

“You really hurt me.” For the first time in this whole entire trip, you were being honest.

“I know. I am truly deeply sorry. I fucked up.”

You just stared. Contemplating if you were going to let him talk a little more. The dark twisted part of your brain was enjoying seeing him act as pathetic as you once did for him. That same side of your brain was already collecting ideas. Screw that one month evil plan, Max was giving everything you need to do even more damage than you anticipated.

“Let me show you how much I regret it. Let me make it up to you.” The phrase was constructed as if he was asking for permission, but both of you knew, deep down, that he wasn’t backing up any soon.

“These past few months were hell to me, Max.”

The words were true, but there was no emotion in your voice to actually reflect the pain you went through. Max had no idea. He would never guess. It seemed to him that you were giving something, but a weird feeling in his gut was sparking a doubt that you were hiding something.

“I will fix this up.”

His legs under the table were shaking like the first time he stepped out of a Formula 1 car. Max was speaking as he was walking barefoot on shattered glass. There is no way for you to fix this up. Only me. You wanted to answer. You couldn’t.

“Are you excited for the race?”

The deviation of the subject showed Max you were uncomfortable, which is why he decided that was enough of pushing. He didn’t know there was a strategy underneath your tongue.

“Are you?” He fired back, letting himself taste a bit of the wine that you chose. It was bitter, dry, unlike the sweet rosés you’d usually go for.

“Thrilled.” Your lips curled into a smirk stained with maroon liquid. Something shifted in the tone of your words. It was malicious, Max could sense it, but he was a man after all, guile and sexiness go hand-in-hand, specially coming from a girl holding a glass of wine.

“I’m ready to head back, whenever you want to go.”

“Are we not going to order dessert?”

Nope. He wanted to leave. Matter of fact, as soon as possible. He wanted to take you to his room, or your room, whichever one is closest to the elevator door, and peel off every lying secret you were hiding behind your sore, tired eyes.

“Do you want dessert?”

You looked at his eyes, then his lips, then his neck, back at his eyes. Licked your lips, the bitterness of the wine reminding you of pure sex.

“Maybe not from here.”

You knew you had control over him by the way he looked at you, like a puppy begging for food. Max didn’t even try to hide how much he was longing to just touch you in any way, shape, or form. God, men were so easy.

A few formalities and street lights later, you were back to the golden architecture of the place you were staying. It wasn’t your first time in the country, but it was your first time in this hotel, hadn’t it been the circumstances of your visit, you could have actually enjoyed the experience.

The elevator door shut, fourth floor was a short ride. Helped to ease the tension. Not too much, but just enough.

“I can’t find the key to my room.”

Max knew it was inside your purse, you knew it too, obviously. There was just no reason to bother looking it up.

“Hm. Thankfully, I got you.” He held the white car between his fingers, flashing them with a teenage boy smile.

“My hero,”

For the first time during this night, you felt the tension leaving with the winds of Sakhir. Sex was not on your plan, in fact, quite the opposite. However, you forgot there was no such thing as a plan when it came to Max Verstappen. Specially not when it came to desire and love. Plus, a girl is allowed to enjoy herself, it’s not like you were going to get soft on him now, right?

The closing door blocked all the noise. Suddenly, the room was carried with heavy air, lost faith, gained hope, misery, all at once. If you listened closely, you were able to hear Max’s heart beating irregular beats. It felt to him like he was about to have a stroke, a heart attack, a breakdown, or all of the above. You were danger, your presence was too powerful. He needed to get control back, or he would just spiral.

But you would not let him. Not right now.

Just as quick as you left him that night, you were pulling him by his neck. Lips connected like they were never meant to leave each other in the first place. Looking for each other’s air because the room was getting smaller and smaller. This was the point of the night in which you didn’t need to perform. You were not doing it for the plot, the revenge, you were doing it because you desperately craved him.

Max had only a few times seen you this way. It was unusual, but he wasn’t complaining. He didn’t quite like the fact that if you asked him to kneel down and bark, he’d do it, however. And he was afraid you’d notice it and just torture him the whole night. The boy was just a little too late.

“You said you wanted to make it up to me.” Max didn’t know how you managed to get a full sentence out in the middle of what was going on, if he opened his mouth all that would leave his throat were pathetic sighs and moans. “Then prove it.”

You pushed him away, slightly. Max’s chest underneath his navy blue t-shirt didn’t hide his erratic breathing.

“I am proving it to you.”

He leaned in, but was met with another slight push. This time, mixed between his confusion, was frustration. Just as much as you wanted him, he wanted you. No, he needed you. Needed to be close to you as if there was a war going on outside and that was the only way to keep both of you safe.

“No.” No? What the hell no meant? “Kneel.”

Your command was firm, imperative. You were no stranger to take charge in the bedroom with Max, but it usually lasted around five minutes, a way to spice things up or push him to the edge until he finally broke. In a way, it was fake-control, because you knew it was just a matter of time until you were at his mercy. But not this time.

“What?” He heard you well, the question was put there simply as a way of making you change your mind.

“You heard me, Verstappen. Kneel and beg for me.”

Max didn’t have a chance to respond or brush it off with a scoffed laugh, your hands were already on his shoulders, applying force to bring him down. It wasn’t gravity the one who put Max Verstappen to his knees, it was the magnetic force of your words and the torment of his desires for you.

“Schatje, come on.”

“Hm. That all you got?”

The truth is, Max was running out of protests. You knew it took him a lot to put his pride to the side. He wanted you back, but there was no way he was going to beg for it. Max Verstappen doesn’t beg, for anyone. Actually, he never needed to, he always got what he wanted. But his resources were coming to an end, because your posture and the way you were demanding the room, left him with no choice.

With the gentlest touch, like you were made out of the rarest crystal, Max’s hand came to the back of your calves, slowly making their way to the back of your knees. He stopped there, didn’t dare going further up. His hands were big enough to almost wrap around it completely, and he applied pressure. It was a simple gesture, but goddamn it you missed his fingers touching you, you didn’t care where.

You looked down, right hand travelling to his hair, fingers intertwining between some strands, making a mess. He always looked beautiful with messy hair.

“Please.” A kiss on your right knee. “Please, forgive me.” A kiss on the left knee. “I will do anything for you.”

The hand that was on his hair made its way to his cheek. Your thumb brushing the soft skin underneath his eyes. Max was flushing, the blood was rushing everywhere through his veins, heart pounding, maybe after this he should cancel his weekend, because there is no way he would make it out alive.

Then, all of the sudden, your gentle rub became a slap. Not a rough slap, in fact, only a couple of taps, to call out his attention. And, damn, maybe a hard slap would be less humiliating than this. And it didn’t help when you had a devilish grin in your lips.

“Come on, pretty boy, just a little bit more. You’re almost there. Look at me.”

He was. Like a puppy. Like a dog starving. His pupils were so dilated you couldn’t tell his eyes were pale blue. You were hell. That wasn’t you. Looked like you, wore your clothes, the same old vanilla perfume, but if his whole life Max saw you as his sweet girl, this time he was seeing you as a mythical creature, completely transformed into something else.

“I fucked up. I can’t live without you. Please, Y/N, I am about to go insane. I fucking love you, just come back to me, please. I can’t make it without you.” His chin rested somewhere on top of your legs.

You smiled. Humiliating Max sexually was not a part of the plan, but it was so satisfactory you could go straight back home with fulfillment in your bones.

“Good enough.”

You backed out and walked straight to the door. In a sudden movement, Max got up, his legs felt like jelly, his head was spinning. There was no time for him to catch up, you had already left. He heard something like a see you tomorrow, but wasn’t completely sure. In that particular moment he was out. Interpreting his feelings wasn’t always easy, and right now it sure as hell was the hardest thing for him to do, considering there was a mix of everything inside his guts.

It took all of your strength to not go back, just to get a glimpse of how Max Verstappen looked completely desolated, alone in his hotel room, frustrated, confused. Exactly like you were that afternoon, three months ago. If you suffered, he was going to suffer the exact same thing, but ten times more.

*

“Max, you good? Looks like you’re about to throw up.”

Sitting in a round table, his salad was untouched, his cup still filled with water. The voices were mushy, he couldn’t tell which driver elaborated that question. Truth is, he wasn’t paying attention to anything else, too busy looking around, searching for any glimpse of you. Anything to demonstrate that you were still there, because you could probably be back home by now, laughing while sitting on your sofa, seeing his misery on live television.

He was brought back to the real world with Charles’ voice commanding his attention, because finally, for the first time during that stupid lunch, someone said something that actually mattered.

“Mate, what is Y/N doing here? I thought you two broke up.”

“Where is she?” His voice sounded so desperate, so pathetic, Lando couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Just saw her talking to Honer when I passed the Red Bull garage. Could’ve swore I was seeing things, but it was actually her. Are you two back together?”

Midst sentence Max was already gone, rushing through the crowd as fast as he could before it was too late. He looked desperate, like he was looking for water in a desert island.

The meters to the garage seemed like the distance to the moon. His eyes were filled by the sigh of Horner, talking to someone else, not relevant, nor for him, because the someone else wasn’t you. The conversation seemed important, and it would be rude to interrupt, but Max couldn’t care less.

“Christian, where is Y/N?”

Horner turned around to look at his driver, bright fake smile. A little annoyed that he interrupted, but there was no way he was going to show Verstappen any annoyance.

“Well, hello to you too, Max. I was meaning to ask, what is she doing here? Thought you left her.”

“Where the fuck is she?” Max asked again, this time his tone showed little to no patience.

Horner narrowed his eyes, if anyone else in this world talked to him like this, God would feel sorry for them. But again, the golden boy could do anything he pleased.

“If I’m not mistaken, she was looking for you. My guess is that she is waiting on your driver room.”

The boy left. No thank you, no sorry, just simply vanished like dust.

The fragile door was opened with violence. This time, Max was quicker, not giving you a chance to play your game.

Eventually, after two days of deep contemplation, torture and screaming into his pillow, Max decided that he had enough of your games. Now, both of you were going to play things his way. Or so he thought.

“Why the fuck are you here? What the fuck do you want?”

You were sitting, legs crossed. His presence was dominating, but you didn’t break character.

“What happened to good mornings? No one taught you proper manners?”

“Cut the fucking bullshit, Y/N. Why are you doing this?”

You got up, making your way towards him. Not too close and Max thanked God for that, because one more step and he would just break down again, crumble into crushed pieces of a boy. However, standing from a safe distance, his mind was taken by frustration, he wanted answers just as well as he wanted to rip your clothes off and make you pay for the little stunt you pulled two nights ago.

“I want to see you suffer.”

You knew he would eventually caught up. It’s Max, he is smart. And if anyone would understand the reasonings behind your feelings, it would be him. So there was no reason to hide your true intentions anymore.

Max nodded, hands on his waist. He expressed some sort of laugh as a substitute for just yelling and screaming. He had done that already.

“How’s that going for you?”

“Not nearly as close as the amount of suffering I am hoping for.” Max was taken back by the cruelness and coldness in your words. “I want you to regret leaving me ‘til the day you are buried six feet under ground. If you suffered ten times of what I did for those past months, still, wouldn’t be enough.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, sweetheart. But making me kneel and beg, although I appreciate the effort, it was cute, isn’t really close to the pain of getting dumped. You’ll have to work harder than that.”

Your lips curled into a wide spread smile.

“I know.”

Up and close to his eyes, between your delicate fingers, a medium sized black piece of something he had an idea of, but didn’t want to believe it was real.

“What is this?”

“You should get going, Maxie, quali is about to begin.”

“You removed a piece from my fucking car?! Are you fucking insane?! This is psychotic, Jesus fucking Christ!” His eyes widened, his hands went through his hair in a desperate act. “How the fuck did you even manage to do that?!”

“A lady never tells.”

Max thanked the universe when he heard a knock on the door, because God only knows what his next move was going to be, hadn’t he been interrupted by GP at that second.

“Buddy, we have 10 minutes, you better come.” He looked at the clueless man standing at the door, then back at you, who put on your best innocent smile, hands behind your back like you just didn’t do the most devilish, disgraceful thing he has ever seen.

“Yeah, okay, give me two seconds.”

As GP closed the door, Max took a step closer to you. He contemplated letting people know, snitching on you, but he held his anger and shoved the burning flames to the back of his throat. He wasn’t going to play your game. If you were bad, Max Verstappen was worse.

Max’s next move wasn’t what you were expecting at all. With the gentleness of a first kiss, he brought his lips to your forehead, like he always did before stepping to his car, however, this time, taking a little bit longer, savouring the feeling of your skin beneath him.

“See you later, Schatje.”

You were confused. Angry, even, by his reaction. And then, when he finally left, you felt it. The shame, the guilt. You knew you went too far, but you were too blind by hatred, and too hungry for seeing him break.

On the other hand, Max walked into his car with the confidence and determination he hadn’t felt in a while. It was Red Bull. This was a secure place, there were a innumerous amount of people there watching his fucking car. There was no chance that you, clueless girl, could just walk up there and steal a piece of whatever that thing was. God, you didn’t even know how a Formula 1 car worked, how the hell were you supposed to remove an important piece? Max thought, hoped, wished, that you just took something he could manage to work without, and it was what gave him a little bit of relief stepping into the car.

Nonetheless, as quick as the relief came, it was washed away by a thought so much darker, what if you had help?

“Hey, Paul.” Max called out for the man to his left. “The car is good, yeah?”

“You tell me, mate.” Paul joked around, not quite understanding the driver’s question.

“No, I mean, the car is intact, right? Nothing missing?”

Paul arched an eyebrow.

“Of course, Max, it’s all good.”

The driver nodded and soon enough left with his car.

Qualifying started. You watched nervously through the screen in the garage. Maybe you crossed the line. On the other hand, you knew Max wasn’t stupid, he made sure you knew with that ridiculous kiss. No other man could drive you insane. Two days later you were reading him like your favorite book, now, you couldn’t tell a word inside his brain, except for, of course, how badly he was cursing you.

And boy… He was. Every time he made a turn and the car trembled he found a new name to curse you inside his mind. Thank God the FIA couldn’t hear thoughts, at least twenty thousand fines were proffered only in the first five minutes.

The car was shit, unsteady. It was honestly scaring Max how unpredictable it was. Never in his entire career he felt so uneasy with a vehicle, not even in his rookie years.

“There is something really wrong with the car.”

Max added in a frustrated radio message before firing back to his garage.

The crew was there, waiting for him. He stepped out of the car and let the engineers take a look. You managed to catch a glimpse of him, even though his face was hiding behind the helmet, you knew he was contorted in desperation. You couldn’t believe it. For better or for worse, your plan fucking worked.

The engineers cleared the way and Max tried again, completely incredulous on how you managed to ruin his entire race weekend. There was no way your relationship was going to make it after this. Max didn’t even know if he was going to make it after this, he might just shove the car into a wall and die inside of it just to prove a point, watch you suffer with guilt until the end of your life.

By the last lap he was third.

Q2 was a bit better than Q1, that until someone crashed their car. Perfect, not only were you ruining his day, but the universe also decided to collaborate with your evil plan. Maybe you got Max’s rivals to be a part of it. Maybe the whole entire team and crew were by your side.

By Q3 Max started to actually considering driving his car to the wall. The breaks weren’t working. He couldn’t break, at all. You fucking destroyed his breaks.You toyed with his car like it was a lego piece. At the end of that session, taking seventh place, Max stormed out of the car and threw his gloves on the floor. He just wanted to get everything off, his clothes, his helmet, his shoes. He wanted to go back home, to his cats, to his pillow, cry for hours.

Yes, the disaster of a bad qualifying hurt, but it was the heartbreak that got to him. Never in a million years he thought the love of his life would be capable of doing something so cruel and evil. That wasn’t normal. A normal thing would be for you to burn his hoodies or slash the tyres of his Porsche. You manipulated his car, possibly messing with his safety. You weren’t the love of his life, you were a full blown psychopath. Which is the reason Max thanked that you weren’t in his driver’s room when he came back.

That being said, he wasn’t so blessed when he opened his hotel room and found you sitting on his bed, wearing the same clothes as you were in the afternoon.

“Are you fucking for real? You have some guts coming into my room thinking that I would actually want to see you. I take everything back, I don’t want you! I fucking hate you! I want you gone! I want to never look at your face again! You are the most terrible person I have ever met.”

He was shouting, yelling, clenching his teeth and jawline. Stomping around like a maniac while the explosive bursts of verbal thunder left his mouth.

“Max, please, let me explain.” You didn’t raise your voice, you couldn’t, you were wrong here.

“Explain what?! Huh?! How you manipulated my car?! Played around with my safety?! Almost killed me?! God, Y/N, I love you and you do this? This isn’t normal, this isn’t alright, this isn’t something you fix with an explanation. There is no fixing this.”

His voice became lower, not because he wasn’t angry, he still was outrageous, but now the sadness of a heartbreak were too consuming, surpassing every emotion that was battling inside his mind and heart. There were tears in his eyes and they were the bluest you have ever seen. His lips were pink, trembling. His cheeks and nose were red. You felt an agonizing need to hold him.

“Max, you need to breathe.” Poor choice of words, you could see it in his entire face as his eyes became shallow. “I didn’t alter your car.”

Max was about to lash out again, but he didn’t believe his ears. As much as he hated you right now, you caught his attention. He didn’t slow down, though, his chest was heavy, he was close to breaking down.

“Come again?”

“I didn’t take any piece from your car!”

He could see you were crying now and he could swear you seemed honest, like a child trying to prove to their parents that they weren’t the one in the wrong.

“Yes, you fucking did, you showed me! Do you seriously think I am going to believe your bullshit right now?”

“No, I didn’t, this isn’t anything! It’s just a stupid piece of plastic!”

In a desperate attempt you held the black piece close to his face.

His vision was blurry, by tears, by confusion and hatred. He caught the piece and analyzed every corner of it. It didn’t seem legit, it seemed, like you said, just a piece of plastic.

