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fake-bleach · 8 months ago

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ROAD TRIP STOP | LOGAN HOWLETT x READER

taking a small road trip with old man logan where you’re halfway to where you need to be, and you're bored out of your mind. unluckily for you, your boyfriend won't possibly give into your antics.

or, logan fucks you in a gas station bathroom <3

word count: 3.3k

WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS: (18+ only!) fem!reader, porn w/ slight plot lol, piv, unprotected sex, this shit is roughhh, degrading, filthyyy dirty talk, use of pet names, slight choking, coming inside/creampie, manhandling? i guess?, logan refers to himself as "your old man" bc i'm insane, anddd happy ending bc we all know how much i love those! :D

a/n: there aren't nearly enough fics abt old man logan & i need him Badly.

+ logan pictures from @divinesols incredible moodboard <3

ao3 link! | my masterlist

you’re 4 hours into your road trip, and logan, well, being the man he is, hasn’t let you drive a single second.

he tells you that you can just sit there n’ look pretty and that’s good enough for him. but, he’s getting tired, and the nearest hotel isn’t for another 50 miles.

you notice his eyes getting heavier, his body slouching more, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. so, you do what you do best. why not have some harmless fun with your old boyfriend?

your hands subtly inch over to his thighs, fingers trailing the clothed skin just above his knee, and he flinches surprisingly, glancing at you for a moment with that tired face of his.

“what are y’doing? huh?” he asks, with a quirk in his eyebrow and his voice rasping more than usual from his fatigue; it only makes it all the more arousing for you.

you grin, your head turned to look up at him with a sly expression. “just waking you up a bit. you’re practically falling asleep here.”

your fingers move upwards now, slowly but surely, and right before you can reach the spot just below his bulge, he sighs out, gripping your hand to lightly push it off of him.

“not here. got another hour left til’ we’re at the hotel. then, we can rest up, baby.”

you pout, looking at him eagerly. “are you even gonna make it there, lo?” you tease, “your eyes are getting heavier, you’re tired.. why don’t you just let me drive?” you attempt, but you’re knocked down the second you try.

he huffs, shaking his head. “don’t you try that shit. you know what m’gonna say to that.”

you groan at that, rolling your eyes fussily as your head turns to look up at the roof of the car. “you’re insufferable,” you sigh out, jokingly, of course. but, you were with logan long enough to know just how stubborn he could be. that he could almost always be.

which means, you knew exactly how to get what you wanted, in more ways than one.

let’s just say this way was more fun, anyway.

you let out an exasperated breath before turning back to face him, your eyes lighting up just slightly before you open up your mouth.

“guess i just gotta..” you trail off, hands now on your body with your fingertips grazing the skin on your chest; roaming around the loose shirt you had on. “..entertain myself for the next hour then..”

logan turns his head to you now, eyes fixing on your hand just long enough to catch you slip it underneath your bra, cupping one of your tits. you let out a low moan as you look into his eyes, fingers rolling the nipple there, and he scoffs.

it’s a sound that has your heart racing immediately.

“you’ve been a good girl so far, sweetheart. would hate for you to switch up when we’re almost fuckin’ there.” he warns you, turning his head back to the road, having seen enough. “don’t you start now. gonna make you regret it.”

a pang of arousal hits you just like that, pussy involuntarily clenching around nothing as he threatens you; a threat that you definitely need to see for yourself.

you merely pout at him again, but his words aren’t enough to stop you. not when you’re just getting started.

your hand leaves your breast, slowly inching down your stomach, then to the waistband of your shorts, all with your eyes still locked on him. you bite your lip as your hand breaches underneath the material, testing the waters before your fingers reach the hem of your panties.

fingertips aching to dip into the wet heat, you anticipate your own touch as your hands lower, but an immediate grasp at your wrist stops you completely, eliciting a gasp from your throat.

mouth falling open in shock, you turn to look at the man responsible with that gruff look on his face, and that snarl from him gives you more than enough of a warning.

you clear your throat, letting out a noise of frustration towards your boyfriend as he all but tosses your hand away carelessly.

“knock. it. off. don’t make me say it again.”

logan nearly growls at you, moving in closer to get right in your face; he isn’t playing around, and you know it.

but, god, does it only encourage you more.

it isn’t until logan’s focus is completely back on the road that you test the waters again; your fingers finally inserting themselves into your soft, warm folds, wet and waiting so impatiently.

it makes you moan, a hushed sound that you try your hardest to bite back from releasing, but you’re evidently unsuccessful.

so, before you know it, the truck is swerving, causing you to pull yourself back to hold onto the sides of the car, anywhere that you could grab onto. the wheels squeal loudly as the high pitch penetrates your ears, and logan makes a harsh u-turn without a second to waste.

“lo! what the fuck!” you exclaim loudly, wild eyes reaching for his own, but it’s no use. he’s dead set in front of him, shaking his head furiously as the white of his knuckles present itself from holding onto the wheel so tightly.

he’s had enough of your shit.

his eyes never leave the road in front of him once, never returning to you. no matter how much you talk or try to get him to respond, he doesn’t budge.

instead, for the next 5 minutes, silence fills the space between you as your eyes shut from your frustration. it’s all you really can do at this point.

but, it’s only when the high screech of the wheels halting and the gear being put into park has your eyes opening again, eyes latching onto the bright lights in front of you.

a gas station, and the convenience store’s white luminescent glass reflecting on logan’s face. he’s out the driver’s side as soon as you can look at him, and before you can process it, he’s dragging you out of the truck, slamming the door shut as he does so.

you scramble against him, fists almost pushing their hardest into his chest as you whine loudly, increasingly dazed and confused.

“logan, what the fuck are you doing?! let go of me!”

you fight against him harder, but there’s nothing stopping him. not now.

he lets out an exasperated breath, his heavy footsteps embedding themselves into the loud gravel beneath them as he drags you along.

“don’t play that shit with me. actin’ like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he practically yells at you in a hushed voice, “you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

“walk.” he orders you instantly, and you don’t hesitate to obey. not when his voice gets like that.

most of all, because it makes your heart pound—pounding in your chest because he’s right. you know what you’re doing.. but, you can’t say you regret it. no, not one bit.

and if he’s gonna make you regret it, you might as well go all out. right?

his grip on your arm is tight as you walk side by side with him, leading you into the gas station with the door open for you. you can’t even acknowledge the cashier from how quick logan swifts the two of you past them; straight towards the bathroom, and it makes you gulp.

it’s too late for anyone to be around, too late for anyone to care, and you know that. but, the thought exhilarates you anyway.

he shoves the door open with a hushed whisper—one that’s almost incoherent as it escapes his lips. “you wanna act like a fucking brat?” he shuts the door hurriedly, shoving your body against the sink, “i’m gonna treat you like a fucking brat.”

you yelp at the sudden movement, his fingers digging themselves into your skin as you cry out at the feeling. it’s rough and brutal and it burns, but it’s so fucking good.

“lo.. lo, please,” you whine as your eyes shut tightly, the overwhelming sensation of his hands on you and his hot breath hitting your skin being too much to handle.

your body is flush against the sink as you attempt to squirm, to try to get him to do something, anything.

that cruel laugh of his fills your ears—quiet yet booming in your head as it sends chills throughout your entire body, eyes flashing open to look at him in the mirror in front of you. “please? please?” logan mocks you, “do y’even know what you’re asking for, baby? nah.. you don’t.”

“you just want..” logan trails off, his hands mindlessly reaching for your shorts, “to get fucked.. like the whore you are.”

without a single warning, he yanks them down along with your panties, and your whines are impossible to stop when the cool air hits your bare skin. when his filthy words are the only thing you can think about.

“can’t keep these pretty hands to yourself, you gotta rile me up to do it for you?” you hear the clank of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his jeans sliding down, “gotta piss me off every goddamn time you get so fucking needy? i mean,” he laughs harder now, “not that i really blame you..”

logan pauses, and his eyes that were once staring directly at you now shift to look straight ahead, latching onto your mirrored reflection instead. as if he was looking right into you now. “pretty girl like you.. would be a shame to let this cunt go to waste. so, i’ll do you a favor..”

your jaw falls open in complete shock as your face contorts, as the tip of his cock breaches your tight hole, making your eyes roll back instantaneously with a sob from your lips.

“i’ll use her real good. for what she’s made for, yeah?”

your hands grip the sink in front of you as tightly as possible, body trembling as logan groans into your ear, his hands on your body never loosening.

instead, his grip only tightens as his hips become flush against your ass, his entire cock piercing you to the hilt with a satisfied moan.

“that was easier this time, wasn’t it? gettin’ used to me now. just needed to..” logan takes a moment to pull himself out of you, the tip resting against your entrance as he groans. he slams himself back inside of you so hard that your body fails you, your hands landing on the mirror to hold yourself up, bent over.

“break her in real fucking good.”

your body shakes against him as you cry out at his intrusion, stammering out a string of noises as your walls involuntarily clench around him over and over again. it’s almost as if you’re rapidly adapting to him; the way he stretches you out so much that it hurts in the best way possible. you’re pulsing around him, increasingly growing wetter by the second as your eyes water from the intense sensation.

your words slur with a few whines of what seem to be logan’s name as your hands move back to the sink, attempting to push yourself back up against him, but he stops you. grabbing one of your hands, he places it right against the mirror again, holding it still as he grinds himself into you. it makes you breathe out rapidly, body bent over the sink completely now.

“keep em’ right there. right fucking there. you don’t get to do that. y’don’t get to make any choices here.” he grunts in your ear, his thick beard grazing along your jaw as his eyes flicker from your face back to the mirror. he notices the way you’re trembling, eyes filled with those pretty tears of yours, and it makes him smile—a chuckle leaving him shamelessly.

he takes a moment to admire you, whispering out, “what i’m gonna do to you, baby..” and it makes your eyes flutter shut, warmth filling your core.

his other hand trails up the front of your body now, and it practically covers you completely because of how big it is—your stomach, your breasts, your chest, then finally, your neck. your gasp is loud; heavy, as his fingers wrap around your throat, holding you still for him.

all of you in the palm of his hand—all in his control.

you moan eagerly as he looks into your eyes through the mirror, grinning almost maliciously, “isn’t this what you wanted?” he laughs, his hips stirring a bit as he agonizingly pulls out of you, making you wince, “you wanted my attention so bad, wanted my cock so fucking bad..” he growls in your ear, his hand sliding from your throat to the back of your neck, pushing you down hard, and it makes you grip onto the side of the sink even more.

“well, now you fucking got it.”

the sound of his rasping grunt hits you first; before you’re sobbing out on his cock, pelvis hammering inside of you with a tight hold on your neck, keeping you there with no chance of stopping, no squirming, no escaping.. no running away from this.

all you can do is take it as he pounds into you, the agonizing ache of his cock sliding in and out of you rapidly increasing the coil in your core, your loud cries and moans enough to make him go harder.

“there you go, there she is..” logan grits out, hands now grasping at your hips, smacking your ass, eliciting a grunt from you, “better fuckin’ hope no one walks in here, or else all they’re gonna see is some whore gettin’ used.”

you cry out as you feel the tip of his cock reach the deepest parts inside of you, nudging your g-spot suddenly as a tear slides down your cheek, your knuckles white from how tight you were grasping at your surroundings. your cheeks grow hot from the idea of that happening, stomach tightening as heat pools your core.

“what’d they think, huh? you think they’d wanna join in on the fun? bet they’d wanna fuck you too after i’m done with you. tightest fuckin’ hole i’ve ever had.”

you whine out now, shaking your head desperately in retaliation as you deny it. you couldn’t ever have another man like this, not now, not ever—only him.

logan sighs out, “no, no, no, i’d never let em’ baby, don’t you worry,” he reassures you, pressing his lips against the top of your head, “this,” he murmurs, his hand reaching to cup the front of your cunt, the rough skin on his palm grazing your clit just enough to make you squeal, “s’all fuckin’ mine. you hear me? not a single soul gets to use her like i can.”

“not like she’d want it anyway. only wants my cock in her. s’the only way she can really be filled up.. fucked stupid and cryin’ for me. ain’t that right? never got fucked by a man like me before y’met me, and i’m sure as hell no one will ever get her trembling like i do.”

you shake your head again, tears continuously spilling out of your eyes as your stomach tightens repeatedly, “n-no, lo, only you—” you stammer out as logan buries himself inside of you to the hilt, plunging into the warm heat of your walls, and he slows, relying on pure power than pace now. the harsh drive of his hips has your head fogging up, so close to reaching your peak with your cunt shuddering.

“ohh, there we go, she’s doing it now. shaking all over this fucking cock, squeezin’ me so tight,” he hisses, “that all you up in this pretty little head, or can you even control it? can’t even control it, can you, baby?”

a string of noises leaves your lips, breathless and mixed with whines and a few tears in your eyes as your core spasms out, his cock hitting deep inside of you repeatedly.

“what was that? can’t really.. understand you, baby, y’gotta speak up..” he teases, a mean laugh escaping his throat, “c’monnn, use your words, really think em’ out, say em’ clearly.”

