#the thing you need to keep in mind is that most of this one is spoken and not sung

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS IV

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne, ft. batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources word count: 2k synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: Here it is! The final part! Hope Y'all enjoyed! Also I hope I got everyone who asked to be on the tag list, if I missed you I am so sorry!

Bruce lifted a brow at the sound of heavy footsteps and the sight of Jason sauntering into the manor kitchen, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he owned the place.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pausing mid-bite, fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

Jason didn’t break stride. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome,” he drawled, dropping the duffle beside a chair with a solid thud.

Bruce sighed, setting down his utensils. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just you have your own place.”

Jason shrugged, nonchalant. “Maybe I just felt like spending some quality time with dear old Dad.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed, eyes flicking over him like a scanner calibrating for irregularities. Jason was calm. Casual. Civil. Voluntarily in the manor. Something was wrong.

Jason would rather set himself on fire than willingly spend an evening under Bruce’s roof. He was being too… not-Jason. Polite, even. Pleasant. 

Clone? Possibly. Cyborg? Wouldn’t be the first time. A mind-wiped doppelgänger sent to spy on the family?

Then it hit him.

He paused in growing horror…

Did he finally kill the Joker?

Was that why he was in a good mood?

Bruce stared at him. Jason just blinked back innocently, which only made it worse.

No, something was definitely wrong.

“He’s lying,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth and amused.

Dick entered, mug of tea in hand and an unbothered grin on his face. “It’s because everyone’s crashing at his place.”

Now that he mentioned it, the manor had been suspiciously quiet lately.

Bruce glanced between them. “Why?”

Jason froze, his posture stiffening like someone expecting a sniper shot. His eyes flicked to Dick, silently warning him to shut up.

Dick, of course, did not. If anything, his grin widened.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Why?” he repeated.

Jason shot Dick a glare, the kind that promised swift and bloody vengeance, but the little shit was immune. He grinned wider, practically radiating delight.

“Oh, because of his girlfriend,” Dick said, drawing out the word with far too much delight.

It had been unspoken—agreed upon, even—that whatever chaos was unfolding at Jason’s apartment stayed there. The last thing he needed was his personal life dragged into the manor spotlight and have Bruce interrogating his girlfriend. He was already hanging on to his sanity by the thinnest of threads.

But Dick had two fatal weaknesses: an insatiable love for family bonding… and a disturbing amount of joy in watching Jason suffer.

“You should see him at home,” Dick went on, far too pleased with himself. “Total domestic bliss. Folding laundry. Cooking dinner. It’s like watching a lion try to do ballet.”

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead,” Jason snapped, his voice a low snarl.

Bruce paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a Batarang.

Very slowly—deliberately—Bruce looked up. His eyes locked on Jason.

Jason had a what?

Before anyone could speak, Alfred appeared beside Dick with the poise of a man who had seen war, death, and teenage Bruce Wayne at his most dramatic—and had emerged utterly unshaken.

“Master Jason is bringing her for dinner, of course,” Alfred said, smooth as ever, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Master Jason is not!” Jason barked, visibly horrified.

Alfred raised a brow. 

Finding out you’d been invited to dinner at Wayne Manor wasn’t exactly a shock. If anything, you’d been expecting it. Most of the family already knew you—had dropped by Jason’s place uninvited enough times that introductions were inevitable. It was only a matter of time before Bruce caught wind of your existence too.

What surprised you more was how not nervous you felt.

Jason, on the other hand, looked like he was mentally preparing for battle.

As the iron gates of Wayne Manor creaked open, you watched him through the passenger-side mirror. Your six-foot-two, weapons-grade boyfriend was pacing beside the car like a man about to face execution. His hair was a mess—freshly wrecked from his own anxious hands—and while the tousled look worked unfairly well for him, it didn’t do much to hide the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“Just… don’t let them suck you into anything,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe. “Don’t be too funny. Or too smart.”

You arched a brow. “So… you want me to be dislikable?”

“What? No! I mean—maybe? I don’t know!” he snapped, throwing his arms up. “If you are, maybe they’ll finally stop showing up at my place uninvited. But I don’t want them to hate you either.”

He paused, then groaned. “God. Don’t mention cinnamon rolls. Damian’s still holding a grudge because I ate the last batch.”

You laughed. “Of course he is.”

Jason stopped pacing only long enough to glare at the front door like it personally offended him. “Just… don’t be nervous. We’ll be in and out. Quick and painless.”

You blinked slowly. “Jason. I���m not nervous. You’re the one spiraling.”

By this point, you weren’t even sure he realized what he was saying anymore. He was just venting aloud—burning nervous energy like a fuse inching toward a powder keg.

With a soft breath of amusement, you stepped into his path, catching his hand in yours before he could wear a trench into the manor’s immaculate brickwork.

“Babe,” you said, gently squeezing his fingers. “I’m fine. I got this. You’re the only one falling apart here.”

So you reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief—grounding—but it worked. His shoulders dropped an inch, the rigid line of his jaw easing ever so slightly.

When you pulled back, you were already smiling. You laced your fingers through his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Ready?” you asked.

Jason exhaled, long and slow, like he was about to walk into enemy territory. Which, for him, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

“Fuck no.”

Alfred greeted you at the door with the warmth of a man welcoming a long-lost friend.

“Miss Y/N,” he said, voice smooth with genuine affection. “We’re delighted to have you.”

You barely had time to smile before Damian appeared—materialized really—at your side.

“You’re sitting next to me.”

You blinked. “Hello to you too,” you said dryly.

He didn’t acknowledge it. His attention was already on the dining table as he pulled out a chair for you with the gravity of someone bestowing a great honour.

 “What? No! That’s my girlfriend, demon spawn.” Jason snapped. 

Damian didn’t even flinch. He turned to Jason with a droll look, sharp and effortless. “And I pity her for that fact every day.”

You muffled a snort behind your hand and slid gracefully into the offered seat.

“Thank you, Damian,” you said, smoothing your napkin onto your lap with a smirk. Then, with mock innocence, you patted the open chair on your other side. “There’s still one free spot left.”

Jason moved toward it—clearly ready to reclaim his territory—only for Dick to slide in smoothly at the last second.

“Y/N!” Dick beamed, overly bright, already leaning his elbow on the back of your chair like he belonged there.

Jason’s jaw ticked. “Oh no you don’t, Dickhead.”

With all the grace of a man well-versed in brotherly warfare, he hauled Dick up by the collar and dragged him out of the seat with zero ceremony.

“Hey!” Dick protested, arms flailing like a cat being relocated. But Jason was already dropping into the seat beside you, triumphant.

Dick slunk across the table with a wounded pout, muttering something about uncalled-for violence.

You raised a brow at your boyfriend. “You know we practically live together. You see me every day.”

Jason scowled. “So do these assholes. They break into my apartment every day.”

Damian arched a brow from your other side, utterly unbothered. “Careful, Todd. Green isn’t your color.”

Dinner was… everything Jason feared.

Tim asked how you two met—twice—just to watch Jason twitch with increasing irritation.

Stephanie demanded relationship details with the energy of a late-night talk show host, bouncing in her seat as she eagerly listened to answer her questions.

Cass watched you in silence, head tilted with a quiet, steady kind of approval. She didn’t need words. She’d already decided she liked you.

And Dick?

Dick was the worst.

He had a seemingly endless supply of Jason’s most humiliating childhood stories, and he recited them with theatrical flair, smirking each time your laughter made Jason’s eye twitch.

Meanwhile, Bruce sat at the head of the table like a statue carved from shadow and marble. He didn’t speak much—hardly at all, in fact—he mostly just watched. His gaze never drifted far from you, sharp and evaluating, like he was measuring you against an invisible checklist. Determining whether you were worthy of his son.

Eventually, between the second course and murmured side conversations, Bruce set down his glass with a soft clink against the china.

“Y/N.”

Jason stiffened like someone had pulled a gun on him. You felt it in the sharp shift of his knee against yours beneath the table. Without looking, you placed a calming hand there.

Jason’s fork paused mid-air. “Bruce…”

You didn’t flinch. You turned to meet his gaze, calmly. “Yes?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “You’ve been with Jason for how long?”

“Almost a year,” you answered easily. “Give or take a few near-death experiences.”

Dick leaned back in his chair with a grin. “That’s basically a vow renewal in this family.”

Bruce continued, tone even. “And you know.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question. You nodded anyway. “Didn’t take long.”

“You stayed.”

“I did.”

Jason muttered, “Why does this feel like a background check with extra judgment?”

Bruce studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “You’re aware of the risks.”

“I’ve had them explained,” you said dryly. “Repeatedly. With charts.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “Please tell me one of them was color-coded.”

“That was mine,” Damian muttered, arms crossed.

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. It wasn’t often anyone got Damian’s seal of approval. 

Bruce went quiet for a moment, and the weight of his silence settled over the table. He studied you like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re either incredibly brave… or incredibly foolish.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Probably both. It’s part of the application process, right?”

Cass smiled behind her teacup. Steph stared at you with wide, glittering eyes and whispered to Jason, “Marry her.”

At that, something flickered in Bruce’s expression—approval, maybe. Something harder to name. Something deeper.

He nodded once, almost to himself. “You’ll be here for Sunday dinners moving forward.”

Jason nearly choked on his drink. “Are you serious?”

You ignored him, smiling sweetly. “Of course.”

“Babe!”

You patted his thigh. “Ignore him. We’ll be there.”

Dick leaned over, grinning at Jason’s dramatics. “Wow. He likes her more than he likes you.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Which, of course, meant: yes.

After dinner, Alfred insisted on tea.

Damian insisted on sitting next to you again—claimed it was “for tactical proximity,” though he was clearly just making sure no one else got the seat first.

Stephanie suggested you move into the manor under the guise of “Jason’s health,” citing stress levels and his lack of basic nutrition, and how beneficial it would be for the two of you two live here. Cass offered you her bedroom if the “shoebox you’re living in” ever became unbearable. Tim asked if you could cook, already planning meal rotations. And Dick—of course—invited you to game night next week with a wink and a warning: “Lose to Damian at your own risk.”

Jason looked like he was developing a migraine.

He sat beside you on the long couch in the grand living room, shoulders hunched like a man awaiting trial. Laughter echoed around the walls—walls he used to call cold and empty. 

Now they rang with bickering, teasing, warmth.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, barely hiding your smile. “Still want to fake my death and move to the Alps?”

Jason glanced at you.

Then at Damian, practically glued to your side like an emotionally constipated barnacle.

Then at Tim, who was deep in concentration trying to download your favorite show onto the Batcomputer, muttering about file formats and codec errors.

Then at Bruce—stoic, silent Bruce—watching his family with a small, unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason sighed. A long, suffering sound, that was too dramatic to be sincere.

“…Yes.”

← Previous Chapter

Tag list: @stormz369, @gothamhappiness, @remmyswritings, @dominazina, @nicverse, @roastyyytoastyyy, @sunnyfield, @snowy-violets, @sh0jun, @chicarandom11, @oooof-ifellforyou, @esposadomd, @bmyva1entine, @salvatt1, @ghost-candyyy, @sofiafantasies, @leogf

[prythianpages]

Take Me Home | Azriel x Reader

Azriel x Reader | When Azriel gets drunk, he forgets he has a wife.

warning: drinking, drunk & fluffy Az

a/n: You can thank tiktok for this one. It inspired me to take a little break from all the angst. I literally have never written a fic so fast before, this took me a little more than an hour. Just something short & sweet (1K words.)

Azriel liked to drink every now and then. Rarely, would he get drunk. He preferred maintaining control, always mindful of his surroundings and alert to his ever-listening shadows. 

But when he did get drunk, he'd sometimes forget he had a wife.

Normally, it was Azriel who stayed at your side. He was the hand that always found yours under the table when your words began to slur or the gentle pressure at the small of your back keeping you upright as you stumbled through the crowd. But tonight at Rita’s, something in his shoulders told you he needed to let go.

So when Cassian ordered shots for the table, you passed yours to Azriel with a playful grin, silently telling him, “your turn.”

He hesitated but after a few teasing remarks and a chorus of encouragement from the rest of the Inner Circle, he tipped the glass back and knocked it down in one go. Then another. And another. 

You watched the shift in him slowly unfold. His shoulders began to ease from their earlier tense posture. Though it was dark, you could see the inky tendrils of his shadows twitching and rippling less against his skin. Almost as if, they too, were content. 

You knew he was tipsy the moment he let Cassian drag him onto the dance floor without so much as a protest. And you knew he was drunk when he nearly tripped over nothing and just laughed before catching himself.

Across the table, you met Rhysand’s gaze. He was lounging back with a smirk, swirling his drink lazily in his hand as he watched the scene unfold.

“Should I stop him?” you asked, though your voice lacked any real concern. 

Rhysand raised his glass in salute toward Feyre, who had joined Cassian and Azriel on the dance floor.  “No. Let him. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Sensing your mate’s gaze on you, you turned your head back to the dance floor only to see Azriel shying away from your gaze. Oh yeah, he’s definitely drunk. Rhysand chuckled, mirroring your thoughts.

Rhysand was right, though. This was the most relaxed you’d seen your mate in weeks and your heart ached a little with how much he had needed a night out like this.

Azriel continued to sneak glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He didn’t last much longer on the dance floor. Cassian’s spinning and swaying became too much, and eventually, he slipped away from his friend. His steps were a little uncoordinated.

Then, his eyes found yours. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you like you were the only steady thing in the room. The grin that spread across his face was boyish and a little lopsided as he approached the table.

“Hey,” he said, swaying slightly.

“Hey.” You grinned back up at him, a hand reaching out to push back his hair. The stool you sat on gave you just enough advantage in height to do so. His wings shuddered in response, making your grin widen at how easily flustered he got when drunk. You adored it, reveling in being able to make him feel that way.

Azriel’s shadows danced lazily around his shoulders like they, too, were drunk. He leaned down, one of his wings casting a small shadow over you, offering some privacy in the midst of the noise.

“My friend over there,” he whisper-yelled, breath warm against your ear and his scent washing over you, “thinks you’re cute.”

You blinked, pulling back to look at him. “Friend?”

Before you could even process, he pointed to the side. You followed his hand, confused, just as a soft whoosh sounded beside you.

And there he was.

Standing a few feet away with the same grin on his face, exactly in the spot he had pointed to you. You pointed your hand at him and silently beckoned him back to you. With a dark glimmer of shadows, he vanished from across the room and stumbled right back in front of you. You hopped off the stool, catching him with both hands on his chest and helping in steadying him.

“Tell your friend I’m really flattered but I’m taking my husband home.”

You showed him your ring, lifting your hand in front of his glazed eyes. He blinked at it, brows pulling together. Something like disappointment flashed across his face, his wings drooping slightly behind him.

 “Oh.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, your heart melting as you gently reached for his hand. You lifted it, bringing it up the same level of the hand flashing your wedding ring. The matching silver band to yours gleamed on his finger, and you gave your finger a little wiggle for emphasis.

His eyes widened. “Oh.” A pause. “Me?”

You nodded, your fingers lacing with his. His whole face lit up, that grin of his brighter than ever and reaching all the way to those hazel eyes you loved so much. He turned to the person closest to you both, Rhysand, “I have a wife!”

Rhysand raised his brow in mock surprise. “Just wait until you find out you have a mate, buddy,” you heard him mutter.

But Azriel didn’t hear. Or maybe he did, and chose to ignore it. Either way, he turned back to you, stepping a little closer. You released his hand and Azriel was quick to place both his hands on your waist.

“Well then, my wife,” he said, pulling you flush to him, his tone and touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter.

He dipped his head, his forehead resting against yours, nose brushing yours in a gentle nuzzle. His eyes flicked to your lips, lingering for a beat too long, before lifting back to yours.

“Take me home.”

You laughed softly, cupping his cheeks and placing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Okay, my husband.”

He looked at you like he was falling for you all over again and then, his lips were chasing yours for another taste. Warmth bloomed in your chest, the bond between you thrumming with love and adoration.

Because even if Azriel forgot he had a wife when he was drunk, his heart always knew.

At the end of the night, in every life and every state of mind, he always chose you.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this silly little fic! & kudos to you if you recognized the tiktok that inspired this.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kodafics

[soulcaketuesday]

Five of Swords 🗡️

In a show about people being trapped in self made coffins, Namami is one of the only characters that's able to step away when she realises how harmful the system is to her. This card isn't about that, though! Five of Swords is about trying to win an unnecessary battle, inevitable defeat, and trying really hard to stab a classmate. Don't mind the bloody nose, the scraped knee, the smudged mascara - she's going to keep fighting, longer than she needs to, no matter who gets hurt, as long as the sun keeps shining down just on her like a spotlight.

one of my pieces from a now cancelled zine. the other piece is here, go look at this kid having a chill day. drafts and notes below

NANAMI MY GIRL MY SILLY GOOSE i was sooo happy to get assigned a card about her and i REALLY wanted to do the concept justice!! but i was fighting with this the entire time lmao!! i think her pose and expression changed a thousand times and i couldn't figure out where to place the swords or what to do with the sky, i kept trying to switch to a more painterly style bc i hated the lines and ended up just wasting time.... nightmare!!! well anyway hope u like it 💁‍♂️

some things:

she's wearing anthy's rose bride tiara and the earrings that were given to utena by akio, which can only mean good things for her. she's winning the fight. she's gonna win it. (the sillhouette of her shorts is similar to tsuwabuki's middle school uniform shorts in an effort to make her look more childish)

touga was originally supposed to be lurking in the background but he was messing with the composition so i deleted him. then his sword was supposed to be impaling nanami's rose but i didn't like it there so i moved it. despite everything he's still in the scene but only if you have eyes and hearts that believe..........

the yellow sun and white clouds could be an egg 🍳 it could be 🥚 take my hand...

i think the third thumbnail was actually my first attempt but i didn't like it very much... i liked the first one but wasnt sold on it tbh!! i still like the imagery of the tangled swords weighing her down and the little cuts and bandages on her hand, but idkkkkk. i just wouldn't have made it work lol so i guess i went for the most complicated one 💁‍♂️

[pipszhou]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐭

✧ — synopsis: Top of the class? Not for long. All it took was one lecture, one remote-controlled vibrator, and Professor Caleb’s merciless control to turn you into a shaking, dripping mess. And when he calls you up to the chalkboard, you learn the real curriculum: obedience, humiliation, and being bred full by your favorite professor.

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~2.5k

✧ — tags: professor caleb, semi-public sex, vibrators, humiliation, degradation, subspace, sexual overstimulation, creampie, breeding, power imbalance, dom/sub, rough sex, size kink, dirty talk, cock warming, spanking, hair-pulling, biting, marking, possessive behavior, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, begging, soft aftercare, classroom sex, pet names

✧ — notes: hello hello again i'm really horny so i wrote this within a day. not beta read, i hope you enjoy my horny endeavors! i just need more power imbalance lmao

You’re in a predicament.

The top student of the entire university—the pride of the campus—yet here you are, sitting at the back of the lecture hall with your thighs pressed tightly together, your nails digging into the edges of your seat. Your brows furrow, delicate lines forming between your temples as you bite down hard on your bottom lip, desperately trying to smother the whimpers threatening to spill out.

Because nestled deep inside you, hidden from the world, is a merciless vibrator—thick, hot, and unforgiving—pounding into your dripping cunt with devastating precision. Each thrust stretches you open wide, the fat head grinding against every desperate, soaked spot inside you. The toy doesn't just vibrate; it fucks into you, grinding in deep, twisting and pulsing like a real cock seeking to wreck you completely. Your walls flutter helplessly around it, clenching and spasming in pathetic pleasure.

As if that wasn’t enough, a suction toy clamps tightly onto your swollen clit, tugging and slurping with obscene, wet noises, like it's trying to suck your soul straight out through your trembling folds. Every pull sends white-hot sparks through your body, every pulse making you jolt and tremble.

All because of him.

Professor Caleb. Your childhood friend. Your Gege. Now the most sought-after artificial intelligence lecturer on campus—the heartthrob every girl wanted. And the man who had no mercy for you.

This was his game. His twisted, cruel judgment: could you endure, maintain your perfect, untouchable image... while the toy he prepared tore you apart from the inside out?

Or would you crack, humiliate yourself by running to the bathroom to finger yourself raw like a desperate little thing?

You refused to lose.

Your pride was too fierce.

Your stubbornness, too stupid.

So you stayed in your seat, trembling, thighs sticky and slick, grinding ever so slightly against the chair in a desperate bid for relief. Hands clamped over your mouth, you prayed no one would hear the faint, wicked buzzing between your legs. You clenched, you gasped, you endured.

Until the voice you dreaded most called out, slicing through your fragile composure like a blade.

"Class number 13," Caleb said smoothly, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Please come up and solve the problem. What is the predicted value output of this activation layer in the full network?"

Oh gods.

Oh fuck.

Your heart plummeted. Your body spasmed around the merciless toy, gushing helplessly. Your mind—blank, so utterly blank, filled only with the overwhelming feeling of being stuffed full and sucked dry.

You hadn’t heard a single word of the lecture.

But you had a reputation to keep. The golden girl. The untouchable ace.

You forced yourself to rise, your nails digging into the table so hard they threatened to break. You took slow, shaky breaths, fighting to control the feverish pulse hammering through you. Your legs trembled as you stepped out into the aisle, every eye in the room burning into your skin, every step feeling like a mile-long walk of shame.

You reached the front—and there he was. Professor Caleb. Eyes dark with amusement. Smirk hidden behind the respectable façade.

He handed you the chalk. His fingers brushed yours—and in that exact moment, you caught it: the glint of the remote tucked in his palm.

A flick of his thumb.

The vibrator inside you roared to life, surging to its highest setting, brutal and relentless. It slammed into you, the fat shaft pistoning deep, hammering your g-spot, dragging moans up your throat you barely swallowed down. The toy twisted with each brutal thrust, the head grinding against your sweetest spots, almost lovingly cruel in how it refused to let you breathe.

The suction on your clit tightened too, a filthy, slurping rhythm pulling at you in time with each thrust inside—as if the toy was fucking and drinking you at once, milking you dry.

Your knees buckled slightly. You caught yourself against the chalkboard.

You could feel it.

The thick, pulsing length of the toy stuffing you full, stretching your cunt to its limits, buzzing violently against your spasming walls. Your panties were drenched, your thighs glistening. Your dignity, seconds away from shattering.

And yet you had to solve the equation.

In front of the entire class.

Under his watchful, merciless gaze.

The chalk trembled in your hand. He leaned in close, voice a low purr only you could hear. "Go on, top student," Caleb murmured, dark and wicked against your ear.

"Show me how well you can think… while getting fucked dumb.”

Fuck—a moan slipped past your lips before you could catch it. You wanted to curse the existence out of him. You wanted to tear him apart with words, call him the cruelest bastard alive. But all you could do was look at him—eyes burning with dark, venomous vengeance, even as your body betrayed you with heavy, panting breaths and soft, pathetic whimpers.

You tried—you really fucking tried—to walk your mind through every algorithm, every neural network formula you’d memorized so well. You tried to scribble something on the chalkboard, your hand trembling. But it was useless. Your writing was a mess of illegible lines, nonsense formulas no one could make sense of, the chalk crumbling and snapping in your tight, desperate grip.