“What the actual-”

“-I just wanted you to believe I did. I wanted to scare you. I wanted to make you doubt yourself. I would never do anything that would actually put you in danger, Max, I love you. I wanted to prove a point.” He couldn’t believe it. In fact, he thought he was hallucinating the whole weekend and this was all a twisted nightmare, “Yes, it was selfish, I am wrong, I crossed the line. But I thought you were going to catch up to it. I didn’t believe it was going to work. You are you, Max.”

Now, add skepticism to the list of emotions inside his gut.

“But the fucking car was shit! The breaks weren’t working! I couldn’t drive that thing at all!”

“That has nothing to do with me.”

Max couldn’t tell if he was relieved by the fact that you didn’t try to kill and you still loved him, or felt betrayed by how you manipulated his reality to the point he drove like shit just because he believed something was wrong with the car. Or maybe Red Bull just fucking sucks. Both later options were not respectful outcomes to him.

“Please, say something. I am so sorry, Max! I regret it. I should have never done it, I know. I am so sorry. I understand if you never want to see me again and, God, I’ll even move from Monaco if that’s what you like. I’ll disappear, completely.”

Your words hit him. He thought about them for a split second. The thought of you leaving his life, to him, was death. Sure, what you did was not okay, he was heartbroken, it would take time to heal. However, the more he thought about it, the more willing he was to try. If you were able to give him a second chance, he should give you the benefit of the doubt. You were taken by passion, by heartache and overwhelming sadness, Max wasn’t a stranger to strong bursts of emotions and impulsiveness, which is why, deep down, he understood why you did what you did. Maybe, if he was in your shoes, he would’ve done worse.

“We are too old for shit like this, Y/N.”

You could feel he was a bit more relaxed, which is why you felt an openness to just hold him. You didn’t care if he wasn’t going to hold you back, you just wanted to show him how much you regret your childish ploy.

“I know, baby, I am so sorry, I love you.”

Fair enough, Max didn’t hold you back. Instead, he pushed you away, another idea forming in the back of his twisted, unserious mind.

“You’re going to work a little bit harder than this, sweetheart, if you want my forgiveness.”

In his eyes, you could see there was still anger painted in the black of his pupils, but mixed with the gleam of his almost dried tears, you noticed a different kind of sparkle, one he saw in your eyes two nights ago.

“Do you want me to kneel and beg?”

Max took a step back.

“I want you to kneel, but I think your mouth can do better things than begging.”

There was a feeling of delirium happening in the back of your mind, that carefully traveled through your veins as if you had take the most powerful drug available in the market. In just a matter of seconds you were down on your knees, hands playing with the hem of Max’s shorts. You looked up, as if asking for permission to take them off. To Max, that was a vision out of the walls of the louvre, you, down, eyes sparkling with sultry glamour, mouth watering.

With an attentive movement, you pulled down his shorts, leaving a trail of kisses on the inside of his thigh, making sure you were scratching every inch of his skin, treating him as if he was the cure to all your worries and troubles. He might as well be.

“Get to it, my love, no teasing.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You asked with a tint of playfulness in your voice.

“You’re not really in a position to have fun. You either put those pretty lips to use or I will leave you here with nothing.”

“Well, since you asked so politely.”

You completely removed his boxers, facing his cock. Your mouth watered. You made sure you spread enough saliva around, licking every inch of him, paying extra attention to his sensitive spots you were well familiar with, before taking him with gluttony, tasting every bit he was giving.

Your hands were everywhere, scratching his thighs, caressing his balls, while you moved your head, feeling him in the back of your throat, around your lips.

Max was in pure bliss, his organs were electrified. He swore you got better since the break up. Or maybe it was the absence that made it much more intimate, filthy, delicious.

“Jesus, Schatje, you’re so dirty.” He ran his fingers through your hair until he decided to guide your movements with his hands, slowly, making sure the pace was comfortable for both of you. “You look so pretty when you’re doing what I want.”

He went a bit further and you gagged in response, moaning right after. The vibrations coming from your throat sent Max into a frenzy. You swirled your tongue around his head, looking up through your eyelashes, exactly the way he liked. You loved giving Max blowjobs, it was as pleasurable for you as for him and he could tell, and there was nothing hotter to Max than seeing you get aroused by giving him pleasure.

Each time his cock hit your throat, he could feel he was getting closer.

“Don’t stop, keep sucking me off, keep going.” You just obeyed, feeling yourself get hotter by the second, you knew your panties were gone by now, yet you still craved more. You needed to taste him more, you needed to take back the time you missed. “Fuck- Y/N, fucking hell. Just like that. You’re so good.”

The praise was everything, because you didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve him. Yet, here he was, giving you all of him, all of his time and body, the best parts.

One more deeper thrust and you gagged again, the reaction made you squeeze his thighs. Max shut his eyes tight, groaning and moaning a bit too loud, but he couldn’t control himself, not when you were on his knees, taking him so well, doing your job like a freaking pornstar.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum.” The liquid was everywhere inside your throat. He made sure he finished before removing his cock from inside your mouth, drops of drool spilling on the floor. “You better swallow every drop or we’ll do it all over again.”

You did as he asked, you wouldn’t dare do it otherwise. You stood up, looking right into his eyes as you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out.

“Good fucking slut.”

In a sinful act, Max spat in your tongue, holding your hair tightly in a knot between his palm. The move was so dirty, so filthy, you could come just by relieving the scene alone.

With desperate hands, you started to remove your top and then proceeded to his shirt. Meanwhile, Max was practically ripping out your skirt, abruptly removing every piece of fabric that dared touch your skin.

His kiss was demanding, hard, rough, thrilling. There was a primal instinct awaken inside you, one that wanted to be with him and serve him for the rest of your life. One that could live in beds with him until you grow old.

Max pushed you to the bed, body towering yours. Your hands desperately tried to grab his neck, his back, bring him closer, if it was any possible. You felt his hand sliding slowly between your thighs, until he reached your folds. He made sure to spread the wetness around, making a mess on your inner thighs and hip bones.

“Max, please.” You pleated, voice cracking, there was no way you could form coherent sentences, your mind was hazy, no other thought inside your head except Max Verstappen and his hands.

“Look at you.” His voice was dark, husky. “So wet just from sucking me off. Do you want more?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Then ask for it, use your words.”

That man had you in the palm of his hands. If he asked you to go to war for him, at that moment, in your situation, you would.

“Please, Max, please.” Your vocals were stuck down your throat, you were struggling to speak, the sensations of his hands rubbing your clit ever so slightly you could barely say they were in there was just too overwhelming.

“Pathetic, try again.” He placed a kiss on your collarbone, then on the curve of your neck. His lips were wet and hot, a little bit swollen from the roughness of your kisses.

“Max, fuck me, please, stuff me, use me, do whatever you want.”

Max stopped every touch. Looked deep inside your eyes with a smirk on his lips that you just wanted to slap it off, or kiss it off, whichever one your reflexes allowed.

He scrunched his nose and giggle, it was a way of mocking you, you knew that. You knew you sounded pathetic, you didn’t care. The humiliation was not crossing your mind, nothing to worry about, it wasn’t worth it. He was. Max was worth it.

“Stupid little thing, trying to pull stunts on me, then begging me to use you like you were some sort of cheap whore.”

You moaned in response, lifting your hips to meet his. In a firm movement, Max held your hips down with his right leg, applying pressure on your lower belly, making it unable for you to move.

“Stop lifting your hips like a goddamn whore, you’re going to take whatever I decide to give you.”

He wasn’t treating you kindly, you knew there was still resentment somewhere inside him. Sure, there was. Max knew it too. At that moment he was using you, taking his frustration out. But it wasn’t like you haven’t done the same, only your way of torturing him was a bit less fun than his.

You felt yourself sinking into Max’s cock, involuntarily you sunk your nails on his back, trying to fight back the scorching sensation filling you up, making you whole. Max’s rhythm was slow, painfully slow, which was unlike him, he never fucked you like this, always fast, slamming, pounding. This was even more overwhelming than his usual desperation and roughness, because it wasn’t hurting but it felt like you simply couldn’t take it, the lack of pace was driving you insane.

Max knew it, it was taking every single tear of strength left in his tired body to keep it slow, because you felt too good, too perfect wrapped around him. He missed your feeling, he missed your whimpers and cries.

“You feel so good, Schatje, like you were made only for my cock. Nothing more. Too useless to anything else, couldn’t even figure out how to take a piece out of my car.” He laughed, replaying the scene back in his memory. “Stupid little thing.”

You cried out because you felt that he, without thinking, went a little bit harder when remembering what happened. If you wanted him to give you what you needed, you would have to push him only a little bit. You lost the war, you know you did, but there were still some battles left.

“Come on, Max. Slow on tracks, slow in bed. You used to be better than this. What are you trying to do? Fuck me to sleep?”

He looked down on you, with contempt. How dare you talk to him this way? But it was a good try, he was close to snapping, making you regret the whole week, going too hard until you couldn’t remember why you were on this earth for.

You were scared of his eyes, how dark they were, but your stomach flipped with the thrill of waiting for his next move.

“Oh, she can talk!” His voice was drenched in disdain. “Let’s fix this.”

Not even stopping, Max parted your lips only to shove the lace fabric of your panties into your mouth. Fucking bastard. You protested, but now even you had to admit the sounds coming from you were a joke.

“Much better.”

Then, in a sudden, fierce movement, he flipped you. Stomach down the mattress, face pressed against the egyptian sheets, a luxury that only Bahrain could provide. Max’s left hand was pressing your head further down as he started to pick up the pace, slamming hard and faster. He was, in fact, using you as a personal fucktoy, but you didn’t mind it, the feeling was too good.

You felt euphoric, your blood was buzzing. You tried to hold the sheets, grab something, but there was no way for you to control your body. The sounds coming from your mouth were involuntary, so were the one’s coming from Max. It was too much for him, he knew he wouldn’t last longer. He never used you like this before, it made him feel like a god. No amount of championship wins would come close to the feeling of being buried deep down inside you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck- Look at what you made me do, fucking slut.” You could feel the tears coming down. Good tears. The hot kind. “Are you going to cry on me now?”

You saw one of his hands coming to your mouth, removing the fabric and tossing far away to the other side of the room.

“Yes, Max, oh God, fuck.”

He groaned, the wet noises were feeling the room.

The familiar sensation of fire pooling low in your abdomen started to show up. If he asked you to hold on, God forgive you, there was no way in hell. You heard him moan a mixture of curse words and your name, but your senses were coming blurry, as if you were about to pass out.

“Max, ‘m gonna cum.”

“Gonna cum inside you, baby.”

He pressed down, letting his weight fall on top of you, that’s when you felt the tightness around your organs being released. The sounds coming from you were too much for Max to hold on any longer, not even seconds later he was breaking down. It was animalistic, filthy, pornographic, even.

He never took it out, he stayed inside of you for minutes after he was done. You were too sensitive to take any movement. That experience was whatever religious people were trying to reach with their existence. Who needed faith when you had Max Verstappen as a lover?

You barely noticed that his weight left the top of your naked body, only flipping back around when you saw him coming from the bathroom with a towel. He sat down next to you, breathing slowly, gently rubbing the fabric between your thighs.

“Are you okay?” You nodded, thinking you blacked out for a second. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“I just want you to lay down here.”

He did as you asked, letting you wrap yourself around him. You could tell there were no bad feelings around, everything vanished into thin air. It was just you and Max, same as ever.

“Do you forgive me, Max?”

He placed a long lasting kiss in your right temple.

“Is it bad if I said you should pull stuff like this more often just so that we could repeat this?”

You giggled, fingers tracing drawings on his stomach.

“I think we can figure another game that won’t risk our relationship burning to ashes if something goes wrong.”

“Fair enough.” You felt him adjust his body. “And, yes, I do forgive you.”

You needed the reassurance, Max knew that. He knew you. You were a melody from his favorite childhood song, one that he listened to it and it never left his mind.

There was no letting you go. It would always be complex and easy at the same time. But any complication was worth it if it meant you would never leave his side.

[vivlily]

can you please explain who these horses are????

You made a mistake in asking me, but I will try anyway. This will go over some general things and mainly focus on white and cyan, not so much the other horses.

They are characters from a Twitter webseries/game(?) hosted by @/snakesandrews. Where viewers essentially vote on whatever horse they think might win. These horses bounce around randomly off of objects like a screensaver of sorts, and a horse wins once it touches a png of a carrot.

These horses are typically referred to by their color until they win and are thus given a name, for instance, orange, eventually becoming jovial merryment.

How much or how little these horses win as well as what goes on during a race end up leading to a lot of fan made content. And for the most part, any characterization of these horses is largely up to fan interpretation.

For these two horses, white and cyan specifically? White and cyan and brown would go on to not win one match for quite some time, leading to them being put into a race all on their own. Which brown would eventually go on to win and attain the name Door Knob. Leaving white and cyan in their own little race. With a special little map, file this special little map for later.

It is important to note that these races do not usually last much longer than around 2 or 2 and a half minutes. Cyan and White would go on to race for a whole 7 minutes and 9 seconds. This led to a lot of fans depicting them as sort've not wanting to win, usually because of enjoying one another's company or something similar. I'm a yuri minded individual, so you can probably guess how I decided to interpret it.

As you probably realized, since they had a defined time for the race, a winner also exists. This is where White had won, earning the name Superstitional Realism. This led to a lot of fans depicting Cyan as either feeling betrayed or upset by white winning. Some also show Cyan being happy for white.

It here that white, now superstitional realism(I will refer to her as Sup from now on), would join the next days' race and proceed to not win. And in the next day's race, white would be mysteriously missing. It is in this race that Sup is missing that something unusual happens once the race is over.

Cyan has lost every single race, every single one. This race where Sup is missing is followed by a video in which Cyan was racing all alone in an empy room with only herself, eventually obtaining her first win. But did such a win even count? There was no one for Cyan to even race against after all. It was assumed Cyan would get a name for her victory, but the fanfare screen would simply continue listing her name as Cyan.

People expected that Cyan would finally join the next race proper, only for the next race to be a race between what looked to be 7 distorted horses (6 a form of cyan, and 1 white). Despite there being 6 cyans, they still lost to the distorted white horse, whose fanfare screen read "a Mysterious figure." Leading many to think this might be cyan reliving her worst moments, and more specifically, the moment where she get left behind by white.

The latest race as of this post was with the regular set of horses interspliced with the 6 distorted cyans having a race of their own. It's unknown if this "nightmare" world is real or in cyans head. But one of the 6 distorted cyans does win and is rewarded with the name of Garbage Bin. We then cut back to the "normal" world where Sup remains missing and jovial merryment wins the race(go figure).

Now, do you remember that special little map where cyan and white initially raced in? The "normal" world race was taking place on the very same map, just with more color and rounder edges. This leads to me and probably a few others believing that that last race was the other horses looking for cyan.

My assumption for why Sup has been missing for the last few races is because white had already gone back to look for cyan ahead of everyone else.

As for how the story might end? Well, you can find out both today and Friday as the series seems to be having it's last to races.

Will jovial win once more? It's possible. It's annoyingly possible. And will cyan and sup have a happy ending? I SURE HOPE SO. SAVE YOUR GIRL.

Whadya mean I'm getting emotional over screensaver pngs?!?

Apologies if this was long winded, I'm not used to typing this much and suck at using words. BUT you made the mistake of asking me, dear Anon. Always remember there is always yuri for those with eyes to see. Now go consume some fan content, there's a lot of really good writers and artists out there, show them some love.

[homemadesterekpie]

im still such an og Hale pack enjoyer for real. i think about them all the time these days. Derek, Boyd, Erica, Isaac and Stiles just chilling together.

it starts awkwardly because they’re not used to eachother yet but the sheer instincts they all have to bond together is so strong the awkwardness feels just like background noise.

Scott having chosen the Argents while Stiles chose the wolves there’s this inevitable rift that forms between them. Stiles having been devoted to Scott for so long it’s obviously painful for him for a while and the wolves senses it.

especially Derek with his new Alpha powers, he can smell it on Stiles, his grief at losing his best friend. but he can also smell resignation and insistent determination.

Stiles does nothing in halves, when he’s in, he’s all in.

they start hanging out almost every day. not doing anything special most days. The betas train, Derek guides them, Stiles watches, he reads. Derek started going through the burnt out shell of his home and found some books and other things to salvage and let Stiles read through them.

and somehow that small thing almost moves Stiles to tears. Derek trusting him with the painful remains of his past life. Stiles is barely just starting to understand just how painful it’s all been for Derek up until now. and how it still tortures him. so having Derek casually show him the smoke smelling books and telling him he can read them if he wants to makes Stiles want to do something stupid like kiss Derek on the cheek and hug him. instead he fights tears and he thanks Derek sincerely as Derek just watches him intently.

It feels weird for Derek to have a pack now. It had been him and Laura for so long that his wolf had been content with that fact. but becoming an Alpha changed everything and he doesn’t know how Laura had been able to keep from changing people to add to their pack for all those years in New York because the drive to do so was almost impossible to resist. but Laura had always been the strong one, she had been raised to be the Alpha while Derek had been raised to become her beta. but he hopes he can make her proud. he hopes he can be half the Alpha she was.

its a relief to have numbers though. it feels safer and it’s easier to breath. he has people to take care of now. he has people to protect and provide for. he has people to patrol his territory with. he can secure his territory’s borders. he can start parley with the hunters occupying his territory.

it’s Stiles who brings it up. they’ve been a pack for a while now. almost a year. summer vacation is around the corner. the betas are strong now, they know how to fight, they know how to kill. meanwhile, Stiles has been going through Derek’s books obsessively. He started taking notes on loose paper but then started transcribing them more neatly into notebooks.

one late afternoon, when the pack is spending the day at the small lake deep in the preserve, Stiles sitting on the bank and reading, he asks Derek if they should consider dealing with the hunters.

ever since the pack has started growing stronger and more confident: patrolling the borders every night, contacting neighbouring packs to tekindle old alliances, Derek finally having his burnt out house torn down. the hunters have been making themselves known more insistently.