“c’mon, show me that you’re still my good girl. my good little girl. speak up for your old man, honey.”

you yelp out at his filthy words, “m’.. i c-can’t.. control it, ah!” your moans involuntarily stringing out, eyes fluttering shut and rolling to the back of your head, your pussy convulsing around him intensely. “g-gonna–c-cum, lo, oh—” you spit out, your chest grasping for as much air as possible.

he hums in your ear now, fingers reaching for your clit and fastening tight, harsh circles at it, making you shudder, your cunt throbbing around his cock—pulsating over and over again as you start to see white. “gonna fill you up, sweetheart, gonna make you take it, fuck.”

you can’t even register him anymore as he talks you through it, the “come for me, baby,” muffled in your ears as you listen to him, cunt constricting around him tightly as you soak him, and the sound is filthy as logan chases his release, squelching loudly from your climax.

you let out a muffled sob as logan finally reaches his peak, slamming himself deep inside of you as he holds you there, the spurts of white hot spilling & coating your walls. all you can hear is the ringing in your ears, along with the mixture of your heavy breaths and logan’s rasps surrounding you.

logan’s strong arms pull you up against him as you catch your breath, heart rate slowing as your back leans against his chest tiredly. he mutters sweet nothings to you, praising you with kisses along your neck, cheek, then to your lips.

“my good fucking girl, my sweet girl—oh, baby,” he hums in your ear, eyes shut as he takes you in. you sigh out, breathing him in as your hand reaches behind, landing on the back of his head to pull him in closer, “god, i love you.”

you laugh, pressing a mindless kiss on his skin, “i love you more, lo, i–i’m sorry for acting out, for being such a—” you begin to apologize, but he just shuts you up with another peck to your lips. “shh, you hush now. i appreciate it.. you riling me up all the damn time. s’ the only way i can still feel so young.”

you giggle, eyes opening up to turn your head to him, taking in his disheveled look—tired, old, grumpy. the man you loved, as handsome as ever.

“always young in my eyes, lo..” you smile, “besides.. it’s the only way i can get you to fuck me that good.” you tease.

he huffs, rolling his eyes. “i fuck you that good every goddamn time, n’ don’t you deny it.”

you laugh, nodding. you can’t deny that fact. but, your eyebrows furrow slightly, suddenly thinking back to the previous events.

“did you really fuck me in a gas station bathroom, babe? what if someone walked in?!” you groan, pushing your forehead into his chest, embarrassed.

he chuckles, “locked it the minute we got in here, baby. wouldn’t let anyone see you like that,” he reassures you, gently gripping the side of your head to make you look up at him, “you got that?”

his face is stern now as he looks into your eyes, and those butterflies in your stomach erupt as if it were the first time you ever got them from him. you nod though, gleaming up at him.

“got it.”

he grins, “good. now, let’s get you cleaned up n’ back on the road. back’s killing me even more now n’ that bed’s calling my name.”

you laugh at him, teasing him further. “old man.”

you wouldn’t want it any other way.

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hearts4hughes · 28 days ago

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hiii could you do a rafechella where she drags him around to see all the artists, makes him wear glitter, and he pretends to hate it but is obviously so down bad for her? thank u angelll

RAFECHELLA 2025

“no way you’re putting that shit on me.”

rafe sits shirtless on the bed of your airbnb, watching you apply glitter onto your rosy cheekbones.

your bottom lip juts out. “all the hot coachella boyfriends will have it on,” you mumble. “guess you’re not one of them.”

he straightens his spine, cursing under his breath before caving. “whatever, just make sure it’s blue and not some pink girly color.”

you squeal, pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. your lipstick stains his tanned skin, but he does not attempt to wipe it off.

you straddle his lap, a compact of glitter in one hand while the other swipes it onto his face. he furrows his brows, muttering complaints about how you’re using too much, but his eyes sparkle with pure admiration and affection.

“perfect,” you stand back to admire your work. “now every bitch in california will want you.”

“well, the only one i want is right here.”

coachella hits the second you step through the gates. bass thumping, bodies glittering, sun blazing overhead. you’re practically vibrating with excitement, hand interlocked in rafe’s as you drag him through the crowd.

he’s already brooding in his white tank, aviators on, looking way too serious for someone surrounded by fairy wings and shirtless dudes in mesh.

“okay,” you start, breathless, “we’re hitting mojave first. tyla goes on in fifteen, then we swing by dolab, and then—”

“you said there’d be beer,” he grumbles, cutting you off. “you promised beer.”

you glance over your shoulder, grinning.

“there is beer,” you say like it’s obvious. “but first? vibes.”

he groans dramatically but doesn’t stop walking. you know he won’t.

you’re halfway to the stage when your favorite song starts. you don’t hesitate, just start dancing, right there in the middle of the crowd, your boots kicking up dust, your hands in the air. rafe just watches, arms crossed, trying (and failing) to look unimpressed.

“you’re not even pretending to have fun,” you call over your shoulder, laughing.

“i’m trying to pretend you don’t look hot as fuck,” he mutters, and your stomach flips.

he lets you pull him in, your back pressed to his chest, his hands resting low on your waist. he smells like sunscreen and sweat and a little bit like the lemon vape he swore he wasn’t bringing.

later, in the middle of the set change, you pull your glitter pot out of your bag and swipe another streak across his cheekbone before he can dodge you.

“seriously?” he deadpans. “again?”

you just blow him a kiss.

he doesn’t wipe it off.

when the sun sets, the real festival begins. you encounter more cleavage, joints, and glitter than you ever have.

your arms are looped around his neck, bouncing to the beat of the music while he stands behind you, big hands holding your hips as an anchor.

you tip your head back to look at him.

“you’re having fun, huh?”

he lifts a brow. “i’m drunk, deaf, covered in glitter, and my girlfriend’s been screaming in my ear for six hours. what’s not to love?”

you laugh, eyes crinkling, and he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.

“plus,” he adds, “i get to watch you dance in that tiny little skirt. honestly? best night of my life.”

you gasp, shoving his chest.

“you’re so gross.”

“you made me wear body glitter. i’ve lost all dignity.”

“you never had any.”

“fair.”

the crowd screams just then, and rafe doesn’t even flinch. he just grabs your face and kisses you like he’s been waiting all day to do it.

your hands fist in his shirt. his lips are warm and soft and everything inbetween.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice is quiet, almost shy.

“you look like a walking disco ball and i think i might be in love with you.”

your heart stumbles so hard it nearly faceplants.

“you think?” you say, breathless.

“i know,” he says quickly. “shut up.”

“mmhmm. sure.”

he rolls his eyes and kisses you again anyway.

the night ends how everyone should: aching feet, smudged makeup, drunken giggles.

your body’s practically limp against him, forehead resting against the back of his neck, words slurred and sleepy.

“you’re gonna drop me,” you mumble, not even lifting your head.

“never,” he says like it’s a promise. “unless you throw up on me. then all bets are off.”

you let out the tiniest laugh, which fades into a sigh as you close your eyes again. your glitter, makeup, and who-knows-what-else have smeared all over the back of his white tank, but he couldn’t care less. his arms are firm around your thighs, holding you like you weigh nothing. like you’re his favorite thing to carry.

“you’re heavier than you look,” he mutters.

“rude.”

“truthful.”

“i hate you.”

“you love me.”

you hum something that sounds suspiciously like agreement.

your head lols and your breathing softens. he leans his cheek against your arm and lets the quiet settle around you both. he knows you won’t remember half of what he says right now. that’s kind of why he says it.

“you were the prettiest girl there,” he whispers. “and i’d wear glitter every day if it meant ending up with you like this.”

no response. just the slow rise and fall of your chest against his back, the sound of your soft breathing, the occasional clink of bracelets as your arms sway gently around his shoulders.

“you’re my favorite part of all this,” he adds, voice low, almost a secret.

you don’t stir, and he smiles to himself, carrying you the rest of the way home.

#rafechella2025 #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #coachella 2025

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pretentious-blonde · 2 months ago

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trust

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve confesses something deeply personal, your reaction only spurs him on with his newly found confidence

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, f oral receiving, body insecurity, scars, whiney steve, it's real sappy

a/n: this is long and half of it is filth, but it's sweet so it's fine!! steve is smitten and a lil pathetic, idk what else to say

series masterlist

Robin sat at her kitchen table in rumpled pajamas, hair slightly wild, nursing a mug of coffee that smelled dangerously bitter. She didn’t expect to be out of bed at this hour, but she had a rather pressing matter that demanded her attention.

Her best friend was perched across from her, vibrating with nerves. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so frazzled before noon—especially on a Sunday.

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re here at eight in the morning, or am I supposed to guess?”

Straight to the point, huh?

He raked a hand through his hair—he’d already done it so many times this morning that it stuck up at all angles.

“...We went on another date.”

“Right. You and your mystery girl.” A smile pulled at Robin’s lips. “That’s great, Steve, really. Super happy for you. But you needed to wake me up just to tell me you went on a date?”

When she says it like that, it feels like the understatement of the year.

“I think I blew it,” he said flatly, the words coming out in a rush.

She snorted into her coffee. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m serious,” he insisted, shoulders sagging. There was a dullness in his eyes that told her this was more than his usual overreaction. “I’m telling you, I ruined it.”

“Okay, sure,” she put her mug down, leaning forward with a sigh. ”You’ve totally, completely ruined it. Wanna back up and give me some context here?”

He drew in a breath, gaze drifting to the wall as if he might see yesterday play out on its surface.

“Okay, so I saw her again yesterday. Picked her up, had a great time—like, amazing. I’m talking, she’s laughing…” He trailed off, letting that memory blossom in his chest. He cleared his throat, pressing on. “Anyway, I drove her home, walked her to her door. Smooth, right?”

“Peak romance,” Robin deadpanned, eyes narrowed as she tried not to smirk.

Steve shot her a withering glare that only made her grin more.

“Yeah, so then we… we kissed. Which is not new. Told you what happened in the classroom couple weeks back? God, that was—” He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how your lips tasted that evening, reluctantly forcing himself back to the present. “I mean, you know, right?”

Robin took another sip. “Yes, I know. Please continue.”

“Okay. Sorry. So last night, we’re outside, and she’s leaning against the door. We’re both kinda… reeling, and then she looks at me—like, that look—and asks if I’d like to come inside.”

“Inside, huh?” Robin’s coffee froze halfway to her lips.

“Yeah.” Steve nodded fervently. “And look, I’m not an idiot, okay? It was late. I know what inside means.”

“I’m… not following.”

A frustrated groan escaped him as he slumped forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands.

He doesn’t want to say the next part—he can barely stand to close his eyes without seeing the look on your face. Disappointed. And knowing he was the reason why. It was so stupid. He could have said anything else, but of course, his brain chose to short-circuit instead.

“I said… ‘No, thank you.’”

Silence blanketed the room. Robin’s mouth hung open for a moment before she found her words.

“You said what?”

He groaned again, louder this time.

“I panicked, okay? Just… You should’ve seen her face. She looked so—God, embarrassed? And I… I just—I was stuck. Couldn’t think of anything else.”

“So you turned down an invitation inside after a date—”

“—and then I turned around and headed for my car,” he finished, miserably.

Robin cringed, setting her mug aside. “Oof.”

“I know,” he hissed. He lifted his head, eyes pained, as if replaying the moment in mind-numbing slow motion. The memory felt like a stone in his chest.

Her gaze softened as she took in her best friend's posture, how his fingers trembled around the rim of the coffee mug he hadn't even touched.

She knew he’d had it rough—anyone who’d witnessed what he had would understand. But since he primarily talked to his therapist about this sort of thing, she often forgot just how deep those wounds really ran.

“Hey,” she said, voice gentler now, “it’s okay if you’re… not ready for all of that yet. It’s a big step.”

He lifted his head, eyes shadowed with worry.

“I am ready,” he countered, a hint of desperation colouring his tone. “I want—I want to be ready for that.”

And he did. He wanted it so badly, his body ached with the image of your skin against his, even if the touches had never gone beyond heated kisses and tentative caresses.

For the last few years, his mind had been stuck in survival mode—always scanning for threats, flinching at sudden noises, bracing for the worst. But now, when he closed his eyes at night, instead of feeling dread burrow into his bones, he found himself imagining the curve of your lips, the softness of your laugh.

He wondered how you’d sound if he whispered filthy compliments against your ear, what your breathy giggle might feel like against his neck if his fingertips trailed down your sides… between your thighs.

Sometimes he even caught himself shivering from the sheer longing to feel you.

All of you.

But wanting that also meant baring more than just his heart. The idea of letting you see every inch of him—scars that told stories he wasn’t ready to retell, the ridges and marks that still woke him in cold sweats—terrified him.

What if you asked about them? What if you stared too long? Worse, would you be disgusted? He imagined your wide eyes taking him in and feeling pity, revulsion. The thought was enough to make his stomach twist, to conjure that old, familiar panic.

He swallowed thickly, struggling to force the words out. Robin slid her coffee across and leaned forward, reaching out as if to anchor him to the present.

“You can talk to me,” she urged. “You know that, right?”

