#this is what i’m doing with my life this is what i have this is what i truly love more than anything

[thebibliosphere]

My husband and I were discussing how the first felon is defending the FDA and how the quality control of our food is gonna basically disappear and I proceeded to have so much anxiety about it that I didn't sleep last night. How do we prepare for this? Is there a way to make food safe at home? How can we avoid getting poisoned from the grocery store? Sorry for bringing this anxiety to your inbox but I'm exhausted and scared and I'm hoping you've come up with food safety tips what with your general food complications.

I’m afraid I don’t have a solution for something of this scale and am just as equally terrified, but that said:

Check your local state regulations. Some states actually have strict testing that the FDA when it comes to certain things like milk. See if they are listing any recalls.

Stop eating things raw for the foreseeable future. Wash and cook everything thoroughly, even if the bag claims it’s pre-washed, wash it again. Cooking will also help eliminate any remaining pathogens. It means no more salads for a while but that’s okay.

For things like fruit, try to go with things that have an outer skin that can be taken off. If it requires you to cut into it with a knife, give the outer skin a scrub and rinse to reduce the chances of your knife being contaminated by anything like e-coli and then contaminating the insides by cutting it up.

For fruit that can’t be peeled, make sure to inspect and wash them thoroughly. If you are immunocompromised like me, consider cooking it down into a jam or pie filling to reduce further risk. Not as fun as eating it fresh for some people, but it’s a valid way of still getting the flavor and nutrients.

For things like milk, only drink pasteurized and ultra pasteurized. Try to get pasteurized eggs if you can too.

If you don’t have a meat thermometer, now is the time to get one. Make sore everything is cooked to its required internal temperature. For poultry, the recommended temperature is 165°F (74°C), while for beef and pork, the recommended temperature is 145°F (63°C) with a 3-minute rest time. Ground meats should be cooked to 160°F (71°C). Eggs should be cooked until the yolk is set. No more runny egg yolks for a bit until we get a competent source of information back about bird flu.

For things like flour, try to go for reputable brands that have their own independent testing facilities for things like gluten. They also usually test for other things and clean their facilities thoroughly. My go to is King Arthur atm.

Also, stop eating raw cookie dough if you’re not going to toast the flour in the oven first. That’s how a lot of people get sick, not necessarily from the raw egg, though stop eating raw egg right now if you do. Again, bird flu. [Addendum] I learned the flour trick in a job I used to work, but apparently, the pre-defunded FDA didn't think toasting the flour made it safe, so maybe just don't eat raw cookie dough. And I know someone's going to be a cunt in the notes like "I don't care I do what I want" good for you, hope saying that made you feel better.]

This is a dwindling possibility with the tariffs but try to buy food imported from other countries that still have food quality control. I get my masa harina from a small company that imports directly from Colombia. They can’t afford the gluten free label required to be classified as such in the USA, but considering Cheerios in the USA can afford to buy that label and the celiac foundation certification logo and still routinely sells contaminated produce due to not using gluten free oats and a mechanical sorting system that can’t be certified gluten free (1) (2) (3), I’m more inclined to go with other countries labeling right now.

With clean water under threat, use a filter for your drinking water. We currently use the ones by Life Straw. They don’t fit into your faucet but the LS filters are better than most of the ones that can be attached that way and the housing of the jugs and countertop filters are easy to clean. Make sure you do so once a week and change the filters as directed.

Most of this is just basic food hygiene stuff combined with what it’s like to be immunocompromised, but it’s always worth repeating in case someone didn’t know, but especially worth repeating right now with all our rules and regulating bodies going out the window 😞

[bluegiragi]

I really don’t care if I’m considered an annoying luddite forever, I will genuinely always hate AI and I’ll think less of you if you use it. ChatGPT, Generative AI, those AI chatbots - all of these things do nothing but rot your brain and make you pathetic in my eyes. In 2025? You’re completely reliant on a product owned by tech billionaires to think for you, write for you, inspire you, in 2025????

“Oh but I only use ___ for ideas/spellcheck/inspiration!!” I kinda don’t care? oh, you’re “only” outsourcing a major part of the creative process that would’ve made your craft unique to you. Writing and creating art has been one of the most intrinsically human activities since the dawn of time, as natural and central to our existence as the creation of the goddamn wheel, and sheer laziness and a culture of instant gratification and entitlement is making swathes of people feel not only justified in outsourcing it but ahead of the curve!!

And genuinely, what is the point of talking to an AI chatbot, since people looove to use my art for it and endlessly make excuses for it. RP exists. Fucking daydreaming exists. You want your favourite blorbo to sext you, there’s literally thousands of xreader fic out there. And if it isn’t, write it yourself! What does a computer’s best approximation of a fictional character do that a human author couldn’t do a thousand times better. Be at your beck and call, probably, but what kind of creative fulfilment is that? What scratch is that itching? What is it but an entirely cyclical ourobouros feeding into your own validation?

I mean, for Christ sakes there are people using ChatGPT as therapists now, lauding it for how it’s better than any human therapist out there because it “empathises”, and no one ever likes to bring up how ChatGPT very notably isn’t an accurate source of information, and often just one that lives for your approval. Bad habits? Eh, what are you talking about, ChatGPT told me it’s fine, because it’s entire existence is to keep you using it longer and facing any hard truths or encountering any real life hard times when it comes to your mental health journey would stop that!

I just don’t get it. Every single one of these people who use these shitty AIs have a favourite book or movie or song, and they are doing nothing by feeding into this hype but ensuring human originality and sincere passion will never be rewarded again. How cute! You turned that photo of you and your boyfriend into ghibli style. I bet Hayao Miyazaki, famously anti-war and pro-environmentalist who instills in all his movies a lifelong dedication to the idea that humanity’s strongest ally is always itself, is so happy that your request and millions of others probably dried up a small ocean’s worth of water, and is only stamping out opportunities for artists everywhere, who could’ve all grown up to be another Miyazaki. Thanks, guys. Great job all round.

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS III

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources word count: 737 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.

Jason had rules.

One: No surprise visitors.

Two: No crashing without asking.

Three: No team meetings in his damn living room.

Naturally, all three were broken by Friday.

It started when Damian showed up with a duffel bag.

You opened the door, expecting him to just waltz in like usual. Instead, he stood there—bag slung over his shoulder, hood up, and absolutely no explanation.

“…Is that a sleepover bag?” you asked slowly.

“It’s tactical preparedness,” he stated, stepping inside. “You said we might watch two movies.”

Jason, halfway through a protein shake, froze. “That doesn’t require a duffel bag, Damian.”

“It does if one’s staying at your apartment,” Damian replied, already unzipping the duffel. “You have no throw blankets, your couch is stiff, and your meal portions are inconsistent at best—putting me at risk for low blood sugar.”

Jason blinked once. Twice. “Damian, you are twelve.”

“And I am cold,” Damian snapped, already unpacking a hoodie, pajama pants, and an aggressively folded sleep mask.

That alone would’ve been fine. Maybe manageable.

But then Stephanie showed up.

You barely had time to pause The Princess Bride when there was a knock on the door.

“Did someone say movie night?” Steph beamed, already pushing her way in, balancing takeout in one hand and a pillow under her arm. Her eyes landed on you, wide with curiosity. “Wait—you’re the civilian who tamed the demon.”

You blinked. “Uh—guilty?”

She grinned, completely unbothered. “Stephanie Brown. Spoiler, Batgirl—“

“—Also known as the chaos gremlin—” Jason rolled his eyes. 

She ignored him. “—I brought tacos and terrible opinions.”

Jason squinted. “Why do you have a pillow?”

“Why do you live in this shoebox instead of the manor?” she shot back cheerfully.

Then came Cassandra.

Silent, graceful, and practically materializing behind Steph, Cass gave you a small, warm smile and a nod.

You smiled back. “You must be Cassandra. He talks about you.”

Her brows lifted with interest as she stepped inside and offered a hand.

“I’m Y/N,” you added, shaking it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Cass’s smile widened, as she returned the nod as if to say you too before joining Stephanie on the couch. 

And just like that, you had four vigilantes lounging in your apartment, trading snacks and movie quotes while you tried to remember how this became your life.

Jason came home from patrol later than usual, hoping—praying—he could slip in, shower, and have a quiet night in bed with you.

What he found instead was chaos.

Shoes by the door. Pillows on the floor. An entire army of fuzzy blankets colonizing the couch. Stephanie arguing over whether a vampire or a werewolf would make a better boyfriend. Cass was silently braiding your hair with laser focus while Damian sat beside you reading, pretending not to be invested in the debate.

Jason stood there, helmet under his arm, staring into the eye of the domestic storm.

Tim walked out of the bathroom with wet hair and a borrowed towel. “Hey, you’re out late.”

Jason blinked. “Why are you here?”

“You said the shower pressure here’s better than the Cave.”

“I was being sarcastic!”

Tim shrugged. “Still true.”

“Okay, no,” Jason said finally, tossing his helmet onto the counter. “This is not a Batcave. This is not a bunker. This is not a public gathering space.”

“You’re just mad Cass took your blanket,” Stephanie called, swaddled like a human burrito.

“That was my blanket,” Jason snapped.

Cass just smiled, warm and sleepy, and patted the couch beside her. Jason looked personally betrayed.

Damian—now in sweatpants and sipping tea like a 40-year-old divorcee—barely looked up from his book. “You could always move back to the manor. There’s more space.”

Jason gave him a look.

You grinned from the kitchen, where you were plating up leftover tacos. “You could just stay here and deal with it.”

Jason walked over to you, leaned in, and whispered, “We could also fake your death and move to the Alps.”

You kissed his cheek. “But then who would make Damian’s tea right?”

Jason groaned and dropped his forehead against your shoulder. “I want you. Not the entire rogue’s gallery of caffeine-addicted vigilantes who have colonized my life.”

“You want me and a quiet apartment. You can’t have both.”

He looked at the living room—Steph singing off-key, Cass stealing Tim’s hoodie, Damian glaring at his tea like it wronged him—and sighed.

“…I’m going to the Batcave.”

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

Tag list: @stormz369

[mosabsdr]

💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You

Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,

When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.

From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.

💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength

As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.

But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.

“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.

“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.

🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now

Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.

But things have only gotten harder.

The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.

We’re trapped.

🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨‍👩‍👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.

And yet…

Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.

Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.

💖 What You Can Do

If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.

Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.

✨ Why It All Matters

This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.

Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.

🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology

There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.

When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.

If that happened, I am truly sorry.

Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.

I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.

If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.

Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.

Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )

With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️

[disneyprincemuke]

randomantic * op81

it's just oscar being randomly romantic, because that's the type of person you make him

pairings: oscar piastri x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

notes: noelle don't write an oscar fic that's not entirely filled with silliness and nonsense fluff challenge

(f1 masterlist)

you close your eyes and suck in a deep breath. you stand at your front door, having just inserted your key into it. you let out a shaky breath as you stare down at the door knob.

you’ve just had what felt like the longest day in a while. it feels like nothing has gone right for you at all — it’s so overwhelmingly irritating. you just know that the smallest thing will set you off and on the other side of this door is the most loving and doting man you’ve ever met in your life.

a man who doesn’t seem to have had a bad day in years, always donning a wide smile on his face with a composure you could only wish you had. you don’t want him to be the scapegoat that gets the brunt of your bad day.

you compose yourself with one last deep breath before unlocking the door. you try to sport a small grin as you push the door open. “i’m home.”

oscar’s grin meets you right at the kitchen door, leaning against the door frame as he wipes his hand on a towel. “i was wondering when you would come inside — i heard you fumbling with your keys a few minutes ago.”

“oh,” you try to laugh it off as you kick your shoes off and walk over to him, “i was trying to recall if i’d forgotten something at work.”

which, now that you think of it, is very possible. did your water bottle ever make it into your bag before you left the office?

“you’re back there in a couple of days,” oscar mutters, arms spread wide as you walk further into your apartment, “if not, i’ll go over and pick it up for you.”

he wraps you into a tight and firm hug, making you feel relieve, even if it was just a little. he grabs either side of your cheek and mushes his lips onto yours. “i made us dinner.”

you hum and furrow your brows as he takes your hand to lead you in. “what? but it’s my turn to make dinner.”

oscar shrugs with a small smile. he looks over his shoulder and gives you a quick wink. “i was feeling inspired.”

you almost burst into tears when the dining table comes into view — two plates with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers on the clean table. you’d been wrecking your brain for dinner options tonight. you’d considered ordering in, but it’s oscar’s crunch time right before the season so he has to watch his diet.

“do you like it?” oscar beams, puffing his chest proudly. he grabs the bouquet and reaches out to you. “and some flowers — we can’t have a date without that.”

“i love it, oscar,” you smile, reeling him in to press a kiss on his lips. “thank you so much.”

you wake up alone in your bed. oscar had an early morning, heading into a busy day.

you briefly remember sitting up for 5 seconds, long enough for him to give you a quick kiss and a tight hug before bidding you goodbye. though you wish you’d have woken up slightly earlier or stayed awake for longer to be with him.

you feel a sense of dread at the empty day ahead of you, working from home in an empty house is daunting for the week you’re having. you can almost tell how much you wouldn’t get done at all with the pit in your stomach and the numbness at your fingertips.

you wanted to send him a text, asking him to take the day off and come home to be with you. but you refuse to be that person.

you can’t simply ask your busy boyfriend to drop his obligations just to spend time with you because you’re a little under the weather. it’s not always about you.

sighing, you turn over to face oscar’s side of the bed. you pull the blankets around your body a little tighter.

you flinch at the stuffed bunny sitting upright, probably put there by oscar before leaving, with a bright orange post-it loosely stuck to its paw.

‘good morning, my love :)’

you smile. these little post-it’s are rare to find during this off-season, but they are always appreciated wherever they are.

the good morning note, however, is a first. oscar’s made a habit of leaving a few as reminders for you for days that he has to separate from you at the crack of dawn. they are often sweet, usually just reminders, but always in such a loving manner. how he manages to make simple post-it reminders sound so thoughtful, you’ll never know.

when you make it to the kitchen, there’s another stuck to the door of the fridge.

‘left some documents behind and had to u-turn. i got you breakfast on my drive back <3 fridge, second shelf’

you open the fridge and sure enough, there’s a sandwich with a cup of iced coffee sitting pretty on the second shelf. there’s another post-it.

‘eat well, pretty’

you proceed to eat breakfast with the biggest grin on your face.

oscar walks into the room, in the midst of dressing up for his busy day. you’re sitting by the edge of the bed, slouched as you type away on your phone. probably answering some emails before you head right back to sleep.

he grins to himself and creeps across the bed over to you. when he realises you hadn’t acknowledged his presence, he softly hums and gently presses his lips on your bare shoulder. his other arm is slung over your stomach as he pulls you in.

“what’s got my girl so busy this morning?” he hums against your skin, reluctantly pulling you back down to lie with him in bed. “it’s too early for you to be up.”

you groan and throw your head back, throwing your arms back. “answering a silly important email that was sent at 3am.”

“ridiculous,” he mutters. he tightens his arms around you and sigh. “i wish i could lay in bed with you all day. i’ll miss you today.”

“i’ll miss you too. i hate working from home when you’re not around.” you wiggle in his arms to face him, grabbing the sides of his face. “i should shrink myself so you could put me in your little pocket.”

he laughs at the absurdity of your idea. though, he doesn’t entirely hate it. he leans forward and nudges your nose with his. “i told you: quit your job. follow me around all day — i promise i’ll treat you like a princess.”

oscar jokes about this often: getting you to quit your job so you could simply be by his side all the time. while it sounded fun and relaxing, it simply is never as easy as just quitting and being his fulltime wag that watched him in the garage every weekend.

it’s just not a life that sounds like it would be for you at all.

“don’t be silly,” you whisper. you nuzzle your face into his shoulder with a soft sigh. “i can’t just do that.”

“ah, i know.” he squeezes your hips, thinking of a way he could somehow manipulate his day into ending earlier. perhaps there’s something he could forgo so he can come home earlier to you? maybe he’ll skip the gym and go tomorrow instead. “you know what?”

you hum, “what?”

“let’s go for a fancy dinner outside tonight,” oscar giggles. “i’ll call in for a reservation, okay? just show up and i’ll take care of the rest.”

you raise an eyebrow. it’s not that you don’t often go on dates with oscar in a week. in fact, you would love to argue that you and oscar go on more dates than an average couple does.

this week just feels different. perhaps you’re just having a worse week than usual. you start to wonder if he can tell that you’re having a hard week.

“are you sure? aren’t you busy?”

“never for you,” oscar smiles. “so, i’ll pick you up at 7, okay?”

not a lot of people could have guessed that oscar is one of the biggest perpetrators of hogging a karaoke mic.

your week has finally ended, and oscar has dragged you along to a small outing with his group of friends for a quick hang out before the season starts. you don’t even remember who suggest the thought of renting a room to do some karaoke; could have been fred, or maybe even oscar himself.

“oh, man,” logan throws his arms into the air when a familiar beat comes on. he holds his head in his hands in defeat. “who let him have the mic?”

“i swear i didn’t let him queue this many songs!” fred defends himself with a soft cry, pointing at the central machine in front of him. “they’re all love songs too!”

his friends’ groans echo in the room as oscar picks up the mic proudly. he puts his cocktail down on the table in the centre of the room before he turns over to you, sly smile and the mic pointed over at you. “this one’s for my beautiful girlfriend.”

logan scowls. “gross.”

“shut the fuck up,” oscar mutters, before walking over to you. he holds a hand out to you and grins. “don’t mind them, they’ve just never been loved the way you love me. get up, you’re the lucky girl i get to serenade for the rest of our lives.”

fred scoffs, a hand over his chest. “okay, ouch.”

@foreveralbon

[moonstruckme]

Hi!

I just watched 'me before you' (so sad wtf)

Anyways the one scene with the bumblebee tights? I can't stop thinking about it and was wondering if you could write something with whimsical!reader and the marauders (individual or poly) inspired by that?

Oh that is the cutest little storyline! Thanks for the request angel <3

cw: reader has hair long enough to have a clip in, but the hair itself isn't described

James Potter x whimsical!reader ♡ 1k words

James grins at the blue vervain hung above your front door before he knocks three times, hiding the small gift bag behind his back. You open with an easy smile on your face. It widens once you see him. 

“James,” you say, voice a pleased hum. “I thought we already went on our date?” 

“We did,” James agrees, “yesterday, but…” he digs in his pocket “...I think you left this in my car.” 

“Oh.” Your eyes widen delightedly at the large acorn he holds out in his palm. “I did! I was going to call and tell you, but I thought surely by this morning it would be gone.” 

James feels his eyebrows bunch even as he smiles. “Where would it have gone, lovely?” 

“Well, it’s a very nice acorn, so I thought for certain faeries would pluck it up if I left it unattended. I wouldn’t have blamed them, it’s only fair.” 

James doesn’t see anything particularly remarkable about the acorn—aside from it being rather large—but you often see beauty in stuff that James doesn’t. It’s one of the things he loves about you. He’s learned that you collect these sorts of things the way other people might collect postage stamps; it’s not for him to question. 

“I’m glad it was still there, though,” you say, pushing up on your toes to give him a kiss that, in James’ opinion, is far too brief. “Thank you for keeping it safe.” 

“It was no problem.” He leans forward for another kiss, but you’re already turning, disappearing into your home. 

He follows you inside, though you haven’t invited him in—sometimes these things simply don’t seem to occur to you; James is learning to interpret your cues. 

