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reiding-writing · 6 months ago

Note

YOU OPENED YOUR REQUESTS?? omg a wonderful start to the new year!! ignore if this doesn’t speak to your soul— but would you be able to write a good old fashioned best friends to lovers, mutual pining fic for reid? i’m a sucker for the “he fell first, she fell harder” trope, like he’s been in love with her since day one and their friendship has always toed the line of something more, but she’s an oblivious genius and doesn’t realize how deep their affections for each other run……. and like when she realizes her feelings (like a brick to the head) she starts DISTANCING HERSELF OOH A LITTLE ANGST THERE and reid is like :(( what did i do :(( but it’s ok bc they smooch and make up in the end

263 DAYS — SPENCER REID!

a lot can change in 263 days.

spencer reid x fem!reader | 7.3k | flangst | masterlist.

a/n — writing longer fics like this is so fun but also so long, but it’s been nice to get back into it 🙂‍↕️

WARNINGS | friends to lovers, emotional distancing, brief (almost) argument, reader gets injured and goes to the hospital (but recovers fine), happy ending

DAY ONE

You step into the conference room of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, a mixture of nerves and anticipation twisting in your stomach.

The space feels both larger and smaller than you'd imagined—a sprawling table, chairs scattered in quiet disarray, and a dozen tiny details you'd only seen in crime documentaries and shadowed profiles on paper.

The faint scent of coffee and something metallic—maybe old ink—hangs in the air, grounding you. You take a slow, measured breath, trying to steady yourself.

You’re here. You made it.

“First day?”

The voice is soft, inquisitive, and it pulls your attention immediately. You glance to your right and meet the eyes of someone who seems equally curious and cautious, like a bird assessing whether you’re safe to approach.

He’s lanky, taller than you expected, with an untamed mop of brown hair and a pair of shoes that look like they’ve seen a decade’s worth of pavement. Spencer Reid, you realise.

“Yes,” you manage, your voice steadier than you feel. “And you must be Dr. Reid.”

He smiles at the title, though it seems more reflexive than genuine. He shuffles forward a step, hands awkwardly held together behind his back. “Just Reid. Or Spencer. Whichever you prefer.”

You offer your hand to him, nervous, but inviting. “Nice to meet you, Reid.”

He nods quickly, eyes flickering over your hand like he wants to take it, but he doesn’t. “Sorry, I don’t uh— germs—”

“Oh,” You pull your hand back a little too quickly, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket. “Sorry, uh—”

“No, no, it’s not you, I’m just— conscious about it,” He presses his lips together in what almost a smile, a silent apology.

You mirror it. “It’s nice to meet you anyway,”

“You too,”

His gaze flicks over you, not in the usual appraising way you’ve grown used to from strangers, but more like he’s cataloging details he can’t quite put into words. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just pure, unabashed interest.

“You’re nervous,” He says, then winces. “Sorry. That sounded... obvious. I just meant—it’s normal. Most people are their first day. Especially here,” His voice lowers slightly, conspiratorial. “It can be... intense.”

A laugh escapes you, light and involuntary, breaking the tension in your chest. “Not exactly comforting, but thanks for the honesty,”

This time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I’m not great at comfort, but I excel at honesty.”

You find yourself smiling back, even as a small voice in the back of your mind whispers that you shouldn’t let your guard down so easily. Not here, not yet.

But something about Reid—his sincerity, the way he tilts his head like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only you can provide—makes it hard to resist.

“So, what brought you to the BAU?” he asks.

The question is simple enough, but the weight behind it is clear. He isn’t just asking out of politeness; he genuinely wants to know. You consider your answer carefully, aware of the dozen eyes that will likely follow your every move today.

“Truthfully? It’s… been a dream for years,” you admit. “I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of it. How people work, why they do what they do. And... I guess I wanted to make a difference,”

His expression shifts, softens, like you’ve just handed him a piece of yourself and he knows better than to drop it. “That makes sense,” he says quietly. “You’ll be good at this,”

The confidence in his words surprises you. “You don’t even know me,”

“Not yet,” he says, and there’s something almost playful in his tone. “But I’m usually good at reading people. Comes with the job,”

“Any initial impressions?”