Steve pressed his lips together, trying and failing to steady the whirlwind of fear in his chest. Finally, he looked at her, voice barely above a whisper.

“What if…” He inhales deeply, “what if she doesn’t... like what she sees?”

It took a while for it to click, but when it did, her chest caved.

Her eyes flickered with regret as realisation sank in, remembering the countless times she’d watched her friend hurl himself into danger so that she and the others could walk away unscathed. Always the martyr, always the hero, always the one with the innate urge to rush in and save those he held close to him.

It was such a rare gift, but it was one that left the worst as a result. The physical reminders—souvenirs he never asked for.

“Steve,” she said quietly, “everyone has scars.”

He let out a soft, humourless laugh.

“Not like mine.”

Her heart broke for him, but her resolve was far stronger.

“Hey,” she spoke, tone turning firm, “we’re not doing that.” She locked eyes with him, showing him the truth behind her statement. “Do you seriously think this girl would judge you for something that’s basically the reason you’re still alive?”

That we’re all alive.

His gaze darted away, thoughts churning.

Robin was always like this—blunt, even when she was trying to be comforting. A stark contrast to Dr. Avery, but sometimes he preferred it. At least it meant honesty.

“Well… people are—”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she cut him off, levelling him with a look. “I’m asking if you think, with absolute certainty, that this would cause her to stop seeing you.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and racked his brain for any moment he’d ever heard you speak ill of someone without good reason. He couldn’t recall a single instance—except for that one time you’d jokingly insulted his father after hearing the reaction to Steve’s profession, but that was more than warranted. Otherwise, you never had a negative word for anyone. Even when you probably should.

He couldn’t picture you reacting with disgust.

It just didn’t… fit.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.

“I hate to say it, but it kind of is.” Robin pursed her lips. “She’s clearly into you, right?”

He hesitated. “Well—”

“Shh, yes she is,” she declared, waving a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t be seeing you if she wasn’t. And if anything, that’s a bigger compliment, yeah? She wants you for you.”

“What if there are questions?” He gave a reluctant shrug, tension still rolling off him in waves.

“Then be honest.”

He shot her a look. “Are you serious right now?”

“No, not that kind of honest.” Robin snorted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said quickly, the mere thought making dread coil in his gut. That was the last thing he wanted to bring up in your presence.

“There you go.” She lifted her eyebrows pointedly. “Tell her it’s hard for you to talk about. You’re not lying, you’re just… setting a boundary.”

“I’m not sure…” he admitted, leaning back in his chair.

“For God’s sake, Steve.” Robin sighed, exasperated but affectionate all the same. “I’m telling you this as your friend—you can’t let this hold you back forever.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You don’t know unless you try,” she pressed. “Do you trust her?”

“Yes,” he blurted, the word escaping before he even had time to think. You had never given him a single reason not to, the only thing you treated him with was unrelenting kindness.

Robin’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Well, there’s your answer.”

A beat of silence passed before he nodded, finally letting some measure of acceptance settle in his eyes. Robin grinned back, pushing herself to her feet, feeling proud that they had reached a solution.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” He shook his head. He came straight here as soon as he woke up. Barely slept the night before, too.

“Pancakes, then.” She arched an eyebrow, making her way over to the stove. “You’re gonna need the energy for when you go talk to her later.”

“Later?” Steve spun in his chair, panic creeping back in.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday,” Robin rolled her eyes as she pulled out a frying pan. “No time like the present, right?”

Steve spent the rest of the morning holed up at Robin’s place, grateful for her presence and the easy way they could slip back into normal best-friend banter. It helped calm the churning in his gut, the lingering phantom of your expression—slightly crestfallen—when he’d refused your invitation the previous night.

By the afternoon, he felt marginally more composed. Maybe it was the pancakes, or maybe it was the way she all but shoved him out the door with the gentle instruction to ‘fix it’ and ‘try not to overthink.’

Easier said than done.

Either way, he found himself stopping by a local florist before driving to your shop. The tiny bell above the florist’s door tinkled as he stepped in, and he spent a solid ten minutes agonising over which bouquet to get, recalling Robin’s reassurance.

“No girl’s ever upset by flowers.”

Eventually, he left with a bundle of soft-petaled blooms—light pinks and whites and a hint of greenery—and the distinct feeling that his heart might pound its way right out of his chest.

Your shop front, normally inviting, appeared closed from the outside—lights off, sign flipped to “Closed.” He knew you rarely opened on Sundays, which was exactly why he was hoping you’d be here catching up on inventory, or maybe just tinkering with whatever behind the scenes stuff you did. The street was quiet, the afternoon light softer than usual, and he paused at the door, bouquet in hand, taking a quick breath to steel himself.

He knocked gently, three times.

At first, nothing. Then, after a second, he saw movement through the side window: a glimpse of you rounding the corner, curiosity evident on your face—until your gaze landed on him. Even at a distance, he saw your expression flicker between shock and uncertainty. His heart plummeted at the thought that maybe he was the last person you wanted to see right now.

Still, you came over, unbolted the lock, and eased the door open.

“Hey, Steve,” you said quietly, voice uncertain yet polite. “I… wasn’t expecting you.”

His tongue felt like lead.

“Yeah, well, um…” He awkwardly tapped the toe of his shoe on the pavement before glancing down at the flowers. His head spun with everything he wanted to say. “Can I come in?”

Your eyes flicked from the bouquet back to him, and then you stepped aside, nodding.

“Sure.”

As you closed the door behind him, he took in a calming breath. The shop was dim, lit mostly by the fading light filtering through the front windows. It smelled of you in a comforting, barely-there way: a hint of vanilla, maybe a touch of something floral tied with old paper.

“Um,” he started, holding out the flowers. “I picked these up for you.”

You glanced at them, your features melting into something softer. The corners of your lips tilted up in the faintest smile.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, reaching for them. He could see the tension easing in your shoulders, though it didn’t vanish entirely.

When you sighed, he braced for the worst—but your voice was gentle. The words leaving you not at all what he expected.

“Listen, Steve, I want to tell you I’m… really sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have been so forward, and if I made you uncomfortable—”

“Hey—” The words rushed out of him before he could stop them. “No, don’t—I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Are you seriously the one taking the blame right now?

“There’s really no need,” you insisted, although your gaze slid away as though you couldn’t quite banish the awkwardness in the air.

He inhaled through his nose, summoning courage.

Here goes nothing.

“I, um,” he said softly, stepping a little closer. “I—I haven’t been—”

He tried recalling every single word Robin had told him—her reminders that you liked him, that a small truth wouldn’t change that. He tried to remember all the pointers his therapist had ever offered about vulnerability and the importance of speaking up, but the moment he lifted his gaze and locked eyes with you, every carefully rehearsed line vanished.

It was just you. Standing there, holding the flowers he’d given you in your gentle grip, your expression open and patient and just the slightest bit worried. The shop’s quiet seemed to magnify the pounding of his heart.

“Listen,” he began, voice trembling despite his best effort. “I… I like you.” Heat rose to his cheeks immediately; God, he sounded like a flustered high school kid. “And I know that’s not—I mean, maybe it’s not what anyone wants to hear. Probably think it’s bull, but I haven’t felt this way in a… in a while.” He swallowed. “Longer than a while, actually. And I—I just don’t want you to be…” He let out a rough breath, tongue tripping over the words. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” You tilted your head, brow creasing.

It was a single word, but it reached right in and squeezed his heart.

He wet his lips. This was the moment—no turning back. He could almost hear Robin’s voice in his head telling him to trust you.

So he did.

“Yeah,” he managed, letting out a humourless chuckle. “I…” His pulse roared in his ears as he extended his arm, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater.

It felt like every second stretched and stretched, infinitely slow, while he carefully eased the fabric up. He revealed the pale, uneven skin on the back of his left forearm.

There, a gnarled mark ran angry and taut, though it had healed better than it once was. It was still jarring against the rest of his skin, as if it didn’t quite belong on his body.

He had half a mind to yank the sleeve back down, to hide it all again. Every nerve in him screamed to do so.

You stepped closer instead, a soft, careful movement that sent warmth fluttering in his gut. he forced a small, shaky smile, even as his voice trembled.

“It, uh, looks worse than it is.” A lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully admit the pain buried there. “I just wanted you to know… in case we ever… in case you wanted to…”

He trailed off, heart hammering. The jumble of words in his head was impossible to untangle, so he let them die on his tongue.

Your gaze flicked from the scar to his eyes, and a stillness enveloped the space for a moment. You could see how hard this was for him, and you were doing everything in your power to keep this conversation tender.

“There are more?”

There was no judgment in your tone—just gentle curiosity. He could’ve laughed at how badly he’d feared that question.

“Yeah,” he answered, a quiet, wry chuckle escaping his throat. “Unfortunately.”

You nodded. Your expression was so compassionate it nearly knocked the breath right out of him. There was nothing unfortunate except the pain he had once been in.

“Is this why you said no?”

He felt the tension in his shoulders tighten.

“I—yeah.” In a rush, he continued, “I just wanted you to know what you were getting into. Wanted to… to give you the chance back out.” He swallowed, voice dropping.

Even he could hear the raw, unfiltered insecurity there—every fear he’d harboured for years, twisted into one desperate confession.

He didn’t want you to leave. But if you had to, do it before he fell any harder.

And then you smiled at him—so softly, so gently, it felt like a sunrise breaking through storm clouds. When you spoke, your tone was certain.

You had never been more sure of a decision.

“There is nothing that could make me want you any less, Steve Harrington.”

He felt his chest constrict, tears threatening at the back of his eyes. Every flutter of panic from before turned into a wild, dizzy sense of relief. You—the person who made his heart race just by being—were standing here in front of him, telling him that not even the physical parts of his past could drive you away.

And that was enough to make him break. His eyes burned, blinking back tears before they could spill. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold them back.

You didn’t look repulsed or the littlest bit shocked. You just looked at him the way you always did, like he mattered. Like his fears and his uncertainties weren’t hurdles, just parts of him that you could hold with the same gentleness you held everything else.

You're a fucking dream.

For a few moments, the floral bouquet resting lightly in your arms, his tears barely contained. You tilt your chin up, eyes still carrying that same warmth that makes his knees feel suspiciously unsteady.

“So…” You pause, letting the word hang in the air like a gentle invitation. “Are you busy for the rest of the day?”

He blinks, the question startling him out of his reverie. “Uh…”

There’s that teasing gleam again. You roll your eyes, but it’s playful, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Not for that.”

A sharp, nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it, his cheeks flushing.

“Right,” he breathes. “No—Yeah, I can be free today.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling that slight scratchiness of the sweater he still hasn’t rolled back down, and a wave of awkward self-consciousness washes through him. “Why?”

Your fingers flex around the stems of the bouquet as you look up at him, so much affection in your expression that he wonders if his heart can handle it.

“Because I want to spend time with you… if you’re up for it.”

A warmth flutters through his chest, soft and giddy, making him feel as though he’s standing on the edge of something hopeful. He wets his lips, nodding.

“I—I’d love that.”

He followed you up the narrow staircase, heart thumping with excitement at being welcomed into your space. It felt surreal, having spent so many days imagining what your home might look like—wondering if it would match the warmth you exuded—and now he was here, taking it all in with wide, fascinated eyes. Almost like the kids in his class.

The flat upstairs was an eclectic oasis of mismatched pillows and faded rugs, vintage trinkets and framed prints. Everything seemed handpicked with care, though there was no strict colour scheme or aesthetic; it was simply you.

Immediately, he found himself smiling. It was like walking into a technicolour daydream, a comforting patchwork of old and new. A soft blanket half-draped over an armchair, a scattering of books on the coffee table, and a hint of something sweet in the air—maybe a candle you’d recently burned.

He was acutely aware that he wanted to brush his fingers across everything, to learn more about you from the objects that made this space yours. Instead, he hovered in the middle of the living area, trying to keep his nosiness in check.

He’d told himself a thousand times not to be weird, but his eyes kept drifting to the shelves crammed with random curios, or the cosy throws that didn’t quite match in colour but somehow still belonged together.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You turned to him, a gentle smile lighting your features as you placed the bouquet down.��

“Yeah,” he answered quickly—too quickly, but he couldn’t help it. The idea of sharing an evening with you, in your home, felt overwhelmingly domestic. “Absolutely,” he added, more composed this time.

“Good.” Your entire face brightened in response, clapping your hands together with an almost mischievous air. Without further ado, you strolled over to the small open-plan kitchen. “That means you get to be my sous chef.”

He walked toward you, leaning against the counter. “Seriously?”

“Oh, absolutely. You don’t eat for free in my house,” you teased, trying to adopt an air of authority. “You gotta work for it.”

Even though you were clearly joking, his chest flooded with warmth.

“Yes, Chef,”

You snorted a laugh at that, pulling open the fridge door and glancing inside.

