#someone else's solid ground

[eyesontheskyline]

just dropping a line to tell you that “someone else’s solid ground” is one of the most beautiful, accurately characterized (imo) hotchniss fics I’ve read over the past 10+ years 🫶🏻 stunning work

Omg thank you so much, that's so lovely to hear. It was my first thing back after a big break from writing anything and like 8 years or something after I last wrote for CM so I was pretty terrified.

I'm deep in 'I'm a disaster who will never write another good sentence' mode right now so I appreciate you letting me know you liked it! I had the best time writing it.

(Here it is, just in case.)

[imthatwannabeauthor]

.

[david-watts]

I'm so upset. just upset. I'm not even angry like usual I just want to cry

[dollfacefantasy]

caleb x fem!reader

you and caleb used to play fight a lot, but things are different now that you're older

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fauxcest, dry humping

a/n: um hehe just a small drabble cause i've been thinking... also i like the pipsqueak thing idgaf kiss me about it. imagine this takes place when she’s staying with him.

"isn't this around the time you'd usually cry mercy, pipsqueak?" he breathes, his smooth voice warming the air next to your ear.

a small grunt escapes you as you try to lift your arm to shove him off. your effort is pointless though. his grip tightens around your wrist, and he brings your limb back down to the floor without much effort.

“caleb, quit it!” you whine.

he just laughs at you. his body doesn’t move away an inch. he stays right where he his, hovering over your smaller frame.

the two of you used to play fight all the time as kids. you’d squabble over the remote or your toys. whiny arguments would morph into a small scuffle, a test of wills. so it felt natural today to lunge at him when he held the book you wanted to read just out of reach. getting physical made sense. you’d been so agitated with him keeping you here, you needed to blow off some steam. it just didn’t feel so good when reality set in as he wrestled you down to the floor like always.

“it’s not funny,” you say and try to jam your knee up into his abs.

he dodges the move and continues to smirk at you. “maybe not to you. but it’s pretty funny from up here. pretty cute too,” he teases.

you scowl, squirming some more. in your younger years, you’d always been able to fight back a little. you’d lose in the end, sure, but victory had been in reach a few times. now, caleb is stronger. he’s bigger, and he doesn’t fight like a scrappy high school kid but rather someone with training. you’re starting to realize you have no chance now, and part of you wonders if you ever did. or maybe he’d been going easy on you.

as if to taunt you, he slides your arms up above your head and grabs both your wrists with one hand. even with his other one free, he keeps you pinned with the same amount of force. it’s fucking humiliating. you feel your cheeks starting to heat up as he drags the back of his fingers along your jaw, cooing at you.

“you always used to get so angry like this too. so frustrated. you’d think you would’ve learned not to start fights you can’t win,” he mocks.

his thumb comes to sweep along your cheekbone, back in forth in slow strokes. he stares into your eyes while he does, almost studying you. it gets you heated for a whole other reason you don’t even want to acknowledge.

“get off of me,” you squeak, your voice much less aggressive now.

“maybe i will if you beg enough,” he taunts, “if you use your manners and say please like a good girl, i’ll consider it.”

“shut up!” you say. you kick a few more times and buck your hips to try and get loose.

in response, he grabs your hip with his free hand and slams it back to the ground. you let out a little growl, assuming you’ll have to restrategize. but then he pushes his pelvis down on top of yours.

you gasp. all the fight leaves you in a harsh blow because now, unlike any of the other times you play fought with him, you feel a solid bulge pressing between your legs.

your eyes widen, and you sputter. you’re sure you look totally stupid right now. but you don’t know what else to do. there’s no question about it. he’s got a boner, and he’s rubbing it right up against you.

“i told you. you’re not gonna win. might as well surrender,” he says. he speaks in a completely even tone, as if nothing is different.

“c-caleb. what are you doing?” you start, “don’t be weird.”

“i’m not being weird,” he defends with feigned innocence, “we always used to mess around like this. what’s got you all shy now?”

you know why he’s asking. because he knows you won’t say it. the answer is so easy, yet you can’t bring the words to leave your lips.

“you know what,” you whine softly.

he chuckles and leans in even closer to your face. “maybe i do. but i don’t think that it’s weird. we’re not kids anymore. you can’t whine and wriggle around like that and expect me not to react,” he murmurs.

your heart beats harder in your chest. you can feel every thump. before you can say anything in return, he grinds his hips again, rolling his hardened length right up against you. and this time, it feels good.

“i- caleb- we can’t,” you whimper, biting your lip.

“we can’t? we can’t what? we’re not doing anything,” he says before grinning at you, “it doesn’t count if it’s over the clothes.”

you want to smack him, but both your arms are still immobile.

“it’s still weird. we’ve never- i don’t see you like this,” you insist, though the last statement is a complete lie.

he tsks and shakes his head before pushing his erection between your legs for another time. this one draws a whine out of you. his hips jump forward at the sound, but he doesn’t let his face show that burst of desire.

“what do you see me like then?” he whispers.

silence fills the air between the two of you as you fail to answer. you know what you see him as. you know your crush on him goes back years. you know what fantasies fill your head at night when you’re alone.

but you also know how you want to see him. what you’re supposed to see him as. what you’ve tried to limit his role to for so long.

“it’s ok,” he finally says, “i won’t make you say it if it’s that hard. but i know you like this. i know you, remember?”

he grinds against you again, but this time it’s not only once. now he sets himself into a rhythm, consistent swings of his hips against your center.

“i know when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re ashamed,” he says, “i know when you want something, but you’re too scared to ask.”

ducking in, he kisses your neck. you moan in response, putting no effort into suppressing the noise now.

“that’s right, princess. your big brother knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?” he coos mockingly.

“caleb!” you whine. you internally cringe at both titles, but outwardly, your face still contorts with pleasure.

“what?” he laughs, “that’s what you were gonna say before, wasn’t it?”

“but i didn’t,” you whimper.

“but you thought it, and it’s all the same to me,” he teases.

he refocuses his mouth on your neck again. his lips move over the column of your throat while his cock continues pressing right on your pussy. it feels better by the second. maybe it’s because he’s kissing your neck too, you’re not really sure. all you know is the hot, sparkling feeling in your stomach is building.

nipping at your pulse point, he then sucks on the skin like he wants to leave a mark. his tongue laves at it for a few moments before he pulls off.

“i’m gonna let go of your arms. you’re gonna behave, ok?” he mumbles against your skin.

“mhm,” you whimper and nod. the overt submission feels pathetic, but losing the feeling of him would be even worse.

“good girl,” he praises.

he keeps his word and releases his hold on your wrists. the air feels cool on your skin that’s all warmed up from his hands. now with his other arm in use, he can snake one around your ass and boost your hips. the new angle allows him to thrust against you harder.

“fuck, baby,” he grunts. you feel his lashes brush your neck as his eyes flutter.

your arms loop over his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. more little mewls spill from your lips. you can feel his stiff length sliding right up against your folds through your clothes. every swipe brings a blissful burst of friction to your poor throbbing clit.

“there you go. i got you. big brother’s got you,” he mumbles mindlessly. he chokes out a moan into your shoulder as his hips move like they have a mind of their own.

your body starts to squirm more. that hot feeling inside is reaching a boiling point. you clutch at his shirt, your nails digging in so hard they threaten to tear the fabric. the constant push and pull of his lower half is nearly hypnotic. it seems like you’ll be under him forever while also on the brink of letting go.

after a few moments more, he pulls back to look at you. his eyelids hang low, heavy with his desire for you.

“god, you’re so pretty. so fuckin’ beautiful now,” he says and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes shut while your breaths mingle. “i knew you wanted this too. just look at you. almost falling apart, and i haven’t even really touched you. i knew no one else could do this better.”

all you can do is whimper softly and cling to him harder. you pull on him as if trying to pull him into your body, to meld your two beings into one. the pressure down below feels dull and muted, but it’s blooming nonetheless.

“yeah… you’re gonna cum all over your pretty panties,” he mutters, “get ‘em all nice and wet so i can have some fun with ‘em later.”

“caleb…” you whine, useful words falling out of your grasp in this moment. one of your hands flies up and laces in his hair. your fingers clench into a fist, giving the strands a sharp tug.

he groans and bucks his hips extra hard. “c’mon. cum for me, baby. let me make my sweet little angel cum,” he murmurs.

it really doesn’t take much to get you there. the friction burn he’s rutting you both into works, and you feel yourself hit the high. euphoria rushes through you. a little breathy whine erupts from your lips. your back arches off the floor, but he keeps you cradled against him securely.

the whole time you’re cumming, he’s still humping you like his life depends on it. it’s when you start to come down, that he finally explodes. he buries his face in your neck, letting out the loudest moan you’ve heard so far. his arms tighten up around your frame as his fingers dig into your malleable flesh.

his hips jolt forward in random twitches now, chasing the last remnants of release while he spills inside his pants.

when he’s done, his breaths are harsh and labored. he nuzzles the crook of your neck before kissing your cheek and receding off your body. his palm runs over his face lazily.

“fuck, i gotta change now,” he says, not bothering to look down at the dark patch at the front of his pants.

without even really thinking about it, you reach forward for the waistline. you’re already craving more of him. but before your hand can get there, he takes your wrist.

“not so fast, pipsqueak. i think you should actually beat me before i let you have the real thing,” he smirks.

[cuntyji]

sorry for the angst i posted before idk what was wrong with me (i was grieving)

it had been way too long since gojo left. you knew he was busy with work, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. so when you heard the sound of your front door opening, you practically sprinted across the room.

“toru!” you called out, eyes lighting up as you saw that stupid white hair and those stupidly pretty eyes behind his even stupider sunglasses.

but just as you reached out, you smacked into something. something very solid. you recoiled, blinking in surprise.

oh. infinity. you should’ve known.

“uh-uh,” gojo wagged a finger, smirking. “password first.” you sighed dramatically, crossing your arms. “seriously?”

“do i look like i’m joking?”

“you always look like you’re joking.”

“that’s because i’m a funny guy.”

“you’re something, alright.”

“aw, babe, you’re sooo in love with me,” he cooed, placing a hand over his heart.

you rolled your eyes, but the way your lips twitched betrayed your amusement. still, you weren’t about to let him win that easily. so, instead of giving in, you decided to be difficult.

“fine. password is… gojo sucks.”

his smirk widened. “mm, wrong answer.”

you tried again. “password is… my boyfriend is a menace and i should’ve found someone else by now.”

“cold. so cold,” he said, feigning a dramatic shiver.

“password is…” you trailed off, tapping a finger to your chin, “gojo's a loser.” gojo gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d physically wounded him. “okay, now you’re just being mean.”

“oh, now i’m being mean?”

he gave you a pointed look. “say the real password and i’ll think about forgiving you.”

you huffed but finally relented, stepping closer to his barrier with a playful smile. “i love you, toru.”

in an instant, infinity dropped. before you could blink, he had you wrapped up in the tightest hug ever, lifting you off the ground as he spun you around. “satoru!” you laughed, gripping onto his shoulders. “i missed you,” he groaned into your neck, refusing to let go. “so, so much.”

“you were gone for two weeks.”

“might as well have been forever.”

you rolled your eyes, but your heart melted at the way he clung to you, like he was never going to let go. you ruffled his hair, chuckling when he leaned into your touch. “next time, just let me hug you,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“hmm.” he grinned against your skin. “nah. making you say ‘i love you’ first is way more fun.”

[jungwnies]

wreckage - charles leclerc

୨ৎ : pairing : charles leclerc x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : after a heated argument with charles, you watch in horror as his car crashes during a race

୨ৎ : genre : angst ୨ৎ : tws : car accident/injury, arguments/conflict, anxiety/panic, trauma, medical trauma. ୨ৎ : wc : 1318

part one | part two | part three | part four

They say life can change in the blink of an eye. One second, everything feels steady, solid, like the ground beneath your feet couldn’t possibly give way. And then it does. Maybe that’s the irony of it all—you never see it coming. Not really. You think you’re prepared, think you’ve braced yourself, but you’re never quite ready for the moment it all falls apart.

You fought this morning. Not just a little spat about something trivial—no, this was one of those fights that echoed louder than it should have. The kind that lingered, thick in the air, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth even hours later.

It wasn’t about anything catastrophic, either, but somehow, with Charles, the small things had a way of snowballing. His schedule. Your schedule. The time you didn’t have together. The things he didn’t say and the things you did.

“I’m trying, okay? You think it’s easy for me?” he’d snapped, his accent sharpening the edges of his words. “You know what this life is like.”

“Yeah, Charles, I do. But I also know you don’t get to use it as an excuse every single time something gets hard. I’m here, too, and I’m trying to make this work just as much as you are.”

His jaw had tightened, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting yours again. “Sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.”

You’d felt the sting of those words, like a slap across the face. But you weren’t one to back down, not even when the weight of his frustration pressed heavy on your chest.

“You don’t get to say that to me, not when I’m the one waiting, worrying, wondering if this is ever going to feel… stable. Do you know how hard it is to love someone who’s never really here?”

The silence that followed was deafening, his features a mix of hurt and anger, like he didn’t know which to lean into more. And then he’d said it.

“Maybe it’s hard because you don’t trust me enough to believe that I’m doing my best.”

You hadn’t answered, and maybe that was the problem. The fight ended there, not because either of you wanted it to but because there was no time to fix it. Not when he had a race to prepare for, and you had to pretend like none of this was tearing you apart from the inside out.

When you arrived at the paddock, it felt impossible to mask the weight of the argument. You greeted a few people with forced smiles, but you could see some of them watching you a little too closely. It didn’t help that Charles seemed just as tense, his jaw set and his usual ease nowhere to be found.

Carlos was the first to pull you aside, his brown eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned closer. “¿Qué pasa, eh? You look like someone stole your churros, and Charles… well, he looks worse. What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s fine.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Amiga, por favor. I know you, and I know him. Whatever this is, it’s not nothing.”

You sighed, glancing over your shoulder where Charles was talking to his engineers. “We just… had a fight this morning. It’s not a big deal.”

Carlos gave you a skeptical look. “Not a big deal? You’re both walking around like someone cancelled Christmas. If you’re not okay, neither is he. You should talk to him before the race.”