Chris Argent has been showing up with his daughter in the preserve hiking, more than once, both of them armed to the teeth. Strangers smelling of gunpowder and wolfsbane have been spotted in town a lot more often. actually, Stiles is pretty sure they’re being followed.

even Stiles who doesn’t have enhanced senses, spotted them all over town. once when out with his dad for dinner, a duo of them had come into the diner and sat at a booth not far from them. Stiles was certain he had seen them before. yes, he could swear he had seen them when he drove back home a few days ago after spending the day with the betas.

Stiles had watched as his dad had tensed when he also noticed the hunters sitting at their booth, ordering food. it was only after, when they were leaving the diner that his dad had asked Stiles if everything was good.

Stiles has told his father about werewolves a few months prior. he hadn’t gone into too much details but the sheriff knew about the pack and that Stiles was part of it. so Stiles shared to his dad his suspicions about the hunters. the next day, the sheriff gave Stiles a gun and took him to the gun range a few towns over. Stiles already knew how to use a gun but it had been a while since handling one so he made sure Stiles reacquainted himself. he also told Stiles that he would start keeping an eye on the Argents and waved away Stiles’ protests about not being worth endangering his job.

so this is why Stiles had to let Derek know they should definitely consider making a move. Derek just says yeah they should. he also confesses having been following the hunters’ movements for a while now. Stiles is taken aback because he had no idea of this??? and the betas hadn’t either from their reactions. they all stopped their swimming to look at Derek with various looks of surprise and betrayal. especially Boyd, whom had naturally worked his way to the second in command spot at Derek’s side.

so they decide to have an impromptu pack meeting right there on the bank of the small lake. they have a picnic and they talk things through as a pack, together. it feels so right to do so. this is what things are all about, Stiles distantly thinks as he watches and listens to Derek explain the hunters’ patterns of movement. a wolf pack, deep in the wilderness of their territory, ensuring the survival of their own.

they decide that Stiles will be sent with Boyd to the main Argent house and deliver the date and time and place for a parley meeting. Stiles recites the words he prepared beforehand , making sure to use the terms he learned from all the books he read.

there will be no violence. but if the hunters were to break that rule, the pack would be forced to take measures to protect themselves.

Chris’ face stays hard and impassive as he listens to Stiles but Allison isn’t as good at hiding her emotions, her face betraying her disdain and hatred. Stiles can’t help thinking those emotions don’t suit her, it makes her look a lot like her mother. the entire time Stiles speaks, she keeps her eyes on Boyd but the imposing beta doesn’t even bat an eyelash. It’s only when Allison’s eyes move to Stiles with the same animosity, that Boyd takes a step closer to Stiles, almost moving in front on him. a soft rumble growing louder the longer Allison looks at Stiles.

Chris’ eyes snap to Boyd for a second before falling to Allison and he stares her down until she has no choice but to lower her eyes, whole body shaking in anger. Boyd stops growling but he doesn’t step down or away from Stiles.

when they finally leave, Boyd walks with Stiles at his back and keeps his eyes the two hunters until they’re both back inside the house and Stiles is safe in the jeep.

Boyd and Stiles share a look when they’re both sat in the jeep. words aren’t necessary here. Boyd has done more than words could ever express so Stiles just pats Boyd’s shoulder, smiling and then he grips it for a few seconds. he’d prefer to hug him but in the jeep it would be too awkward so this would have to do for now.

not long after, the meeting happens. Derek, Boyd and Stiles arrive early. it’s happening at the outskirts of town, almost at the border of the territory. Erica and Isaac are stationed close by and they howl in warning when the hunters approach.

when Scott gets out of the SUV along with Chris, Allison and two other unfamiliar hunters, he’s the only one who reacts. he gasps and his jaw falls open in indignation but he immediately shuts it and rage courses through his veins. he never thought he would ever be feeling like this when it came to Scott but here he is. the gun in the waistband of his jeans at his back burns as his hand itches with the urge to take it out. he could shoot Scott, just to show him a lesson, he doesn’t even have wolfsbane bullets, he’d recover. but this meeting is more important than his ex best friend’s idiotic decisions.

he’s seething in it when Derek’s big hand falls to his shoulder and squeezes for a moment. Stiles calms down almost instantly. his breathing calms and he touches Derek’s hand softly with his fingers in acknowledgment, in thanks and Derek lets go. Scott’s eyes follows the movements and vague disgust blooms on his face.

Derek openly stares at Scott as he walks up along with Chris and his daughter. his stare is hard and unforgiving and he stares until Scott lowers his own gaze to the ground, fidgeting.

Derek leads the meeting and he’s surprised when Chris is the one to lead his own party. he was certain Allison was the one in charge now. She turned 18 and had finished her training months prior. that meant Chris and his men didn’t consider her ready for some reason. it must be because of the way she can’t seem to be able to keep her feelings in check. her hatred and discomfort at being in their presence is so palpable, Derek couldn’t avoid the smell even if he wanted to.

the terms of the Hale pack are brought forward. Hunters have a month to leave Hale territory or face repercussions. if they want to parley in the future, after leaving the territory, they will reach out to the pack for a meeting, the proper way. any other manner of ways used to reach out to the pack, will be considered a breach of the terms and the pack will be forced to take action.

Derek is implacable, his word is law. Stiles feels it in his bones, the skin at the back of his neck prickles with goosebumps. the wind picks up, the trees trashing with it and it becomes undeniable just how powerful Derek truly is at this moment.

the nematon is alive. Stiles has been working tirelessly for months with Deaton to purify it and then secure it’s connection to the Hale bloodline. tonight was the first test in checking the connection and the result is more than promising and Stiles can’t help giving a little smirk.

Chris looks around them furtively, feigning calm but there’s beads of sweat forming at his forehead. he watches Derek for a long time as the trees trash and creak under the force of the wind around them. the ground starts to shake slightly, pebbles and gravel rattling about.

it goes on until Chris finally extends a hand toward Derek and accepts the terms. Derek simply grips Chris’ hand in his own and they shake on it. the ground stops shaking and the the wind slowly die down to a gentle breeze.

Erica and Isaac show up at that moment, making themselves known and the entire pack watch as Chris, Allison, Scott and the two other hunters walk back to the SUV and drive away.

Stiles knows they’re out of earshot once the betas’ tense postures finally relaxes. Derek stays tense for much longer but that’s only before his senses are sharper than the betas.

Stiles and the betas celebrate by sharing hugs and a few nuzzles to cheeks. then Stiles walks over to his Alpha and just has to wait him out a few more seconds before Derek’s posture also relaxes.

he reaches out to place a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him into his personal space. he pushes his forehead to Stiles’ own and they breath the same air for a few moments. Stiles lets his eyes fall shut and he grips Derek’s henley at his side.

eventually, they separate and Derek’s hand shifts to lay to the side of his neck, thumb brushing back forth. Stiles can’t look away from Derek’s gorgeous face, his heart pounding in his chest. emotions surge up inside of him and the next thing you know Stiles is kissing Derek on the lips, arms around those broad, strong shoulders.

his uncontrollable emotions seem to burst inside of him and tears prickle at his eyes behind his tightly shut eyelids. he wants to give Derek everything. everything he has, everything he is. he wants Derek to own it all.

the Alpha must feel it all because when he puts his arms around Stiles he squeezes him so tight it borders on painful but Stiles doesn’t even notice it.

when they finally let go of eachother, the betas are gone. they probably left pretty quickly, giving them privacy. they probably went ahead to wait for them at the diner where they said they would regroup after the meeting.

Derek entwines his fingers with Stiles’ before pulling him gently towards the waiting camaro. Stiles steps up quickly and lets go of his fingers to instead hug Derek’s entire arm, smiling brightly. he may let out a few giggles, he’s so giddy he can’t help it.

after the diner, Stiles invites Derek over and they end up watching a movie in the living room since his dad is out pulling a double shift but Stiles can’t seem to concentrate on any of it. after the movie, Stiles asks Derek if he wants to sleep over. he can’t look at Derek in the eyes when he asks because it’s actually the first time Stiles does and there’s arousal thrumming in his veins that he knows for a fact Derek can smell.

he slowly makes his way up the stairs, knowing Derek will follow. at the landing he takes off his t-shirt and drops it to the floor. his jeans, underwear and socks are next, then he hears the creaking of the stairs and he knows Derek is almost at the landing.

he enters his bedroom, still keeping it slow but he chances a look back from under his lashes to watch Derek enter his bedroom with all the grace of the apex predator he truly is.

a shiver runs up Stiles’ spine and goosebumps spreads over his entire body. Derek’s eyes are glowing blood red and he’s fixated on Stiles so intently, it’s like he can feel the gaze on his skin like a physical touch.

heart pounding in his chest, he breaks eye contact to climb into his bed and settle comfortably onto his back. their eyes meet again and he watches as the Alpha stalks stalks deeper into his bedroom. their eye contact break again when Derek pulls off his henley and then Stiles’ eyes are naturally pulled down to watch Derek undo his belt.

he’s panting as Derek pushes down his jeans and underwear at the same time and he spreads his legs almost on instincts. slowly oh so slowly, Derek climbs into bed to settle onto top of Stiles and in between his spread thighs.

Stiles rummage under his pillow until his hand finds the bottle of lube he left there earlier in the day exactly for this. he presses it to Derek’s hand. he doesn’t want to wait anymore. he needs it, he needs it so bad.

Derek doesn’t use the lube right away though, instead he folds Stiles almost in half and opens him up with his mouth and tongue for a long time. Stiles squirms and moans, his dick so hard it hurts but he won’t come. he knows he won’t and he doesn’t want to, he wants to come on Derek’s dick, like he should but he’s already close so fucking close.

when Derek finally pushes two fingers into him Stiles is whinny and he’s panting hard. he knows he’s babbling but he’s not sure what he’s saying. when the third finger goes in his ass it starts making an obscene squelching sound as Derek’s fingers thrusts in and out of him. there’s no discomfort at all and he knows he’s ready, he’s so ready. he tells Derek as much and Derek who’s also panting at this point, takes out his fingers and strokes the lube onto his dick before moving his knees up a little for better leverage and lines himself up.

he kisses Stiles as he breaches him and continues to kiss him as he slowly pushes until he’s balls deep. Stiles can only moan and grip Derek’s shoulders hard as the stretch borders on painful for a moment until his body adjusts.

he doesn’t even have to say anything for Derek to know exactly when the discomfort of the stretch abates because the second it does Derek starts moving. slow steady thrusts that leaves Stiles whining into Derek’s kisses.

slowly but steadily, Derek picks up the pace and then they’re both panting too hard to kiss so they pant into eachother’s mouth for a while, Stiles sometimes babbling unintelligibly. Derek then moves his kisses to Stiles’ cheek, down his throat and settling there. he lavishes Stiles’s throat in open mouthed kisses and starts making a constant rumbling sound in his chest that Stiles can feel under his own skin.

with a hand in Derek’s hair holding him in place at his throat, he slides his other hand down to Derek’s ass to edge him on and he starts begging his Alpha to go harder. Derek doesn’t need to be told twice, on the next thrust he slams back in so hard Stiles screams.

after that, Derek fucks him so hard it’s hard to make any sound. the wolf is growling on top of him, leaving bite marks at his throat and Stiles arches into the thrusts, pleasure climbing until he’s on the edge.

then Derek’s thrusts go erratic and he’s growling louder before he pierces the soft skin of Stiles’ neck at his shoulder with his sharp teeth and Stiles is coming. spurts after spurts of come painting the length of his stomach and torso while Derek spills deep inside of him.

there’s a moment of stillness, Stiles breathing really hard and Derek twitching with aftershocks. the moment passes and Derek lowers himself gently to rest his weight completely on top of Stiles. Stiles lets out a small contented sigh. he’s so happy. he’s so sated. he’s done it. he gave Derek everything. he’s Derek’s now. he’s so happy.

when they’ve both regained their breathing and Stiles starts to doze off, Derek nuzzles his cheek and whispers “you’re mine, i love you so much.” in Stiles’ ear.

Stiles’ heart flutters and warmth spreads in his chest.

“yes, God yes, i love you too.” Stiles whispers back.

[emthegrem]

AAA UR SO SWEET <3 i’ve been slightly inactive on tumblr but i will do this anyway because it sounds fun >:3

I will be overexplaining each one :p

1 - anime/manga : fairly cliche but has genuinely been one of my favourite things since i was a small child. I’ve always found animation much more appealing than live action things so to have a whole culture and genre of animation which isn’t just made for kids is so awesome ^^ there’s so much beauty in some anime’s that can never be recreated in live actions. I’ve always favourited the more darker side of anime and my absolute favs are deathnote(duh), ajin, attack on titan and evangelion >:3

2 - my ocs/art : oh my god this one is sososososo important to me. I’ve been creating ocs since i was so little and began actually creating in depth lore at like 9?? one oc in particular (echo my king) has been with me for years and my brain can’t comprehend how he’s not real?? what do you mean i’m never gonna walk around town and see him because he’s literally a person a made up in my head?! anyways they make me so sosos happy and i love them very dearly

(ㅅ´ ˘ `)

3 - collecting things : i absolutely love collecting things oh my goshshsh. My favourite things to collect at the moment have been figures, rare merchandise and keychains. I swear i’ve been collecting things forever and I remember when i was a kid i used to pick up the most basic rocks and just kinda hoard them until i had to drop them bc i couldn’t take them home :< there’s something that brings me so much joy about spending money on something to add to ur collection, especially if it’s rare :0

4 - of course i have to add my best friends ^^ they are ALL so special to me in their incredibly unique ways and i love them all. As a child allll the way up to now friendship has been something i’ve valued so so deep in my heart and i feel so lucky to be surrounded by such cool and awesome people RAHH. They’re all so aesthetically pleasing (as in they have some super cool styles) and funny that i adore each and every one of them ^3^

5 - for this last one i had to add my girlfriend i couldn’t resist (ʃƪ ˘ ³˘) we’ve been dating for a little over a year and a half and i’ve never felt happier with someone romantically as i do with her <3 she’s so gentle and patient with me and one of the single most coolest people on the planet! She’s always telling me how cool I am but genuinely she’s the awesome one ^^ she helped me find my style and my real self (along with my friends too) and without her i think i wouldn’t even have half of the things i’ve listed above. She means the absolute world to me 🩶

i wish i had more people to tag (´^｀)

@zekethejaeger :0

Positivity post!!

reblog with five things that make you happy! it doesn't have to be anything big, just something that makes you happy.

ill go first:

my sister

drawing

music

my cats

coffee

@imfrom-neptune @norahtheweirdo @survivingmyownlife @lucent-roase @kermit-the-fag-uwu @calliekoi95 @bunnyinakangolhat literally all my mutuals but I think there is like around 50 of you lot so I won't tag you lol

If you see this, consider yourself tagged!

[kingkat12]

pervert, pervert, pervert (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: syntribation/masturbation, voyeurism, reader is a FREAK

summary: working for Mr. Godfrey was making you a nervous wreck-- how were you supposed to deal with it, other than the way you knew a little too well?

word count: 5,613

← previous chapter |

a/n: this one goes out to all the girlies that KNOW. you know the feeling when that part of your jeans rubs up against your clit when you shift in your seat? yes. yes, you know, don't you lie to me xx

I bought the magazine.

I wasn't planning to, I swear.

But there it was, staring at me from the newsstand like a dare; Forbes, special feature, The Man Who Rebuilt an Empire. And right there on the cover, in crisp matte print, was my boss. His sculpted nose, the high curve of his cheekbone, the impossible shadow of his jaw-- Roman Godfrey. Mr. Godfrey. 

I had only worked for him for a week, but I was already spiraling. I thought I'd be able to keep my fascination with him under wraps for at least a month, yet alas; I handed the cashier a crumpled five, grabbed it like it might disappear if I waited too long, and stuffed it in my bag before anyone could see.

I took it home. Ran a bath, lit a candle, and stared at the magazine cover like it might blink first. Honestly, I didn’t even read the article, I just... looked. And it was then that I realized how outright gorgeous Mr. Godfrey's nose truly was, how the sharp angle of it was something so unique that I couldn't take my eyes off it, and I think some broken, wicked part of me liked that it took my breath away, liked how it made me feel-- small, unworthy, aching.

And this morning?

This morning, that nose was five inches from my face.

I stood outside the glass office doors balancing his coffee, trying to breathe through the memory of last night; not too much milk, one cube of brown sugar, stirred exactly three times. Through the glass, I could see Mr. Godfrey seated at the head of the long table, surrounded by advisors and business partners, speaking with the same detached authority he always did. He didn’t need to raise his voice-- he simply existed, and everyone fell in line by birthright.

I stepped inside as quietly as I could. My heels made a soft click against the polished floor, and no one turned their head. That was the way it worked-- I was background. Necessary, but unimportant. And still, as I walked toward him, I felt every molecule of air bend around his presence, like gravity shifted in his direction. Of course the universe would bend to someone so gorgeous.

Mr. Godfrey looked good. Unbearably good. It was undeniable, simple as that. His suit was perfectly tailored, and he sat with the ease of someone who knew he was being watched, but never needed to look back to confirm it. He was of such wealth that his posture alone wasn't even a performance, but nature-- spine straight, one hand resting casually on the table, and the other lifted a document with slow, deliberate precision. It was clear that he was focused, and that the meeting was of importance, meaning I had to act accordingly on my fifth day of work.

But then... he licked his bottom lip.

It was subtle, almost absentminded, but I felt it in my knees. My throat tightened, my grip on the mug stiffened, and suddenly, the heat from the coffee felt like a warning in my palms. 

Get it together, pervert. Why couldn't I be normal about this? I blamed it on Forbes.

I was close to him, now. Close to him and his perfect nose, so close that I could smell the sharpness of his cologne. Then, when I leaned forward, just slightly, to place the cup on the table before him, I caught it-- the upturn of his nose. The Forbes nose.

It was stupid, the way I fixated on it. But there was something about the slope of it, the arch, the way it gave his face that hint of aristocratic cruelty-- I had stared at it for too long on that magazine cover last night, and now here it was again, real and breathtaking.

Stupid little me lingered for three seconds too long.

Maybe four?

Until, like a snap of a band around my wrist, Mr. Godfrey's eyes shot towards me as his face remained turned to his business partners; caught you. 