“Okay… I went shopping recently, so I’ve got a lot of stuff. Definitely vegetables, so maybe we can do something with pasta, or a ratatouille.” You kept talking, your voice lilting with easy excitement. “Are you fussy? I think I have some meat in here if you’d prefer that, or we could make soup—although it was kind of hot today, so maybe soup isn’t ideal. Or we could—”

Your words came out in a single breath, a rapid-fire list of possibilities. It was adorable, watching you in your element: your hair shifting slightly as you leaned into the fridge, rummaging for ideas, lost in your own thoughts. His stomach tightened at how earnest you sounded, so eager to accommodate him.

He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, feeling the softness of your sweater beneath his palm.

“Pasta’s fine,” he said softly, gently drawing you out of your rambling.

You glanced over your shoulder, cheeks warming just a bit, as though you’d just realised how fast you were talking.

“Yeah,” you agreed, shutting the fridge partway, “okay—pasta. Pasta is safe. Hard to mess up.”

“Hey, you’d be surprised.” He slid over to rest his hip on the counter, tilting his head and letting himself enjoy the way you flushed. “When I was younger, I didn’t realise you had to… y’know, put the pasta in water.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Yep. Didn’t occur to me.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Threw it straight in the pan.”

“Are you seriously telling me you burnt raw pasta?”

“Look,” he huffed, hands raised in mock surrender, “I am a lot better now, alright?”

“I should hope so,” you teased, a burst of laughter escaping you, brightening the entire flat.

Reaching into the fridge again, you pulled out a bag of fresh vegetables, a small block of cheese, and a carton of cream—handing them off to him. Then you shut the fridge, leaving the two of you close in the small space.

That’s when Steve’s eyes landed on something pinned to the fridge door. A piece of paper, slightly worn at the edges, the pencil lines smudged but still recognisable.

The sketch of you he’d drawn back in his classroom.

He froze, gaze locked on it. The memory flooded back—heart drumming in his chest, trying to capture your likeness with hidden, trembling hands. He hadn’t expected you to care that much about it, let alone display it so proudly.

When you noticed him staring, your expression turned a little bashful, a soft laugh slipping from your lips.

“I… figured it deserved a place of honour,” you teased, brushing a fingertip against one corner of the paper. He could hear the truth behind the joke.

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, his voice characteristically gentle.

“You kept it?”

“Course I did.” You replied, echoing something you’d once said to him. “Told you I always wanted my portrait done.”

A flush crept up his neck, and he rubbed it awkwardly.

“Yeah, but…” He paused, unsure how to convey the weight of this small gesture. You’d taken a simple drawing—something he hadn’t even considered that good—and made it into a keepsake.

Before he could figure out what to say, you cut in, a casual shrug that did nothing to hide the fondness in your eyes.

“I wanted to put it somewhere I could see it...”

Emotion welled in his chest, warm and insistent. He didn’t say anything right away. All he managed was a small, lopsided smile that hopefully conveyed some fraction of the tenderness he felt.

You felt slightly awkward under his gaze, clearing your throat as you handed him the knife and pointed to the chopping board. Confirming to him you trusted him enough not to butcher your vegetables—or your kitchen.

He lays everything out in front of him, reaching to roll up his sleeves. He hesitates—just for a moment—before deciding to go through with it. There’s no point in hiding now that it’s all out in the open, but the brush of air against his marks still feels foreign.

When he glances at you, you’re not even looking. Not staring, not reacting, not bothered in the slightest. And something about that settles him. He wonders if this is what it could always be like—if, someday, this could be routine. If your space could become a place where he doesn’t have to hide. A place where he can just exist.

He set about dicing an onion, practicing the technique Robin had drilled into him: fingers tucked in, careful horizontal and vertical cuts. It wasn’t Michelin-worthy, but he liked to think he’d developed some culinary skills.

You, meanwhile, grabbed a block of cheese from the fridge and started grating.

“So, I’m guessing you know how to cook a little now, huh?” you asked casually, taking in the even slices of onion gathering on the board.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, scraping the chopped onion into a neat pile. “Kinda like it, actually.”

“Oh?” you prompted, quirking a brow as though intrigued by this domestic side of him.

“Robin—I’ve mentioned her, right?” When you nodded, he continued, “Well, after she saw what a disaster I was in the kitchen firsthand, basically forced me to learn.”

You laughed gently, the sound like warm honey. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Ouch,” Steve shot you a mock-offended look, then shrugged. “To be fair, she was super patient—more than I deserved sometimes.”

You nodded and he went quiet for a moment, focusing on the task in front of him as memories crowded his mind. He could see Robin’s exasperated grin as she dangled a spatula in front of him, telling him if he didn’t at least stir the sauce, she’d let it burn.

He remembered the nights he couldn’t get out of bed—nights where his own mind weighed him down like lead—and how she would simply appear, commandeer his kitchen, and coax him into joining her.

At first, it had been embarrassing. He hated the thought of needing someone to guide him through the simplest tasks, hated the idea that he was helpless. But Robin had this uncanny knack of turning it into fun—into a moment of victory, however small.

If he managed to perfectly chop a pepper or make a sauce without scalding it, she’d give him a triumphant little fist bump, like he’d just won a gold medal.

Over time, cooking became a small but tangible source of confidence for him—proof that he could create something from nothing, sustain himself with his own two hands.

He cleared his throat, blinking back into the present.

“She didn’t let me off that easy. Dragged me into the kitchen most days—but you know, she actually helped a lot.” He went on, sliding the diced onion into a bowl you’d handed him. “Once she and I got busier, we stopped doing it as much, but…” He gestured around your cluttered kitchen, eyes travelling from the mismatched mugs on your shelf to the bright potholders hanging on the wall. “It’s nice.”

He didn’t say the rest out loud, but you could deduce what he meant. He liked making something, building something. He liked feeling safe.

“You know,” you say softly, glancing up from the cheese you’d just finished grating, “she sounds amazing. I’d love to meet her someday.”

He sets down the knife he was holding, taking a moment to wipe his hands on a dish towel. The genuine excitement lighting his face is almost boyish.

“Yeah, she’d… she’d really like that, actually.” There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes—like he can’t wait to show you off, show Robin that he’s managed to find someone this wonderful, someone who sees him. “She already mentioned wanting to meet you, so we’ll, uh—” He swallows, looking delighted at the prospect. “We’ll plan something. Once we’re, y’know, all free.”

“Hmm,” you give a thoughtful nod, a small smirk tugging at your lips, “so you’ve been talking about me?”

“Uh, yeah?” He immediately flushes, cheeks warming under your gaze. “‘Course I have. Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug, your eyes dipping away for a half-second before meeting his again.

“It’s just… it’s good to know you’re, I don’t know, serious.”

“Did I make you think I wasn’t?” He asks, a hint of genuine concern threading through his voice. He can feel his heart rate pick up—he doesn’t want there to be any room for doubt.

“No!” You shake your head, flustered. “No—not at all. I just mean—”

He steps closer, determined to chase away any lingering uncertainty in your eyes. He doesn’t know what comes over him—maybe it’s the weight of everything that’s happened today, or maybe it’s the way your voice falters, just slightly, sending a surge of confidence through him.

He feels safe here. Your reassurance settles something in him, makes him bold. And now, he wants to test it. To push just a little further, to see how far this newfound feeling can take him.

To prove—to himself more than anyone—that he hasn’t lost it.

“Because last night,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, feeling how the teasing tone feels on his tongue, “you wanna know what I did?”

He leans in, invading your personal space in that deliberate way that makes your breath catch. Your reply gets stuck in your throat, and you simply blink at him, gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes, waiting.

Gotcha.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he confesses.

“I spent the whole night alone in bed, thinking about what it would’ve been like to have you there with me.”

Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you draw in a quiet, shaky breath.

Christ—confidence looks good on him. The way he’s looking at you, like a man starved, like he’s been holding this back. And now you’re left wondering—has he always felt this way?

With your expression emboldening him, he dips his head to press his mouth to yours. The kiss starts slow, a gentle lingering of lips, but it deepens as he grips your waist. He wants—needs—you to know how fervently he means every word.

He pours it all into the press of his mouth: the latent hunger that’s been building since the first moment he realised how important you were becoming, the searing need to prove that last night was never about not wanting you.

When you make a soft, breathy sound that vibrates against his mouth, his entire body goes warm. His heartbeat pounds so fiercely it’s almost dizzying, and in that moment he’s sure he’s a goner, absolutely done for—you’ve got him.

He tugs back just enough to look at you properly. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes gleaming in the low light of the kitchen, and the sight of you nearly undoes him. You tilt your head, a hesitant little smile ghosting your lips.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, “we don’t have to do anything if you’re not—”

“I am,” he says, voice rough with need. “Fuck—I am.” His hand cradles your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek in a way that makes your lashes flutter. “Do you trust me?”

Your gaze flicks to his, warm and steady. “Yeah. But… dinner—”

He can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him. Dinner? Only you would be so concerned about practicalities when he’s two seconds from combusting.

Still, he recognises the gentle out you’re giving him, a final check-in to see if he really wants this.

And, oh, he does.

“It can wait,” he promises, dropping his voice to that intimate purr that already makes your stomach flutter. “Please just—please, let me do this for you.”

Let him show you. Let him take care of you.

You meet his eyes, taking in the flush staining his cheeks, the raw want practically radiating off him. You manage a nod, hardly able to get the word yes out before he’s on you again—his mouth against yours with a heat that has you spinning.

It starts hungry, and only grows more desperate when your hands slide up over his shoulders, fingers curling into the short hair at the nape of his neck. A low groan escapes him, his body thrumming with adrenaline and desire.

He forgot how good it could feel, how right it could be, to have someone he wants this badly—someone who wants him just as fiercely.

He crowds in close, big hands gripping your hips firmly, and in one swift motion he lifts you onto the counter. A startled gasp leaves you, and you toss a quick glance around as though you can’t quite believe the two of you are about to do this.

“Here?” you ask, voice breathy with surprise.

“Yeah,” a cocky half-grin tips the corner of his mouth. “Right here.”

Any way he can have you.

Every nerve in his body screams for more contact, more of you—he needs to taste, needs to feel.

He slots himself between your thighs, leaning in again to reclaim your lips. The tension in your muscles loosens as his hands drift beneath your shirt, sliding across the warm plane of your sides. The soft curves and dips of your skin drag a ragged breath out of him, especially when your hips roll against his.

You can’t help the little whimper that bubbles up, and the sound propels him deeper into the kiss. His entire body tingles with awareness of you, from the slight shiver that courses through you at his touch to the way your nails lightly scrape at his scalp.

When your fingers thread into his hair, a deep, full-throated groan vibrates from his chest—he’s powerless to stop it.

That breathy chuckle you give in response makes him shiver. You angle his head, your palm cupping the back of his neck.

“You like that, huh?” you tease, eyes glinting with mischief.

His head falls back slightly as he exhales.

“Fuck—yeah—yes.” He’s beyond self-conscious at this point, need flooding through every cell. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing in the faint scent of your shampoo, before trailing his hand down to the waistband of your jeans.

“Gonna need you to do that again for me,” he murmurs, voice filled with confidence and trembling want.

You blink, momentarily puzzled, until he starts to tug at your jeans, his fingers hooking into both denim and underwear. Then you realise exactly what he means—and you waste no time in helping him rid you of the final barriers standing between his hands and your bare skin.

He tugs the denim down, heart thundering as he sinks to his knees between your thighs. He’s wound so tight he can practically hear his pulse in his ears.

From his vantage point below, he takes in the sight of you, drawn to every curve and line. There’s something indescribably beautiful about seeing you like this, so undone, so ready.

He slides his hands over your legs, fingertips grazing soft skin and eliciting a shiver that makes his chest swell with pride. It’s been so long since he’s done this—too long. The anxious flutter in his stomach almost rivals the heat pooling in his lower body.

But he wants to do this right. Needs to.

When he glances up again, you’re watching him through half-lidded eyes, a flush creeping up your neck. The way you part your lips as you inhale, the anticipation evident in your features—it all spurs him on. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning in to brush his mouth over your inner thigh first, planting a series of teasing, barely-there kisses as he makes his way closer.

Your hand tangles in his hair, fingers curling in a firm but not painful grip. It’s a silent command, a reminder that you’re right there, in this with him.

He shudders at the rush of arousal that flares through him.

“Stop teasing,” you finally mutter, voice edged with impatience.

He flushes hot at your tone—low, wanting, confident.

“Sorry, angel,” he murmurs, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise. “Gonna make it up to you, all right?”

For both yesterday, and right now.

You give a quick nod, and he takes that as all the permission he needs. Gently, he lifts one of your legs to rest over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just above your knee. Then he settles in, leaning forward until he’s exactly where he needs to be.

The first flick of his tongue draws a throaty moan from you, and his own breath stumbles at the sheer erotic charge of the moment. He’s nearly lightheaded with how good you taste, how you respond to every shift of his lips, every press of his mouth.

It’s intoxicating, fueling him to explore every sensitive spot he can find.

“Should’ve done this last night,” in a husky, almost delirious voice. He hates that he ran from you, from this, even for a second. But it’s fueling him now, pushing him to worship every inch of you until he’s certain you’ll never doubt how badly he wants you. “Should’ve had you then,” he breathes, “So fucking stupid.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him closer, and he lets out a muffled groan. You’re already trembling under his touch, each quiet whimper echoing in the small kitchen. The tile beneath his knees is hard, but he barely registers any discomfort—he’s too lost in you. The lust is overshadowed by a tenderness, a desire not just to please you, but to prove something to himself.