Then you heard it— the low, rich sound of his chuckle. Amused. Entertained. Savoring your unraveling.

With a lazy flick of his thumb against the remote, he cranked the suction to maximum.

The effect was immediate. Your entire body convulsed, a helpless jolt of pleasure rippling up your spine. The suction on your clit was savage, unrelenting—greedy little pulls that sent wave after wave crashing through your gut, making your vision blur with stars.

Fuck, you were so close. So fucking close.

You slapped a trembling palm against the chalkboard to steady yourself. The chalk clattered to the floor with a hollow thud as your fingers lost their grip. Your knees buckled, barely holding you up as your hips gave a desperate, involuntary twitch.

Inside you, the thick vibrator kept thrusting deep—the textured veins along its shaft dragging against your slick walls with every ruthless stroke, the fat, rounded head grinding mercilessly against your sensitive cervix. It was maddening—perfect—too good. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every pulse made your cunt flutter helplessly, greedy for more.

The suction was obscene, slurping at your clit so loudly you were sure someone, anyone, could hear. Humiliation and raw, brain-melting pleasure tangled inside you, choking you.

Then—his hand.

You felt it. Large, warm, strong fingers gripping your shoulder tightly.

You barely registered him leaning down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, sinful growl meant for you alone.

"Fuck, baby," Caleb rasped, the words sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

"Why don't you just give up—let go—and I'll fill you up with my babies later, hm? Breed you nice and full right here…"

That was it.

The last straw.

You came—hard. Your body seized violently, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm tore through you, raw and merciless. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking through your panties, dripping onto the floor. You bit down on your own hand to muffle the loud, broken moan that ripped free from your throat.

You shattered under him, completely undone, just as he wanted.

You heard it—the low, scandalous murmurs rippling across the room. The students whispering, stealing glances at the obscene sight before them. You, gasping for air, your knees buckling under you, while Professor Caleb—the campus heartthrob—stood so close you could taste his cologne, feel the heat of him against your trembling skin.

Then he stood upright, rolling his shoulders lazily like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t falling apart on the floor.

"Alright, folks. Class dismissed," he said, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. "I'll take care of our top student here. She must be feeling a little... overwhelmed."

He winked—a cruel, knowing thing that made your blood boil.

"Come back next week with the answers to the problem on the board."

Students scurried out, throwing lingering stares your way, none brave enough to question him.

None knowing just how soaked you were—how the vibrator still pounded inside you, thrusting, suctioning, working your overstimulated folds mercilessly. The cum from earlier leaking out, wetting your thighs shamefully.

Once the last student left, Caleb locked the door with a click. He turned, his steps slow and deliberate as he stalked toward you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you up, no patience left in him.

"Stand up, Pip-squeak," he said, his professor mask fully dropped, replaced by something darker, filthier. "I’ll make it fast for you."

You nodded, helpless. Your legs felt like jelly, your cunt still clenching pathetically around the toy buried deep inside. With his steadying hand, you stumbled upright.

He guided you to his seat—the throne at the front of the room—and sat back lazily, spreading his legs in a welcoming posture.

"Strip, baby," he ordered, voice thick with lust. "I wanna see every curve hiding under that tight little shirt and short skirt you wore, thinking you could tease me."

You glared at him, breathing heavy. God, you hated him. You hated how hot he made you. How wet you got just from the sound of his voice.

"Chop chop," he said, tapping his jaw with his fingers smugly. "Or do you want me to rip it off you instead? I won't be gentle, Pips."

You cursed under your breath but obeyed—gripping the hem of your tank top, peeling it over your head slowly, exposing trembling skin. Your skirt pooled down your legs with a soft whisper, leaving you utterly bare, nothing left to hide.

"What now, Caleb?" you asked, your voice small, shivering slightly.

"Good girl," he murmured, unzipping his fancy linen pants with one smooth motion. His thick, heavy cock sprung free—long, veined, angry red at the tip, leaking pre-cum like he couldn't wait to ruin you again.

The same cock that had broken you a hundred times before.

The same cock you dreamed about, drooled over, worshiped like it was your personal god.

"Sit on me," he said. "You know the drill."

You let out a shaky breath, heart pounding in your ears. No matter how much you wanted to slap him for being an asshole—you wanted him more.

You were his cocksleeve, after all. His needy little thing.

You climbed onto his lap, one trembling hand gripping his collarbone for balance. The other reached down between your legs, pulling the soaked, buzzing vibrator out of your stretched hole and tossing it somewhere carelessly.

Lining him up, you sank down. It was like the first time all over again.

His cock was thicker than anything, harder, hotter—stretching your walls until they clamped around him desperately. Every vein of him dragged along your sensitive insides perfectly, the fat head of his cock pushing into your cervix with sinful precision. He filled you up like he was made for you—like he owned every inch of your tight, ruined cunt.

He was your naughty professor.

Your filthy god.

Your damnation and your salvation wrapped in one devastating man.

You started moving—bouncing weakly, trying to ride him the way he liked, but your legs were too shaky, too spent from the relentless overstimulation. You whimpered, grinding pathetically against him, barely able to lift yourself.

"Oh, baby," he cooed mockingly, hands resting heavy on your ass. "Is that all you got? After coming so pretty in front of the whole class?"

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you squeal, then soothed it with a rough grope, making you rock harder against him.

You tried to look away, humiliated, but his dark gaze pinned you in place—all-consuming. Inescapable.

"Shut up, Caleb," you snarled weakly. "Shut the fuck up—I—"

He gripped your hair tight, yanking your head back roughly. A broken cry escaped you, your back arching, pressing your tits flush against his chest.

"You don't get to order me around, baby," he growled, voice pure sin against your ear. He bit down on your neck, hard enough to bruise, suckling dark purple marks into your skin like a man possessed.

"You're mine, Pip-squeak. My perfect little whore."

Your mind spun. Your body shook. You fell deeper into subspace—weightless, aching, desperate for him. He toyed with you, slapping your ass, groping your tits, biting your throat, until you were a trembling mess in his lap.

"Need help, my lovely top student?" he whispered against your ear, voice thick with cruel affection. You nodded frantically, tears clinging to your lashes, your body begging.

He chuckled low and deep—"could’ve said so sooner, Pips."

Then he took control. His hands grabbed your waist, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, merciless thrusts. Each movement drove him impossibly deep, splitting you open, pounding against your g-spot so viciously that your cries turned into strangled, high-pitched sobs.

You dug your nails into his back, leaving angry red trails down his spine. You wanted to brand him. You wanted him to remember how you fell apart on his cock.

The lecture hall echoed with the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—your cries, his low groans, the obscene, squelching sound of your cunt sucking him in greedily. "Keep it down, baby," he mocked, voice a rumble in your chest. "Others might hear you begging to be bred."

Fuck him.

Fuck him so much.

But you were too far gone. Your second orgasm built fast, violent, white-hot, ripping through you with every devastating thrust. You couldn’t hold back—your body convulsed, your cunt squeezing him desperately, trying to milk every drop from him.

And he was close too. You could hear it in his ragged breaths, feel it in the way his thrusts became rougher, erratic.

"Baby," he moaned brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, "I’m gonna come—open up, please—"

You did—your walls clamping down, your legs shaking, your mind blank as you came undone together. He spilled inside you with a low, desperate groan—thick, endless spurts of cum flooding your sore, twitching cunt. You could feel every hot, filthy drop filling you, leaking out, dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

You collapsed against him, shaking, gasping, his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing heat. His arms wrapped around you tight, possessive, like he was afraid you might slip away.

"Mine," he murmured against your hair, voice rough and spent. "Always mine, Pip-squeak."

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You stayed there—your body convulsing in little aftershocks, your pussy throbbing around him like it was the end of the world. He held you close, a suffocating, trembling embrace, like he needed to feel you breathing against him just to stay sane.

Even after the humiliation he put you through—after the teasing, the breaking, the claiming—you still loved him just the same. Your Gege. Your professor. Your ruin. Your home.

"Meet me after your classes end," he rasped, his temple resting against your bare shoulder, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Five p.m. sharp. As usual."

You nodded weakly, knowing full well—

You weren’t going to make it home in one piece.

[a-soft-aside]

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

Summary: Your recent work trip is the longest time you and Robby have been apart since you two started dating. He’s thought of you non-stop and all the things he’s been wanting to do to you. He gives you a welcome home to remember. A/N: THIS IS PURE SMUT (with a lil exposition). +18, MINORS DNI. sorry y'all this got real freaky real fast. just Robby loving on you and then proceeding to rearrange your guts (not medically) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ CW: Explicit sexual content, age gap (reader is in her early 30s), FACE SITTING, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, p in v, creampie. WC ~2k.

You stroll down the terminal at Pittsburgh International Airport, luggage in tow, and look down to see a notification ping on your phone: Parked right outside. see you soon

You can’t help but smile. You’re tired, jet lagged, and in desperate need of a shower. Despite all of this, you’ve never been happier. The last three and a half weeks felt like some of the longest of your life. You normally looked forward to traveling for work; you enjoyed immersing yourself in a different culture, meeting new people, trying delicious food. But while you were overseas, all you wished was that Robby was there to enjoy it with you. Surrounded by bustling crowds and colorful open-air markets, you still longed for the domestic safe haven you had created together. Mornings spent in your warm bed with Robby were some of your favorites. 

You walk outside to the Arrivals lot and squint into the sunlight, searching for your boyfriend. You spot him to your left, leaning against his car, sunglasses on. He sees you walking toward him and beams. It makes your heart stutter even now. Your walk turns into a light jog and you fly into his arms into a bear hug. You allow yourself to fully melt in his embrace, and you hear a soft hum of contentment from deep within his throat. 

He reluctantly releases you to take your suitcase and place it in the open trunk. You hop into the passenger seat and stretch out your legs languidly. As the car pulls away from the airport, Robby asks about your travels in more detail, and you chatter excitedly for a few minutes. 

“It feels so good to be back,” you sigh, rolling down the car window to let in the breeze outside. 

“That makes two of us. I missed you.”

You take in his side profile, his crows feet, his aquiline nose, and feel as if your heart might burst. “I missed you too.” 

Of course, you didn’t know the half of it. Robby hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you actually. He’d find himself lost in thought at work, wishing for a moment of peace in his stressful day where it was just you and him. Still, his job was a much needed distraction from your absence. It was when he went home that he missed you the most. It felt like a light long since extinguished inside him had been lit again when he met you. His colleagues at the Pitt joked that he’d turned into a lovesick teenager. 

As time went on, his mind began to wander in other ways. He craved your lush body, the little sounds you’d make when he touched you in all the right places. You two had been at each other non-stop since you began dating, and the time apart only intensified his need. 

Robby scratched his beard before speaking. “So I was thinking...tonight…if you wanted to–”

“Yes,” you interrupt, understanding what he was getting at. You had packed your vibrator with you for your trip, but it couldn’t compare to Robby. You had laid in your hotel room night after night, your breathing rapid, imagining him on top of you, in you. 

Robby smiled. “I was wondering if you wanted to try something new,” he went on. You waited for him to continue, curious. 

“I want you to sit on my face.” he says plainly, almost casually, one hand on the steering wheel, the other elbow resting on the car’s center console. Your breath hitches. He keeps his eyes on the road while your eyes are on him. You feel your face flush. You’ve had your fair share of sexual partners go down on you, try to get you off (key word being try), but never had someone blatantly request this. Nor had you ever done it. You wouldn’t describe yourself as naive or coy by any means, and yet the image his suggestion provides immediately leaves you flustered. You start to feel arousal stir between your legs.

“Sure. I’m down,” you say, hoping he doesn’t detect the slight waver in your voice. “I’ll do my best to try and not suffocate you, but no promises,” you joke to play off your nerves.

“I’d be fine with that.” He finally turns to look at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. His eyes have a mischievous glint in them, almost boyish. You feel like you’re being toyed with, and you hate how much it’s turning you on.

——————————————————

You emerge from the shower with your hair still damp, dressed in a camisole and sleep shorts that show off the slightest bit of cheek. Robby is already laying back in bed, his eyes on you.

“So fresh and so clean, clean,” you sing mostly to yourself, doing a little shimmy. Robby laughs, thinking about how you brought levity back in his life the moment you stepped into it. Most days he doesn’t believe in God, but just in case, he thanks him for bringing you. 

He looks you up and down, making a note to also thank God for your outfit. 

“C’mere.” 

You happily approach him and crawl onto the bed into his lap. He pulls you into a deep kiss, gripping you at the waist. His fingers slip underneath your top and caress your soft skin. You let out a quiet “mmmm” into his open mouth and roll your hips against his. 

You rush to remove your top and pull his shirt off his head, and pull him close again. Your kisses progressively grow more and more sloppy, until you’re both panting, all teeth and tongue. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and you lightly scratch his nape, where his hair is buzzed. He breaks the kiss suddenly to look at you. “Let me taste you.” His voice is gruff, and you feel your insides liquify. 

“I’m nervous,” you blurt out, before you can stop yourself. “What if you don’t like the way I look at that angle?” You wish you could bury the shame that’s seeping in. Despite your age difference with Robby, you don’t often feel it. In fact, it’s felt like the most natural relationship you’ve ever been in. No mind games, no immaturity. Just two adults with a clear expression of what they want; each other. The thought of coming across as needy or insecure makes you grimace. 

He takes a second to register what you’ve just said. While Robby may not be an open book, the softening of his expressive face speaks for him. He cups your face tenderly and looks into your avoidant eyes. “Sweetheart…I love you at every angle. But if you don’t want to, you can let me know. Right now all I want to do is make you feel good. But I can’t lie and say that wouldn’t make me feel really fucking good too.” He chuckles, running his knuckles down your bare back, something you find he absentmindedly does often when you’re cuddling in bed together. You shiver at his touch, the calluses on his hands, and are suddenly consumed again with a deep, insatiable, want. 

You bite your lip and without saying a word, you get up onto your knees on the bed. You take off your shorts and slowly pull your underwear down your thighs, where you’ve left a slick spot in the center of the fabric. Robby notices. He notices everything. He watches you almost reverently, his eyes growing dark. You approach him and swing your leg over his chest, have him straddled. You inch further and further up, until you’re hovered above his face, his eager mouth. You stay there for a moment, your core throbbing. He looks at you like the key to his deliverance is between your legs. 

In one swift movement, you drop down to meet his lips. You immediately moan at the sensation, and he lets out his own groan of pleasure. What happens next is an onslaught on all of your senses. You press your palms and forehead flat against the headboard in front of you for support as his mouth works under you with fervor, licking at your folds and lapping at your wetness. You squeeze your eyes shut, whining and bucking your hips, chasing the feeling. You feel the tip of his nose lightly brush against your clit and it’s like setting off a live wire. He drags his tongue against your clit again and the sensitivity is almost too much to bear. 

The wet sounds that fill the room are obscene, but you’re too far gone to care. All you hear are Robby’s grunts as he eats you, ravenous. Whatever insecurity you might have had prior to sitting on top of him have gone out the window—you forget yourself and where you are, only luxuriating in his worship. You throw your head back and arch your spine, bring your hands to your breasts and start fondling them, playing with your nipples. Robby emits a low rumbling hum of approval, enjoying the view you’re giving him.

You look down and admire how your thighs frame Robby’s face, the burn his beard leaves as it rubs against your most sensitive areas. You meet his brown eyes and see that he’s looking up at you possessively. You run your fingers through his greying hair and grind down further onto him. 

You start to ride his face, wanting more, more, more. Robby senses your frenzied energy and gladly reciprocates; he places his large hands on the sides of your hips, holding you down. He runs a hand over your ass, giving it a smack. You gasp and see him grin against you. You reach your hand back behind you and feel for his cock, the hardness bulging against his boxer briefs. His smile drops immediately and he lets out a guttural groan, thrusting into your touch. He grumbles something barely intelligible, though you can feel the vibrations against your pussy, sending a spark through you. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you tease, your voice breathless and airy. Suddenly, you’re yanked by your ankles and pulled further down the bed, until you’re flush against Robby’s sturdy chest. You let out a yelp as you land, and you feel the warm, solid strength of his arms locking you in place. You’re completely enveloped in him, and it’s dizzying. 

You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, when he finally growls in your ear “I said, you’re fucking trouble.” You whimper, fully aware of how drenched you are. 

Your legs instinctively spread, his knees propped up in between. He tugs the waistband of his boxer briefs down, and you feel his length, long and cut, rub against your entrance. He doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly pushes in, bit by bit.

Your mouth falls open, relishing in the delicious stretch. Robby is always nothing but careful when he first enters you, making sure you’re never in discomfort. Once he bottoms out, he pauses, letting you savor his fullness, every inch of him. He then tilts his hips down momentarily, before driving back into you. You let out a squeal. With each deep stroke, he goes faster and faster until he develops a steady rhythm. You begin to tremble, but his arms are still holding you in place, rendering you near motionless. 

Giving you no option but to lay there as he fucks into you. Robby cradles the back of your head as he keeps you anchored. Moan after moan is spilling from your lips with each deep thrust as he fucks you into oblivion, into a state of bliss. You feel like your eyes might roll into the back of your skull. You’re also vaguely aware that you might be drooling. Ever the multi-tasker, Robby gently brushes the hair out of your face and kisses you on the top of your head, the pace of his thrusts no less relenting. He lifts your chin to look up at him.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs. “My pretty girl.” You whine, so close to being completely undone. When Robby talks to you like this, it’s enough to take you over the edge. And he knows it. 

“God, you love taking it like this, don’t you?” 

You nod weakly, feeling nearly delirious. 

“M-Michael…” you hiccup. 

“I know baby, I know. Let it out.”

You sense your orgasm barreling toward you and yet you’re no more prepared; your vision goes white as if you’re staring directly at the sun. You come with a loud wail, your nails digging into the faded tattoos on Robby’s biceps, fingers scrabbling to find some release. 

He holds you close and fucks you through it, continuing to soothe you as you come down from your high. The way your walls clench around him makes him practically choke, and he comes hard, his voice strangled and hoarse. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you up again. 

You remain on his chest for a short while, the both of you absolutely spent. The only sound in the room now is your shuddering breaths. In a minute, you both will get up, wash off, and cuddle back in bed. But for now, you stay in this moment with Robby. 

“Welcome home,” he whispers, smoothing your disheveled hair. 

Home. You like the sound of that.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nineteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, teeth-rotting fluff, mentions of minor ptsd, the "do you want kids" talk, therapy, sexual content.

Notes — The queen of fluff strikes again. They're so in love it hurts. Enjoy this intermission from the angst before we get to Spa.

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

2021 (Hungary)

Max was having headaches.

Not debilitating, not anything he would admit needed painkillers. But Amelia noticed the way he squinted at the sim screen, how he blinked a little too often under the harsh lights, how he’d logged fewer hours this week than he had since he was seventeen.

She didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t want to push him.

But it gnawed at her, heavy and sour at the pit of her stomach.

Because she knew Max. Knew how he worked. If he thought for even a second that she might tell Christian or Helmut or, God forbid, the FIA, he'd lock it down even tighter, wrap himself up in barbed wire and throw away the key. Anything to stay in the car. Anything to win. 

Still, it scared her. The idea that maybe the crash had done more damage than he was willing to admit. That maybe he was hiding it from her, from everyone, in order to be given the all clear to keep racing. 

She leaned against the doorway to the RBR sim room one evening, arms crossed tight over her chest, watching him fight through another lap. He was good at pretending, but she saw the way his hand came up to the back of his neck when he thought no one was looking, how he massaged the side of his head, quick and angry like he could force the ache away. 

Her fingers twitched at her side. She wanted to walk over. Put a hand on his shoulder. Make him stop. But she didn't.

Instead, she just said, quiet but steady, "Don’t be stupid, Max."

He flicked his eyes toward her, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She already knew what he’d decided. And she already knew it would break her heart trying to change his mind.

— 

Amelia sat at the kitchen island, watching her mom buzz around the kitchen, throwing together something that vaguely resembled a pasta salad. She scrunched her nose at the sight of it, half-finished, but already tragic, and fought the urge to say something. She hadn’t been lying to Lando over a year ago, standing in her garage, when she’d told him her mom was really only capable of cooking one thing successfully. And there was definitely no chicken in sight.

Her iPad was open in front of her, specs from the latest floor upgrade zoomed in on the screen, but she wasn’t really looking at them. Not properly. She was too focused on the strange, unsettled feeling curling in her stomach.

This was her first time at home for weeks, maybe even over a month, and she’d missed it, she had. She really had.

But something felt… different. Off, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down.

“I think I should get my own place,” she said eventually, voice quiet but certain.

Her mom spun around, salad tong still in hand, blinking fast.  “You— you don’t want to live at home anymore?”

Amelia shrugged, trying to find the right words. “No, it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t like it here. It’s just…” She trailed off for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I feel like a nomad. I’m living out of hotels most of the time. And when I am in England, I’m split between here, Glastonbury with Lando, and Milton Keynes at Max’s flat. I have all these different places that feel half-mine. But nowhere that’s actually mine, you know?”

Her mom set the salad tongs down carefully, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. She didn’t look angry.

Amelia pressed on, rushing a little now in case she’d somehow managed to made her mom sad. “I still love it here. I do. But it feels like… like my childhood home, you know? Not my current home.”

There was a small beat of quiet. Then her mom gave a soft, bittersweet smile. “That’s what’s supposed to happen, honey. You’re supposed to outgrow home. I’m glad you feel ready.”

Amelia relaxed a little, shoulders unclenching. Then her mom added, almost too casually, “Will you and Lando get a place together?”

Amelia blinked. “What? No— I mean—” She stopped herself, brain scrambling to catch up. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I just meant me. Like… by myself.”

Her mom laughed, warm and a little amused. “Well, think about it. You practically live with him already, in hotel rooms, but still… it counts.”

Amelia frowned, thinking it through like it was a math problem. “Oh. Yeah. That would… probably make more sense, wouldn’t it?” She mumbled. “I don’t particularly think I’d want to live alone, anyway. And I have gotten used to all of his stuff taking up my space—“ 

Her mom just smiled again, all knowing and fond, and went back to massacring the pasta salad.

— 

Amelia smiled to herself and kept her head down, pencil scratching steadily across the paper in her lap. The rumble of the jet engine faded into white noise; background to the way her hand moved without much thought, the way it always did when her brain was chewing on something bigger than her.

Lando, sprawled out lazily in the aisle across from her, leaned over, curious. “What are you drawing, baby?”

Immediately, Amelia tilted the sketchbook away from him, tucking it protectively against her chest. Her ears burned hot. “Uh. Nothing. I mean—obviously something, but I don’t want to tell you.”

He stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decode her, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that meant he wasn’t sure whether to push or leave it alone. Then he grinned, easy and warm. “Alright. Keep your secrets.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out. 

Amelia ducked her head again, heart thudding faster than she wanted it to.

She wasn’t lying. She just… wasn’t ready to admit it out loud yet. Not to him, not to herself.

In the sketchpad, dozens of early concepts sprawled across the page; lines and curves and arrows scribbled in shorthand. A McLaren.

Not just any McLaren, either.

One capable of winning championships.

Lightweight rear end. Aerodynamic front wing for better rotation. A reimagined floor, designed with efficiency and flexibility in mind for whatever the regulation changes might throw their way in the next couple of years.