You hesitated, the memory of this morning’s argument still fresh in your mind. “I don’t want to distract him. He needs to focus.”

Carlos clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a small smile. “Tch. If you think he’s focusing now, you’re wrong. You being upset is a bigger distraction than anything else. Go.”

Reluctantly, you nodded and made your way toward Charles. He was still in deep conversation with one of his engineers, but when he saw you approaching, his expression softened—just slightly.

“Hey,” you said quietly, folding your arms across your chest.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice lower than usual. There was a pause, the tension between you lingering like a storm cloud.

“Good luck out there,” you finally said, your voice steadier than you felt. “I mean it. Be safe.”

Charles studied you for a moment, his green eyes searching yours. Then he nodded. “And… I’m sorry. For earlier.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, someone called for him, signaling it was time to get ready. He gave you one last look, then turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with words unsaid.

The race began, and for a while, the roar of engines and the blur of cars distracted you. Charles was in good form, holding his position, making clean overtakes. You found yourself exhaling with relief every time his car flashed across the screen.

But then it happened.

It was almost too fast to comprehend. One moment, Charles was rounding a corner, perfectly in control. The next, there was smoke, debris, and the sickening crunch of metal against metal.

Your heart stopped.

The commentators’ voices rose in panic, their words a jumbled mess that barely registered in your mind. “Oh no, that’s Leclerc… that’s a big one.”

Everything else faded—the noise of the crowd, the hum of your thoughts—until all that remained was the image of his car, mangled and still.

“Red flag,” one of them said, and that’s when it hit you. They’d stopped the race. It was bad.

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

The minutes crawled by like hours, every second another layer of dread settling in your chest. You kept your eyes glued to the screen, desperate for any sign, any update, anything to tell you he was okay.

When they finally cut to the scene, you saw the medics surrounding his car, moving quickly but carefully.

“He’s conscious,” one of the commentators said, and you felt a rush of air leave your lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Not until you saw him. Not until you heard him.

You thought back to the fight, to the last thing he said to you, and it made you sick to your stomach. This couldn’t be the last memory you had of him, the last words you exchanged. It couldn’t.

You were already reaching for your phone, dialing his team, someone, anyone who could give you more than the vague reassurance of the broadcast.

“Please,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “Please let him be okay.”

It’s strange, how quickly everything can unravel. You think you’ve got it all figured out, that the argument was just another bump in the road. But in the back of your mind, there’s always that voice whispering, telling you that things might never be the same.

And now, with every second that ticks by, your thoughts spiral, faster and faster, until you can’t breathe. What if this is it? What if those were the last words you ever said to him?

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but all you can see is that image of his car, broken and still. Your pulse races. You told him you loved him today, but did he really hear you? Was he ever truly certain, or was that last moment of tension, the words left unsaid, enough to make him doubt everything?

You hate this. You hate the fear gnawing at you. You hate that you're sitting here, helpless, as he’s out there fighting for his life. That feeling of powerlessness—it’s unbearable.

Please, you think again, clutching the phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. Please, don’t let this be the end.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[timmydraker]

During a patrol in Gotham one night, Red Robin comes across a strange sight.

A young woman stands over a crumpled body with a sling shot primed and ready, aimed a man with a rather large hand gun. It’s clear she’s protecting the woman who looks like she’s been hit over the head and had her bag nabbed, as it’s ripped and contents are spilled everywhere.

The girl sits shaking, she isn’t scared at all, standing strong with a shard of glass aimed at the man’s crotch.

Tim jumps down and disarms the man smoothly before turning to the young girl, who upon closer inspection seems to be around thirteen years old.

“Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head and stares at him for a moment with awe in his eyes before her eyes widen and she turns to the person behind her, “But she is! That guy was cornering her and I tried to help but he hit her and-“

“Alright, I understand. Would you like to help me get her to the ER a few blocks away?”

The girl nods with a determination Tim remembers seeing in Dick and Jason in their Robin days and he smiles.

He doesn’t ask her what her name is because side he knows he’ll follow up and find something to feel guilty about, but the girl seems to have her own plans.

She shows up a couple of days later, standing on a tall building with a cheap Robin outfit on.

Tim is confused before he drops down and she gives a big grin and mock salute, “How can I help?”

Tim smiled a little before shaking his head, “Taking the title of Robin, are you?”

She nods, now more bashful, “Well, I want to help people. I don’t want to fight exactly, but… well, sometimes you bats are too busy with the villains to notice the little guy and- bro to say you’re a bad hero-“

“You’re right, it’s okay. We can only do so much and sometimes preventing more damage being done saves more lives, but there will always be a cost.”

She smiles, bright orange, and impressively curly, hair getting in her eyes and sticking to the poor quality glue of her fake domino.

“I want to help. I… can help, please.”

Tim answers after a solid minute of silence, “What is your name?”

She frowns, “Aren’t I supposed to have a secret identity?”

He smiles in answer, “Yes, but I know what you look like and I can find out, I’m asking out of politeness.”

The girl looks like she could pout and Tim feels strangely old at the sight, even if he’s still got a few months before he can even legally drink.

“Carrie. Caroline to be specific.”

Tim smiles, “Well, Carrie, here’s the deal. I will meet you here or somewhere like here every night and until, and only until, you can land a hit on me will I agree to let you help.”

While Carrie doesn’t look pleased she nods, a clear sense of hope in her eyes even as she looks nervous.

She looses the first fight, and the second and third and fourth, but she gets better and better.

Tim doesn’t tell anyone about Carrie Kelly, nor does he tell her that he does end up doing a back ground check and finds two dead beat parents more focused on weed than their incredibly skilled daughter.

When she proves to be relentless in her desire to save lives he sends her to a teacher to help her stay hidden and safe. He’s not like Bruce, he doesn’t send her overseas to some dangerous people, but close by and to someone he trust to not hurt her nor tell anyone else about the strange young girl whose managed to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Selina Kyle is more than happy to take in the girl when she watches her sling shot fire crackers at muggers.

When Carrie comes back and meets Tim on a rooftop, she not only manages to hit him but knocks him off his feet.

Tim grins at her, pride filling his mind and making him understand Bruce just a little more.

But unlike Bruce, he isn’t throwing her into the fight at all.

Tim Drake is the one who pays for her school pills while her yippie parents refuse to work or spend money on her, and sends her real time footage of medical lectures in various collages across the country.

Carrie doesn’t become Robin, nor did she even wear that suit after the second night and he gave her a basic training outfit that properly covered her eyes and hair, but she does become something else.

She becomes Cardinal, the vigilante that swoops in to save civilians and provide the medical care that saves hundreds of people and allows the ambulances and hospitals to have a chance.

When she makes her debut the other bats worry about a new kid making bad choices, probably inspired by them, but Tim ignores it if only because he’s actually proud of her and trust her in a way he hasn’t trusted teammates in years.

After a year of this, a young girl asks for a meeting with Mister Tim Drake at his company and, purely so he wouldn’t have to do more pointless numbers, he lets her in after she passes the security check.

The girl who comes into his office is barely ten, cute little clips in her dark bob hair and a big book bag almost half her size behind her.

Tim recognised her instantly once he sees the bright yellow shoes she’s wearing.

This little girl, name Mia Mizoguchi, has been stalking him and Carrie for a few months now.

After he enrolled Carrie at Gotham Academy, the young girl nicknamed ‘Maps’ had been asking Carrie a lot of questions. Carrie had been good at avoiding incriminating answers, but had fallen for the younger girls clever trap as she casually spoke out infomation that could help with cases and Carrie delivered it back to Tim.

As soon as he realised that Maps had done exactly what he had done and figured out who Carrie was he was impressed. Because even if Carrie was new to the game, she had a skill for tricking people into looking away from her and had done well to stay low.

Maps had made the connection back to Tim, apparently.

Luckily, unlike Bruce, he wasn’t ignorant to their little stalker and actually knew her family from a few galas and charities. To be fair, Tim also wasn’t clouded by grief, but as he lets the girl explain how she totally doesn’t know who Red Robin is but if she did know who he was she would want him to know that a new drug trade route was actually being covered by a cotton candy company and she has over sixty pages worth of proof.

When he shows up to The Nest (named by Carrie) with Maps behind him, he finds Cardinal waiting with an excited gleam in her eyes.

Due to her being so young, Tim doesn’t allow Maps to go into the field until she’s the same age as both he and Carrie were, but she’s quick to show her worth taking over coms and doing an insanely detailed level of detective work that Tim can’t help but be a little jealous of.

Just like Carrie, who has been trying with Selina about only becoming Catgirl if Catwoman stops being a criminal for a few weeks now, he sends her to someone else for mentor ship.

Maps is a sweet girl, but she loves to talk and has a lot of friends who have most of the same interest, so he sends her to the one bat member he trust most.

Cassandra Cain immediately tells Tim that he has to adopt both of them and can’t quite understand why them both having living parents matters.

It’s Cass who gives Maps her vigilante name, Sparrow.

[norristrii]

HAUNTED.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you.” — Torn apart by break up, bound by work, haunted by each other’s voice.

pairing. Max Verstappen x journalist! fem! reader

warnings. angst (happy ending??), Max being a bit of dick, longer than I expected wtf??

babs’ notes. IN THE HONOR OF MAX’S WIN IN JAPAN! this race was well.. something. Guys ik I promised so close to 2 BUT for some reason i wrote chapter 3 & 4 first so it’s bit complicated.. give me time 😭

music. Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

JOURNALISM IN FORMULA 1 WASN’T JUST A CAREER—it was your dream, your passion, the goal you had spent years working towards. The roar of the engines, the adrenaline of race day, the stories waiting to be uncovered in every corner of the paddock—it all fascinated you. So when you finally landed your role, credentials swinging around your neck like a badge of honor, you felt like you had made it. This was where you belonged.

And then, there was him—Max Verstappen. The reigning champion, the so-called “arrogant” and “rude” driver who had built a reputation as much off the track as on it. Everyone talked about Max with a kind of reverence laced with caution, as if he were more of a storm than a man. A force of nature, unpredictable, intense. But the first time you met him, you realized there was so much more to him than the media’s caricature.

It wasn’t arrogance you saw when you interviewed him that day. It was focus, determination, an intensity that burned behind his sharp blue eyes—the kind of intensity only someone who had given their entire life to this sport could possess. His Dutch accent was strong, his words direct and unfiltered, but there was a warmth there too, hidden beneath the layers of his public persona. The kind of warmth that could make you question everything you thought you knew about him.

Max wasn’t just “arrogant” or “rude.” He was confident, unapologetically so, but not without reason. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Yet, in those fleeting moments when he looked at you, when he softened just slightly, you wondered if anyone else had ever seen this side of him—the side that wasn’t a storm at all but something quieter.

You had gotten closer to Max, much closer than you ever thought you would. It wasn’t just the quiet conversations away from the cameras or the way his sharp blue eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. It was the way he made you feel like you mattered—like you were the only person who could understand him in a world filled with noise and expectations. He ensured you loved him, pulling you in slowly, deliberately, until the thought of him consumed your mind entirely.

You’d slept together more than few times, nights filled with fiery passion and moments of unexpected tenderness that made you believe this was different. That he was different. He didn’t just hold you physically; he held your emotions in the palm of his hand, his touch leaving a mark on your heart you couldn’t erase. For a fleeting moment, it felt real. Like the guarded driver had finally let someone in, and that someone was you.

But then, just as you had allowed yourself to believe, he shattered it. Sitting across from you, his voice low and steady, his Dutch accent cutting through the words you weren’t ready to hear. “I’m not ready for a relationship,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “I don’t do that... I need to focus on myself and my career.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words crashing over you like cold water. He wasn’t apologetic, not really. To him, it wasn’t personal—it was just the way things were. But to you, it felt like a betrayal, like he had pulled the rug out from under your feet just as you began to stand on solid ground. Wow, you thought, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe you should have expected this.

The signs had been there, hadn’t they? The way he avoided deep conversations about the future, the way his life revolved around the sport he lived for, the way he always seemed just out of reach. You had seen it all, but you chose to ignore it because you wanted so badly for this to work—for him to be different.

Sitting in the emptiness of his words, you realized the truth. Max Verstappen wasn’t yours to hold. He belonged to the track, to the roaring engines and the thrill of victory, to the world that demanded every ounce of his focus and energy. And you? You were just a moment, a fleeting connection that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—prioritize.

You still saw the day he said those words to you in your dreams. It played on a loop in your mind, vivid and unrelenting, as if the memory itself refused to fade. You could still hear his voice, the exact tone he used—calm, almost detached, like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from beneath your feet. It wasn’t the words alone that haunted you; it was the way he’d said them, so measured, so unshaken, as if it had cost him nothing at all.

Some nights, the dream would start with the warmth of his touch, his blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you once mistook for sincerity. And then, as if the universe were mocking you, the scene would shift, the same cold words spilling from his lips. “I’m not ready for a relationship.” The sound of it, the finality of it, would jar you awake, your chest heavy with the ghost of heartbreak.

The memory clung to you, reshaped you. It made the F1 paddock—once your dream, your sanctuary—feel suffocating. Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of him. The roar of the engines, the press briefings, the fleeting glances in the paddock… it all felt like too much, like you were trapped in a world where his shadow loomed over everything.

And so, you made a choice. You left. You handed in your credentials, packed up your life, and decided to start over. Football became your refuge—a fresh start, a chance to leave the echoes of Max Verstappen behind. You thought maybe, just maybe, switching to an entirely different world would silence the memories.

But you haunted Max too, probably even more than he haunted you. He wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions—not openly, not consciously—but you had made an impact that he couldn’t shake. Your voice lingered in the corners of his mind, unbidden yet ever-present. He heard it in the hum of the engines, the roar of the crowd, and in the silence of the nights that followed. It didn’t matter where he was—on the track, in a hotel room, or staring at the endless line of questions during an interview—you were there.

When he raced, he was untouchable, focused, pushing every limit. But somehow, even in the middle of the chaos, you would find him. He could almost hear your laugh, the lilt of your tone when you teased him, and the way you called him out in ways no one else dared to. It wasn’t distracting, not exactly, but it was there, a part of him now.