That he can still be this person.

Then you gasp, hips shifting forward in search of more, and your free hand flies out to grab at his arm. The moment your palm lands on the rough, uneven skin, his stomach lurches.

He half-expects to feel you flinch. But instead, you grip him tighter, holding on as though you need him close. That realisation sends a bolt of raw adrenaline right through his core, and he doubles down, dragging his tongue in deep, purposeful strokes.

Your desperate noises urge him on, and he moves in closer, pressing you more firmly against the counter. The scent of you and the haze of arousal in the air blur his senses. He’s focused on nothing but your pleasure—on coaxing more of those shaky, breathless moans out of you, each one sweeter than the last.

When your fingers tighten again in his hair, he lifts his gaze for a heartbeat, catching the dazed, blissed-out expression on your face, a wave of heat flashing through him,

He’s done for.

He feels the telltale flutter in your core, the way your thighs tense around his head and the broken syllables of his name falling from your lips. His own heartbeat stutters at the sound of you gasping, higher and higher until you’re almost pleading.

“Steve—” you manage, voice trembling on the edge. “I’m gonna—”

He groans low in his throat, pressing in closer.

“Yeah?” he murmurs hungrily. “C’mon baby—please—wanna feel you—”

That’s all it takes for you to come apart, back arching and legs clenching, trapping him in a burst of sensation.

He keeps his mouth moving, coaxing every last pulse out of you. The tight press of your thighs around his head should be suffocating, but to him it’s pure adrenaline. He savours the moment, humming with open satisfaction at how your body shudders under his relentless focus, until you finally push lightly at his head, too sensitive to handle more.

He reluctantly withdraws, breathing heavy as he looks up at you. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling while you come down from your high. For a split second, he stands there on his knees, watching your every expression like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“Was that… all right?” he asks, voice almost shy now that the immediate rush is ebbing, your release still glistening on his chin.

You offer him a dazed little nod, and he can’t help the proud grin spreading across his face as he rises to his feet. The minute his lips touch yours again, you taste yourself on him—a sharp, dizzying reminder of just how thoroughly he’s had you. He smiles into the kiss, smugness in the way his hand cups the side of your face.

Your own hands move with eagerness, tugging at the hem of his sweater. The first spike of panic darts through him, and he tenses.

No. Not Yet.

He knows what it would mean—bared skin, the possibility of further questions, it's unpredictable. His heart thuds as he pulls back minutely, not wanting to flee but unable to hide the flicker of fear in his eyes.

You pause, taking in the hesitation etched across his features.

“Not ready?” you ask, gentle but direct.

His lips part, but no words come out at first. A flush creeps up his neck, embarrassment and self-consciousness colliding in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry,” he finally mutters, feeling every bit as uncertain as he did the night before.

So much for the surge of confidence.

Your brows knit in understanding, and you nod softly. There’s no accusation in your expression, no frustration. Instead, you lean up to kiss him again—light and sweet and reassuring.

“Can I still take care of you?” you whisper when you pull back, searching his gaze.

Take care of him.

“You… you don’t have to do that,” he mumbles, voice rough at the edges.

“I know,” you say, voice calm but insistent. One hand drifts to the fly of his jeans, carefully brushing over the hard outline straining there. He lets out a hiss of breath, tension sizzling through his entire body at the contact.

“I want to,” you continue, thumb tracing a light pattern along the fabric. “Please?” You look up at him, meeting those warm brown eyes, “I want to make you feel good, too.”

And how could anyone say no to that?

“Fuck, angel… all right.” He exhales a shaky laugh, tipping his forehead to yours. “Yeah, all right.”

You free him from his jeans—he’s so hard it almost hurts, and the cool air hits him like a shock. Every nerve ending is lit up, thrumming with excitement and a bit of residual caution. But the second your fingers curl around him, that caution is drowned out by pure pleasure.

His head falls forward as soon as your hand wraps around him, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a low, trembling groan.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, and he can’t contain the steady stream of whimpers and half-broken words spilling from his lips. Every movement of your hand drags another rasping exhale out of him.

“God—” he mutters, voice pitched higher than usual. “You—fuck, you feel—”

His breath hitches again as you start slow, deliberately teasing him. He can’t help the ragged little laugh that escapes, face still hidden against your throat.

“You’re killing me.”

But even then, there’s no mistaking the appreciation in his tone. He likes the way you’re taking your time, savouring the vision of him, watching him go boneless under your touch. His entire body thrums with the urge to thrust into your palm; he’s holding back with every bit of willpower he has, trying not to lose himself too quickly.

When you chuckle softly, your breath hot against his ear, he lets out a needy little sound that he never planned to let slip.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, shoulders shaking with pent-up tension. “I—I can’t—”

“Does it feel good?” you tease, your voice edging on playful, as though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” he blurts, shoulders jerking as a ripple of pleasure sparks through him. “Yes, it—it’s so fucking good.” His fingers dig into your shoulders, gripping the fabric of your shirt. “Not gonna last—”

You giggle, and he could swear that sound alone just about knocks the air out of his lungs. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, drawing a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

“You gonna cum for me, Steve?” you ask, voice lilting.

Oh, you’re cruel.

That sweet look on your face—so deceptively innocent, when he knows better. Like a siren, the way your voice teeters between soft and sultry, pulling him under, not allowing him to summon a coherent thought.

His cheeks are bright red, eyes shining with a haze of lust. His mouth opens, but he’s too far gone to form sentences, so he just nods, hair flopping into his face in a disheveled mess.

“Yeah,” he breathes, tone shaky. “I’m close—I, shit—”

You give him a knowing, devilish grin and draw him down into a kiss—slow, thorough, open-mouthed. He tries to respond, tries to match your pace, but the rising wave of release scrambles his thoughts and tangles his tongue.

All he can manage are broken moans into your mouth as pleasure overtakes him, and you drink them in eagerly. His orgasm slams into him so fast it nearly buckles his knees, and he grips you tighter, riding out each pulse as it wracks his body.

You keep stroking, guiding him through it, until he sags against you, spent and trembling. His head comes to rest on your shoulder, breath ragged in your ear.

The feeling of you envelops him—your clean hand softly cradling his face, thumb grazing the curve of his cheek. It’s such a gentle, grounding gesture that it helps his racing heart settle.

After a few seconds, he manages to straighten, eyes flicking down to the evidence of his release painting your thighs. There’s a flash of panic in his gaze, but there’s also a thrum of arousal still sparking in his veins at the sight. He fumbles to tuck himself back into his jeans, cheeks more red.

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“Shh,” you say simply, pulling him in for a kiss. He melts into it, relieved and just a little awed by how casual and reassuring you seem, like there’s not an ounce of shame. When you pull back, you brush a few strands of sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Did you enjoy it?”

He lets out a huff of laughter—surprised you’d even need to ask. His face is still flushed, and he ducks his head.

“Uh… yeah,” he says, a helpless grin curling his mouth. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Good.” You give him a knowing smile. “Would’ve broken my heart if I couldn’t do that again.”

“Really?” he asks, blinking in genuine amazement.

“Mhm,” you tease, leaning in to peck him lightly on the lips. “Never gonna be able to cook normally in here again, though.”

That makes him laugh, a loose, buoyant sound that brightens his features.

“Um, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the bathroom and… clean up a little.” You clear your throat, cheeks still pink. “Before we finish cooking.”

“Oh—shit, of course,” he says hurriedly, stepping back to make room for you. He tries to sound collected, but he’s still a little breathless.

You hop off the counter, bending to gather your discarded clothes. As you head across the room, you glance back, noticing him following your every move. A playful wink from you makes him chuckle under his breath, still riding the high of what just transpired.

Alone in the kitchen, he turns back to the neglected pot and quickly re-focuses himself. With a shaky exhale, he slides the diced onions into it. He sets the knife aside for when you return, mind swirling with the memory of your touch—the same memory that he would certainly be revisiting in the very near future.

When you finally emerge, you’re wearing a pair of soft pajamas—something that looks cosy enough to curl up in. He catches the sight of you out of the corner of his eye and can’t help but beam, feeling that giddy high in his ribs all over again. He steps forward, gently tugging you back to your perch on the countertop.

“Hey now,” you warn, eyes dancing with good humour. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for round two.”

“No—neither am I,” he admits, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your cheek. “But I got this—just sit there and, I don’t know, look pretty.”

Your playful groan of protest is minimal, and he can’t stop smiling as you settle back. You watch him shuffle to the far side of the kitchen to grab a clove of garlic. He’s turning up the heat and chopping again with that same contented hum in his chest, as though he’s stepped into some domestic paradise.

He thinks about how someday, when he’s more at peace with his body, he wants to show you all of himself. He only hopes that next time, he’ll be a little bolder, a little braver—so he can give you everything you deserve.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #stranger things fic #stranger things series #stranger things smut

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ghostlyglimmer · 6 months ago

Text

You're Grounded Mister

Summary:

A mission gone wrong leaves the Batkids bickering—until Batman grounds them and Danny Fenton, a confused civilian caught in the chaos. This one-shot is based on this post by Shower-Phantom-Ideas

It had all gone downhill fast.

The plan had been Dick’s idea—though Tim and Jason definitely could have pointed out the glaring holes in it, and Damian hadn’t exactly offered his usual dose of cynicism. It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out operation. Minimal risk, maximum payoff.

But things got complicated when that guy showed up. Just some kid, and not even a vigilante or a rogue. It was supposed to be a straightforward job in Gotham’s shadier district—stop the exchange of a highly dangerous chemical, break up the bad guys, be home in time for breakfast. But, no, some civilian had gotten in the way and distracted the gangsters long enough to mess with their timing.

As Jason would tell it later, “It was just bad luck.” As Bruce would say, “It was complete negligence.”

And as for Danny? Well, he didn’t have much of a say in it. Not that he was about to back down from a bunch of armed gangsters, especially with the Batkids swooping in around him, leaving chaos and knocked-out criminals in their wake. Danny had handled a few of them before they even showed up, quietly taking out the last of them when Bruce finally stepped in.

And now they were here, a tense, heated argument in a dark Gotham alley.

“You should have waited for backup!” Bruce snapped, his voice slicing through their squabbles. “I told you it was a risk to go in alone—especially when we didn’t have all the intel! This is about safety, and clearly—”

“Right, clearly we were fine until you stepped in,” Jason shot back, scowling.

“It would have gone smoothly if someone didn’t just happen to be there,” Dick muttered, clearly feeling defensive.

“It was your idea, Grayson!” Tim hissed, his voice laden with frustration. “Don’t turn this around.”

“Maybe if you’d listened—”

Damian scoffed. “I could have handled them on my own.”

Bruce’s frown deepened, and he turned to Danny, who was awkwardly inching his way toward the exit.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of this,” Bruce said, turning his Batglare on him. “You’re grounded too.”

Danny froze, one foot halfway lifted in a tippy-toe pose. “I… I’m sorry, what?”

The Batkids stopped mid-argument and looked at Danny, then back at Bruce, then at each other, as if piecing something together. Dick’s face morphed from irritation to confusion; Jason’s went slack.

“Uh… Mr. Batman, sir, with all due respect, I’m just some guy,” Danny said slowly, staring at Bruce. “Can… Can Batman even do that?”

“Everyone in the Batmobile,” Bruce said firmly, ignoring Danny’s question. “We’ll discuss this further in the morning.”

Danny, still too stunned to process much beyond “Batman grounded me,” felt himself nodding along. Guess we’re going with it.

The ride was silent and tense. Jason looked broody, arms crossed, staring out the window. Tim rubbed his temples, probably rethinking every tactical choice. Dick was sulking, and Damian, surprisingly, just looked mad at being lumped in with the others. Danny, meanwhile, stayed very still, wedged between Tim and Jason, trying not to breathe too loudly. It was a surreal experience—he was tired, his limbs ached, and his brain was reeling from the absurdity of it all, but it was Batman. The Batmobile wasn’t exactly the place to make his objections.

By the time they reached the Batcave, Danny figured he’d try for some clarity.

“Uh,” he started, looking around at the cavernous space, vast and impressive, filled with tech and lights. “So, do you mind if I, uh, call my family to tell them I won’t be home tonight?”

The entire cave fell silent. Jason froze mid-complaint, Dick and Tim stopped sulking, and Damian’s scowl melted into shock. All four of them stared at Danny, and then slowly, like someone had hit pause, their heads turned to look at Bruce.

He seemed unbothered, glancing at Danny as if this were just standard procedure. But for everyone else, the realization was dawning. Dick was the first to speak, his voice wavering.

“Uh… Bruce?” Dick asked slowly, eyebrows raised. “Did… Did you kidnap a civilian?”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jason burst out laughing, doubling over, his hands clutching his sides. “Oh, this is gold. He’s not even a rogue, B. He’s just some random guy you told to get in the car!”

Danny held up his hands. “In my defense, it was Batman, okay? Who’s going to not get in the Batmobile when Batman tells you you’re grounded?”