My breath hitched as he continued to speak like he wasn't glaring at me with the wrath of God, and the break of my fourth wall jolted through my spine. Fuck. My hands, traitorous and clammy, fumbled under the weight of his stare. The coffee sloshed hard against the rim of the cup, a dark arc of heat kissing the lip of the mug, a wave that threatening to spill. I gasped, audibly, stupidly, as the liquid nearly tipped toward the floor, and for one horrific second I thought it would splash right across Mr. Godfrey's papers, his lap, his perfect goddamn suit.

No one moved, but I heard someone gasp across the table, sharp and quiet.

I jerked the cup back just in time, barely keeping the liquid contained by steadying it against the heel of my palm. The saucer clicked, clacked, harder than it should’ve, as I set it down too fast, too loud. My fingers hovered above it like I’d placed down a live grenade.

Mr. Godfrey's eyes dragged over me like a blade, like he could see the heat blooming across my cheeks, the pulse thudding in my neck, and the tiny tremors in my fingertips. His eye didn’t twitch, his lips didn’t part, but he saw... oh, he saw everything.

I mumbled something between a sorry or excuse me, or maybe it was just the sound of my soul fleeing my body? I turned away so fast that I nearly clipped the edge of the conference table with my hip, narrowly avoiding it.

I fled back toward the door, the burn of Mr. Godfrey's green eyes following me all the way through the glass wall. The clack of my heels bounced hard off the walls, and I sat down behind my desk right outside, ready to sink through all the floors of the skyscraper and disappear for all of eternity. 

"Stupid," I hissed, barely above a whisper. "Fucking idiot. Stupid, stupid."

I knew this would happen. Of course it would. The second I took this job, I knew it was a risk. I just thought I’d have a little more time to prove myself before I humiliated myself in front of him, but no. One week in, and I was already the secretary who couldn’t even serve coffee without looking like she’d had a small stroke. Perfect impression. Just perfect.

My heart was pounding too fast-- I couldn't think. My body was on high alert, skin buzzing with residual panic and something darker, warmer. I just needed it to stop.

I shifted in my seat, trying to exhale through the tension. Mortification still gripped me by the throat, but beneath it was that other feeling, the one that made my skin feel too tight, my stomach flutter-- I crossed my legs. The stretch of my pencil skirt whined softly at the motion, and I squeezed my thighs together just enough to send a tiny shiver of release through my core.

Just enough to breathe.

This was what happened when I spiralled, when I got overwhelmed and overstimulated-- I had learned how to self-soothe the odd way. Years of buried anxiety attacks that crept up in school, at family dinners, in public places where I had to keep my composure, I found my own escape, my own... coping method, if I may.

My fingers clicked open the first email in my inbox; it was some logistics guy from the New York office. My nails tapped the keys too quickly, like I was being timed, like I could answer fast enough to undo what just happened, but the friction of the seam of my pantyhose grazing against my underwear made it bearable. 

Made everything bearable.

A sigh escaped before I could stop it, quiet and embarrassed, and I ducked my head to hide it behind the screen. It wasn’t even about pleasure-- not really. It was about calming down, about surviving the fact that I’d just made a complete fool of myself in front of the most terrifyingly beautiful man I’d ever met.

The man whose cologne I could still smell.

The man whose voice still echoed in my skull.

The man I had fantasized about the night before while staring at the cover of a fucking magazine.

It was only last year that I found out what I was doing technically counted as masturbation. I remember blinking at the screen, reading some late-night advice column, and feeling that horrible, guilty heat crawl up my neck. But honestly? I didn’t care. No one ever saw. No one had ever noticed. It was just a small shift in posture, a soft clench of my thighs. I could easily make myself cum without anyone ever noticing, so what was the harm? It was discreet, it was harmless, and most importantly, it worked.

My cheeks burned. I scooted forward in my chair with a sheepish little smile tugging at my lips as I replied to a second email, this one from the Dubai office. My fingers were fast and competent, my face was calm and professional-- I was the image of a well-oiled machine.

... Even as I got off beneath the desk with my thighs.

I even managed to act normal when all of Mr. Godfrey's business associates left his office (see, I was a pro!), and I sent them off with a polite goodbye and a sweet secretary-smile. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious-- just a secretary doing her job.

But then... he stepped out.

Mr. Godfrey.

He didn’t walk past me, didn’t leave-- he simply leaned against the doorframe of his office like a man who knew he didn’t have to say anything to make his presence known.

I didn’t dare to look up, but I could feel his green eyes scour me like x-rays, like spotlights. They drilled into the top of my head, down my neck, across my back; it made my breath catch in my throat. I pressed my thighs together harder, half in panic, half in instinct, as shame flooded me like a second skin; the same shame that made my adrenaline spike. 

He cleared his throat-- "Good morning,"

I nearly jumped in my seat at being addressed, and immediately unfolded my legs before daring to meet his gaze. "Good morning, Mr. Godfrey!" I hoped my cheerful voice would overshadow the nervous twitching of the outer corners of my mouth. It wasn't my favorite thing to know that a telling-off was looming over me, especially from someone with authority-- usually, that ended up with me bursting into tears. 

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes burned themselves into mine, and something told me he was imagining an alternative universe where he could shoot lazers through them and obliterate me in an instant. "The way you dress," he snarled. "It's disgusting."

"... What?"

Narrowing his gaze, he folded his arms over his suit-clad chest, getting his hair out of his eyes with a nod of his head. If this had been a movie, my vision would've gone pink and hazy as time slowed to show the way the softness of his hair flowed with the kick of his neck, falling perfectly into place as he looked at me. "You represent me," Mr. Godfrey threatened. "From the way that you move, to the way that you dress. Let down your hair."

"O-Okay?--"

"And are your hands unsteady, or are you just pathetically clumsy?"

Mr. Godfrey could've squeezed my tongue between the tips of his fingers and dragged it out of my mouth with force, and that would've felt the same as I felt now, trying to speak. "Not usually," I confessed. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't sleep well and... and the cup slipped. It won't happen again, I promise." Please don't fire me, please don't fire me, you gorgeous man. No more studying his side-profile. Please, please. No more getting off to that Forbes magazine. I could be good, please, please.

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Godfrey let out a disappointed groan. It was almost as though he wanted me to snark back at him like I had done in my interview, yet I knew that'd get me kicked out of the company with no less than a dime in compensation. "Why didn't you sleep?"

What? Why he was he making normal conversation with me? This wasn't usually how this worked. He'd come in, tell me what I needed to do for the day, and call me in for his ridiculously specific coffee after a while. This was new. "I got a bit distracted, sir,"

"With what?"

"With... reading," The words on the front page over and over as I scanned the beautiful upturn of his nose? Exactly.

"What do you read?" he asked, now seemingly interested.

Fuck. "Nothing that would interest you, sir,"

There was a sparkle that appeared in his eyes. "Try me," 

Having to rake through my brain for random book-titles was nerve-wracking, especially when Roman Godfrey was staring me down with his green challenge burning a hole through my skull. I decided to be honest; "The last thing I read wasn't very appropriate, sir. I shouldn't say," The last thing I read that wasn't Forbes, that is.

Mr. Godfrey allowed his eyes to widen, just a little. Finally, that seemed to crack through his harsh mood this morning, and he let out a scoff that sounded an awful lot like a pitied laugh. "Lie, then,"

"Pardon?"

"Say the first book that comes to mind. One that seems smart,"

"Well..." This was beyond intimidating, yet I complied. Amusement simmered in my chest, somewhere. "War and peace. Leo Tolstoy."

That seemed to do the trick. With a nod of approval, Mr. Godfrey pushed away from the doorframe with a handsome smirk. "Good," he hummed. "That's a dull one."

"Have you read it, sir?"

"Yes," Tapping his fingers against the wood of the door, he cocked his head to the side, scanning me; "Now, let down your hair."

Rapunzel, Rapunzel? 

Oh. 

Letting my smile falter, I reached for the claw-clip I had in my hair and put it on my desk, looking up at Mr. Godfrey with eyes pleading for approval. I felt pathetic, really, yet there was something satisfactory about his scary tone. Then, without thinking, it fell from between my lips-- "What else disgusts you about me, sir?"

No, no, stupid!

I just felt so eager to fix myself, to comply-- fucking pathetic.

Mr. Godfrey's smirk fell in an instant, like a drop of water hitting the ground.

It felt like I had broken some sort of agreement by opening my mouth like that. Holding back my snark was certainly something I had to work on, especially in front of the most powerful man in Hemlock Grove. 

His eye twitched, barely noticeable. Then, he turned on his heel, imposing the most squeaky, uncomfortable squeak of his shoes on the walls of the office like it'd be punishment enough for my behaviour-- automatically, I pressed my thighs together and shivered. 

Mr. Godfrey slammed the door shut, making me jump in my seat. It felt like I was getting sonically beat black and blue, and I proceeded to cross my legs now that he was out of sight. 

Hopefully, this day would get better soon.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... It did, but in the most peculiar way. 

Later that day, whilst I rummaged through Mr. Godfrey's spam folder for mails I could've missed, I got a notification from my personal work email, which was was odd-- no one ever sent me mails directly, since they all knew I waded through Mr. Godfrey's inbox and was easier to reach there. Hence, I checked it out the second it ticked onto my screen, and... well.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Disgust And So Forth

Dear secretary,

I trust that you will sleep better tomorrow. Coffee that is stirred correctly is always appreciated, yet coffee that threatens to spill all over my new suit which cost me $5,348 is not. 

And regarding your inquiries about my disgust, I would like to point out that your nails are unkempt and therefore distracting when I pass by your desk and see you type. I suggest you find yourself a manicurist. What is fashionable in nails these days?

I'm happy to answer any other questions you have for me via email, should you so desire. 

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Never had I ever scooted forward on my chair as fast as now. My head snapped to the side, looking directly through Mr. Godfrey's glass office, hoping to catch him looking at me with that boyish smile I'd assume came accompanied with this email, yet-- nothing. He was certainly not looking, nor did he seem like he had just typed out this email. His green eyes were glued to his screen, his long, slender fingers reaching for a marker to circle the paper in front of him as though he was correcting something, deep in work and though.

Was someone in the office pranking the newbie? Then again, who else could've typed out this email? 

Fuck it.

From: You

Subject: Enlightenment And Epiphanies

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I must apologize once more. The incident this morning was utmost unfortunate, and it shall not be repeated. However, I would like to specify that I do not have the funding to dry-clean your suits as compensation if any accidents were to happen. Am I legally bound to do so, sir? I do not believe I saw that in my contract. I could have perhaps afforded that luxury, had I not had the salary of a secretary.

In regards to your observations about my nails, I must say I take offence. Just because they are short, does not mean that they are not looked after. As for styles, I believe French tips are rather in at the moment. What colors are appropriate for the office?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

I hit the send button with dread pooling in my stomach. I pulled a face despite knowing he could see me at any moment. Did I take it too far? Why was Mr. Godfrey sending me emails in the first place? This could probably get us both into a long, disciplinary meeting with HR if they found out about our odd emails.

I did my best to sneak another peek at him through the glass walls of his office, yet there were once again no signs of him having seen it or having reacted to anything unusual. Was I maybe overanalyzing this? Was this maybe normal behaviour at an office job? Since this was my first job ever, I decided to give Mr. Godfrey the benefit of the doubt until I saw his next email pop up on my screen unusually fast.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Clearing Up Legalities

Dear secretary,

You are not legally required to pay for my dry-cleaning. Still, I hope there will be no need for any dry-cleaning at all after you get the appropriate amount of rest for the night. And by law, your salary is more than satisfactory for a person with a bachelors degree and no other job references or experience. 

And as for the nails, I had no idea they were called French tips. In my experience, the French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs; I will refer you to the phenomenon of French fries. 

Color?

Lilac.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

I had to bite down on my lip rather harshly to suppress the girly giggle threatening to escape me. I shouldn't be feeling this giddy over an email from my boss-- maybe he was just being friendly? Maybe he was aware that his behaviour and tantrums were odd and sometimes hurtful? It was surely that!

Excited by the sudden rush of energy at work, I crossed my legs; that was when I realized to which depths I was truly excited. It was highly inappropriate to masturbate over mails from my unbelievably attractive boss, yet here I was, shamelessly shifting around on my chair to make sure the seam of my pantyhose scooted to the most pleasurable place between my legs. With a sheepish look of relief spreading across my lips, I typed my answer. 

From: You

Subject: The Spirit Of Napoleon Lives On

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

I'm relieved to hear that my duties do not span paying for your dry-cleaning. Thank you for clearing that up, sir.

I will also make sure to be more critical of things that are tied to the French from now on. You certainly have a point. Next time I am in France, I shall make sure to keep it in mind. Anything else I need to be made aware of, sir?

And lilac is a pretty colour. Am I allowed any other designs?

Kind regards,

Your Secretary.

My lower abdomen was pooling with dread, excitement, and oddly profound arousal. Suppressing a choppy exhale, I dared another glance at Mr. Godfrey, once again hoping to catch him looking at me with my heart stuck in my chest-- yet, again, nothing. Now, he had even stood up, pacing back and forth in front of his desk with his long legs, reading the paper he had been marking over and over. Was it maybe a speech he was preparing? I had no idea. As his secretary, I should've probably had some idea, at least. Was I maybe doing a bad job? Perhaps.

In the meantime, I hoped to relieve myself of the way my heart was beating with anticipation. Maybe if I got off, I'd relax? I hadn't managed to, earlier. Maybe then, I'd calm down and treat these emails as what they really were, simply a boss trying to be kind to his new and anxious employee? 

A few more minutes passed by, and I made myself busy by googling nail salons and various nail designs. I even dared to play some snake on my Google browser to pass the time.

Then, finally, when I had built up a nice, steady rhythm with my legs clenching and unclenching, letting the pantyhose stroke up against my clit through my dampening underwear, the anticipated email ticked in. 

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Appropriate Fashion

Dear secretary, 

There are no rules in place about nail designs. Nothing is prohibited, but please make sure to be tasteful. We have some important people coming in next week, and I am not too keen on my secretary not looking the part. 

Actually, I cannot seem to remember who it is we are welcoming; is it some oligarch from Azerbaijan? Cannot find it on the schedule. Need to know.

With regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

Some part of me wanted him to order me to get the French nails, to get them specifically to his liking and taste-- the second my mind got into that mind space, I uncrossed my legs, clearing my throat as I started looking for who next week's guest actually was. I was unraveling. I needed to get myself together.

And just as I was about to read the long name of the rich, lavish business partners from Azerbaijan (Mr. Godfrey had been right after all), someone teasingly knocked on my desk. 

My eyes darted up over the top of my computer, and my smile immediately widened-- "Peter!"

There he stood, the only friend I had made during my time at Godfrey Industries. He worked in the legal department, and was Mr. Godfrey's paralegal that showed up from time to time. He was also one of the few people that dared to pass the threshold of my desk and venture into the dark forest, also known as Mr. Godfrey's office. Here, clad in a suit, staring down at me with a charming grin, Peter Rumancek leaned over my computer as he spoke, his brown hair falling softly over his eyes; "How are you doing? I see that your head's still intact,"

"Barely," I breathed, straightening my skirt-- I was undeniably happy to see Peter. Every time he came around, he either made me laugh or made my day. "I nearly spilled coffee all over Mr. Godfrey at a meeting earlier... It really set him off, so I suppose I'm going to be sent to the Guillotine at the end of the day. You passed by at the right time."

Peter huffed. "Is this goodbye, then?"

"It seems so... Au revoir, Peter,"

"Oh, sweet melancholy," He straightened up with a smirk, trailing his fingers across my computer. "But, uh, is bossman busy?" Nodding toward Mr. Godfrey, Peter made a face-- it was clear that he dreaded going into the office. "Need to go in and ask about the ongoing case."

And with complete certainty that Mr. Godfrey didn't care enough to look my way (as always), to even give me a second of his attention, I turned to look at him with the perfect view I had. Which was why, when I immediately met his striking green eyes, that my breath hitched with horror. Surprisingly, he seemed rather amused by my antics, briefly passing his eyes between Peter and I as if to mock me for flirting with his paralegal-- caught you. But Mr. Godfrey didn't spend much time caring or tending to my life, and he returned to whatever he was doing behind his enormous computer screen in no time.

Something about the way he seemed outright entertained by the fact that I had a life outside of being stepped on made my blood boil and my heart ache. I turned to my friend, the paralegal, and nodded solemnly, not saying a word.

Peter caught what had happened, letting out a breathy oh. He nodded too, mostly to himself, before he retracted his hands into his pockets. "I might meet the Guillotine before you," he joked, hoping to get a reaction out of me before walking into his impending doom.

But I could only stare at my computer, mortified. My right leg gave into a bounce, and some odd feeling I couldn't place kept gnawing at my chest and made me nauseous-- I didn't think before I spoke; "The French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs,"

Peter blinked. "What?" 

"What?" I echoed-- it was as though I hadn't been the one to speak. Had I just quoted my boss's email? Fuck. I was really falling apart, wasn't I? 

In an attempt to save face, I tried to plaster on a smile. A twitchy one, at that. "Sorry, I'm spacing out. Mr. Godfrey is in his office, yes, but what's the case about? Do I have you listed on his schedule for today?" Grabbing the mouse to my right, I clicked back into the schedule, looking for Peter's last name while managing to squeeze in a quick glance into Mr. Godfrey's office again-- he wasn't looking at me anymore. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, despite knowing I shouldn't.

Peter scoffed, tapping his fingers against my desk. "Well, I shouldn't be telling you this actually, but this information might save you down along the road, so..." He lowered his voice, reluctant to tell me; "It's about the last secretary. She's suing him."

My gaze snapped up to meet Peter's.

Shit.

The image of her with the bunched up paper between her teeth, her mascara running down her cheeks, along with the odd tear along her skirt, flashed before my eyes.

What had happened to her?

I couldn't think about this-- not right now, not with the humiliation of Mr. Godfrey's gaze mere meters away. "You're on the schedule," I breathed. "He's probably waiting for you right now."