It was stupid, probably.

She didn’t work for McLaren. Never had, in any official capacity. 

She was still Red Bull’s weapon — heralded by the press as Max’s saviour. Mini Newey. A hundred nicknames but never just her own, never just Amelia Brown.

But the ideas had crawled into her head after Silverstone and refused to leave. It had started with a little idle thought (If I could build him a car good enough to fight Max…) and now here she was. 

She chewed on her pencil, staring at the half-formed shape of the nose, and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything else. 

— 

They stopped in Belgium before ultimately traveling to Hungary. Lando had family there. Cousins, some distant and some much closer. They’d be too busy to do anything of the sort during the actual Belgium race week, so it was nice to be able to fit them in.

They visited a few over the course of the week; fleeting hellos, shared meals over chipped plates and loud, overlapping conversations. It was nice. Overwhelming, a little, but nice.

Lando introduced her to all of his relatives with a beaming smile and a dozen proud praises—"This is Amelia—yeah, my Amelia"—and she offered polite hellos, dodging kisses on cheeks and handshakes as politely as possible and then doing her best to keep up with the small talk when it was asked of her.

It was a little exhausting, mentally. The swirl of laughter, jokes she didn’t quite catch the punchline of, but Lando never pushed her too far. Never nudged her into the centre of things. He let her stay where she was comfortable, sometimes sliding his hand across her lower back when it got too much, or catching her eye from across a room with a soft, wordless smile.

Mostly, she ended up perched on the carpet with the kids, knees tucked under her, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she held up a toy car and explained, far too seriously, the engine type and manufacturer history. The toddlers listened with wide eyes, clutching their sticky-fingered toys and nodding solemnly as if they understood.

Later, in the car, as they drove back toward their hotel under the pale blue of evening, Amelia sat curled up in the passenger seat, hair pulled over one shoulder, a big blue stain on her blouse that was the product of finger-painting gone wrong. 

Lando was quiet, his hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other tugging her knuckles gently onto his thigh. "You were really good with them," he said eventually, voice soft enough that she almost thought she'd imagined it.

She made a face. “Kids are easy. All you have to do is keep talking and occasionally shove something colourful at them.”

He laughed under his breath. A minute passed.

Then, casual, like he was asking if she wanted to stop for food, he asked, "Do you want kids?"

Amelia blinked, turning her head to stare at him in the half-light. "I— we don’t even live together," she said, blunt and a little incredulous.

Lando’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. "Well, we can change that."

She stared at him for a long second, watching the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. Like he wasn’t nervous. Like he meant it.

"Did you talk to my mom?" she asked suddenly.

He shot her a quick, confused glance. "What? No—why? Did you already—? I mean—"

“Okay. I would like to live with you," she said, cutting him off neatly.

For a second, he just blinked at her. And then he was smiling, wide and ridiculous, so big it looked like it physically hurt to contain it.

She giggled, reaching over to nudge his arm. "Stop making that face. You're going to scare the other drivers."

"I'm happy," he argued, grin stretching impossibly wider. "Let me be happy."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away. She settled back against her seat, watching the trees whip past the window, her heart full and a little chaotic.

"Who gets the bigger closet?" she asked after a beat.

He laughed, a low, warm sound. "You do. Obviously. I’ll just shove my stuff in a corner somewhere."

She nodded. “I do need a lot of closet room. I have two-hundred pairs of shoes.” A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before she tilted her head, thinking. "Where would we live?"

He didn’t miss a beat. "Monaco." 

She wrinkled her nose, instinctively. "That's... a big change."

He glanced over, softer now, like he already knew she'd need a minute with the idea. "Just think about it, baby," he said. "Makes sense for me. Makes sense for you. No taxes. Close to Max if you stay with Red Bull. Close to everything else if you don't."

She chewed on her bottom lip, the weight of it settling on her. A new country. A new chapter. A real home; with him.

He smiled again, smaller this time but just as sure. "We could make it our home."

Amelia nodded slowly, feeling her brain already spinning into overdrive. "I need to make a list. Pros and cons. Things we’ll want in the apartment. Maybe a balcony?"

Lando just grinned, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. "Anything you want, baby."

— 

“Do you think I’d be a good mom?”

Max froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “You—fuck, are you pregnant?”

His alarm might’ve had something to do with the fact that she was halfway under his car, only her legs and a shock of messy hair visible as she fiddled with a stubborn screw.

Amelia blinked, glancing up at him from beneath the chassis. “No. I’m just wondering.”

Max let out a breath so heavy it was basically a groan, dragging a hand down his face like he needed to physically wipe the terror off. “Fuck, don't do that to me, zusje. I nearly had a heart attack.”

She wriggled out from under the car, wiping her greasy hands on a rag as she sat back on her heels. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I’m being serious.”

Max crouched down beside her, arms draped loosely over his knees, studying her with a little more care now. “Okay... why are you thinking about that?” he asked, voice softer.

Amelia shrugged. “I was just thinking—if it ever happened, would I be good at it?”

Max’s face relaxed. “You’d be a great mother.”

She tilted her head, skeptical. “You’re just saying that because it’s what you’re supposed to say.”

He snorted. “No, I'm saying it because it’s true. You love very intensely, you’re honest even when it’s not easy, and you are protective and strong. That's exactly what children need from a parent.”

Amelia chewed on her lip. “Pregnancy is scary. Completely out of my control. Everything, anything, could go wrong.”

Max’s expression shifted, softening. “That’s not something you need to worry about yet.”

She hesitated, then said, almost too quietly, “I think Lando would be a good dad. And I want to give that to him. One day.”

Max nodded. “Then you will. When you’re ready, of course.”

Amelia pursed her lips, staring off to the side. “We... I think we’re going to move in together. Soon. Lando mentioned Monaco.”

Max immediately brightened. “Good! I’m there already. We could be neighbours.”

She blinked, absorbing that new piece of information, slotting it neatly into the mental checklist she was already building. “Oh. Are there any available apartments in your building?”

Max huffed a small laugh, like he hadn’t expected her to take his suggestion seriously. “I’m sure there are.”

She nodded firmly, already halfway down the rabbit hole of logistics. “Okay. That would be efficient.” 

Max smiled at her, patient, fond. “I’m sure that you will find the perfect place, zusje. Don’t worry.”

Amelia nodded again, more to herself this time. 

— 

“We’re not living in Max’s building,” Lando said.

Amelia, perched cross-legged on the bed in his drivers room, immediately pouted. “Why not? It would make life so much simpler, Lan.”

He let out a short laugh, setting his phone down. “Look, I love Max, alright? But living that close to him would be... proper weird.”

Amelia tilted her head, frowning like he was speaking another language. “Why?”

Lando scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Imagine it. Every time we argue, he’s knocking on the door two minutes later—sticking up for you, making me feel like a right dickhead.”

She cracked a tiny smile but stayed stubborn. “But it would be efficient. And Max could help us fix things if something breaks.”

“Baby,” Lando said, laughing, “if something breaks, I’ll fix it. Or we’ll call someone. A professional. Not Max with a wrench and a YouTube tutorial.”

He reached over, tugging her socked foot into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was thinking somewhere quieter anyway,” he added, softer now. “Away from the main city. Somewhere you can go on your little daily walks without bumping into tourists every five seconds.”

She perked up immediately. “My walks are important for my brain.”

“I know.” He smiled, running his thumb over her ankle. “I even asked Charles where he grew up. There are places, baby; small, quiet. Still close enough if we need to get into town. He said the air’s cleaner too.”

Amelia tapped her fingers against her knee, thoughtful. “Cleaner air is good. Better for respiratory health.”

Lando chuckled and tugged her closer until she half-fell into his side with a tiny yelp. “Exactly. So let’s find somewhere ours, yeah?”

She tucked her head under his chin, breathing him in. “Okay. But if Max gets upset, you have to deal with it.”

Lando grinned against her hair. “I can handle a grumpy Verstappen.”

— 

They were curled up in their hotel room, watching the latest episode of Grill the Grid the night before qualifying.

Amelia sat between Lando’s legs, her back pressed against his chest. He had her squished close, big hands sprawled comfortably across her stomach, pressing just enough to ground her, to help her breathe a little easier.

It’d been a rough day for Max, and the stress had bled into her too. Finally being still, finally letting herself relax, felt like a blessing.

She fiddled absently with her golf ball, thumb tracing lazy circles over the surface, half-listening, until the first trivia question came up.

Without hesitation, she rattled off the answer.

By the third question, Lando was laughing, reaching for the remote to pause the video after each one. “Alright, genius,” he teased, chin nudging the top of her head. “You get first go. Beat all of us.”

She answered every time without missing a beat.

He kept pausing, and she kept getting them all right, and after a while Lando wasn’t even pretending to be surprised anymore. He just squeezed her a little tighter and said, “Smarty pants.” 

Amelia smiled, small and shy but real.

Lando pressed a kiss into her hair. “I should start taking you to pub quizzes. I’d make a fortune.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn’t pull away.

— 

She felt... clingy.

Sitting next to Lando in hospitality, she stared at him, hands itching, burning to reach out, to grab him and never let go.

It had started yesterday. A coil of anxiety tightening in her stomach, left over from Silverstone. Aftershocks, she supposed.

She’d googled it, of course. Trauma responses. Hyper-vigilance. Perfectly normal, the internet said.

She didn’t feel normal.

She kissed Lando goodbye before qualifying, smiling as best she could, and ignored the way her hands trembled when she pulled away. She didn’t look back, even though everything inside her screamed to.

If it were up to her, none of them would be taking part in the weekends running. 

Not Lando. Not Max. Not Fernando. Not anyone.

She caught herself before the spiral could dig deeper, bracing one palm against the wall of the motorhome and forcing a deep breath.

She couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t let one crash, no matter how terrifying, poison the thing she loved. The thing they all loved.

But reason didn’t quiet the fear.

It didn't steady her hands as she watched Lando climb into his cockpit on the livestream.

It didn’t stop her from hugging Max tighter than usual, long enough that he gave her a puzzled little look before he was called away.

Even GP noticed. He kept glancing over, subtle but persistent. “You okay?” he asked, at least a dozen times throughout the session.

Every time, Amelia just nodded without looking at him, glued to the data, clinging to logic, to numbers, to anything she could control.

It helped. A little.

— 

Lando out-qualified Daniel by a mile.

He was cocky and proud, chest puffed out as he peeled her dress off later that night, caught between frantic and careful.

His mouth was hot against her neck, pulling soft, desperate sounds from her lips, her back arching into him. Then his hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He was smirking. Full of adrenaline. Hungry. “You think I deserve a reward for my performance?”

Amelia blinked up at him, sweet and soft and unbearably hot. “Anything you want, Lan.”

— 

The next morning, she clung to him, legs tangled with his, her hands wrapped tightly around his wrists. Holding him, having him, needing him close. The warmth of his body against hers felt like the only thing that was grounding her.

He kissed her nose, then her forehead, her cheeks, and chin, finally landing on her lips. The slow, deliberate kiss deepened, but she pulled away just enough to speak.

“I think I need to talk to somebody. A therapist, probably.”

Lando froze, his fingers still brushing against her skin, a soft hesitation in his touch. “You’re... Fuck, I knew something was up. I could feel it, but I didn’t know for sure.”

She gave him a steady, matter-of-fact look, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Yeah, that’s because I hid it from you. Didn’t want you to worry."

His face softened, and the guilt crept in. “You should’ve told me, Amelia.”

She shrugged, her stomach twisting under the weight of his gaze. “I didn’t want you distracted…”

"Don’t be stupid." His words were sharp, but they didn’t make her flinch. His hand found the back of her neck, pulling her gently against him. “You tell me when you’re having a shit time, okay?”

She sighed, pressing her forehead to his. “Sorry.”

His fingers slid through her hair, his voice steady but soft. "No more hiding it. Right?"

She nodded, barely, but it was enough.

“We’ll find someone good for you to talk to,” he said after a beat, his hand moving to stroke her hair.

She rubbed the tip of her nose against his collarbone affectionately. “Okay.”

— 

She popped her head into Fernando’s garage, offering him a soft smile. He came over, gave her a quick squeeze, and gestured proudly to his helmet. “Pretty, huh?”

She nodded, indulging him with a grin. “I like it. How are things going with Esteban?”

Fernando sighed. “Ah. He is… complicated. A good driver, but a terrible teammate. He does not see how both things can be true at once.”

She glanced over at Esteban’s side of the garage. “He’s passionate.”

Fernando nodded thoughtfully. “He is. That will be his greatest strength—and his greatest weakness.” He kissed her cheek and shooed her off. “Go, go, before Verstappen finds you here and threatens to keep you chained to his garage.”

She hugged him again, leaning in just close enough to murmur, “Adjust your ride height. Two centimetres higher.”

Before he could say anything, she gave him a sly smile and disappeared down the paddock.

— 

She sat next to Checo in the strategy meeting, slouched low in her chair, sneaking cursory glances at him every time he slid his phone under the table toward her. They were playing chess; badly, if she was honest, but that was half the fun.

Checo would make a move, tilt the screen toward her, and wait, barely suppressing a smug grin. She'd frown, tap out a counter, and slide it back without a word.

No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Checo was a lot of fun. Easygoing. Quick to laugh. And, as it turned out, a little reckless with his queen.

Amelia pinned him in three moves flat.

Checo huffed under his breath, shaking his head at her. She just shrugged, eyes back on the screen at the front of the room like nothing had happened at all.

— 

It was raining. Not hard, not anymore, but enough to slick the track and raise every hair on the back of Amelia’s neck.

She stood, stiff-backed, arms folded across her chest in the Red Bull garage, the whole world around her muffled and distant. She could hear the shrill whine of the engines as the formation lap wrapped, but it was like she was underwater. Distant. Fading.

Max was P3. Lando was P6. Fernando was lurking, dangerous as always. The Mercedes were ahead, unpredictable on a damp track.

Amelia flexed her fingers, breathing deep and slow. 

The lights blinked above the front of the grid, one, two, three, four, five, and before she could even brace herself, the race started.

Chaos.

Immediate, all-consuming chaos.

Bottas missed his braking point into Turn 1 and plowed into Lando. She didn’t even see it happen, only saw Lando’s car snap sideways, broken, ruined, like a toy in the rain.

She flinched so hard she almost dropped her iPad.

And then Max—Max—

She watched it in horror, too slow to look away, as Max’s Red Bull got collected in the chain reaction, bodywork flying, his car crumpling along the side-pod.

Her knees buckled; she caught herself with a hand on the pitwall.

Someone shouted. Someone else was already running to grab spare front wings. Alarms buzzed in her headset, engineers yelling over one another.

“Max has heavy damage,” GP was saying into her ear through the comms device, voice low and tight. “We’re evaluating. Standby.”

Her hands trembled.

The cars crawled through the carnage, half the grid limping back toward the pitlane. She stared at Max’s car as it crept past, side torn open like a wounded animal, sparks flying out the bottom.

“Still going,” she heard someone say. "He's still going."

Somehow, Max was dragging the car around. Somehow, Lando had pulled off track without getting hit again.

The red flag was thrown. Race temporarily suspended.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and pressed her forehead against the wall. Cold metal, cold air, cold panic.

She felt a hand squeeze her shoulder — once, solid and grounding. Probably an engineer who hadn’t been briefed, but they were lucky, their touch felt good, and didn’t make her want to tear off her skin. 

She nodded, to herself, to anyone watching her, making sure she was good. 

Didn't trust herself to speak yet.

— 

Lando was out.

Too much damage. Retired on lap two.

Max was luckier. He kept going, dragging a half-broken chassis to the finish line, scraping whatever points he could.

Esteban won. His first victory.

Amelia watched from the back of Lando’s garage as the Frenchman stepped onto the top step of the podium, soaking in the moment.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

She didn’t need him to say anything — she could feel it. The bitter edge of jealousy under his skin, the tight set of his jaw.

“It’ll come,” she muttered, more promise than reassurance, her mind flicking to her sketchbook, to the concepts she hadn't shown anyone yet — the ones that could take him all the way. 

The chassis she’d created with two particular drivers in mind. 

Lando squeezed her tighter.

— 

Summer break came just when she needed it.

She and Lando flew back to Monaco with Max, crashing in his guest room while they started apartment hunting.

Well… Lando did most of the hard work. Talking to estate agents, putting out feelers.

Amelia kept herself busy playing with Jimmy and Sassy, who decided almost immediately that she was their new favorite human.

She didn't mind. The cats were easy company, curling up on her lap or following her around the flat as Lando scrolled through listings and Max grumbled about all the overpriced places in the area.

It felt good, normal, even, to slow down. To just exist for a little while, tucked away in the hazy warmth of a Monegasque summer, surrounded by people (and animals) who loved her.

— 

They fell in love with the first place they viewed.

If Amelia believed in fate, she might have called it that.

Lando stood back and watched as she wandered through the apartment; past the galley kitchen, onto the balcony, big enough for a table, a chair, maybe even a canopy swing if she wanted.

Two bedrooms, three bathrooms. A master suite and a double. A massive living room, an even bigger office.

She could already see it: herself at a big desk, sketching new concepts as sunlight poured through the wall of windows.

She found Lando in the kitchen, deep in conversation with the property agent.

When he glanced up, she was already beaming at him.

— 

They spent two weeks of summer break, the rare stretch when neither of them had to be working full-time, Lando free from training camps, Amelia unchained from the factory, tucked away in the South of France.

It felt like stepping into another life. Long mornings spent tangled up in crisp hotel sheets, slow breakfasts on sun-drenched balconies overlooking sleepy coastal towns. They rented a little convertible and drove with no real destination, winding through golden hills and lavender fields, the radio humming low between them.

Amelia wore tiny sundresses and braided her hair, and Lando kept finding excuses to kiss her bare shoulders. They swam in cold, clear water until their fingers wrinkled, then collapsed on the beach, salt still clinging to their skin. 

At night, they fell into bed full of good food and exhausted. 

It wasn’t some extravagant, carefully curated holiday. It was just… easy. 

And somewhere between the lazy afternoons and the late-night kisses, Amelia stared at him and thought, “I could spend the rest of my life with you.” 

— 

The evening was warm, a soft breeze rustling the leaves around them. Lando had set up a speaker on the patio, the faint sound of acoustic guitar playing in the background, but they weren’t paying much attention to the music. Amelia was sitting on the edge of a chair, arms loosely draped over her knees, looking out at the stars above. Lando was sitting on the stone steps, watching her.

“So, how was it?” He asked. 

Amelia smiled faintly, but her eyes were tired. “It was… fine,” she started, kicking the edge of the chair with her foot, watching the dust float up into the air. “A bit awkward, but that’s probably normal. Online therapy, you know?” She rolled her eyes, but there was a lightness to her tone, as if she was still trying to find the right words. “It felt like… trying to untangle a knot in my brain, but someone else was holding the other end.”

Lando nodded thoughtfully, shifting on the stairs so he was facing her more. “I get that. Did she—” He paused, checking her expression, making sure she was okay. “Did she help at all?”

Amelia shrugged, a soft exhale escaping her. “Not yet. I mean, we talked about a lot of stuff. Things I didn’t realise were connected, you know? I think it’ll take a few sessions for it to click. It’s hard to explain. But I felt… heard, I guess. Which is something.”

Lando nodded again, his gaze softening. “Proud of you, baby.” He looked over at the empty space beside him. “Come here.”

She raised an eyebrow but stood up, moving to join him. As she sat beside him on the steps, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re really good at this whole comfort thing.”

Lando chuckled, sliding an arm around her waist. “I try my best.” After a beat, he stood up, holding out a hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

Amelia looked at him, surprised, but the quiet night seemed to make everything feel a little more possible. She took his hand with a grin. “We’re really doing this?”

Lando smiled, tugging her to her feet. “Why not? It’s a slow song.”

The music played on, soft and gentle, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just moved together, swaying under the dim glow of the patio lights, with the sound of the wind and distant waves in the background. Amelia closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the moment settle into her chest, her heart still thudding, but in a different way now.

“You know, you’ve been pretty great,” she murmured after a while, her hand resting against his chest. “With everything.”

Lando’s smile was barely visible in the dark, but she felt it in the way he pulled her just a little closer. “Always.”

She closed her eyes.

Always sounded pretty good.

NEXT CHAPTER

[bjlipss]

— i would love to go back to the old house;

★ synopsis: you and satoru make a promise to marry each other if you’re both still alone by thirty.

miyan’s notes: no curse au, no warnings, maybe some realness, just fluff and smut. wc: 3681.

you’re both seventeen, laying on the grass behind the school gym, where the sun’s dipped low enough to cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

it’s late spring—almost summer—and the scent of cut grass clings to your clothes, sweet and sharp. someone’s left a soccer ball abandoned a few feet away. the world feels lazy and endless, like nothing important could ever happen here.

you’re side by side, arms brushing but never quite touching, your pinkies just barely grazing sometimes when one of you shifts. satoru’s sunglasses are crooked on his face, and he doesn’t fix them. his white hair is fanned out messily over the grass, and there’s a blade of it stuck behind his ear. he hasn’t noticed.

he was dumped yesterday. you heard about it from someone else before he told you—his ex apparently said he was too much. too loud, too intense, too everything. it made you kind of furious, but you didn’t say that. you just sat with him today, like always.

your first real relationship ended last week. it wasn’t even dramatic. just two people slowly realizing they didn’t quite know how to hold each other anymore. still, it left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you’re pretending isn’t there.

he exhales, slow and dramatic. “you ever think we’re just… cursed or something?”

you snort. “that’s a little dramatic.”

“it’s me,” he says, turning his head toward you, and you can see the curve of a grin forming. “drama is my whole thing.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. he quiets down again, goes back to staring at the sky with a look that’s a little more thoughtful than usual. birds are flying overhead in little staggered v’s, and there’s a faint breeze brushing your skin.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he says, “if we’re both single at thirty, let’s just marry each other.”

you blink. the silence after feels loud.

“what?” you laugh, eyebrows lifting. “what kind of pact is that?”

he shrugs, still looking up. “a realistic one. we already know each other’s worst habits. you can tolerate me. that’s rare.”

“you’re an idiot,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “but sure. yeah. a backup plan. solid.”

you mean it like a joke. like a throwaway thing. but then he turns his head toward you, and his glasses slide down his nose just enough that you can see his eyes—really see them.

“no,” he says. “i’m serious.”

you stare at him. he’s not laughing. there’s something oddly earnest in the way he says it, like he’s offering something fragile and important without realizing it. like a promise he doesn’t expect you to keep, but wants you to want to.

your heart does a weird thing. tightens. pulls.

you swallow. “okay. me too.”

neither of you says anything after that. the sun dips lower. the breeze picks up. the world moves around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that quiet stretch of time, young and bruised and hopeful.

your pinkies brush again.

this time, neither of you pulls away.