“You look lovely today,” he says. 

You send him a curious look. “You always say that.” 

“It’s always true.” 

“It can’t be the same amount of true every time,” you say, finding a place for your acorn on the windowsill above your kitchen sink. You’ve a small collection of things there, from propagated plants to dead bugs to little origami stars. 

“Can’t it?” James asks. 

“My hair never looks exactly the same,” you point out, not arguing so much as musing in the way you’re given to, “and last week when you saw me I didn’t have any spots, but today I have two.” 

James captures you in a gentle embrace, his hand on your cheek. “You’re just as lovely,” he vows, kissing you, “every single time.” 

Your eyes have gone soft and cloudy; you’re easily mollified. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” He kisses you again, smiling. “I have something for you.” 

“Mm, for me?” 

“Who else?” He reveals the gift bag. The tips of his fingers are buzzing with excitement. “Open it.” 

You take the bag, appearing bemused. “It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know that.” 

“Is it a holiday?” 

“No.” 

You look at James, still not opening the bag. “What’s this for, then?” 

“Maybe I just like to give you things,” he says. “It made me think of you.” 

“Oh.” You relax, the mystery resolved. “Because you’re nice.” 

“Sure. Would you just open it, please?” 

“Okay.” You give James a puzzled sort of smile, but part the folds of the bag. “Oh.” Your voice softens as you look inside. “Oh, James, this is lovely.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly nervous as you draw it out. Up until just this moment, he’d felt nothing but confidence that you would love it, but now he’s unsure. “Do you like it?” 

“Yes.” You turn over the barrette in your hand, expression awed. It’s a dragonfly, larger than life and incredibly detailed, with wings an iridescent green color that shimmer in the light coming in through your kitchen window. “It goes in my hair?” 

“Yeah, but there’s a trick to making it work.” James leans closer, giddy. “Can I show you?” 

You nod mutely, and he leans over, blowing gently on the gift. 

In the palm of your hand, the dragonfly comes to life. You gasp as its wings shift and flutter, the colors becoming even more vibrant. If you look really closely, even its tail is moving, the only still part of it the legs so that they stay fixed in your hair while you’re wearing it. It took a nifty bit of charmwork to achieve that amount of specificity. 

Your eyes are alight with wonder. It’s the sweetest thing James has ever seen, and he knows—if the ministry cracks down on him, if he’s never allowed to practice magic again—he knows he’s done the best thing. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say, softly, as though afraid to scare the creature. “Where did you find this?” 

“Just—at a market.” James tries to sound casual. “It was a pop-up, I think. Cool that they make them like this, yeah?” 

You make a sound of agreement, eyes still on the dragonfly as it begins to settle down. “It’s like magic.” 

James leans over to kiss your forehead. “Want me to put it on for you?” 

Your expression lights up as though the possibility hadn’t yet occurred to you. “Could you? Please?” 

“Of course, lovely. Give it here.” 

You transfer the barrette to James’ hand delicately. He smiles at how preciously you treat it, turning you by your shoulder to fix it in the back of your head. Once he gets it situated—James really isn’t very experienced at styling hair—he draws you into the bathroom so you can approve. 

“Can you blow on it?” you ask when he holds up a mirror for you to see the back of your head, barely leashed excitement in your tone. 

James does, and you make the most elated sound he’s ever heard from you. He laughs as you turn to put your arms around him, his soft-spoken, placid girl nearly jumping with glee. 

“Thank you,” you say, pressing your lips to his. “Thank you, James. No one’s ever gotten me anything so thoughtful.” 

James reckons he has a thing or two left to do about that.

[cupofteatoyou2]

Sex Is a Luxury Item

(+18)

The nursery door closes with a soft click that feels louder than it should. You both stand there for a full ten seconds, like you're trying to will the silence to hold. Then—very slowly—you back away.

“Did she…?” Alexia whispers.

You hold up a single triumphant finger. “Out. Cold.”

Alexia’s whole body visibly deflates with relief. “Praise. Be.”

You tiptoe down the hall like you’re sneaking out of a haunted house. Once you’re safely in the living room, she collapses onto the couch with a dramatic grunt.

“I’m never using the word ‘down’ again unless it’s followed by ‘to clown’ or ‘for real this time.’”

You laugh, slumping beside her. “I sang the ABCs, and I did that swaddle shuffle thing you made fun of.”

“I don’t make fun of it. I fear it.”

She reaches for your hand, twining your fingers. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles and it’s the softest touch you’ve felt all day.

It makes your chest ache a little.

“I missed this,” she says quietly. “Just being able to… sit with you.”

You glance over at her. Her hair’s a mess, hoodie slightly damp from some earlier baby-related incident, but the look in her eyes is calm. Warm. Need.

“I missed you,” you say softly.

“I missed your mouth,” she says, just as softly—except hers is a little more direct.

You smirk. “Oh, we’re skipping right to that?”

“It’s been weeks. I’m done playing it cool.”

You shift closer, legs touching, your hand sliding to her thigh. Her eyes darken. “Don’t tease.”

“You used to love that.”

“I used to have eight hours of sleep and an immune system.”

You giggle, then tilt your head and kiss her.

It starts slow. Gentle. Careful. You haven’t had space for this in so long, and you both know it. Her fingers slide under your shirt. Yours tangle in her hair. It builds like a fire you’re finally allowed to light.

You shift onto her lap, her arms circling your waist like she never wants to let go.

“I’ve wanted this,” she murmurs against your mouth. “God, I’ve needed this.”

You kiss her again, deeper, slower, letting her feel it.

And just when her hands start to slip under your hoodie—

click.

Rustle.

A small sound crackles from the baby monitor.

You both freeze.

Then a soft sigh.

“Don’t move,” Alexia whispers.

“Maybe she’s shifting in her sleep.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’s sensing happiness and preparing to destroy it.”

You both stare at the monitor like it's a horror movie screen.

There’s another soft grunt.

And then—one, single, high-pitched cry.

Alexia slumps back onto the couch. “She’s awake.”

You blink, heart sinking. “We didn’t even get a boob out.”

“I didn’t even make it past second base.”

You press your forehead to her shoulder. “What do we do?”

She sighs. “I’ll go.”

“No, I’ve got her.”

“You did bedtime. I’ve got her.”

You squeeze her hand. “Together?”

She looks at you, eyes soft and tired. “Always.”

You both rise like soldiers going back to war. As you pad toward the nursery, Alexia reaches back and flicks off the light in the living room.

“Tomorrow,” she murmurs.

“Tomorrow,” you promise.

Alexia was moving like a woman possessed.

You watched her storm around the house with a candle in one hand, wine bottle in the other, and the baby monitor clenched between her teeth.

“What are you doing?” you asked from the couch, half-laughing, half-intrigued.

She spat the monitor onto a pillow and said, “Tonight, I’m reclaiming my title as your wife. Not just your co-parent. Your sexy, romantic, occasionally sleep-deprived wife.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Should I be scared or impressed?”

“Both. I cleaned spit-up off my ear today. I deserve this.”

You tried not to laugh, but her eyes were wild with determination. She lit the candle dramatically and dimmed the lights.

“She’s fed, changed, burped, rocked, lullabied, and snuggled within an inch of her life. The monitor says she’s sleeping like a rock. We have—statistically—at least one hour.”

“And you used that hour to set the mood?”

“I used five minutes to set the mood. I plan to use the next fifty-five to ruin you.”

You flushed. “God, I missed you.”

She moved closer, cupping your face gently before kissing you, slow and warm. You melted into her, everything soft and familiar, her hands on your waist pulling you in.

“Tell me you want this too,” she whispered.

You grinned, leaning your forehead against hers. “Of course I do. But slow, okay? I just want to feel close to you again.”

Her lips curved. “Slow is my middle name.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Tonight it is.”

She tugged you down onto the couch, mouth finding yours again. Her hands moved carefully, like she remembered every part of you and needed to touch it all. Your shirt came off, hers followed. You gasped into her mouth, and her teeth scraped your bottom lip in that exact way that used to make your knees weak.

Her hand slid under your bra—

click.

You both froze.

Alexia’s eyes darted to the baby monitor. A tiny grunt. A rustle.

“Don’t you dare,” she muttered. “Do not wake up. I’m begging you.”

You pressed your ear to her chest, listening with her.

Another rustle. Then silence.

“She’s just shifting,” you said, exhaling.

Alexia didn’t move. “I’ve never wanted a mute button more in my life.”

You burst out laughing and pulled her back down. “Crisis averted.”

Your fingers went to the waistband of her joggers. Hers slid behind your back again—

And then—hiccup.

Sniffle.

You both slowly turned toward the monitor again.

“Maybe she’s just—”

WAHHHHHHHHH!

You both groaned in perfect sync.

Alexia flopped backward, dramatically throwing an arm over her face. “I love her so much, but she is truly the tiniest, cutest pussyblocker I’ve ever met.”

You were already pulling your shirt back on, laughing into the fabric. “We made her too powerful.”

“She’s weaponized her timing,” Alexia muttered, slipping on her hoodie. “We’re under siege.”

In seconds, you were back in the nursery. The baby blinked up at you both, looking thrilled to be awake again.

“I swear she’s doing this on purpose,” Alexia said as she rocked her. “She senses hormones like a shark smells blood.”

“Maybe she just misses us.”

“She sees me kiss your neck and goes, ‘That’s enough out of you. Stay away from my mommy’”

The baby yawned. Then sneezed directly in Alexia’s face.

You giggled so hard you nearly dropped the burp cloth.

“Still love her?” you teased.

Alexia wiped her cheek and said, “I’d take a thousand sneezes to the face if it means we eventually get to have sex again.”

Once the baby was back in the crib, snoring softly, you both tiptoed out like burglars escaping a crime scene.

Back in the living room, you didn’t even speak—you just pounced.

Alexia caught you, laughing breathlessly, and pulled you right back into her lap. Your lips locked, more eager this time, more desperate. Her hand slid down your thigh. Yours pushed up under her hoodie.

“I missed your skin,” she whispered against your jaw. “Missed the way you sound.”

“I’ll show you,” you murmured. “Just keep kissing me like that.”

Shirts peeled off again. Breathing got heavier. Her hand moved under your waistband—

BWAAAHHHHHHHH!

Both of you nearly screamed.

The monitor lit up again.

“She was asleep for eight minutes!”

“She sensed skin-to-skin contact!”

Alexia stood dramatically and pointed at the monitor. “You, young lady, are a menace to intimacy.”

You were crying with laughter as you stood. “She’s literally a baby, Lex.”

“A baby with an agenda.”

you both went in together again and took turns holding her. You whispered lullabies while Alexia made up dramatic Shakespearean monologues about interrupted foreplay.

“Sleep, my tiny villain. For tonight we are merely shadows of the lustful beings we once were.”

You were shaking with silent laughter.

Back to bed. Again.

This time, neither of you even pretended to go fast. You laid beside each other, fingers intertwined, foreheads pressed together.

Alexia sighed. “I love her so much it physically hurts.”

“I know.”

“But if I don’t get to see you naked soon, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You grinned. “We’ll get there.”

“You think when she’s in college we’ll finally have sex again?”

“Oh, I think we’ll be nasty empty-nesters.”

She laughed and pulled you close, tucking your head into her shoulder. “You’re still the most beautiful thing in the world to me.”

“Even covered in milk stains?”

“Especially then.”

Your baby snored on the monitor. Peaceful. Temporarily.

You kissed Alexia one more time and whispered, “maybe Tomorrow?”

Alexia yawned. “I’m scheduling it like a dentist appointment.”

Alexia stood in the kitchen, barefoot, holding a baby spoon like it was a laser pointer in a corporate meeting. Her hoodie was stained with milk, her bun was half falling apart, and yet she radiated authority.

“We need a new strategy,” she said, pointing the spoon at you with conviction.

You shifted your baby on your hip and squinted at her. “Is this about sex or war? Because your vibe is giving NATO crisis response.”

“Sex is war,” she muttered dramatically. “And right now, we’re losing.” She gestured broadly to the chaos around you: toys scattered across the floor, a bib hanging from the lamp, a rogue pacifier floating in someone’s half-drunk tea. “We are being outmaneuvered by someone who can’t even hold her own head up yet.”

“She’s a baby,” you reminded her, kissing said baby on the head.

“She’s a tactical genius,” Alexia said, narrowing her eyes at the infant. “Every time we so much as touch lips, she makes a sound like she’s being exorcised. She waits. She listens. Then she strikes.”

You snorted. “We’re being pussyblocked by someone who thinks her own feet are a conspiracy.”

“Exactly!” Alexia snapped her fingers. “It’s a psychological game. She doesn’t even know she’s winning, and that’s what makes her so powerful.”

You bounced the baby gently. “Okay, war general. What’s your big plan?”

Alexia marched over to the fridge, yanked off a magnet, and slapped a Post-it to the surface like it was a classified briefing. In bold, scribbled handwriting, it read

OPERATION: SEXY SUBMARINE

You stared.

“Tonight,” Alexia began, pacing, “we follow a strict schedule. No detours. No distractions. No Netflix, no chatting about the laundry, no doomscrolling while she naps. We do everything early—feed her early, bathe her early, snuggle her into a sleepy little puddle of baby bliss. Then we put her down.”

She paused dramatically.

“And then, we retreat. Bedroom only. Lights off. Curtains drawn. Door closed. Silent mode. Like a stealth mission. No candles. No ambiance. Just pure, uninterrupted—” she made an expansive gesture “—reconnection.”

You bit your lip, amused. “What’s with the submarine part?”

“Because we’re going under the radar. No noise. No trace. Pure stealth.”

“And because it’s been so long, we’ll probably have to dive deep into foreplay before anyone remembers how anything works?”

Alexia’s face lit up. “Exactly. See? You get me.”

You kissed her cheek. “Alright, Captain Putellas. I’m in.”

That night, you prepared like Olympic athletes warming up for a relay.

Dinner was served 47 minutes ahead of schedule. Alexia made airplane noises while feeding mashed peas, which ended up mostly on her shirt, but you were both undeterred. Bath time included the new sparkly bubble soap and a rousing three-minute duet of “Let It Go.” Your daughter clapped for you both like you’d just taken a bow at a Broadway matinee.

Book time came next. You sat side-by-side in the rocking chair, your daughter balanced across both your laps. Alexia read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with the dramatic timing of a Shakespearean actor on a caffeine high. Then she followed up with Goodnight Moon in a soft whisper, pausing between each “goodnight” like it was a prayer.

The final lullaby was sung in hushed tones. Alexia cradled the baby like she was made of glass, her voice wrapping around the room like a blanket.

“She’s out,” you breathed, watching her chest rise and fall in rhythmic peace.

Alexia’s eyes sparkled. “You ready?”

You tiptoed like trained spies out of the nursery. Alexia carefully shut the door with the reverence of someone sealing a tomb.

Once inside your room, she didn’t waste time. Her hands slid around your waist as soon as the door clicked shut. “No talking,” she whispered. “You might jinx it.”

Your lips met hers, slow and deep. She pulled you to the bed, her hand warm against your lower back, your knees already going weak. Clothes started to come off—carefully, quietly. Her hoodie hit the floor. Your shirt followed. Her hands traced your ribs like she was relearning you from scratch.

“I missed this,” she breathed against your collarbone.

You ran your fingers through her hair, tugging gently. “I missed you.”

She leaned in, kissing along your throat, one hand sliding up your bare thigh—

THUMP.

You both froze.

Then:

sniffle.

hic.

whimper.

Alexia slowly looked over her shoulder. “No. No, she’s bluffing.”

“Lex…”

“She’s testing us.”

A louder whimper. Then a soft wail.

Alexia flopped onto her back and buried her face in a pillow. “This is a conspiracy. A full-scale operation against our libido.”

You sighed but couldn’t stop the giggle bubbling up. “The Sexy Submarine has been compromised.”

“She’s too strong,” Alexia groaned into the pillow. “She’s outmaneuvered us again.”

You pulled on your shirt, patting her back. “Come on, soldier. We’ll regroup.”

“She doesn’t even like books,” Alexia muttered as she stood. “I read two stories. Two! With voices!”

In the nursery, your daughter greeted you with wide, innocent eyes.

Alexia lifted her gently, holding her close. “You are lucky I’m weak for cute things,” she whispered, nuzzling into her soft hair. “But seriously—do you have to wake up every time I try to get laid?”

You were laughing into your hand.

By the time she was back in her crib, you were both too tired for round two. You collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, limbs tangled together.

Alexia turned to you with the softest look in her eyes. “I love you,” she murmured. “Even if we never have sex again until she’s in preschool .”

“Preschool’s only few years away. We can make it.”

She groaned. “No. No we can’t.”

You reached for her hand. “We’ll find our way back. We’re just in the baby fog right now.”

Alexia smiled, eyes already drooping. “At least we’re in it together.”

You drifted off to the sound of your daughter snoring through the baby monitor.

The silence was golden. Sacred. A rare miracle.

Your daughter was finally asleep. For real this time—tiny limbs sprawled, cheeks flushed, pacifier bobbing softly with each breath. You and Alexia stood outside the nursery like two burglars about to flee a heist.

Alexia turned to you, eyes dark with purpose. “If she even makes a noise in the next hour, I swear to God—”

“Shhh,” you whispered, grabbing her hand and yanking her down the hallway like you were both escaping prison.

Back in the bedroom, the door clicked shut behind you, and Alexia’s lips were on yours before you even had a chance to breathe. Her hands slid under your shirt, warm, insistent, and you melted into her like it hadn’t been weeks of stop-starts and frustrated cuddles.

“God, I forgot how soft you are,” she whispered, mouth grazing your neck. “I feel like I’m kissing a memory.”

You laughed softly, tugging her shirt over her head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m starving for you.”

The kiss deepened—slow and messy, teeth and tongue, her fingers dragging down your sides until she was pushing you gently toward the bed. You went easily, smiling against her mouth, thighs parting instinctively as she climbed over you.

She kissed down your chest, taking her time, teasing. You ran your fingers through her hair, tugging just enough to make her hum against your skin.

“You’re being mean,” you whispered, breath catching as she took a nipple between her lips. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Alexia looked up at you, grinning wickedly. “I’ve had four weeks to plan this.”

Her kisses trailed lower. Lower. Her hands slid under your thighs, spreading you open slowly, reverently. You moaned as her breath hit your inner thigh.

Then she paused.

“Lex—”

“I’m savoring.”

“You’re torturing.”

She grinned and lowered her head.

And then—

Then—

Just as her tongue touched you—

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

It was immediate. Loud. Gutting.

The baby monitor crackled to life like a horror movie villain.

Alexia froze. Lips still pressed against you.

You whimpered. “No. No, no, no—”

She dropped her forehead to your thigh with an actual whimper. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, already mourning the orgasm you had almost tasted.

Alexia lifted her head, eyes wild. “She’s possessed. She’s got, like, a sixth sense.”

“She was dead asleep,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I felt her soul leave her body. What even—”

Another scream. A hiccup. The unmistakable sound of a pacifier hitting the crib floor.

Alexia let out a strangled growl, crawled up your body, and collapsed on top of you. “I’m going to cry.”

“She’s probably just—”

“I don’t care. I’m staying here. She can put herself back to sleep.”

You giggled, threading your fingers through her hair. “You want her to self-soothe at nine months?”

“I want to finish going down on my wife, is what I want.”

You were still breathless. Still throbbing. Still too turned on to laugh properly. But you laughed anyway. “Five more seconds and I would’ve blacked out.”