He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he might deflect. But then his gaze meets yours again, steady and unwavering. “You’re smart. Observant. But you second-guess yourself more than you need to. And... you’re kind. I think you’ll see things others might miss because of that,”

The honesty in his voice leaves you momentarily speechless. Kind isn’t a word you’d ever considered an asset in this field, but the way he says it makes you wonder if it could be.

“Thanks,” You say, and mean it.

Before he can respond, another voice cuts through the room. “Reid! Stop monopolising the newbie and get over here.”

You glance over to see another man—broad-shouldered, with a gruff boyishness to him. If you had to guess, you’d say that Derek Morgan.

Reid offers a small, apologetic shrug and gives you a quick, almost shy smile before moving to join the others.

As the team gathers around the table, you feel his presence more acutely than you should, like an invisible thread connecting you even when you’re not speaking. Every so often, you catch him glancing your way, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to figure out a particularly tricky equation. And maybe he is.

Over the course of the day, you learn what makes Reid so extraordinary.

The encyclopaedic knowledge, the way his mind works at lightning speed, piecing together patterns and details that no one else sees.

But you also notice the little things—the way he fidgets with a pen when he’s nervous, the way his voice speeds up when he gets excited, the way he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating mystery he’s ever encountered.

By the time the day ends, you’re exhausted but exhilarated, your head spinning with new information and possibilities. As you gather your things, Reid approaches you again, his movements hesitant but deliberate.

“You did well today,” he says, and there’s no trace of condescension in his tone—just genuine praise.

“Thanks,” you say, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the compliment itself and everything to do with who it’s coming from.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, as if unable to stop himself, Reid blurts out, “You’re going to fit in here. I can tell,”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And you’re sure about that? Already?”

He nods, his gaze earnest. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just... I feel like you belong.”

The words linger between you, heavy with a meaning you can’t quite name. You smile, soft and unsure, and he mirrors it, his expression a little brighter than before.

As you walk out of the building together, the weight of the day finally settling on your shoulders, you can’t help but think that maybe Reid is right.

Maybe you do belong here.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE

The BAU has a way of warping time. Six months can feel like six years, and yet, it can pass in the blink of an eye.

By now, you’ve settled into the team, carving out a place that feels solid, even comfortable. The initial nerves have faded, replaced by a quiet confidence that surprises even you. But the biggest surprise is Reid.

Somewhere along the way, he’s become your constant. Late nights poring over case files often turn into coffee runs, his impossibly detailed book recommendations have all but taken over your nightstand, and your shared chess games have become an unspoken ritual, the board tucked into the corner of the break room practically reserved for the two of you.

It’s not that you don’t notice the way he seems to gravitate toward you—it’s just that you don’t think much of it.

Reid is Reid: attentive, brilliant, and endlessly curious. If he listens a little more intently when you speak, if his smiles linger longer than necessary, if he remembers details you barely recall sharing, well, that’s just how he is. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The morning starts like any other.

A case has just wrapped, leaving you with a rare, precious day in the office to catch up on paperwork and recover. The bullpen hums with low chatter and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, but your attention is elsewhere—specifically on the chessboard in front of you.

“Check,” Reid announces, his tone smug but his face a careful mask of neutrality. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, his expression daring you to find an out.

You narrow your eyes at the board, studying the positions like your life depends on it. “I don’t like you very much right now,” you mutter, earning a soft laugh from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, his voice warm.

“Don’t I?” you quip, your fingers hovering over your knight. You’re stalling, and he knows it.

“Take your time,” he says, though there’s a playful glint in his eye. “It’s not like you have anything else to do today.”

You glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re enjoying this too much,”

“Maybe a little,”

The banter is easy, familiar. It’s become second nature by now, a rhythm you fall into without thinking. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, you move your knight, narrowly avoiding defeat.

Reid’s brow furrows as he examines the board. “Not bad,” he concedes.

“I’ll take it,” you reply, leaning back in your chair and stretching.

“Lunch?” he asks, already rising to his feet.

“Let me guess,” you say, smirking. “Thai food again?”

“It’s efficient,” he says, as though that explains everything.

“Efficient isn’t the same as exciting,” you tease, but you grab your jacket anyway.

The walk to the nearby restaurant is brisk, the February air biting against your skin. Reid falls into step beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Did you finish that book I lent you?” he asks, glancing at you.

“Not yet,” you admit. “But I’m close. You were right—it’s better than I expected,”

He grins, and you feel a flicker of satisfaction at the sight. “Told you. It’s all about the narrative structure. Did you notice how the author—”

“Reid,” you interrupt, laughing. “Save the lecture for later. I’m still processing and I have a feeling you’re going to spoil the ending,”

He huffs but lets it go, his grin lingering.

—

Back at the office, you dive into the endless pile of paperwork waiting on your desk. Hours pass in a blur of forms and reports, the steady hum of activity around you lulling you into a comfortable rhythm.

It’s only when a steaming cup of coffee appears in your peripheral vision that you realize how long you’ve been sitting there.

“Thought you could use this,” Reid says, setting the cup down beside you.

You blink up at him, surprised but grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” he says, his lips twitching into a small smile.

He doesn’t leave, instead pulling a chair up beside you and settling in. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet companionship as natural as breathing.

“You know,” you say, glancing at him, “you don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not,” he says simply. “I like being here.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you pause, a softness that feels almost... vulnerable. But before you can dwell on it, he shifts the conversation, asking about your latest case report.

The moment passes, but it stays with you, an echo at the back of your mind.

—

The day winds down with another chess game, this one more competitive than the last. The bullpen has emptied out, the rest of the team long gone, leaving just the two of you and the faint hum of the building’s heating system.

“Checkmate,” Reid announces, his tone triumphant.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table. “I give up. You’re officially unbeatable,”

He laughs, the sound soft and unguarded. “You’re getting better,” he says, and you know he means it.

“Flattery won’t save you next time,” you say, sitting up and meeting his gaze.

His smile falters, just for a moment, and there’s something in his eyes you can’t quite place—something intense and unspoken. You tilt your head, about to ask if everything’s okay, but he looks away, busying himself with packing up the chess pieces.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Of course,” you say, watching him.

As you part ways for the night, that look lingers in your mind, and for the first time, you wonder if there’s more to Reid’s attentiveness than you’ve allowed yourself to see.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOUR

It starts with the little things.

You notice Reid’s uncanny ability to anticipate your needs long before you voice them. A cup of your favorite tea waiting for you on your desk after a long day.

A book you mentioned in passing, slipped into your bag with a handwritten note on why you’d love it. The way he finishes your sentences, not out of impatience, but because he’s somehow always attuned to what you’re thinking.

It’s Reid being Reid, you tell yourself. He’s observant, that’s his job. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

But then there are the things he shouldn’t know. Like how your nose crinkles when you laugh too hard, a detail even you hadn’t thought about until you catch him smiling faintly at the sight. Or the way he hums along, almost unconsciously, to the songs you sing under your breath while focused on paperwork.

You’d dismiss it as coincidence, but Reid doesn’t believe in coincidences.

It’s a cold, gray morning when the call comes in—a double homicide in a rural town that has the local police out of their depth. By mid-afternoon, you’re knee-deep in the case, the clues coming together like pieces of a grim puzzle.

You and Reid are tasked with canvassing a suspect’s property, a sprawling, dilapidated farmhouse that creaks ominously with every step. It’s quiet—too quiet—and the sense of unease prickles at the back of your neck.

“I don’t like this,” you mutter, glancing at Reid.