Peter caught my disturbance, yet decided not to comment. He had already said more than he was legally allowed to say, anyway. "Okay... Will I see you at lunch?"

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Sure,"

Peter gave me a half-hearted salute and walked toward the double doors, probably eager to be done with my odd behaviour for now. I could hear the low click of his shoes against the wood floor as I glued my eyes to the screen, or at least pretended to, hyper-aware of every movement in my periphery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Peter approach Mr. Godfrey's desk-- it was odd how my boss immediately looked so nice whenever he spoke to anyone that wasn't me.

It was humiliating to think it was funny to him that I could have anyone be interested in me. Everything about it made me want to cry; why did I need Mr. Godfrey to like me so much? It was so obvious that he thought I was a cretin of sorts, so why did I need him to think otherwise so badly?

To distract myself, I finally answered his email. Maybe it was time to stand my ground?

From: You

Subject: Revolution - The French Way

Dear Mr. Godfrey,

You will be welcoming Mr. Aliyev next Thursday at 14:00. He is not an oligarch, but the son of the president of Azerbaijan, and he will be here to discuss a collaboration with Godfrey Industries regarding oil, and our shared ambition to extract profit while spending as little money, or effort, as possible.

I'll draft up talking points, as I did for your last meeting.

Also, I do look like your secretary. You would not have hired me in the first place if I did not. Your remarks about my appearance are unwarranted. Were I shuffling through the building wearing sweatpants, you might have a point. However, I am not. I will change my nails, but I will keep my skirts. They are office-appropriate.

After all, I am not working at Vogue. 

Kind regards,

Your secretary.

I hit send.

And then I immediately wanted to die.

That was it-- my rebellious email had been enough to make my heart patter with excessive force, and the second I hit send, I feared I'd faint from the anxiety. I was okay with possibly saying this out loud to his face, but in an email? That email could get me fired. Blacklisted. Dragged to HR and spat out like gum from beneath someone's shoe.

Mr. Godfrey could ruin me if he wanted to, and that was the part I hated; how badly he could wreck me, and how little it would take. However... that was also the part that made my heart beat faster. Pervert, pervert, pervert.

I started to feel light-headed from all the worrying, and that's when I crossed my legs again-- searched for that sweet, aching pressure. The relief was the only thing that helped, and the only thing that quieted it all down.

Peter passed me by shortly after, but didn't stop to chat. He nodded at me, flashing me a charming, apologetic smile, and I allowed myself to sink into my seat with pleasure as his back turned to me and he disappeared down the hall. 

It felt wrong to do this at the office, perfectly in eye-sight of my boss, yet he had pissed me off to the point where I couldn't care. If he was going to treat me like shit, I had to make myself feel better, right? On top of that, I had an odd feeling I was close-- resting my head in my palm, propping my elbow on my desk, I stirred the mouse across my computer in random motion as I melted.

My thighs clenched tight. The desk shielded me, the chaos around me offered cover, and I let it happen. Again.

Was I sick for doing this? Probably.

Did it matter? Not in this moment. Not when the pleasure bloomed sharp and fast, not when my breath faltered and I shuddered at the ghost of Mr. Godfrey's voice in my head, the threat of him, the humiliation of him. 

I tried not to worry about the lack of following emails from Mr. Godfrey; he was probably not going to respond to it anyway. He had better things to do. Knowing him, he'd ignore me from now on, and maybe even pretend I didn't exist for the rest of the day. The idea that I was figuratively not seen, not cared about, not paid attention to, made me more secure about pulling this off, getting off like this, without being noticed-- not that anyone had ever caught me doing this anyway. They wouldn't know what they were looking at anyway, even if they saw me.

I made a fist in front of my mouth, clenching and unclenching, feeling my clit rub against that perfect spot in the seam of my pantyhose; it felt so unbearably good, and I had done this enough times to know how to cum quickly. 

So finally, when I felt it crash over me, when I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath, I finally felt relief. Relief from the humiliation, from not being respected, from being treated like I was nothing-- at this moment, I felt at peace. Blissful peace. 

I cleared my throat, allowing a cheeky smile to form across my lips. There was a huge thrill in being able to get away with getting off in the office in broad daylight, to be the nasty piece of shit Mr. Godfrey saw me as-- maybe he could see right through me? Maybe that was the real reason he hated me, because he recognized something twisted and depraved inside me that mirrored him?

I couldn't stop myself from smiling, drunk on shame and secrecy. So, with a newfound sense of confidence, I allowed my eyes the victory lap; to look into Mr. Godfrey's office and feel like a God, to know he could never figure me out, that he could never, ever have the fucking brains to know. He thought he was such a fucking big-shot, he thought he could stomp all over me, he thought he could intimidate me into making myself smaller?--

I froze.

Green.

Mr. Godfrey's green eyes were staring right back at me, wide with recognition.

I held my breath. My blood ran cold.

He knew.

He knew. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't blink, didn't look away. 

Leaning forward, refusing to break eye contact, his fingers ghosted over his keyboard...

And then, the notification ticked in on my screen.

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Warning #1

Dear secretary,

I rather like your skirts. Keep them.

PS: I saw that.

Kind regards,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries

(a/n: did I just do that? yes. have I ever seen anyone else write about this? no. did I need to take it into my own hands? YES. MWAH GIRLIESSSSS HOPE U ENJOYED<33333)

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lovely little taglist:

@likecherriesinthespring @muchwita @fish-eyes-png @voidpixies

@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

[blorger]

would you ever make a list of your favorite drarry fics? ive run out and i trust ur opinion lol

Oh my, if that isnt a million dollar question. I've recced many of my favorites already so I'm only going to list ten of those:

At Your Service by Faith Wood: this is an 8th year fic where Harry is once again trying to solve a mystery and Draco is once again Up To Something, one of my favorite premises; I once read a rec of this fic that mentioned that it reads a lot like the hp books in terms of pacing and I couldn't agree more. Faith Wood is a mainstay in the drarry fandom and many of their fics are old classics: if you're interested in more of their works I recommend Draco Malfoy, It's Your Lucky Day.

Tea and No Sympathy by @wholahoop : I love time loop fics and this one is probably my favorite. I really enjoy Draco's characterisation and character arc in this fic, he reads very human to me. Another fic by who la hoop I recommend is Draco Malfoy: Toilet Supremo, which never fails to make me laugh.

the earth from a distance by spqr: this is a lovely time-travel fic with a particularly enjoyable progression of Harry and Draco's relationship. Reading this fic gives me a cozy feeling.

You See Through My Disguise by @aibidil: I feel like what-ifs fics are especially hard to get just right and this fic couldn't get it righter; the author manages to strike just the right balance to make the fic feel like it could conceivably happen during canon and the heist portion of the fic is a real standout moment.

Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run by @waspabi: a very unique premise (what if Harry never got to Hogwarts?) done exceptionally well; somehow the author manages to have Harry form the same dynamics with Ron and Hermione that he has in canon without the 6 years of shared experiences to build on. It's also very interesting to see what Harry's absence does to change the hp plot, and how meeting as 17 year olds affects his relationship with Draco.

The World Thy Gaol by @novembersnowflake: a slightly melancholy fic with a lovely, competent Draco who is a bit lost but manages to find his way; it's the old "finding yourself by trying to change yourself " plot but it's not at all done in a cliché-d way.

The If Sieve by bmouse (cest_what): This is another old timey classic and it really holds up to the test of time; Draco messes with parallel universes to find what to do in his and it feels very canon-like. Draco's adventure is heartfelt and intense and continues in Mirror Maze, another great fic.

The Miseducation of Draco Malfoy by @magpiefngrl: An incredibly delightful fic with a Draco malfoy in the muggle world (love) and a hilarious Narcissa (double love). From this author I also recommend 9½ days, a mid-war what if much like You See Through My Disguise.

The Wand Slipped by @unmistakablyoatmeal: I love case fics and I love me a noir atmosphere and this fic has both. Harry's characterisation is especially compelling and his profession (private eye) is so right yet so rarely used in fics; P.I. is my favorite occupation for Harry and this fic is why.

from love, obviously🔒 by @starsworth: perfect fic. the banter is 10/10, Draco's characterization is spot-on and the dynamic between Harry and Draco is that wonderful push and pull that makes me love drarry so much. This is probably my favorite out of all the fics I've recced, definitely top 3 all time faves.

As for fics that I haven't recced, there's two and they are my all time favorites. One of them (If you've a ready mind by maya) is from an author who left the fandom, which leaves me in a bit of a tight spot reccing-wise since I don't know their feelings about their works being shared and I can't therefore link to it. The other (What We Pretend We Can't See by @gyzym) is so special to me that, were I to rec it like all the others, I wouldn't even know how to begin. I thought about dedicating a whole week to it and posting one quote per day, that's how much I love this fic (I still haven't decided wether to do it, I don't want to give preferential treatment but also the world needs to know about this fic). For now I'm just going to link to it because otherwise this ask is going to devolve into me raving about this fic, just know that I am full of Thoughts about it and I recommend it very much.

Thank you for the ask friend,

xoxo

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 5

Source for pic

Imperfect 5 🔞

Word Count: 4531

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: It seems like every new chapter I post from this story has a NSFW warning. Do I regret it? Not at all... But then again, and I can't stress this enough, let's just enjoy these chapters for a while!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

Divider by @cafekitsune

Kid: Come over, Sparkles. I want to show u smth.

The text comes after lunch, at the time you usually show up at the garage. Kid must’ve realized you were a no-show and sent you the message. You don’t answer, ghosting him so he understands you’re still slightly pissed at him, but just the fact that he reached out means that he wants to move on. 

You actually consider not going because things with Kid are becoming frustratingly weird. You’ve been flirting since the first day you met, but it’s clear that all this tension needs an outlet. And if he’s not willing to let the attraction run its course, then it’s bound to explode. 

Plus, you still don’t know the exact reason he pushed you away yesterday, other than the lame explanations he provided. 

So, is it wise to be standing outside the garage in the middle of an infernal heatwave when you already know you won’t be able to control yourself near Kid? 

Probably not. 

But here you are. 

The air outside is stifling. There’s not even a hint of a breeze, and the newscaster recommended that the population remain indoors unless it was absolutely necessary to leave the coolness of your home. Is it absolutely necessary? 

Not at all. 

And yet, here you are. 

Because your reasoning is neither rational nor enlightened where Kid is involved, a heatwave would be no different matter. There’s a yearning inside you for this man that you don’t quite understand. Frankly, you don’t even want to give it too much thought, afraid of it being more real than what you’re willing to admit. 

You’re dressed in light clothes, thin material, and a lot of exposed skin, yet sweat is already dripping from your nape to your back, from your temples to your neck, and into your cleavage. It’s unbearably hot.

The garage gate and door are both closed, and you hope that inside, the air feels cool and fresh instead of damp and smothering. You quickly realize that it’s only wishful thinking when you push open the scalding hot steel door and are greeted with nothing but a waft of warm air. 

“Kid?” you try, ignoring the churning sensation in your stomach.

“Back here.”

Closing the door and taking a deep, calming breath, you walk towards Victoria, dropping your purse on the nearest workbench and reveling in the slight drop in temperature. You’re casually wiping the sweat accumulated on your neck when you see him. Kid is leaning over the open hood of Victoria, loud music blasting in the garage, and two fans blowing hot air around. 

He’s fucking shirtless. 

Denim jeans hang low on his waist, and his back muscles bend and ripple as he tweaks something inside the hood. He’s glistening with sweat, beads dripping shamelessly from his damp hair to his broad back. When he turns, the world tilts, and you stop breathing. 

You’re ogling. You know he’s going to tease you for it, but you can’t tear your eyes away. 

Most of the sleeveless shirts you’ve seen him wear allowed you to glimpse the extent of the scar that runs from his neck to his chest. What you didn’t know is that he has another one running from under his pec and across his stomach, disappearing into his jeans. 

How far does that one go?

And holy fucking shit, this shouldn’t come as a surprise, but he’s freaking ripped. All beefy, robust muscle with broad shoulders and defined everything! 

You have to swallow hard so you don’t drool, curse, or both, but Kid’s not teasing you for all the ogling you’re doing. He’s ogling you back. 

“Fuckin’ hot, eh?” he mutters, not a drop of amusement in his deep, rumbling voice. 

“Torrid.” Is he referring to the weather?

Are you?

A few charged seconds pass, but neither of you moves to alleviate the tension, so you speak. “What did you want to show me?”

That about breaks the spell, because Kid blinks twice, and then his shit-eating grin makes an appearance, making sure the kaleidoscope of freaking, stupid butterflies living in your stomach takes flight all at once. 

The hell? Why butterflies? Up until now, all the ‘stirrings’ had been located in your lower abdomen, or even lower than that. Butterflies in the stomach mean something else. Something you don’t want to face at the moment, so instead, you force your legs to walk forward when Kid moves to the side and points inside the hood. 

“We’re givin’ Victoria her heart today.” Your mouth slackens, and you let out an elated whoop before rushing the rest of the steps. Sure enough, inside the hood stands a beast of an engine. It’s so big, it looks like it barely fits. Tubes twist and turn from its sides like veins giving it life, and sure enough, it does look alive. Like a breathing, living part of Victoria. It looks powerful enough to roar on its own. 

“It looks good!” You wish you could add something, but you don’t know the first thing about engines, anyway. 

“Sweetheart, it looks better than good. It’s fuckin’ epic. This right here is a 426 HEMI V8.” You raise your brow, but the way Kid is talking about it must mean it’s a hell of an engine. “Loud as fuck, capable of makin’ the ground shake when ye start her up.”

You nod and smile, and Kid realizes he’s losing you. “It’s a powerhouse of a fuckin’ engine.”

You nod again and let out a strained chuckle. “Okay, okay, I get it.” You don’t.

Kid grunts. “Imagine this. Yer at a bar, drinkin’ a few beers–”

“Cocktails. I might be drinking cocktails if I’m at a bar. And who’s with me–”

“Don’t matter!” Kid sighs, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose as you stifle a laugh at how easily you always manage to rile him up. “Yer drinkin’ a few cocktails,” he grunts, “and a guy sits beside ye. He looks nice, a smooth talker, buys ye another drink, slowly tries to win ye over.”

You nod, biting back the amusement and the witty words, just to see where he’s going with this. 

“He’s okay, basic. That’s yer base engine. Finishes the job, don’t impress, yer not gonna call him back.” Kid winks, and you snort, leaning your hip against Victoria so you can stare at him. 

“Now…” Kid’s chuckle turns devious. “This mean motherfucker right here is the one that demands yer attention. He’s not nice, not even much of a talker, let alone a smooth one. He intrigues ye, impresses ye.” Kid leans over, the musky scent of his sweat overpowering the metallic scent that usually accompanies him. You have to force your eyes to remain locked with his instead of dropping to his lips. 

“He not only finishes the job, but makes sure ye finish first.” Kid’s eyes do drop to your lips, and your breath hitches. “And second… and third. Ye’ll definitely be calling him again.”

Somehow, you find your voice amid the suffocating heat - an impossible task since his words travel straight to your core. “So, your engine is the dangerous boyfriend you don’t bring home for the holidays?”

“Aye.” Kid’s breath fans your eyelids, and you catch a glimpse of his twitching hand. “And he’ll ruin all the other engines for ye. No other will measure up.” His jaw ticks and his throat bobs. “He’ll wreck ya.”

Fuck. You’re not talking about engines anymore, are you?

“I still want to try it…” you breathe out. As soon as you see Kid flinch and something dark cross his eyes, his body language already anticipating that he’s about to put distance between the two of you, you bite your lower lip in regret. Then, instead of giving him a chance to deflect and escape, you pivot. “Let’s hear it purr, then.”

He watches you for another moment with that unreadable expression in his eyes, then nods, pulling away and breaking the spell. 

“Grab yer panties, they’re gonna wanna drop.” You can’t help but chuckle as Kid sits in the driver’s seat, the leather creaking slightly and adjusting to his weight. You can’t take your eyes off him, though. His prosthetic hand wraps around the steering wheel while the other one finds the gear stick, wiggling it to neutral as his leg muscles tighten, pressing the pedal.

Then, his hand rises to the keys in the ignition, and he makes eye contact, a cheeky grin commandeering his mouth, though something darkens his gaze as his eyes meet yours. When he flicks his wrist and Victoria awakens, the whole garage trembles. 

It’s loud. It’s powerful. She’s a beast, just like he said she’d be. 

Kid presses the gas pedal down a few times, and you can practically feel the heat bursting from the engine. Her roar envelops you and sends a shiver down your spine. Her heart is beating to life, and fuck it, yours is right there along for the ride. 

“Ye hear her purr?” Kid gloats, his eyes darkening even more as he takes you in. 

“That’s not purring, Kid. She’s a beast trying to escape its enclosure.” Your hand makes contact with Victoria, and it trembles, sending shivers up and down your spine. You’re in awe. “She’s perfect.” 

Kid is still watching you, but his grin falters, and he lets out a curse so low you barely make it out. He turns off the ignition and gets out, stopping beside you, his frame towering over yours.

You look at him with flushed cheeks. Watching Kid handle Victoria like that was way more arousing than you thought it would be. With a shaky inhale, you press your thighs together to try and alleviate some of the tension there.

Kid notices. Of course he does. 

He grins again, closes the hood, and takes one step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Told ya ye’d drop yer panties.”

You can't focus on anything else now. There’s only Kid and the smoldering intensity of his eyes. Victoria feels warm to the touch, but it's nothing compared to the raging fire that's consuming your very being. 

“Kid.” His name comes out of your lips like a prayer. A whisper of a word, a plea. 

He hesitates, his eyes piercing you as his throat bobs. His hand is on Victoria's hood, and it's inching closer to yours. There's a battle somewhere inside him; you can see it clearly. His body inches closer to yours in agonizingly slow movements as his lips form a scowl and the lines between his brows tighten.

Then your hands touch. It's electric. 

Kid closes his eyes for a brief second and exhales deeply. “Fuck it.”

Both his hands find purchase on the back of your thighs as he lifts you up and sets you down on Victoria's hood. Then his flesh hand curls around the back of your neck, fingers entwining with your hair. Your breaths mingle, and he lets out a guttural noise, trying to hold on to any semblance of restraint. 