The interviews were worse. Sitting under the blinding lights, fielding questions about his victories, his rivals, his career—it should have been second nature. And yet, all he could think about was you. He’d catch himself scanning the press room, half expecting to see your face, your notebook in hand, your eyes meeting his with that spark that had undone him so many times before. But you weren’t there anymore, and the absence was palpable.

At first, Max explained your absence at the races with small, dismissive assumptions. Maybe you were sick, maybe you’d taken some time off—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing permanent. It was easier for him to believe that than to confront the possibility that your absence had something to do with him. That maybe you’d left because of him.

But as the weeks turned into months, it became impossible to ignore the truth. You weren’t just absent—you were gone. Completely. He found out from someone in passing, a casual mention that you had switched to football journalism. There was no announcement, no explanation, no goodbye. You had just vanished from the world you had dreamed of being part of, the same world where he had selfishly taken you for granted.

It hit him harder than he expected. The irony wasn’t lost on him—not in the slightest. He had done the same to you. He had walked away without giving you closure, without considering how his actions might affect you. And now, you had done the same to him. The emptiness left in your wake mirrored the emptiness he had created in you. It was poetic in the cruelest way.

Max tried not to let it bother him, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. But it did. He realized it every time he glanced at the press room and didn’t see you there, every time he answered a question about his performance and your voice wasn’t the one asking. The races felt different now—not because the roar of the engines had changed, but because your presence wasn’t there to ground him in something outside of the sport.

Your departure haunted him. Not just because you were gone, but because it reminded him of the way he had treated you. He didn’t know what to do with the guilt, the regret, the quiet ache he felt whenever he thought of you. And maybe that was the real irony of it all—the fact that he had pushed you away only to realize he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Six months later, there you were, standing in front of the paddock gate once again. The world around you felt both familiar and foreign, as if you’d been transported back into a life you weren’t sure you belonged to anymore. The hum of activity, the chatter of journalists, the whir of tools in the distance—it all reminded you of a chapter you thought you’d closed for good. But here you were, holding the very thing that had once been your dream and your curse: your paddock pass.

Your fingers brushed over the laminated surface, tracing the outline of your photo and the bold letters that read Media. It felt heavier than it should have, almost symbolic, like it carried more than just access. This wasn’t just a pass; it was a ticket back into a world you’d deliberately left behind. A world that he—Max—still occupied.

You stared at the gate for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t the roar of the engines that sent a shiver down your spine, nor the thought of the stories waiting to be written. It was the memory of him, the way his voice had echoed in your mind for months after he’d let you go, the way he had unknowingly followed you into every corner of your new life. And now, you were walking straight back into his orbit.

You spotted Lissie near the media setup, her smile lighting up the moment she saw you. She was one of the few familiar faces you felt truly comfortable with, someone who had been your anchor back when the paddock felt like a storm you were constantly navigating. You couldn’t help but grin as you approached her, the weight of the past six months lifting slightly with the comfort of her presence.

“Y/n!” she said brightly, pulling you into a quick hug. “I was starting to think you’d never come back.”

“Missed me that much, huh?” you teased, the warmth in your tone belying the nerves still lingering in your chest.

“Of course,” Lissie said, her eyes sparkling. “Nobody asks the questions you do.” Her voice was laced with nostalgia, and you wondered briefly if your absence had left a gap bigger than you’d realized.

The drivers started to filter in one by one, the hum of the paddock growing louder with each arrival. There was an electric energy in the air, as there always was after a race, the buzz of victory and defeat still lingering. You stood near the media setup, microphone in hand, mentally preparing yourself for the endless stream of questions, answers, and moments that would play out in front of the cameras.

But he wasn’t there. Not yet. Probably still waiting for his turn, somewhere out of sight. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you weren’t scanning the crowd for him or bracing yourself for the inevitable moment when he’d appear. Yet, your gaze seemed to wander anyway, unconsciously seeking out the one face you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

It was almost a relief, then, to be pulled from your thoughts by the warm smiles of familiar faces. People recognized you instantly, their expressions lighting up as they spotted you standing there. Drivers, team members, journalists—they all greeted you with nods, waves, and smiles, as though no time had passed.

For Max, the whole day felt off. It wasn’t something he could pinpoint exactly—just a nagging sensation that something was wrong. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong at all. Maybe it was something else entirely. He had gone through the motions as usual, the race, the debrief, the endless stream of questions from his team. But the feeling lingered, gnawing at the edges of his focus.

As he waited for his turn to be interviewed, the noise of the paddock buzzed around him, a familiar chaos that usually grounded him. But today, it felt different. And then, he heard it—your voice. At first, he thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing tricks on him again. He had heard your voice in his head so many times over the past six months, haunting him in moments he least expected. But this time, it felt more real. Louder. Closer.

He turned his head, scanning the crowd, his pulse quickening despite himself. And then he saw you. Standing there, microphone in hand, interviewing Charles. You were laughing at something Charles had said, your smile lighting up the space around you in a way that made Max’s chest tighten. He blinked twice, as if trying to assure himself that you were really there, that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of his imagination.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His heart was racing now, a mix of shock and something he couldn’t quite name. Lando, standing beside him, turned his head at the sound of Max’s curse, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?” Lando asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at Max. His friend's demeanor was visibly off—nervous, tense, unlike the usual calm confidence that defined him. Max wasn’t even pretending to act normal, and that alone was enough to catch Lando’s attention.

Max’s voice was low, almost strained, as he pointed toward the media area, toward you. “Y/n’s here,” he said, his words clipped, heavy with the weight of realization.

And then, he came walking towards you. The moment you had been trying so hard not to think about was suddenly unfolding right in front of you. Max Verstappen. Of course, you knew he’d been assigned to you for the interview—how could it have been anyone else? Yet, despite your efforts to stay composed, to treat this as just another name on your clipboard, the reality of seeing him again made your heart race.

You gripped the microphone a little tighter, your pulse quickening as you watched him approach. He moved with the same self-assured confidence he always carried, his strides purposeful, his expression unreadable. You forced yourself to focus on the task at hand. You had done this thousands of times before—countless interviews with drivers, each one conducted with the poise and professionalism you had perfected over the years. This would be no different, you told yourself.

But when his eyes met yours, you felt the air shift. It wasn’t the usual tension of a post-race interview; it was something deeper, heavier. His blue gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, and you saw the flicker of something behind it. Was it surprise? Recognition? Guilt? Whatever it was, it left you unsettled.

“Max,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you. “Congratulations on the race today. Let’s talk about your strategy—particularly during that late overtake. What was going through your mind at that moment?”

Max adjusted the cap on his head slightly, his expression composed but with a trace of thoughtfulness behind his sharp blue eyes. “That late overtake,” he began, his Dutch accent giving his words a distinct cadence, “was about timing. I knew I couldn’t risk waiting too long—if I hesitated, the gap would close, and I’d lose the opportunity.”

Max stood before you, his expression outwardly composed, but there was something different in the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the detached gaze of a driver facing an interviewer, the routine exchange of words that he had perfected over years of answering media questions. No, the way his eyes lingered on you spoke of something more—something unspoken but undeniably present.

As you asked your questions, his voice carried the sharp precision you expected, but you noticed the subtle tremor behind it. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to pick up, but you knew him well enough to see it. With each response, his tone faltered slightly, like he was fighting to keep control over a conversation that felt far from ordinary.

Your gaze met his several times, almost unintentionally, but each meeting brought a quiet tension that neither of you could ignore. His blue eyes held yours longer than they should, breaking away only to wander back moments later. And even as you tried to focus on the task at hand, your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to him in a way that made the air around you feel heavier.

Max’s answers were calculated, yet distracted, as if he were answering out of habit rather than genuine thought. When he spoke about his late overtake, his words stumbled briefly, his gaze flickering back to you as though seeking something he couldn’t put into words. For a moment, you saw the mask slip—the professional veneer cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath it.

The interview drew to a close, your professionalism intact despite the weight of the moment. You lowered the microphone, offering a polite nod. “Thank you for your time, Max,” you said, your voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil simmering beneath your calm exterior.

Max matched your professionalism with his own, nodding briskly. “No problem,” he replied, his words clipped, almost routine. For a moment, you thought that was it—the end of the interaction, the closure you needed to move forward. But the moment was far from over.

As the cameraman turned off the equipment, signaling the end of the broadcast, the air around you shifted. The noise of the paddock faded slightly, the buzz of activity momentarily muted. And that’s when you heard him. His voice, softer now, no longer performing for the cameras.

“Good to see you back,” Max said, his tone carrying a weight that hadn’t been there during the interview. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded and searching, the barrier he’d constructed between you cracking just enough to let the truth slip through. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic—it was simply him.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. For a brief moment, you didn’t know how to respond, your heart betraying your attempt to remain unaffected. But then, just as quickly as the moment came, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of mechanics and drivers like he always did.

You stood there for a moment longer, the echo of his words lingering in the space around you. “Good to see you back.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation. But it was something—a fragment of the truth he couldn’t admit outright. And as the paddock buzzed back to life, you realized that he had left you with more questions than answers.

After hours of catching up with colleagues, swapping stories with managers, and fielding countless “welcome back” smiles from drivers, you felt the weight of the day settle over you. The energy of the paddock was as intoxicating as ever, but now, it left you drained, longing for a quiet moment to yourself. Deciding you’d had enough for the night, you packed up your things and made your way out.

The paddock had changed under the cover of darkness. The once-bustling pathways were now quieter, bathed in the soft, golden glow of overhead lights. The hum of activity had dulled to a faint background noise—mechanics packing up for the night, the occasional sound of an engine being tinkered with, the low murmur of voices carrying on the cool evening breeze. The air smelled faintly of rubber and oil, a scent so distinctly tied to this world that it felt almost nostalgic.

As you walked, the click of your shoes against the concrete echoed softly in the stillness. You let your mind wander, replaying moments from the day—the laughter with Lissie, the surprise on familiar faces, and, of course, the interview. His interview. The memory of his quiet “Good to see you back” lingered in your thoughts, stirring emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

The paddock gates loomed ahead, signaling the end of your night here, but you didn’t rush. Instead, you took your time, letting the calm of the night paddock wash over you. This was a place that had once felt like home and a battlefield all at once. Now, walking through it in the quiet moments, it felt like both again.

“Y/n!” The voice cut through the quiet of the night paddock, freezing you mid-step. You knew that voice instantly. It was one you hadn’t heard off-camera in over six months, yet it still held the same unmistakable weight. Max.

For a moment, you considered ignoring it, considered walking away without looking back. But something—some stubborn, lingering part of you—made you stop. Your feet faltered as your heart thudded in your chest, a mix of emotions crashing into you all at once. You turned slowly, the strap of your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as you did.

There he was. Max. Jogging towards you, his expression more open than you’d ever seen it. His blue eyes were fixed on you, and even in the dim light of the paddock, you could see the hint of urgency in them. It wasn’t the composed, collected driver that the world saw. This was different.

You stood there, waiting as he closed the distance between you, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know what to expect—an apology, a confrontation, or something else entirely. But as the man who had once been so infuriatingly composed now hurried towards you.

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, your voice calm but edged with a slight exasperation as you crossed your arms. You slightly rolled your eyes, watching as he tried to catch his breath. His hair was a little messier than usual, his cap tilted slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked unsure, almost uncharacteristically so, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Uh, well,” he began, pausing to rub the back of his neck—a gesture that immediately gave away his uncertainty. He was nervous, that much was clear, and seeing him like that was both disarming and unsettling. “I just... what made you come back?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he was afraid of your answer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A dozen answers ran through your mind, each one more complicated than the last. The truth—that you had come back, in part, because of unfinished business with him—wasn’t something you were willing to admit. Not to him, and not even to yourself, if you were honest.

So, instead, you shrugged, keeping your tone light and detached. “Money,” you replied simply, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “They offered me a big amount for interviewing you.”

Max stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or if he was trying to figure out the truth behind your words. Either way, the flicker of something—disappointment, maybe?—crossed his face before he masked it with a faint nod.

“Of course,” he said, his voice neutral, but there was an edge to it that you couldn’t quite place. He glanced away for a brief second, as though gathering his thoughts, before looking back at you.

“And I also wanted to know how you’re doing,” you said, your voice softening as the words slipped out. It wasn’t rehearsed, and it wasn’t meant to sound vulnerable, but it did anyway. For a second, you almost regretted saying it, the quiet weight of your own admission catching you off guard.

Max’s gaze shifted, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity you weren’t sure how to interpret. His expression wavered, the practiced coolness giving way to something more genuine—something raw. He didn’t speak right away, as though your question had disarmed him, pulled him out of the routine he lived so comfortably in.

“I…” he started, pausing as his hand instinctively brushed the back of his neck. He hesitated, the confident driver who always knew exactly what to say suddenly at a loss for words. “I’m fine,” he finally said, his tone quieter than before, almost uncertain. “I mean, I’m… okay.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unyielding. You both stood there, the quiet of the night paddock wrapping around you like a cocoon, amplifying every unspoken word. Maybe you didn’t want to accept it—that he was fine without you. Maybe that’s what made the silence so unbearable.

But then, he broke it.

“Fuck no, I’m not okay,” Max said suddenly, his voice raw and unfiltered, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, as if the admission was too much to deliver while meeting your eyes.

“I miss you,” he added, his voice quieter this time, but no less intense. The vulnerability in his tone was something you’d never heard from him before, and it hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’d built to protect yourself.

“I still hear your voice,” Max said, his voice raw and unsteady, the vulnerability cutting through the silence like a knife. He exhaled sharply, as though the words had taken more out of him than he’d expected. “In the car, at home… everywhere.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes momentarily dropping to the ground before flicking back to yours. “I think I was going insane for the past six months.”

The confession caught you completely off guard, your chest tightening at the intensity of his words. You weren’t sure what to say—or even if you wanted to say anything at all. There was no trace of the self-assured, composed driver standing in front of you now. This was Max, stripped down to something raw and real, baring the parts of himself he had always hidden so carefully.

He took a step closer, the light from the paddock glinting off his features as his blue eyes searched yours, desperate for some kind of response. “I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought… I thought pushing you away was the right thing. For me, for my career, for everything. But I was wrong.”

What did he expect you to say? This was too much—too much information, too much emotion, all at once. You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against the walls you’d built around yourself. “What do you want me to say or do, Max? I don’t understand,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with frustration.