He nods, his hand hovering near his weapon. “Neither do I. Let’s stick together,”

The words are barely out of his mouth when it happens. A figure bursts from the shadows, wielding a machete with reckless desperation.

You react instinctively, your weapon raised, but the suspect moves faster than you expect, slamming into you with full force.

Pain explodes in your side as you hit the ground, the breath knocked from your lungs. Reid’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The suspect hesitates for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Reid to act. His shot is precise, disarming but not lethal, and the suspect crumples to the ground, writhing in pain.

Reid is at your side in an instant, his hands trembling as he presses them against the slash on your side, stumbling through the order for a medic on his radio.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice tight with panic. “You’re going to be okay.”

You manage a weak laugh, wincing at the pain it causes. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, Reid,”

His eyes dart to yours, wide and filled with something that looks an awful lot like fear. “Don’t joke,” he murmurs. “Please don’t joke.”

His hands are gentle but firm as he applies pressure to the wound, his lips moving in a quiet stream of reassurances you barely register. “Just breathe. Help’s on the way. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

The world blurs at the edges, but through it all, you feel him—his presence steady and unyielding, anchoring you to the moment.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND SIX

You wake in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling your nose. It takes a moment for the haze to clear, and when it does, the first thing you see is Reid.

He’s sitting in a chair beside you, his posture stiff, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and his hair messier than usual, but when he notices you stirring, his expression softens with relief.

“You’re awake,” he says, and there’s a faint tremor in his voice.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, your voice hoarse.

His laugh is soft, almost disbelieving. “You have a talent for understatement,”

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and for a moment, he just looks at you. There’s something in his gaze—something raw and unguarded—that makes your chest tighten.

“I thought—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I don’t know,”

“I’m alright, Reid” You offer gently.

He nods, but his jaw tightens as if he’s holding back a thousand words. “You scared me,” he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach out, your fingers brushing his arm, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “I’m okay,” you say, and though the words feel inadequate, they seem to bring him some comfort.

For the rest of the night, he stays by your side, his quiet devotion more reassuring than any words could be. And for the first time, you start to wonder if there’s more to Reid’s attentiveness than you’ve allowed yourself to see.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN

The BAU rarely has time for unwinding, but tonight is one of those rare evenings. A case has wrapped early, the unsub is in custody, and Hotch decided to reward the team with a dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant not far from Quantico. The room is filled with laughter, the clink of glasses, and the scent of fresh bread and marinara.

You sit sandwiched between Morgan and Reid, your wine glass half-full and your plate of pasta nearly untouched. The conversation flows easily—Morgan cracking jokes, Garcia spinning outrageous anecdotes, Rossi offering sage commentary.

You chime in when prompted, but your mind is elsewhere, your attention flicking between your teammates and the warm, intimate glow of the restaurant.

It’s when the laughter swells again, this time at something Garcia said, that you notice it.

Reid’s gaze.

He’s looking at you, not laughing, not even smiling, just... looking.

It’s not the way someone glances at a friend or colleague. His eyes hold something deeper, something unspoken but achingly clear. Admiration. Longing. Affection so palpable it steals the breath from your lungs.

The realisation hits you like a freight train, or perhaps a brick to the head, straight into your brain like it’s punishing you.

Every late-night chess game. Every quiet conversation over coffee. The way he remembers the smallest details about you, the warmth in his voice when he says your name, the way his presence feels like a comfort you didn’t know you needed—all of it comes crashing into focus.

How had you missed it?

But the thought doesn’t end there. Because as much as his gaze stirs something in you, it also forces you to confront the ache you’ve felt for months.

The way your chest tightens when he smiles at someone else. The way your pulse quickens when he’s near. The way your stomach flips at the simplest touch—a brush of his hand against yours, his knee grazing yours under the table.

Oh no.

Panic bubbles in your chest, threatening to spill over. You tear your gaze away, your hands fumbling for your wine glass as you take a too-large sip. It does little to steady you.