Alexia rolled off you with a dramatic sigh and reached for her hoodie. “I hate how much I love that baby.”

You smiled. “You don’t hate her.”

“No, I just think she’s doing this on purpose.”

“She’s nine months old.”

“She’s a genius-level saboteur with a personal vendetta against my sex life.”

You groaned as you slid your shirt back on. “You going or me?”

“I’ll go. I know the look in your eyes. If I let you walk in there all flushed and dripping, she’ll cry for another hour.”

You made a face. “Rude but fair.”

Alexia shuffled out, still muttering to herself.

You lay there, legs still parted, body aching, mind spinning. You could still feel her mouth on you. You could still tastewhat you almost had.

Through the monitor, you heard her gentle voice:

“Shhh… shhh… no más drama, cariño. Mamá is this close to having a breakdown.”

More hiccups. Some giggles. A thump.

You closed your eyes and moaned into your pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, Alexia returned looking like she’d been through battle.

“She kicked me in the boob and laughed about it.”

You sat up, arms open, and she dropped into them with a full-body sigh. “I want you so bad it’s physically painful.”

“She’s asleep again?”

“Temporarily. Probably until I touch you again. I think it’s her new defense mechanism.”

You kissed her temple. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Alexia looked at you. “If I don’t eat you alive tomorrow, I might die.”

You pulled her close. “I’ll let you. But we have to move faster. Get in, get off, get out.”

Alexia laughed softly. “Operation Quickie Reloaded?”

You nodded. “Or just Operation: Don’t Wake the Baby.”

She smiled. “Tomorrow. We win.”

You’ve never seen Alexia this unhinged.

She marched into the bedroom like she was about to defuse a bomb, except the bomb was your daughter’s cry and the stakes were your sex life.

“White noise?” she asked, holding up the machine like it was the Holy Grail.

“Set to rainforest,” you replied.

“Doors locked?”

“Deadbolt and chair wedged under the handle.”

“Monitor?” she asked.

You held it up. “Battery: full. Volume: high. Vibe: non-threatening.”

Alexia exhaled like she’d just completed a NASA launch checklist. “We’re not being pussyblocked tonight. Not by our own baby. Not by fate. Not by a squeaky floorboard. Nada.”

You grinned, already lying back on the bed in just her Barça tee and a pair of lacy panties she hadn’t seen since the third trimester. “God, you’re hot when you’re this paranoid.”

She climbed onto the bed, eyes dark and focused. “Do not speak her name.”

“The baby?”

“She has ears like a bat. And emotional radar.”

You laughed, pulling her in by the collar of her hoodie. “You’re acting like we’re about to commit a crime.”

“We are,” she said, voice low and sinful against your neck. “We’re gonna fuck. And we’re gonna finish.”

She kissed you like it was her last act on earth. Her hands skimmed up your thighs, under the tee, finding bare skin and making you jolt.

“Oh,” you gasped, “we’re skipping foreplay?”

Alexia pulled back, scandalized. “This is foreplay. This is tactical sensuality. I’ve been edging myself emotionally for weeks.”

You blinked. “You’ve been��� emotionally edging?”

“I’ve imagined going down on you while rocking the baby back to sleep.”

You choked. “That’s hot and disturbing.”

“Motherhood’s weird like that.”

You pulled her back down, breathless with laughter and lust. “Okay, tactical sensuality. Show me what that means.”

Alexia sat back on her knees, peeled her hoodie and tank off in one smooth motion, and tossed them over her shoulder. “Step one: remove barriers.”

You raised a brow. “Physical or emotional?”

“Panties,” she replied, and yanked yours off like she had a vendetta.

You gasped. “Damn, mamá’s not playing tonight.”

She grinned and ducked down between your legs. “Shh. You’ll wake the boss.”

The second her mouth touched you, your legs jerked up in shock. You slapped a hand over your mouth.

She laughed against your skin. “God, I missed how sensitive you get.”

You whined. “You’re not allowed to be cocky about it when we’ve been dry for, like, nine months.”

“I’ve been tracking your ovulation by instinct alone.”

You were laughing and moaning now, torn between arousal and actual tears.

Alexia licked a long, slow stripe, and your hips bucked. “Fuck—Lex.”

“Yeah?” she said, smug as hell, holding your thighs down with both hands like you were her personal reward.

“I swear if you stop, I will file for sole custody.”

She looked up, mouth glistening, smirk savage. “Not even God’s interrupting us tonight.”

You grabbed the pillow beside you and threw it at her. “Shut up and keep going!”

She did.

She devoured you like a woman who’d waited far too long, who’d dreamed about this every time she’d rocked a crying baby at 3 AM, who’d looked at your bare shoulder while brushing her teeth and thought, soon.

And now?

Now was finally here.

No interruptions.

No cries.

No disaster.

Just Alexia between your thighs, moaning like your pleasure was oxygen.

You threw your head back, already dizzy, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

A pause.

A beat.

A quiet.

You both froze.

Alexia slowly raised her head. “Was that—?”

“No,” you said firmly. “It was the white noise. Wind in the trees. Jungle frogs. Shut up. Keep going.”

She stared at you for one more second—then dove back in with a muttered, “For the love of all things holy.”

And this time? You knew it.

She wasn’t stopping for anything.

Your thighs were shaking, and your hands were tangled in Alexia’s hair like you were holding on for dear life. Her mouth moved with slow precision, her tongue relentless and so smug about it, you could practically feel the grin in the way she licked.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you gasped, chest rising fast under her tee.

Alexia hummed like that was exactly the plan. You felt it vibrate against your skin, and it sent a shock straight through your core. The kind of touch that made your whole body lock up before melting again, like your nerves couldn't decide if they wanted to tense or just give up entirely.

“I haven’t even started,” she murmured between strokes of her tongue. She looked up at you with her chin glistening and eyes filled with that cocky, dangerous glint—like she had something to prove, and your body was her proof.

She flicked her tongue again, just a bit firmer now, and you jolted, moaning her name as if it was the only word your mouth remembered how to form. “Lex… oh my god.”

“Still so sensitive,” she said, half awe, half victory. “And still mine.”

You groaned, one leg twitching at the knee, a helpless spasm you couldn’t even stop if you tried. She wrapped her arms around your thighs to hold you steady, fingers digging into your skin in the gentlest kind of possessive grip.

Her mouth found you again, unrelenting, licking slow and deep before switching to short, tight circles over your clit—soft, then harder, like she was playing a rhythm only she knew.

You squirmed, unable to stop it, and she moaned low at the way your hips moved. “Fuck. That’s it. Just like that.”

Her hands slid up and found your chest, warm palms cupping you like she missed this just as much as you did. She squeezed gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and your body practically convulsed.

“Lex—Lex, I’m gonna—”

She pulled back, just barely, mouth still wet, panting slightly. “You better. I’ve waited months for this. You think I’m gonna let you off easy?”

You whimpered and bucked your hips up toward her mouth, needy and too far gone to care. “Alexia—”

“Say it again.”

“Alexia.”

She grinned—pure sin. “Good girl.”

And then she sucked.

Your whole body arched off the bed. Your hands tightened in her hair and pulled, not even on purpose. It was just instinct at that point—desperate, overwhelmed, chasing release like it was life or death.

You were loud. Too loud. But you didn’t care. Not until you realized what you were risking.

“Shit—the baby—” you gasped, eyes flying open, chest heaving.

Alexia popped off you with a wicked look, then licked her lips like she’d just finished dessert. “She’s sleeping.”

You reached for the monitor blindly on the nightstand. “We can’t be loud—”

“She sleeps through the dog barking, thunder, and your snoring. She can handle a little moaning.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Bebé…” she smirked, already crawling back up between your legs, “I love you, but yes, you do. It’s cute. It’s like tiny dinosaur growls.”

You were about to argue—but her tongue was already back where you needed her most. And suddenly, snoring didn’t seem like the hill to die on.

You tried, for a full ten seconds, to stay quiet. You bit your lip. You pressed your hand over your mouth. You even turned your head into the pillow.

But when Alexia slid two fingers inside you and curled them just right, you squealed.

“Fuck.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth like it was going to do anything at that point.

Alexia chuckled, not stopping for a second. “So much for quiet time.”

You couldn’t answer. All you could do was breathe fast and try not to scream as she fucked you with her fingers and sucked your clit at the same time, the kind of multitasking only someone with pure chaos in their DNA could master.

She kept her pace slow and steady, dragging you toward the edge in the most excruciating way possible. Your thighs started trembling again, tighter this time, clenching around her head like your body was trying to trap her there.

And the worst part? She loved it.

You felt her moan into you. Felt her speed up. Felt the smugness in every move like she was daring you to come and wake the baby up. Like this was some fucked-up game.

And you were losing.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Lex, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” she said, voice muffled. “Come on. I wanna feel it.”

Her hand was gripping your thigh, holding you open, and her mouth was pure destruction.

You broke.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave that had been building for weeks—months, maybe. You shook, you cried out, you grabbed the sheets and her hair and anything you could reach, and your whole body convulsed as pleasure took over. Every nerve lit up and then gave out all at once.

You were panting, a wreck, your limbs limp and twitching.

Alexia finally pulled back, face flushed and shining, looking like she’d just finished a workout.

“Goddamn,” she said, breathing hard. “That was worth the wait.”

You didn’t have the strength to speak. You just blinked at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, brain full of static.

Alexia crawled up next to you, her arms sliding under your body, pulling you into her chest.

She kissed your shoulder, then your neck, then your jaw. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think you broke something. Like… structurally.”

She laughed, full and loud, and you smacked her arm weakly. “Shh. She’s actually going to wake up if you don’t shut up.”

Alexia smirked against your skin. “Let her. I earned that orgasm.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathless. “You say that like you carried the baby for nine months.”

“I did carry the diaper bag for nine months. That counts.”

You swatted her again, and she caught your hand, kissing it sweetly.

“Tell me the truth,” she murmured. “Was it… okay? After everything?”

You blinked, turning your head to look at her. And for a second, all the teasing fell away. Her eyes were soft, warm, maybe even a little nervous.

You nodded slowly. “It was everything.”

Alexia’s face relaxed, and she leaned in to kiss you, this time sweet and lingering and full of everything unsaid.

“You’re everything,” she whispered.

And then—

crackle.

The baby monitor buzzed to life with a hiccup.

Both your heads whipped toward it like you’d heard a ghost.

Another hiccup. Then a whimper. Then silence.

Alexia narrowed her eyes at the monitor. “Don’t you dare.”

You held your breath.

Another soft sound. Then… nothing.

Alexia reached for the monitor, flipped it face-down, and muttered, “I swear, she’s got a sensor for sex.”

You laughed into the pillow.

“Next round?” Alexia whispered. “Face. My face. Ride it. I’ll even play with your boobs.”

You looked at her, amused and dazed. “You’re insatiable.”

“I’m starving.”

You rolled over, still dizzy from round one, and gave her a look. “Bathroom. Five minutes. Before she wakes up for real.”

Alexia perked up like a golden retriever. “You serious?”

You grinned. “You better bring the monitor.”

She was already out of bed, grabbing it with one hand and your wrist with the other. “Say less.”

The cold of the tile never stood a chance against the heat in your body.

You straddled Alexia’s face like you were born to be there, knees digging into the bathroom floor, one hand braced on the counter and the other fisting in her messy hair. She looked up at you with flushed cheeks, parted lips, and those dark, feral eyes like you were her next meal.

You barely had time to moan before she latched onto you—mouth open, tongue flat, licking one long, devastating stripe through your folds. Your whole body shuddered.

“Oh—fuck—Lex…” you gasped, already rolling your hips down against her mouth.

She groaned in satisfaction, hands gripping your thighs like she was anchoring herself. “That’s it. Use me, cariño.”

You did. Hips grinding down, thighs trembling around her head as she worked you over with slow, confident licks. She licked your clit with the kind of deliberate pressure that drove you insane—just enough to tease, just enough to ruin.

“You taste like heaven,” she muttered between strokes, voice muffled but smug. “Missed this pussy so fucking much.”

You let out a strangled moan, rocking harder. “Then shut up and eat.”

Alexia laughed, hot breath fanning over your core. “Bossy now, huh?”

But she obeyed, and when her lips sealed around your clit again, you almost lost it. She sucked hard, tongue flicking rapidly, her grip on your thighs tightening to keep you in place. You were practically sitting on her face now, and the way she moaned underneath you told you she loved it.

Then her hand slid up your thigh—and before you could prepare yourself, she sank two fingers into you.

You gasped loud, the stretch sudden and perfect. “Lex—fuck—”

She didn’t wait. Didn’t tease. Just started pumping her fingers deep and fast, curling them at just the right angle to make you see stars.

“God,” she breathed against your clit, “you’re so fucking tight—clenching like you’re trying to suck me in.”

Your head dropped forward, forearms now braced against the sink, body shivering under the weight of her mouth and hand.

“More,” you whispered. “Give me more.”

She obeyed without a word—three fingers now, pushing in with a wet, obscene sound that had your entire body jerking. Your moans were loud, shameless, bouncing off tile walls.

“That’s it, baby,” she murmured. “Fuck—you’re taking me so well. Look at this pussy—dripping all over my hand.”

You whimpered, hips grinding, thighs starting to shake.

And then she started fucking you with her fingers, hard and deep, curling with every thrust. Her mouth stayed latched on your clit—tongue swirling, flicking, licking with relentless precision.

You were coming apart. Muscles locking, breath catching, fingers digging into the counter.

“You gonna come?” she rasped. “Gonna make a mess all over my face?”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

She moaned against you, her free hand slipping up to grope your boob, fingers rolling your nipple. “You’re everything, you know that?” she murmured. “My perfect girl. Let go for me.”

You choked on a cry, orgasm ripping through you like a wave—violent, pulsing, unstoppable. You came with your whole body, hips stuttering, thighs clamped tight around her head as her fingers drove deep and her mouth kept sucking.

Alexia groaned like she was the one coming, still moving inside you, still licking every aftershock from your body like she was addicted.

And then—just as your high started to ebb and you collapsed onto her chest, legs shaking, completely destroyed—

The baby monitor crackled.

“Waaaaawaaaa…”

You froze.

Alexia’s head dropped back onto the tile, and for a long beat… silence.

Then “Oh, come on!” she groaned, exasperated but laughing.

You buried your face in her shoulder, still panting. “Are you kidding me?”

“She waited,” Alexia said, wide-eyed and breathless. “She actually waited until you were done. That’s progress!”

You snorted into her neck. “She’s a pussyblocker with manners now.”

You both started laughing, tangled together on the bathroom floor, sticky, sore, and finally satisfied.

Alexia pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We made it, mommy.”

“Barely,mama” you whispered back, grinning.

Then the baby monitor made another soft sound—your daughter babbling like she knew exactly what she’d just interrupted.

Alexia groaned, rubbing her face. “We’re never gonna have sex again, are we?”

You kissed her, slow and sweet. “Not without a timer and industrial-grade earplugs.”

She smirked. “And maybe duct tape for the baby monitor.”

You laughed, standing slowly, legs wobbling.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s go check on our pussyblocking miracle.”

Alexia groaned again, getting to her feet. “At least we got few orgasm. I’m calling that a win.”

You smiled, taking her hand. “A very wet, very loud win.”

And together, you padded out of the bathroom—laughing, limping, and still very much in love.

[mywritersmind]

IN THE WAY - KA12

summary : You and a specific curly haired f1 driver may or may not be sneaking around. You think you’re a distraction. He calls you good luck. Relentlessly teased by other drivers and preoccupied by a certain young girl, you both sneak around the bahrain GP in a mess of laughter, kisses, and compliments.

listen up : one of my fav kimi fics ever!! kissing! insinuating sexual acts! lando, george, alex, and max being funny as hell and way too nosy!! no actual p in v but pretty hot and heavy! dual pov! hickeys!

words : 6003

⋆｡‧˚⋆

you

I shouldn’t be here. I know it. He knows it. But how could I say no? Kimi’s mother is fantastic and kind and invited my family to watch her beloved son do what he loves.

What she doesn’t know is she just brought a certified distraction for Kimi.

My mom always says I should support Kimi as much as possible, reminding me of how close we used to be and making it sound like her biggest regret in life was moving into the town over.

I support Kimi more than she knows. And not with homemade posters I would bring to his karting races.

“Fuck.” Kimi mumbles against my lips, pressed against me in his race suit while I'm sitting on his driver's room table. “Need ya.”

“No…” I groan into him, the feeling of rushed kisses and his hand hiking up my skirt too familiar. We both know we should stop. And then his lips find my neck and with ease, my head lols back, making me lose all memory of why the fuck I would say no.

“We have time.” He’s a liar and I know it.

Pulling away for real this time, I push him back. His face is flushed and his curls all messy from my grip. He looks drunk on me.

“You have got to focus.” I hop off the table, smoothing down my skirt, ignoring the pulsing between my thighs, and fixing my hair in his mirror. “And I've got to go.”

Kimi grabs my wrist, pulling me back with a pitiful look on his gorgeous face. “Just stay for a bit longer… we don’t have to do anything.”

I try to not look at his lips which are pulled into a frown and looking extremely kissable. “That’s the thing, Kimi. We will.”

He shakes his head, “No no. I won’t do anything. I’ll stay all the way across the room and do my warm ups while you take selfies or whatever.”

I cross my arms, “You’re looking at me as if you want to eat me.”

“Looking is different than doing… I'm a very patient man.” I don’t miss the way he tugs me closer, his grip soft and his eyes full.

I laugh, “Kimi!” He tries to kiss me again.

“Y/n.” He groans when I dodge him, pulling my hand away and grabbing the door handle, “Fine, leave me then! All alone…”

“You have Quali in thirty minutes!” I twist the handle, shaking my head, “Good luck, Kimi.”

“No good luck kiss?” I keep the door shut as he walks closer, rolling my eyes, I kiss his cheek.

“You got enough good luck five minutes ago.”

He smiles in that cheeky way he does whenever he reminisces. “Want me to walk you out?”

I scoff, walking out the door backwards, “I know the way-” What I don’t realize is how small the hallway is and when I don’t look before leaving the room, I slam the door into someone.

“Shit!” The British man says, making my eyes go wide along with Kimi’s. We hurry out of the room to see George Russell rubbing his head.

My hand slaps over my mouth as the idiot beside me, laughs! “Are you okay!?” I say quickly, punching Kimi in the stomach to shut him up.

“Yeah-” George looks up and registers the situation, “Yeah i’m fine.” He looks at me, then Kimi, then me again. I feel like I'm about to get scolded by my mother.

My phone rings in my pocket, I pull it out to see my actual mother calling me, “I really have to go now! Good luck, both of you!”

⋆༺

kimi

Qualifying goes well and just as I'm about to make it into the media pen, George whistles me over. He’s standing with Lando and Max, all looking at me as if they know something I don’t.

“Little Antonelli…” Lando grins, “I’m impressed.”

“Sorry…?”

Max claps me on my shoulder, laughing, “So, she your girlfriend or what?”

“I mean- she better be.” George pipes up, “Have you seen the way he looks at her?”

“Excuse me!?” I push Max’s hand off me, “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”

“The girl, the one who slammed the door in my face when sneaking out of your room. She’s pretty.” George grins at me as I narrow my eyes. What the hell is happening right now?

I scoff, “She was not sneaking out-”

“You work fast, kid.” Lando nods, “At eighteen I couldn’t even imagine a girl in my driver's room.”