—

years pass.

at first, the promise is a soft, silly memory tucked into the back of your mind like a note in a locker you never emptied. you think about it sometimes—on your birthday, when your heart gets broken again, when you see a wedding invitation in the mail and wonder how people keep getting so lucky. the pact becomes a kind of quiet comfort, a lighthouse in the distance. not real, but there. always there.

you go to university. he does too. different cities, different people, different rhythms. you both grow into yourselves slowly, awkwardly, like plants reaching for light in the wrong season. you learn how to love better. how to walk away when you need to. how to be alone and not hate it.

you date people who are kind. people who challenge you. people who hurt you in ways that teach you something. some of them ask about him, the boy in the old photos, the one whose name still slips out when you’re tired or wine-drunk. you always brush it off, say he’s just someone from your past. nothing more. nothing to see here.

he dates too. once, you find out through a mutual that he’s seeing someone seriously—a girl who’s smart and sweet and nothing like you. it bothers you more than you want to admit. but you never say anything. you just keep your head down, push it away like you do with everything else that hurts. you’re happy for him, you think. you should be.

life moves fast, and slow, and fast again. you move cities. he changes jobs. there are stretches of time where you don’t think about him at all—and then suddenly everything reminds you of him again. a song he used to hum under his breath. the way someone else laughs. a white-haired stranger passing by on the street, so close to the version of him you remember but not quite right. the ghost of him lingers, not haunting you, but following you in the corners of your life.

and then, there are the moments when life tangles your paths back together.

—

it’s your friend’s birthday—an old classmate who’s turned their tiny apartment into a chaos of people and warm lights. the kind of party that’s too loud, too crowded, but you’re here anyway because it’s easier to go than stay home. the tension of being alone hits you in the chest as soon as you walk in. everyone’s happy. everyone’s with someone. everyone’s moving forward, but you’re stuck at some point in the past, lingering in the gap between where you were and where you should be.

you almost don’t go, tired from work, emotionally drained. but you show up, because something tells you to. maybe it’s because you promised yourself you’d stop running from things that make you uncomfortable. or maybe it’s just the weird way life works, pulling you toward the people and places you’re not ready for yet.

you’re standing near the kitchen, sipping a drink you don’t really care about, when you hear it—a laugh that cuts through the noise, familiar and unexpected. a laugh you know instantly, one that hits you in the chest like a familiar song. it’s a sound you haven’t heard in years, but it’s like it never left.

you turn, the crowd of people blurring out of focus, and there he is.

satoru.

he’s leaning against the fridge, talking to someone you don’t recognize, his hair a little longer, his shirt untucked, uncuffed. still so him, but also… different. his face is older, but still beautiful in that effortless way, the same white hair, the same sharp eyes that seem to know you even from across the room.

he sees you. he freezes. and for a second, it’s like time holds its breath.

“hey,” he says, voice soft, almost surprised. “you look…”

he doesn’t finish the sentence. but you hear it anyway. you look the same. you look different. i didn’t expect to see you here.

you smile like you’re not unraveling. like it doesn’t matter that your heart just skipped a beat. “it’s been a while.”

he hugs you then, warm and solid. it lasts a second too long. too much unsaid between you both, but it’s all there in the tension of his arms around you. the promise is still alive in the quiet air between your breaths. but neither of you mentions it.

he leaves before you do.

—

months later, it’s a late-night convenience store in tokyo. you’re tired, bleary-eyed, the kind of exhausted that comes from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. you’re reaching for instant noodles and a bottle of tea when you hear the shuffle of footsteps behind you. you don’t look, too focused on the shelves in front of you. but then you hear it—his voice, soft but unmistakable.

“you live around here now?” he asks, stunned.

you freeze for a moment. and then you turn.

there he is, standing in the aisle like he’s part of some strange dream. his hair is tied back messily, longer than before. he’s holding a bag of sour candies, blinking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real or if his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him.

“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “just moved a couple months ago.”

“me too,” he says, a little sheepish. “just moved last week. tokyo’s a lot different from what i remembered.”

you laugh, and for a moment, it’s like you’re both seventeen again, standing in the hallway after class, talking about nothing. only now, it’s quieter. more knowing. there’s a little more space between you both, but you don’t feel it as much as you think you should. he’s still satoru, after all.

you talk for a few minutes, small things. the weather. work. how both of you somehow managed to end up in the same city again after all this time. his hair’s longer now, and so is yours. there’s something different about him, something worn into the lines of his face, but you’re still the same. you’re still the same. the realization hits you like a wave.

when you say goodbye, there’s a small flicker of something in his eyes. like he wants to say something else. something important. maybe you do too. but you don’t.

you both go your separate ways, the moment slipping away with every step, but neither of you forgets it. not really.

—

another year passes. you’re invited to a mutual friend’s engagement party. you don’t know it’s mutual until you arrive and see him standing on the balcony, glass of wine in hand. his back is to you, but you recognize the way his shoulders sit under the weight of the world, the way his posture softens when he’s trying to relax.

you hesitate. for a second, you think about leaving. about turning around and pretending you never saw him, never heard that familiar laugh or felt that same ache in your chest. but you stay. something inside you says that this is the time. that maybe, just maybe, the universe is ready for you to have the conversation you’ve been avoiding for years.

you walk over. he turns, and his eyes widen when he sees you.

“this is getting ridiculous,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “we keep showing up like we’re being summoned.”

you laugh, but it’s a little more nervous than you mean it to be. “maybe we are.”

you talk for fifteen minutes, small talk mostly. his girlfriend is waiting inside—he doesn’t say that, but you can tell. he’s polite, but distant this time. something in his eyes is different, more guarded than you remember. and it’s strange. it feels like a wall has gone up between you both, and you can’t figure out why. you want to ask, but you don’t. it’s not your place.

something tightens in your chest, a quiet jealousy you don’t want to feel but can’t help. so you excuse yourself early.

—

and then there’s the funeral.

someone you both knew in high school. someone you weren’t close to, but close enough to go. it’s raining—of course it is—and your coat is too thin for the chill. the crowd is subdued, the kind of heavy silence you only get at funerals. you stand off to the side, trying not to draw attention, but then you spot him across the crowd.

he’s standing alone under an umbrella, his jaw clenched. his eyes are cast downward, but when he looks up, he sees you. his gaze sharpens, like he’s unsure if you’re really there. but then he steps toward you, slow and hesitant.

you don’t speak much. just stand side by side beneath the gray sky, the rain soft on your faces, like a veil between everything that was and everything that could have been. you don’t know if it’s the weight of the moment or something else, but it feels like you’re both seventeen again, standing in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

afterward, when you’re on the train home, your phone buzzes. a contact name that hasn’t been on your phone for a while.

satoru: thirty’s not that far.

you stare at the screen for a long time, the words sinking into your chest like a stone. the promise that’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to be spoken. but now, in the quiet of your apartment, you don’t reply.

you think about it. about everything. about how he said it, softer than usual, quieter than you’re used to. you think about his eyes, the way they followed yours. the rain on his umbrella. the years that have passed.

you think about his voice, and you wonder if he remembers the exact words. you wonder if he ever stopped.

—

… you almost don’t go. again.

the invitation sits unopened on your counter for days before you cave, peeling it open with the tip of your key. you don’t recognize the name on the envelope immediately, but inside, there’s a handwritten card. a friend-of-a-friend, someone you once shared a table with at a dinner party, who remembered your smile. you had forgotten about them, honestly. but here they are, inviting you into their life, into their celebration. their quiet reminder that life moves on, and people keep finding their paths while you still seem to be standing still.

“it’ll be nice,” your coworker says when you mention it offhand. “dress up, eat fancy cake, forget your life for an evening.”

you smile. nod. pretend it’s not terrifying—the thought of being surrounded by people who’ve figured it out—who’ve found their person, their path, their place in the world. the thought of seeing them again—the ones who chose their someone. and you’re left holding only the pieces of a promise, one you had never quite stopped waiting on.

but you go anyway. because you said you would. because maybe, just maybe, it will be easier to let go of things you’re holding onto by showing up. by being there.

the venue is small and beautiful, tucked in a quiet corner of the city. ivy climbs up stone walls, winding their way to the second floor, the kind of building that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something important to happen. soft music spills out from the inside, cascading into the courtyard where the last rays of the day spill gold over everyone’s skin, turning them all into something fleeting, something perfect.

you wear a color you’ve always liked on yourself, something soft and simple, but still carefully chosen. it’s funny—how you’ve started choosing your clothes more for yourself than for anyone else. how you’ve learned to dress for the person you’ve grown into, not the one you thought you’d be. you smile as you check your reflection one last time. and then, you spot it—lipstick on your teeth. for the first ten minutes, you don’t know, and then someone kindly points it out, their laugh light and warm. you laugh too, grateful for the small kindness. you take a drink from a glass of champagne that’s almost too pretty to touch, as if it should be saved for something special, and for a second, you almost feel like you belong here.

you don’t know many people at the party. that’s fine. you’ve never been one to throw yourself into the middle of things. you’ve always been the one to drift at events like these, skimming the surface, smiling politely, offering a few words here and there, but keeping your hands folded in your lap when you sit, staying small, staying unnoticed.

you make it through the ceremony. the vows are sweet. you clap when you’re supposed to. you eat a few hors d’oeuvres, and when the music gets too loud and the voices start blending into a buzz, you slip away to the balcony. it’s quiet out here. the city hums beneath you, distant and untouchable. for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

and then you hear it—laughter. soft, familiar. close.

you turn, already knowing. already feeling the weight of it before you see him.

he’s standing a few steps away from the doorway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie a little loose like he’s just been letting the night happen around him. his hair’s still white—shorter now, messier, and there’s something about the way the years have softened him in places you never thought could soften. his eyes still hold that distant glimmer, the one you always tried to make sense of. but now, there’s something more grounded in him—something that matches the tiredness you’ve started carrying around yourself.

he’s changed. and he hasn’t.

your chest tightens.

then, like some invisible thread has tugged at his spine, he turns.

his eyes land on you.

and the world tilts, just slightly.

he goes still.

you don’t move either.

something deep in your ribs aches with how long it’s been, with how many almosts have collected between you over the years. so many moments where he almost looked back, where you almost said something, where life almost collided and made sense. but it didn’t. not then. and maybe not now.

his expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. softer. something like disbelief, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, one that you can’t ignore. maybe it’s a memory. maybe it’s hope.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. his voice is quieter than you remember, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

you swallow, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is. “me either. i didn’t know we had mutual friends.”

he lets out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “of course we do. fate’s had a weird sense of humor since we were seventeen.”

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. he looks at you as though you’re someone he never quite expected to see again, and it feels like he’s seeing all of you, not just the parts he remembers. he’s still beautiful in that effortless way—how he’s always been—but now, there’s something real in it. something tired, something weighted, something that speaks of the years between. of all the things that have happened since.

you speak first. “you look good.”

he smiles slowly, his mouth curving up in that easy way that always made your heart trip. “so do you. better than good.”

you roll your eyes a little. “still laying it on thick, i see.”

“you used to like that,” he murmurs, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his voice dips, something nostalgic, almost like he wants to reach back through time and pull out the version of you that used to smile when he flirted. the version that used to think it meant something. “used to smile when i flirted.”

“used to,” you echo. but your voice is gentler than the words. there’s a quiet understanding between you now. something that was there before, buried beneath everything that has passed.

a beat passes.

and then he asks, almost cautiously, “are you still with anyone?”

you shake your head.

his eyes flicker, searching yours for something. for a sign. “me neither.”

your stomach flips.

there’s something there in his gaze—something that feels like an opening, like a crack where the past might slip back in. you both stand there, framed by the golden glow of the setting sun and the hum of music drifting in from the party. it feels like the air around you is waiting. like the universe has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment, just to see what you’ll do now. to see what the two of you will decide to do with all the time that has passed, with all the unspoken things between you.

“you remember,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “what we said, back then?”

you don’t pretend you don’t. you nod. “yeah. i remember.”

his hands slip into his pockets. he shifts a little, as though unsure of himself, and his eyes stay locked on yours. “at some point i started to think it was just a joke. something we said to make the world feel less uncertain.”

“me too,” you admit, the words soft and honest. “but it never stopped feeling real.”

he tilts his head, watching you, and you can feel the weight of everything hanging in the space between you. “i kept waiting,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “not on purpose. not always. but every time something ended, every time i felt alone again, i’d think—maybe we’re still heading there. maybe we just haven’t caught up to the promise yet.”

your breath hitches. it feels like the air is too thick. too much. too many years folded up between you.

“and now we’re thirty,” he says, a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “and you’re here. and i’m here. and i don’t want to waste more time pretending like i don’t want this.”

you look at him. really look at him. and suddenly, all the years, all the almosts, all the moments where you left too early or he looked back too late, they don’t feel like failures anymore. they feel like steps—each one leading you toward this. this moment. this chance to finally make good on something that’s been waiting.

you take one step now.

closer.

his breath catches when your fingers brush his, like he’s not sure if this is real, if it’s happening. And then, when you don’t pull away, when you stay there, your fingers lacing together as though it’s always been that easy, something shifts. The years that kept you apart, the missed chances, the long silences—they start to fall away.

you lean in.

and when you kiss him, it’s not loud, not dramatic, not bursting with fireworks.

it’s quiet.

it’s soft.

it’s like coming home.

it’s like finally keeping a promise you never really stopped waiting on.

[strawberrypinky]

I try to keep this blog relatively free of openly discussing politics for various reasons, but as I continue to watch what is currently happening in the United States, my horror outweighs my desire to keep this a purely fandom related zone.

I am an Englishwoman who was raised in Germany. Roughly four years of my History curriculum (a mandatory class I had to take, mind you) were dedicated to studying Nazi Germany. I directed a play for Holocaust Remembrance Day, and in preparation for it I was allowed to read original Nazi files on homosexuals in a federal archive. I am also an autistic woman.

I have read, precisely, what eugenics lead to, and it remains the most horrifying thing I have read in my entire lifetime.

The Nazis considered everyone unworthy of life who fell under one of the following "categories":

Epileptic

Schizophrenic

Manic-depressive

Suffering from Cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy

Deaf and/or blind

Homosexual or "transvestites" (which at the time was used to refer to intersex and transgender people, particularly trans women)

Anyone else showing signs of disabilities affecting cognitive ability or being diagnosed with one

Autistic people were considered “unworthy of life” by the Nazis. Although eugenics was already a troubling issue in Germany before their rise to power, the Nazis’ obsession with “biological improvement” in pursuit of a so-called perfect Aryan race led to horrific practices that echo the proposals we see today from RFK Jr. The Nazis gathered routine information from doctors’ offices and welfare departments, using it to compile lists of those they deemed “unfit.” Hundreds of children and adults were targeted — murdered, experimented on, or forcibly sterilised.

To publicly call for a “disease registry” to track autistic people is openly engaging in tactics used by Nazi Germany. It’s eugenics - point, blank, period.

Autistic people have, and always will continue to exist. They are not a “problem” or “crisis” to be solved, or a “tragic” aberration that needs to be snuffed out. Autism is not an “epidemic”, nor the result of vaccinations. It is not a “preventable disease”. Autism does not “ruin families”.

Today, we see a rise in autism diagnoses not because autism itself is increasing, but because we are finally recognising it in populations - especially women - who were historically overlooked. Diagnostic criteria have improved dramatically over the past two decades, and autism is no longer treated merely as a “last resort” label for children with cognitive disabilities.

The ongoing push to “find the cause of autism,” while simultaneously slashing funding for the Department of Education, Medicaid, and social services that support autistic individuals, is not about helping anyone. It is a thinly veiled attempt to justify modern-day eugenics under the guise of scientific inquiry. Most autistic individuals are fully capable of leading independent, fulfilling lives. And those who require higher levels of support are no less deserving of love, kindness, respect, and the fundamental dignity owed to every human being - not subjected to the cruelty of ableist agendas.

Watching history begin to repeat itself, despite countless promises of “never again,” is horrifying in more ways than I can even begin to express - and make no mistake: if anyone believes this agenda will stop with autistic individuals, they are gravely mistaken.

[harrysredroom]

Playing With Fire

word count: 4.5k

summary: 18+ content! basically just smut with loads of angst. enemies? lovers? who knows. they sure don’t. dominant/switch harry, submissive/switch y/n…they don’t discriminate. Harry and Y/N just can't seem to decide if it's love, hate, or lust.

a/n: hiiii, this is my first time posting something i’ve written. It’s not something i ever thought i’d do, so go easy on me lmao. let me know if you want to see more! 

"Hello?"

"We're doing pleasantries now? I'm here."

"I'm home."

"Then buzz me in."

"I'm watching a new episode of Criminal Minds."

"Jesus. You can watch it while I fuck you from behind. Buzz me in, Y/N. Now. I don't have the time -or the patience- for your attitude tonight."

That's about as long as their phone calls ever got. The pair sighed in unison before the call ended, the tension bubbling beneath the surface from the second Y/N saw Harry's name pop up on her phone screen. She hadn't seen him or heard from him for the past three months. 

Her and Harry had a complicated, long-standing situationship…and that was putting it lightly. A friend of a friend, a few drinks, a few months of connecting, heartbreak, and a mess of blurred lines. They were the kind of almost-couple that never quite got the timing right. 

Every goodbye was temporary, every reunion accidental but inevitable. The inability to stay away from each other? That was the real reason things never worked. Too much chemistry, not enough clarity. It was passion tangled with pain, affection mixed with avoidance, like trying to hold onto smoke.

Incompatible. 

Harry was consistently gone on tour and afraid of commitment. Y/N never left her tiny bubble of life and was emotionally unavailable. 

They didn't see eye to eye on most things. 

But...their sexual tension? 

It buzzed consistently like a live wire, twisting, crackling, and sparking to life. 

Harry was a constant thrum beneath her skin, rooted deep in her veins like a heartbeat she couldn't quiet. He had this way of making her feel like she mattered even if it only lasted a second. When he'd breathe into the curve of her neck, voice low and ragged, whispering how she was his, her walls would crack just enough to let him in. In those moments, she wasn't cold or closed off. She wasn’t numb. She could feel—really feel—something other than the dull ache that usually lived inside her. It was fleeting, sure, but it was real. And sometimes, that was enough to pull her back under.

Y/N was like a drug to Harry. He was always twitching, in desperate need of a fix. Being inside of her was addictive, his head in the clouds and far away from everything. But the comedown from the high? Brutal. The crash after they were done, after the kisses cooled, after the silence settled in, always hit harder than he expected. Each time left him hollow, questioning everything. Why had he stumbled back into her life again? What part of him kept confusing chaos for comfort, or her bed for safety? He’d lie there, heart still racing, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. But it never did. Just the same ache, the same regret, curling up beside him like a second skin.

Y/N adjusted the sleeves of her oversized jumper, fingers fidgeting for a moment before she stood from the couch. Padding toward the front door, she hesitated for just a second before pressing the buzzer to let Harry in.

The soft buzz echoed down the stairwell, but to her, it felt like a warning siren.

She had to stand her ground this time.

She couldn’t keep letting him drift in and out of her life like a tide she had no control over, especially not after this long. Usually, it was a few weeks, a handful of texts, and a night that bled into morning. But three months? That was different. That was silence she’d almost started to believe in.

Almost.

Harry’s lips curved into that familiar devilish smirk the second he heard the mechanical whirl of the front gate unlocking. That soft hum, the one that granted him access, always felt like the first drop on a rollercoaster. He pushed the door open once the metal gate slid back into place behind him, shutting it with a click that echoed in the empty hallway.

He practically jogged up the two flights to her flat, his pulse quickening with each step, a boyish eagerness he never could quite shake when it came to her. But when he reached her door, any fantasy he’d built on the way up hit a wall. Literally.

She was already there, standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, hips tilted, gaze unimpressed. No soft smile. No warm welcome. Just that unreadable expression he’d seen too many times before.

His grin only widened.

Of course she wasn’t amused. He couldn’t blame her.

But he was already in too deep.

“Aww, s’my sweet Bunny girl angry?” Harry crooned, voice dripping with mock concern as he looked down at her, eyes glinting with mischief.

Without waiting for a response, he brushed his shoulder past hers, slipping into her flat like he owned the place. The scent of her hit him instantly, intoxicating, wrapping around him as easily as her silence did.

"No." Y/N's tone was sharp and low, giving her away.

Harry clicked his tongue as he slipped off his shoes and hung his coat on the rack. Y/N followed him inside, closing and locking the door behind them. 

"Now, now, now...s'that what we're doing? Lying to each other? Thought we both agreed it’s just easier to be honest, did we not?" He tutted as he turned to face her. 

Before she could protest, his hands were grasping at the plushy flesh of her hips with rough vigor, tugging her frame flush against his own. Harry hummed, the sound gravelly and guttural as it rumbled through him. Y/N let loose a shaky breath, her lashes fluttering against her cheekbones.

A simple touch.

Just one very simple touch. 

That's all it took for them to fall back in head first. 

That’s all it took for their resolve to crumble.

Harry leaned in slowly, his movements unhurried and deliberate. His nose brushed against hers, a featherlight touch that sent a shiver down her spine. He breathed her in, sweet and familiar. That scent always did something to him, settled low in his gut and curled around his ribs. He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and erratic, thudding so hard in her chest it might as well have been echoing in his own. The corner of his mouth twitched. "There's my little Bunny, so nervous and jittery around me. S'addicting, y'know that? God, three months without you has been fucking torture."

His voice held the kind of yearning that made her lips itch to feel his own. 

His words were a plea, needy and desperate. 

Her hands moved up to hold the sleeves of his t-shirt, curling around the fabric, trying to ground herself.

"Need you t'use your words for me, love. S'that what's the matter, hmm? Been too long without me?” 

His thumb and forefinger came up to gently grip her chin, tilting up her head. “C'mon, sweet girl. Y'know I can tell if you lie. You wanna be good for me, don't you? Bad girls don't get what m'about to give you." 

Her entire body felt like hot molten lava, and she looked up into his eyes. 

Harry blew out a breath. Those big doe eyes of hers were going to kill him someday and he was certain it would be a happy death. “Fucking hell. I missed you. There. I said it.” 

Now it was her turn to tsk and chuckle, her cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink. “I don’t even have to speak and you’re a sputtering mess for me, Harry. It’s pretty desperate, don’t you think?” 

She watched the way his jaw clenched, felt the way his fingers dug into her sides, and how his pupils blew out, his eyes darkening. “You’re playing with fucking fire, Y/N.” He growled, low and primal, before driving her backward until her spine hit the front door with a quiet thud. In one fluid motion, his hands gripped her hips and lifted her, catching her beneath the thighs. She gasped as he pinned her there, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

His body pressed hard into hers, firm and unrelenting, holding her in place like he had every right to. The force of it stole the breath from her lungs, but it wasn’t just the impact. 

It was him.

It was always him.

Their breaths tangled in the charged space between them, shallow and uneven, like they’d both run miles only to stop just short of the finish. Their lips hovered, barely apart, neither willing to surrender first, both waiting, daring the other.

“Good thing I’m not afraid to get burnt,” she whispered, her voice low and velvet-soft, brushing against his mouth with every word. “I missed you too, by the way.”

That was all it took.

Harry closed the distance, crashing into her like a wave pulled too long by the tide. His mouth found hers with a heat that trickled through her system and she met him there, fingers threading through his hair, the other hand locking around the back of his neck to hold him close.

A quiet whimper slipped from her as his tongue slithered past her lips, insistent and hungry, tasting the sugary remnants of the candy she’d had in front of the tv before he arrived. He groaned low in his throat at the sweetness, and the sound of it unravelled her, hips moving instinctively against him.