“Hey,” Morgan says, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You good? You’ve been quiet,”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, the words too sharp, too rehearsed.

Morgan raises an eyebrow, but thankfully, Garcia swoops in to demand his attention, sparing you further interrogation.

Beside you, Reid shifts slightly, his knee brushing yours again. The touch is electric, sending a jolt straight to your heart. You chance a glance at him, and for a moment, you think he might say something, but instead, he simply offers you a soft, almost hesitant smile.

It’s that smile—sweet and unguarded—that undoes you.

You force yourself to focus on the chatter around the table, the way Garcia’s voice rises animatedly, the way Rossi’s laughter rumbles like distant thunder.

Anything to keep from drowning in the realisation that Spencer Reid, your closest friend and the person who knows you better than anyone, has somehow become the centre of your world.

And worse—much worse—is the fear that you’ve been blind to his feelings for so long, that your obliviousness might have hurt him in ways you don’t yet understand.

By the time dinner ends, your head is spinning, your chest tight with emotions you don’t know how to name, let alone confront.

As the team begins to gather their things and head for the door, Reid lingers beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You force a smile, though it feels brittle. “Just tired. Long day,”

He nods, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t fade. “If you need to talk—”

“I’m fine, Reid,” you say, a little too quickly. A little too sharply.

His expression falters, and guilt twists in your stomach. You want to explain, to tell him that your panic has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’ve just realised you’re in love with him. But the words stick in your throat, too raw, too terrifying to voice.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you manage, grabbing your coat and heading for the door before he can respond.

As you step into the chilly night air, the weight of your realization settles over you, heavy and inescapable.

You’re in love with Spencer Reid. And you have no idea what to do about it.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-TWO

The days that follow are a blur of avoidance and self-doubt. You bury yourself in work, volunteering for extra tasks, lingering at your desk long after everyone else has gone home. When Reid suggests coffee or a quick game of chess, you make excuses—paperwork, errands, a headache.

“It’s not you,” you insist each time, forcing a smile that you hope looks convincing. “Just busy.”

But it is him. Or rather, it’s you. The truth feels too messy, too raw to share. You can’t bear the thought of risking your friendship, of letting your feelings slip and watching the warmth in his eyes dim with awkward discomfort. It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Cleaner.

It doesn’t feel cleaner. It feels awful.

—

Reid is nothing if not perceptive. You know this, and yet it still catches you off guard when he notices your distance almost immediately.

At first, he’s subtle about it. A furrowed brow when you brush past him in the bullpen without stopping to chat. A quiet “Are you okay?” when you excuse yourself from a team lunch, claiming a nonexistent phone call.

But as the days stretch into weeks, his concern deepens.

One evening, after a particularly grueling case debrief, he approaches your desk with a tentative smile, holding out a steaming cup of your favorite tea.

“Peace offering?” he says lightly.

You glance up, surprised, and for a moment, the warmth in his expression makes your resolve waver. But then the weight of your feelings crashes over you again, and you force a polite but distant smile.

“Thanks, Reid,” you say, taking the cup without meeting his eyes. “But I really need to finish this.”

He hesitates, the smile slipping. “Did I... do something?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut. You look up, startled, and find him watching you with a mixture of confusion and hurt that makes your chest ache.

“What? No, of course not,” you say quickly, too quickly.

“Then why—” He stops, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “What’s wrong?”

Your heart sinks. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you lie, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know he doesn’t believe them.

“Right,” he says softly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

The silence between you stretches uncomfortably, heavy with everything you’re not saying. Finally, he nods, stepping back.

“Okay,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll… let you get back to work, then,”

As he walks away, a knot of guilt tightens in your chest. You want to call him back, to explain, to apologise, but the words won’t come. Instead, you sit frozen at your desk, watching him retreat with his shoulders slightly slumped, and wonder if you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

—

That night, Reid lies awake, staring at the ceiling of his apartment as your words echo in his mind.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

The lie is so transparent it hurts. He replays every recent interaction, searching for the moment he might have crossed a line, the moment he lost you.