“Probably because you didn’t have a girl or driver's room.” Max shoots back, Lando flipping him off and pushing his arm. Max looks at me again, “So, answer my question.”

“What q-”

“Is she your girlfriend?” George answers for him.

I blink. They’re asking if Y/n is my girlfriend right now? Seriously!? “I- uh… No.”

“More of a sneaky link then?” Max asks and gets punched in the arm by Lando promptly after. I’m too caught up on the fact that Max said ‘Sneaky Link’.

“You can’t ask that!” The man in orange says.

Max scoffs, “Why the hell not!?”

“That’s a child!”

George mumbles, “Didn’t seem very childlike when he was leaving his locked room with swollen lips and a hard o-” Lando hits George this time.

“Can you all shut up!?” I look around us, people milling about and starting to pay attention to the three men hounding me, “Why do you even care?”

“We’re just curious.” George shrugs, bringing his water to his lips.

“And nosy.” Lando adds.

“Nosy about what?” Alex walks up to us, dapping up George and nodding at the rest.

“Kimi’s got a girlfriend.” Max explains.

“I do not!” I groan again.

Alex raises a brow at the group. “How do you know?”

“Saw him sneaking her out before quali.” my teammate passes along his gossip.

“Seriously?” Alex crosses his arms, “I didn’t even risk Lily in my room until a year after we started dating.”

“Well we’re not dating!” This shuts the group up, as if they all are just hearing me for the first time.

“Well…” Max smirks, “What are you doing then?”

“She’s my friend, okay!?” I shake my head, wishing I was with her instead of these idiots, “Just my friend.”

Lando nods past me, “Just a friend who’s getting flirted with by Franco right now?”

I swear, if looks could kill, Franco Colapinto would be dead right now. Y/n is listening to him talk animatedly, nodding along politely. I refuse to believe she’s actually intrigued by the argentinian.

I turn back to the drivers who are all staring at me, “You okay…?” Alex asks.

“Yes! Why wouldn’t I be? She can talk to whoever she wants.”

“Even ‘Flirty Franco’?” Lando teases the nickname, something I don’t find funny.

“So tell me more about this little room rendezvous…” Alex asks George.

“Yeah!” Max agrees, “She hit you with a door?” Alex laughs at this piece of information he didn’t know.

George tells the story, I don’t expect it to be so embarrassing until he mentions her LIP GLOSS ON ME. I facepalm myself, “I gotta go-”

“Oh no you don’t Serena Vanderwoodsen.” Alex grabs my sleeve, pulling me back with ease, “I want to know more about this girl. Did you just meet her?”

“No! You really think i’d hookup with some random girl in my driver room?” They all just stare at me, “Have you!?” I get no response, telling me that they definitely have.

“So you admit you hooked up!” Lando points out, clearly not caring that i’m a ‘child’ anymore.

“Not today! I mean, shut up! This is not your business.”

“But she’s not some random girl?” George asks.

“I told you! We’re friends. Her family knows mine.” I cross my arms, watching George who nods suspiciously as if he doesn’t believe me.

They all go suspiciously quiet and I get the same feeling as before, like they know something I don’t. “She’s coming over here.” Max says, making my eyes go wide and answering my question-

“Hey.” I’d know that voice anywhere. I turn to face her, smiling because I simply can’t not when she’s around, “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Please, Don’t be!” I hear Lando say as she looks around at the group politely.

“I just-” her eyes flick from the guys to me, “Kimi, your mom wants to know when you’ll be at dinner…” She looks almost uncomfortable to say it and it makes me mad because I know exactly why. The four drivers are staring at her as if they’ve never seen a teenage girl in their life.

I’m about to answer her but am soon cut off by Max, “Kimi! You’re a horrible host. Introduce us.”

“Host…?” I look at him confused, then back to Y/n who I shoot a reassuring smile. “This is Y/n.”

“Friend, girlfriend…?” Lando adds teasingly. This makes Y/n laugh, I mean, actually laugh. It surprises me most out of the group.

“Friend.” She answers for me. “Kimi isn’t that lucky.” My jaw drops at this, the guys cracking up at my utter humiliation. She smiles at me and to the naked eye, one would think it’s innocent. But I know her, I know that wicked glint in her eye and the second her genuine smile turns into a mischievous smirk.

“I like her.” George says, bumping into Alex as they laugh harder.

“What were you saying about my Mom-” I turn back to Y/n, looking even more stunning then when I last saw her. If that’s even possible.

“Oh yeah! She wants to talk to you.” She points to where my Mom and dad are, they wave me over and when I look back to see if Y/n is following me, I realize she’s staying and already laughing with the drivers.

“Don’t worry, Kimi.” Max grins, “Go talk to mommy and daddy.” Lando is laughing even harder now, trying to say something but failing through choked laughs.

I hurry over to my parents and rush through the conversation, looking back frequently to make sure they’re not laughing with Y/n too hard…

“Just be at the hotel tonight at…” My mom finishes saying.

“Yeah, yeah, I'll be there!” I practically run back to Y/n, my hand drifting across her elbow as I smile. “Wanna grab a snack?”

She turns to me, “Why don’t I remember you crashing George’s car last year?” I glare at George who looks far too proud of himself.

“Maybe because you barely listen when I talk-”

“Oh don’t blame this on the poor girl!” Lando cuts in, “It’s okay to admit you were too embarrassed.”

“Okay!” I say quickly, turning back to Y/n and surprising the urge to take her hand. I know my parents are nearby and I'm not even sure how she would react if I did. “Come grab a bite with me.”

“Ordering the lady around now?” Alex raises a brow, “Y/n you better stand up for yourself.”

She just smiles, “Don’t worry, Kimi knows his place. I’m pretty sure he just wants me away from you lot.”

“Absolutely correct!”

Max leans in, “Before you go, what did Franco say to have you laughing so much-”

“Okay bye!” I do grab her hand now, pulling her away from the older drivers as she laughs.

⋆༺

I’m sitting across from her and trying to pretend her heeled foot isn’t tapping against my leg. My dad is telling a story and Y/n is laughing and listening along but I can’t do anything but watch her.

Maggie is next to her, smiling at the girl I know she looks up to. “Can we have a movie night?” my sister asks.

My mom shakes her head, “Not tonight love, everyone’s tired.”

“That’s alright!” Y/n says quickly, “I’d love to! I mean, if it’s okay. She can sleep in my room too!”

My mom adores Y/n, she’s always going on and on about how we should be closer and that Y/n’s mum wants the same. I don’t know how they haven’t noticed that we are close.

“Am I invited?” I ask, not even allowing myself to think before I speak.

Maggie grins, “Yes! Yes!”

“I don’t know…” Y/n eyes me, “Are you going to buy us snacks before?” Maggie gasps at this, giggling along with my friend.

I sigh, “One each and only from the vending machine-” Maggie jumps out of her seat at this, Y/n pushing back her chair as well.

“Wait, wait!” my dad says, wiggling his finger as he beckons me over. I lean into his ear, “Maggie stays with you two the whole time. No funny business.” I nod, slightly embarrassed even though no one else heard.

“Get a good rest too, Kimi!” Y/n’s mom says to me sweetly, “And Y/n, don’t keep Mag up too late.”

She smiles, her arm around my sister, “Yes ma’am!” The two hold hands and skip to the elevator, I get held back by a few people asking for photos but make it just before the doors close.

They sing Taylor Swift the whole way upstairs and Maggie bolts down the hall when she sees the vending machine. “So, when you imagined your big fabulous Formula one life, did you imagine getting ready for a race with a movie night?”

I smile softly, walking slower so we have more quiet time together, “Maybe not. But I'm glad it turned out this way.” I glance at my shoes, somewhat intimated by her, “You look really pretty tonight.”

She laughs as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, “I’ve been wearing the same thing all day and sweated all my makeup off.”

I shrug, not taking back a single thing. “My compliment still stands.”

My slow steps don’t matter because Maggie squeals at the end of the hall, rushing both of us.

I buy Maggie a candy bar and Y/n a bag of sour strips. “Nothing for you?” She asks, ripping open her package as we make our way to her room.

“Kimi is all healthy now.” Maggie pretends to gag as we walk in, making Y/n laugh and me roll my eyes.

Maggie decides that rapunzel is the correct choice for this magical Bahrain night. She plops herself in between us, candy in hand as her eyes grow big at the cartoon.

Maggie leans her head against my shoulder at some point, singing quietly with the songs.

I’ve never prepared for a race like this. Snuggling up with my little sister and my gorgeous friend, watching a childhood movie as they both sing and snack. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

At some point, Maggie falls asleep between us, slouching into the pillows and blanket. “You’re really sweet.” Y/n says out of nowhere. “With your sister, it’s cute.”

“Thanks?” I lean my head against my pillow, watching her watch me in the dim light of her hotel room.

“I really like that about you.” Her eyes leave mine, “Not just with Maggie- like with me too.”

“What do you mean?”

She blushes a bit, something I don’t often see from her, “Like, I know we just mess around and stuff. But you’re really nice about it. You’re nice to me.”

“I’m… I'm glad you think that.You deserve it.” She smiles softly, the faint sound of rapunzel and her lantern song in the background, “So uh… I saw you talking to Franco today.”

She laughs out loud, “Yeah?”

“Did he say anything interesting…?”

“Kimi.” she blinks, “He’s twenty one.”

“I know!” I say in a quiet tone, “I’m just wondering.”

“He’s funny.”

I bite my tongue, “That’s good.”

She tilts her head against the wall, “He’s way too old for me.”

I smile, wide. “That’s even better.”

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, “Jealous.”

I scoff, “What about the other drivers, what’d they say to you? Besides mentioning my crash.”

“They asked me about my intentions.” This piqued my interest, “with you.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm… George seemed to know something.”

“He wouldn’t shut up after he saw you leave my room.”

She hums, “That explains it.”

“They didn’t give you too much trouble, yeah?”

“No.” She laughs, “They’re funny. Big brother like.”

“They do give that vibe.” I say, “How was your view of quali?”

“Great. I saw this really hot guy in black and teal take off his helmet on TV. A highlight for me.“

I grin, “Curls and all?”

“No actually he was really tall and almost villain-esc.” I throw a pillow at her. She laughs so hard that Maggie wakes up, sad that she missed her favorite scene but fully awake once that horse is back on.

We stay quiet for the rest of the movie, sparing glances and small smiles over my sister's head. She falls asleep again, this time against Y/n’s shoulder. “I should go.” I whisper as the credits roll.

Y/n nods as I stand slowly. She replaces her shoulder with a pillow for Maggie, standing up with me and walking over to the door.

I don’t open it, I don’t really want to.

She looks tired, crossing her arms over her hoodie and leaning against the wall. “Night, Antonelli.”

I take a step, “You sure you don’t want to come to my room?” She smiles sleepily, her hand dropping to my pocket and tugging me closer.

“Your sister is staying in my room.”

“Yeah and she could literally sleep through an apocalypse- come on…” I beg, leaning in with a smirk. She shakes her head before she kisses me. Her lips are soft, slow… stable.

I don’t care about sleep or my sister or what my dad said. I care about how perfectly she fits against me and the feel of her hand slipping under my shirt.

We stay like that for a while. Kissing gently in the dark. I don’t want to leave. But I know I have to.

She pulls away first. Her face is only lit by the light that sneaks in through the hallway, just barely letting me make out how she’s biting her lip. Fuck it makes me want to kiss her again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Night…” Is all I can choke out, opening the door and letting my hand drift off her. She waves slightly, her cheeks rosy and her eyes tired.

I force myself to walk away, force myself to not look back even though I know she’s watching me walk down the hall. I like this. I like us. I really fucking like her.

⋆༺

you

I’m wearing a teal dress. My mom said I look like a fish but Maggie said I look beautiful so I smile as I walk into the paddock. I’m wearing sneakers, for once, with my hair down and my dress flowing around my thighs.

My phone rings just when I walk into the Mercedes hospitality. KIMI🧐🏎️🥵🍝😘 is calling me.

I roll my eyes at the contact name, something he did for himself when I left my phone in his room, and pick it up. “Don’t roll your eyes.” He says immediately, making me a bit freaked out.

“You usually like it. Stalker.” I say, hearing him chuckle and having to turn in a full circle to finally spotting him next door, looking at me through the glass.

In baggy jeans and a very cute sweater I've borrowed multiple times, he looks really good. Especially when one hand goes to his pocket and the other to his hair. “C’mon those are different circumstances.”

“Why’d you call?”

“Come to my room?”

I frown, even though my stomach does a little flip when reminded of what happened yesterday in that same room. “Now?”

“Just to hangout…” He smiles at someone passing him before looking back at me, “Promise.”

“I wouldn’t be mad if you broke that promise…” He lets down a slow groan, tilting his head against the glass and looking away from me. I can’t help but smile when I see his curls pressed up against it.

“We can’t. I can’t- Fuck Y/n why did you have to say that?” He stands up straight, a hand over his face as he responds, “Just come. I mean- don’t! But wait. Shit.” I laugh at the accidental dirty joke and nod.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

He sticks up his thumb, now fully facing away from me, and hangs up.

I’m with him fifteen minutes later, getting caught up by George who introduces me to Carmen as ‘Kimi’s friend’, very suspiciously.

Kimi and I sit on his table-like bed, except I'm the one who’s sitting and he’s laying on his back with his head in my lap.

“Are you always this nervous before a race?”

He opens his eyes instantly, “I am not nervous.”

I push his hair back just like I've been doing for the past five minutes, “Kimi, your hands are shaking.” I take one of his hands in mine, his eyes following the movement.

“Maybe you just make me nervous.” He says quietly.

I smile softly, “It’s not the fact that your whole family is showing you off to mine?”

He sits up at this, keeping my hand in his, “Maybe it’s a bit of that too.”

“My family loves you.” I reassure him, scooting closer, “And they watch all your races anyway. This time it’s just… a bigger screen.”

He nods slowly, leaning in and saying my name the sweetest I've ever heard it. “Can I break my promise now…?”

I’m reminded of last night now, his soft voice in the darkness of my room. I swear I slept like a baby because of how gentle he was. How he always is.

I nod but he doesn’t like it when I don’t use my voice, “Words?” His lips are an inch away from mine as they curve into a smirk.

“Yeah, Kimi. You can do anything you want.” And then his lips crash into mine. It’s more hungry than last night, one hand on my waist and the other bracing himself on the bed.

“I like this dress.” Is all he mumbles before sliding a hand under the fabric and moving up the side of my leg. I get goosebumps immediately, his big hands warm against my skin.

He cups my boob, something that, might I add, looks excellent in the dress he likes so much. In fact, I get the sneaking suspicion that it’s the reason why he likes it. His lips trail down my throat, to my chest.

“You leave a mark and I'll kill you.” I moan halfway through my sentence and all he does is shoot me a hot little smirk.

“I’ll just make it hidden.” And then he grabs my waist and physically pulls me over to him, sitting me down on his lap.

“Didn’t know you had a marking kink.” I say as he carefully slips the shoulders off my dress, pulling it so carefully down as if it could rip at any moment.

Kimi eyes me, then he dips his head down to my stomach. “I don’t.” He mumbles against my skin as I purposefully grind into him. His hands grip my waist tighter when I do, kissing up my skin and shifting my lace bra just enough so he can get his lips just below my boob.

“So you’re not drooling at the idea of your marks on me?” He responds through movement, using his other hand to drift over my nipple and make me grind into him even more. “Shit, Kimi.”

“Say my name again.” I swear I've never heard anything so hot. He leaves my skin, I can’t tell if there’s a hickey or not because his lips are on mine again.

My bra is out of place, now covered by his hands. I grip the back of his neck and rub against him, wanting to go farther but knowing my limit.

“Kimi.” I whine as he grabs my ass. I don’t even know if the door is locked and honestly- I don’t care.

I can feel him under me, the hardness growing at every move I make. I kiss his jaw, his neck, tug at the fabric covering him.

I bite his lip, “I like this sweater.”

“Yeah?” He says against me, tugging at the hem already.

“Yeah.” I pull it off for him, uncovering his body. God I love his body. Saying Kimi is fit would be an understatement, I take in every hard line of him before kissing him again, running a hand down his bicep.

My hand goes to his chest, down his abs and teasing the waist of his jeans. His cheeks are red, his eyes wide with lust as he stares up at me. I smirk and just as I unclasp the button, an alarm blares.

“No!” Kimi groans in frustration, grabbing his phone and turning it off immediately, “Fuck.” He leans his head back so hard that he knocks it on the wall.

I frown, knowing what it means.

I go to get off of him but he holds me firmly in place, “No.” He looks genuinely so defeated that it’s hard not to laugh.

“Kimi.” I slowly climb off of him, smiling at the boy who’s now cupping his hands over his dick print. “Kimi!” I laugh, adjusting my dress as he groans again.

“You’re so fucking hot…” He says, his eyes closed and sounding as pained as he looks.

I smile at his words, How could I not be flattered?

“And I really wanted you to give me a hickey.” He tugs my dress back down like it’s nothing, “Look how good mine looks.” Now he’s smiling and the second I follow his instructions, I understand.

There’s a bruise on my rib, still a bit shiny and aching. It does look really good. “I wish we were in my car again.” I laugh at his sudden words.

His car, as in, the first time we had sex.

I remember the whole thing so well that it makes me bite my lip just at the memory. He was just gifted his mercedes and wanted to give it a test drive, no one else wanted to go so Kimi and I hopped in the car, ditching our families and dinner, blasted music, and drove to the beach.

There was no one around because of how far up this hill we went. And for some reason, Kimi made a joke about getting in the backseat. And then we did.

Our parents asked what took us so long and when Kimi went red, I just shrugged and said he lost his keys for a moment. Lost his mind more like, but we won’t dwell on the details.

“I can’t give you a hickey now.” I pull out my lipstick, swiping it on in his mirror, “But I can still leave my mark.” He’s moved to be laying down now, his hands over his face and his boner painfully obvious.

I kiss him right in the middle of his chest, my lipstick rubbing off and leaving a perfect mark. He opens his eyes, smiling at it and then promptly frowning.

“That won’t stay.”

I shake my head, grabbing my setting spray from my purse and spraying it. He yelps slightly at the cold feeling, Sitting up and tilting his head at it. “Have I ever told you how hot you are?”

I kiss Kimi’s cheek, smearing some red on the area by accident this time. “Good luck today.”

“Good luck!?” He sits up, “You’re gonna leave me with this!?” He motions down to his dick which makes me laugh.

“You’ll be okay.” I pat his shoulder but he holds my hand there with his, shaking his head.

“I will not. I will not be okay!”

“Just don’t think too much about the mark on me.” I say, “The one only you can see…”

“You're evil!” He says as I back up, “Absolutely evil.”

“I’ll be screaming your name.” I wiggle my fingers at him, “Have fun.”

“I hate you.” He lies right to my face and we both know it.

⋆༺

kimi

The race went okay, besides almost fainting when I got out of the car, it was boring from my side.

I almost pass out again when my family corners me after I finally get out of media. All I want to do is go to the hotel and fall asleep, even if I know I won’t be able to.

They talk to me all the way to the hotel, Y/n sitting in the front seat quietly on her phone. I wonder if I did anything wrong, especially when she doesn’t say anything after my family gets out of the elevator on their floor.

Our rooms are on the same floor, something I was looking forward to. “Are you okay?” Is the first thing she asks me, “You looked really bad getting out of the car.”

I blink, “Jeez, thanks.”

She shoves my shoulder and just like that, we’re back. “I was worried, idiot!”