He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I thought…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “I thought maybe you would give me a second chance?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with hope and uncertainty. It felt almost laughable, absurd even, that he would ask this of you now, after everything. But as you looked at him—this man who had always seemed so untouchable, now standing before you with an open vulnerability—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Not outright.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief flashing across your face. “I thought you don’t do relationships,” you said, your tone measured but carrying a pointed edge.

Max winced slightly at your words, the reminder of his past declaration hitting him like a sharp jab. “I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I thought I couldn’t. But I… I was wrong.”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen in him before—regret, yes, but also sincerity. And for the first time, you realized that the man who had once pushed you away wasn’t the same man standing in front of you now.

You sighed, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. The words hung on the tip of your tongue, hesitant, uncertain, but impossible to ignore. “Maybe we should try it again,” you said quietly, the admission leaving your lips before you could second-guess it.

Max’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope flashing across his face, quickly tempered by a hint of caution. He straightened slightly, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, more tentative. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if he didn’t quite trust what he was hearing.

You glanced away for a moment, your gaze landing on the dimly lit path behind him. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice carrying the weight of everything that had happened between you. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not even sure it’ll work.” Your eyes flicked back to his, meeting his steady, searching gaze. “But... maybe it’s worth a shot.”

Max exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief washed over his features. It wasn’t the triumphant grin of a man who always got what he wanted. It was something quieter, more genuine—gratitude, maybe, or the quiet realization of a second chance he never thought he’d get.

“I won’t mess it up this time,” he said, his tone firm but with an edge of vulnerability that made his words feel more like a promise than a declaration. “I swear, Y/n. I’ll do it right.”

You didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between you as you searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But there was none. For the first time, you saw a man who wasn’t just saying the right thing—he truly meant it.

[pandapetals]

Mrs. Howlett

You get jealous of a student's mom trying to flirt with Logan.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, cute, fluff, banter, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor, jealously

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

You hated to admit it, but you could get a little jealous. Not that you ever had a real reason to be—Logan didn’t give other women a second glance, and he made it clear you were the only one he wanted. Most of the time, when someone flirted with him, you’d brush it off, secure in the knowledge that he was yours. Logan was usually too gruff, too uninterested, for anyone to make much headway with him anyway.

But today was different.

You were heading to his classroom to drop off some papers when you spotted him leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his face as he talked to a woman you didn’t recognize. She looked young—probably a little too young than some of the other student’s parents, with sleek hair and an outfit that was more stylish than practical. Beside her stood a teenage boy, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, clearly embarrassed.

But she? She was smiling up at Logan like he’d just hung the moon. Her hand even touched his arm briefly, a little too familiar, and you felt a flash of something hot and prickly ignite in your chest.

You tried to brush it off. It wasn’t a big deal. Logan didn’t even seem particularly invested in the conversation—just nodding along, probably humoring her because he had to be polite. And yet, the way she looked at him, hanging on his every word, had your jaw clenching before you realized it.

You took a breath, schooling your expression, but when you caught Logan’s eye over her shoulder, his smirk deepened, his gaze flicking to you with that glint of amusement he always got when he knew he had your attention. Oh, he’d noticed. Of course, he had.

Clearing your throat, you approached with an air of casual calm, though the jealousy simmering beneath the surface was anything but subtle.

“Oh, there you are, Logan,” you said, slipping your hand onto his arm with a bit more possessiveness than you’d planned. Your fingers tightened slightly, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his bicep. “I was looking for you.”

The woman’s bright smile faltered for just a second, her gaze flicking down to your hand on his arm. She took a tiny step back, trying to recover her polite expression but with a hint of something else lurking in her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t realize… are you Miss… I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name?”

You felt Logan tense slightly, but you just smiled, leaning a little closer to him. “I’m Mrs. Howlett, actually.” Your voice was warm, but you let the words sink in, feeling a small thrill of satisfaction as you watched her face register the correction. Your fingers brushed up and down Logan’s arm in a slow, familiar rhythm, letting her know exactly where you stood. “And you are?”

She cleared her throat, glancing down at the teenage boy beside her. “I’m Liam’s mom,” she said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder as if to keep herself anchored. “Logan—Mr. Howlett—was just telling me about the upcoming history project. I thought it would be good to get a sense of what Liam would be working on.”

Logan’s smirk widened as he looked down at you, clearly enjoying the subtle show of jealousy you rarely let slip. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that made his claim on you unmistakable.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice a low, amused rumble that you felt through his chest. “She was just askin’ about the assignment.”

You looked up at him, arching an eyebrow as you played along. “Of course. Well, Liam’s a very brilliant student,” you said sweetly, turning to the woman with a smile that held just a hint of a challenge. “Logan says he’s a natural at history. Must be quite a proud mom moment for you.”

The woman’s smile became a bit too tight, her expression polite but strained. She straightened, giving a brisk nod. “Of course. Well, I think I have all the information I need for now. Come along, Liam.”

As she ushered her son down the hallway, Logan’s quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest, his arm still snugly wrapped around your waist. He waited until she was out of earshot before he leaned down, his lips brushing close to your ear.

“Didn’t know you could be the jealous type,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “Should I be flattered?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t quite keep the blush from creeping up your cheeks. “I’m not jealous,” you replied, feigning nonchalance. “I just didn’t appreciate her… forgetting my name. I mean, it’s Mrs. Howlett, after all.”

Logan chuckled, his warm breath grazing your skin as his fingers traced lazy circles along your hip. “I gotta say, darlin’… I kinda liked seein’ you all protective and possessive. Not somethin’ I get to see often.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t quite keep the grin off your face. “Oh, don’t let it go to your head,” you shot back, trying to sound nonchalant. “But I guess I might get a little territorial when some random woman decides to ignore the fact that you’re taken.”

His smile softened, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough for his warmth to seep into you. “Relax, gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice low and fond. “You know you’re the only one I’d ever put up with.”

“Oh, really?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow with a playful spark in your eyes. “Maybe I’ll keep you on your toes more often, then. Just to see that little possessive streak of yours come out.”

Logan’s laugh rumbled through his chest, his hand drifting lower to give your hip a slow, teasing squeeze. “Be my guest,” he drawled, his lips curving into a smirk. “I don’t mind remindin’ everyone who I belong to.”

You tilted your head, your fingers tracing along his arm savoring the solid warmth beneath your touch. “Good,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “because I don’t plan on sharing.”

Logan leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss. His mouth was warm and unhurried, lingering as if he wanted to make sure you felt every word he hadn’t spoken. When he finally pulled back, you were left breathless, a soft heat blooming in your cheeks.

He looked down at you, the playful gleam in his eyes softening. His forehead rested against yours, and whispered, his voice rough but gentle, “You don’t have to, sweetheart. I’m all yours. Always have been, always will be.”

[pookalicious-hq]

365 party girl ...

library | navi | next

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ : paige ends up having to pull you away because who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman? tags: swearing, paige bueckers x baddie!reader, mention osf "wife beating", bballl player reader, not proof read so many typos, established relationship

Anyone could tell when someone was made to perform. There was always a distinct look in their eye, a deep breath released in what should’ve been a career-changing action. It didn’t take an expert to figure out that you were meant to be seen.

It was in the way the cameras always found you—during warm-ups, during time-outs, even in those fleeting moments between plays. Your presence wasn’t just noticed. It was felt.

UConn’s most dominant defensive guard alongside with an offensive playmaking machine. A nightmare for any offense, quick-footed and relentless. You were everywhere—pressuring passes, cutting off lanes, moving in ways that turned good guards into hesitant ones. They knew if they fumbled, if they hesitated even a second, you were already on them.

And still, even in the chaos of the game, you looked perfect.

A flawless base, lashes full and fresh, nails a sleek, polished set—practical enough for the court, but still you. Hair laid to perfection, untouched by sweat despite the intensity of the game and atmosphere. When the camera cut to you, lips slightly parted, eyes burning with intensity, everyone watching across the nation didn’t know if they wanted you or wanted to be you.

The arena was electric. The matchup was personal. Everyone was here to watch UConn, to watch South Carolina.

To watch your girls.

And tonight? Under the blinding lights of March Madness, against South Carolina, with the whole world watching?

This was your stage.

So who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman?

The piercing tone of a whistle broke through the crowd’s outraged cries, and the image of Sarah Strong on the ground.

The foul was blatant—a hard block, sending Sarah sprawling onto the hardwood. But it wasn’t just the foul that set you off. It was the way Ashlyn stood over her, staring her down, like she had the right to intimidate her.

Like she had the right to intimidate anyone.

Before the refs could even get between them, you were already there. Your body moved before your mind fully processed it, stepping right into Ashlyn’s space and giving her a solid push—just enough to separate her from Sarah, just enough to send a message.

Ashlyn barely budged. But her expression shifted instantly—no longer that smug, self-assured look. Now, it was something harder, something pissed. She wasn’t used to anyone daring to move her.

Sarah, still wide-eyed and holding her head, reached up for your hand. Without hesitation, you gripped her wrist, pulling her up with authority, keeping your focus locked on Ashlyn. Sarah stumbled slightly, her hand coming up to her head, but Paige was there, steadying her her voice low, checking in on Sarah.

The gym was in full chaos—shouts, gasps, the air so thick you could feel it in your chest. Everyone felt the heat radiating off you. You were like a fuse waiting to explode, and Paige? She’d seen it before. Knew how deep that fire ran. You’d fight through hell for anyone on your team, and right now? Sarah was yours to protect.

Ashlyn’s smirk came back, but it was laced with pure irritation. She tossed her head back, then scoffed. “Make sure you hit the weight room, fucking rookie,” she muttered, her voice a venomous drip of arrogance.

And that was it.

Your jaw clenched. The muscles in your neck tensed. Your nostrils flared. Ashlyn knew better to keep her mouth shut. Before you could even think, the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

"Better stop hitting anyone else or we might hafta call the cops again, fuckin’ wife beater."

The gym froze.

For a half-second, just long enough for the weight of your words to crash down. The crowd was silent, processing what you just said, trying to piece it together. 

Then? Chaos.

The crowd exploded. Some in shock, some in laughter—loud, boisterous, the kind of reactions that only March Madness could ignite. On the UConn bench, Geno’s face was already in his hands, an exhale that said he’d seen this trainwreck before. One hand on his hip, the other rubbing down his face, mentally preparing for whatever he’d have to explain later.

In front of you, Ashlyn’s face twisted from irritation into pure rage.

Before you could fully process the chaos around you, Ashlyn was already in your face. Her steps were heavy, chest puffed out, eyes burning into yours.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

You didn’t move a muscle. If anything, you stood taller, chin lifted just enough to show you weren’t scared. The air between you two thickened, crackling with tension. The gym wasn’t silent—far from it. Whispers swirled through the stands, the crowd unsure whether to stay quiet and hear what was going down, or to keep up with the drama. 

“I said,” you drawled, each word slow and sharp, “maybe you should stop hitting people… or should we check the police reports, sweetheart?”

Behind you, Paige muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Sarah, still holding her head, glanced between you two, unsure whether to step in or just let you handle it. Her hand stayed by her temple, like the hit was still rattling around in her head.

Ashlyn’s nostrils flared, her voice dropping lower, filled with venom. “Watch your mouth.”

You laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was a mocking, unapologetic laugh, sickingly sweet. “Or what? You gonna hit me next?”

The gym hummed with tension now. People were leaning in, trying to hear every word exchanged, but only a select few could actually catch what was said—UConn's team, some of the players around you, and those courtside. The rest? They could only pick up on the heat radiating off the exchange.

Paige was still close enough to mutter under her breath, “She’s not worth the tech.”

You didn’t care. Not one inch. You stood your ground, your voice low but cutting. “Honey, I’ve got 911 on speed dial and two thousand witnesses who’d love to see you with an ankle monitor.”

Ashlyn’s face twisted in anger, her eyes narrowing, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But before she could respond—before you could provoke her further—Paige made her move.

With effortless ease, Paige wrapped her arms around you, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing.

“Nope,” Paige’s voice was firm, carrying through the chaos around you.

“Paige, put me down, right now.” You kicked your feet, your anger still boiling just beneath your skin. You could feel the crowd’s eyes on you, the way they were all in suspense, waiting for something to happen. You weren’t about to let them down now.

“Nope.”

“I’m fucking serious—”

“I know, babe.”

Still kicking, still throwing insults over Paige’s shoulder, you shot a look back at Ashlyn. “Yeah, that’s right, keep walking, Ashlyn. You got more fouls than made shots, anyway.”

The gym exploded. The noise went from tense whispers to full-blown shouts and laughter. The stands were electric, people on their feet, some hooting and hollering, others still trying to catch the tail end of what had just gone down. UConn’s bench was fired up, while South Carolina’s players shifted, looking to see who would make the next move.

From the bench, Azzi’s voice cut through the noise like a knife: “Paige, sit her ass down. I’ll grab the duck tape.”The crowd’s laughter reached a fever pitch, some of the students clapping, others just shocked at the boldness of it all. This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal. You’d stood up for your team, your freshman, your entire squad. And the gym knew it. Ashlyn? She was in over her head, and everyone watching could see it.

a/n: from a situation that just happened with me and my teammates...

I LOVE MY WIFE

[k9wa]

⟁ PLUMMET. ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — “swoopin’ in to save me again, sugar plum?”

⚠︎ mechanic!reader (but it isn’t really relevant), i saw boothill trailer and ran to google docs, gn reader (ma’am used once at the end) wc 1k.

“your bounty has been completed!”

boothill could feel the explosion of the ship, even from the distance he was and against the strong winds from his high speed fall. a rush of heat slapped him in the face, leaving a thorough hunger in his gut temporarily quelled.

“how would you like to land?”

the cyborg kept his hat fastened to his head with his palm against the top, eyes briefly glancing down to the city below he was slowly getting closer to plumetting down into.