Did he hover too much? Was he too pushy with his invitations? Did he say something wrong?

The thought that he might have ruined your friendship gnaws at him, an ache that refuses to fade. He tries to focus on the logical, the facts: you said he hadn’t done anything.

But facts don’t explain why the laughter in your eyes has dimmed, why the easy rhythm of your friendship has crumbled into awkward silences and forced smiles.

He doesn’t sleep that night, and by morning, he’s no closer to an answer.

But one thing is clear: he can’t lose you. Not like this.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-NINE

It’s late when the team finally returns to Quantico, the exhaustion of a long case settling over everyone like a heavy fog. You’re the first to escape the bullpen, eager to retreat to the quiet sanctuary of your apartment. But just as you grab your coat, a voice stops you.

“Can we talk?”

You turn to find Reid standing behind you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression a mix of worry and determination.

“Reid, I’m really tired—”

“Please.” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes searching yours. “Just a few minutes.”

You hesitate, your instinct to avoid clashing with the ache in his voice. Finally, you nod, letting your coat drop back onto the rack.

He leads you to one of the empty conference rooms, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Did I do something to upset you?” he asks finally, his voice trembling slightly. “Because if I did, I—I don’t know what it was. And I need to know, because you’ve been distant, and I—” He falters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

The raw honesty in his words nearly undoes you. “Reid...” You take a step back, panic rising in your chest. “You didn’t do anything. I’ve just… been busy.”

“Busy?” he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief. He looks up, and the hurt in his eyes is like a punch to the gut. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

You stammer, searching for an excuse, but the words feel hollow even as you speak them. “It’s just... work has been overwhelming, and I haven’t had time, and—”

“Stop,” he says softly, cutting you off.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know you,” he says, his voice steady now, though there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. “I know when something’s wrong, and something is wrong. You don’t avoid people because you’re ‘busy.’ You don’t avoid me unless there’s a reason.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “I’m not avoiding you—”

“Yes, you are,” he says firmly. He takes a step closer, his expression earnest, pleading. “I just... I need to understand. Did I do something to push you away? Did I say something, or—”

“No!” The word bursts out of you, louder than you intended. You see him flinch slightly, and your resolve crumbles. “No, Reid, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then why?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Why are you pulling away from me?”

His hurt expression cuts you to the core, and for a moment, you consider telling him the truth—laying it all out, messy and terrifying as it is. But fear holds you back, the fear of ruining everything, of crossing a line that can never be uncrossed.

“I can’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I just... I can’t.”

His brow furrows, confusion clouding his features. “Can’t what?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unanswerable. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, and what you see there—hurt, confusion, and something deeper, something vulnerable—almost breaks you.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, the words barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

And before he can say another word, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the empty room.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE

You don’t even remember the drive to Reid’s apartment. The streets blur past in a haze of headlights and cold January air, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

The weight of your own cowardice has become unbearable. His hurt expression haunts you, replaying over and over, the echo of his words a constant refrain: “Why are you pulling away from me?”

You can’t do this anymore. You can’t keep pretending you’re fine when every moment away from him feels like a slow unraveling.

By the time you reach his door, your nerves are frayed to the breaking point. You hesitate for a moment, your hand poised to knock, before finally forcing yourself to take the leap.

Three short raps echo in the quiet hallway.

The door opens after a moment, and there he is—Spencer Reid, standing in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, his expression wary but softening the instant he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice uncertain.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and unfiltered. You take a shaky breath, clutching the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the moment. “Can I come in please?”

He steps aside immediately, his concern deepening as he watches you.

Once inside, you pace the small living room, your hands trembling, your mind racing. Reid stands by the door, watching you with a mix of confusion and apprehension, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Okay, you’re scaring me a little,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

You stop pacing, your back to him, and close your eyes for a moment, gathering every ounce of courage you have. When you turn to face him, the words tumble out in a rush.