I smile tiredly at her, watching her lips pull together in a line, “Wanna come to my room tonight?”

She sighs dramatically, “I guess I can spare a few hours.” I roll my eyes as we step out of the elevator. “You did good today. I like coming to your races.”

I love hearing her talk like that. I slip my hand into her back pocket, her dress replaced with jeans. “Thanks for coming. I like having you here.” I don’t mean to make it sound so… domestic? But the way she looks at me after, I swear I feel my heart grow.

She’s about to say something but shakes her head and kisses me instead. I kiss her back, in the middle of the hallway, my hand still on her denim.

And then… a little gasp interrupts us.

I swing my head back to see what could possibly get in our way now. The answer?

My little sister.

“Holy shit.” My jaw drops at her use of swear words. Holy shit is right though.

“Maggie!” Y/n practically tears away from me, her eye wide and refusing to look at me. “Hi.”

“Uhm…” Maggie steps closer, still looking shocked, “Kimi, you forgot this.” She hands me my phone. My fucking phone!? Why do I have to be such an idiot.

“Thanks.” I don’t even want to look at her i'm so embarrassed. I grab my phone and pocket it quickly, “Uh Mags?”

“Hm?”

“Could you not tell mom and dad about this…?” I look at Y/n who’s nodding along enthusiastically,

“Or anyone, for that matter.” Y/n adds on.

“Sure.” She blinks before turning around, “One more thing. Are you dating?” I swallow.

“No.” Y/n says right as I nod, “Yes!”

Oh just kill me now.

I close my eyes, wondering how my life has led to this moment.

“We uh…” Y/n gives me a look, “It’s new.”

Maggie nods slowly, “Okay! Well, never kiss in front of me again.” And then she turns around, skips away, and the second she turns the corner to where I know the elevators are, Y/n hits my arm.

“Hey!”

“You need to be more careful.”

“Me!?” I scoff, swiping my key against the door, “You kissed me!”

She shakes her head, dropping her bag on the table and walking in. “Your hand was on my ass.”

“I didn’t expect her to be there!” I lay flat on my bed, shaking my head in mortification still, “Do you think she’ll tell?”

“Maggie?” She asks, “Honestly, no. She’d do anything you ask.”

I roll over, shoving my face into my pillow, “I can’t believe I told her we’re dating.” I say muffled by the soft fabric.

“Neither can I.” I feel her hop onto the bed next to me.

“I didn’t mean to.” I sit up quickly, realizing she’s now changed into one of my hoodies, “Honestly I just panicked and didn’t really feel like explaining… us.”

She’s smiling. “That’s okay.”

She said no. Maggie asked if we were dating and she said no. Of course she said no! We’re not dating. So why the hell would I say yes!?

“If she tells our parents, we’re screwed.” I blink, not sure if she’s understanding what I might have just gotten us into.

“Kimi.”

“No- Like actually we’re gonna have to pretend to date and act all lovey dovey because if our moms finds out I swear they’ll send out the wedding invites.” She laughs at this, “I can’t believe you’re laughing! We’re going to fake date and you’re laughing!”

“Or… you could just ask me out for real.” My eyes go wide. Sorry? What!?

“Come again?” my brows furrow as she laughs harder.

“I mean…” She fiddles with the sleeves of my jacket, “If you don’t want to, that's fine.”

“No!” I shoot up to my knees, looking at her and probably looking crazy, “I absolutely do! I thought… I thought you didn’t.”

“Why would I not want to? Kimi. I’m in your bed right now.”

“Cause I thought you wanted to hook up-”

“I’m wearing your hoodie.” She deadpans.

“Ever heard of aftercare?”

“Kimi!” She groans in frustration, pulling up my shirt and reminding me of the kiss mark she left there. It’s a bit smudged now, but definitely still visible. “I really want to go out with you. For real.”

“Oh.” I breathe out, “Okay.”

“Okay!?” She slaps my arm, “Kimi!”

I laugh, pulling her in again, “I really want to go out with you too.” Kissing her cheek, I smile. “For real.”

A moment passes between us, quiet and completely comfortable. And then I laugh, “You like me.” She hits me with a pillow- hard.

“Shut up!”

⋆༺

you

Kimi holds my hand as we walk into the elevator. I rest my head against his shoulder as we start moving. I’m in shorts and his Mercedes jacket, we’re both holding our luggage and ready to leave the hot country.

The elevator stops at one floor, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen walk in. “Morning.” Lando says to both of us, squeezing into the metal box.

Kimi sends me an apologetic look. He’s already embarrassed, his cheek go red easily and this morning is no exception.

“Fun night?” Max asks, clearly trying to get a rise out of the curly haired boy.

“Fuck off.” He mumbles.

The elevator stops again and Alexander albon walks in. His eyes go wide for a moment before nodding at the lot and entering.

Kimi squeezes my hand even harder as I bite back a laugh, the group all eyeing each other with tension thick in the air.

Just as I think we’re almost done, the elevator stops one more time. George Russell stands outside of it.

George eyes me, then Kimi. He says nothing, walking in with a bag slung over his shoulder. And then, Lando coughs.

For some reason, this is what makes Kimi break.

“Alright, let it out!” They erupt in laughter, shoving and talking to each other loudly as we finally descend to the lowest level.

“This is the best morning of my life!” George claps Kimi on the shoulder as Lando literally holds himself up by Max.

“This made my weekend, mate, really.” the brit nods.

“I get five bucks!” Alex yells out, grabbing the bill out of Lando’s hands.

“Oh my god.” I actually laugh at this. As if they forgot that I was there, the group of older drivers stared at me! “You’re all rich, five bucks is all you could spare!?”

The doors open and Kimi physically pushes past the group, all of them staring at us as we leave. I snatch the bill from Alex’s hand and smile. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

[meenaxskz]

when he gets sick (hyung line)

ot8 reactions | bf!skz x reader au genre: crack warnings: language a/n : sorry for the silence. life said ✨plot twist✨. but here’s something to distract you! ✧ hyung line | maknae line (coming soon!)

bang chan

you walk into the room with tea in one hand and judgment in the other. chan’s in bed. sweaty. pale. wrapped in blankets like a sad spring roll. and of course… of COURSE. he’s got the laptop again. you stop. blink. “really?” he looks up, fake innocent. eyes glassy. lips dry. “what?” you squint. “why are you working right now?” he blinks slower. “…i’m not.” you glance down. ableton. open. project name: “BANG CHAN FINAL FINAL FINAL MIX ACTUAL FINAL I SWEAR” “christopher. bang. chan.” he winces “okay i was working but just for a minute—” “you have a FEVER. and a death wish.” he sniffles “my creativity doesn’t take sick days.” you sigh and set the tea down “wanna know where your creativity is gonna go?” he blinks. “IN THE CEILING. WHERE YOUR LAPTOP’S ABOUT TO BE.” he gasps. hugs the laptop to his chest like it’s his firstborn “don’t threaten her!! she has feelings!” you snatch it in one swift motion. “SHIT SHE’S FAST—” you unplug it. tuck it under your arm “you’re on rest mode. no tech. no work. no producing.” he groans. flops back dramatically. “you don’t understand. the project NEEDS ME—” “the project also needs you to be ALIVE.” five minutes later: he’s under three blankets. grumpy. arms crossed. you feed him soup. he pretends to hate it “what is this? poison?” “it’s chicken noodle, you absolute gremlin.” he slurps it anyway “…it’s pretty good.” you press a cold rag to his forehead. he sighs “you’re gonna leave me like this. laptopless. joyless. alone.” you stare “you’re gonna take a nap.” he groans. “will you at least sing to me?” “no.” “…hold me like a baby?” “…fine.” ten minutes later? he’s asleep. drooling a little. snoring soft. you check under the bed. just to make sure he didn’t stash a secret ipad or something. you find his phone. tucked into a sock like it’s hiding. you whisper “...i knew it.” bonus: the next day he wakes up feeling better. you catch him hugging his laptop and whispering, “i missed you, my love. she was so cruel to you.” you: “i will LITERALLY unplug your entire life.”

lee know

you walk into the kitchen and immediately stop. minho’s leaning against the counter like he’s doing a vogue pose on the verge of collapse. “you good?” minho (clearly not good): “never better.” he sneezes so hard he hits the cabinet. you raise an eyebrow. “you’ve blown your nose seven times in two minutes. you’re wheezing. your knees buckled when you poured orange juice.” “coincidence.” you step forward with a thermometer. he holds up a hand like you’re holding a weapon “i don’t need that. i’m not a CHILD.” “no. children usually listen better.” you try to press it to his forehead. he dodges like a ninja. you try again. he spins. you chase. he crashes into the couch. “STOP TREATING ME LIKE I’M FRAGILE—” “minho, you just fainted trying to open a yogurt.” he groans and lays back. dramatic. arm over his eyes. like he’s dying in a historical novel. “i’m fine. i’m a man. men don’t nap.” “men also die for no reason. lay down.” you drag him to the bed. he lets you. but grumbles the entire time. “this is humiliating.” you tuck a blanket over him. “this is degrading.” you bring soup. he looks offended. “…is this chicken flavor? i like beef.” “eat it before i shove it in your nose.” ten minutes later? he’s curled into the blanket. holding a warm pack to his stomach. soup almost gone. cheeks pink. “want more?” he mutters something. you lean in. “what?” “…yes please.” you grin “huh. what was that? i couldn’t hear over your PRIDE.” he glares. “don’t make me cough on you.” bonus: you catch him later whispering to doongie: “she tucked me in. like i’m some pathetic little—” he sneezes. “…anyway. i think i love her.”

changbin

you walk in to find changbin on the couch like a grumpy little burrito. blanket over his head. only his eyes and a single bicep visible. he’s watching cartoons. volume low. pout HIGH. you blink. “how are you feeling?” he sniffs. “strong.” you squint “strong like… ‘i’m good’ strong? or strong like ‘i almost cried trying to reach the remote’ strong?” he pauses. “i didn’t cry. i just grunted emotionally.” you sit down and feel his forehead. he doesn’t move. just stares dramatically. “am i dying?” he whispers. “you have a mild fever. you’re not dying.” he closes his eyes. “…tell felix to take care of my plushies.” you bring him water. he sips it like he’s been rescued from a desert. then cough suspiciously loud. “that cough was FAKE.” “was not. it came from my soul.” you hand him some sliced oranges. his lip wobbles. “…you peeled them?” “of course.” he turns away. sniffles harder “don’t look at me. i’m fine.” “are you tearing up because of fruit right now??” “no. these are just really… thoughtful citrus.” twenty minutes later: he’s in your lap. wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. cuddling a bunny plush. watching paw patrol. “i’m literally a tank,” he mumbles, full pout. “but like… a soft tank.” you kiss his forehead “my softest tank.” he sniffles again. “…don’t tell the others.” bonus: he gets better the next day and tries to act cool again. but you catch him sneaking the bunny plush into his gym bag. you: “strong again?” changbin: nods, flexing dramatically “back to beast mode, baby.” the bunny peeks out of his hoodie pocket. you say nothing.

hyunjin

you walk into the bedroom. hyunjin is face-down on the bed like he’s been defeated by life. blankets everywhere. a tissue stuck to his cheek. “…you good?” him, muffled: “no.” you bring medicine and tea. he doesn’t move. just dramatically points toward the nightstand like he’s too weak to lift a hand. “you’re so annoying.” “and sick. don’t forget sick.” you try to give him the pill. he stares at it like it’s poison “it’s huge.” “it’s literally the size of a tic tac.” “do you want me to choke and die right now? is that what you want???” he finally takes it after you bribe him with a popsicle. “you’re being so dramatic—” “WELL SOMEONE HAS TO BE.” you go to leave the room. as you turn to leave— ding-a-ling-a-ling you freeze. “…what was that.” you turn around. he’s holding A BELL. a literal. actual. fucking. bell. “where did you get that.” “my bag.” “WHY was that in your bag??” “i knew one day it would come in handy.” ding-a-ling-a-ling “stop.” “you said you’d take care of me.” “i didn’t say i’d become your room service.” “…i crave grapes.” “we don’t have grapes.” “…then cut a banana into circles and pretend.” your soul briefly leaves your body. “you are so lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, turning toward the kitchen. behind you, you hear the softest little "yay." a few minutes later, you return. plate in hand. banana. perfectly sliced. arranged in a damn circle pattern. sprinkled with cinnamon because you care, unfortunately. you set it on the nightstand. “your fake grapes.” hyunjin blinks at the plate. then at you “…you rolled your eyes so hard i thought they were gonna fall out.” “yeah. and yet here you are. fed.” he grabs the plate “i love you.” you sit beside him with a sigh “i know.” he pops a banana slice in his mouth. “…tastes like betrayal.” you throw a pillow at his face. --- twenty minutes later? he’s asleep, bell on his chest, lip poked out. you tiptoe over to take the bell. his eyes snap open. “i felt that.” bonus: you finally hide the bell. next day? he’s using the dog’s toy bell collar and shaking his whole head. “i’ve ADAPTED,” he announces, crown of tissues on his head. “you CANNOT silence me.” you sigh. “…i should’ve just let the cold take him.”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[chrrific]

KISS-DODGER ♡ 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 。

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝒊𝗩𝗔 🐇 ◟ refusing to kiss your boyfriend after a prank

( 𝖬𝑖𝖠 𝖢𝖠𝖱𝖠 ) enhypen ⸝⸝ bf ! sunghoon x f ! r O657 fluff whiny hoon agenda 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑜 profanity kissing skinship light flirting

★reblogs get you kisses

sunghoon swears he’s going fucking insane.

you had been ignoring him for the past, what, about a half hour now? and he was this close to exploding from lack of your attention.

it all began when he dodged your kiss when you came up to him earlier, just to tease a bit. the boy thought he’d give you the silent treatment for a minute, let you be pouty for a bit, and then give in and kiss you like the amazing boyfriend he is.

but instead, he’s the one being given the silent treatment now.

“baby, please, i swear i didn’t mean it! i’ll give you a hundred kisses to make up for it.” sunghoon whines, only to be met with complete radio silence from you.

tipping his head back onto the headrest of the couch, he groans as if you’ve told him with your silence he can never kiss you again, covering his eyes like he’s shielding himself from something horrible. “i think i’m dying,” he huffs, “i even see a light at the end of the white pathway. it’s so bright, gosh, i can’t see, y/n. would you like the love of your life to not be able to see?”

the over exaggeration in his words and tone have your lips twitching at the side as you shake your head, bemused. “one, that’s the ceiling light, and two, the last time i checked, you were perfectly able to see when you dodged my kiss.”

“so you can talk,” he mumbles, running a hand through his ebony locks. “but i must let you know, that not kissing your precious, sweet, and kiss-deprived boyfriend can be considered pure torture by some people.”

“those ‘people’ being you, i’d assume.”

sunghoon rolls his eyes with a quiet huff, before a mischievous glint suddenly replaces the utter misery that was just now set into his captivating brown orbs.

“i’d even get on my knees and beg for you to kiss me if you’d like.”

your brain short circuited.

“w-what? hoon!” you sputter. your jaw dropped open as a burning heat crept its way up your neck, finding its home on your cheeks and ears as well.

“oh my god, y/n, i did not know you were into that,” he cackles. “guess i’ll make a mental note of that for later events.” then, a wink. he fucking winks at you, having the audacity to be this cheeky when he knows you can just refuse kiss him.

“sunghoon park, i swear to god i won’t kiss you—let alone speak to you—for a week if you wink at me one more time.”

“but you wouldn’t, considering how charming and irresistible i am.” sunghoon retorts, and the confidence in his voice just makes you deadpan even further.

you turned face to him with a small sigh. “will you stop being insufferable if i kiss you?” he takes a moment and pretends to think about it, though he inevitably nods with a grin forming on his face.

his smiling lips finally meet yours when you lean in to join them, and he feels like he’s gone insane in the best possible way. the way your lips slot against his, their plump softness enveloping him in your taste, the slightest hint of cherry chapstick hitting his taste buds.

“you really wanna dodge my kisses again?” you ask, amusement lacing your question as your mouth ghosts over his, foreheads resting against one another’s.

“if you let me kiss you like after, then maybe i might just do it again.”

you flick his chest as a response, laughing when he winces slightly at the action: he just pulls you in for another kiss by the back of your neck, this time softer, more passionate than the last.

despite it all—the teasing, the pranks, the sarcastic banter—the affection caught between you is something that will never fade, but will forever seem to linger even in the hardest of times.

미키 : woah, two sunghoon fics on a streak TT i like this one a lot, so do not flop !!!

taglist. open requests. open

[norrisradio]

SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark.  A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk 

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.” 

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore. 

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer.  Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best. 

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be 

from: +61 *** *** *** always. 

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.” 

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice. 

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot. 

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now. 

He keeps his word. 

He never finds the same sweater. 

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

[burymagdalene]

Heat Lightning: Part II – Kismet - S. Reid x Reader

Making it back to your shared motel room, Spencer and reader get a lot off their chests; figuratively and literally. With a new dynamic emerging, they fight to survive the heat of Texas, the case—and each other.

Part I (Could read this alone if you wish) pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut, angst, & fluff (18+ pls pls) tags: Spencer Reid x bau!female reader, bloodsplatteranalyst!reader, virgin!spencer, subby (?) service-y Spencer, masturbation (spencer), tit sucking, thigh riding, real riding, finger sucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, first time, munch!spence, murder, kidnappings wc: 8.5k a/n: Part 2/2 of my bau!reader duology! I've had so much fun writing this I hope Spencer and reader have lots of fun... this might be my dirtiest yet lol S1 Spencer is a young freak aficionado I swear.

Kismet

Destiny; fate.

“What chance did I stand against kismet?”

The tips of Spencer’s fingers have molded to take the shape of the dial on your AC as you drive back to the nearby motel. His face is turned to stare out the window on your side, wanting to catch the view he hasn’t fully appreciated while not having to turn away from you.

What he would have missed. Chewing on the inside of his lip Spencer ponders, what I would’ve missed if it was another unit, if they took on a different case.

“Whatcha looking at?”

“I just- it’s very beautiful out here at night.” Spencer replies, eyes flickering over to you in order to analyze if you think his lame answer is indeed lame. The way his voice dips at the end gives him away. That’s not really what Spencer meant.

You hum, it’s barely above a whisper, something ambient and low, but enough to fill the car. “Yeah? You thinking of moving to small-town nowhere with me?”

He smiles faintly, laughs at his hands in his lap. “No. Well, sort of. I’m thinking about how if we hadn’t took this case… I wouldn’t be sitting here. With you.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you say anything. Just the sound of tires on gravel as you approach the motel and the air conditioner still stubbornly set two degrees too cold.

Your tongue pokes out slightly over your chapped lips. “You’re very kind.”

Spencer leans back in the seat. “But I mean it.”

Taking the keys out, you’re finally parked in front of the kitschy motel. You don’t answer right away. There’s a comfort in letting silence carry things when words feel too sharp. But when you do speak, it’s quiet.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And for once, Spencer doesn’t overthink what that means.

𓆱

Out of the most incredible shower of his life, Spencer wipes away the fog on the small bathroom mirror to look over his face. Eye bags worse than they’ve been in a while, but the sun almost gave him a pink flush and bright hue that makes up for it. 

He had gathered up his pajamas from his go bag to carry into the bathroom with him after you were finished showering. Wanting to change in the bathroom, suddenly embarrassed. He was not expecting this situation while packing– how could he have?

Hair brushed and fully situated to reintegrate back into the room with the dim flickering light and the most intimidatingly perfect person he’s met. Great.