“…good question.”

the ground was steadily approaching, even if it was gonna take him a solid second or two to actually reach it. he’d never tested if his body could withstand smacking against concrete from— give or take— six thousand feet in the air, but he had a small hunch today wasn’t the day to try his luck. becoming a blue splat on the pavement wasn’t exactly in the cards of his itinerary.

boothill’s eyes looked left, looked right, fingers twirling the rope on his belt. he doubted it’d do much to really help, but it was a start nonetheless. 

he eventually came up with an idea— a totally foolproof idea. loop his rope around one of the street lights when he got close enough, avoid hitting the ground, swing himself back up into the air, and land safe and sound on…wherever the hell he managed to land. hopefully on his feet. 

super simple, super easy. lightwork.

and so he eyed the ground, wrapping one end of his rope taught around his right palm, his left getting the momentum of the other end ready in a smooth swinging motion.

“c’mon now boothill,” he muttered to himself, voice thoroughly drowned out by the wind. “ain’t nothin’ but a lil’ repositionin’.”

he kept falling, getting closer, 

closer…

closer…

almost there…

boothill readied his hand to swing, but the motion quickly became unnecessary when something— or rather, someone— grabbed his wrist, and he was pulled upward with a shocked ‘muddle—!’ before he could test the success rate of his plan.

the cowboy snapped his head up, hat nearly tipping off his head. he was hung like a ragdoll from his arm, feet dangling down below him as his eyes met his apparent saviours—

of course.

boothill’s sharp teeth slowly shone in a wide grin, loud and scruffy laugh echoing into the still rather open air around him. because who else would it have been besides you, your brows slightly furrowed at him from the safety of your little hoverboard he remembered you tinkering with just a couple days ago.

“well fudge me!” he’d slap his knee if the position allowed. “look who it is— ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!” 

boothill reached up for your other hand, you wordlessly met him halfway reaching down, leaving both of your fingers locking around the others wrist.

“swoopin’ in to save me again, sugar plum?”

you shake your head with a sigh, hoverboard beginning a steady descent down. it was a little harder to balance with boothill weighing it down, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

“you’re lucky,” you half scoff. “i’ve got a sixth sense for you being an idiot.”

boothill’s hearty laugh echoed out again, the wind whipping around you leaving his hair tousled and a little tangled. 

“ain’t that the fudgin’ truth,” he jostled your hand a little. he doubted he could really get adrenaline rushes anymore, but this was pretty damn close. “reckon i’d be flatter than a darn hotcake if it weren’t for yer timely intervention!” 

his feet touching the ground were a welcome stabilisation, though the cyborg made no move to release your hand— instead he actually broke into a quick sprint, barely giving you the time to pick up your board as he tugged you along.

“you got somewhere to be or somethin’?”

you asked, stumbling a bit before you got your footing to keep up. you were just so cute when you pretended to be all sore with him.

“you bet i do— somewhere that ain’t swarmin’ with those sorry IPC shirtbags!”

it was a fair point— a giant explosion in the sky of one of their own ships made quite the beacon for attention.

running with him wasn’t so bad, at least. his grip around your wrist was surprisingly gentle, and the smell of him filled your nose in the wind as you trailed behind. some citrus, maybe cedar, and an unmistakable lingering of those phosphorus tracer bullets he chewed on so often. 

you two dipped around a corner, backed against an old brick wall as some heavy footsteps kept running the other way. 

“say, remind me to get’cha a drink later,” boothill gave a small tug to your wrist again, bringing you just a little closer. “as a thanks for all them times y’saved my sorry behind.”

boothill smiled when you chuckled rather than shooing his hand away or giving a smart response.

“you’re gonna have quite the tab going.” you carefully repositioned your hand with his, your fingers lacing together rather than him just holding your wrist. boothill’s eyes could have turned into cartoonish hearts.

“tell ya what,” his hand gave yours a squeeze. “i know a place. it ain’t too far from here, won’t have to worry about no one botherin’ us,” it was quite endearing, the way his voice still held that gentle rasp even as it softened. “i start workin’ off that tab, get a night with you, and heck we’re both winnin’ ain’t we?” 

you hummed at that. it didn’t sound so bad.

“alright,” you nodded. “but let’s focus on you not having to gun down another dozen IPC workers first.”

it was your turn to pull him along with a swift tug of his wrist, resuming your sprint just in time to avoid some more heavy footsteps heading in your direction.

“you weren’t pullin’ my leg about that sixth sense, were ya sweetheart?” boothill fell into a natural step behind you.

“consider this added to your tab.”

“yes ma’am!”

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[lillymmb]

"Finish Line"

husband!charles leclerc x interviewer wife!reader

warning: none

summary: you are a interviewer and you go to interview your husband after race.

It had been a long race day. The sun was setting over the Monaco Grand Prix, casting a golden hue over the circuit as the cars rolled into the paddock after a grueling race. The crowd was still buzzing, the air thick with excitement, but inside the Ferrari garage, Charles Leclerc was both exhausted and elated. He had finished strong, a solid podium finish, but his mind kept drifting to one thing—and one person.

You.

You, the sharp-witted, kind-hearted interviewer who had somehow become more than just a face on the grid to him. The two of you had met years ago, when he was still rising through the ranks. You were a reporter at the time, covering F1 for one of the biggest sports networks, and there had always been an undeniable connection between you two. What had started as a professional interview blossomed into something much deeper—a friendship that grew into love.

Now, years later, you were no longer just an interviewer for the press. You were his interviewer. You had been married for almost a year, a beautiful and intimate wedding that had taken place in the heart of Monaco, far from the watchful eyes of the media. You both had done your best to keep the relationship under wraps, but when you were in a room together, there was no hiding the way you looked at each other. The love was clear to anyone who saw you.

As Charles walked into the media pen, his heart raced not because of the crowd or the anticipation, but because he knew you were waiting for him. You were set to do your usual post-race interview with him, and although it was just another professional exchange on the outside, to him, it was something far more personal.

You stood in front of him, holding a microphone, your eyes lighting up as he approached. The moment you locked eyes, he felt that familiar spark. You both exchanged a quick, affectionate glance, but quickly composed yourselves as you began the interview.

“Charles, congratulations on a strong finish today!” You smiled, your tone warm but professional. “How do you feel about your performance today?”

Charles chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. “It was a tough race, but I’m happy with the result. The car was great, and my team did an amazing job.”

You nodded, maintaining your composure, but you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered as you watched him. He was glowing—physically tired, yes, but still exuding that charm that had first drawn you to him.

“And, of course, with this result, it means more points for the championship standings,” you continued. “How do you feel about the way the season is shaping up for you and the team?”

Charles leaned in slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye, his voice lowering just a little. “I think it’s going to be a great season. But you know what? I’m just happy I have a lot of things to look forward to, both on and off the track.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the heat of his words, though he kept his tone light. You knew he wasn’t just talking about the race. There was an underlying meaning, a private moment only the two of you shared, and you could see the spark of something in his eyes. But, of course, you couldn’t let your personal relationship slip into the interview just yet.

“Of course,” you replied, trying to maintain your professionalism. “And speaking of looking forward to things, we all know how hectic this life can be. How do you balance your career with, well, everything else?”

Charles paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on yours, and the room seemed to quieten. “Well, it helps to have someone special by your side,” he said softly, his voice steady but with a vulnerability that only you could detect. “Someone who gets it. And, you know… someone who keeps me grounded.”

The subtle confession hung in the air, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. You knew he was referring to you, and your heart skipped a beat at the way he spoke so openly, even in front of the cameras. But you had learned to read his cues by now—there was only so much he could say in public.

As the interview wrapped up, Charles stepped a little closer to you. “I’m done here,” he said with a grin, clearly eager to leave the media chaos behind. “Let’s go somewhere quieter, yeah?”

You nodded, trying to suppress the excitement coursing through your veins. You knew exactly where this was heading.

As you both made your way toward the back of the paddock, the sounds of the crowd and the camera flashes faded into the background. You turned to him, glancing up at his handsome face, and before you could say a word, his hand found yours.

“I’ve missed you,” Charles murmured, his voice low and sincere, filled with longing.

“You saw me this morning,” you teased lightly, though your heart was racing.

“I mean, really missed you.” His thumb gently caressed your hand, sending a rush of warmth through your body. “Every time I leave you, it’s like there’s a part of me that stays behind.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and without thinking, you stopped walking, turning to face him. There was a hunger in his eyes, a need that mirrored your own.

“Charles,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “We’re in public.”

He didn’t care. His hand came up to your cheek, gently cupping it, his thumb brushing across your skin. “I don’t care. I’ve waited all day for this moment.”

And before you could protest or say another word, his lips were on yours, gentle at first but quickly deepening as he pulled you closer. The kiss was everything you had both been holding back, a rush of passion and relief as the world around you seemed to disappear. It was raw and real and completely unapologetic.

You moaned softly against his lips, your arms wrapping around his neck as he deepened the kiss, pressing you against the cool metal of the paddock wall. There was no race, no crowd, no cameras—just the two of you, lost in each other.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily, he smiled. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you this morning.”

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “You’re insufferable.”

Charles grinned. “You love it.”

You smirked, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “I do. But we should probably get out of here before someone sees us.”

“Who cares?” he murmured, taking your hand once more. “I’m married to you. I’m proud of it.”

You smiled, knowing that despite the rush of being part of this high-stakes world, it was moments like this—private, genuine—that made everything worth it.

“You’re right,” you agreed. “Let’s go home.”

And with that, you both walked away, side by side, ready to face whatever the world had for you, but more than anything, ready to enjoy the quiet moments together.

a/n: i love charles so much i wish i was a formula 1 interviewer

© LILLYMMB do not repost and do not copy!

[rememberwren]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Easy peasy premature ejaculation squeezy. Hypersexual!Simon/fem!reader, handjobs, premature ejaculation.

-

Ghost works his boxers back up his thick thighs and disappears into the en-suite bathroom in just them and his t-shirt. You definitely don’t check him out as he leaves. When he comes back, he has wiped his abs clean and holds an extra one in his hands. He has trouble meeting your eyes, but when he does, he gives a little self-deprecating smile that looks more like a wince. 

He’s still hard. 

“Is it always like this?” you ask. 

“Pretty much,” he says, sitting heavily on the bed. The bed frame is solid and sturdy, supporting him nicely. You shift, tucking your heels underneath you, feeling your underwear cling to the sticky wetness of your cunt. You do your best to ignore it. “It’s worse with someone here.” 

“How many times do you usually…you know.” You make a hand gesture. 

He purses his lips at your crudeness. “A day? Or in a session?”

God. He has sessions? “Both?”

“Two or three times a session. Two or three sessions a day, depending on how busy I am with work,” he says, coming to lay flat on the bed. He throws his arm over his eyes again. He shrugs a massive shoulder. “If it’s less than twice a day, I can’t really focus on anything else. It’s all my body wants and all I can think about.”

You frown. “That sounds terrible.” 

His hackles rise. “We don’t need to talk about it. That’s not what you’re here for.” 

“Right. Are you ready? Again?” 

“As I’ll ever fucking be,” he mutters, shucking his boxers down again and letting them rest around his knees. He’s definitely grown harder during your conversation together. His hands are shaking, so he clenches them into fists and rests them on his abs, taking a handful of deep, cleansing breaths. “Just—go on. Do as I said and stop when I say.” 

“Close your eyes while I lick my hand.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, but he shuts his eyes. You make sure to really slick your palm, spitting into it quietly—but he flinches at the sound as if it was a gunshot. 

Reaching out, you create a gentle, loose fist above his cock and slowly bring it down, enveloping the velvety head in your slick fist. His entire body goes tight, muscles clenching all over, teeth clicking as his jaw clamps shut. He is burning warm in your palm, smooth and soft as you drag your hand down his length to the base, letting the dark blond curls of his pubes tickle the meaty portion of your palm. He shudders violently, mouth falling open in a silent sound, eyes flickering rapidly beneath his lids. You realize now that you’re watching his face more than you’re watching his cock, but it is currently the more interesting of the two. 

Cock slicked by your saliva, the journey back up is a smooth slide. As soon as the crown of his cock enters the loose grip of your fist, Ghost flinches violently and barks out: “Stop!” 

One. 

You withdraw right away. His cock drools, precum oozing from the tip and dripping down the flushed length. He groans, grinding his palms against his eyes, and you have to swallow your own curse. This is the most arousing thing that’s ever happened to you—that you’ve ever been a part of, that is. 

Ghost takes nearly two full minutes to calm down properly, his chest going from full-on heaves to shaky rise-and-falls. He lets out a lengthy breath and moves his palms away from his eyes, casting you a dazed, exhausted look. He nods and shuts his eyes. 

You do the same thing all over again. He makes it through two full, slow strokes before he is telling you to stop again. Two. Despite his orders, his heels dig into the bed. His body chases your touch, pelvis lifting from the soft sheets, straining to follow your hand. He digs his fingers into his hair and pulls, knuckles white, using the pain to ground himself. 

“Again,” he croaks.  

You don’t have to slick your hand anymore; he is leaking, cock frequently giving eager twitches and jerks, like it is trying to tempt you to touch it. This time, you only manage to drag your fist halfway down the length of his cock before he is sucking in a breath and warning you off of him—and you make a mistake. Instead of letting go, you lift your hand off, inadvertently giving his sensitive head another pass through the slick passage of your fist. Ghost makes a guttural noise, reaches down to grip the base of his cock again, a touch that looks brutal with its ferocity. Three. 

“Don’t speak,” he begs at a whisper, eyes closed. “Don’t say a fucking thing, don’t even move, just—just—“

You sit in still silence, watching him struggle to hold off, wondering whether you really even want him to. You wouldn’t sabotage him (not intentionally, at least), but watching him cum earlier had awoken something twisted inside you. A part of you wanted to push his boundaries, to help him desensitize himself, to help him achieve his goal of normalcy. The other part of you wanted to ruin him. Did he realize that you were fighting a battle of your own, now? 

“That was way too fucking close,” he sighs, letting go of his cock. His eyes turn on you, dark and narrowed and nearly angry. “You’re supposed to stop when I say so.”

“It was an accident,” you say. “I’ll be more careful.” 

He grumbles something underneath his breath that you can’t quite catch, but looks resolved to his fate. He gives a stern nod, and this time he watches. You feel his eyes as tangible as any touch, stroking along the hills and valleys of your knuckles. You’re trembling a little as you bring your hand down around him. You’ve barely touched him when he makes a choked sound and bats your hand out of the way, body rising up onto one elbow as he grips at the base of his cock with his other hand—except it’s too late. You can tell by the look on his face, that pleasurable doom, that miserable capitulation. 