He can't. 

His lips crash into yours with longing and desperation, drawing a whimper from your mouth. Your hands grip his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped indents on his skin. More. You need more. 

Kid slots himself in the middle of your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him even closer to your core. You both groan at the touch as it sends shivers up and down your body. His fingers curl around your hair, and he grips it, tilting your head so that he can deepen the kiss. 

A flick of his tongue and a nibble on your lower lip have you panting, allowing him to explore as he takes your tongue in his. Your palms find taut, hard muscles, firm to the touch, and hotter than a furnace. When his prosthetic hand cups your breast, you roll your hips and grind your cores together, melting into another whimper. 

“Fuck,” Kid mutters against your mouth, and you pull him back into the kiss. You don't want to give him time to think this through, too afraid he'll push you away again. 

“Let go,” you whisper between rolls of your tongue, your hands expertly unbuckling his belt. Kid hesitates, pulling back, and you inhale sharply as your fingers tremble against the button of his jeans. 

Then he breathes, closing his eyes. When he opens them back up, it's all fire and desire again. Hands find the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and getting rid of it. His mouth sucks and bites your nipple through the fabric of the bra and you chant his name in a moan. He curses low against your skin, peppering bites and suckling on every bit of it, muttering in a voice so thick with accent so pronounced you can barely make out a sane word. 

You arch your back for a moment, melting into his touch, and then your hand slips inside his boxers. He grunts against your neck, and his hands tighten their grip on your waist when you squeeze him. He's hard as a rock, girthy and veiny, and you whimper with anticipation. “Kid, I want you.” Your words sound like a prayer again, like a hymn you want to sing over and over. 

“Aye, fuck, I want ye too.”

And any doubt you had about him pushing you away again vanishes as his hand finds its way inside the waistband of your bottoms. His breath hitches, and his words are like gravel in your ears. “Yer soaked.” You can only hum incoherently as his fingers stroke your core, pushing your panties to the side and pressing lightly against your throbbing clit. 

“Oh, God,” you moan loudly, tilting your head back and stroking him at the same rhythm as he fingers you. 

“Yer gonna scream my name?” Kid pants against your ear, and you barely register it. He's taking up all the space, his scent, his body, his fingers; God, his fingers. “Use yer words.” He pinches your clit with his index finger and thumb, and you cry out in pleasure. 

“Yes, Kid, yes!”

You're nearly there. The tension has been building up so high and coiled so tight, you know you're going to fall fast. Your head lolls forward against his shoulder as you let out a lot of incoherent words and pants. 

Almost… almost. 

BANG! 

“Fuck!” 

THUD! 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” 

CLANG! 

“Jesus Christ!”

Kid stops. You bite your lower lip, horrified. Then, you both look towards the entrance of the garage and freeze. Killer is covering his eyes with one hand, and the other one is outstretched, trying to find the garage door and knocking over gallons of oil, tools, and everything in his path. 

“For crying out loud, you two! Doors have locks!” His voice is about an octave higher than it should be, and he keeps banging into stuff until he lets out another string of curses and gives up. Opening his eyes, he finds the door and leaves, flustered, embarrassed, and stressed. Curses still flying about.

Kid groans and exhales heavily while you stifle your snickers against his chest. Unfortunately, the tension of the moment has dissipated in a cloud of comedic relief, but you know it won't take much to build it back up. 

Your eyes are still glinting with mirth when you look up at Kid, cupping his cheeks in your hands so he can look at you. 

Your stomach lurches and your heart nearly skips a beat with what you find there. Kid is withdrawn again. His eyes bear a detached coldness accentuated by the downturned scowl on his lips. You're already shaking your head before he even speaks. 

“This was a mistake.” Fuck. “It was the heat, the fuckin’ tension,” Kid grunts, running a hand over his face and handing you your top with the other. “We can't do this,” he hisses. 

There it is. He’s pushing you away again. 

“Why the hell not?” you counter, crumpling the top in your hands, demanding that he look at you while all he's doing is avoiding your gaze. 

“I told ye why before!”

“It’s not good enough! Don’t push me away, Kid…” You sigh. “We don’t have to commit to anything, and it also doesn’t need to be a one-time thing if you don’t want it to be. We can just take it one step at a time, see where it goes.”

Kid shakes his head, his eyes on your legs as he tries to find his words. “I…”

“Let’s just give it a go…” You place your hand against the hard planes of his chest. You mean what you said. You might be turning the order of things around and starting something at the end, but it’s okay. Kid doesn’t strike you as the type to commit to a serious relationship anyway. One step at a time feels like the right pacing. “What do you think?”

He sighs, his flesh hand raises up and hovers over yours. He seems conflicted, and for a moment, you believe he’s about to hold your hand in his, to let you in. But then he scrunches his brows, curses, and shoves your hand away from him. “I'm all dark, aye? Yer light! Yer good! I wreck things.” Kid disentangles himself from your legs, buttons his pants and belt buckle, and heads straight for the cabinet in search of a bottle. 

“That's not true.” Your words burn your throat as you slide off the hood of Victoria, following him. 

The bottle slams against the workbench with enough strength to almost shatter it as he turns to you. “Don't pretend to know me. Ye don't know who the fuck I am. What I'm capable of.”

You stomp towards him, eyes blazing with fury, the heat of desire replaced by rage. “That's not what I was implying!” Kid's jaw clenches, and his eyes lose a bit of their edge. “I'm the one who’s not like that! I'm not all light! Don't put me on a fucking pedestal because I don't care for the fall!” You dress your top with trembling fingers and can't quite tell if the prickling behind your eyes is fury or sadness. “God!”

“We can't happen,” Kid groans, taking a sip from the scotch. “It's too fuckin’ complicated.”

“You're the one making it complicated! What happened to fun?” But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you know without a shadow of a doubt that you don't want just fun. Somewhere along those lazy afternoons working on Victoria, you really warmed up to Kid. 

You like him. 

“We're friends, Sparkles. Let's not fuck that up.” There's a finality to his words, signaling the end of the discussion. You're fucking pissed. 

“Is that really the problem?” Kid doesn't answer you, his gaze hardens, and he takes another sip. “Fine.” Turning on your heel, you head towards the door. “I just think you're too much of a coward to give whatever we have a shot.”

-*-

Kid paces the garage back and forth. He tried to work on Victoria again after you left, but he couldn't concentrate long enough to do it. Your words echoed in his head like a beacon of clarity. 

A coward. 

A fucking coward. You were right, obviously. Every one of his hook-ups had been just that, hook-ups. Nothing flashy or big, nothing that makes him think or feel. Just a way to blow off steam. 

But you… Fuck. You make him feel everything. It's like you've clawed your way inside his chest and refuse to leave. It's like you're in every single thought he has, from the moment he gets up to the moment his head hits the pillow. 

He knows you're not just a fling. He understands that you're no simple hook-up. You're real. You're something so good he knows you're not for him. He doesn't deserve goodness. 

Not after what he did. 

Kid smashes the bottle of scotch he's been nursing against the far wall, not caring about broken glass or spilled liquid. His hand flies to his pocket, and his finger hovers above Killer's contact for a few seconds. 

He could vent. Killer is the best listener. But he's also the best at delivering hard truths, and damn it… Not tonight. 

He scrolls and frowns when he finds the contact he's looking for. He picks up after the third ring. 

“Well, well. Eustass Kid. It's been a while.”

“Cut the shit, Apoo. I need a location and the time it starts,” Kid growls into the phone, his hand busy tapping the workbench. 

“Motherfucker, you haven't called in months, and you think I can get you a slot, just like that?” Apoo snickers. 

“I know ye can. People pay good money for the show I put on.” 

He fucking hates Apoo. But he needs this, he needs him for this. 

“Fine. Midnight. Abandoned warehouse near the docks. You know the place.”

Kid doesn't answer in confirmation, he just turns off the call and throws the phone into the workbench. Gripping the edge of it with both hands, he lets his head hang, his eyes closing shut as the echo of your words blurs the edges of his mind. 

“Fuck!” Kid shouts, banging the workbench with his prosthetic hand and gritting his teeth. He allows himself another five minutes of mindless self-loathing. Then he grabs the keys to his bike and leaves the garage.

-*-

The first punch shakes him up. 

The man who delivered it is scrawny but as fast as a fucking mouse. Kid smirks. The pain from the jab spreads slowly across his jaw, rattling the bones in his head. 

It’s not enough.

The acrid scent of sweat is barely noticeable over the pungent tang of the iron - blood. For a moment, the sounds from the cheers drown out the echo of your words, and all Kid can focus on is the pain. 

“Finish him off, Eustass!” someone yells.

“He’s a fucking wimp!” another voice.

The crowd rounds up the blood-splattered ring. If, to some, the gesture might feel suffocating and overwhelming, to Kid, it’s just fuel to his rage. It’s exactly what he needs. 

The little mouse hits him with another uppercut, and Kid keeps grinning. He lets him have his fun, and it’s not until Kid feels like he’s not getting what he needs from this lanky piece of shit that he finally strikes. 

One punch from Kid, and it’s over. 

The crowd cheers, and Kid scowls. It’s not enough. “Next fucker!” he roars, and the crowd roars back with him.

They come and come again, sometimes in groups of two or three. And Kid finishes them off, one after another, until his knuckles are a raw mess of flesh and bruises; until his eyes feel heavy and his mouth is sticky with blood. 

He fights dirty. Not fair or pretty. He fights like a man who’s got nothing to lose - who already lost everything. 

And as the night wears on, he realises none of this is helping. He doesn’t feel better, he doesn’t feel relieved. 

He just feels empty.

-*-

“Why is he so stubborn?” You thank the waitress for the drink and then shove the straw into the plastic cup, ignoring the screeching agony it produces, sloshing the liquid around with it. 

Killer shrugs, his straw hidden behind the Metallica bandana he wears today, and you hear him slurping his drink before he answers you. 

“That’s the million-dollar question,” he mumbles with a heavy sigh. “I’ve known him most of our lives, and that’s a quality he was born with.”

You take out the straw and continue to stab the lid of the plastic cup as if it personally offended you. 

“I just don’t get it! He keeps sending me mixed signals. He pushes me away, but then flirts back. He doesn’t want to commit, but he also doesn’t want to have a little bit of fun. What does he want?” With one last stab, the plastic lid groans and breaks. You curse and shove the drink away, not really thirsty anyway. 

Killer leans back on the red plastic bench of the diner you’re sitting in. He was the one who called, but you started to vent about Kid the moment you both sat down. It’s like he knew you needed to talk. 

“Kid…” Killer seems to be gathering his thoughts before continuing. “He’s difficult. He doesn’t like vulnerability and avoids feelings like the plague.”

You grunt in agreement, having been a witness to his actions firsthand. 

“He’ll never admit it, but you’re good for him. I see it,” he lets out a small chuckle. “Hell, I’ve told him this.”

“Whatever,” you mumble and steal a fry from Killer’s portion since you told the waitress you didn’t want any. “He didn’t seem very interested in continuing whatever it was we started. I'm not even sure where we are in our friendship since I called him a coward. I’m so pissed at him.”

“He’s going to want to move past what happened without even addressing it. Next time you see him, it’s like nothing was ever wrong.”

“Wow, that’s healthy.”

“It’s how he always dealt with things. It’s his way of escaping, of avoiding.” Killer shrugs once but then pins you with his tantalizing blue gaze, your name leaving his lips softly, demanding your attention. “Don’t give up on him.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. You don’t want to give up on Kid, but does he want you to keep pushing?

“Why is he like this? He told me he was dark… that he wrecks things. What happened to make him think that?”

Killer turns to the window, watching cars wind by for the longest time. You keep stealing his fries, waiting for his answer. 

“I can’t be the one to share that with you. It has to come from him,” he says, and there’s a finality to his words that stops you from inquiring further, so you nod. “But he’s very hard on himself and doesn’t think he deserves good things. Prove him wrong, City Girl.” The small lilt in his voice tells you he’s smiling, even though you can’t see it.

You exhale deeply and snatch another fry. Killer’s shoulders shake with mirth as he pushes the basket of food closer to you. “So, you’re telling me I should just stomp inside the garage and kick some sense into his stubborn butt?”

“Yes. And if you’re going to actually do that, please let me tag along. I’d love a video.” You snort at his words and pop another fry into your mouth. 

“Prove him wrong…” you mutter, deep into your thoughts. This could go very badly. You know you’re already feeling much more than attraction for that stubborn man. If you keep hanging out with him, laughing and flirting, you just know that he’ll insert himself deeper and deeper inside your skin. 

If you keep trying and he keeps pushing you away… how long until he pushes so far that your heart breaks?

But what if he lets you in?

What if it works?

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha

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[foolish-took]

I had counseling/therapy or whatever you wanna call it today, and it’s so funny bc while I was waiting to get called in, I happened to open up YouTube (a tøp analysis/lore account had dropped a vid on an update for the concert today) and I was like “yknow what, let’s watch some dnp since I already got the app open.” I got like a couple minutes into a video before I was called, but when I went up to my counselor she was like “you seem like you’re in a good mood!” And I was like yeah this thing happened earlier today!! Which was definitely why I was in a good mood, like, for the entire day, but I’m realizing now that I was probably especially all smiley in that moment bc of the dnp video LOL

[cwwv9]

«0X1=LOVESICK»

You are their only reality in a broken world.

— without gender!reader x Rin Itoshi, Michael Kaiser, Hiori Yo, Shidou Ryusei.

Warning: This collection contains scenes of emotional instability, depression, self-destruction, relationship addiction, compulsion, rude expressions, obsessive love and sensual intimacy.

mailbox open for queries!!!!

Rin Itoshi

Your fingers smell of coffee. Rin always notices these little things, even though he pretends not to notice anything. He’s sitting on the floor of your apartment, leaning against the wall with his feet out in front, watching you move around the room. As if you exist in a different rhythm - not in his, not in the world of football, pain and eternal race, but in something present.

He never says too much. But today is a special case.

His knuckles are covered with blood, the hand trembles, whether from anger or fear. You come and look without judging. You just gently hold his hand, give him a cotton ball with peroxide. He shakes, but not from pain. From touch. From how carefully you treat him, although he himself has done nothing but destroy all his life

- I’m in a fight again, he says simply. Without emotion. As if it’s normal. As if it should be.

You don’t answer anything, you just continue to treat the wound.

— I can’t stop, he whispers when you’re done. - Always angry. Always... hungry. Neither training nor winning - nothing fills this hole inside. All I see is the goal. And loneliness.

You get down next to him, lean against the wall. There’s not more than a couple of centimeters between you, but he feels you’re closer than anyone before.

- But when you’re around... his voice breaks. - Everything gets... more tolerant. You know?

He turns to you. His gaze is a dark ocean full of pain, restraint and fear. But there’s a crack in that gaze. The slit into which the light enters.

- I hate how you make me vulnerable. Like I’m not a machine, not a tool. Like I’m human.

You smile a little bit. And then you go forward, hugging him. He stops. His shoulders are strained like strings. But he doesn’t push back. He doesn’t hiss. He doesn’t hit. He clings to your back like a drowning man who first feels breathable.

- You’re the only person I’m afraid of losing control over. 'Cause it’s just with you that I feel like... I live.

Your hand is buried in his hair, and he seems to stop at that moment. Everything collapses around - goals, training, jealousy, injuries, brother. And you’re the only one standing in the middle of this storm and staying.

- I’m zero, he says. But with you... it’s like something is starting to make sense.

Michael Kaiser

The city behind the window pulsates with neon light. You stand by the window, holding a cup of tea in one hand, and the other holding a sheet on your shoulder. Your room is not the luxury to which he is accustomed. Everything here is... quiet. Real. And for some reason - scary.

The Kaiser is sitting on the edge of your bed, with his hair torn up, a cigarette between his fingers and his eyes lowered. He doesn’t play. He doesn’t act provocatively. He’s just silent. And that’s the most frightening thing.

— I know what you want to ask, he says after a long pause. Why I came to you. No call, no emoticons, no God-like nonsense.

You come closer. You sit in front of it, looking right at it.

— Because I’m tired of being the character, he says to himself. - I’m tired of being the one who is expected, admired, cursed, worshipped. I don’t know who I am when I’m not wearing a crown.

He puts out a cigarette, flicks his fingers as if to throw something sticky off him. And then he looks at you. Straight. Hard. No makeup

— And you... you’re the only one who doesn’t try to dust me like I’m a saint. You look like I’m just human. Even worse - as if you don’t care whether I am the Kaiser or not.

You laugh quietly.

— Maybe I really don’t care, you say. - Because I see how you keep silent when you feel bad. How you hate the emptiness after a victory. How afraid you are to be alone.

He kneels, clenching his fist.

He kneels, clenching his fist.

— I built my world myself. Stone by stone. I made myself a god. But no one said what it was like to be a god who doesn’t have a home. No one said what it’s like to have applause and be alone with yourself. And hate yourself.

You go up to him, sit next to him. You take his hand.

- You don’t have to be someone. You can just be.

He looks at your interlaced fingers. His eyes tremble like a fire in the draft.

- If love is an illusion... then you are mine. My illusion. My reality. My scene. The only one I’m not afraid to be myself.

You smile. And that’s the first time he doesn’t play. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t pose. He just... lets himself fall - right on your shoulder.

- If this whole world is a lie, he whispers, please don’t destroy your truth. I want to stay in it. Forever.

Hiori Yo

You open the door of your apartment at midnight. He stands on the doorstep - with wet hair, shaky fingers and empty eyes. It’s as if something died inside him. You don’t ask anything. You just back off, letting him in.

Hyory goes deep, without a word. He leans on the edge of the sofa as if he were afraid to destroy even the air. It’s all fragile. Of restrained despair. Of learned obedience.

- I let the team down, he finally says. And me too. I thought again for too long. Again, I didn’t make it. I didn’t have time. I... slowed down.

You sit next to him, facing him. In his voice is a silence that makes you want to scream.