They acted with fluid precision, like two pieces made to fall into place. Her fingers tightened in his curls, pulling just enough to draw another sound from him, and before she knew it, she was back on her feet with Harry pressed against her and his hands grasping the dip of her waist to lead her.

She didn’t remember the walk to her bedroom.

Maybe it was because her frame never left the wall of his chest, or maybe because Harry’s mouth never once left her body—trailing down her jaw, along the curve of her throat, kissing and nipping at the skin until her legs turned jelly. She walked backwards, trusting Harry to lead her in the right direction. The door creaked open behind her, and the next thing she knew, her back was pressed to her velvet comforter and Harry was hovering above, his eyes hooded and stormy with want. Her jumper rose up to her midriff, just a pair of plain pink cotton panties with a bow on beneath. She wasn’t expecting company, not that she’d have dressed differently even if she knew he was coming.

“Look at you…” he murmured, more to himself than to her, tracing the outline of her collarbone with a calloused fingertip. “Laid out all pretty for me, like some dream I haven’t earned the right to wake up from.”

She arched towards his touch, her breath hitching when he leaned in and pressed a slow, reverent kiss just beneath her ear. “Maybe you haven’t,” she whispered, breathless but teasing, her voice trembling with the effort not to beg. She said she wouldn’t crack, yet here she was.

Harry’s grin was all sharp teeth and wonderment, but his gaze softened as it swept over her face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick, “I’d spend the rest of my life tryin’.”

Then he kissed her again, slower now, deeper. It wasn’t just need anymore. It was months of silence, of missing glances, unanswered calls, aching spaces where the other used to be. It was apology and forgiveness, grief and hunger all tangled into one breathless moment. His hands moved with purpose, mapping out the skin he’d gone too long without, relearning every dip, every scar, every shiver he could draw from her with just the brush of his thumb.

“I can’t wait, I need you right now, Y/N, can you feel my cock? It’s fucking aching.” Harry grunted out, pressing his hips down against her core to prove his point. She could feel the outline of him, rock solid for her, straining against his jeans. 

She whimpered at the friction, a damp spot already present against the fabric of her panties from the second he walked through her front door and looked at her with those eyes of his. 

“I’m going to indulge in you properly later, take my time, bury my head between your thighs like your pretty pussy deserves after bein’ so neglected. But right now? I just need to fuck you.”

Harry’s hand slid beneath the back of her thigh, pulling her leg around his waist and tugging her panties to the side as he breathed heavily into her neck, his lips trailing hungry, greedy kisses along her skin. 

“Then fuck me already.” Y/N bratted through deep breaths, her hands finding the hem of his shirt and tugging, needing him unclothed and fast.

Harry’s jaw clenched as he sat up just enough to look down at her. She was absolutely sinful like this, her pussy glistening with arousal, her eyes hazy with that smug, lustful expression. He scoffed out a breath as he ripped his shirt off from over his head, tossing it across the room as his fingers nimbly found his belt buckle. “Get it all out now, Bunny. S’not gonna be so funny when I’m pounding into you so hard you can’t breathe, and you know it.” He growled, his eyes meeting hers with stern warning. 

The metal clinking sound of his belt coming undone echoed in the small space, and he pulled it from the loops of his jeans with one smooth tug. He looked into her eyes as he looped the leather in half before snapping it together, the sound crackling the room. “Behave,” he warned.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her mind flashing back to the time that Harry had tied her wrists behind her back with that exact same belt. She gulped, a glimmer in her eyes as she nodded, deciding this was her time to be quiet if she wanted to get her way.

A devilish smirk coated Harry’s lips, the dimple in his cheek protruding. “That’s my girl.” He murmured as he tugged down his boxers, his hard cock now resting heavy in his palm. He leaned down, the head pressing against her entrance. He slicked through her folds, each of them sighing in relief at the feeling. Without warning, he thrust in, hard and deep. She cried out, her back arching, her head tipping back against the mattress as he tore through her without remorse.

“That’s my fucking girl.” He growled as his body rocked into hers. The pace was unhurried but purposeful, like he was trying to relearn her from the inside out. Their sweat-slicked skin was sticking where they touched, their breaths loud and shallow in the dim light of her bedroom.

Every move he made felt like a question. Are you still mine? Do I still fit here?

And every answer came from the way she held him, close and needy, her nails dragging angry red lines down his spine, her hips rolling to meet his like she was trying to etch the shape of him into her bones. She wanted him to remember. Each time he caught a glimpse in the mirror, or the hot water of his shower cascaded over his back, he’d remember her and the marks she’d left him with.

It was messy. A little unsteady. Every shift, every gasp, threaded with the weight of what they were too stubborn to say out loud. She whimpered when his mouth found that sensitive spot beneath her ear again, the one that always made her body quake.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his teeth across her jaw. “You feel the same. Still so tight f’me. Still so fuckin’ perfect.” Harry thrusts his hips forward, burying his cock deep within her. Each movement had her bed creaking, the sound of her arousal gushing around the base of his cock obscene and lewd in the best possible way. It coated his pubic bone and thighs, sticky and wet.

Y/N bit her lip, her head lolling back against the pillow, exposing the long line of her throat. “You think saying shit like that makes this less complicated?”

Harry didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “No,” he admitted, voice rough and low, “but maybe it’ll make it easier when I leave.”

Her chest hitched, a shiver rolling through her—not from his words, but from the ache in them. That aching little crack in his voice that sounded like regret finally catching up to him.

She shouldn’t have answered. She knew she shouldn’t have. But her voice came anyway, soft and breathless. “You’re the one who always comes back.”

That struck somewhere deep within him. His rhythm faltered for half a second, just long enough for the truth to land. But then his mouth crashed into hers again, hungry, silencing the sting with his tongue. He kissed her like he could steal her words, bury them inside his lungs so they wouldn’t echo back at him later.

And she let him.

Because she needed to feel something that wasn’t heartbreak. Something real. Something alive.

Her legs tightened around his waist, and her back arched into him, her body shaking under his touch as her release crept closer, hot and consuming. Y/N’s moans were nothing short of pornographic, breathy and sultry whines. 

Harry cursed under his breath, the sounds she made unraveling his restraint thread by thread. He reached his hand between them, two fingers finding her clit with ease, puffy and swollen for him. He hissed at the way her jaw dropped open, immediately moving his fingers in fast, tight circles around the bundle of nerves. He knew how sensitive she was, her thighs trembling in their position around his hips. His thrusts never stopped, the sound of wet skin slapping wet skin echoed her bedroom as he fucked into her. Harry watched the way her tits bounced beneath her jumper, each of them still half clothed, having been too caught up in the moment to worry about undressing fully. He didn’t need her nude to know how her body looked, how she felt. Her soft, blissed out features and the warm squeeze of her cunt around his cock would be plenty for him.

“C’mon, Bunny,” he murmured, voice shaking, forehead pressed to hers. “Wanna feel you. Let go f’me.”

The weight of him pressed down, grounding her, anchoring her to the moment, where nothing else outside the walls of her flat existed. Just Harry, just Y/N, and the quiet crackle of something neither of them dared name.

She could feel every inch of him, his breath against her collarbone, his fingers rolling over her clit with eagerness, the slow, torturous grind of his hips as he buried himself deeper, like he belonged there.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he always had.

“Say it again,” she whispered, her voice a velvet thread in the darkness.

Harry blinked, chest rising and falling against hers, lips ghosting over the curve of her jaw.

“Say what?”

“That you missed me.”

His throat bobbed with the swallow. His voice, when it came, was rough with more than just lust. “I did. I do.” His forehead pressed to hers. “Every fucking day I miss you, Y/N.”

That admission cracked something open inside her. Not all the way, just enough to let the ache bleed out, soft and messy. Just enough to let him in again.

She arched into him, her arms circling around his back as if she could pull him beneath her skin, as if she could memorize the weight of him and keep it when he left again. Because he would. That much she knew.

Everything about Harry was too much yet perfectly enough. His teeth nipped at the column of her throat before his tongue soothed the ache, his panted breaths hot and heavy against her neck as he fucked into her. 

Y/N was practically mewling, whimpering and trembling as she got closer and closer. Her stomach coiled up tight with each deep thrust, the head of his cock punching through her walls, rough and gentle all at once as if he couldn’t decide which half of himself to give into. Harry’s cock twitched inside of her, a telltale sign he was close. 

“Fucking hell…this pussy was made for me, wasn’t it, Bunny? C’mon, tell me who’s pussy this is and I’ll let you cum.” His voice was shattered, deep and sultry as his fingers slowed against her clit to a barely there pressure.

Y/N whimpered, the noise near pathetic as she tried to roll her hips upwards, desperately chasing her high. “It’s yours, Harry. I belong to you.”

Harry puffed out a breath as if her words were too much to handle. 

“Good fucking girl. My girl.” He whispered against the shell of her ear, his tongue flicking out to lick a strip against her jaw before, without warning, he sat up, his hands gripping the backs of her calves and pushing her legs up towards her head for an entirely new angle. 

She gasped, feeling his cock slip out to the tip in their shift. Harry smirked down at her, his grin devilish. He knew how much she loved this position, how perfectly it let his cock hit that spongy, sensitive spot inside of her. He didn’t waste a second before he tightened his grip and pulled back his hips before slamming them forward. 

Y/N cried out his name as he rocked into her with fervent need, groaning at the way her walls clamped down around his cock, desperate to milk him dry. He let one of her legs fall from his grasp, only to slip his hand between their bodies, his thumb rubbing messy, relentless circles over her clit. He drove into her again and again, burying himself to the hilt, never letting her forget exactly how perfectly she took him. His breaths were mixed with shattered low groans as he watched the way her chest rose and fell, how her cheeks had pinkened and her lips hung parted in a perfect, petal pink pout of pleasure. The headboard slammed against the wall in a frantic rhythm, just barely drowning out the filthy wet sounds of his cock plunging through her slick, stretching her open and claiming her in every way. He found his home deep inside her pussy—exactly where he belonged, exactly where he was meant to be.

His Bunny let out a string of whined moans, her thighs quaking, and he knew she was right on edge. “That’s it, sweet girl. Cum all over my cock, show me how much you missed me.” He panted.

Between the desperation in his voice and the way he slammed into her, it only took seconds for Y/N to come crashing down. Her pussy pulsated around Harry’s cock as she let out a low, breathless moan, the sound like music to his ears. The way her walls clenched around him had him thrusting in as deep as he could possibly go, his body surging forward to capture her lips in a hungry kiss. His orgasm hit him hard, pouring into her in long, hot spurts that left him whimpering against her mouth. Sounds of raw yearning and need spilled from him, muffled by their kiss, as her nails dug into the muscles of his lower back. His hips stuttered against her, his body desperate to stay as close to hers as possible, every last drop of him filling her completely. He rolled forward, pushing his cum impossibly deeper as if it would keep it there, keep him there.

Harry stayed buried inside of her, his forehead dropping to press against hers again as they both struggled to catch their breath. Their chests heaved together, sticky skin sliding, the heat between them nearing unbearable. He pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the hollow just beneath her ear, murmuring sweet nothings too soft and slurred for either of them to really understand.

“Fuck, Bunny,” he panted, voice rough and wrecked with pleasure. “Missed you. Missed this. Missed being inside you.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, still feeling every delicious throb of him, every aftershock rippling through her sensitive body. She tilted her head back just enough to meet his blown, dazed gaze, smirking despite the lingering tremors in her thighs. She’d missed it too, but she wasn’t about to say it, not now, not when she hadn’t gotten her chance to have the upper hand and remind him why he kept coming back here, back to her.

“You better catch your breath, pretty boy,” she whispered against his damp temple, her voice a low, teasing purr. “Because it’s my turn.”

Harry blinked slowly, still half drunk off the high she had just pulled him into. “Your turn?” he repeated, the lazy smile that tugged at his mouth making her want to kiss it clean off.

Y/N grinned, sliding her hands down the damp, muscular plane of his back before giving his hip a playful little squeeze that made him grunt against her. “Mhm,” she hummed, shifting her hips beneath him just enough to make him hiss, his sensitive cock twitching inside her pussy. “You think you can just come in here, fuck me like that after three months, and not deal with the consequences of your actions?”

He let out a rough chuckle, his body still twitching with sensitivity, but his hands found her hips again on instinct, holding on like he already knew she was about to wreck him.

“You’re playing with fucking fire.” She murmured in a mock of his earlier words against his jaw, nipping at his scruff with her teeth, loving the low growl it dragged from his chest.

“Is that right?” Harry rasped, the words barely a thread of sound. “Well…It’s a good thing m’not afraid to get burnt.” He mused, humming out her own response to the same question. 

“Mmhm,” Y/N purred, and before he could say anything else, she rolled her hips up into his with a slow, devastating grind. His whole body jerked, a broken moan escaping his throat. “And you, Mr. Styles, are about to find out exactly what happens to bad boys who don’t think they can be outmatched.”

She tightened her legs around his hips, flipping them with a surprising surge of strength and adrenaline that made him grunt out a startled, breathless laugh. He fell back against the mattress, wide-eyed and grinning even as he tried to process the shift.

Y/N straddled him now, hands splayed on his chest, hair wild around her flushed face, a gleam in her eye that promised nothing short of absolute, blissful ruin.

“You think you can handle it?” she teased, rolling her hips again, slow and purposeful, making him gasp and clench the sheets beneath him from the overstimulation.

Harry let his head fall back, the cords in his neck straining as he fought for control. “Fuck, Bunny,” he groaned, voice breaking on the nickname. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She leaned down, brushing her nose against his before catching his bottom lip between her teeth and tugging gently, making him groan again.

“Good,” she whispered against his mouth. “That’s the idea."

[xjulixred45x]

NRC Staff with Pregnant Yuu!

Suggestion from @donanimee

Okay, first things first, the odd man out we all hate: CROWLEY.

Now, to be fair, I don't think Crowley would be as bad to a clearly pregnant Yuu as he would to a normal student. Sure, he's still extremely negligent and utterly unaccountable, but he wouldn't give Yuu the same responsibilities (just to maintain the appearance of "someone kind helping a poor woman in a vulnerable moment").

Their interactions remain the same, though Crowley strikes me as the kind of person who treats pregnant women like big babies or as if they're dangerous due to hormones (and yes, he'll use the hormones excuse constantly), especially when Yuu gets mad at him and tries to demand answers. His response? Talking to her like she's a baby in the most frustrating way possible.

If Yuu is especially emotional (again, pregnancy hormones are no joke), Crowley will awkwardly try to comfort her, but he doesn't do much else to support her. Things like doctors, appointments, or clothes will have to be handled by Yuu. 2/10, don't ask for his help, it's the same as nothing.

Sam, on the other hand, is someone Yuu interacts with most often, whether it's for grocery shopping or just when she needs something from her shop. If Yuu goes to Sam's shop alone, he usually accompanies her to Ramshakle and helps her with her shopping (with the help of the shadows, of course). After all, he can't let one of his favorite customers hurt her back.

Sam also tends to "conveniently" have things on sale when Yuu comes shopping, things that make her life easier, ESPECIALLY if Yuu is short on money. Sam is more empathetic towards a pregnant Yuu, and therefore she has better opportunities to negotiate better prices with Sam.

If Yuu needs help with anything, she can ask Sam for help. With ANYTHING, she can ask for things like baby supplies, maternity clothes, etc. Think of it as an investment, free of charge. 8/10, recommended, but he's not available all the time.

VARGAS OH MY GOD. He does a complete 180-degree turn in his attitude toward Yuu compared to how he treats the other students. While the first-years have to do exercises worthy of Spartan warriors, Yuu does basic gymnastics. Yuu even ends up learning several Lamaze exercises thanks to Vargas! It's almost envious that Yuu can skip the hellish exercises, but Vargas doesn't seem to mind.

Even if Vargas isn't the smartest, he's someone who believes men should help women, especially pregnant ones! So he acts like a stereotypical gentleman with Yuu, opening doors, carrying heavy things, etc. And he urges the other students to do the same (if anyone causes Yuu any trouble, that means more hellish exercises).

Definitely helpful and very motivating, 10/10.

Trein is the one who most reproaches Crowley for his neglect of Yuu when he finds out about her pregnancy. His paternal instincts kick in, and he becomes Yuu's main emotional support. Trein can't imagine what it must be like to have a baby far from home, in an unfamiliar place, without your family to help you—it's almost a nightmare. And he won't let Yuu fall into despair.

Trein often comes to Ramshakle to check on Yuu, sometimes bringing food, sometimes even repairing some things in the dorm. If Yuu is in college or some higher education, Trein can give her some private lessons, and generally be there for Yuu when things get... dark. Yuu can afford to be more honest with Trein; he understands her fears and frustrations better than anyone, and he can reassure her that her emotions are valid and that everything will be okay.

Trein can lend her various things for the baby! he still keeps several things from when his daughters were little girls/babies; he could even give her a crib. Yuu could trust him with her baby any day. 10/10, highly recommended, just two parents who understand each other.

Last but not least: Crewel. He's much less demanding with Yuu, even turning a blind eye if he sees her struggling with the subject. Considering that Crewel's class is prone to...accidents, it's likely that even Divus implements some extra safety measures, especially as Yuu's pregnancy progresses. At some point, he even gives her a free pass to skip class and send him her homework from home, it's not worth the risk of Yuu and the baby getting hurt during class.

Did you see how he calls all the students Pup or Puppy? Well, he likes to call Yuu Top Dog! (This applies to all Yuu!Parents), he definitely thinks her diligence and motherly attitude toward the students is adorable, so he tends to go easy on her. Along with Vil, he's one of the ones who takes Yuu shopping for things like pretty maternity dresses (or comfortable shoes).

Yuu is one of the few students who has access to the potions cabinet in case she feels particularly ill due to pregnancy hormones (backache, headaches, vomiting, stomach aches, etc.). 10/10.

Conclusion: Ask any adult in this school for help, as long as it's not Crowley.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR V

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This might’ve been one of my favorite chapters to write so far—I had way too much fun with it  Also, not sure if everyone caught my earlier heads-up, but I’m currently on vacation! This is a scheduled post, and I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to interact while I’m away. I will catch up once I’m back though! You can check out my little announcement here, for more info on when posts are scheduled and how long they’ll keep coming. The taglist will most likely be on pause until I return, but feel free to let me know if you’d still like to be added—I’ll make sure to include you in later chapters once I’m back!

OUTSIDE THE GOLDEN CUP

You were fully ready to go home and forget Jason Todd ever existed—maybe even bitch about him to Milo and Anthony over some wine, when you caught sight of the last two people you wanted to see.

They were strolling your way, all smiles and casual affection, like some goddamn ad for moving on. Jake laughed at something she said, and you watched—horrified, frozen—as he brushed her hair back with the same hand that used to trace your jaw.

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “This is not happening right now.”

They hadn’t seen you yet, but it was only a matter of time. And you couldn’t do it again—you couldn’t be the girl standing alone while your ex showed off his new life like it was a goddamn prize he won by throwing you away.

You refused to give him that satisfaction.

So you did the first thing that came to mind.

You turned around and bolted after Jason.

“Wait—come back here!”

He turned, confusion flickering across his face as you reached out and grabbed his arm. “What the hell—?”

You barely let him finish.

“I need you to kiss me,” you hissed.

Jason stared at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “What? No!”

“Just kiss me!”

His brow furrowed in complete disbelief. “Why would I kiss you? Are you—are you insane?”

You glanced over your shoulder—Jake was looking this way now—and panic flared hotter.

“I’m serious!”

He leaned back slightly, like he was trying to decide if you were testing him or genuinely unwell. “Absolutely not. You’re completely bipolar.”

You let out a desperate, frustrated sound and grabbed him by the collar before he could protest further—then yanked him down and slamming your lips against his.

You kissed him.

Hard.

He froze.

But only for a moment.

His grip slid instinctively to your waist, and he kissed you back with a heat that knocked the breath out of you. His mouth was warm, confident, a little possessive. Infuriating as he was, Jason Todd could kiss. 

Your fingers curled tighter in his jacket as the world fell away. For one dizzying second, you forgot Jake existed. Forgot why you were doing this. Forgot everything except the heat of Jason’s mouth on yours and the steady grip of his hands anchoring you in place.

Then—

“Y/N?”

Your name cut through the haze like a slap of cold air.

You pulled back, breath catching in your throat, lips tingling. Jason didn’t move. His mouth was still inches from yours. His gaze flicked to your lips, then up to your eyes, like he was debating whether he should kiss you again—reasons be damned.

Jake’s voice came clearer now, closer. “Y/N.”

You turned toward him, feigning surprise like you’d only just noticed. “Oh!” you gasped—more breathless than you meant to be, though that only worked in your favor. “Jake! Wow, what are the odds of running into you again?”

He smiled, but it was thin, the kind that hovered somewhere between forced and insincere. “Yeah. Funny coincidence. Who’s this?”

You forced a bright smile, even as you felt Jason’s stare drilling into the side of your face, sharp enough to make your skin prickle.

“Jason—my boyfriend,” you said, pitching your voice higher than usual. “You remember, right? The doctor I told you about? We met at that neuroscience conference.”

Jason still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t stopped glaring. Your nerves were fraying with every second of silence, mentally begging him not to ruin this. Not to humiliate you.

Then, finally, he shifted.

Jason turned toward Jake and Hannah with a grin that was all charm on the surface—and nothing but sharp edges underneath. “Jason Todd,” he said, extending his hand.

Jake hesitated, then reached out. The second their palms met, Jason’s grip tightened just enough to make a point.

Jake winced.

“Jake,” he replied, trying not to sound rattled. “You’ve got a strong grip. So… you’re a neurosurgeon?”

You resisted the urge to groan. Three years of dating, and Jake still hadn’t figured out the difference between a neurosurgeon and a neuroscientist.

“Scientist,” Jason corrected smoothly, not missing a beat. “Same as Y/N. We work together—and I have to say, she’s a brilliant woman.”

Jake’s smile twitched, strained at the edges. “Yeah she is.” he agreed more out of the sake of agreeing rather than actually believing it.

“Oh wow, that’s so amazing,” Hannah gushed, completely sincere. “A couple that’s both gorgeous and smart? Total power duo.”

You didn’t miss the way Jake’s jaw ticked at that. His smile faltered.

Jason, of course, leaned into it with practiced ease.

“Ah, Y/N’s the amazing one,” he said, glancing down at you with a look so convincingly tender your stomach flipped. “I don’t know what I love more—getting to work beside her or waking up every morning knowing she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat blooming beneath your skin.

God. He was good at this.

“He’s such a charmer,” you laughed, sharing a quick smile with Hannah before turning to Jason with a soft shake of your head. “If anything, I’m the lucky one.”

He crinkled his nose. “God, I love you.”

“I love you,” you giggled—at the exact same time.

Jake blinked, clearly caught off-guard, his expression faltering. His mouth opened like he might say something—then shut again, silent for once.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly his lips were on yours again, gentler this time. Your fingers curled around his jacket instinctively as your body leaned into his without thinking. When you finally pulled back, you let out a breathless laugh, resting your head against his chest.

“We’re really happy,” you told Jake and Hannah, your voice light, breezy, too casual for how hard your heart was pounding.

Jason nodded, keeping you close with a hand settled snugly at your waist. “We are. But then again—who wouldn’t be happy with her? She’s got the brains, the beauty… even the brawn. Did you know she was a gymnast in high school?”