Tim covered his face with both hands, muffling his laugh. Damian scowled, crossing his arms.

“This is embarrassing,” he muttered. “Father, you’re losing credibility by the second.”

Bruce’s expression tightened, clearly irked by the fact that his kids’ attention had wandered from the initial issue. They had disobeyed him, endangered a civilian, and now they were laughing because, okay, maybe he had unintentionally forced said civilian to join them in the Batcave.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, clearly rethinking several recent decisions.

“Alright,” Bruce finally said. “My apologies. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you don’t need to be here. We’ll get you a ride back home.”

Danny blinked, a little surprised. “So, wait, I’m not grounded?”

“No, you’re not grounded,” Bruce replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason snickered. “Damn, you got off easy. We’re grounded for sure.”

Bruce cleared his throat, and the smiles faded from the other Batkids’ faces. “Yes, you’re grounded,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “All of you.”

They groaned in unison, but Danny, relieved beyond measure, was already edging toward the door. He nodded a quick thank you to Batman and managed a small, awkward wave to the others.

As he left, he could hear Dick muttering, “Grounded… from what? We’re grown men!”

Jason groaned. “Grounded as in, no solo missions, genius.”

Danny paused, letting the sounds of the Batfamily’s complaints echo behind him as he took the lift back to ground level. He shook his head, chuckling. Only in Gotham. Only with Batman would you end up “grounded” for just existing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But hey—at least he got a free ride in the Batmobile out of it.

#dpxdc #DP x DC #dc x dp #Dcxdp #fanfiction #ghostlyglimmer #ghostlyglimmer's fanfiction #batpham #batfam #batkids #dp #DC #dc x dp crossover #dp x dc crossover

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5sospenguinqueen · 9 months ago

Text

Take A Break | Toto Wolff x Wife! Reader

Summary: Toto has been pushing himself too hard trying to get the upgrades sorted. As his concerned wife, you plan a surprise visit.

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff. Bad writing

Requested: Yes by Anon (Hope I did this justice)

2024 season. There's a little blurb halfway through as well.

F1 Masterlist

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mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by ynwolff_official, lewishamilton and others

mercedesamgf1 boss man hard at work

1,198 comments

ynwolff_official you better be looking after him

→ mercedesamgf1 yes, ma’am. we’re doing our best

→ ynwolff_official tell him if he doesn’t stop working late, he’ll be in trouble when he comes home

→ mercedesamgf1 stop making the admin team threaten me, schatz. they keep coming into my office shaking and you’ll get me into trouble with hr - toto

user1 tell him to make an insta

georgerussell63 he looks like a sith lord

→ ynwolff_official i think you mean, very handsome

→ georgerussell63 i’m not going to say that about my boss

→ alex_albon why not? you were telling me the other day that you think he looks much better in the white shirt than the black zip up

user2 anyone else think he looks tired lately?

→ user2 he’s been working extra hard to get the upgrades ready, i’m guessing

→ user3 plus wifey and jack haven’t been able to make a race in a while so he’s probably missing them after that triple header

user4 george won’t be getting those upgrades once yn tells toto that he wouldn’t admit he was handsome

→ mickschumacher i’ve already told

→ georgerussell63 betrayal

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Strolling through the Hungaroring paddock, you kept a tight hold of your son’s hand. Bustling bodies brushed past, paying the the pair of you no heed, which worked well with your surprise.

Over the past few weeks, Toto had been working tirelessly to ensure the upgrades were ready and working in time for the Hungarian Grand Prix, albeit to the detriment of his own health. He’d been sleeping less, running himself ragged to ensure Mercedes didn’t remain fourth in the constructors. After winning at Red Bull Ring and Silverstone, he knew the potential was there. All he had to do was unlock it. But that had meant shorter calls with his wife and son, fewer responses to messages and a growing distance that he hated feeling during the season. And so, arranging a surprise visit during race weekend had been the most obvious solution.

Mercedes hat sat atop his dark hair, Jack babbled about everything he could see as the tall form of George Russell guided you towards the garage.

“Hello, stranger.” Lewis’ voice met your ears when he caught sight of you. “Toto didn’t tell me you were coming. What’s up, little man?”

George vanished into the back of the garage, searching for the Team Principal. Leaning over to the Brit, you pressed a kiss to the cheek of the 7x WDC. Lewis gave your shoulders a squeeze before pulling Jack up into his arms, whisking him over to where the W15 was being polished.

“George, this better be important. I was in the middle of an analysis report-.” A disgruntled Austrian accent filled the garage, bringing a smile to your face. You could picture the deep frown twisting his handsome’s features without even turning to see it.

“Liebe?”

The silver arrows watched the tension seep out of their Team Principal’s face as he took in the appearance of his wife. Striding across the garage floor, he pulled you in for a tight hug, and pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your head. Aware of the eyes on you both, he had to refrain from pressing his lips to yours. Denying you both the deep kiss you truly desired.

“Surprise,” you whispered, slipping your arm around his waist. Your hand automatically rubbing soothing circles against his hip.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he murmured into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of home.

“You sounded like you needed us.”

“I always need you.”

“Well, then, let’s go rescue your son from Lewis.”

Holed up in Toto’s office, the Wolff family basked in their first moment of family time since over a month. Toto had ordered everyone to leave them alone until qualifying was due to start or somebody was dying. Thankfully, the team listened and so he spent the past hour listening to his son tell him about school and watching Lewis win a race on telly.

Fussing over the amount of coffee cups in the waste bin, you turned to lecture your husband on his inability to get enough rest but paused, mouth open. Curled up on the deep couch pushed against the wall, Jack was snuggled into his father’s lap. His iPad had fallen to the side, and soft snores escaped from his mouth. Glasses askew, Toto’s chin rested on his son’s head, eyes closed tight. Father and son, exhausted from the excitement of their day.

Taking a quick picture on your phone, you smiled at the sight of your family. Reaching into Jack’s backpack, you pulled out his blanket, draping it over your favourite boys.

“Ich liebe dich,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads.

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mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by georgerussell63, mickschumacher and others

mercedesamgf1 our favourite family 🐺

1,554 comments

georgerussell63 admin, you used the same quote for a photo of toto with me, lew and mick the other week?

→ mercedesamgf1 we were paid to do that

→ alex_albon great now he’s crying

→ landonorris ha! at least our admin love us more than zak

→ mclaren don’t tell on us!

mercedesamgf1 inside scoop; toto asked us to print out the photo of yn and jack to put in his office

mickschumacher does this mean i can take the little wolff karting?

→ ynwolff_official only if you promise to come for dinner

→ georgerussell63 and me?

→ user5 poor toto can’t escape his drivers even during his time off because his wife adopted them all

lewishamilton nice to see you and jack in the paddock again, yn

→ ynwolff_official and you, lew. hopefully we can attend a few more now that the summer holidays are here

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ynwolff_official just posted

liked by valterribottas, mercedesamgf1 and others

ynwolff_official my favourite part of summer break is the view

1,003 comments

mercedesamgf1 tell boss man to bring that smile back with him

→ ynwolff_official don’t worry. i’ll be sending him back to work extra happy

→ lewishamilton yn, love, this sounds less than family friendly

→ ynwolff_official oops

user6 oh she’s FEEDING us

user7 has george joined you for a sleepover yet

→ ynwolff_official of course. he’s like the son i didn’t ask for

→ georgerussell63 but you love anyway?

→ user8 silence speaks volumes

user9 yn wolff thirst trapping her husband was not on my 2024 bingo

→ user10 silly season is extra silly this year so yn obvi thought she would participate

→ user11 and we love her for it

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Requests for F1 smau's are open. You can see who I write for on my masterlist :)

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mintyys-blog · 1 month ago

Note

can we get mark with a real sexual freak reader? Like... really freak, not just bdsm lmao like she wants to fuck in her parents' bed, or shit like that pretty please?

BETTER DIE HAPPY | mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: sexual themes, implied sex.

“Are you serious right now?” Mark hissed under his breath, clutching his popcorn like it could shield him from your wandering hand.

You didn’t even glance at him, eyes locked on the big screen, a sly smirk curling on your lips. “Mmhmm,” you hummed, fingers moving just a little further. “You said it was a boring movie.”

“We’re in public.”

“We’ve been in public before.” You turned your head toward him slowly, mischief glittering in your eyes. “Remember the school bathroom? Your mom’s kitchen? The White House—” He clapped his hand over your mouth, face burning. “Okay! Okay. Please don’t say that last one out loud again.”

You kissed his palm. Hard. Then whispered, “just this once, please? I can tell you want this” Mark groaned, leaning back in his seat like he was in actual pain. “You are gonna be the death of me.” You stretched, completely unfazed. “Better die happy, baby.”

Mark sat stiff as a board, legs locked and eyes wide on the screen. Not that he was actually watching it—no, that would be impossible with your hand slipping lower and your breath ghosting against his ear. “You’re gonna get us caught,” he whispered harshly, his voice cracking.

You tilted your head, resting it on his shoulder like the picture of innocence. “Better keep quiet, Mark,” you whispered back sweetly. “They’ll kick us out.”

He let out a choked sound, halfway between a cough and a groan, and shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth just to keep himself from making any other noise. His free hand gripped the armrest tight enough to snap it. You shifted in your seat, your hand moving deliberately slow, eyes never leaving the screen. “You always act like you don’t like it,” you murmured, lips brushing his jaw, “but your body says otherwise.”

Mark clenched his jaw, cheeks flushed bright red. “You are the worst,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you love it.”

He did. God, he did. But that didn’t stop the sheer panic from rising in his chest when the people in the row in front of them glanced back. He gave them a sheepish smile, praying they hadn’t noticed anything—and then glared at you when they turned away. Still, this didn’t stop you from pumping up and down his length with your hand— his pre-cum making excellent lubricant.

“You’re gonna get us banned from every public place in the city.” He bit his lip, his legs shaking. You moved your hand faster and just as a loud part in the movie came up, he came, covering his mouth. He quickly looked around, no one heard, thankfully.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to get creative,” you said with a wink, hand slipping away just before the credits rolled. Mark slumped in his seat, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. He clenched his popcorn, stuffing himself back in his pants quickly before the lights came on. You smiled innocently at him, “let’s go, babe, this movies boring.” He nodded, still recovering from the aftermath of his orgasm.

Mark all but bolted out of his seat the moment he could, tugging his hoodie down like it would somehow hide the fact that he was visibly shaken, flustered, and in serious danger of short-circuiting. He could tell that people were happy they were both leaving.

You, of course, strolled after him like nothing happened. Calm, composed, smug. “Don’t walk so fast, babe,” you called out, lips quirking up. “People are gonna think you’re running from me.”

“I am running from you,” he hissed under his breath, slowing down only because an older couple was walking past. He forced a smile and nodded politely. You waved.

Once you were out in the lobby, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Do you want to get arrested? Or worse—have someone recognize me and call Cecil?”

You reached up and straightened his collar like a doting girlfriend, leaning close enough that your lips brushed his ear. “Relax. No one noticed. And even if they did, they’d just assume you’re lucky.”

Mark groaned again, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t even know how I’m supposed to look at popcorn the same way after this.”

“Oh, honey,” you purred, grabbing his arm. “Popcorn was just the beginning.”

He nearly tripped over his own feet, staring at you. “What does that even mean?”

You stopped, leaned up on your toes, and whispered, “I saw a supply closet back there. Bet we’ve got five minutes before the next group comes in.”

“No,” Mark said immediately. You were already walking backward, eyes glittering with mischief. “Then I guess you better fly us home fast, before I really get creative.” He stared at you for a second longer, then sighed so deeply it came from his soul. “You’re going to kill me.” You winked. “Still better die happy, baby.”

Mark was just about to guide you toward the exit when a group of college-aged strangers walked past—two girls, a guy, and someone in a movie theater vest. They all looked at Mark with a mix of shock, horror, and disgust, their expressions practically screaming that they knew exactly what had gone down in the back row.

One of the girls muttered loud enough for them to hear, “Gross. People like that shouldn’t be allowed in public.”

The guy just looked personally offended. “I paid to watch a movie, not—that.”

Mark froze like a deer in headlights, mouth slightly open. His face went bright red. You, on the other hand, just turned your head slowly, met their judgmental stares, and smirked. “Be jealous, virgins.”

The guy sputtered. The girls gasped. One of them turned to the staff member like she was about to file an incident report. But before anyone could say another word, Mark grabbed your hand and practically dragged you outside.

“Oh my god,” he groaned once you were out on the sidewalk, hands on his knees. “I’m gonna die. They heard us.”

“They totally did,” you said brightly, stretching your arms above your head. “And saw, probably.”

“Why are you happy about that?” You leaned in, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Because now they know how good I’ve got it.” His face paled, “you’re completely unhinged.”

You grinned. “And you love it.” Mark didn’t deny it—but he did check over his shoulder to make sure none of the employees were following before scooping you up and taking off into the sky.

“Home. Now,” he muttered. “Aw, what’s the rush?” you teased. He didn’t answer. But his ears were still red. “I have an idea, how about we fuck in the sky?”