— Do you know what the worst thing is? - he looks at his palms. - I no longer understand why all this. Football, movement, struggle. I always choose to be inconspicuous, so as not to disturb anyone. And inside... everything breaks down. Constantly.

You hold his hand. Silence. He shakes as if touch were a knife.

— When I’m with you... I stop being afraid, - he doesn’t look at you. His voice is deaf. - Because you don’t make me be someone. You don’t push, you don’t demand. You’re just there.

He leans closer. His forehead touches your shoulder, and his palm touches your knee. His hands are weak but full of inner cry. It is as if he seeks salvation without daring to ask.

- I thought love was a weakness. That you can’t depend on someone. But when you leave, it’s like I’m gone. I’m lost.

You hold him close to you. His breath becomes choppy. He hugs you, hesitantly, like a man who has not hugged anyone for a long time.

- I’m afraid you’ll realize how empty I am. And you’ll leave, he whispers. But if you’re my illusion... please don’t disappear. Not now.

You are sitting in silence. The lamp is soft, rain chimes behind the window. And at that moment you realize: his whole world may be cracking, but he’s still holding on. For you.

You are his anchor. His last truth. His love, even if it is never called out.

Ryusei Shido

He appears in your life like a storm: bright, loud, dirty, with blood on his lips and a grin that gives you chills on the back. Shido comes into your house without warning, as always - with unbearable confidence that you will accept it.

You never wait for him. But you always leave the door unlocked.

— Do you know why I’m here? he asks, throwing his wet jacket on the floor. His voice is sharp as after a scream. - Because I hate all this shit. People. System. Me. But you... I can’t get you out of my head.

He comes up to you close, almost presses his forehead against your head, eyes twinkle in the middle of nowhere. In his breath is alcohol, aggression and something cracked inside. He does not ask - he demands. Everything. You.

- I can’t love, he growls. All I know is how to fuck, break, tear. But you...

You don’t look away. You’re not afraid. And it makes him even more angry.

— You get on my nerves. Too calm. Too straight. You make me want to stay - I’ve been running all my life. Always. From myself. From others. From pain.

He grabs you by the face, sharp, almost rough. But fingers tremble.

— I’m not a hero. I’m not normal. I explode in the middle of nowhere. I can hurt you, not because I want to, but because I don’t know how else. But if you say one word, I’ll stay.

You touch his chest, feeling his heart beat wildly. It doesn’t know the rhythm - as he does.

- Tell me I’m not hopeless, he whispers. - Tell me that I’m real in some way.

You kiss him. Not tenderly - furiously, as if you were trying to inject a particle of light into him, which he has not had for so long.

He moans in a kiss, almost like a wounded beast. And for the first time in a long time... he stops. He does not attack, he does not dominate, he does not break. He just holds you.

- If you leave, I will burn, he admits. - I will destroy everything, even myself. But if you stay... maybe I’ll learn to be not only fire, but also human.

[strawbpusheen]

Something I think is really funny about dratchrod is that I see so many people try to use drift as the middle man or like a buffer between ratchet and rodimus instead of recognizing the ratchrod side of things and I think people straight up forget ratchet and rodimus are friends. Like outside of drift.

They've both known each other for muuuchhh longer than either knows drift; they are war buddies!!! (NOT TRYING TO TAKE AWAY WHAT THEY HAVE WITH DRIFT IM JUST SAYING)

we see in MTMTE they literally just hang out. So many of the interactions we see of them are just them together with no one else on purpose just to talk bc they are friends. Their friendship in and of itself isn't super obvious if you dont look bc lots of those interactions you just see them together and imagine "Oh they are just alone by coincidence" but ITS THERE GUYS!!!!!! That's also not to say drift doesnt connect them- I think dratchrod works so well in my head because each of them brings out parts of the others.

I love ratchrod guys you are sleeping on ratchrod so fucking hard collapses and falls into a pile of dust JUST LOOK AT THEM!!! WDYM THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL TO EACHOTHER!!!

LIKE!!! THEY JOKE WITH EACHOTHER!!! THEY COMFORT THE OTHER!!! THEY ARE REAL WITH EACHOTHER!!!! THEY ARE EMO ABOUT THEIR BOYFRIEND BEING GONE!! + I CANT FIND RODIMUS TALKING ABT RATCHET WHEN HE REBUILT HIS ARM BUT BUT BUT AAUAUAUQGWHEJRJ

This isn't me getting upset btw this is me just trying to spread my ratchrod and dratchrod agenda I love them i love them so much I am the dratchrod warrior

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

What Did I Do?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Reader POV and Din POV

Summary: When your brother drops in for a surprise visit, it has an odd effect on Din that you can't understand. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the fifth fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine, Mutual Pining, Jealous!Din, Miscommunication.

Word Count: 7.3K

Warnings: Angst, Miscommunication, Heartbreak, Sadness, Awkward Situation, Big Brother Antics, Protective Big Brother? Din getting super jealous and handling it poorly? The reader is really soft and likes to bake? Din being a little bit self-deprecating to himself? Din might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: Okay, warning now this one is a little bit sad and angsty, but angst is my middle name so I can't be held responsible for this 😅

Reader POV

“Stop eating all my merchandise! Do they not feed you on your planet or something?” You shout hitting your older brother, Ezekiel, on the back of his head with a wooden spoon. It was much more satisfying now because he wasn't wearing his usual helmet to protect himself and the loud smack of the spoon against his skull filled you with an unashamed amount of joy.

Your brother's visit to Nevarro had caught you by surprise. He rarely called before he dropped in unannounced, but by now you were used to it. That being said, he had still scared you when you woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of your front door being opened and a dark shape slipping through the opening to loom in your living room.

Given what you’d been through with the Transdoshan a month ago, you figured that your reaction was justified.

If your screams had woken up your neighbors upstairs they hadn’t cared and all your brother did was laugh at you when you’d come at him in the darkness armed only with the large cookbook that you’d fallen asleep reading.

But you'd missed him.

You hadn't seen him in three months, not since you left to find the perfect place to open your shop, aka the cheapest real estate that you could invest your entire life's savings into. It had seemed like fate when you'd found the listing on your holopad one night while you were mindlessly scrolling for something in your price range, and you'd bought the place sight unseen despite your brother’s numerous insistences for you to “sleep on it” not make a random impulse purchase in the dead of night.

You hadn’t listened to him, and you didn’t regret your decision for a single second.

You loved living on Nevarro. Loved the small sprawl of buildings that warmed in the sunlight and turned to shades of silver in the moonlight, loved the fountain where growing families frolicked in the crystal blue water, and loved the customers who walked into your shop and feasted on the multicolored pastries stacked in the pristine glass cases at the front of your shop.

Some more than others.

Your cheeks warm with the thought of Din and Grogu. They hadn’t been in yet, not since your brother had arrived last night, and you wanted Din to meet him, after all, Ezekiel was the only family you had left.

You could feel the anxiety over their meeting sparking along your nerve endings. Something about it felt important, like your two worlds were colliding in the best way. It felt special.

Get a grip, it's not like the two of us are dating and I'm bringing him home to meet my parents. It's just Ez, but…

The thought of your brother and Din getting along seemed like a big step in that direction.

Things had definitely changed since Din saved you from the Transdoshan one month ago. It felt different between the two of you and you loved every second of it.

Din would stop by every morning to say "hello" before he took Grogu to school and a bag of goodies with him when he left to go about his day and each night Din would stop by after you closed up to walk you home. You'd told him a few times that he didn't need to, that you didn't want him to waste his time, but he'd said that "it wasn't a waste if it meant you were home safe."

You weren't sure why he was so worried about you getting home safe, but if it meant spending more time with Din you weren't going to say no.

He would walk stoically next to you, his Beskar glinting in the starlight that shone down and dramatized the formidable figure of the man you were quickly falling head over heels for, with Grogu snoring quietly in your arms, while you talked about your day and Din listened in the still silence of the night.

Sometimes you worried that you were just babbling on like Grogu, but Din listened. And just when you thought you were saying too much, Din would ask you another question to keep you talking.

It wasn't things that you’d thought he'd be interested in anyway- he'd ask you about how you picked flavors for your treats, how much time you spent on each one- and then there were the other questions, the ones about your kitchen that you didn't understand why Din would ask you or why he was interested in. Things like: how big one of the ovens was, how much space you needed on the counter to knead bread, and how many burners you needed when you used a stove top.

You figured that he was asking because he was trying to see how much room he'd need in his kitchen at his house as he was still working on it. Sometimes you thought about asking him if he needed help, but you didn’t know anything about construction. Of course the thought of watching Din working on his kitchen made your throat tight. Watching him sand down cabinets with his large hands until they were butter smooth, seeing him reach overhead to install light fixtures-

Your cheeks heat with your blush.

But you liked spending those walks with Din, holding Grogu in your arms as he drifted off to sleep. Each time Din tried to put Grogu back into his bag to give your arms a rest, Grogu would wriggle defiantly while you shooed away Din’s hands until he finally sighed and gave up.

By the time you reached your door Grogu would be fast asleep, his lips still sticky with the cake that Din told you not to give him, but you did anyway and always earned a heavy sigh of your name through the modulator of the helmet.

Something about the way Din said it, made you smile and your cheeks warm. You liked it, and each time you would wish to hear what it would sound like without his helmet on.

But it wasn't just the walks home that were new, you noticed that you'd see Din more in the city during the day. Whenever you went to the market Din would show up and take the bags for you so you didn’t have to carry them back to the shop, whenever you were reading by the fountain you'd catch a glimpse of his armor disappearing into the crowd of people on the outskirts, and whenever you were cleaning the front counter you’d see Din walk by talking to Karga or to Cara.

Each time you saw him with Cara you felt your chest tighten. She was everything you weren't. Confident, self-assured, tough, not to mention she wasn't soft like you were. She was almost cut from stone, arms shaped with hardened muscle the size of your face, and she had a look on her face that always said "don't mess with me." It made you wonder if that was what Din wanted, if he wanted someone who was more like Cara. Cara could take care of herself and here Din was walking you home to "make sure you were safe."

Not to mention he’d saved you from the Transdoshan who you knew you’d have been helpless to fight him off.

You didn’t want Din to think of you like a bother or like a little girl who couldn’t function without some knight in shining armor to save her. The thought that he’d like Cara more because of her self sufficiency  made your smile slip into a frown, but you shook it off.

You were going to focus on the fact that Din was spending time with you, because you were sure that you were imagining it, but when you first opened your shop and in the time before you had officially opened your shop you hadn't seen Din once in town.

But now you couldn't help but bump into him.

However, that wasn't the only thing that changed between the two of you, Din had started bringing you little things from other planets whenever he left to go on a bounty. First it had been a rock its sharp edges worn smooth from an ocean on another world and a shell the size of your hand that allowed you to hear the rapid beat of waves against an invisible shoreline when you held it up to your ear. Another time Din had brought you a little figurine to keep on the shelf behind the counter carved out of strong whiskey colored wood.

The newest thing that Din had brought you was the apron you were wearing around your waist over your purple dress. It was beautiful, a dark blue and hand embroidered with flowers along the edges in different colors each one intricately woven into the soft fabric. It was almost too pretty to use, but you liked having it on when Din came by.

When he'd given it to you, you'd been speechless while Din had stuttered out a "Do you like it cyare?"

And you'd shaken your head enthusiastically. You hadn't known what to say, it was the most beautiful thing you owned and it was special because it meant that Din was thinking of you when he was gone, that he had taken the time to find something he knew you would use everyday.

But also because you’d thought the sound of his stutter through the helmet was unspeakably cute, and you were sure that his cheeks were red with his blush when you hugged him and said you loved it.

The hugging was also a new development. It started the night that Din had walked you home after the Transdoshan and since then it had only become more frequent. That night you had felt Din stiffen in surprise before he hugged you back and you were afraid when he’d stuttered out his goodbye and then left.

But the next night, when he walked you home, he had stepped forward as if anticipating the hug, waiting for you to initiate it. It make you beam at him and hug him so tight you weren’t sure if you were hurting him, but you were just so happy that he’d wanted you to hug him you couldn’t stop yourself. And now it was a nightly occurrence.

Not to mention whenever Din told you he was going to be gone for a few days, you always gave him a hug before sending him on his way with a bag full of treats while you bounced Grogu in your arms happily. Din had begun to leave Grogu with you when he went away and you were more than happy to have the little guy around.

“Yeesh, calm down!” Ezekiel rubs the back of his head with one hand and shoves another square of the Uj cake into his mouth with his other one. “Can you blame me? This stuff is so good! I’m so glad you decided to move to the middle of nowhere and throw away your life to open a bakery!” He jokes with a wide smile.

“That’s it! Get out Ez!“ You say taking another swing at him with the wooden spoon.

He dodges the attack. “Sorry baby sis, you're stuck with me for another three days." Ezekiel sing-songs through a mouth full of the sticky brown pastry.

You exaggerate a sigh and roll your eyes. Secretly you loved having him here, but you weren't going to admit it.

Your older brother might be annoying, and yeah he might be eating the one thing that you make especially for Din when he comes in to the shop, and yes your brother might be keeping you up every night with his snoring because your apartment was only one room and you couldn’t block the heavy rumble of his snores with your pillow and-

Where was I going with this? Oh right.

But he was the only family that you had left and you loved your brother.

Even when he'd left you with your grandmother, he didn't really leave. He called you on your holo-pad every week, sent money when he could, and when your grandmother died he had come to bring you back with him to his home, before trying his best to convince you to move in with his clan, but you had told him no.

You didn’t regret that. You felt like you were building something on Nevarro for yourself, doing something for you for the first time in your life.

And you couldn't wait to see where this path led.

"Shut up and make yourself useful!" You roll your eyes again, grabbing a tray of Jorgan fruit buns and thrusting them into your brother's open hands.

"If I had known you were going to put me to work I wouldn’t have come." He grumbles under his breath.

"Too bad. Jax wanted a few days off and I'm shorthanded." You say grabbing a tray of spiced egg-milk tarts, before leading the way out into the crowded shop.

The early morning rush had begun to subside, but there were still a good amount of people sitting at the smooth wooden tables at the front of your bakery chattering excitedly over buns, pies, and thick slices of cake with sweet cream icing.

This is why I came here.

The scene in front of you filled you with happiness, the smell of the sweet rolls and fresh bread bringing you back to the moments you spent tucked in your grandmother's kitchen watching her knead bread, pipe sticky icing, and roll out dough with a practiced precision that only you could replicate. Each day you felt her with you, and each day you knew that you made the right decision to come to Nevarro.

Ez follows you out into the crowded shop with a chuckle, carrying the tray and holding it for you while you stock one of the two large glass cases.

The buzz of the coffee maker behind the counter reminds you that you need to make your rounds with the pot to refill cups, but you hold off.

You were slightly surprised by the crowds. You thought that the presence of another Mandalorian would cause a stir, given everything that people still said about Din, but apparently they didn't feel the need to shame your brother to the outskirts of town as they had him.

That or maybe you'd shamed enough people into being nicer.

Doubtful.

You'd gone with Din to pick Grogu up a few times after school when it was slow and you needed the fresh air after being cooped up in the bakery all day, and each time Ms. Cross would whisper under her breath with the other parents who all threw looks in your direction. You ignored them and bounced Grogu on your hip, listening to him babble, telling you about his day in his own little way while Din watched you, and unbeknownst to you, smiled beneath his Beskar as Grogu did.

However, despite the rumors that were obviously circulating about Din and you, your business hadn't suffered. You had the only bakery on Nevarro, and, not that you were bragging, you knew for a fact everything you made was delicious and addictive. Even Ms. Cross would still come in a few mornings during the week for a cup of coffee and a Jorgan-berry cream tart before she went off to the school. She never said anything to you, and you were more than happy to have Jax deal with her before she left, casting an uncomfortable look in your direction as she did.

But even if you only had one customer, there was only one person that you were eager to see.

You hadn't mentioned Din to your brother. You knew that the moment you did that it would lead to endless teasing about Din and how you felt about him, but you wanted to ask your brother if he knew of any clans of Mandalorians that didn't remove their helmets.

When Din had told you "this is the way," it did little to pique your curiosity… but what he'd said about being married to him had.

The thought of being married to Din brought a heat to your cheeks and an enjoyable shiver down your spine- the thought that you would be the only person aside from Grogu that he shared his face with made you bite your cheek to stop the smile from splitting your face.

You didn't know why Din had been so adamant about telling you that particular part of his culture, but since he'd shared that little tid-bit it took all your willpower not to think about it during the day.

He wasn't telling you that he wanted to marry you. He was just sharing something about himself.

You chided yourself.

Aside from Din "demonstrating" how he kissed, Din had not said anything or done anything else that would persuade you that he wanted to be more than just friends. He was still calling you his friend and you figured that he was only getting you the presents because he was trying to repay you in his own way for your kindness to him when you baked treats for him.

But there was a little part of you that hoped. Hoped that Din was starting to see you as more than a friend, hoped that maybe that kiss the two of you shared had meant more, and hoped that all of it was Din trying to express how he felt about you the only way he knew how.

"So how have you been? Really?" Ez asks you, breaking up your train of thought while holding the tray steady. He's studying you, his gaze concerned, but also inquisitive.

It was like your brother to be a little bit overprotective. When he'd found out you were living alone here, he'd installed another lock on your front door.

Of course that may have also been to fix the one he broke when he broke in last night.

"I'm doing great! I really like it here, and business is even better than I thought it would be. I mean I know that I'm good at baking things but this-" You gesture with your free hand around the crowded shop. "It's better than I thought."

"Gran would be proud of you." His eyes crinkle around the edges with his smile.

"Really?" You sniffle looking up at your brother.

"Of course she'd be." He puts the tray down on the counter, before he runs a hand through his thick hair. It was different than yours, so long that he usually wore it up in a bun. How he wore his helmet over it, you weren't sure, each time you thought that he was somehow defying the laws of physics. "And I'm proud of you too sis."

"Ez-" You sigh his name with a soft smile.

"No, I don't say it enough. I am so proud of you baby sis." He pulls you into a bear hug, so tight that it takes the wind out of your chest when he did.