You meet eyes with each other, half a second’s worth of acknowledgement before he shuts his own, tucking his chin to his chest to avoid your gaze. You wait for him to let go, to ruin it again, but he doesn’t: with dextrous, devastating familiarity, he grips his cock and strokes it feverishly, the wet sounds barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat and frantic breaths as he finally spills over. It’s less explosive than his previous orgasm but appears no less devastating to him. Cum dribbles over his scarred knuckles, dripping down his angular wrist. He is near-silent, holding his breath, withholding his pleasured sounds from you. 

At length he drops back down to the mattress from his elbow, panting and red-faced, resting his dirty hand against his belly. 

“Fuck,” he sighs to the ceiling. 

“You lasted a lot longer that time,” you offer cheerfully. 

The look he gives you is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after—you’re pretty sure. He reaches for the towel and offers it to you first. You wipe your palm and hand it back so that he can clean himself. He goes to pull up his boxers again, but you stop him. 

“You said you usually go three times in a session. We should try one more time, shouldn’t we?” 

[reignpage]

Basketball Captain!Toji

Detroit Pistons: reaching for the ball

Warnings: 18+ minors and ageless blogs dni, bts of a modern au!smau (part 2 of Toji's series), can be read as a standalone but makes most sense with the context, cursing, mentions of blood and violence, general stupidity at a party, just one long foreplay really, not proofread

You really shouldn’t be here. 

Not a party full stop, not trying to enact petty revenge against your shitty ex, and certainly not with Toji Fushiguro, captain of the basketball team, and resident fuckboy. 

He’s taken you by surprise at every given turn. You hadn’t expected him to ask for your number from his friend, you hadn’t expected him to reach out just to complain about his placement on the List of the hottest men on campus, and especially did not expect him to let you into the gym just because it was raining, though he did shrug off your incredulous look with a nonchalantly delivered jab. 

“Y’ were ruining my view with y’r ugly crying face.”

And somehow, you had let him convince you to use him to make your ex jealous, to show him what he was missing out on. 

Now you, the girl who never drank, never wore short skirts, never stayed out too late, followed every rule to the letter, is now sitting firmly on Toji’s lap, slotting in perfectly like a puzzle piece, at a frat party. 

It’s like you’ve somehow ended up in an alternate universe or woke up in someone else’s body. Maybe you’re in a dream. Except the searing brand of a heavy hand on your bare thigh is disproving any of those theories. 

“You enjoying yourself?” His voice is low and gruff, you feel it vibrate against your body, lulling you into a sense of comfort. The rough denim of his jeans is warming your skin, his solid chest keeps you grounded, and his thick arms have you all wrapped up, balanced securely and protected from the night air.

You nod, head buried in the crook of his neck. Once in a while you inhale his musky aftershave, relishing in that freshly showered scent he always had. “My sources say Gojo throws a party at least once a week.”

“Guy likes to party,” is all he says.

There have been flashes of his white hair around the large house, disappearing among the crowds and into different rooms. He had greeted you when you first walked into the garden to make your way to Toji with a beer in hand like your partner in crime had instructed you. 

Gojo was nice, very friendly, a little loud, but you knew that already. As the writer for the gossip column, you know every thing there was to know about everyone worth knowing. Which is ironic since you’re nobody and you knew none of these people personally. But the frat president knew you. He had greeted you like you were long time friends and pulled you into a tight hug.

“Hey, look who it is! My favourite person in the world.” He slung an arm over your shoulders and cheered with everyone else, seemingly oblivious to the heat rising on your face. “Thanks again for putting me top of the List. Nice to know people have taste.”

And then Toji was grumbling and wrestling you out of the rowdy guy’s grip to a quieter part of the house. He told you to explore the place, get familiar, freshen up your makeup ‘or whatever else chicks need’, and to text him if you find your ex first. 

Now, here you are, making yourself comfortable on his thighs, goosebumps rising along your skin at the feel of his long fingers creeping up your leg and just teasing the hem of your ridiculously short skirt. 

Some people would come over, once in a while, to talk to Toji. They’d say hi to you but they were mostly interested in knowing how the captain feels about the upcoming games. A few girls would stumble over, giggling and twirling their hair but they leave pretty quickly once they see Toji’s eyes fixated on you. 

You have got to give him credit; he’s totally committed to the bit.

Perhaps a little too committed with how he’d frequently whisper right in your ear, warm breath trickling your neck. 

“You look damn good tonight, ma.”

The way he says it, the low groan that he teases you with, makes you press your thighs together. It’s a completely inappropriate reaction; you really should not be feeling tingly from his flirtations. He doesn’t mean them. Toji is just playing the part, trying to goad your ex into a fight so he can ‘ruin the vibe’ at Gojo’s party. 

Because, for whatever reason, Toji had beef with the man that seemed completely one-sided, if the hug the frat president tried to throw to the basketball captain was anything to go by. 

You stutter out a ‘thanks’ and ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. 

Toji huffs a laugh, tightening his hold on you before he leans back in the patio chair, taking you with him so you’re resting on him. Your skirt’s definitely ridden up your ass by now, but his large hand wraps around the flesh there like second nature. 

Despite the chill in the garden, you’re content in his arms. The man runs hot.

It’s easy to get lost in his body; the man is built like a Greek god, all muscle and strength, carved straight from marble. And it’s precisely because he’s so firm and hard beneath you, that you forget your ex is just a couple metres away, leaning against a brick wall with a red cup in hand, glaring at you two. 

“Dunno why Gojo let that guy into the frat when he’s so fucking ugly,” Toji grumbles. 

You laugh. 

Once upon a time, you thought you were lucky to be with him. That he was the catch and you were punching up; he certainly made you feel that way. Always reminding you that he could have any girl on campus, that the barista at your local coffee shop had given him her number with a smiley face, and that as a member of one of the most influential fraternities in the country, he could have any job he wanted. 

But as you throw a glance at him, you realise all of that was false bravado. A Napoleon Complex, most likely. 

And not once, since Toji picked you up, have you felt less than. He compliments you so frequently, so spontaneously, and so earnestly you can’t help but believe him. 

“Why do you hate Gojo, by the way?”

The captain glances down at you, a slow smirk emerging on his face and you gulp at the sight of that scar stretching. You want to know more about it, simply because you’re a journalist, it’s in your nature to be inquisitive, and definitely not because you want to trace the skin there whilst feeling his voice rumble through his body and into yours. 

With a shrug, he lifts his beer to his lips, and admits, “Don’t really hate the guy. Just wanna knock him down a peg or two.”

“I stalked Gojo for about two weeks just for a statement one time, y’know.” You stare at the people hooting and hollering over a table of beer pong, watching their jumping bodies, so light, so free like there isn’t a whole world of problems beyond the frat house’s territory. “When I finally cornered him after his lecture, he laughed and said I didn’t have to do all of that. I could have just texted him.”

Toji huffs an amused laugh. “That’s what’s annoying ‘bout the guy. He’s nice. Real fucking nice. But — and this is off the record, doll — guy’s got problems. And yet he’s always smiling. Just pisses me off, sometimes.”

And to that you just nod. You get it. There are some people out there who just seem to have it all, and you resent them for it, but they never hold it against you, and you resent them even more. 

“How did you become friends with him anyways?”

“Just kinda happened.”

If you have to hazard a guess, you’d probably say it happened through the fact that they all run in the same circle. Big personalities like him and Gojo and Sukuna, are hard to miss. They’re the kind of people want to be around. Everyone knows Sukuna and Toji have been roommates since first year, allocated on a random basis at first, and they hit it off instantly, opting to room together since then. 

With a sweep of the backyard, you enquire, “Where is Sukuna?”

“Somewhere, I’m sure. Guy doesn’t really like parties, actually.”

You gasp. “But my sources say he attends most of them.”

Toji places the bottle in your lap and you cradle it like it’s a treasure. He runs a hand through his hair and leans his head back with his eyes closed like he’s soaking up the moon’s rays. Earlier, you had told him you felt bad you were holding him back from enjoying his night, but he just patted your ass and said ‘it’s good to slow down, sometimes.’

“He does, but I think guy just likes to know all the drama. Likes to cause them too, the prick.”

You poke his chest. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He peeks at you with one eye, small grin on his lips.

“We’re a match made in heaven, doll.”

The conversation fades and you just rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart and desperately trying to ignore the shiver that threatens to wrack up your spine with the graze of his thumb against that sliver of skin between your skirt and top. 

Toji’s holding you like he’s been holding you since the dawn of time. There’s no awkwardness, no uncomfortable shuffles to accommodate your weight, and he doesn’t even look the least bit bothered that sometimes people will point and whisper at the star basketball player and some nobody cuddling up in the corner on a swinging bench. 

You sense movement in the corner of your eye and spot a girl cozying up to your ex. He looks at you with a smug face. 

“How did you know my ex would care?”

You stifle a gasp from the sudden clench of his hand over your waist. It was forceful but gentle, invoking flashing images of him towering over you, wrangling you into position. He could easily bend you over and take what he wanted. Toji is big and muscular, yes, but he’s also an athlete. There’s no doubt in your mind that he has the stamina and endurance to go all night and not break a sweat. 

Shaking your head slightly, you bring the beer to your lips absentmindedly, taking a swig that leaves you blanching. How anyone could drink this, you’d never know. 

“No guy wouldn’t care that his ex moved on pretty quickly. Plus, insecure little shits like him need to think that they got the better end of the deal. He needs to know you’re all sad and stupid over him so he feels important.”

Wise words. 

It surprises you slightly. 

Of course, most students at Eden are smart — being one of the top universities in the world means having high standards. But no one would ever go to a frat-party attending jock for advice, much less dating advice, and expect insightful revelations. You feel guilty for underestimating Toji. He’s actually pretty smart. 

“Look, he’s got a girl on his arm and yet he keeps looking at you.”

It’s true. 

You can feel his leery gaze sweeping up and down your body, and it makes you want to throw up. So you shuffle closer to Toji, impossibly closer, and he lets you. 

“You look hot, doll. Just gotta own it, yeah?” His breath fans over you and it sets your skin ablaze. One hand rubs at your thigh, relishing in the soft, smooth skin and the other is gripping your hip. And beneath you, there’s something you’ve been giving your best shot constantly to pretend isn’t there. 

Toji Fushiguro is hard. 

And big, by the feel of it. 

You already knew that, of course. You get lots of anonymous tips through your ‘Insider’s Line’, as you like to call it, voicing in exhilarated pants about recent escapades. It’s a hotline anyone could call. You’re the only person who has access to the voicemails that get left behind. And it’s never usually a tedious process to sift through the prank calls and the boring confessions to get to the juicy details about the ongoings on campus. 

Many of those voicemails are to do with Toji. Whether that was about how he ‘so hot’ they could just ‘die or, like, combust’ or variations of ‘oh my god, that dick is fire, for real.’

You are not a prude. 

You have too much exposure to much more graphic descriptions of people’s adventures to be shy about sex, not to mention, you’re an adult. A virgin, but still an adult with friends who are not shy about their sex lives, to put it mildly. In fact, you’ve got a certain art student friend who loves to rant all the ways she’d like a certain vandal to ‘paint’ her with his ‘artistic essence.’

Whatever that means. 

And yet, despite all your pieces on the wildest, most inappropriate topics like ‘the hottest sex position right now’ and ‘is six inches really enough?’, you find yourself blushing at the realisation that the captain of the basketball team is sporting a boner that he doesn’t care to hide. 

You clear your throat and with a whisper, you say, “I hope I’m not making you…uncomfortable.”

You wince at the awkward wording. What are you? A child?

Toji grunts. 

“You referring to my boner, ma?” When you nod embarrassed, he taps your thigh with two fingers. “It’s your fault so you gonna lend a hand or what?”

If he was anyone else, literally anyone else, you’d be outraged. No man should talk to a lady like that and insinuate that they have a responsibility over someone else’s bodily reactions. It’s backwards and uncouth!

But…

Toji Fushiguro is not anyone else. 

You know he’s joking; he doesn’t seem to have any qualms in making stupid jokes with you because he knows you write filthier things. He’s tested your boundary many times in the past couple days and you’ve grown accustomed to his humour. 

And even if he isn’t joking, you have no problems with taking the opportunity. 

You shouldn’t.

You just got broken up with the other day and it’s unwise to get personally involved with a person you write so frequently about. Bias must not be tolerated is your mantra. 

Yet, your thighs are pressed tightly together, your nipples are poking through your top and you know he can see them, and if you were to slide a hand between your legs, you’d likely find wetness that is unbecoming of a lady. 

Wait. 

Among hundreds of voicemails, didn’t you receive one about how a guys likes girls sitting on his lap so he could feel their pussy?

Can Toji feel your pussy clenching, moistening and fluttering on his thigh?

You tilt your head up with a panic and you’re aghast. He’s already looking down at you with a challenging raise of his brow and a smirk playing on his lip. He knows what you’re thinking and he sees the question in your eyes. 

Toji flexes his thigh in an answer, pressing it harder against you, and the friction is delectable. It leaves you reeling, hand clutching his chest for stability. His arms tighten around you, and he’s sitting up, no longer lazily lounging, but now drawing closer, muscles tense despite his calm expression. Green eyes flicker up and down your face, settling on your lips with a hunger you surely match. You’re entranced. He smells clean and fresh with a hint of something burnt, a maturity you want to explore. His scent is filling your head, washing away the smell of cheap liquor and weed. 

Then, a foghorn like whoop pierces the mist. 

Some guy had climbed the balcony and is threatening to jump into the empty pool. Everyone crowds around, laughing and cheering. 

The moment is lost between you and your new friend, but he doesn’t let you up. In fact, he isn’t even looking at the idiot — not like you are, thinking about piece you could write about party culture — but rather at his stupid roommate, who stands on the other balcony, leaning against the railing as he looks on at everyone in disgust. 

Perhaps it’s the sheer fact that they’ve been friends for a while, and so he knows Sukuna’s inclination for inciting violence and general nonsensical behaviour for his own sick satisfaction, that makes Toji so damn sure this is his doing. Or maybe it’s the fact that he knows his roommate has developed a fascination with pushing a certain someone’s buttons. 