“NO!”

Mark landed a little too fast on the front porch, barely giving you time to steady yourself before he was unlocking the door like a man trying to escape a war zone. You stepped in behind him, still grinning like a cat who’d eaten every canary.

“Hey, Mom!” Mark called out, voice way too high-pitched as he tried to act normal. Debbie poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Oh hey, you two. You’re back early—was the movie bad?”

Mark laughed. It was the kind of laugh people do when they’re covering up a murder. “Yep! Terrible! Really bad. Just awful. Definitely didn’t finish it.”

You strolled in casually, plopping onto the couch like you owned the place. “I thought it was great.” Mark gave you a look. You just smiled sweetly. Debbie narrowed her eyes slightly. “…You didn’t get kicked out, did you?”

“Whaaat? No,” you said, voice syrupy. “People are just so uptight these days.” Mark gave you a sharp elbow nudge and fake-laughed again. “She’s kidding. Nobody got kicked out. Totally fine. Everyone’s great.”

Debbie hummed, clearly not convinced but too tired to press. “Well, I’m making dinner, if you want some.”

“I’ll eat later,” you said, already stretching out across the couch like a lounging queen. “We’re gonna go upstairs for a bit.” Mark nearly choked. “We’re not—no. We’re staying downstairs.” You pouted. “But your room’s comfier. And it has a lock.”

Debbie raised an eyebrow. Mark practically launched himself between you and his mom. “We’re just gonna… watch something! On TV. Something G-rated.” You rested your chin on your hand, eyes gleaming. “But what if I wanna watch you instead?”

Mark turned to you so fast it looked like he might pass out. “Please,” he whispered, “she’s right there.”

You just leaned closer. “Then keep quiet, Mark. Or she might hear us again.” Debbie’s head snapped toward the hallway. “Again?”

“NOPE!” Mark grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the back door. “We’re going out! Walk. Flight. Whatever. Outside time!”

“Fine,” you said, laughing as he hauled you outside again, ears bright red and hands shaking.

“You’re actually going to kill me,” he mumbled. “And you’re still taking me upstairs later,” you replied, already plotting.

The little dessert café was quiet, lit up by warm yellow lights and the soft clink of silverware. It smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh-baked sugar—peaceful, calming, totally normal.

Which is exactly why Mark finally started to relax.

He stood in front of the glass display case, brow furrowed in intense concentration. “Which one should I get?” he murmured, hands on his hips. “They all look so good…”

There were cherry, banana cream, chocolate silk, key lime, pumpkin, pecan—rows and rows of perfect, untouched slices.

Behind him, you were casually checking your nails like you hadn’t just been banned from ever returning to a certain movie theater. “Hmm… that’s a tough one,” you said airily.

He glanced back at you, eyes narrowed playfully. “What would you get?”

You smirked, stepping close enough that he tensed slightly. “Wanna know what my favorite pie is?” you asked, voice like sugar and sin.

Mark raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. “Which one?”

You leaned up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Cream pie.”

He choked.

The woman behind the counter startled, blinking. “Uh—are you okay, sir?”

Mark coughed into his fist, nodding frantically. “Y-Yeah! I’m great! Totally fine. Allergic to… to flour. I mean flowers. It’s fine.”

You just stood beside him, absolutely glowing with delight.

He turned his head slowly, eyes wide. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I make life more interesting,” you said sweetly. “And you’re cuter when you’re panicking.”

He groaned and pointed blindly at the case. “I’ll take anything that doesn’t remind me of this conversation.”

The cashier handed over a slice of banana cream. You cackled.

Mark sat across from you in the little booth by the window, glaring down at his slice of banana cream pie like it had personally betrayed him.

You, on the other hand, were stirring your milkshake with a spoon, lips pursed in exaggerated concentration. “Mmm,” you murmured, swirling the whipped cream just right. “I love how thick it is…”

Mark didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

You dipped the spoon in slowly, letting it glide between your lips with a soft pop. “So sweet,” you sighed, eyelids fluttering. “And it just… slides right down.”

Mark finally lifted his eyes, jaw clenched, face flushed deep red. “I’m begging you. Just one night. One normal night where you don’t try to seduce me in public.”

You smiled innocently, licking a bit of whipped cream off the tip of your finger. “I’m just enjoying my dessert, babe.”

“You’re enjoying it like we’re on Cinemax.”

You giggled, then tilted your head. “Hey, what’s that thing called again? Where the filling drips out when you cut into it?”

“…A lava cake?” You smirked. “Yeah. Just thinking about what I could make erupt.”

Mark dropped his fork with a loud clatter and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“And yet, you keep trying,” you purred, leaning forward. “Wanna share a bite?”

“No. You’re gonna do something awful with it.” You stuck the spoon in your mouth again—slow, indulgent, absolutely obscene. “Awful? Or unforgettable?”

Mark groaned, pushing his plate away. “I’m full.” You raised a brow. “Not for long, you’re not.” He looked around like he was hoping for a natural disaster to take him out of this booth. No such luck.

You were mid-sip, eyes locked on Mark like you were planning to devour him for dessert instead of the pie, when the server returned with a bright smile and zero awareness of the nuclear tension at the table.

“Everything tasting alright?” she asked cheerfully.

Mark straightened in his seat, shoving his fork back into his pie like he hadn’t just been spiritually assaulted by your milkshake theatrics. “Great! Everything’s great! Super normal and not weird at all.”

The server blinked, clearly thrown. “Okay… well, if you two need anything else, just let me—”

“He needs a second to breathe,” you said with a faux whisper, giving her a wink. “Boy’s overwhelmed.”

The girl blinked again. Then her eyes flicked to Mark’s very red ears, the death grip he had on his fork, and your smug grin. Her smile froze. “Oh,” she said. “You’re… that kind of couple.”

Mark almost died right there.

“We’re just gonna get the check,” he croaked, shoving his money into her hands like he was paying to escape a hostage situation.

You waved as she walked off stiffly. “She’s just mad she didn’t get a taste of your pie.”

“Can you not?!” Mark hissed, dragging you out of the booth.

A few minutes (and a very silent flight) later…

You landed on his rooftop, the night air cool and quiet.

Mark didn’t speak at first. Just unlocked the door, opened it, and stood there with a look of pure exhaustion.

“I am begging you,” he said as you slipped past him, “begging, for just ten minutes where you don’t try to ruin my life with a single sentence.”

You stretched your arms lazily, walking backwards into his room. “I didn’t ruin anything. I made it memorable.”

Mark followed you in and closed the door with a soft click. “Memorable is what people say when they’re trying to forget trauma.”

You turned, slow and deliberate, eyes gleaming. “So you are traumatized?”

“I’m something,” he muttered, but even his glare was soft. Defeated.

You stepped in close, pressing a finger to his chest. “You could stop me, you know.”

He swallowed hard. “…Could I?”

You smiled. “You never do.”

Mark opened his mouth to respond—and then sighed, hands landing on your hips. “God help me.”

You leaned up, whispering against his lips, “He’s not the one you should be praying to tonight.”

Morning sunlight spilled into the room, warm and soft through the curtains. Mark stirred beneath the blankets, hair a mess, arm thrown lazily around your waist.

You were already awake, scrolling through your phone, your leg draped over his. Content, smug.

The door creaked open. Debbie stepped in holding a laundry basket, then froze in the doorway. Her eyes landed on the scattered clothes by the foot of the bed, then the shape of her son tangled up with you under the covers.

She said nothing. Just raised her eyebrows, slowly backed out of the room, and closed the door with a solid click.

Mark groaned into your shoulder. “Please tell me that wasn’t—”

“It was,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “I can never look her in the eye again.” You turned on your side to face him. “Told you we should’ve locked the door.”

“You were the one who said it was hot if we didn’t.”

“I regret nothing.”

He sighed, eyes closing again. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” You grinned, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Better die happy, then.”

“Will you stop saying that?!”

Mark came down the stairs, rubbing the back of his neck, still trying to shake the awkwardness of the morning. Debbie was already at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee and flipping through a magazine.

She didn’t look up. “So… you and Y/N.” Mark groaned immediately. “Please don’t.”

“I’m your mother. I’m supposed to talk to you about this.”

“We’re not—” he paused, sighed, then muttered, “Can we not do this right now? Or ever?”

Debbie gave him a pointed look over the rim of her mug. “Just make sure you’re being safe. I’m serious, Mark. Protection, responsibility, communication—”

“I know,” he said quickly, face flushed. “God, Mom—” Wet footsteps padded down the stairs. You appeared in the doorway, hair damp, towel slung around your neck, fully dressed in one of Mark’s shirts and a pair of shorts. You looked between them, clocking the tension instantly. “What’s going on?”

Debbie raised her brows. “I was just reminding your boyfriend here about the importance of safe sex.”

You blinked, then shrugged. “I don’t know what the big deal is. Safe sex is important.”

Mark buried his face in his hands. Debbie smiled over her mug. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“No problem, everyone knows you wrap it before you tap it.” You said, walking past Mark and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Besides… we do talk about everything.” Mark groaned. “I need to go back to space.”

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #invincible x fem!reader #invincible x you #invincible x reader #debbie grayson #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x fem!reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible #invincible smut #mark grayson

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sh4nksslvt · 5 days ago

Text

Taste Like Home

When Luffy catches you getting a little too friendly with another crew, he pulls you aside mid-adventure to reclaim your lips—and remind you exactly who you belong to.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, ooc, jealous luffy, chaotic romance a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe n akward word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Luffy was not the jealous type. At least, not openly.

He didn’t throw tantrums. He didn’t scowl. He didn’t sulk (okay, maybe a little). But when he missed you, when his chest ached in that weird, warm way it did only when you weren’t close enough—he did act.

It started with a weird silence during breakfast.

You were laughing at something Sanji said while Luffy... just stared at you from across the table, pancake hanging halfway out of his mouth. Big, dark eyes locked onto yours like a hawk, not blinking, not smiling—just watching.

You had to wave a hand in front of his face.

“Yo, Captain Daydream, you good?”

He blinked slowly, tilted his head. “You smell different.”

You raised a brow. “Hygiene. You should try it sometime.”

He didn’t laugh. Just got up and walked around the table, leaning close enough that you had to lean back.

“You’re not wearing my shirt,” he murmured.

The crew froze.

Zoro snorted into his cup. “Are we at that stage now?”

You rolled your eyes. “It was dirty, Lu. I washed it.”

Luffy’s mouth twisted like that was the worst answer imaginable.

The crew had docked on Coral Cove Island—a little fishing town lined with rainbow-painted docks and salty air. The mission was simple: stock up, unwind, don’t blow up any buildings this time.

You, of course, had wandered off with your own list and ended up running into a friendly crew called the Shellbacks. They were loud, fun, and competitive. Naturally, you’d challenged their swordsman to a spar, beat him in five minutes, and somehow became their new honorary crewmate by the time Luffy arrived.

And Luffy?

He didn’t like that.

He sat on the nearby barrels, arms crossed, hat low over his eyes while you ruffled one of the Shellback’s hair and cheered at their stories.

“Y/N,” he called out flatly.

You turned. “Yeah?”

“Time to go.”

You blinked. “I just got here—”

“We’re leaving.”

Your eyes narrowed. He was already walking away, back tense.

The Shellbacks looked at you with raised brows.

You sighed. “Guess Captain needs his emotional support human.”

“Okay, what’s up with you?”

You caught up with him halfway down the dock, tugging on his vest until he stopped. His jaw was set, pout forming.

“You were gonna stay with them instead of me.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “We were talking.”

“You sparred with their swordsman.”

“And?”

“You laughed like you do with me.”

You paused. That made your brows furrow, a little sting in your heart at how small his voice got.

“Lu... are you—jealous?”

He squinted at you. “I don’t know. I just didn’t like it. You’re my crew. My favorite.”

You softened. Luffy didn’t know the words for most feelings, but he felt them hard. Deep. All-consuming.

“I wasn’t replacing you,” you said gently. “You’re kind of... impossible to replace.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth. “Still not wearing my shirt.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm.”

And then he stepped close—one hand sliding to your waist, another catching your chin.

“Lu?”

“Just wanna check something.”

And he kissed you.

It started soft. Almost unsure. His lips moved over yours like he was remembering the shape of them. His hand tightened around your waist as his nose brushed your cheek, breath warm and sweet with leftover syrup.

Then you kissed back.

Your hands fisted in his vest, pulling him close, swallowing the low noise that rumbled in his throat. Luffy pushed forward, walking you backward until your back hit a wooden post. His hat tilted with the movement, casting both your faces in shadow. He grinned against your mouth.

“You still taste like me,” he murmured.

You tugged his hair lightly. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I missed your flavor.”

You laughed. “You’re such a dork—”

He kissed you again, harder this time.

His tongue swept past your lips without warning, and you gasped—he stole the sound, lips slanting deeper, chest pressing to yours. You melted, caught between the warm wood and your captain’s sun-kissed body.

By the time he pulled back, both of you were breathless.

He licked his lips.

“Still missed it.”

You wheezed. “You’re insatiable.”