Jake stiffened. His frown appeared, vanished, then locked into place. “No. I didn’t.”

Jason’s grin turned wicked. “Didn’t think so.”

You gave a slightly awkward smile, not having expected him to bring that little detail up. “Yeah… he likes to brag,” you said with a giggle, reaching up to lightly slap his cheek in a silent shut up.

Jason just laughed, eyes dancing with mischief. “Ooh, feisty—I love it. My girl’s such a wildcat.”

And then, to your horror, he emphasized the point by bringing his large palm down on your ass in a quick, confident smack.

You let out a startled squeak. “Jason!”

He grinned, entirely unrepentant. “Sorry. I just can’t get enough of you.” Then he turned to the other two with a grin that was anything but apologetic.

Jake looked like he was rethinking every life choice that led him to this moment.

But Hannah?

Hannah sighed like she’d just watched the final scene of a rom-com. “That’s so romantic,” she breathed, practically glowing. Her eyes were glued to Jason, dreamy and starstruck, like she’d just mentally cast him as the lead in every fantasy she’d ever had.

You blinked.

Jason smirked.

And Jake looked one second away from combusting.

He shifted awkwardly, clearly itching to escape. “Well. It was nice seeing you, Y/N. And… meeting you, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “You too, Josh. We gotta run.”

Jake blinked. “It’s… Jake.”

“Oh.” Jason tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Right. Jake. Sorry, man. So many J names floating around in my life lately.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, doing everything you could not to burst out laughing.

“It was really nice meeting you,” Hannah said sweetly, clearly trying to smooth things over.

Jason turned to her like she was the only person in the world. “The pleasure was all mine,” he said, catching her hand with gallant ease.

Then—of course—he bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand like he was stepping straight out of a period drama.

Hannah flushed instantly, caught somewhere between flattered and utterly frazzled.

Jake’s frown sharpened, but he forced a brittle smile. “Oh look at that. A kiss on the hand. Classy.”

“You are so lucky,” Hannah whispered to you with starry eyes. And she meant it. The poor girl was enchanted.

You gave a polite, noncommittal smile. “I know.”

Jake clearly had enough. He tugged Hannah’s hand a little too firmly. “Enjoy your night.”

“Oh, we will,” Jason replied, already wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you snug against him like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse. As the couple turned to walk away, Jason called out, sweet as syrup, “See ya, Justin!”

“It’s Jake!” came the snapped reply from halfway down the block.

Jason grinned, satisfied. Like a cat full of cream and mischief. His eyes still sparkled as he watched them disappear around the corner.

Then Jason turned to you, expression flat, voice bone-dry. “So. Want to tell me what the hell that was?”

You let out a slow breath, brushing your hair out of your face as the adrenaline finally started to fade. “An emergency.”

He arched a brow. “That’s not how normal people handle emergencies.”

You snorted, the tension finally beginning to unravel from your spine. “I’m not normal. You of all people should know that.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s one word for it.”

Your mouth twitched, and you looked up at him, expression softening. “Thanks, by the way. Really.”

A sly smile curved across his lips as he cupped a hand behind his ear. “Sorry—what was that? This ear’s a little deaf.”

You huffed, but it came with a reluctant smile. “I said thank you. Thank you. You don’t have to be annoying about it.”

He grinned, but this time there was something softer behind it. Something genuine. “You want to try this again? Start over. We could grab a bite—your pick.”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your bottom lip.

Then he added, “You do owe me an explanation for… whatever that was.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. He wasn’t wrong. You had, technically, assaulted him with a surprise kiss and roped him into a soap opera without warning. The fact that he went along with it—without throwing you to the wolves—definitely earned him a second chance. And probably dessert.

“Come on—I know a café just down the street. Cozy, quiet, not too many people. Coffee that’s actually good,” you added, shooting him a teasing look over your shoulder, “and the pastries are amazing.”

CAFÉ NERO

“…and I packed up everything,” you said, fingers tracing the rim of your iced coffee. “Turned down a position at STAR Labs. All to move back here with him.”

You took a sip, using the taste of the cold overly sweet liquid to ground you for a second.

“Few months later, I found him in our bed with his yoga instructor.”

Jason winced. “Damn.”

You gave him a rueful grin. “You can say it. I’m an idiot. Three PhDs, I literally study the brain—and I still didn’t see how much of a tool he was.”

Jason shook his head. “You’re not an idiot. You were in love. Love’s great at messing with the parts of the brain that normally warn us about red flags. Doesn’t make you dumb. Just makes you human.”

Your gaze softened at his surprisingly insightful words. “He just wasn’t the guy I thought he was. It feels like… a mistake.”

Jason leaned back, his tone more certain. “I don’t believe in mistakes.”

You gave him a look, amused. “That’s a very convenient philosophy for someone like you.”

He smirked. “Maybe. But it’s the mistakes that shape us. Break us down, sure. But they also build us. They brought you back here, didn’t they?”

You blinked, considering. “Would you rather be back in Central City?” he asked.

“Surprisingly… no.” You glanced out the café window, watching the Gotham streets pulse with life. “For all its chaos, Gotham was—is my home. I love my place and my best friends live across the hall.”

“And you like your job,” Jason added.

“I love my job,” you agree, thinking about all the brilliant sleep deprived lunatics you taught and worked with.

He shrugged. “So there you go.” Then, watching you mull it over, his smirk softened. “Just saying.”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That’s dangerously close to sounding wise.”

“I have my moments,” he smirked, then quoted, almost under his breath,“‘We all have a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.’”

You blinked. “Wait—what was that?”

Jason took a slow sip of his drink, expression suspiciously innocent.

“No way!” You gasped “That’s Pride and Prejudice.” You pointed a finger at him, eyes lit with amusement. “That’s a direct quote.”

He didn’t deny it. Just smiled. “You sure?”

“Yes!” you laughed, practically bouncing in your seat. “That’s Elizabeth. Talking about trusting your own judgment. I wrote a whole damn paper on it in high school!” You leaned forward, studying him like he was a puzzle you’d only just realized you wanted to solve. “How do you know that quote?”

“Maybe I just appreciate the classics,” he said, trying for nonchalance—but the faint flush rising in his cheeks betrayed him.

You squinted at him. “How many times have you read it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve lost track.”

His flush deepened, blooming up his cheeks now, and you couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your lips.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You so are.”

“It’s good,” he defended, a little sheepishly. “Austen didn’t just write about romance. She wrote about perception. Power. How we lie to ourselves and convince ourselves we’re right—until someone challenges us.”

You tilted your head, watching him with new eyes—seeing a side of him that didn’t quite fit the arrogant bad boy persona you’d so easily pinned him with. Maybe he was right. Maybe you had been too quick to assume. He hadn’t exactly made the best first impression, sure—but you hadn’t given him much of a chance to prove otherwise, either. The truth was, you’d both misjudged each other. Different shades of the same mistake.

“It’s not just Darcy and Elizabeth dancing around their feelings,” he went on. “It’s how pride isolates you. How prejudice can ruin things before they even begin. It’s about waking up to your own flaws and doing something about them.”

“Wow,” you murmured, genuinely impressed. A smile tugged at your lips. “Okay. That was… borderline profound.”

He chuckled, looking a little self-conscious. “I read it when I was younger. Thought I was a Darcy type.” He paused, then added dryly, “Turns out I was more of a Lydia.”

You choked on your drink. “Lydia?!”

“Metaphorically,” he said, raising his hands. “Reckless. Stubborn. Thought I knew everything and didn’t need anyone.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “But don’t worry, I’ll still be the Darcy to your Elizabeth.”

“That is so cheesy.” You giggled. “I still can’t wrap my head around the face that you’re a closet Austen fan.”

“Don’t go telling people,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Too late,” you teased. “I’m never letting this go.” A smile lingered on your lips as you shook your head in disbelief. “And here I thought you were all leather jackets and terrible flirting.”

Jason leaned in, forearms braced on the table, eyes glinting. “Maybe I just needed the right Elizabeth Bennet to call me out.”

You raised your cup, matching the spark in his gaze. “You’ve got a long way to go, Mr. Darcy.”

His smirk deepened. “Challenge accepted.”

Now that you weren’t arguing or making assumptions about each other, the date had gone… surprisingly well.

More than well, actually.

You found yourself genuinely enjoying Jason’s company—his sharp wit, his unexpected depth, and the fact that, beneath the leather and bravado, he was a total literary nerd. Not only could he keep up when you started debating themes and structure, he actually challenged you. Matched your pace with insight and humor.

It reminded you—just a little—of how Dick had been able to keep up when you started rambling about science. The way he hadn’t just nodded along, but asked questions. Listened.

You tried not to think about that. Tried not to dwell on the small, unwelcome flutter of disappointment still lingering in your chest over the fact that he hadn’t texted you back. Maybe he got busy. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You brushed it off and pulled your focus back to Jason, who, to his credit, hadn’t given you a single reason to walk away again.

What were the odds, anyway? Two gorgeous, intelligent men—both with sharp minds and devastating smiles—taking you out in the span of a few days. 

You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until you glanced outside. The streetlights had flickered on. Gotham was slipping into night—where the real chaos lived. The two of you had been talking for far longer than an hour, and while your brain wanted to stay planted in that booth, you’d learned your lesson.

You stood reluctantly, gathering your things as the last traces of sunlight slipped out of Gotham’s skyline. Juan glanced up from where he was wiping down the counter and sent you a knowing grin.

“Can I expect no more order for one?”

You glanced toward the door, where Jason was already there, holding it open with one hand, waiting. Then back to Juan, smirking. “We’ll see.”

Juan chuckled softly. “He’s good man, Doctora.”

You smiled, warmth creeping into your chest. “Yeah,” you said, eyes drifting back to the door. “I think he really is.”

Outside, the air was cooler now but neither of you seemed to mind, wanting to drag out the moment for just a few more minutes.

Jason paused beside you on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets. “So,” he asked, voice casual but eyes watching you closely, “what’s the verdict?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a smile. “The verdict is… I actually had a lot of fun. And I wouldn’t mind doing this again.”

Something that looked suspiciously like relief flickered across his face before settling into a crooked, satisfied grin. “And here I thought I might have to crash another one of your lectures.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You were insane for doing that.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “Worked, didn’t it? Got me a date with you.”

You grinned, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.

The two of you exchanged numbers and say your goodbyes. Jason offered one last wink before turning and disappearing into the crowd like he belonged to the night.

You made it home in one piece—miraculously not mugged or emotionally spiraling—kicked off your shoes, and flopped onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. Then you checked your phone.

One unread message.

Your eyes widened as you saw the name on the screen.

Dick Grayson

Hey, sorry I haven’t texted sooner. Got caught up with an emergency. Let me know when you’re free for that second date.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. Shit. You were so screwed.

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Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02

[poppitron360]

This is so true and it’s one of the reasons why I hated Leo’s writing in Trials of Apollo. He literally died and came back to life and all we get as a consequence is a few lousy jokes and a really uncomfortable scene where a bunch of his friends line up to beat him up and it’s played for laughs.

From a reader engagement standpoint this doesn’t make sense. Leo’s death was supposed to be the climax of those entire five books, and was hugely built up to, and should have been the most significant moment for his character- and literally nothing substantial happens as a consequence, aside from “yay we defeated the Big Bad”. It just doesn’t feel like he really sacrificed anything, and so the moment holds a lot less weight. A way to get around this? Give him trauma! That way it feels like one of the biggest moments in five books of writing actually had a lasting effect on the characters, and makes Leo seem a lot more compelling since he did this brave thing and saved everyone despite the risks, because Rick actually needs to do the work to convince us it was risky at all.

Now I know it’s part of Leo’s character to keep it all inside of him and hide how much it hurts and since TOA is not from his POV it could be difficult- but not impossible. There are several moments in the Dark Prophecy when this could’ve been shown. Leo literally runs around shirtless for the first few chapters (another weird writing choice, mind you) and there’s no mention of any physical scarring at all. When Apollo and Leo share a room, you could’ve had him have a nightmare or something and wake up, and in fact one of the lessons Apollo learns in that book is about sacrificing yourself for your friends, and Leo would’ve been a great person to have a discussion with about that. I haven’t read that book in a long time but I’m sure there were other moments it could be included.

This is also why I love any headcanons where Leo loses a body part/becomes disabled in any way as a result of literally being exploded. It shows some physical repercussions and means he at least sacrificed something if not his life. Also it can make for some cool gadgets being featured. I personally like to write him with at least mild tinnitus because it shows some damage has been done without affecting fanfic plot too much.

Did we just gloss over the fact that Leo was canonically abused as a child??

[gf2bellamy]

part two: confirmation synchronicity

— ★ what terrifies spencer isn’t the unknown but the known—how effortlessly you’ve loved him, how long he’s loved you back without saying a word.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing !

masterlist - part one ✦ part three

Spencer was scared.

Not the kind of fear he knew from the field. Not the sharp, adrenaline-fueled alertness that came with chasing killers or walking into an unknown crime scene.

This was different.

The fear clung to him like static - irrational, persistent, humiliating in its intensity. Spencer Reid had stared down the barrels of guns, negotiated with serial killers, walked through nightmares made flesh. 

Yet nothing had ever terrified him quite like this: the irrevocable knowledge that he'd fallen helplessly in love with his best friend.

The realization had kept him awake all night, his mind cycling through memories - every shared smile, every casual touch, every moment he'd been too oblivious to recognize as love.

By dawn, the need to see you had become a physical ache, a compulsion stronger than logic.

Which explained why he now stood at your door at 7:23 AM, hair still damp from his rushed shower, heart hammering against his ribs as you blinked up at him in surprise.

"Spence!" Your smile was immediate, effortless, the same bright expression that had become his personal gravitational pull.

"Hi, hello," you added, stepping back to usher him in. "What a surprise."

"Hope that's okay," he managed, fingers fumbling with his shoelaces. His voice sounded strange to his own ears - too high, too tight.

"Sure thing," you said, closing the door behind him.

He paused, staring down at the floor by the entrance. You’d left a space for him—right next to your shoes, like you always did. A spot you never let anyone else take. You knew he liked to keep his shoes by the door so he wouldn’t track dirt inside. So you made space.

You always made space for him. And it hit him again—gentler this time, but just as profound. How easily, how naturally, you’d carved him into your life.

You were studying him now, head tilted.

"Hello?" You waved a hand playfully in front of his face, smiling softly. "You okay there?"

Spencer's breath caught. The morning light caught in your eyes just so, and suddenly he understood with crystalline clarity why poets compared love to drowning.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he lied, voice cracking on the last syllable. His fingers twitched at his sides with the unbearable need to reach for you, to confess everything, to risk the most important thing in his life on the chance you might feel it too - that impossible, miraculous synchronicity.

The words burned behind his teeth: I think I'm in love with you.

But he just stood there, not saying anything, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure, memorizing the way your sleep-rumpled hair caught the light.

You turned toward the kitchen —your fingers barely brushing his elbow, just enough to guide him, as if you’d mapped every inch of his personal space long ago.

“Coffee?” you called over your shoulder. Spencer nodded, as if he could ever say no to coffee ( or you ).

The cupboard door creaked as you pulled out his cup—the chipped blue one with the uneven glaze that he always used at your place. Not because it was the closest or the most convenient, but because at some point, without discussion, it had simply become his.

Spencer stared at it, something tightening in his chest, before his gaze drifted back to you.

To the sleep-mussed hair curling at your temples.

To the faint freckle just below your right ear he’d counted during boring briefings.

To the shirt—that soft, worn-in gray one with the stretched neckline.

He still remembered the first time he saw you in it. It had been after a particularly brutal case, one that left his hands shaking long after the jet landed. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at you, but you’d known. You’d always known.

“Come over,” you’d said, simple as that.

He’d hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the weight of wanting it too much had terrified him even then.

But you’d smiled—small and sure—and that was that.

“Get comfortable,” you’d told him, disappearing into your bedroom to change out of your work blouse. He remembered how the gray shirt hung a little loose on you, how the sleeves kept falling and how you didn’t bother fixing them. He remembered sitting on your couch with a blanket thrown over both of you, talking in half-sentences and full silences until the weight of the case finally began to lift off his shoulders.

"Spence?" Your voice was soft as you interrupted his thoughts.

Of course you'd noticed—you always did. The way his fingers trembled. The distracted flicker of his gaze. The uncharacteristic disarray of his clothes.

His head snapped up at your call, eyes wide. "Hm?"

The cup met the counter with a dull clink as you abandoned it, crossing the space between you in two strides. Up close, the evidence of his hurry was even more apparent—his vest sat crooked, the buttons misaligned, his hair still damp at the ends from a rushed shower.

"You're worrying me," you murmured, hands already moving to straighten the fabric at his waist before he could protest. "I asked if you were okay."

Spencer's breath hitched as your fingers brushed the thin cotton of his vest. The touch was casual, familiar—the kind of unthinking intimacy you'd shared a hundred times before—but now it sent electricity crackling up his spine. His lashes fluttered shut for a brief, treacherous moment, memorizing the warmth of your palms through the material.

"I—yes, uhm." The words stuck in his throat like honey. He forced his hands to cover yours, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Your skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers. "Just had a weird night."

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with those eyes—the ones that saw too much, knew too well. The morning light caught the flecks of gold in them, and Spencer realized with dizzying clarity that your hands were still resting against his ribs, your thumbs unconsciously stroking small circles into the fabric.

Waiting. Always waiting for him.

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your expression. “You want to talk about it?”

"No, it's fine," he murmured, his hands burning where they'd touched yours. He shoved them into his pockets before they could betray him further.

"Okay." You smiled—that easy, sunlit smile that made his ribs ache—and turned back to the counter, pouring coffee into his waiting cup.

"Be careful, it's hot," you warned as you handed it to him.

Spencer blinked down at the steam curling from the rim. "You added—"

"Cinnamon syrup." You grinned, already knowing his question before he could finish it. "Yes, sweetness is a must, Spencer." You shook your head in mock exasperation before settling onto one of the high chairs at your kitchen island.

He sat closer than necessary, his knee pressing against yours beneath the table before he could stop himself.

Then you were talking—really talking—the way you always did.

You filled the room with laughter and warmth as you chatted about office gossip. You were animated, expressive, and quick-witted—spinning wild theories about who was secretly dating who, and who was definitely hiding something in their desk drawers.

Spencer, naturally, confirmed half your suspicions with unintentionally deadpan evidence. Like “I saw them having lunch together twice this week” or “Actually, he mentioned she had a cat named Whiskers. Nobody just shares pet names with coworkers they don’t like.”

You had a gift for sensing things. Spencer remembered everything.

Together, it made for oddly effective detective work—at least when it came to inter-office drama.

It was normal. Perfectly, painfully normal. Just like before his world had tilted on its axis last night.

Except now, he couldn't stop touching you.

His knee remained firmly against yours. His fingers brushed your wrist when you gestured too widely with your hands. Once, when you leaned forward to emphasize a point, he caught himself reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before jerking back at the last second.

It was a craving—an insatiable, terrifying need to memorize you through touch. To prove to himself that you were real, that this fragile thing between you hadn't shattered just because he'd finally named it.

And when you didn't pull away—when you never pulled away—something warm and hopeful unfurled in his chest.

At least his brain still functioned well enough to hold a conversation while memorizing the way your lips curled around the rim of your coffee cup.

"So, should we go?" you asked.

Spencer blinked. Apparently, the multitasking wasn't working as seamlessly as he'd thought.

"Huh?"

Your eyebrows knitted together—just slightly—and the urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb was so visceral his fingers twitched against his thigh. He clenched them into a fist.

"Garcia's inviting us to brunch," you said, shaking your phone in his direction. The screen displayed a string of emoji-laden texts that could only be Penelope's handiwork. "Do you feel like going?"

The question was weighted, your tone deliberately light. You were giving him an out, sensing—always sensing—that something was off. It was a simple question, but you didn’t ask it simply.

He could hear the subtext—Are you okay? Do you need something? Do you want to talk?—all packed quietly into that one casual sentence.

"Where?" He stalled, draining the last of his coffee. The cinnamon sweetness lingered on his tongue.

"That place right around the corner." You were already moving, collecting both cups. "Garcia said she and Morgan are close by."

When you turned toward the sink, Spencer found himself standing closer than intended—close enough to catch the familiar scent of your shampoo, close enough that if he reached out—

You glanced over your shoulder, momentarily startled by his proximity but saying nothing. 

And neither did he.

"Okay, yes. Sure." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "I'm... hungry."

The lie tasted bitter. He wasn't hungry for food.

He was hungry for this—for the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at his response, for the brush of your arm against his, for the unbearable, beautiful normalcy of being yours in every way that mattered.

Except one.

Except the one he actually craved.

"Guess you finished the cookies already?" You grinned, drying your hands on the dish towel before leaning back against the counter. The motion made your shirt ride up just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that Spencer pointedly ignored.

"Yes." A soft smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Thank you again."

He mirrored your posture, leaning against the opposite counter. The distance between you felt both infinite and insignificant.

In all the quiet chaos of the morning, Spencer didn't notice how your gaze traveled over him—lingering on the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders, the sleep-softened edges of his usually precise appearance. Up, down, then up again—your gaze lingering just a second too long on the scarf around his neck. A small, private smile curling at the corners of your mouth. 

"You're welcome." You ducked your head slightly. "Though I might've stolen one or two cookies while driving over." The admission came with a conspiratorial wink, as if sharing some delicious secret.

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Really?”

You nodded proudly. “I had to taste test. Quality control.”

He laughed softly, the sound barely there, but genuine. “I had a feeling.”

A beat of silence.

"I liked the quote," he blurted out suddenly, remembering the one you'd left on the note

Your eyes lit up. "Yeah, well, Algernon's right. You should listen to him." You pointed an accusatory finger his way, but the effect was ruined by the way your voice softened around the edges.

"Speaking of food..." Your gaze flicked to the clock behind him, then back to meet his eyes. "We should go."

Spencer nodded, pushing himself off the counter. “Right. Brunch.”

Brunch was... dangerous.

Spencer hadn't accounted for the booth—how it forced you hip-to-hip, your leg draped carelessly over his thigh like you belonged there. Every time you turned to speak, your breath ghosted across his cheek. Each accidental brush of fingers over shared syrup sent sparks skittering up his spine.

When you discovered the new pancake special—fluffy buttermilk stacked with caramelized bananas—your eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

"Oh my God, this is perfect," you sighed, shooting Garcia a grateful look for recommending it.

Morgan, tempted by your dramatic praise, reached across the table and casually snatched a piece of the pancake you had already cut for yourself.

"Hey!" You swatted at his wrist, but the damage was done. Morgan chewed with theatrical relish as you glared at the now-smaller stack.

"Mmm. Tasty."

You rolled your eyes, then turned to Spencer with that look—the one that always meant trouble. "You need to try this."

Spencer glanced at the diminished pancake, then at your expectant face. "No, no, it's fine—"

Too late. Your fork was already spearing a perfect bite, your other hand warm on his forearm as you gently turned him toward you. Around you, Garcia and Morgan's bickering faded to white noise.

Time slowed.

Spencer's lips parted obediently, the fork sliding free as he tasted brown sugar and something inherently you. He chewed deliberately slow, savoring the way your lashes fluttered when you leaned closer—close enough to count the flecks of gold in your eyes.