Opening the door, he’s immediately stumbling into you. Right in front of the bathroom door is the entrance to the room where you were standing by picking up a small hooked sign from the door handle. 

With a keen eye, Spencer watches as your fingers flip over the “Do Not Disturb” sign in front of the door. Very much aware that this is standard practice– he can’t help but feel personally affected by the underlying sentiment. Do not disturb us. We don’t want anybody else in here with us.

He feels drunk. Standing in the doorway silent and gobsmacked by the simplest gesture– you turn over to gaze at him, poking your tongue out playfully before moving back to the bed.

The slight sway in your hips as you walk to the room makes him clear his throat.

“Which side do you want?” You ask, already jumping theatrically on the right side.

“Um… right?” Spencer laughs, teasing you.

“Already takennn!” You sing your reply.

Sitting up, feet off of the right side, you pat the space next to you.

“C’mere. We can share.”

Padding over, a small drop from Spencer’s hair tickles the back of his neck as he sits beside you on the bed.

“I never got good at sharing, I don't think.” He is flirting, he assumes. But it’s also semi-true. An only child who is also a mama's boy, he never had to share growing up– but it comes pretty naturally to him anyway. He’s not explaining that though so his line is more effective. 

“You don’t wanna share with me?” You smile back at him in such a mind numbing way that he feels silly for flirting with you when you obviously have the upper hand. 

Spencer bites his bottom lip softly and shakes his head, eyes wide looking at you. He's pulling out the doe eyes, all his cards are on the table. 

A thick and nearly tangible silence falls over the two of you. Hips almost pressing with your close proximity, Spencer gains the last bit of strength he has from the long day to meet your gaze. Taking in your features for the first time undisturbed by chaos is making his heart flutter. The bruises have let up a bit– changed slightly in color and severity. Your bottom lip still has a cut on it, albeit, not sensitive to the touch anymore.

Without thinking, his thumb slowly comes up and brushes the bruise left on your cheek.

“These are getting better.” He mumbles, thumb on your cheek but eyes roaming toward your lips.

“Yeah, I’m glad.” You toss a shy smile back at him.

“Oh yeah? I thought you said it made you look tough?”

“Hm. I think I was just saying that. I don’t want to be so tough all the time.”

Spencer pulls his thumb a few inches down, nearing the corner of your mouth. In an act of bravery (mixed with sleep deprivation, heat exhaustion, and lust. Simply.) runs it slowly over the jagged edge of your bottom lip. Wishing to soothe it with his touch almost, wanting to take away all the bruises littered on you.

A small shiver runs down your spine and you do an unconscious jolt that makes Spencer’s thumb stop.

“Yeah. You’re not so tough.” Pulling his thumb down, your eyes reconnect.

Spencer watches the smallest twitch in your eyebrows, a microexpression that flashes behind your eyes, a slight tremble in your lip. Taking one last deep breath he sacrifices himself to the fire he’s kept at bay this whole case.

Lips instinctually meeting the corner of your mouth, a soft kiss placed on the damaged skin of your marked lip. A shuddering sound from your throat pulls him towards the noise. Then, a proper kiss is being placed. 

A minute pull away tilts the world off its axis before you two are grabbing each other, lips melding together at a near brutal pace. The stiff motel mattress lets out a pitiful squeak, seeking a cessation of movement that would not be rewarded tonight. 

Your hands are cupping his jaw, his own hands remain politely in his lap and twitch as he feels your hip finally press up against his. Letting go of his cheek, one of your hands snakes down to take Spencer’s, placing it on the inside of your thigh. 

Spencer grips it too hard at first, causing you to gasp against his mouth. Dial it back, he thinks and makes up for it by rubbing away the pain with his palm up and down.

The first to pull away you whine out, “You’re such a good kisser,” before connecting lips again, pulling him flush against you almost onto his lap.

“I haven’t really… ever-” He gulps, he guesses it’s polite to tell you.

“Oh yeah?” He watches the corners of your mouth falter, a slight twitch upward in a smile that has his brain screaming witch!

“Yeah.”

You chuckle kindly while ghosting your lips over his once more, “That doesn’t matter.”

“It might…” Spencer looks down from your eyes in his confession.

“It won’t.” You finalize like you’re a professional in these matters. Virgins. He blushes and begins kissing you again.

With an act as simple as a swing of a leg, Spencer’s mind muffles. Propped in his lap he wraps his arms around your waist, tight grips indent your skin. Another simple act– a kiss to the jaw. Adolescent, amateur even. Spencer closes his eyes as his head falls back, a quiet hum from you against his jaw and he smiles despite the hurricane in his stomach. 

Bracing his hands firmly on your hips, your lips trail over his pulsepoint, a soothing and sickening kiss is being placed over the sensitive skin (he didn’t know was so sensitive on himself– why does this feel so good?) and Spencer nearly flinches away.

“Does that feel okay?” You pick up on his slight movement.

“It feels really nice, actually.”

A laugh rumbles against that same spot and he could keel over, beg you to do this all night. 

“I can feel your heart beating there.”

Two of your fingers replace where your lips just were, a rapid thud beating against them through his flesh.

“My- my heart is racing, yeah.” 

Your warm palm pressed firmly against Spencer's chest, you usher him flat against the old mattress. Back pressed there, he looks up where you’re still sitting on his lap before bending slowly over him again.

One finger tugs the bottom of his t-shirt up to his chin, messy kisses peppered over top the fragile skin on the left of his chest.

Voice rising an embarrassing octave Spencer talks through an inhale, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Mm. Kissing your heart.”

All the air has seemingly been knocked out of his lungs. Still, through ringing in his ears he whispers, “Why?”

“Well,” kiss, “because I think it’s sweet,” kiss, “and because I think it's kind.” your lips trail up slightly, a small string of saliva follows where you speak against his skin. “Because I like the person it keeps alive.”

Spencer could cry. His dick is hard, and he could cry. A blanketed wave of piety clouds his brain. He feels fucking obsessed, how do all people not succumb to madness when they feel this? If Spencer felt like this for more than 30 minutes he’d stop breathing. Or he’d completely submit to his life calling of reverency.

Propping himself onto his elbows he puts his face into your hair, resting his forehead against you firmly. Taking a deep inhalation of your scent, he commits it to memory before taking a hand to tilt your head up to stare into your eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful.”

A gentle and self-conscious finger routinely checks where your lip is bruised. A signal of your hidden insecurity toward the compliment. Spencer sees the hesitation in your irises as he moves his hand up to the curve of your waist, gesturing you to lay on your back now where he crawls over you.

Still intimidated by your bruising he tries to ease some of his body weight to his forearms and not your torso. He also doesn’t want his hard-on to dig into you right now.

“I think you’re astoundingly beautiful,” Spencer kisses your chin briefly, “you can ignore anything else I say, just believe me there.” 

May be a bit too serious, sappy and vulnerable for knowing you for a week, but Spencer has never felt so on-time and right than he does now.

You exhale sharply through your nose, push your mouths together again with a lazy grin. 

“You’re so warm, it feels surprisingly nice.” You giggle in response, your nails trailing lightly up his arms.

Spencer thinks back to your comment on hot coffee tasting better when it’s hot out, this is definitely the same strange phenomenon you were mentioning. Maybe it’s the counterintuitive notion where a hot beverage can increase sweating, which may help cool you down more efficiently. Maybe it’s the volatile aromatic compounds, which hit your nose and taste buds harder. He feels better to you when it’s hot out because he’s hitting your system harder. As long as he’s hitting your system-

Spencer’s spiralling thoughts get cut off by his own voice punching out a loud moan when you cup him over his pajama pants. The first time he’s feeling someone else's hand on him is so revolutionary that he has no control over his voice or facial expressions.

“Does that feel good?” Your tentative voice breaks him out of his daze. Like it could possibly feel bad with you.

Spencer has to search for the word yes within the vast confines of his brain– that’s how good it feels. Taking a moment he finds it, “Y-esss.”

“When's the last time you did this?” You’re whispering into his neck with a graze of your teeth he’s replying like you have him at gunpoint.

“Ah- y- yesterday-” Spencer manages to gasp out.

“Oh,” you giggle a bit which makes him peel his eyes open to look at you, “I don’t know why- I thought it’d be longer.” your sentence trails off with a string of soft laughs.

“Ah- well. I’m a virgin, n-not…”

“I know! I know… Yesterday, huh?”

Spencer feels his jaw instinctively squeeze shut. Yes, yesterday. He had barely made it to the very corner of his hotel bed back in Houston before shoving a hand under his pants to unsatisfyingly jerk off. A futile attempt to ease the molten hot swoops of horniness he gets while spending time with you.

“Wh- ugh.” Is all he can say.

“How about you show me how you did it yesterday, then?”

He teeters on the idea of white hot humiliation but in the end his hormones win, ultimately calcifying his boyish temperament with blatant animalism as he tugs his pajama pants down. Spencer is aware that you don’t mean exactly how he did it yesterday. All whines while biting down on his fist while the wrist of his other hand gets rubbed raw by the band of his pants that were barely open enough for boner access. 

Spencer scoots himself up so his back is resting against the rickety wooden bedframe, legs spread slightly as he flings his pants to the floor, underwear still on. Through cloudy eyes he watches you crawl over toward him, legs coming to cage in one of his thighs, sitting your weight on it. 

“Should I…” He traces a thumb over the waistband of his underwear.

“Please, yeah.”

Your eyes are attached to his lower stomach, eyes flickering up to his when he speaks to check for any hesitation.

Spencer is nervous, sure, but the sight of the basically egregious tent in his boxers is almost more embarrassing than it would be to just pull himself out of them. With a hook of his thumb, he pulls the band down slowly. First, the head appears, opaque drips of precum coating it lightly. Then the rest is pulled out, smacking his tummy with a sticky thud.

The first thing he hears is a small squeak coming from your throat. A laugh through your nose follows as you grin out, “Jesus.”

Beginning with a severe ego boost, Spencer can jump through the emotional hoops of the humiliation around jerking off in front of you. Jerking off to you, in front of you. He swallows an excess of saliva. 

Before anything else, Spencer has the urge to reach out and touch you, make sure you’re real– solid under his touch. Again he feels your soft cheek under his palm as he swipes a thumb shortly over your cut lip.

Then he grips the base and pulls up to his leaky tip with a tiny moan.

A dazed expression paints over your features, like you’re the one receiving any pleasure as he starts to really put his wrist into the movement. A tingle in his spine forms at the thought of doing this for anyone else. He would genuinely never imagine himself doing this, but the way he’s watching your lips tuck in to conceal a moan is truly a sight for sore eyes.

Spencer could most definitely cum. He probably should not if he doesn’t want to spoil the rest of the night just because for a fleeting moment he couldn’t control himself. Though. God, it would feel really good to just-

A roll of your hips against his thigh makes you and Spencer moan aloud in eerily similar octaves. 

“Can I touch myself?”

Your voice snaps him out of his inner monologue, fingers going lax around himself because if he’s touching his cock and hearing your voice simultaneously it’s going to end way too quick. 

“N-no-”

“Mmf- wh, huh?”

Consciously or not, your hips continue to roll circles onto his exposed thigh, the friction of your shorts with the pressure of his thigh makes you dig your nails harshly into his side.

“I just- no! I mean, let me do it for you. I’ll finish like this anyway.”

Without a reply, you let out a gentle gasp, dropping your head to your chest while you start dragging up and down against his thigh.

Spencer kind of just feels like watching, seeing your shoulders relax after everything this week has brought you is erotic in itself. 

Another squeak from your throat, “fuck, stop me please.”

Moaning the loudest all night at your response Spencer feels lightheaded. You can’t fucking help yourself.

Chest rising and falling rapidly now, Spencer’s hands find your hips, slowing your movements to a halt. You huff out a sigh and bend all the way down to reconnect your lips. In the momentum of slumping down you hit your lip a bit too hard against Spencer’s. A moan erupts out of you from the delicious sting while you integrate your tongue.

The filthy tongue kissing is distracting, but not enough to let slip the plan of Spencer helping you get off. Mind reeling, all the possibilities are tripping over each other in his head. Feeling your walls around his fingers, his lips around your clit. What do you taste like, feel like?

“Okay, okay,” Spencer whispers breathlessly, hoping that this plea reminds you of his aforementioned service towards you.

Dramatically, you roll off Spencer and lay on your back against the pillow next to where you two just were, nails trailing across his chest as you do so. A lazy spread of your thighs is the closest Spencer has felt to falling off a cliff, a silent beckoning that has him laying on his stomach between your legs in an instant.

He’s been in this position before, in fact. Not nearly in the way he is now though. Only previously has he situated himself like this when he was in FBI training. Sniper position. 

Hopefully Spencer will be better at this than the latter.

Soon you’re sitting up and grabbing at his shirt to fling it off onto the floor with his pants. He tries not to think about the grime from the floor all over his pajamas as he looks to you for consent on pulling off these shorts of yours.

“Can I take your shorts off. Um, and panties?”

You send him a sweet smile accompanied by a nod. Soon enough you’re taking off your tanktop too. Like it’s nothing. Like Spencer didn’t need time to prepare himself. Just as his fingers grasp the band of your shorts they’re stopping. Eyes glued and mouth hanging slightly open, Spencer gapes at your exposed breasts.

A dilemma. Should he continue with where he left off? Should he scoot up slowly and take one of your nipples into his mouth-

Before his brain can even finish painting the image he’s moving back up towards your face, giggling happily with you.

“Would you like to touch them?” Your grin is full of content admiration, not one of the smiles you’ve given him before, sly and seductive. This is you playing like real 20-something year olds do. The world outside of this room, the people you are– non-existent. 

What he would have missed.

“Uh-huh.” Spencer grins back, teeth on display. 

It’s almost hard to kiss and lave over your chest with the permanent smile keeping his mouth open. He can’t help it. The giddiness he’s experiencing is as strong as the loneliness he’s felt. Ever-consuming and solidifying, he is feeling himself heal from the inside out in your embrace. 

Like he’s booked a room on fucking prom night he feels so euphorically cliché.

You guide his hand to one nipple, he rolls it between the pads of his fingertips and you gasp, hips jumping up against his. Palming it once before rolling it again Spencer sucks a mark near your collarbone. He wants his lips on something.

 Wants a bruise to form on your skin that makes you feel beautiful– one that has a memory attached you’re not frightened of. 

Once “More…” slips past your lips he’s removing himself from your neck and placing his open and ready mouth on your other nipple, sucking lightly. Spencer fucking loves this. He licks with his tongue broadened before putting the nipple into his lips. Spittle drips between the cleavage of your chest all the while his hand is massaging your other breast.

Pulling away to see his damage, he smiles. Dazedly moves his mouth to your other breast like it’s second nature to him. The spit left on your breast works as a quick lubricant for his fingers to pull and rub at your nipple again. So focused on suckling your tits, Spencer is not aware of your humping against his hip bone. Moans spilling into the empty humid air alongside Spencer’s gentle hums of mania.

“Mmm, Spencer. I- fuck. Never took you for such a fucking tease. Did not expect to be on the brink of begging to cum tonight.”

Gasping for breath, Spencer detaches himself from you. He could have been doing that for five minutes or five hours, he has no clue. Regardless, he was not trying to wring you out– though the thought of you begging him to cum makes his figurative tail wag. Next time!

“Uhh. Sorry. Ha, do you still want me to-”

“Yes.”

“So I’m forgiven-” His smile grows as he positions himself between your legs again.

“Spencer-” A little whine, a furrow of your brow mixed with the small desperate shift of your hips sends him into a frenzy. Typically so tough and stoic around your team, begging him to touch you now.

Taking too long to pull your shorts and underwear down together, your hands push the fabric along with Spencers, the anticipation in your fingertips shocking him. 

Now with your clothes discarded, you and Spencer are both fully naked together. He rubs at the skin of your outer thighs to soothe any nerves you (or him) have, still getting acquainted with the way you like to be touched. He wants to do it so right you can’t think– wants to make you feel so good you can’t even fathom being stressed.

He kisses your inner thigh, stalling or just proving that he can kiss wherever he wants boldly. 

“Do you need- should I help?” You gasp out, remembering the inexperience he has, not wanting to intimidate him in a situation where it’s supposed to be life-altering.

“Mm. What do you like?” He speaks against the skin of your thigh, not wanting to pull away from its warmth yet.

“I just- God. Messy? Suction in your cheeks.. ah, should probably hold my legs down.”

Spencer can’t help the smile at your instructions, he can definitely do that. Moving away from the home he was making on your thigh he positions himself in front of your center. Slightly puffy and wet from the friction of grinding against him, he takes in the need painted all over you.

A small gust of air blows out of his lips onto your clit, your hips wiggle. He kisses it, the first taste of yourself against his lips and he aches for more. Licking up whatever you have dripped out during your rutting and whining, he tastes you fully for the first time moaning against your nerves. 

Messy, he remembers. Pulling away just slightly, he spits out a trail of saliva against your pussy, taking one hand off a leg he rubs it around in sloppy experimental circles. A loud moan from your lips as encouragement. Those same fingers pry your lips open wider so your clit is more exposed to him.

More spit and he’s sucking your bud into his mouth, hallowing his cheeks and running his tongue against you through suctions. His wet strands of hair are being yanked, a dull sting that has him rubbing his hips against the mattress.

“Yeah- good, good. You’re good-” you mumble out quickly. You must’ve remembered you’re his coach of sorts, not expecting the act to be so good you can’t explain it to him anymore.

A pitiful “ughn!” gets punched out of your chest as Spencer slurps up incoming wetness from your core up to his saliva pooling around your clit and swallows like it’s nothing. Spencer finds his favorite is sucking your clit between his lips and pulling away before letting it go back to place. It leaves your taste lingering in his mouth and has your legs spasming around him.

Replacing his tongue with two of his fingers rubbing back and forth against your clit, he wants to talk over the noises of wet friction coming from your bodies,

“You know– even though you’re laying there so pretty for me, your legs shake similarly to how your muscles would when working out. Your heart rate is increasing, adrenaline is spiking which is why you feel tingly. Am I right?”

“Spencer-”

Fingers slipping easily against you, he picks up his pace, “Your muscles are actually contracting in that same way as you would if you were working out. Tensing and releasing in the same manner- I mean. Your brain can’t differentiate the adrenaline either, which is why your body is reacting in this way. Lights up your nervous system like crazy too,”

“S-spencer-”

“Your sympathetic nervous system manages your fight or flight,” he pauses his sentence to switch fingers against your clit, a thumb coming to massage circles now, “triggering those moments of shaking, rapid breathing- crying-”

“Spencer- this. This is going to make me cum.”

You squeeze your eyes shut– shutting down your mind and body after your warning– letting him do whatever he wants with that information.

He decides to pull his fingers away to suction your clit again, wanting to taste you as you cum. 

Moans dissolving, your face twists up before finishing on his face with a long whimper. The aftershocks are so strong you’re rubbing yourself against his flat out tongue as you hiccup through the overstimulation.

It was shocking, to Spencer. Feeling so confident and in his element during this. Quite literally born to stick his tongue out for you to wiggle and hump against till your voice goes quiet. 

Quickly, Spencer moves up to kiss you again, making sure you know how badly he still wants to. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever cum that hard-” you laugh breathlessly, grabbing one of his wrists to bring his fingers that were against you to your mouth.

Leaving Spencer’s brain fuzzy, you place your tongue out before wrapping your lips around the digits, sucking yourself off of his skin. In his excitement he might’ve pushed his fingers down a bit too far, spit collecting at the corner of your mouth as you gag lightly.