Luffy just grinned. “Duh. I’m a pirate shishishi.”

By the time you got back to the Sunny, your face still felt warm.

Nami raised a brow. “You two disappear and now your mouth’s swollen?”

“Bitten by jealousy,” you mumbled.

Luffy happily dropped down next to her. “I won.”

She blinked. “Won what?”

He wrapped his arm around your waist from behind, pulling you down beside him. “Y/N.”

You squirmed. “I’m not a prize—”

“You’re my prize,” he said, absolutely shameless.

Zoro grunted. “Disgusting.”

Usopp nodded solemnly. “I agree for once.”

Luffy just nuzzled into your neck, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re not allowed to taste like anyone else.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

You found yourself unable to sleep. The sea was calm, the sky blanketed with stars, and the moonlight pooled silver across the Sunny’s deck.

Luffy found you again. He always did.

You felt his presence before you heard him—warmth against your back, arms curling around your middle.

“I meant it,” he said into your neck.

You leaned back into him. “I know.”

He tilted your chin again, gaze heavy with something almost too intense to name.

“I don’t know how to say it like Sanji or that talking snail you like—”

You chuckled. “It’s called a novel.”

“Whatever. But I do know you’re mine.”

You raised a brow. “Oh, possessive now?”

His grin widened. “SHISHISHI only with you!”

He kissed you again—slower, deeper, hands tracing your hips with the kind of reverence usually reserved for treasure maps. You arched into it, threading your fingers through his hair, gasping softly when he licked into your mouth like he had all the time in the world.

He did. For you.

He was the Pirate King in the making, after all.

And you? You were already the treasure.

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #idk man #idk what im doing #fluff #monkey d. luffy #luffy #one piece luffy #straw hat luffy #op luffy #monkey d luffy #luffy x you #luffy x reader #straw hat pirates #straw hat crew

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hoshifighting · 7 months ago

Note

hihi i love your work and writing soo much and i wad hoping if you could do seventeen reacting to their s/o calling them their husband when they aren't married yet (i hope this makes sense lol) 💗💗

seventeen reaction to you calling them your 'husband'

seungcheol: he goes from zero to full blush in a second. he freezes, hand halfway reaching for his wallet, and then he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “husband? me? you just made my day, you know that?” he says, all smug, but his ears are bright red.

jeonghan: raises an eyebrow, smirking like you’ve just revealed your master plan. “oh, husband? so, we’re skipping the proposal, straight to the good part?” he teases, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “alright then, what else does your husband want?”

joshua: he’s shy about it, glancing around like he’s hoping the drive-thru person heard it too. then he smiles all soft and leans in close, whispering, “you calling me your husband now? can’t wait to make that official,” and suddenly you’re the one blushing.

junhui: sparkles with pride, looking at you like you just handed him the moon. “husband? well, that’s a promotion if i’ve ever heard one!”

hoshi: it takes him a second to catch it, but once he does? game over. he’s literally bouncing in his seat, grabbing your arm like, “wait, did you just call me husband?!” practically shouting, “babe, i can’t believe you just said that!”

woozi: completely silent, but his face goes bright red. he looks away, clearly trying to hide his shy smile, don't say anything, but thinks about it all day tho, until he cant hold it anymore. “babe... you—we in drive-thru you—umm.. called me husband?”

wonwoo: his lips twitch up into a small smile “husband?” he repeats, liking how it sounds. then he raises an eyebrow. “guess i should start acting the part. anything else my spouse needs?”

minghao: smirks immediately, leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms. “didn’t know you were so forward,” he says all casually, but his cheeks are pink. “but hey, if you wannaaaa start calling me that, i’m not.. complaining.”

mingyu: he’s so shocked he practically yelps. “husband? me?!” he’s grinning like a little kid, unable to hide how thrilled he is. “i can’t believe you just called me that! like, actually? oh my god! did you hear that?” he asks to the attendant.

seokmin: his eyes go wide, jaw dropping as he looks at you in disbelief. “wait… did you just say husband?” he starts laughing out of pure joy... or nervousness, grabbing your hand. “you can’t just drop that on me like that! guess we’re getting serious now?”

seungkwan: “oh my god, did everyone hear that? husband!” he’s clutching his chest like he’s swooning, acting like it’s the best compliment he’s ever gotten. “if this is how you’re gonna talk to me, we better start planning a wedding.”

vernon: just stares at you with those big eyes, blinking like he’s processing what you said. then he breaks into a shy smile, looking down. “um.. first you need to talk with my momma about it” he jokes quietly, a little flustered.

chan: “husband? oh, we’re there already? are you readey? cause im am ready and—” he laughs. “not gonna lie, i kinda like the sound of that.”

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dearlenore · 25 days ago

Text

AN ‘I FEEL’ STATEMENT. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer and you interrogate a suspect

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.7K / ???

a/n: guess who this is based on and win a cookie

Spencer didn’t even look up when you barged into the motel room.

“Don’t say it,” he said, flipping a page in the case file.

You froze in the doorway, still halfway through pulling off your FBI jacket. “Say what?”

“That the crime scene smelled like expired deli meat and failure.”

You made a face. “Okay, rude. That’s classic FBI fieldwork ambiance.”

He looked up and smirked. “You’re predictable.”

You tossed your jacket on the chair and flopped onto the bed beside him. “You like me because I’m predictable.”

“I love you in spite of it.”

You stuck your tongue out and stole the file from his hands. “Alright, Dr. Sass, what do we know?”

“Third victim, male, 30s, found in an alley behind a gas station that sells ‘hot dogs’ that may or may not be actual meat,” Spencer replied with a snarky tone , leaning back against the headboard. “Ligature marks, same positioning as the first two. Garcia’s running facial rec now.”

You flipped through the photos. “This guy looks like my ex.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Which one? Also…You dated a guy with a neck tattoo that says Loyalty Over Everything?”

“He had a motorcycle and a soft spot for cats. It was a phase…. And the tattoo said ‘I’m a dick’ in Chinese.”

“I sincerely hope your standards have risen.”

You gave him a smug look. “Please. I’m dating a literal genius with three PhDs. I upgraded.”

He hummed. “Four soon.”

“Whatever,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’re basically the FBI’s version of a trophy husband.”

He blinked. “Are you saying I’m your trophy husband?”

“Yeah. Except instead of a yacht I got… trauma and access to crime scenes. I guess?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Romantic.”

You snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

For a while, you worked in comfortable silence, both reading over the files. The motel TV buzzed in the background, playing a rerun of some bad soap opera where the acting was worse than your last polygraph subject.

“So,” you said eventually, “you think this guy’s trying to make a point? The symmetry, the posing, the weird ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ energy of it all?”

Spencer looked thoughtful. “He’s definitely performing. But it’s subtle. Less drama, more… statement.”

“Like a TED Talk, but make it murder.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. “I fucking hate Ted talks, people who talk for hours like that are so annoying.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Speak for yourself. I’m adorable.”

“You’re adorable in a ‘my girlfriend wants to kick my ass daily’ kind of way.”

“To be fair, you want to kick everyone’s ass. Some more sensually than others.”

“HEY! Me and Emily had a deal. Have you seen— actually don’t answer that I’d have to kill you.”

“I find you so oddly attractive.” He said, looking a bit perplexed by his own taste.

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You always say that like you’re surprised.”

Spencer gave you a soft look, the kind he saved for when the world got too heavy. “I’m not. You’re annoying and incredible.”

You grinned. “Aw. You’re such a sap when we’re surrounded by homicide photos. You should be more mindful of the dead,”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He leaned in to kiss you, brief and warm. Then he stole the case file back like the nerd he was.

“Fine,” you said, standing up and stretching. “I’ll go see if Morgan found anything useful, or if he’s just flirting with the local deputy again.”

“Tell him if she has a cowboy hat, he has my blessing.”

You grabbed your jacket, pausing at the door. “If I get shot, tell the team I died being hotter than all of them.”

Spencer looked up with a totally deadpan expression and whistled. “That goes without saying.”

You blew him a kiss and shut the door behind you, already drafting what you’d say to Morgan when you saw him.

Eventually , you’d caught the guy.

The suspect sat cuffed to the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between cocky and confused. He’d asked for a lawyer three times. The team knew it. So did you. But now he was suddenly cooperative—and you had a feeling that had less to do with his conscience and more to do with the fact that Morgan had promised he’d be “dealing with Dr. Reid next.”

What he didn’t know?

He was getting both of you.

You stepped into the interrogation room, Spencer behind you, both of you in sync like you were about to perform a synchronized FBI ballet—but with more psychological warfare.

Outside the one-way glass, Morgan muttered, “This’ll be interesting.”

Inside the room, you dropped into the chair across from the suspect and offered a sugary smile.

“Hi, Marcus. Love the scowl. Very tough guy who definitely has never cried in a 90s Honda civic. Or was it a Toyota?”

Spencer sat beside you, calm and collected, opening the file in front of him like he was about to politely destroy a man’s entire worldview.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “So they sent the nerd and the girlfriend?”

You smiled wider. “Aw. You think I’m just the girlfriend. That’s cute.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “Statistically, assuming a woman is less competent in a professional setting increases the likelihood of public humiliation by seventy-three percent. But don’t worry, we’ll keep it between us.”

“For real? You just know that?” The suspect hissed.

“No asshole, I made it up…” Spencer mumbled, still looking at the file and reading it closely.

You slid the photo across the table—victim number two. “Let’s talk about this guy. You were seen outside his apartment the night he was killed. Coincidence, or did ya get the first time murder jitters?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Spencer’s voice was deceptively light. “We didn’t say you did. You said that. Interesting.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Also interesting? That your fingerprints were on the door handle, and the doormat has your boot tread on it. You’re either involved or you’re just deeply nosy.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe I was there. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, honey,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet. “People like you never do things for no reason. You can’t even microwave instant soup without making it about your masculinity.”

Spencer coughed like he was covering a laugh.

“Also if you’re microwaving soup shame on you. Put it in a damn pot on the stove like the rest of us.” You groaned, knowing damn well you did it yesterday.

“Look,” Marcus said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t have to say anything to you.”

You looked around the room , faux confusion on your face. He literally asked for you?

Spencer tapped the table twice. “Totally fair. You’re exercising your rights. But just to clarify, you’re not denying you were there. So if we subpoena your phone, we’re not going to be shocked by GPS data, right?”

You leaned toward Spencer and whispered loudly, “Is this the part where we pretend we don’t already have that?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes, for dramatic effect.”

Marcus shifted. “You’re bluffing.”

“Buddy,” you said, leaning back. “The FBI does two things really well: crush dreams and ruin lives. And my boyfriend here’s got a PhD in both.”

Spencer added, “Technically only one, but I did minor in destroying egos.”

“Oh for real? That’s fine I have a masters in being better than most people and humbling men. I think that’ll suffice.” You replied.

Outside the glass, JJ blinked. “Are they… flirting? In the middle of an interrogation?”

Hotch muttered, “I think it’s working?”

Back inside, the suspect was starting to sweat, his earlier confidence deflating like a balloon at a sad birthday party.

You pulled out another photo—this time of Marcus’s ex, who had filed a restraining order last year. You dropped it gently on the table.

Spencer’s voice was quiet. “She’s scared of you.”

“And she was like 16.”

Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor as Spencer flipped to the next page in the file.

“Her name was Emily,” he said calmly, tapping the paper. “She filed for a restraining order at sixteen. Updated it again when she turned seventeen.”

Marcus scoffed. “She was—she acted older than she was.”

You blinked. Spencer’s jaw twitched.

“Oh wow,” you said, leaning forward. “Do you have an I feel statement about that?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, like—‘I feel like I want to date children’?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the vibe I’m getting too. Really leaning into the predator energy.”

“I’m not a predator,” Marcus snapped, defensive now, angry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Spencer arched a brow. “We literally read your search history.”

You added, “And the restraining order. And the texts. And your very creative Reddit username.”

“Subtle wasn’t your strong suit,” Spencer muttered.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “So here’s what we do know about you, Marcus: you’re insecure, violent when women say no, and very interested in people who are still in Algebra II. That about cover it?”

He opened his mouth—then shut it again.

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, before glancing over at Spencer with a grin. “See? We’re so good at this.”

He smiled back. “Terrifyingly good.”

“You think this is funny?” Marcus snapped, finally rattled. “This little good cop, bad cop thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good cop? You sweet summer child.”

“We’re not good cop, bad cop,” Spencer added helpfully. “We’re bad cop, worse cop.”

“I’m worse,” you chimed in. “Obviously.”

Spencer nodded. “That tracks.”

Marcus was silent, jaw tense.

You leaned in again, tone shifting. “Look. You talk to us, you get some control back. You don’t, and we throw this entire file at the prosecutor and let them tear you apart. Your call.”

Spencer added, “Statistically, cooperating suspects receive lighter sentences. Not that you seem like a man who cares about consequences, given your stunning history of rage texting and unpaid parking tickets… and dating children.”

You smiled. “Seriously, ten tickets? What are you, allergic to parallel parking?”

Marcus stared at the table, finally cracking.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered.

You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

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