"Thanks Ez." You squeak exaggeratedly while he squeezes you against his armor. The breastplate cuts into your cheek, but the familiar cool feeling of the metal makes you think about Din and how it feels to hug him.

I really have to stop thinking about him as often as I do.

But even you knew that was impossible to do.

You pull away from him, raising a hand to the side of his face. "I'm proud of you too."

The front door of the shop opens with a happy chime as another customer comes into the bakery, but you don't look away from your brother.

"Really?" Ezekiel flashes a hundred-watt smile, something lurks behind his eyes that makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably in your chest.

The truth was you knew that your brother still felt bad for leaving when you were kids. You saw it in the way he overcompensated to make you happy whenever he visited and you'd seen it in the way he'd begged you to stay with him on his planet before you moved to Nevarro.

You wished that he wouldn't. You'd never held it against him, never brought it up in a way to hurt him in the heat of a fight. You knew how broken he was when your parents died, and you owed so much to the clan of Mandalorians he'd joined. The same clan that treated you like their family whenever you visited.

It brought a smile to your face to know that your brother found where he belonged, and every day you were beginning to believe that this was where you did. In a small shop on Nevarro with the smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, and cloves wrapping you in a warm blanket, feeling at home for the first time since you'd lost your grandmother.

And there was something else.

You were drawn to Din, had been since the moment you met him. And maybe it would never work out between the two of you because you were falling in love with someone who still called you his "friend" despite how much time you spent together and how Din looked out for you, but you wanted to see where this path took you.

"Mhmm." You nod with a wide smile.

A gleam of silver shines in the corner of your eye, reflecting in the brilliant light from the sun that moves with a gentle hand through the front of your shop and you turn your head to look over the counter, your hand still on Ezekiel's cheek.

Din is standing there, holding Grogu in his left arm, wearing his full armor as usual. There's a rigidness to his stance, his helmet tilted just slightly to the right as he stares at where Ezekiel and you are standing.

An odd hush has fallen over the patrons sipping coffee.

"Din! Hi." Your smile turns blinding at the sight of your friend. Your hand drops from Ezekiel's face, who perks up at the appearance of another Mandalorian.

Din's body is stock straight, tense, unmoving. He doesn't return your greeting as he usually does, in fact he hasn't said anything since he'd entered your bakery.  You can feel his gaze on you, but it doesn't bring the usual warmth. And for some reason you can't help but think that Din is upset about something. The rigidness of his stance is unusual. You were accustomed to Din relaxing as soon as he entered your shop, his body untensing with each step closer to the counter as if being there made him feel the same way you did- like you were home again with your grandmother.

But Din isn't relaxed, in fact you think that he looks even more tense than he did a few moments ago.

Worry pricks in your chest.

"Hey brother!" Ezekiel says with a smile, oblivious to the tension in the air. Your brother says your name "Didn't tell me that there was a Mandalorian on Nevarro. I'm Ezekiel." He reaches across the counter to shake Din's hand.

Din doesn't answer for a moment, head tilting down to where Ezekiel's hand is stretched in his dirrection, before he looks up again.

"Din." He replies in a monotone, his voice buzzing against the modulator, not making any move to take your brother's hand.

Ezekiel blinks in surprise.

Why is Din acting so weird?

Grogu gurgles in his arms and reaches out for you, his hands opening and closing, asking for you to hold him with a happy smile on his face. But as you reach out to take him, Din pulls back so Grogu is out of reach.

Your hands hang there in the air for another few seconds as the wave of rejection crashes over you, making you feel like you were taking a knife to the heart.  Din has never, never acted like this before. He had never withheld the kid from you, especially not when Grogu was obviously asking for you.

Your smile falters.

"You want your usual?" You clear your throat, trying to recover, but when you try to smile it falls flat.

Why is he doing this?

You didn't understand why Din was acting this way. You'd been so excited for him to meet your brother, but now you wished that he'd never come. You didn't want him to meet Din if Din was going to act this way.

The good first impression that you knew Din would get from a fellow Mandalorian was dissolving before your very eyes like sugar in a strong cup of tea.

Din's empty hand tightens into a fist where it hangs at his side the longer he stands there looking at Ezekiel and you.

"Sure." Din replies, his tone cold.

It didn't matter that Din used the voice modulator on his helmet, you could hear the difference in how he spoke. You knew when he was upset, annoyed, angry, happy- you were so in tune with how Din acted that it didn't matter that you couldn't see his face. You knew him.

And seeing him like this was breaking your heart.

Ezekiel does not miss the attitude shift and his smile drops into a frown. Despite your brother leaving when you were younger, he never lost that protective instinct. He was your brother, it didn't matter that you were all grown up, Ezekiel was not one to back down, especially not if he thought that Din was being rude.

 "What's your problem?" He snaps, narrowing his eyes at Din.

The room is still completely silent, the tension crackling in the air like a lightning storm across the plains that brings the rumble of thunder in it's wake. You could feel the other people glancing from Ezekiel to Din waiting for the storm to break.

"Nothing." Din's stance remains rigid, while Grogu wriggles in his arms defiantly still trying to reach for you.

"Ez-" You try to interrupt, but Ezekiel waves you off.

"No. He's being a dick. What do you have a problem with me? Or with her?" Ezekiel starts to walk out from behind the counter, but you grab on to his arm to hold him back.

The last thing this needs is his temper.

"Ez please." You plead, looking from him to Din. The anxiety now was more of an electrical storm, buzzing and surging in your chest, electrifying through your nerve endings. Not to mention the last thing you wanted was for Ezekiel and Din to start fighting in the middle of your shop. "It's okay. Din was just dropping by to say hi."

There really wasn't way to salvage this situation, you knew that by now your brother has made up his mind about Din. There couldn't be another introduction, because Ez would always remember this, remember that Din was rude to you- or rather rude in the way Ezekiel saw it.

"And now he has." Ez almost growls, narrowing his eyes at Din. "So get out."

Din's helmet tilts in your direction for a moment, his hand tightening on the child. "Fine." And then he's gone, stomping out through the front door of your shop, the jingle no longer happy, but now more of a clang of destruction.

"Din wait!" You shout running after him, leaving your brother behind.

You couldn't let him go like this, not when you didn't understand what had just happened. Why he was acting angry with you. You wanted to know what you did so you could fix it.

He's ahead of you weaving through the crowds, trying to slip away, but you rush after him, watching the gleam of his metal in the morning sun, lighting the way to him.

"Din!" You reach him and gently grab his arm to stop him. "Please wait."

He whirls on you so fast you shudder out a gasp in surprise. "What?" His voice sounds cold tinged with annoyance and another emotion you can't place.

You recoil slightly with his shout. Din had never spoken to you that way. He was always softer with you, gentle in a way that he wasn't with anyone else except Grogu. To see him like this broke you.

"Please I'm sorry Ezekiel didn't mean to be rude he's just always-" You begin to say, trying to explain the situation and trying to understand why Din is acting the way he is.

"I have to go." Din interrupts, his helmet isn't tilted down at you, it's turned up to look over your head.

"No." You say shaking your head, heart thunderous against your ribs. "Din please tell me what's wrong. Tell me what I did. I want to help-"

"I have to go." He says again, pulling his arm out of your grasp.

Grogu coos and touches his father's armor, tapping it with his little fingers to get Din's attention, but he ignores him.

"Din-" Tears burned in your eyes as you say his name, confusion and hurt swirling in your chest, but if Din notices he doesn't care.

He turns away before you can find the words to finish your sentences vanishing into the crowd in a flash of silver and black. The people around you push and shove to get past in the early morning rush, but you can't feel it.

All you feel is the hole in your heart growing steadily with each step Din takes away from you and the tears that have begun to fall onto the dirt beneath your feet.

What did I do?

Din POV

How could I have been so stupid?

Din grits his teeth together as he continues down the dusty path back to his cabin outside of town. Each step sends a cloud of the reddish brown dirt wafting over the desolate plain. There's a rumble of thunder, that rattles against Din's armor, a warning of the afternoon storm that waited with bated breath behind the dusky clouds on the horizon.

Hurt and anger dueled in his chest, forming an unnatural lump in the pit of his stomach while the memory of what he'd just witnessed in your shop continues to flicker across his mind. It had been since the moment he walked out the door.

The images of you holding on to the Ezekiel's cheek in your shop with the soft look in your eyes that Din used to think you only reserved for him and you smiling at Ezekiel with your cheeks darkening with your blush as Ezekiel smiled back at you, made feel like he'd taken a punch to the stomach. Before when Din had heard the sound of your laugh it felt like something had broken inside of him and warmth he'd never known would flood through his body, but now the sound of your laugh mocked him and the shine of your smile like a dark cloud.

Of course she already has someone courting her, she was only being nice to you. She's nice to everyone. Why didn't I see this before?

He'd gotten his hopes up over the past few weeks, all the time he spent with you feeling the warmth of your smile in his chest, hearing you softly say his name in a way that made something deep down break open, and all the moments that he felt like you had begun to feel the same way about him that he felt about you. 

Din had never allowed himself to hope for anything, but you changed all of that the moment Din walked into your shop for the first time and saw you standing there holding his son, taking care of him like he was your own.

But now Din felt like an idiot for hoping, for thinking that you would ever be with him.

That’s why she wasn't afraid of me, she already has a Mandalorian in her life.

When Din killed the Transdoshan he'd been so afraid that you would run from him, that you would turn your back and join the people who whispered unspeakable things about him, but you hadn't, you'd run to him, hugged him, allowed him to touch you…

Din felt his cheeks warm momentarily remembering the way that you held his hands, how you'd cradled them between the two of you, almost reverently. Your skin was softer than Din imagined, your curious fingertips trailing and exploring places on Din's rough palms that made him weak in the knees and made him want to melt into your touch. And Din would be lying if he said he didn't go to sleep at night thinking what it would have been like to feel the gentle caress of your fingertips against his face, for you to trace the sensitive skin and look at him, really look at him the way no one else had since he was a boy.

Din cringed as the image of your hand on Ezekiel's cheek comes flashing across his mind, followed by the echo of your laugh in his ears. Din wondered if the two of you would have another laugh later when you told Ezekiel that Din had been calling you 'beloved' in Mando'a.

He sighs as he opens the front door of his home coming to a stop just inside the entryway, to stomp his muddy boots against the rug. His head turns in the direction of his kitchen.

It was still in varying levels of construction. As soon as Din saw how much you loved to bake and cook he knew that you’d need a place in his home big enough to do so. He’d been working on his kitchen since the moment he decided to court you, creating the space from the questions he’d asked you about how much room you needed in your own bakery.

If you were to accept his courtship this would be your home as much as his and Din wanted to make a place that felt like home to you. He'd seen the way your face lit up when you spoke about your grandmother and her large kitchen, saw how happy it made you to remember her, and Din wanted so badly to give you that here.

He’d wanted you to have somewhere that felt like home to you, now he wished that he hadn’t started in the first place.

Grogu babbles something where he swings in the bag at Din’s side and Din knows that Grogu must be confused as to why Din hadn’t allowed you to take him.

Din couldn’t pretend that everything was okay, not when it felt like he’d taken a blaster shot to the chest when he saw you there with Ezekiel, and he didn’t want to see how you made Grogu smile or how you smiled at his son, not when Din knew you’d never be his.

But the biggest question that Din had was how the hell Ezekiel was able to spend any moment away from you. In the months that Din had known you, Din hadn't seen him once and Din couldn't imagine how Ezekiel could stand to be away from you that long.

Din could barely last a day before he ended up back at your bakery. It was an addiction, like an itch he couldn't scratch until he found himself taking the dusty trail to your shop through the crowded city and the only salve was your smile.  Even when he was out on a job on another planet each day that passed by was agony because he was so far from you.

He thought of you constantly, what you were doing, how you were, if you were reading alongside the fountain with the sun kissing your skin as the wind blew through your hair, if you were walking through the market wearing one of those dresses that hugged your body and made Din's throat tight whenever he saw you in them, if you were at your shop feeding Grogu treats while he cooed and tugged at your hair, and if you were safe.

That last thing Din ensured when he was gone, by telling Cara to keep an eye on you, discretely of course. Din didn't want you to know how much he worried that something would happen while he was away. The Transdoshan had only proven to Din what he already knew, that you didn't belong in his world. The one filled with blood, death, and blasters, the one that he was so afraid of you seeing.

But he couldn't stay away. No matter how hard he tried Din couldn't keep away from you. You were like a siren call in the silence of the night, promising everything good that Din thought he'd never had and didn't deserve.

How much Din missed you when he was away was only exacerbated by the bag of treats you sent with him when he left. The silent nights in the cockpit while he ate a bite of uj cake or a meat pie, he imagined that you were there with him, your soft smile making him feel warm from the inside out.  Din was starting to get a little soft around the middle, but he wasn't complaining, everything you made him was delicious and only made him think of you more.

But Din couldn't imagine how Ezekiel was able to live somewhere else and only see you sometimes, when Din could barely get by without catching a glimpse of you each day even if you didn't see him.

And why would he want to? He should spend his time with his cyare. Not leave her alone on another planet alone. It should be him here protecting her, making her smile, making her happy, not me.

His jaw tightens. He didn’t want to think about that right now, but it was the only thing he could. That it was him who had been here for you over these past few months and him who looked out for you. It was him who made you smile and walked you home, him who brought you gifts, and him who listened to you talk about your day.

Stars, Din loved that. 

He loved listening to you talk about your day with him, loved to hear everything you’d done even if it was something as small as filling the salt and pepper shakers at the tables in your shop. He liked to watch the starlight trace along the softness of your figure with a gentle hand as Din walked you home at the end of the day, see the way Grogu cuddled against you as if you were his mother.

The thought made Din's throat tight, because from the beginning you'd always treated his son that way, as if he was your own and Din hated the way you looked when he didn't let you hold Grogu. Truthfully, the memory of how you looked in the street while you pleaded for Din to come back to the shop, for him to tell you what was wrong hurt just as much. He hated to see how disappointed and worried you looked, and Din hated to walk away from you, but he had to, because if he didn’t he would be in danger of doing something very stupid…

Like telling you how he felt in the middle of a crowded street where everyone could see the two of you and laugh when you turned him down.

Din placed Grogu on the floor and made his way to his bedroom, sitting down on the edge of his bed that squeaks under the weight of his armor.

The image of you with Ezekiel in the bakery flashes through his head again making him sigh again to himself. All of his muscles tense and untense with the memory and a wave of emotion that Din cannot name crashes over him.

He reaches into his pocket for the pouch he'd placed there this morning.

Din had given you many gifts over the past month, each one was chosen specifically for you to prove his commitment. Din was determined to prove that to you, to prove that he could be someone you depended on, to prove that you were someone important to him, to prove that he would always put you first, and of course to prove his affection. Din still wasn't comfortable talking about how he felt, in fact he wasn't exactly sure how to quantify how he felt about you in terms that you could understand. Not when you made him feel things that he thought he couldn't anymore.

The gifts seemed like the next best thing, at least until he found a way to say how he felt.

Each time you unwrapped something Din brought you, he felt light, as if the weight of everything he'd done was lifted. To catch that glimpse of your smile made Din weightless and made him wish to make you smile like that for the rest of his life.

His favorite gift had been the apron you'd been wearing when he saw you today. He'd been walking through the market on Tatooine, when he saw a vendor selling hand embroidered clothing. Din had been looking for something small to bring back for you, a handkerchief or a cloth, but then he saw the apron and it looked like you. The small multicolored flowers were delicate, but woven against a strong resilient cloth. And Din knew he had to get it for you.

When he'd brought it into your shop, he was afraid. The other gifts he'd given you were merely trinkets, things he found along the way from places that Din hoped to take you someday. You'd told him that you hadn't seen as much of the galaxy as he had and you longed to visit more of it.

Din was willing to take you away right there and then if you asked him. He wanted to see your eyes shine with wonder as he showed you the vast reaches of space and wanted to hear your soft gasp when he took you places that you'd only heard about.

But you’d been so happy that you'd hugged him. Din wasn’t used to hugging, in fact before you, he could count on one hand exactly how many times that he had been hugged, but now he craved it.

The subtle press of your soft body in his arms was an addiction, the soft sigh you made each time he hugged you back like a soothing salve over his heart, and the smell of sugar and spice that filtered through his helmet with the gentle brush of your hair made him weak in the knees.

You felt like you belonged there wrapped in his arms, and Din wanted you to.

Now he knew that it was impossible. You didn't want him, you were just being nice, the same way you were to everyone else on Nevarro who didn't deserve it.

He rolls the pouch in his hand, the gift inside jingling merrily, oblivious to the gloom that rose over Din like a dark omen.

This gift was different.

Like the apron this one was special and if you were to accept this one you would be accepting his courtship, accepting him. You wouldn't be married, but if another Mandalorian were to see it, they would understand that you had a clan and you belonged to Din, that you were engaged to him.

Din's fingers deftly open the drawstring at the top of the bag and pull out the silver necklace. It was a simple chain that had a small circular pendant the size of the tip of Din's thumb stamped with the sigil of the Mudhorn.

It was made of Beskar, something that Din had gone back to Mandalore to have specially made for you by the armorer. He'd had it made after everything that happened with the Trandoshan. Din knew that having his clan sigil hanging from your neck would ward off unwanted attention, it was his way of claiming you, of warning off anyone who dared touch you.

The things that the Transdoshan did to you still made anger burn through Din. He hated that the creature had been able to do any of those things to you, lived with the guilt for not disposing of the creature sooner. But Din knew by giving you this necklace, anyone who saw it would know better than to touch you, not when the clan sigil of a Mandalorian hung from your neck.

The armorer had been pleased to hear that Din was taking a Riduur, and told him that she wanted him to bring you back with him so you could be properly introduced. Din had been excited to show you off, but now he felt embarrassed that he'd have to return it and tell the armorer that you’d refused him.

He lets out another sigh watching the necklace hang from his hand glinting in the dim light of his bedroom. Another image of you with Ezekiel makes Din shut his eyes tight, but it does little to rid himself of it.

Why did I even think that she would ever want me the way that I want her?

Guide:

Cyare: Beloved

Riduur: Spouse

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