“I have been avoiding you,”

He knew that. But hearing you say it tears him up just a little.

“because I’m an idiot,” you continue, your voice trembling. “Because I thought it would be easier to push you away than to deal with the fact that I—” You falter, your throat tightening, but you force yourself to continue.

“I’m in love with you, Reid.”

His eyes widen, his lips parting in surprise, but you keep going, afraid that if you stop now, you’ll lose the nerve to finish.

“And I was scared. Scared of ruining our friendship, scared you’d look at me differently, scared of losing you. So I distanced myself, and it was stupid and selfish, and I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks, and you take a shaky step toward him. “I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

For a moment, the silence is deafening. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stares at you with an unreadable expression.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please?”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he takes a step toward you. Then another. And another, until he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day we met,” he says softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he continues, his eyes searching yours. “You’re brilliant and kind and funny, and you make me feel like I’m not... like I’m not so different. I didn’t want to risk losing you, so I kept it to myself, even though it killed me to see you pull away.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, a rush of relief and disbelief and something achingly tender.

“Spencer...”

He steps closer, his hand lifting to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear. You bury your face in his shoulder, the familiar scent of him—coffee and faint traces of his shampoo—wrapping around you like a balm.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur against his chest, your voice muffled.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your arms. “Don’t be,” he says, his gaze soft and unwavering. “We’ve both been scared. But we don’t have to be anymore.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek, and he brushes it away with his thumb, his touch lingering.

“Does this mean I can invite you to coffee again without you running away?” he asks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. “Yeah, yeah that’d be nice—”

His smile widens, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and press your lips to his.

The kiss starts tentative, a soft brush of lips, as if both of you are testing the waters, unsure of what to expect after so long of keeping everything bottled up.

But as the seconds pass, as your heart beats faster and your pulse races with the rush of finally having everything laid bare between you, the kiss deepens.

It’s overwhelming, more than you ever imagined. The gentle pressure of his lips on yours sends waves of warmth through you, and it’s as if everything else—everything you’ve been afraid of, everything that’s kept you distant—melts away in that single, perfect moment.

The tension, the months of pining and longing, spill into the kiss, filling the space between you with everything you’ve been holding back.

You slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he responds instantly, his hands moving to your waist, holding you tightly as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. His lips are soft but eager, the kind of kiss that says everything words couldn’t express.

The world outside this room fades into nothingness—the hum of the city, the quiet night air, the noise of your past self-doubt—all of it is gone. It’s just you and him now, tangled up in each other in a way that feels so natural, so right.

You pull back slightly, breathless, and when you look at him, the expression in his eyes is one of pure awe. He’s looking at you like you’re something he’s dreamed of for so long but never thought he’d get to touch.

“You,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,”

You laugh softly, still reeling from the intensity of the kiss, the electric feeling of his arms around you. “I think I have some idea,” you say, smiling through the haziness of your emotions. “I’m not that oblivious,”

He smiles, a little sheepishly, and presses his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well… I guess we’re both just really good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” you say, your voice filled with newfound certainty. “No more pretending. No more running. From now on, it’s just... us.”

Reid’s smile widens, and he nods. His hands move to cup your face, the touch tender, reverent. “I promise,” he says softly. “I promise, I won’t let fear get in the way again,”

You nod, your chest swelling with relief. You feel the same. Fear won’t keep you apart any longer.

The transition from being friends to lovers feels seamless, like something that was always meant to happen but only needed the right moment to click into place.

There’s no awkwardness, no second-guessing. It feels like this was the way things were always supposed to be, as if every conversation, every shared laugh, every moment you’d spent together was building toward this.

“You know,” he says quietly, a hint of playfulness returning to his voice, “I think I’m starting to like this ‘not pretending’ thing.”

You chuckle, your heart full, and pull him into another kiss, this one more relaxed, more comfortable. There’s no rush now—just the simple, perfect feeling of being in his arms, of knowing you don’t have to hide anymore.