And when his phone pings and he receives a text from his pink-haired teammate, he knows it’s both. 

If the fucker stains Gojo’s pool with his blood, you think he’ll complain to the Prez?

Toji doesn’t bother answering, he just pockets his phone again with a tsk. He’s totally gonna hide the guy’s car keys in retaliation later for ruining his moment. He was so close to getting a taste of a certain gossip columnist and the opportunity was gone and excusing herself to go inside for a blanket. 

When she disappears from sight, weaving through the crowd still egging the loser on, the captain groans into the sky, squeezing his throbbing cock to adjust it. It’s gonna be a long night, he thinks, but then smiles to himself when he notices your dumbass ex still glaring with as much hate as the little guy can muster, and he knows he saw the whole thing. 

Now, all he can think about is you returning as quickly as possible so he can pick up where he left off. He’s gonna push all three of you as far as possible tonight: the ex will know he’ll never be man enough for a woman like you and that’s why he couldn’t get you wet; you’ll learn to let go, trust the pleasure and embrace it; and Toji?

Well, Toji’s gonna learn that the quietest girls are usually the ones with the most to say. 

[rootedinrevisions]

What's Mine

SUMMARY: After months of secretly seeing each other, you and Tyler find yourselves caught between professional boundaries and personal desires. When a flirtatious rival pushes Tyler's jealousy to the surface, he claims you in a way that leaves no doubt about your relationship status-to you or anyone else.

A/N: sorry that these requests are taking so long! I appreciate everyone's patience as I try to juggle writing with Thank you to the person who sent the request for this one in. This one came from the prompt “I’m not the jealous type, but what’s mine is mine.” I've had this one mostly done for a while (like a week or so) but the scene at the end just wasn't coming together the way I wanted it to. But I think I'm finally happy with the final result. Hope you like it! xx

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. Cursing (I assume, I'm not positive though). Smut (P in V, Unprotected)

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The bar was alive with energy, the hum of conversation and laughter mixing with the low strains of a country tune from the jukebox. Boone, Dani, Dexter, and Lily were engrossed in a heated pool game, their competitive banter rising above the noise. You and Tyler had claimed a small table near the edge of the room, tucked away just enough to let you watch the chaos unfold.

Tyler sat back in his chair, nursing a Budweiser. His long fingers tapped idly against the glass bottle, his eyes scanning the room with the kind of quiet intensity he always carried. You were close enough to feel his presence, that steady, grounding calm he exuded without even trying. But far enough apart to not draw suspicion from the rest of the team.

Your drink was nearly gone, and you stood, brushing your hand lightly over his shoulder. “I’m getting another. You want one?”

He glanced up at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, darlin’.”

You nodded and made your way toward the bar. It was busy, and a line was forming as people crowded to get the bartender’s attention. You leaned against the counter, letting out a soft sigh as you waited.

“Hell of a storm today, huh?”

The voice came from your right, smooth and friendly. You turned to find a man standing beside you, his elbow resting on the bar. He was tall, with a confident grin and a storm-chaser logo stitched onto his jacket—a rival team.

“Yeah,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but neutral. “Definitely one to remember.”

“Bet you’ve got some good footage from it,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in slightly. “You’re with Owens’ team, right?”

You nodded, not bothering to hide the pride in your voice. “That’s right.”

“Lucky guy,” he said, his gaze lingering just a little too long. “I mean, you guys have a solid team. And... well, looks like you’re not just good at chasing storms.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile tight. “Appreciate the compliment.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Tyler. He was still at the table, but his body language had shifted. His posture was no longer relaxed; he sat forward slightly, his fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of his beer bottle. His sharp green eyes were locked on you, his expression unreadable but intense.

The man at the bar didn’t seem to notice. He continued, his voice low and smooth. “If you ever get tired of running with Owens, maybe you should give our team a shot. We’ve always got room for someone like you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Thanks but I’ll pass. I’m pretty happy where I am.”

The man didn’t back off, his grin turning slightly smug. “Well, if you ever change your mind—or just feel like grabbing a drink sometime—”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you cut him off firmly, turning back to the bar as the bartender handed you your drink.

You glanced over your shoulder toward Tyler. He was still watching, his jaw tight, the muscle ticking in his cheek. His eyes flicked briefly to the man beside you before returning to yours. There was no mistaking the tension radiating from him.

You gave the man a polite nod before stepping away, leaving him at the bar as you made your way back to Tyler.

As you approached, Tyler’s gaze never left you. He set his beer down, his fingers drumming once against the table before he stood.

“Everything good?” he asked, his voice casual, but there was an edge to it—a quiet undertone that only you would catch.

“Fine,” you replied with a small smile, though you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, his expression neutral, but his eyes gave him away. “No reason.”

You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim of the glass. His attention briefly flicked past you, toward the bar where the man still lingered. Tyler’s jaw tightened again, and he looked back at you, his gaze steady.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smile. “You sure? Because you look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Tyler didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leaned in. “Let’s dance,” he said, his voice low and firm.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Dance?”

“Yeah,” he said, already guiding you toward the dance floor. His hand stayed on your back, the contact warm and steady as he maneuvered you through the crowd.

The dance floor was dimly lit, strings of lights crisscrossing overhead and casting a warm glow over the couples swaying to the music. The song was slow and soft, a welcome contrast to the energy of the bar. Tyler stopped just at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face you.

“Here?” you asked, feigning nonchalance even as your heart gave a little leap at the intent in his eyes.

“Here,” he confirmed, sliding his hands to your waist.

He pulled you closer, the motion smooth and confident, and suddenly the crowded bar felt a lot smaller. You placed your hands on his shoulders, your fingers brushing against the soft, worn fabric of his flannel. The scent of him—faint cologne, beer, and the outdoors—wrapped around you, grounding you in the moment.

The two of you moved together, the rhythm of the song dictating the slow, deliberate steps. Tyler’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against the hem of your shirt where it met your skin. His other hand rested lightly on your back, keeping you pressed against him.

But there was something in the way he held you tonight—something different. His movements were just a little firmer, his grip a little more possessive. You felt it in the tension radiating from him, in the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You’re tense,” you teased, tilting your head to study him.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice a little too even, his expression unreadable.

Your lips quirked into a small smile. “You sure? Because you’ve been glaring at the bar like it owes you money.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter from him, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze flicked past you, just for a moment. Curious, you glanced over your shoulder and spotted the storm chaser from earlier still lingering at the bar, his eyes darting toward you and Tyler on the dance floor. When you turned back to Tyler, his jaw was tight again, his green eyes darker than usual.

“Oh my God,” you said, the realization dawning. A grin spread across your face. “You’re jealous.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “No, I’m not.”

“You so are,” you teased, leaning in just a little closer. “You’ve been staring him down ever since I got back.”

Tyler’s hand on your waist slid a fraction higher, pulling you tighter against him. His voice dropped, low and rough. “I’m not the jealous type,” he said, his eyes locking on yours, “but what’s mine is mine. And I didn’t like how he was looking at what’s mine.”

Your breath caught at the intensity in his tone, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook so easily. “What’s yours?” you asked, your voice light but laced with challenge. "Not sure I know what you mean."

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your back, his other hand combing up and his thumb brushing along your jawline. The touch was intimate, deliberate. “You know exactly what I mean,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You smiled, though your heart was pounding. “Do I? Because last I checked, there’s no label on this... whatever this is. We’re just keeping things casual, remember?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement breaking through his tension. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“Am I?” you countered, tilting your head as if to test him. “Because I’m thinking maybe I’ll let him buy me my next drink. He seemed nice. Even offered to let me ride with him if I want.”

Tyler’s grip on you tightened, his jaw clenching visibly. “You better watch that mouth of yours,” he warned, his voice low and steady, “before it gets you into trouble.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. Leaning in closer, you let your hand rest on his chest, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel. The touch was casual enough to appear innocent, but the way his eyes darkened told you he didn’t take it that way.

“What kind of trouble?” you asked softly, your voice teasing but edged with genuine curiosity.

Tyler’s lips twitched into a small, almost dangerous smile. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “If you keep running that little mouth of yours,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m gonna take you against the nearest surface I can find. And trust me, darlin’, I’ll make sure everyone—including him—knows exactly who you belong to. So unless you want us both taking a ride for indecent exposure tonight, I'd suggest you knock it off.”

A shiver ran down your spine, his words leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could recover, the song shifted, transitioning into a faster tempo. Tyler pulled back, the satisfied glint in his eyes unmistakable as he saw the look on your face.

He grinned, spinning you out in a smooth twirl under his arm before pulling you back against him. His confidence was infuriatingly attractive, and you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself.

And then, without warning, he dipped you low, his hand steady at your back as he leaned in and kissed you. The kiss was firm and unapologetic, a silent claim that left no room for doubt to anyone looking.

When he pulled back, his hand still cradling your back, you blinked up at him, your breath uneven. His gaze softened slightly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“So,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Are you done being a brat, or do I need to make things even more official?”

You laughed softly, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” you teased, still catching your breath. “I kind of like seeing you jealous.”

Tyler’s hand stayed firmly on your back as he guided you off the dance floor, weaving through the clusters of people. You were still reeling from the kiss—your lips tingling, your heart racing. His confidence had left you breathless, but there was also something grounding about his presence, his solid grip on you as though letting go wasn’t an option.

As you reached your table at the edge of the bar, Tyler pulled you into a quieter corner where the music softened to background noise. His hand lingered on your waist, his thumb brushing idly over your hip as if staking his claim.

“Subtle,” you teased, leaning against the wall. “You think that was enough for him to get the message?”

Tyler’s lips twitched into a small smirk, his green eyes glittering with amusement. “Don't care. I wasn’t doing it for him,” he said, his tone low and deliberate.

For a moment, you forgot the noise of the bar, the crowd, and even the guy who had been flirting with you earlier. All you could focus on was Tyler—his steady gaze, the way his hand still rested on your hip, and the unspoken promise in the way he stood so close to you.

“So, what was that all about then?” you asked, tilting your head, your voice softer now.

Tyler leaned in slightly, his free hand bracing against the wall beside your head. The proximity was intoxicating, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“I told you,” he murmured. “What’s mine is mine. I don’t care who knows it.”

Your heart did a little flip at his words, but you weren’t ready to let him off the hook just yet. “But we're still not official, though,” you pointed out, your tone teasing.

Tyler exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” you shot back, your eyes glinting with challenge.

Tyler pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand resting on the side of your face as he caressed your jaw. “You want official? Fine,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk, but his eyes held something more—something tender.

Tyler leaned in, his forehead brushing yours as he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Call me whatever you want—boyfriend, lover, or just Tyler—but as long as you call me yours, that’s all I care about.” His thumb traced the line of your lips, and the weight of his words settled around you like a promise.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again, fierce and tender all at once. He kissed you slowly, his mouth lingering over yours, as if sealing the words he’d just spoken with a kiss that spoke louder than anything else. His hand cradled your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

Tyler’s lips pulled away from yours, but his forehead stayed pressed against yours as he looked into your eyes, that mischievous spark returning to his gaze. He traced his thumb gently over your cheek, as though savoring the moment.

“So,” he said, a teasing smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, “was that official enough for you, or are you gonna make me actually say it?”

You tilted your head, matching his grin, letting your fingers lightly graze the back of his neck as you gave him a playful challenge. “I think I kind of want to hear you say it,” you teased, your voice soft but laced with amusement.

Tyler sighed dramatically, his eyes rolling with mock exasperation, but it was clear he was enjoying this little moment just as much as you were. He leaned back slightly, a chuckle escaping him as he gave you a mock-serious look.

“Darlin’,” he began, his voice dripping with affection and a touch of humor. “Will you please be my girlfriend?”

You burst into laughter, the sound light and carefree, as Tyler grinned at you, clearly pleased with himself. His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer as his lips quirked upward.

“See?” he teased, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I sounded ridiculous, didn't I?”

You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of the moment settle in. "I don't know...I kind of liked it,” you replied, a hint of sweetness in your voice. “Thank you. I know you probably think it was stupid, but it was nice to hear.”

Tyler leaned in, brushing his lips over your forehead in a soft, affectionate kiss. “Darlin', I'll do whatever makes you happy. If that means saying it, then I'm happy to do it,” he murmured, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer again.

Your chest tightened at the honesty in his tone, and for a moment, all the teasing and banter fell away. This was real—so much more real than you’d expected it to be when the two of you started this quiet, undefined thing.

The moment hung between you, charged and intimate, until the sound of laughter from your team broke the spell. You glanced over Tyler’s shoulder to see Dani and Boone watching you from the pool table, their expressions ranging from amused to downright smug.

“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” you said, your lips quirking into a small smile.

Tyler turned to follow your gaze, his hand dropping back to your waist. “Good,” he said simply. Then, louder, so the rest of the team could hear, he added, “Yeah, we’re together. Anyone got a problem with that?”

The table erupted into laughter and a chorus of good-natured teasing, but no one seemed surprised. Dani shot you a knowing look, and Boone raised his beer in a mock toast.

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly as you turned back to Tyler. “You're as subtle as a freight train,” you teased.

He grinned, leaning down to brush a kiss against your temple. “You love it,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

And he was right—you did.

As the night eased into a comfortable rhythm, the initial teasing about you and Tyler began to fade—well, mostly. The team had always been a tight-knit group, and now that the two of you were officially “out,” it seemed like fair game for them to poke fun.

Dani was the first to pounce, sidling up to your table after winning yet another round of pool. She leaned her cue against the wall and smirked. “So, is this why you always rode shotgun with Tyler on every drive?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Boone joined in, raising his beer. “Oh, I get it now. ‘I’ll navigate.’ ‘I’m the best with maps.’ Sure, that’s why,” he said, making exaggerated air quotes.

Your face burned, but you couldn’t help laughing. “I am good with maps,” you said defensively, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Dexter, usually the quiet one, chimed in with a rare grin. “Guess that explains all the ‘extra stops’ you two needed on those long drives. Thought it was weird how often you needed coffee breaks.”

You groaned, hiding your face behind your hands. “Oh my god, you guys are impossible.”

Tyler, on the other hand, was taking it all in stride. He leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually around your shoulders, the very picture of smug confidence. “Jealousy’s a bad look on y’all,” he said, his lips twitching into a smirk.