"Well?" You were practically in his lap now, oblivious to Garcia's suddenly interested silence. "Do you love it?"

Spencer swallowed hard.

I love you. The words burned his tongue.

Instead, he nodded, his knee pressing harder into yours beneath the table.

"Perfect," he whispered.

And for once, he wasn't talking about the food.

The absurdity wasn’t lost on him. That something as simple as you feeding him a bite of pancake could feel like a revelation. That after Morgan had stolen a piece, leaving your portion halved, you’d still offered him the sweetest corner—always the best part—without hesitation.

And he’d let you.

Spencer Reid, who calculated microbial growth rates on restaurant cutlery, who ordered the same three meals on rotation to minimize variables, had parted his lips without a second thought when you pressed the fork to them.

Confirmation.

The rest of brunch passed in a haze of accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all—your pinky brushing his when reaching for the syrup, your thigh staying pressed to his long after the booth’s confines excused it. Even the drive home blurred at the edges, his mind too full of you to register street signs.

Then your apartment: the familiar creak of your couch as you draped your ankles over his lap, your socked feet absently nudging his thighs while you chatted about nothing and everything. He should’ve been cataloging the way your laughter filled the room, memorizing the cadence of your voice.

Instead, all he could think was: This is what love feels like.

The hug goodbye lasted three seconds too long. You didn’t pull away—of course you didn’t—just settled deeper into his chest like you belonged there. Who were you to deny Spencer Reid anything? Who was anyone?

Now, standing in the silence of his apartment for the second night in a row, the truth settled over him with terrifying clarity:

This wasn’t a hypothesis.

It wasn’t a fleeting emotion to be analyzed and filed away.

The evidence was irrefutable, the conclusion inescapable. Every touch, every glance, every selfless act—they weren’t just data points. They were proof.

And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had no idea what to do with an answer.

[prcttyfairies]

CRAZY IN LOVE: elijah 'smoke' moore & elias 'stack' moore fic

MINORS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT YOU WILL GET BLOCKED

SYNOPSIS: 🌑🩸   cicely james was one of the few innocence that still existed, her mind fighting the corruption that came along with her fathers drunken abuse that he inflicted on her out of his own spite. and she couldn’t say meeting the smoke-stack twins had made it worse because if so bad then why did it feel so good loving them. warnings were given by few, but ignored—--their adoration of her and the feeling of safety they stored within her leaving her to block out their advice. but as secrets are revealed, those they withheld from her for their own reasonings that made no sense to her at all, her heart had broken. and like any once innocent mind, suffering through their first heartbreak she kicked into fight or flight mode.

years passed since cicely suffered at the mistake of giving the twins her heart. unfortunately a heart that they still grasped ahold of. cicely james returns back to the mississippi delta just to discover that they had done the same. her plan was to ignore them, to do what she needed to do and protect herself. yet, they were never men that backed down easily.

Table of Contents

WORD COUNT: 6.5K

CHAPTER TWO:

Mississippi Delta ━━━ 1921

Her silence they took as a fear. A lack of response to their invitation. Her eyes said, "Yes gentleman, that sounds like a nice evenin'," but her mouth was getting ready to reject their offer of a good time, just to avoid whatever punishment would be waiting for her at home if she did accept. The twins didn't want that.

They rarely showed interest in the same women, and if they had it was nothing but a glance or a flirtatious conversation that never lasted long before they were on their way. Yet, something about Cicely James caught both of their attention. Possibly it was the way that she wasn't like most women. She didn't look at them with a need for their awareness of her presence. It seemed to be them fighting for her even just her eyes to focus on them, them falling back to the ground under her feet.

Stack took his tooth pick out of his mouth, glancing towards his brother before he spoke, "Well how 'bout dis Miss Cicely, we give ya a ride home and you think 'bout it," he requested believing the answer she was getting ready to give them wasn't going to do well for them. A girl like her deserved a good time, and a daddy like that man, Otis James, wasn't going to keep it from her.

The twins knew who he was. When they heard the name James, it wasn't very hard to put two and two together. They had seen him a few times, gambling whatever money he made away; winning some, losing most. A man who was ready to speak the words of luck out loud but bowed his head in shame with an excuse slipping from his lips about how god just wasn't on his side right now. As if any god would be on the side of a drunk who clearly beats on his daughter, and whoever resided in the house with her.

Cicely shook her head, "I couldn't possibly ask that of ya," she instantly replies head still low, adjusting the groceries in her hands.

"It's a good thing you ain't askin', sweetheart, we offerin'" Smoke remarks, taking a step forward, "Now come on, hand over dim groceries, and let 'em help ya in the car," he gestured to Stack with his head, who was grinning like a mad man.

Cicely reluctantly allowed Smoke to take the groceries from her, as Stack offered his arm like a gentleman. Again a blush found its way on her face, gently placing her small hand in the arch of his elbow, allowing him to guide her to their car that wasn't that far from where they stood, Smoke following them.

Stack stopped her in front of the passenger seat door, opening it for her, "N-No, it's okay, I can sit in the back," she pointed.

He instantly refused, "oh, no no, a lady sit in the front in this car, go on now," Stack moved his arm forward to guide her in front of the seat in which she reluctantly got in, her worn out flats touching the step that helped lift her in, Cicely settling in the seat.

Stack climbed in the back, while Smoke put the groceries next to him before he got in the front, starting up the car and the engine causing the machine to rumble under her. Her daddy had a car, but she wasn't in it often, attempting to avoid being alone with the man at all cost.

When he started driving the wind created by the accelerating speed that they were going at, blew her hair out of her face. This gave a good view of her features. A deep golden brown, the bruise on her cheekbone evident. Stack had set his eyes on her and boy was he mesmerized. A beauty like no other. Her lips full, a button nose, and eyes that could leave anyone entranced.

"Now," Stack began leaning forward a bit, "Where you from, Miss. Cicely? Cause I'd remember if you was from Clarksdale, I'd think a beautiful lady such as yaself woulda been hard to forget." his compliments Cicely believed she would never be able to get used to, catching her off guard.

It took her a moment to compose herself, trying to contain her smile, "My daddy is from texas, moved here when he was still young, mama from Clarksdale though," she voiced, this being the longest reply she had given them.

Stack looked at Cicely for a moment to ask, "And who is yo' mama?"

"Seraphine James, sir━━━maiden name, King."

The twins looked at each other in shock, overturning their faces as they looked back at them, "Seraphine King is yo mama?" they both asked in sync, the same facial expression and all.

It almost made Cicely want to laugh, however, her curiosity overpowered that reaction out of her, "Y'all know my mama?" she responds, answering a question with a question.

Cicely watched closely, waiting for one of them to say something. She witnessed the way Smokes hand clenched around the steering wheel, "She was a friend of our mamas," Stack responds, yet his demeanor didn't seem to change like Smokes had.

It gave her the urge to speak up once more, "I━I'm sorry, I ain't mean to upset you," she apologized to both of them, but mostly to Smoke.

Her apology had caused Stack to laugh, and Smoke to shake his head in assurance, "You ain't upset me, Angel." he didn't look at her for long. Eyes focused back up ahead at the road. He couldn't do it, the bruise on her face, and cut on her lip only angered him a bit more now that he could see them clearly without her hair resting in her face.

A friend of his mothers, going through the same thing his mother had been through along with his brother and him. It frustrated him seeing the familiar cycle.

"And do you gotta brotha?" Stack found himself questioning putting two and two together for himself.

She nodded, "Yeah, Clayton James."

In sync the twins uttered, "Ace," leaving Cicely confused at what they meant, "Yo brotha, we know him. Knew him when we was kids, met him again in the trenches, work with him on the farm. He has everyone callin' him Ace." Smoke explained.

Cicely was confused at that, "Why Ace?" she finds herself asking them.

"Because ya brotha knows how to strike out, and take a man for all his money. Can tell a man for his poker face even in the slightest twitch of a brow," Stack found himself laughing wickedly, "If there is one man I know who will be able to see if someone lyin', it's him."

She didn't know this about her brother. She knew he left the house in order to escape their father, leaving his sisters there. Cicely knew she couldn't be mad at him for wanting to escape knowing she'd do the same thing if she didn't care so much. Yet she had and that was preventing her from accepting their invitation to join them tonight.

"Then why don't I remember y'all?" Cicely found herself questioning, feeling as though she too would've remembered them.

Smoke glanced towards her, "You had been six the last time ya mama brought you around, guess ya memories just didn't linger for that long." he simply expressed, giving her a response that she couldn't help but settle for. They hadn’t even remembered, she had grown so much over the years.

Cicely pointed in the direction of a back road, Smoke following where she gestured. Trees followed them for a short time before they cleared and a somewhat large house appeared, three horses entrapped by wooden planks that surrounded them, chicken's scattered over the field, along with a few goats. Cicely pointed towards that one.

Outside, a girl stood. Hair down in similar ways to Cicely, surrounding her face. The sound of a rumbling engine had caused her to glance up. When she squinted her eyes to adjust her vision a bit she made out the silhouette. Instantly her mouth opened;

"Mama! Cicely here! She inna motor!"

At the sound of her little sister, Lily-Mae's loud shout, Cicely closed her eyes and exhaled wishing her sister was in the house like she often always was. It probably would've been easier to get inside without her sister's alerts, but she couldn't say her mom wouldn't have heard the engine herself.

When Smoke brought the car to a halt in front of her house, she moved to open the door only for a hand to be placed on her shoulder. Stack shook his head at her as he climbed out the back seat. He opened the door for her. She gave him a closed mouth smile as she murmured her appreciation at his actions seeming to be proving Ms. Claudette wrong about him not being a gentleman.

She hadn't realized that Smoke had gotten out as well, until she seen him circling around the car with the groceries in his hand. Cicely moved to grab them only for him to pull them further to his side out of her reach, and instead placing his free hand at the small of her back as he guided her towards her home.

She felt chills run down her back at his touch that wasn't directly on her skin but it still managed to affect her. She couldn't tell if it was in a good way or a bad one.

The screen door opened, her mama stepping out of the house, apron around her waist, rag in hand, hair pulled back. Just like Cicely she sported a bruise on her cheek, and had bags that clearly matched the exhaustion in her eyes.

Lily-Mae walked out with her mama, hiding behind the older women curiously peeking her eyes out at the mysterious men her sister showed up with.

"Everything alright, gentleman?" Seraphine James questioned, worried, feeling her eyes, "My Cicely ain't done nothing wrong, did she?" she quickly added, afraid that her daughter had gotten into some trouble that she possibly couldn't get her out of.

Smoke shook his head, "Oh, no Ma'am, we just offering yo Cicely a ride home. Seemed like a long walk for her, thought she might wanna rest her legs," he calmly assured her.

Cicely still found herself in between them, comfortable, Smoke's hand still resting on her back, "And who might you boys be, my Cicely ain't eva told me about y'all from when she goes into town." she says, very unfamiliar with them although there was something about them that held some familiarity.

"We had just come across her today, in Ms. Claudette's shop," he informed her, "I'm Elias Moore, but folks call me Stack," he introduced himself with the sly smile he seemed to always have.

Seraphine looked at him, the name hitting her with recognition as she shifted her gaze to the other one, "And I'm Elijah Moore, people know me as Smoke."

The older woman glanced between them, surprise clear on her face, "You two are Bethanne's boys," she says when it becomes clear to her, knowing what was so familiar about them. They had her eyes, "I ain't seen y'all since you were young ones, eleven years old," she recalls the memory, coming back to Mississippi to visit her mother. Cicely could see her mothers emotions getting to her, "y'all all grown up now."

Recollections passed over her. Seraphine remembered the day the boys were born. She was pregnant with her own son at the time, as she cradled Elijah first before she was handed Elias after. Deep inside her soul she knew that they were going to grow to be brave men. She was glad to see that they were alive and well and not buried six feet under. Not at the hands of Joseph Moore and not from the retaliation of an enemy in battle.

The woman cleared her throat, sniffling as she tried to gain some control of her emotions remembering the passing of her dear friend and how much it had broken her heart, and destroyed the boys standing before her, "Well, you two come on in, let me get y'all something to drank. It's least I can do for not making my baby walk," she gestured towards the house.

Silently, they accepted her invitation into the house, Cicely taking the lead giving her sister a gentle push when she realized she hadn't followed her mother inside as well. Inside it was neat. Not anything on the floor that they could trip or step over. the wooden floorboards steady as their heavy bodies stepped on it.

Smoke and Stack followed them inside, Cicely guiding them in the direction of the kitchen where a wooden table sat in the center, a plaid cover with pink roses covering it. Seraphine poured lemonade into glasses out of a steel pitcher, before she set them down on the table where the twins instinctively sat, Smoke placing the groceries on top of the table.

Cicely moved to remove some of the items she got, along with the fabric, "Ms. Claudette wanted me to give you these," Seraphine grazed her thumb over the cloth feeling the texture of it, "I guess this gives ya an excuse to go into town, show your appreciation," Cicely suggested knowing her mother had been fighting to leave the house. the looks of those who knew of her situation she couldn't bare to be on the receiving end of.

Seraphine just smiled at her daughter, leaning in a placing a kiss on her cheek as she turned around to show the two gentleman at the table her attention. But before she could get a word out, Lily-Mae spoke up, "Do one of y'all wanna marry my sista?" Cicely's eyes widened, Smoke choking on the lemonade he had taken a drink of, and Stack smirked.

"Lily!" Cicely was getting ready to scold her sister for her words.

The youngest james shrugged her shoulders, "What? They both lookin' at you like you some kind of Angel or somethin'" she points. Lily-Mae was often the one that paid closer attention then most had. They believed for a girl as young as she was, she wasn't one to catch onto things but with the lifestyle she had she had to pay close attention to detail.

"Shhh," Stack placed his finger in front of his mouth, "You gotta keep it a secret." he winked at Lily-Mae who blushed at him, smiling at Cicely. The girl only shook her head, turning her head away and fighting her smile.

Seraphine looked between the boys, "Is that what y'all want? One of y'all want my Cicely?" No man had ever come around asking for Cicely. It could be her fear of men, only trusting her brother. And the fact that she never left the house other to run into town every now and then.

The spoken of girl, embarrassed by their insinuations, moved to protest only to be cut off by Stack, "We actually wanted to invite Cicely to a speakeasy tonight, but we wanted to ask yo permission first," his eyes moved towards Cicely who stood there, eyes back on the floor, avoiding eye contact, "She seemed a lil hesitant to accept our invitation," knowing there was something he could say that would get her to look at him he added, "Now the marrying we can discuss sometime next week," Cicely snapped her head up, just to be met with his mischievous smile, flashing his gold.

Seraphine couldn't help but smile, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter to see her fighting her own smile, "Well, Cicely is a woman of her own, she can answer that question for you."

Taken aback by her mothers response she sat up, "But Mama, you need someone to help you with dinner, and the horses," Seraphine turned towards her eldest daughter, placing her hands on her shoulders to give her assurance, "And daddy━━━" she started, her heart slightly racing with the fear that if she had stepped foot out of this house with the lack of permission from her father to go out not one man, but two, she didn't know just how bad the beating this time was gonna be.

At the mention of her father, and the slight spike in her tone, both Smoke and Stack tense up. She didn't deserve to be controlled by fear the way she was. And from what they could see, her mother wasn't going to allow it for much longer.

"━━━now Cicely James you are eighteen and old enough to make yo own decisions, so make this one." Seraphine could see the fear and panic in her daughter's eyes, "I'll talk to yo daddy, and I'll let him know that some very nice men wanted to take his daughter out to enjoy a lovely and safe━━━" she looked in between both Stack and Smoke with a stern look, "evening out and that you deserve it. You clean up after these animals; take the horses on their walk, clean out the battery cage, and do the laundry." she listed brushing a strand of her hair out of her face, "all while helpin' me look after this one," Seraphine gestured towards Lily-Mae who made a face as if she was offended. She then turned her focus back on the twins, "Now, as long as you promise to take care of my baby, Cicely, then I don't have a problem with her going out tonight."

"Of course, Mrs. Seraphine."

"No doubt about it."

Both Smoke and Stack gave her their word, but Seraphine wasn't done. She pointed her finger at Stack, "And you, goin' an makin' promises, you betta keep it." she wrapped her arm around Cicely's shoulder pulling her in close to her side, "My baby need someone who gon' protect her, love her. Now if that ain't you then I'm have to start lookin' to Mr. Quiet and Mysterious over here," she gestured to Smoke.

Stack quickly defended himself, "Now, don't you worry about that Mrs. Seraphine, I'm a man who keeps my word." again flashing that charming smile towards Cicely who shielded her face in her mama's shoulder.

"Well, what about me?" Lily-Mae chimed in, waving her hands to grasp ahold of everyone's attention, "Can I go to the speakeasy too?"

Seraphine couldn't help but laugh, unraveling her arm from Cicely's shoulder and walking over to her youngest, "Girl, speakeasy's are for grown folk, and you are not one of those. Not quiet yet. I still got some time with you." she says, grabbing ahold of Lily-Mae's face and placing a kiss on her cheek.

"But tomorrow," Stack started off, "I'm takin' my lil cousin out to get some ice cream, I can swing by and pick ya up, if it ain't a problem wit ya mama," he pointed respectfully to the women.

Lily looked up at her mother, giving her the puppy dog eyes, puckering out her bottom of her lip to sell it, "Alright," Seraphine gave in, causing Lily to cheer and offer a fist bump to Stack, which he accepted, "But if yo lil cousin is as sly as y'all then I just might have to have a talk wit him."

Smoke lifted his hand, "No, ma'am, he is an as innocent as that girl there," he pointed towards Lily.

Cicely chuckled to herself, "Oh she ain't innocent, give him a warning."

Laughter filled the kitchen, other then Lily who stuck her tongue out at her sister. For the first time the twins seeing Cicely and her wide smile taking advantage of that moment since she wasn't looking down and avoid their eyes. Her head was held up, eyes glowing and her mind must've no longer been conjuring up the bad scenarios of her fathers reaction to going out with them tonight.

It was when they heard the door open the laughing slowly ceased, "Mama! Who car dat out━━━" the familiar voice of one Clayton James appeared, causing everyone to glanced in the direction he was now standing in, green eyes that only he was blessed with out of the family of five, but received from his mama's grandfather, trailing over the room. They settled on Stack and Smoke, "What y'all doin' here?" he questioned them, confusion on his face.

"What's up, mane?" Stack got up greeting him, shaking his hand and pulling him to a hug, bumping his shoulder with his. Clay tapped his back, but the confusion didn't wear off.

"They gave Cicely a ride home from town, wanted to let her legs rest." Seraphine informed her son.

His placed his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side, "And why was she walking into town in the first place?" There was times before he told his mother that he didn't want Cicely walking into town.

Cicely shrugged, "Mama needed groceries for suppa, she wanted to make it before Daddy got home," she informed him honestly.

Clay released a groan, "Mama, I told you I don't like Cicely walkin' out into town on her own. Otis ain't here yet, I could've gone or went with her."

Seraphine rolled her eyes, "Well who knows when they would've been," she retorts back to him, "Don't act like you so reliable because just some time last you was gone for three days time," Clay looked down with guilty biting his lip, knowing where he had gone off too. Smoke and Stack knew to, that's why they were looking at him, "And I ain't gonna tell you again, that's ya Daddy." Seraphine reminded him, it not being the first nor would it be the last that Clay spat out his fathers name.

He slowly lifted his head with a hard glare, "Well remind me when the muthafucka earned the father title," he all but seethed out.

Cicely watched as her mama was getting ready to round the table, to step up to him, something she ain't even done to her husband. Probably because she know Clay wouldn't think of laying a hand on her. But before she could reach him, Cicely stepped in front of them, intercepting the situation.

"Clay," she began, his eyes set on their mother before they slowly moved down to his sister, "can you help me take the horses to the barn?" Cicely asked him, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

He hesitated, opening his mouth ready to agree but Seraphine's voice erupted again, "Cicely you know you ain't got no time to take them horses to the barn, you've still gotta get ready for tonight." the woman slightly scolded her daughter.

Cicely released a huff, Clay looking in between the two, "Tonight? What's tonight?" he inquired.

Stack scratched the back of his neck, Cicely biting the inside of her cheek, and Smoke did what he often did, didn't react. It took Lily to break the building silence, "Stack and Smoke are takin' Cicely to a speakeasy." Lily confessed, leaving everyone to watch his reaction, "Then Stack said tomorrow he'd take me to get some Ice Cream." she added but, he didn't brush that last part off and focused on the first.

His face contorted into an expression that was unreadable to Cicely, "Y'all taken my sista to a speakeasy?" Smoke didn't answer, and Stack subtly nodded his head. Clay scoffed, instantly shaking his head, "No, she can't go."

Cicely leaned back on the counter, almost as if accepting her fate and her brother's decision. But her Mama wasn't having it, "And why in the hell not?" Seraphine snapped

Clay let out a humorless cackle, "Because Speakeasy's aren't for her, she too young for 'em." Cicely could tell he was looking for any excuse to give, to fight Seraphine on it.

Returning the laugh, Seraphine slapped the rag that was still on her shoulder down on the counter top, "And what? You get to go out doing god knows what with god knows who?" she narrowed her eyes as she retaliated next with, "Maybe Lil' Mary again."

Clay wasn't surprised how she knew this, all he had to do was look at his youngest sister who showed her guilt clearly. Cicely was the only one who didn't know, eyes snapping towards her brother expecting him to deny although he didn't.

Mary Boone. A white woman who tried to hang around colored folks with the excuse that her grandfather was half-black. Cicely could understand not wanting to see color, and all but others weren't as nice. Just because she didn't judge, doesn't mean others wouldn't have.

Clenching his jaw, Clay continued on at it, "So what you thinkin' Mama?" he took a step forward, not threatening way, but a way that came off as if he was trying to make his point clear," She gon' go out to meet a nice man to take her hand," he theorized, knowing that's what she as attempting at.

Cicely's eyes once again met the floorboards of her home, eyes zoned out as if she was trying to block out there arguing but couldn't. Smoke caught onto this.

"Or..." he trailed off as his features got hard, "She gon' meet a muthafucka who don't know how to keep his hands to himself." Clay snapped.

Having heard enough, her own emotions begin to grow uncontrollable. Pushing off, her footsteps stomped as she moved in between Stack and Clay's body's marching out of the kitchen towards the back door. Seraphine called after her but she ignored her.

The yelling continued on, Cicely finding herself outside guiding a horse to the barn so she could eat. It now got to the point where every time he came back home, Clay and their Mama were fighting. It was a constant, something shoved into their routine nowadays. She couldn't listen to it anymore.

It wasn't as if they were some happy family, but her mom, Clay and Lily were what she looked forward to in her day. They were her peace and with them falling apart, she felt like she was losing them other than Lily.

When Cicely came out to collect more Hay to put in the feeder only to come to a halt when she noticed Smoke entering the barn. She glanced down at him, taking in the wet dirt under their feet, "You might wanna go back inside, Mister, don't want ya shoes getting dirty." she warned him. This being an everyday thing for Cicely, she had switched her shoes out for boots.