Gently but swiftly pulling them out, he looks at you with concern filling his eyes. You just smile a pretty, lazy smile back at him laughing out a, “Fucker-”

‘I-I’m sorry.” He feels his forehead begin to sweat and an embarrassed flush melt his skin.

“Mm. Don’t be, baby.”

Baby. The old walls of the motel room are closing in on him. This is what he has been waiting to hear his whole life. A fucking pet name. Spencer can only give you a light awkward laugh in return.

Just like earlier this evening, you’re pushing one of his sides, silenting guiding him to go wherever it would please you. Spencer could die being your willing follower. This lands him on his back again. 

Looking down at his cock leaking by his belly button and his red skin on his sides from your scratching, he hums happily. You’ve sat yourself on his upper thighs, breasts above where he lays shining with his matted spit and he’s reminded how badly he wants them in his mouth again.

“Spencer, dear, how do you feel about me on top?”

“Uhhuh.”

“Yeah, uhhuh? Or “I don’t care” uhhuh?”

“Yes, please. Uhhuh.”

“So polite,” you coo, bending down to kiss his lips, hand gripping his jaw, “I can’t wait to feel you, fuck.”

Spencer is just trying to analyze the person who he was before this is over. How many times has he cum into his hand or against the mattress and deeply sighed after because it’ll never be a real person? Hyperbolic melodramatics aside, a lot. 

He feels you lift your hips up from his legs to position yourself over top of him, grabbing his base for it to stand upright for you. He groans, wants to continue to manhandle and correct him forever so he can be useful to you in this way. As long as he gets to see your wetness stick and collect against your skin as you open your legs wider.

Placing a palm against his chest you nuzzle his head in between you. Completely silent and focused, the room is merely filled with Spencer's borderline agonizing whines. While trying to fit him inside you, you're lubing him with yourself, slipping the head in for a moment, pulling out to rub against you, putting him back in, one delicious grind against his head– so on and so forth.

He briefly considers how this could get anybody to talk. We should use this in interrogations. Spencer would literally spill any secret for this to continue. 

A final pop signifies his head has fully entered you and the simultaneous gasp you both let out splashes heat into his face, his back arches. 

You make eye contact and give him a shy, reserved smile as you work your hips up and down, trying to take in as much as you can.

Huh? How can you feel shy– Spencer is elated right now.

“S-sorry. Ha, been a while..” You cut yourself off with a high pitched moan as another inch slides into you.

Huh?! You could literally just massage his dick against your clit like you were doing before and Spencer wouldn’t complain about anything for another month. How are you apologizing now?

“I can’t,” he laughs, “I can’t even talk. Right now, I can’t. Don’t say sorry.” Spencer tries his best at reassuring you.

“F-feeling good? I just want your first time to be, ah!-”

His eyes roll back as you take him fully, sat completely on his lap now, two hands gripping into his chest. He can feel the blood rushing in his veins and can count every atom in his body with how they’re vibrating. Yes, he feels good.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” becomes his mantra. Truly, really, he wants to talk to you. He needs you to know that this trumps all other first times ever in the history of the world. Spencer genuinely can’t get it out. So he nods and nods and nods while his heart thumps and saliva collects messily at the corner of his lips.

Grabbing a bit too much, honestly, he pulls you down to kiss him more. Making sure to kiss the cut on your lip before going in fully. Feeling you squeeze around him while pulling yourself up to begin bouncing, he gently licks your slightly parted lips, trying to taste your sweet sighs toppling out of them.

A small suckle against the tip of his tongue tenses his thighs and you pull away to where you were, using his chest as an anchor so you can bounce against him frantically. One of his hands is glued to your waist while the other is pulling at your nipple till you’re letting out uninterrupted groans. 

You throb around him and pause when his hand on your reaches to your other breast, kneading and pulling to match the other. He pushes the cups up with his palm while rubbing your pebbled buds between the side of his thumb and forefinger. The stimulation is delicious, unrelenting, and rough.

“Spencer- h-hold on, please. Gentle.” You gasp with a sigh as you slow down, not being able to focus on the right angle with his hands teasing you so much. He closes his eyes and smiles, hands trail slowly to your stomach, rubbing there.

Teasingly, you bring your fingers to Spencer’s own hardened nipples, rolling them between fingers briefly. Letting out an embarrassingly similar noise to “guh!” Spencer's eyes shoot open and your hands retreat.

Through a fit of giggles, you muster out a “sorry baby, had to!”

He sighs, settles back against the pillow more, “that felt good.”

“Mmhmmmm.” You smile and begin moving again. With Spencer’s hands needing a new place to go he eyes your clit peeking out between your sweaty bodies. Three of his fingers come together to rub circles against you that match your bounces.

“Shittt. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

How could he ever?

Sucking in a breath you slow your movements again, replacing them with a slow and deep grind against him as you take in both sensations simultaneously. Spencer watches your face, completely involved in consuming pleasure, almost a disbelieving shock written in your expression.

More of your slick pools around him, Spencer is acutely aware of it dripping down his very inner thigh to the mattress. You continue moaning softly in staccato, grinding your hips in circles as he plays with your clit. 

And just like that it’s gone. Your eyes open with a gasp as you stutter out, “s-sorry!” and go back to bouncing up and down on his length.

Again he’s confused. Spencer has never seen such a face full of pleasure, why would you stop?

“Wh? What's wrong?” He manages out with a scratchy throat.

“Hn? Ah, nothing. I just know that doesn’t feel that good for you guys-”

Spencer squints his eyes. What douches have you had sex with that have told you that grinding against them is less suitable than the bouncing? Is not watching you use them to get off not the sexiest thing ever? Literally. Ever.

Your back was arching and you could barely talk while your toes curl and you’re worried about him? 

“Noo, no. Angel- do it. Please, you can. Get off, just, yeah, use me to get off.”

Hands gripping your hips to stall them, your head falls back with a whimper. Panting breaths into the ceiling Spencer continues to guide your hips. Dragging them back and forth like how you were earlier.

“Fuck. Feels s’good. You’re like- I can feel you everywhere-” Your voice breaks on the last word, high pitched and frail as the grinding continues.

Allowing yourself to give into pleasure now, you’re moving your hips against him without the aid, leaving Spencer to circle your clit and moan at the sight of you.

Back bending prettily and mewling increasingly with the shaking of your thighs, Spencer senses your second orgasm is approaching.

“Shit. I- I think I’m gonna cum again, baby.” 

Your hand slaps against your mouth as you cum against Spencer, his fingers remain their circles on your clit, hips isolating to grind against you while you cum too hard to do it for yourself.

You gasp and slump your weight against Spencer’s chest, his dick falling out of you while you do so. His hands rub up and down the expanse of your back as you place kiss after kiss against his neck.

“Kay,” you begin rolling to your back, “your turn.”

Spencer looks over at you, grinning ear to ear. He was not expecting to be fashioning himself between your thighs tonight, he can barely contain his excitement as he rolls on top of you. Before he’s inside of you again and completely rendered speechless, he decides to get out all the words he couldn’t tell you before.

“You’re treating me so well,” he rests his head against your fluttering entrance, “I never imagined feeling so good,” he kisses your jaw, “such a good girl.” he finishes whispering against your ear as he slides inside of you.

This angle is different, for sure. Your legs are locked together against his back and having the free reign to control the thrusts and movements is making Spencer feel delightfully overwhelmed with desire.

He finds it’s easier to talk to you this way. So he’s running his mouth in pants beside your ear as you moan gently through overstimulation.

“You feel so wet. I could do this forever. I want to be around you forever. I’m so glad I’m here. You feel so good. I- I’m gonna cum.”

Pausing his rambling, Spencer stills his hips. Totally not wanting this to end and brutally aware that if he finishes right now he’s going to be completely knocked out after. His mind wanders to your cunt. You’ve orgasmed twice, you’re so wet around him that it’s been dripping everywhere for who knows how long. He has to taste you again.

Before he knows it, “Sorry-” is falling from his bitten lips and he’s pulling out of you. Your gasp makes him place a wet kiss against your stomach as he moves down between your parted legs.

This sight before him. Jaw dropping. All over your thighs and cunt is your and Spencer’s mix of fluids. You’re more swollen and open than before– he could still cum like this.

More gently than before he’s licking up everything that's smeared across your sensitive flesh in a dirty display of your feelings for one another. He’s moving his head around rather than his tongue, just maneuvering himself to savor everything you’ve expelled.

Muffled whines and pleads meet his ears doing so. Apparently, it’s “so much” and you “can’t cum again” but gripping his hair against you anyway. He’s never heard you so broken down and vulnerable as you beg him “please, please, please…” for maybe relief or for more. 

Bringing his hand down he slides in two of his fingers to rub at your walls. Certainly not as full as you were being fucked by Spencer, but still enough for you to leak the sticky white fluid you emit when being destroyed particularly well.

“Uh. Uh. Shit. Spencer. Mm. I feel like- I have to-” You babble pitifully as he sucks at your clit gently.

Whatever it is, he’ll take it. Lap it up and swallow it happily like a spoonful of sugar after cough medicine. 

Thighs closing in on his head, you cum again. Small bursts of fluid dribble out of you and pool around his fingers. So that’s what you were trying to say. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re so beautiful. That was so beautiful. Oh my god.”

Spencer is pulling his (very) wet fingers out of you to kiss all over your embarrassed face. 

“Please- Spencer. Cum in me.” 

Right. His dick is red and begging and drooling and twitching uncomfortably. 

Caging in your head with his forearms, he drops his forehead against yours and fucks himself back into you. Being wrapped around your warm, wet, tight pussy again makes him keen, shaking his head against yours like he can’t take all of it.

Your hands are combing reassuringly through his hair as you praise him, “you’re making me feel so good, nobody has ever made me feel so good. Baby, cum for me please, I need to feel you.”

With a bite of your lip between his teeth after a particularly toothy kiss, Spencer comes inside of you. Shaking like a leaf and whining through gasps he slides in and out, milking his cock for every last second it can survive inside of your heat.

Holding onto each other with a fervor not equipped for the unbearable heat wave outside you drag your lips, give small passing kisses while shuddering together. Hidden in the crook of your neck Spencer whimpers out, “I want to stay here forever.”

“Yeah? I do too.”

“I really don’t want to leave.”

You sigh but are smiling against his hair anyway, confidently hopeful without reason for the first time in your life. 

“We don’t have to.”

𓆱

6am the next morning a thunderous rain patters against the police stations windows, a deep abyss of dark sky wrongly indicating that the comforting blanket of night is still in place instead of the crack of dawn.

Spencer finds you separated from him again, the brutal reminder of you indeed not working on the same team churns his stomach. At the station Spencer builds a geographical profile to find the whereabouts of a certain fired theology professor, Dr. Lucien Harrow. 

Out in the whirling storms of Jefferson, you, Derek, Hotchner, and your unit chief who was particularly nasty to you are driving out to find where he resides, then, you can see if there may be any clues to where the cult is meeting. 

Spencer aches with the idea of you out in the flooded narrow backroads. Tree branches thrashing in the wind, skeletal fingers clawing at the sky in electric stripes. He should be there with you. Making sure nothing happens to you again.

Two sharp rings and Spencer is picking up his phone rapidly to your unsaved number. 

“Dr. Reid?”

“Y-yeah? Yes.”

“What can you tell us about that latin phrase from yesterday?”

“Daemonium Imperium, Fides Aeterna. It has ties to a rare Latin manuscript once banned by the Vatican, moreso a doctrine used by fringe sects of religious extremists, really.”

“So, this cult believes in sacrificial ascension? That death at the hands of a “faithful” leads to eternal peace and communion with the divine?”

“It could be–”

“He- he’s not here. At his house. There’s so much writing. The girls who died were not attacked by the cult or even failed escapees– they were offerings. The five who vanished had never tried to escape. They were elevated within the cult, chosen to carry out the "sacrifice" of their own sisters, believing this would grant them purity. It’s all in… he’s got this diary.”

Spencer's eyebrows shoot up, casting Elle a disturbed glance before he replies.

“Forward anything you found to our technical analyst, see if she can find any private property owned by Harrow. Or just–”

“What?”

“Just please be careful.”

A sigh from your side cuts through his ears, “I’ll try.”

Checking back to the fingerprints found in Harrow’s house, you consult your forensic notes from before in the car. The use of a mess to disguise markings, the complete lack of the unsub’s DNA, and the ritualistic carvings all point to someone not just avoiding detection, but trained to leave no trace.

Your brows furrow, “SSA Hotchner?”

He turns around to you with expectant eyes.

“If he’s so meticulous about cleaning up, most likely the cult grounds are going to be something he knows he has complete control over. Private property of some kind– where he knows he’s not going to be bothered. It’s not going to be open to the public.”

Hotchner nods, already moving toward the car door of the SUV, pulling out the radio from the passenger seat. Rain lashes sideways, but neither of you care.

“We need to cross-reference Harrow’s known associates and past property records, and contact your technical analyst. Anything purchased under shell corporations or family trusts,” you say, flipping through your notes as the others huddle under umbrellas. “Somewhere rural. Isolated. But not abandoned. They’re using this place regularly.”

Derek glances over your shoulder. “You think he’s the owner, or just the shepherd?”

You pause at that. “No. He’s the theologian. The teacher. This isn’t just about murder, this is doctrine. Someone else is in charge of logistics. He just gives the sermons.”

Derek finishes his urgent message to Penelope and within five minutes she’s calling back,

“I just pulled a deed registration from three years ago. Lucien Harrow’s mother passed away, and her will left him a parcel of land in Jefferson County. Sixty acres. No structures reported, but satellite shows some kind of development deep in the forest. Last updated… six months ago.”

The slamming of car doors shock your system as you snap back to reality, rain still coming down like judgment. 

Gravel being assaulted under hard screeching tires overpowers the hard rain as the SUV arrives. A long, low building, windowless, constructed of stone and wood, almost like a monastery. It hums. Not with electricity, with voices.

Whatever's waiting beyond that aged porch, it's not just a killer. It’s a belief system sharpened into a weapon.

Air is sweet and thick with incense and decay. The walls are covered in scripture, various Latin phrases written in blood and soot. Symbols carved into the stone, some fresh, some ancient. A narrow corridor leads deeper underground, illuminated only by flame sconces that flicker like they're breathing.

The infiltration of the compound was surgical and swift. Once the combined teams breached through the basement of the property, they were able to trap the cult members in the underground chamber with nowhere to run.

Those too stunned or resistant were restrained with minimal force, while others dropped to the ground, disoriented and exhausted. Mobile medical units waiting above immediately began triage, administering IV fluids and beginning the long process of deconditioning their minds from Harrow’s indoctrination. 

Once Spencer and Elle arrived on scene they quickly seized the grounds, uncovering journals, recordings, and ritual paraphernalia that provided indisputable evidence of psychological manipulation, religious abuse, and coercive control.

𓆱

“How many times do I have to tell you not to rush in like that, you were almost killed once. We don’t need somebody so liable on this team. We need to be able to count on one another.”

Back at the station, your unit chief growls lowly at you in disbelief, like you didn’t push along the whole case while he sputtered in confusion.

Spencer’s hands tremble slightly underneath the table, eyes locked in on your soaked frame. Prolonged exposure to cold rain increases the likelihood of developing pneumonia by almost 42%, especially when paired with elevated stress levels and lack of rest. 

Before he knows what he’s saying, “You don't get to berate someone for doing the job you failed to do.”

The room goes silent.

Hotch, watching the exchange from across the bullpen, steps in just as you start to gather your breath, taps your shoulder.

“Come with me,” he says, quiet but firm.

At the other side of the room Hotch walks you to a more secluded corner.

“He was out of line,” Hotch says finally. “But so were you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he continues before you can. Who is this guy to offer you any advice?

“However, you think like we do. You’re quick to act and you’re thoughtful. The relentlessness in your pursuit of the truth is not something we see often.” 

“Thanks?”

“We would benefit greatly from a forensic science perspective. The kind of work you’re doing, the casework...but you have to trust the team. You have to trust yourself.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears. Your wet clothes from earlier clinging to you uncomfortably as you feel eyes on you from across the room. 

“Wh-what?”

“You can’t keep pushing yourself to the edge, not without someone to have your back. Your team does not have your back. If you accept, I could request your transfer of units into the BAU in Quantico.”

You can feel the weight of his words settle in the air between you. Eyes comically wide you watch the way this past week has unfolded like a flip book. Never have you felt good enough, the constant ridicule of your all-male team and consistent chiding remarks have ground you down into a fine paste of the person you were on your first day.

You can’t tell if it’s the offer of a lifetime, or the fact that someone finally sees you, sees worth in you, beyond forensic input on a grisly crime scene or the hollow praise in the field after everyone’s gone home. 

You blink. Once. Twice. The room feels suddenly too small, your soaked shirt too tight, your voice caught somewhere between fear and desperate relief. Spencer. A laugh bubbles out of you, watery and raw. You swipe a hand over your face, unsure if it’s to wipe away tears or the sweat beading on your brow. 

“Yes. I accept. Thank you. Yes.”

A fatherly clap on your shoulder, Hotchner turns away winking over at Spencer where he’s still sitting, eyes dry from staring at your conversation so long across the room.

𓆱

Wet trousers stick to the flat area of the sink in the station's bathroom as Spencer opens your mouth against his, hands feeling all over your damp skin. The kisses are never ending. Brutally pushed against your lips or dusted around any skin he can find.

“I can’t. I can’t believe this. I mean, you’re beyond qualified and capable but- I never thought good things like this could happen to me.”

You place your head down and bite his blazer-clad shoulder.

“You’re not getting rid of me. This is insane. You’re going to be so sick of me.”

Two warm palms encircle your cheeks, “That’s not even funny,” Spencer kisses your mouth once, licks a stripe up your neck making you giggle. “You’re… you’re going to see my apartment, the plane… we won’t be doing filing work together you’ll probably be on the side with Garcia, but, but you’re going to help us so much. I can’t believe this. I’m going to be with you every day.”

A strike of uncontrollable happy tears prick your eyes. Looking at Spencer, you wrap your arms around him tightly– enough to break his back even, the total definition of a bear hug. Another kiss is being placed on your chilled skin.

“You worried me earlier. You can really get sick being all wet for this long. Let’s go back and change.”

For a moment it's as if the motel room is your and Spencer’s shared home of domestic bliss. The leaky ring around the ceiling of the bathroom and the draft from the old window harbors the most intricate portrayal of the life you’ve built in a week; obsessive, tender, but strangely whole. 

The scratchy carpet remembers the quiet shuffle of Spencer’s socks, and the chipped headboard knows the heat of his hands. There’s a toothbrush next to yours, the rest of his toiletries not even unpacked yet. It has held the illusion of permanence through your time spent there anticipating when it’ll all end.

But now, it doesn’t have to end. Not really. Not with the move, not with the way everything’s about to shift, closer, steadier. You’ll be in his world now, not just in passing, not just in moans swallowed by motel rooms dressed up as borrowed homes. 

The illusion starts to feel like something more: a prelude.

𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱𓆱 tags: @luvsvite @rainydayathogwarts @liuralibrar @cel070321

[spaceyaemonds]

Jack would be so tender with his daughter. I bet the reason she’s such a daddy‘s girl is because he just is always there. A silent protective figure, such a beacon of safety and I think Jack, even in his bad moods, he needs to be with his daughter. Even to his surprise because he’d think he was terrible company (would want to spare her) bc he’s moody and cynical. Even though she’s a baby they have a crazy understanding where they’re just at peace with one another, they kinda crave this silent closeness. It’s very cute/jealously inducing to mom.