Dani rolled her eyes. “Please. We’re not jealous. Just annoyed it took you this long to admit what we all already knew.”

Boone nodded in agreement. “Seriously, the way you two looked at each other—like a damn Nicholas Sparks movie. We were just waiting for the dramatic kiss in the rain.”

Tyler grinned, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.”

You shot him a look, though you couldn’t hide your own smile. “Interesting is one word for it,” you muttered, leaning into his side despite yourself.

As the team’s attention shifted back to their game, you stole a moment to glance up at Tyler. His green eyes met yours, and for a second, the noise of the bar faded away. He gave you a small, almost private smile, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.

When it was finally time to call it a night, the group began gathering their things. Dani slung her bag over her shoulder and paused by the door, looking back at the two of you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hey, lovebirds,” she called out, her voice carrying over the music. “Try to keep it down tonight, okay? Some of us would like to actually get some sleep for once.”

Your cheeks went bright red as the rest of the team burst into laughter. “Dani!” you protested, your voice high with embarrassment as you hid your face in Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler, however, was completely unfazed. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. He tightened his arm around you, giving the group a lazy grin. “No promises,” he said, his tone teasing but dripping with that cocky charm you both loved and hated.

The laughter grew louder as you groaned again, playfully smacking his chest. With his arm still wrapped around you, Tyler guided you out of the bar, his hand resting securely on your hip as you stepped into the cool night air. The laughter and teasing from your teammates still echoed in your ears, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“Think they’ll ever let us live this down?” you asked, glancing up at him.

Tyler chuckled, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Not a chance,” he said, pulling you closer. “But as long as I’ve got you, I don’t really care.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder as the two of you walked toward his truck.

The drive back to the motel was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional murmur of a country station playing on the radio. Tyler had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on your knee, his thumb idly brushing over the fabric of your jeans. Every so often, he’d glance over at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

But your mind was racing, and as much as you wanted to let yourself get lost in the warmth of his touch, you couldn’t shake the doubt creeping in. Was what happened back at the bar real, or was it just Tyler getting caught up in the moment?

When you pulled into the motel parking lot, the tension was still simmering beneath your skin. Tyler parked the truck, turned off the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open your door like he always did. You followed him up the stairs to your room, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you turned to face him. “So…” you started, your voice careful, testing the waters.

Tyler paused, halfway through pulling his flannel shirt off. He tilted his head at you, a playful smirk teasing his lips. “So?” he repeated, his tone light.

You crossed your arms, shifting on your feet. “What happened back there… at the bar,” you said, avoiding his gaze. “Was that real? Or are you gonna wake up tomorrow and tell the team it was all some big joke? Just you messing around for some laughs?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you regretted saying anything. But then Tyler stepped closer, his flannel discarded on the back of a chair, leaving him in just his plain white t-shirt that clung to his frame in all the right ways.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, his voice steady, “do I look like I’m joking to you?”

You glanced up at him, searching his face for any hint of hesitation. But all you saw was certainty.

“I meant every word I said tonight,” Tyler continued, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you a step closer. “You’re mine. And I don’t care who knows it.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his voice. “But… you said we needed to keep things low-key,” you reminded him, though your voice wavered.

“That was before,” he said simply, his thumb brushing along your side. “Before I realized how much I hated watchin’ someone else try to take what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill down your spine, but it was the tenderness in his eyes that made you melt.

“Tyler…” you whispered, but whatever you were going to say next was lost as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It started slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. But as you kissed him back, threading your fingers through his hair, it deepened, his grip on your waist tightening as if he couldn’t get close enough.

Tyler walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, the curve of your jaw—each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his forehead resting against yours.

“Does that feel like I’m jokin’?” he murmured, his voice rough and low.

You shook your head, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “No,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his.

He grinned, that familiar cocky charm flashing through for just a second. “Good,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again.

The kiss deepened as Tyler pressed you back onto the bed, his hands trailing down your sides with a possessiveness that sent shivers through you. His touch wasn’t rushed—no, Tyler Owens was deliberate, savoring every moment as though he had all the time in the world to prove his point.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. The sight of him like this—raw, unguarded—made your heart race. He sat back on his knees, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. He tugged it up and then peeled it up over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His hands roamed your bare skin, his touch warm and grounding, but his eyes were what made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice roughened by desire. His thumb traced along the edge of your bra, just barely brushing your skin. “All mine.”

His words sent heat coursing through you, and you couldn’t help but arch into his touch. Tyler leaned down, his lips brushing the column of your throat.

“Every inch of you,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “belongs to me.”

He kissed his way down, his lips teasing, his hands skillfully finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it with ease. As he slid the straps from your shoulders, his gaze was reverent, almost awed.

“My girl,” he said, his voice low. His hands moved to your waist again, hooking into the band of your jeans.

As the cool air hit your skin, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. Tyler noticed immediately, his sharp gaze flicking up to meet yours. His head tilted slightly, and his lips curled into a smirk that sent a wave of both heat and embarrassment through you.

“None of that,” he said, his voice firm but teasing. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, coaxing it free from your teeth. “They all know now, sweetheart. No need to hide.”

Your eyes widened, and you gave him a look that was part incredulous, part exasperated. “Tyler, we can’t …what if we get a noise complaint!”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich as his hands slid down to rest on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, maddening circles.

“I don’t care about a noise complaint,” he said, leaning down until his lips were barely an inch from yours. “The team knows. Hell, everyone at the bar knows. But now…” His smirk widened, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Now it’s time every chaser in this motel knows who you belong to.”

“Tyler,” you started, but before you could get another word out, his mouth was on yours again, silencing your protest. His kiss was commanding, his hands sliding over your body in a way that left no room for doubt about his intentions. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with something primal.

“Now,” he said, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. “Who do you belong to?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could, he shifted, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear. His tongue flicked against your skin, and the combination of his touch and his words sent a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

“Tyler,” you moaned, his name spilling from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, that infuriatingly smug smirk firmly in place. “That’s right, baby,” he said, his voice like a low growl. “Say it again.”

You glared at him, your face heating with both embarrassment and arousal, but the challenge in his eyes only spurred you on. “You,” you said breathlessly, your voice trembling with need. “I belong to you.”

His grin softened slightly, turning into something warmer, something that made your chest ache. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and when he pulled back, his hand slid to the small of your back, holding you close.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, and the possessiveness in his voice was tempered by an unmistakable tenderness.

As he kissed you again, deeper this time, your earlier doubts and insecurities melted away. Tyler wasn’t just claiming you—he was showing you, in every touch and every word, that he meant it.

Tyler’s hands moved over your body with a slow reverence, his touch igniting sparks wherever his fingertips lingered. The playful smirk that had been on his face earlier softened into something else—something deeper. His eyes locked on yours, his gaze steady and intense as if he wanted to commit every detail of this moment to memory.

He finished undressing you as he slid your panties agonizingly slow down your legs, letting them fall away as his hands brushed your hips. The air felt charged like you were both standing on the edge of something bigger than either of you could name.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky but carrying a weight of sincerity that made your chest tighten.

Your hand found its way to his face, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw. “Tyler…” you whispered, but you couldn’t find the words to finish. The look in his eyes—unwavering and full of something unspoken—was undoing you.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, and then the tip of your nose. Each kiss felt like a promise, slow and deliberate. His hands framed your face as he kissed you fully again, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that took your breath away.

He shifted, guiding your body beneath his as he shed the last of his clothing, his movements unhurried but purposeful. The heat of his skin against yours was electric, but it was the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—that had your heart pounding.

Tyler paused for a moment, his weight braced above you, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. 

“I need you to know,” he said, his voice low but steady. “This isn’t just…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “This isn’t just about wanting to fuck you. It’s more than that.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw vulnerability in them wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. You reached up, your hand tangling in his hair as you pulled him down into a kiss, your lips conveying everything you couldn’t put into words.

When he finally started to push inside you, the moment felt like time had stopped. His movements were slow, measured, as if he were afraid of rushing it. This wasn’t like the other times you’d been with Tyler before. Every time before had felt like it was just physical. Practically ripping clothes off of each other and hot and heated kisses him getting inside of you as fast as he could.

But this time…this time his touches were just a little softer. His kisses were just a little deeper. And the way he was holding you, like he was cherishing you made you swoon.

As he moved with you, his hands roamed your body. He murmured your name like a prayer, each syllable dripping with affection. And when your hand gripped his shoulder, your nails digging slightly into his skin, he leaned down to kiss you again, his lips lingering as if he couldn’t bear to pull away.

You couldn’t stop the small sounds that escaped your lips, your body responding to his in ways that felt like second nature. But it wasn’t just physical—there was something so much deeper in the way he held you, the way his hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as though he needed to feel connected to every part of you.

It wasn’t long before the tension building between you both crested, your body trembling in his arms as your climax washed over you. Tyler held you close, whispering soothing words in your ear. When he followed moments later, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the quiet groan that escaped his lips sent another shiver down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing the only sound in the room. Tyler finally shifted, rolling to his side but pulling you with him so that you stayed nestled against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as though letting go was not an option.

He pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering there as he murmured, “I meant it, you know. You’re mine.”

You looked up at him, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “And you’re mine,” you said softly, the words feeling like a vow.

His lips curved into a soft smile, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your back. “Damn right, I am.”

As you lay there, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the weight of the moment settled over you. This wasn’t just another night, another stolen moment of passion. This was the start of something new—something real.

And as Tyler held you close, his breathing evening out as sleep began to claim him, you couldn’t help but think that for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly as it should.

[luveline]

would you ever write about hotch pining after r because he thinks she’s interested in someone else but then she confesses to him that she’s only ever had eyes for him 🥹

You’re shocked Hotch will let them look at him, honestly. When was the last time you saw Hotch receive medical attention? He doesn’t seem happy about it, suit jacket folded in his lap, his shirt cut in three places, most noticeably the left sleeve. 

“His arm is definitely broken,” Spencer tells you. 

“Do you think he’ll let me give him some comfort?” you ask, the two of you with your arms crossed against the side of the second ambulance, where Morgan undergoes a similarly reluctant checkup for his bloody temple. 

“No. You can always try, though. He’ll appreciate the effort.” 

You ready yourself with a deep breath and begin the short walk. It feels long then suddenly over at the same time. The only thing between you and Hotch now is a shoe’s width and the EMT securing his temporary sling. 

“They’re making me an emergency appointment,” he tells you. 

You fight the urge to rub the toe of your shoe into the ground. “Are you in pain?” 

“No. They gave me tramadol.” 

Hotch pushed you hard out of the way of a brawl and took blows meant for you in turn. He never lets you get hurt in the field. At first you’d assumed him to be the overprotective boss, and careful of women in the team, but you’ve caught on now that his motivation wells from somewhere deeper. 

Hotch loves you. He won’t tell you. You have no idea why. 

The EMT says she’ll return and takes her leave. You nod to the patch of metal flooring beside him, legs too tired to keep standing, and Hotch moves over to leave a gap between you suitable for turning into. You sit down with a sigh. Face to face, this close, you can see the different colours of his iris and the scar under his eyebrow clear as day. 

“You okay?” 

“Are you?” he asks with nothing more than a single short nod. 

“I’m worried about you,” you confess. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I can take care of myself, okay? I don’t like you getting hurt in my place.” 

“I’m your Unit Chief.” 

“If it were Morgan, you wouldn’t have pushed him out of the way. If it were Emily. And we both know I can hold my own.”

He doesn’t look away from your face. “I know.” 

You’re finding it hard to want to scold him. You love him, too. You appreciate what it takes for him to take a fight that was meant for you, and the sentiment behind it. You’d quite like for him to protect you, just not at work. He could glare down potential suitors or argue with people who are rude to you at the grocery store. He doesn’t need to do your job for you. 

You raise your hand tentatively to his face, ignoring his confusion as you rake the hair that falls against his forehead back up. “It’s getting a little long for you.” 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“Me too. I keep meaning to do so much stuff but we get home and I get to my apartment and I just sleep for days.” 

“I wish I did something that sensible.” 

You curl your fingers over his shoulder. Without his suit jacket, you can feel the solidness of his muscle and soft tissue clearly. You rub your thumb in a half circle. 

“Why don’t you sleep much? I wish you would.” 

His eyes flare momentarily. His only tell, a flicker of movement you can’t miss. He’s surprised by something, your question, maybe your tone. “I do sleep.” 

“Not enough.” 

“No, I guess not.” 

You press your cheek to his arm. Can’t help yourself. He’s this strong, stern guy, so used to trying to save everyone that he barely looks after himself, and it makes you sad to think he’d love you and not want to tell you, because why wouldn’t he? Something in him must stop him from acting on it, but that something isn’t in you, not anymore. “Can’t believe you got your arm broken for me,” you murmur, lips to his shirt. You let out a breath, feel the warmth of it pass onto his skin and his following shudder. 

“It wasn’t purposeful.” 

“No? That’s good.” 

“I would do it again,” he says. “I thought you’d be with Morgan.” 

“Morgan’s a big boy.” 

“As opposed to me.” 

“I want to be here with you. I’m worried about you.” You press your face further into his arm, scared to say it even though you know it’s returned. “I care about you so much, ‘n’ you never let me show it.”

“That’s not true,” —his voice climbs higher— “I thought… You and Derek are close.” 

“He’s my friend, Hotch. It’s not like that.” 

Hesitant, tender all the same, Hotch’s uninjured arm slinks around your side to hold you, to bring you closer to his side where you’re hiding. You’re much too old for this, and still you have to confess. 

“I don’t like him,” you say. 

“As opposed to me.” 

You laugh at his repetition. Too embarrassed to say anything more on the subject but wanting to cement it in his head, you raise your head and your hand at the same time, knuckle to his jawline, nudging him to one side. You lean up and kiss his cheek. 

“Please don’t push me out of the way again,” you say. 

Hotch smiles at you, a proper, soft-eyed smile. “I won’t.” 

It’s an obvious lie. 

“Maybe when we go home we can nap together,” you suggest, heart slamming considering the innocence of what you’ve suggested. 

His fingers cradle your side. “You want to?” he asks carefully. 

“You can finally get some rest.” 

He closes his eyes, resting his face against yours.