Smoke shook his head, "I ain't worried about that," he relayed his eyes meeting Cicely. She couldn't see it for herself, wouldn't be able to unless he uttered the fact that he truthfully was worried about her, "They argue like that all the time?" he wondered knowing he didn't get to that point in age where he could argue with his mama, but he did argue with Mrs. Boone from time to time.

She exhaled heavily, thick glove covered hands placing the hay in the bin for Reign, who nudged her with her nose as a thank you. Cicely couldn't fight her smile at the action, "If Clay pushes mama's button's enough." Cicely answered, removing her gloves. She dug the tip of her boot into the gown, "Which is most of the time, so yeah." Another thought had come to her mind, one she couldn't escape, "I think he gettin' ready to leave anyway." she found herself confessing.

Smoke's brows came down, frowning, "What makes you say that?" he wanted to know, despite the talks he and Clay have had, and he had talked of leaving. He just never actually did it. Smoke understood why now.

It took her a second to find her words, searching for a good enough response. Not for him, but for herself. How could she tell?

"The look in his eyes," she started, her own gaze drifting away from his, "He slowly slippin'," Cicely recalled the moment's he wouldn't come home, but just show up days later, "He'll be gone a few days, but always comes back." she wanted to assure herself that he always would but, "Mama thinkin' one day he won't."

A her whispered, that he almost didn't catch, he slid his hands into his pocket, "And what do you think?" he asked her, him being the first person, other then her Mama from time to time, to ask her what she thought.

Cicely thought a lot most of the time. Structures being built in her head of how her life was going to go. They all relied on multiple factors that relied on the answers to these questions; Who walks into her life? Who walks out? Is he gonna hit her today? Is he not? Will she escape someday? Will she be trapped forever? Details mattered the most and it was hard to get the right details with those unanswered questions on her day to day life. She was always thinking, wondering.

When she goes to answer, a bang comes from the stall in the back, causing Smoke to jump and reach for his gun, hands shaking. Cicely eyes widened, holding up her hand, "It's okay, it's alright," she tried to assure him, "It's just Angus." she relays. The mind of a soldier was what he had. Any loud bangs, or yell's, maybe even cries could set him in a trance that let him think he was back in those trenches. He gave her a look that seemed to tell her that he needed more than that, "A wild horse my Daddy found a few years ago. He just hears my voice and wants attention." her eyes fell to his hand still on the handle of his gun, "He's spoiled, mostly by me."

Cicely realizing it was going to take more than her words to give him that assurance she made a move that she witnessed her mother do to Clay a few times. She stepped forward, hand still up as she closed the distance between them. Her hand reached for the one that was on the handle of his gun still, easing her palm over the back of his shaking one. She gave him the soft smile she often did, nodding her head as she slowly pulled him in the direction of Angus' stall.

"He don't bite, I promise." Cicely guaranteed as she pulled the latch of the door, gently pulling it open cautiously. She allowed her free hand that wasn't holding Smokes to go in first, hand falling on his hand as she gently caressed him, "He hasn't been ridden in a few days, probably getting agitated." she informed him as she guided them into his stall further, until Smoke was standing good distance in front of him, "Now, Angus," Cicely started off, speaking to the animal, "I know I ain't been in here in a while to check up on ya, but this here is my friend Smoke." he neighed in response, nudged Cicely with his big head, causing her to stumble slightly. Smoke's hands came to her waist to keep her from falling. She tried to ignore the feeling of warmth that spread through her body, instead distracting herself from it as she scolded Angus, "You can't be mean, or we ain't goin' for no ride." she treated. He sighed as she guided her hand over his head towards his mane.

Still careful, Smoke spoke, "He seems to listen to ya."

She couldn't help but smile at that, "Because I take my time with him. Can't rush a process, have to let him know in a certain way that he can trust you," Cicely swallowed heavily before her next words came out, "Daddy always said it's not always about whether you can trust him. It's about if they can trust you." she let out a giggle that lacked hilarity, "Ironic."

She allowed her mind to settle, separating herself from her pain and being in the moment. Cicely cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder at Smoke who evidently still had his hands on her waist.

"So," she began patting Angus' side, "You wanna go for a ride, Mr. Moore?" Cicely raised her brow in a challenging manner. Smoke was going to shake her head and reject but she smiled at him, "Oh come on, he ain't gonna do nothing, not as long as I'm on him, ain't that right?" Angus neighed, stopping his hooves into groans.

Cicely grabbed the reins that hung up in the barn, strapping them on him tightly, Smoke watching her close as she prepared him. When she finished her hands still gripped the reins tightly.

She gestured with her head for him to follow her, Smoke moving out of her way as she led him out of the stall and towards the exit of the barn with who she could only assume was the eldest twin, at her side just by the way he handled himself.

Before they could completely exit the barn Cicely looked towards Smoke, "Mind giving me a boost?" she asked him. He once again placed his hands on her waist, lifted her up and placed her on Angus' back. Cicely thought of her right leg on the opposite side, adjusting her dress. She often had pants on when she did this.

Cicely then gestured with her head for him to join her up on Angus. He hesitated, she could see it in his eyes, "You sure you got control of this 'ere horse?"

She giggled, Smoke finding himself appreciating a smile like Cicely's, "Three years I've had him, Smoke. I've got betta control of him than most." she promised him.

Smoke had an athletic build to him, placing his hands on Angus' back and using most of his strength to pull himself on top of him, quickly swinging his leg over. He adjusted himself closer to Cicely.

"Now as unmanly this position may feel, I want you to wrap your arms around my waist." she reached behind her, still holding the reins, as she grabbed his forearm pulling it forward and around her. He had done the same willingly with his other arm, grabbing his own hand, "Alright, here we go." she made a clicking noise with her mouth as she tapped Angus' side with her feet signaling for him to go.

He started off in a gallop, Cicely and Smoke's body bouncing every time Angus came back down to the ground. She took him where she could; around the farm avoiding the crops and a little ways to the front. Cicely could hear Smokes soft pants in her ear, and with how close her body was to his front despite the amount of articles of clothing he had on, she could feel his heartbeat. It was beating face, at a pace that made clear that he was nervous.

"Ya know you can talk to me? Distract yourself if need be?" she offered to him as they followed the same path all around.

It took him a moment, probably trying to gather his thoughts before he spoke, "You never answered my question?"

Cicely smirked, "And what question was that?" recalling but wanting him to repeat it.

"What do you think about Clay possibly leavin'?"

She pressed her lips together, pursuing them as she gave Angus another command causing him to shift into a simple walk, "I'm thinkin' the day my brotha leave," she pauses for a beat, reading herself to admit what she knew was goin' to be true, "I'm gon' be dead."

That surely caused Smoke's mind to drift away from being on the horse to know the fact that Cicely was expecting death already, "Don't talk like that." His voice was gruff, and stern but not in a way that intimidated her.

Instead allowing his words to effect her, to give her some form of clarity in the dark tunnel she was in, to make her feel safe she replied with, "It's the truth." she was calm when she spoke, voice not wavering as if she was about to burst into tears, nor could any anger be heard in her voice, "My daddy know deep down that if he kill me, Clay gon' kill him." she declared her truth, "He waitin' for Clay to give up."

They continued riding Angus for a little longer, doing laps on the same path she guided them on before she took him back to the barn. Smoke was the first to get off, then he helped Cicely down. She landed directly in front of him, huffing as she brushed her hair out of her face.

She was going to move but Smoke stopped her, "Do you know how to shoot a gun?" he found the query slipping his mouth.

"Daddy taught me young." Smoke gave her lip, despite his expressions be hard to read she could see he was question why a man who beats on his daughter would teach her how to shoot, "He wasn't always bad," Cicely admits with sorrowed filled eyes at the Daddy lost and who she had now, "Just when he came back from the war."

Smoke looked at her, knowing that he had lost a part of himself when he was there, "You think it was the war that took him." he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Cicely went to deny it only to stop herself knowing she was going to be lying if said she didn't believe it was the war, "Yes and no." She looked back down at the grown just for him to pull her attention back to him with his finger under her chin. She licked her lips as she said, "Mama's secret took him. A secret about me." she disclosed.

"What makes you think it was about you?"

Everyone had their reasons for beating on someone they claimed to love, Cicely just knew it was her because of one excuse, "'Cause I'm the one with the most scars." tears glossed over her eyes, mind going back to images in her head of her abused body, disgust filling her mind whenever looked at herself.

Smoke removed his finger from under her chin, grabbing the gun that was in his holster inside his jacket. Cicely took a cautious step back just for him to grab her hand, softly flipping it over and placing the handle of the pistol in her palm.

Cicely's hand slowly circled around it, "Next time he come for you," Smoke began his advice looking her dead in her eyes as he said, "Aim and shoot."

Her eyes drifted down to the weapon holding it tightly but yet feeling no power that people claimed it gave them, "I ain't got it in me to kill." Cicely confessed, a tear falling down her face.

Once more he changed her attention back to him to make sure she heard him loud and clear, "Everyone got it in 'em" his thumb drifted over where the tear had fallen, "Sometimes you just needed to be pushed hard enough."

AUTHORS NOTE: so this is what i got for y'all right now. i know it ainn't much but don't worry, i'm gonna give y'all a little more next chapter and this time daddy dearest pays a visit *gags*. but i hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it. i feel myself getting sick if i don't have a chapter posted by next sunday then you'll know the sickness definitely kicked my ass.

TAGGED: @childishgambinaax @wabi-sabi1090 @marley1773 @jackierose902109 @skywalker0809 @bluevenus19

[muntitled]

Boa

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're just a kid, caught in a gangster’s crosshairs. What happens when you don’t deliver like you should…

Warnings: Language, Dom!Seongje, Gangsterism, Bullied!Reader, Coercion, Bullying, Extortion, Mentions of Rape, Smut +18 (mdni), Dark fic, Dubious consent, Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Desperate Sex, Humiliation, Degradation

A/N: I'm not responsible for the media you consume. I wrote this for me so...

Ever since you've started working for him, you've learned to get extremely acquainted with the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir…” your voice is brittle as you try to make yourself heard in the suffocating internet cafe, “I'm short on delivery today..."

Hardwood. Tile. Linoleum. It's become all too familiar to you. The floor is all you see in his presence.

You never looked Seongje in the eyes unless he addresses you first. He likes that, you suspect.

It's kept you alive this long so you must be doing something right.

"I got assigned a kid to tutor and..." you clear your throat, not daring to make direct eye contact, choosing instead, to keep your eyes trained on the dirty, cold floor.

The internet cafe is the very last place you'd want to be on a Friday evening. You were caught right in between two challenging essay due dates- one for English and one for AP English. Both hung gravley over your head, threatening to set off your sympathetic nervous system and have you fainting from academic stress. Seeing him was the very last thing you needed.

"That tutoring time fucked with my system and-" despite all your achievements, despite the academic prestige and the boundless knowledge… in Seongje's presence you feel insignificant.

A bug he's letting scurry around for no other reason except his enjoyment. You didn't want to get stomped on. You saw what happened to the other kids under his thumb and it kept you up at night. All that blood. All the merciless sadism.

You aren't dumb enough to hope an exception would be made for you.

"I'm sorry,” you conclude, and for a second, you get no response. He plays his game. His friends remain silent.

That's all until he pushes the bridge of his glasses up further against his nose. A calm, quiet sigh leaves his lips.

“Before you started working for me, do you know what you were?" Seongje doesn't take his eyes off the screen. His fingers run deftly over the keys as he speaks to you without ever really acknowledging you, "You were in an alleyway, about to get raped by Eunjang scum."

"Yes, Seongje, I know-"

"And in return for my kindness, what did I ask of you?"

"FUCK- COVER ME BRO!" Your eye snaps up to the source of the loud and sudden burst of energy. Your frightened and pitiful eyes find a boy seated adjacent to Seongje and his goons. He's bent over his screen, clearly not a part of the group. Clearly far too young.

Your heart sinks when you realize Seongje's eyes are trained on the boy too.

"Ya…” Seongje raises his voice a decimal above the cacophony yet it has you flinching. “Too loud,” he says to the boy, “Didn’t anyone teach you shut up when adults are talking?” he asks monotonously to the boy- a child really- still mourning the loss of his avatar on the screen. He doesn't pay Seongje any mind.

Of course he doesn't. He's a kid.

How could he have known?

He came to an internet cafe to play a game with his friends.

It's the boy's innocence that hurts the most.

He doesn't know that the monsters under his bed are very real.

They walk where he walks.

They don't hide.

They move about freely.

Your heart makes like the titanic and sinks.

"Excuse me for a second." Seongje addresses you politely, finally giving you a fleeting glance before pushing himself out of his gamer chair. You see his entire row of friends (if that's what one could even refer to them as) remain unfazed as Seongje rounds the table to stand directly behind the young boy.

He’s bigger, far bigger as he pushes the rims of his glasses up, staring directly at you

"I know you're smart so you're probably aware that your fuck-up won't be tolerated-” he says to you, despite slithering his arm around the boys neck like a boa as he squeezes. Everyone keeps their eyes trained to their computers. Your fist curls at your side. You want to look away but you can't because you're speaking to Seongje. You wouldn't want to aggravate him further by showing him his mindlessly violence bothers you. So you try not to flinch.

You try not to let the casual violence scare you. How nonchalantly he speaks while an elementary school boy flails in his arms, begging to be released from the headlock making his lips turn blue

“You knew there'd be a punishment,” Seongje is still speaking to you. You hold your breathe in solidarity with the boy choking in his arms, “-for fucking up your delivery-” crimson blossoms onto the little boys face but Seongje keeps his eyes on you, appearing unfazed by the boy flailing like an animal in arms, "And yet you came anyway. That's the kinda work ethic, I like-” he smiles, “I like it alot-"

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he lets go of the boy. You finally breathe as well, watching as the kid slumps forward ingesting the air in horrid gasps.

Seongje bends forward, patting the boy on the back.

"No more interrupting when I speak, yeah?" Whether the boy was new to this particular internet cafe, it was unclear, but you hoped to whatever divine being that he wouldn't dare come back.

"So I'll let it slide-" He turns his attention back to you and you watch, still shaken up as Seongje leaves the little boy to make his way back to his side of the table. When he breezes past you he smells like nothing. Like his eyes, everything about him is empty.

"Thank you, Seongje-"

He nods before adding, "After you get on your knees." The goon sitting nearest to you, all the way at the end of the table, his fingers hover over the keys, and just like before, the room is rid of all air.

"Excuse me?”

He pulls out his chair for you, like some mimic of a perfect gentleman he opens his arm, gesturing you in.

"I want you on your knees, under the desk.” His words hang above you all. It has tears threatening to spill. Bile rising.

“What’s with the face? Its not like I’m asking you to suck my dick,”

"Seongje, I need to get home-"

"If you can't do it yourself I'm more than happy to help."

That has your legs moving into action. In your periphery, it feels as though everyone's watching you. A thing in psychology called the imaginary audience. When you're so self-conscious you concoct this idea of being the center of attention… only this time, it's real. You know they're all watching you. You know no one will do anything about it.

"Under the desk you go," he chuckles before sitting down and pushing his chair back in. You back away, creating intense distance between you. Your back hits dirty wires and your knees press hesitantly down onto the grime just to achieve a more comfortable position. Everything you see is his legs, his friends legs and you're suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.

You want to scream at him to let you go. He's hijacked you from your endless pile of homework and yet the very thought of standing up for yourself causes a sea of nausea.

So you sit there in the dark, not knowing when this punishment would conclude. When would he let you go home? That sends you into another spiral. You've heard Seongje could game for 24 hours straight. Maybe more if he was in close vicinity to food and a bathroom. You knew this internet cafe would close eventually, that gives you the smallest sliver of hope and so you do your time.

Never once does he acknowledge you- the girl under his desk. Unbeknownst to Seongje, you catch one of his fellow gang members sneak multiple glances at you under the table. They all do. Like they enjoy seeing you under here. As time passes, and you slip further and further away from the stress, you realize that down here, on the floor, under his desk, the world is small. It's quite comforting actually and that wasn't the trauma talking.

You've always liked small spaces.

It definitely beat dealing with whatever he had going on up there half the time.

Slowly, your body begins to shut down. Your energy plummets from all the stress and all the thoughts. This is the first time you've been forced into a spot for too long doing nothing. No essays. No tutoring.

Due to tendencies from your childhood that you should've gotten rid of, you find yourself curling up against his leg. He stiffens and you snap out of the exhaustion long enough to reel back. Especially when you see his hand reach under the table. Your heart hammers in your chest, not a single word spoken as his hand searches for something. You move a bit closer until his hand catches on your hair. You wince as he drags you closer, pushing your head against his leg as you had done.

He leaves you there. You try to regulate your breathing as you feel him adjust in his seat above you.

You shift as well. Not your head. He clearly wants you there. But your legs are uncomfortable. You try to kneel and it's ridiculous because your head never leaves his leg.

No position seems comfortable enough until he stretches his leg out, right in between yours and you're made to straddle it. Above you, his fingers are still hitting the keys and you try to disassociate from the fact that his leg is pushing against your cunt. You try to sneak a peek at the surface, his glasses are trained on the screen. Not knowing whether it's your exhaustion making a reappearance but you could've sworn you hear the words, "good girl," release from him in a low drawl.

Something in his tone has you shifting over his leg. Your cunt warms against his leg and you fight the urge to buck against him. All you had to do was remember who it is that you're currently touching. That conscious reminder has you once again hellbent on doing your time with concrete resolve.

That resolve breaks.

It shatters when he eases his back against the chair, enough to once again slither his hand down towards you.

He curls his fist into your hair and tugs.

He pushes you down and lifts you up and you mindlessly follow his movements until you realize he's coaxed you into riding his leg.

He lets go of your hair, satisfied when your hips move out of their own accord.

You hate how good it feels to quite literally be beneath him. You look up and you whimper oh so quietly when you see that small smile play on his lips while his eye remains on the screen.

He's given you new instructions now and so you don't dare to stop moving your hips against him. Despite the damp spot forming on the seat of your underwear. You're not sure what it is that allows you to lose yourself so easily. Perhaps it's all the expectations that melt away when you're doing something so pitiful. You're breaking for him and he's letting you. You're not in control of anything and there's freedom in that.

“F-Fuck-” you didnt mean for the words to slip. There are still other people here but you also couldn't help the wave of pleasure that pushed up so suddenly. Your clit is moving against the fabric of his pants just right and your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head.

The second that whimper escapes your mouth, he stiffens again.

You watch as he leans back again, this time his hand isn't reaching out for you. It's to ghost over the bulge forming in his pants. Somehow that spurs you on more.

You grind against him desperately and before he can take his hand away, this time you reach up for him.

You watch him closely. The glare from the screen reflects on his glasses. His jaw, tight.

He controls the game easily with one hand, while you bring the other into your mouth.

You're not sure where this other side of you came from. This vixen who rolls her tongue out and forces his index and ring finger into her warm mouth.

He becomes more and more restless… His breath hitching. Seongje's fingers hit the keys more aggressively, while his right hand forces his fingers further down your throat. His hips buck upwards and you can see the damp spot forming where his cock is straining against his pants. He's about to cum in his pants and you're about to cum on his leg and it's far too much for you.

You know his friends are about. You try to preserve even a sliver of dignity but it all goes out the window.

“Fuck-” he spits out, slamming his fist on the table before abandoning the game. There's a fire in his eyes as he sits back to watch you peer up at him with complete and utter desperation.

“What a fucking slut-” he snarled, cleaely audible enough for not only him but his friends too. It has your mouth snapping open. Your back arches as you try to watch him watching you cum on his leg.

You've never held his attention for this long and it sends you off the edge.

“S-Seongje-” you barely squeak out as your cunt spasms against his leg. You rut uncontrollably, spurred on by the name That fell from your lips as if your body needed a reminder of just who it was making you cum. Your tormentor.

It has you seeing stars.

For all of 11 seconds.

Until it comes crashing down on you. Your pitiful act has you reeling. Mind spinning.

You don't want to look up at him but you have nowhere else to look. Your heart sinks when you see a smile form slowly across his lips… Somehow you knew you'd never be rid of him.

[halfadiamond]

💍Friend’s Dad💍

💎CW: MDNI, brief acts of sex mentioned (blowjob (small gag reference), mating press), you didn’t meet the guys until you were an adult, age gap, the men are single💎

💎Price x Reader, Ghost x Reader (Separate Scenarios!)💎

Part Two Part Three

Price

When Price’s daughter comes back from college with you in tow. Price remembers meeting you when he was moving his daughter into her dorm room to which you introduced yourself as her roommate. Price didn’t mind the extra mouth with him all alone in the house, the more company the merrier.

So what Price thought you were absolutely gorgeous? So what Price knew that he shouldn’t be looking at you in a way that a man looks at his lover? He had been single for so long that he was desperate for a warm hole to fuck and you? You fit the bill and it didn’t help that you seemed like the perfect woman.

It was after dinner, where you offered to help wash the dishes (he pretend that he didn’t need the help but gestured you to follow as he told his daughter to scram but lovingly as he told her to go take a quick trip to the store). That you two were alone, it was there that you guys conversed. From him asking about school (and if his daughter caused you problems) to you eventually admitting that you came with his daughter because of a bad breakup that’s when Price knew he had to take his chance. Price said the words that he knew would make a woman swoon, swearing that a woman as beautiful as you didn’t need a boy, you needed a man.

Price cornered you at the sink as he continued with his words and gentle touches. He urged you to find someone better than that boy and who knows maybe what you needed was an older man who knew how to take care of a lady. And you agreed with him.

That’s what led you to where you were now.

On your knees, eagerly sucking him off (slurping his cock like it was the most delicious thing in the world), Price gives you a small praise as he grabs your hair and forces you to take him even more (he enjoys the sounds you make as you gag) and he can’t help but think of two things.

1. How soon he can get a ring for you (do they even offer expedited shipping?)

2. How awkward the next family dinner will be when his daughter sees the ring on your finger (and if Price is lucky maybe even you’ll have a slight baby bump)

Ghost

Ghost already knew you… well he’s heard of you, it started when his daughter was talking about her coworker that she loved working with. Then one day, his daughter said that you would be coming over to watch a movie. Personally, Ghost didn’t care, he simply nodded and said he will be off at his office and to keep quiet.

But once you came and he got to see you in person? Ghost swore that he was over love that dealing with his daughter’s mother for the rest of his life was enough for him. But you? You were gorgeous and he knew that he had to at least see if you give little old him a chance. His daughter looked on in confusion when Ghost sat at the couch, and said that he’ll watch the movie with you guys. But hey. His daughter always urged him to date again, she never said who he couldn’t date. Even if Ghost was bored to death watching Barbie: 12 Dancing Princesses, he’d endure it just to see if he had a chance.

And he did. When the movie ended, and his daughter encouraged you to stay the night (well more like told you) and led you to the guest room, Ghost quietly thanked his daughter. It was when Ghost was sure, that his daughter was asleep that he headed off to go see you and lucky him you were still awake, fetching some water in the kitchen.

Ghost wasn’t exactly sure how you guys ended up in his room but he didn’t really care not when he had you. Ghost has your ankles up to your ears as he fucks you like an animal. He can hear your cries as you clutch onto his bed. But Ghost is quick to muffle your moans with his hand, and when he sees your pretty eyes looking at him in confusion. He gives you a small smile and whispers.

“Wouldn’t want her to hear your pretty moans now would you?”