I also think PittFest would be something hard for him to swallow because even though his family is safe, (they never went) it’s an event he can see his (eventual) wife and daughter going to and the knowledge that the world is kind of getting more crazier frankly terrifies him.

i love these future snippets of the cute domestic family. I’d love to see any more HCs if you got them. Like he comes home from a day shift and takes a bath with her while mom gets bedtime ready. He’s just in awe of her little baby toes and little rolls of fat as she splashes around getting out all that energy. He gives a big kiss on the head as she squawks in annoyance because he interrupted her playtime.

Or Jack and Robby trying to build a playhouse and absolutely flailing because there’s so many instructions and pieces. they end up taking the entire afternoon and rage cleaning several times, but after a couple of beers, they managed to complete it. of course, bug is annoyed the whole time she can’t play with her toy but playing princess tea party with her daddy and uncle Robby soothes her a bit.

Or Mama is getting a postpartum check up and Abbott going down to the ER to bother Robby with the baby, said baby getting whisked away by Dana, Perlah and Princess as they coo over her doughyness and gummy smile. Abbott is kinda like…they just stole my baby as he chats to Robby.

also like a little blurb of Collins and what she thinks of Mama and Bug. She was very present in the beginning of her life as she was still with Robby and she still has that closeness, but she did take a step back during the break up. Maybe it was her experience with bug that helped hee realize she wanted motherhood and during the Season 1 shift she sees Bug being a precocious toddler and it’s a bit of a tough pill to swallow. There’s like a complex feeling of love and jealousy, but then shame because of the jealousy, but overall love and sadness. She doesn’t regret her decision of abortion obviously because it was a right thing for her to do for herself at the time (and the optics of her relationship with Robby as her senior and honestly who knows if Robby could’ve handled it). But there’s always that ‘what would’ve happened’ especially as she’s facing infertility and since it seems that mama had a similar thing happen to her and made the opposite decision. Maybe as she’s driving home, she calls Mama and mama gives her her perspective about what she was feeling in deciding to keep Bug/how Abbot at that time was honestly a very reliable person and that helped her making her decision and how she thinks Collins is going to be such a great mother.

it’s not an over exaggeration to say I’m obsessed with this universe, and we’re constantly getting fed. You’re such a great writer and you really bring these characters to life. Thank you so much.

hi friend!! ahhh okay i’m answering this below the cut!!!

Jack loves his girl. Literally the second he sees her, his whole life is changed. He doesn’t leave her side unless he absolutely has to, which is more often than he would like for it to be. It’s a big reason why when he gets time with her, he just sits and holds her, at least while she’s still small enough to just want to be held. Before they all lived together, some mornings after a really rough shift, he just shows up at readers place, asking in a really solemn voice if he could just see her for a few minutes. Those mornings, he tends to spend the whole day with her while reader works unless she’s still being breastfed, then mom gets her for feedings. I definitely agree that he thinks he’s bad company! Especially as she starts getting older! But even then, they can just sit in silence, him watching her color or play, and her just wanting to be close to her daddy. Mom absolutely adores it, but can’t help but wish her baby wanted to do that with her too (even though bug literally goes to her mom all the time and they do almost everything together LOL).

When he goes home after PittFest, all he wants is to sit on the couch with his girls. When he heard the news, they had been getting ready to go to the aquarium, and he knew they were disappointed. He had to beg them to just stay in the house until he called. All he could think about was what would have happened if they had gone to the aquarium and it happened there? It shakes him to his core, and he spends that night extremely quiet with his baby on his chest and reader gripped to his left side.

I love them too!! This is just so much fun for me, I genuinely could not have imagined the amount of love that this is receiving, and I just am so glad to do and share all of this with you guys!! I have LOTS of headcannons!!

I think he craves doing the bedtime routine (feeding her, bathing her, putting her jammies on) after working a day shift because 1) it gives mom a little break but 2) that’s all the time he gets with her when he works days usually. He feels like he misses SO much that he just craves it. He also loves the baby smell mixed with the nighttime lotion, he’ll never admit it, but it helps him sleep at night too. He definitely also does interrupt whatever she is doing when he walks in, and though she sounds annoyed, her little laugh makes the annoyance worth it to him!

I’m gonna do separate drabbles for Robby and Jack building a playhouse, Jack taking the baby to the ER while mom gets a checkup, and the dynamics with Collins!!! Keep an eye out for those, I have lots of thoughts on them!!!

friend😭🥹🩷 this is so so sweet and i love how much you love it! your (and others who leave comments and asks) kind words keep me motivated to write! i know i said earlier, but i genuinely could have never imagined all of this positivity and kindness coming from my lil idea! thank YOU so much for your kind words!! i am so so SO excited to keep sharing it with you!! please feel free to send ANY and all thoughts/headcannons, just anything like this!!

[esote-rika]

Kiss it Better | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader Category: FLUFF Summary: You trip and bruise your knees, but Spencer is there to kiss everything better Content: 1k words, established relationship, Crime and Punishment spoilers??? fluff galore A/N: INCREDIBLY self indulgent—this is a real life story, except I didn't have a Spencer Reid to help me out. My knees are still bruised. It hurts to walk. Dedicated to @darkmatilda because she's a fellow Rodya girlie and she said something that made me laugh so I put it in the fic. Cute lil fluff before I go MIA <3

“It's your fault.”

“Mine? How on earth are your bruised knees my fault?”

“I was reading your book when I tripped.”

He laughs, cradling your legs on his lap as he holds the ice packs to your aching knees, “Sounds like you shouldn't have been reading while walking then, angel.”

“But it was beginning to get interesting!”

“Then it's Dostoevsky's fault for writing something so intriguing.”

“Don't pin this on that dead man, Spencer,” you narrow your eyes, attempting to glare, but it all comes across adorable. You squirm a little, as if that would help with your accusations and make him take you seriously, “You gave me the book.”

“Not with the intention to hurt you!” He's smiling as he holds your legs and stills your movements. Ever patient. Ever warm. You’d melt if you weren’t in so much pain right now and lavish him with kisses. Thank you, you’d murmur. Unfortunately, your tumble has put you in a petty mood. But that’s okay, he knows how to handle that too.

“Are you sure? Because you know it would have hurt me one way or another,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest, “Not physically like this, but I've heard you talk about it like it’s the height of literature so I know it would be—” 

“I’m of the opinion that it is the height of literature, angel.”

“— it would be—” you press on, shooting an annoyed look his way,  “—an emotional rollercoaster. It would have hurt my feelings. Just wasn't expecting it to give me bruised knees and a twisted ankle on top of the emotional damage.”

He has to hand it to you sometimes, you can be so dedicated to your petulance around him. Only around him. With everyone else, you’re so dependable and calm, but those walls collapse around his company, sweetening into something so charmingly vulnerable, so he nurtures the petulant pouting all the same. Coaxes it from the cracks of your typically put together demeanor with his own teasing words.

“Yeah, that was quite a fall,” he grins, softly, to cushion the playful sharpness of your complaints, “You almost became Rodya's third victim, huh?”

“Are you joking?” you wave at the ice packs balanced on your knees, sputtering in indignation, “I’m going to be immobile for the rest of the day and you're joking?”

“Indeed I am. It is well known that humor, more than anything else in the human make-up, can afford an aloofness and an ability to rise above any situation, even if only for a few seconds.” 

Your jaw drops, “I can't believe you're quoting Frankl at me. I'm sitting in excruciating pain, and you're making a joke and giving me a lecture. Low blow, baby, even for you.”

“I know, I know, angel, I'm sorry.” he murmurs, soothing over the wrinkles he’d deliberately caused. Grinning because he loves this. Loves you. Oh, he loves you so much, “No more European writers. I'll get you all the ice cream and chocolate you need, and then we'll stay inside all day to cuddle, how's that sound?”

“But I want to know what happens to Raskolnikov.”

He laughs, “All right, then I'll throw in a couple of chapters of Crime and Punishment.”

“While we cuddle?”

“Mhm.”

“You'll read for me?” the loveliest eyes peek up at him from beneath fluttering lashes. You know you don’t need to do that, he wouldn’t say no to you, but it’s part of the fun.

“Yes, angel.” He'll read for you anytime, helping you feel better is just an extra incentive. “Chocolates and cuddles and a good book.”

“That's it? Aren't you forgetting something? What happened to that eidetic memory?”

He frowns, wondering what else it is he forgot in his arsenal of things to help you feel better. He wonders if this is just banter, worries that he did actually forget something important.

“You have to kiss them better, genius.”

Ah. Both. How could he be so foolish? His face breaks into a smile. Without breaking eye contact, he sets aside the ice packs, and bends your legs up at an angle so he could have an easier time reaching it. Careful, always so careful but especially now from your bruises. Beneath all teasing, he knows you’re in genuine pain.

Slowly, achingly sweet, he brushes his lips over the bruised knee, the barest caress, warm lips against chilled skin. You suppress a shudder. He moves his lips up to your thigh delicately, teasingly. It's gone before the gasp leaves your lips, though that one brief second sends goosebumps crawling up your skin.

He moves to your other knee, touching his lips to the rapidly blooming purples on your skin, before finally pulling away.

“Better?”

“Much,” you nod, scooting over the couch to get closer to him. His body adjusts around yours in the cramped space, joints and angles poking into your soft, curling limbs. Tangled mess, but you love it all the same. You find yourself somehow nestled between his thighs, your head tucked beneath his chin. He holds the book with one hand, while the other is cupped at your knee, balancing the ice pack and drawing mindless circles over your skin. 

“What chapter shall I read?”

“Part one, chapter six. But Spence?”

“Yes, angel?”

“You owe me more kisses.”

Not that you need to ask, but okay. His lips land on your temple automatically, “Always a pleasure.” he mumbles, breathing in the familiar, soothing scent of your hair, “But may I know why?”

“You said I’d be Rodya's third victim,” you reply, remembering the details of the book and what he’d said earlier, “He was only planning to kill that old lady so… he kills more?”

There’s a pause, before he laughs, “That's a spoiler.”

“Book's been out for centuries,” you roll your eyes, “And yes, that's a spoiler, but one that you unintentionally gave me!”

“I'm sorry,” he laughs, putting down the book to cup your chin. Turning your face to him, he regards you with large brown eyes that seem to dance with love, “I guess you're right, I do owe you more kisses.” he says, before finally kissing your lips.

[wosospacegirl]

loved the latest alexia fic haha

i had an idea for us stem girlies (not wanting to study virology btw, so fkn real)

i was thinking a kika fic where readers a bio/stem student & is trying to teach kika something & likewise kika (and the rest of the younger barça girls) tries to teach r football

Summary: Y/N’s been buried in virus replication pathways for hours. Kika’s had enough.

A/N: for the STEM girls who haven’t seen the sun in 3 business days and need a footballer girlfriend to drag them outside - Everything written here was taken from my own notes...I hope they are right, or else it means I failed my own exam.

..

Y/n had been studying for what felt like seven years straight. 

Realistically, it had only been four hours, but time blurred somewhere between drawing replication cycles and muttering the difference between RNA-dependent RNA polymerase and reverse transcriptase.

Kika had been patient. She really had. She brought her water, kissed her temple, and even sat silently nearby, scrolling through TikTok while Y/n ranted about capsids and envelope proteins. 

But now it was too much.

“...and that’s why enveloped viruses are more susceptible to disinfectants,” Y/n concluded, still scribbling away. “You would’ve thought that the envelope would make them more resistant, right?”

There was a beat of silence.

“You realise we were just talking about lunch?” Kika said.

Y/n blinked. “Were we?”

“You brought up protein bars, and then somehow transitioned into protein coats. Again. That’s like the third time.”

“Okay, but it’s actually a really–”

“No.”

Kika stood up with the kind of quiet menace only a very tired girlfriend could summon.

“You need to get out of this apartment.”

“I’m busy! I have an exam, Francisca.”

“You need to touch some grass.”

Y/n gasped, clutching her notes to her chest. 

“You sound like my mom.. Are you okay? Did a neurodegenerative virus get to your brain?” Y/n  squinted her eyes, talking in a very mysterious and suspicious voice. “It could be rabies.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “Por favor, put on some gym clothes.”

“No.”

“You’re coming with me to the training ground.”

“I’m not playing football.”

“You are, just a bit. You’re going to run, breathe some fresh air. Maybe learn how to use your legs again.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “I feel like you want to sabotage my academic life.”

Kika deadpanned, “I just want to have a normal conversation with my girlfriend again.”

Half an hour later, Y/n was in mismatched gym clothes, standing awkwardly on the sidelines of the Barça training pitch while Kika passed her a ball.

“Okay,” Kika said. “Basics. Pass it back.”

Y/n kicked it directly into Kika’s shin.

Kika didn’t even flinch. “Right. That was bad.”

“Yeah, well,” Y/n muttered. “I use my brain, not my feet.”

“You used your foot just now,” Kika deadpanned. “You’re just not good at keeping control of it.”

Before Y/n could come up with a scathing reply involving cortical motor neurons, a trio of voices interrupted from behind her.

“Hi amiga,” Jana grinned, jogged up with Pina and Vicky flanking her. “That pass was criminal.”

“Terrible,” Vicky added.

Pina nodded solemnly. “You’re bad, bad.”

Y/n crossed her arms. “Wow, thank you. So much support.”

Kika smirked from the sidelines.

“She made me come here,” Y/n gestured vaguely toward her girlfriend, “because apparently I’m ‘studying too much’ and need to ‘go outside like a normal person.’”

The girls blinked.

“What are you studying?” Jana asked.

Y/n brightened instantly, like a switch flipped. 

“Oh! I'm doing an exam on virus replication pathways, and it’s super interesting because…wait–okay, so you know HIV, right?”

All three nodded slowly, unsure where this was going.

“Well, it’s a retrovirus, which means it uses reverse transcriptase to turn its RNA into DNA inside the host cell. And that DNA actually integrates into the host’s genome and–wait, let me draw it.”

Somehow, within ten minutes, they’d migrated off the pitch and into the tactical analysis centre. 

A whiteboard was pulled over. Y/n commandeered a marker, drawing the double-stranded DNA meticulously.

“This is the viral envelope, this is the capsid, oh, and DpRd-RT is like–the main enzyme you have to remember, alright? So now we have a full DNA–”

Pina was blinking rapidly.

Vicky was furrowing her brows like she was trying to understand it, really trying.

Jana had started taking notes on her phone.

Kika walked in fifteen minutes later, looking for her girlfriend.

“Amor,” Kika said slowly, “why is my team being held hostage by you and– ai meu Deus…is that a virus?”

Y/n turned around, completely unfazed. “I’m teaching them how HIV uses the host's RNA polymerase II to transcribe proviral DNA.”

Kika stared. “...This started with a bad pass.”

“And now it’s a public health seminar!” Y/n grinned. “Honestly? You're welcome.”

[crazydoughnutlady]

I opened my door… and it was her again

It was the same time traveler that kept crashing on my couch. I knew it was her even if she came back in different parts of her life each time.

“it’s it’s December 30,2019 and-” I began to rattle off the important information I so long ago, promised to give to time travelers. At the time I was hoping there would be more than just the one that always crashed on my couch. However I didn’t even start to rattle off the important major events that had happened when she interrupted me

“There’s a new sickness it’s going to change the world forever. You should stock up maybe some toilet paper maybe some snacks… you should probably get a real computer” she says, apathetically from the couch covered in bruises from who knows where and cuts from who knows what.

“what’s wrong with my laptop?” we had had this argument before or perhaps it was the first time for her. I could never tell when things happened for her, she always jumped about. Sometimes she was an old woman bringing me cookies one days the next she is a sassy teenager just looking to try and steal some of my wine.

“it will break and you’ll be trapped in your loneliness with only me to talk to, and we both know you’d go stir crazy from only talking to me” she rolled her eyes, apathetically, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV to flick through my Netflix.

“well where I’m gonna get the money for a new computer? Ever think about that miss time traveler?” in response, she threw a credit card at me. “who is this this?”

“A horrible person that you will hate in a few years time and that’s all you need to know don’t worry he has plenty of money to give you a computer so you’re not bored out of your mind.” She smiled like the cat that got a canary all teeth and no joy.

I rolled my eyes, “Fine I’m buy myself a damn computer if you tell me something…”

“sure as long as it doesn’t destroy the future, I’ll answer it”

“What’s your name you’ve been here countless times for me or maybe it’s just a few times for you. I can’t tell. Can I at least have your name?” She had been crashing on my couch on and off for about four years now, and never once had I successfully weaseled out her name.

It almost seemed like time stopped if it weren’t for the cars driving out the window or the neighbor’s loud ass TV next-door. I would think the world had frozen in place as she stared at me with her eyes unlike any other human I’d ever met unlike any creature from earth it was nearly impossible to describe her eyes when I first met her she wore sunglasses for that exact reason. They are swirling shifting colors, and pupils that seem to melt and morph each moment. She was a perfectly average looking person otherwise, but those eyes… nothing had eyes like those.

“Corona” with a simple word The spell was broken and she turned back to my Netflix. “if you must call me something you can call me that.”

It wasn’t lost on me that her name was literally the female version of the word Crono, named after the Greek Titan of time Kronos. But it is something a name to finally call her bye so the next day I went out and bought a new computer with the dubiously gained credit card.

——————————————————

I was sitting in the living room because there was not much else to do with the whole world on lockdown. Corona was right, there was a sickness that really changed the world hilariously COVID-19 and Corona the time traveler did sound a bit alike.

With barely inperceptible moment, completely invisible to anyone who is not familiar with time travelers the living room went from peaceful and calm to stilted and fearful.

There was a child on my living room floor. There was a small child crying her eyes out.

It was Corona but I’d never seen her this young. The youngest she had ever gotten was 14. The little girl in front of me could not be older than five.

How do you handle a crying child? One that probably doesn’t know you or perhaps does? She’s always been a mystery. Why does she always come back to me no matter apartments no matter cities no matter countries wherever I am she will always show up in time.

I sent to the floor tentatively, reaching my arms out for a hug, but not yet touching her, “hey, hey, it’s OK. I’m here. You’re OK. what’s wrong?” She looked at me with those strange, shifting eyes the pupils bigger and wobbly like little splatter shapes and her colors spinning wildly in various hues of blue.

“Mama?” She looked with wonder in her eyes and sniffled. She completed the hug that I had previously offered wrapping her arms tightly around me. “I knew they were lying! I knew that they were lying when they said you were dead! You’re right here!”

…

WHAT?

I’m her mother!?!

I mean, sure we have the same hair color and whenever she’s around my age, we look a little similar… but that doesn’t mean I’m her mom! I mean, what did I fuck to get eyes like that?

“Sweetie I think you’re a little confused. I’m not your mom… my name is Sarah Hillson, what’s yours?” I tried to take control of the situation. Maybe the child just made a mistake. I mean, why would someone spend so much of their life with their dead mom?

She looked up at me, those strange eyes, swirling evermore. “I’m-” she sobbed, “I’m Coronasvalin Ticker… but all my friends call me Corona”

“nice to meet you, dear you can always come to my place. Today is July 18, 2020”

You once made a promise to yourself: if you ever met a time traveler, it wouldn't be a big deal. You’d tell them the date, the most important political conflict, a recent technology, and send them on their way. You now encounter a time traveler nearly every week.