When you pull away again, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I love you,” you murmur.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice a little thick with emotion. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything you’ve both been through.

And as you stand there in his arms, the world outside his apartment feels like a distant memory, something far away that no longer matters. All that matters is the feeling of being together, of stepping into the future with him, side by side. No more fear. No more distance. Just you and him.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX

Returning to work after that night feels surreal, like stepping into a world that’s familiar but somehow brighter, sharper. Everything feels new, but also so wonderfully right.

The team notices almost immediately. They’re profilers, after all.

It starts with the little things—your hand brushing against Spencer’s as you both reach for the same file, the soft, shared smiles exchanged across the bullpen, the way you instinctively gravitate toward him during team meetings.

Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up the first time he catches Spencer stealing a glance at you, his expression so openly fond it borders on dreamy.

“Something you want to tell us, Pretty Boy?” Morgan teases one morning as Spencer sits at his desk, clearly distracted.

Spencer startles, his ears turning red as he fumbles with his pen. “I—uh, no, nothing.”

From her desk, Garcia narrows her eyes suspiciously, then looks at you, her gaze bouncing between the two of you like she’s connecting the dots. “Wait a second. Are you two—?”

“We’re not talking about this,” you say quickly, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays your attempt at sternness.

“Oh, we will talk about this,” Garcia says, grinning triumphantly. “Just as soon as I gather my emotional support snacks.”

Hotch and Rossi, ever the professionals, don’t comment, but the knowing looks they exchange speak volumes.

So does the HR form that magically appears on your desk the same afternoon.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE

A quiet afternoon, as the team prepares for a lull between cases, Spencer walks into the bullpen holding a carefully wrapped package. The sight of him—nervously shifting from foot to foot, his hair slightly mussed, his tie askew—makes your heart ache in the best way.

“Hey,” he says softly, approaching your desk.

“Hey,” you reply, setting aside the file you’ve been working on. “What’s that?”

He holds out the package, his fingers brushing yours as you take it. “It’s for you,” he says, a little shyly. “I’ve had it for a while, but… I was waiting for the right moment,”

Curiosity piqued, you carefully unwrap the package, your breath catching when you see what’s inside: a first-edition copy of a book you’d mentioned offhandedly months ago, a rare find you never thought you’d own.

“Spencer,” you breathe, running your fingers reverently over the worn leather cover. “This is—this is incredible.”

He shrugs, his cheeks flushing pink. “I remembered how much you loved it, and, well… I wanted you to have it,”

You stare at him for a moment, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the gesture, by the quiet devotion it represents. Setting the book aside, you rise from your chair and step closer to him.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice soft but filled with emotion.

Before he can respond, you lean in and kiss him, your hands resting gently on his shoulders. It’s not your first kiss, but it feels just as electric, just as full of promise.

When you pull back, his eyes are bright, his smile soft and radiant. “I think I like this ‘new chapter’ we’re in,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with affection.

“Me too,” you reply, your heart swelling as you brush a stray curl from his forehead.

As you return to your desk, the book resting on the corner like a talisman of everything you’ve built together, you steal another glance at him.

He’s already immersed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration, but when he catches you looking, he smiles—one of those rare, unguarded smiles that makes your chest ache with how much you love him.

This is where I’m supposed to be, you think. And Spencer would agree.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst

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gmikaelson · 2 months ago

Text

My Lady | K.M

["Come on, darling," he coaxed, ignoring Klaus entirely. "Wouldn't you rather have some fun company? Nik here is such a brooding bore when he travels. All 'look at this building I destroyed in 1492' and 'here's where I disemboweled a rival in the 17th century.'"]

Contains Smut (jump to the next asterisk if you'd like to skip)

Masterlist

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"Klaus!" you whined, arm flung across your forehead in theatrical distress. "I'm literally dying!"

Klaus strolled into the courtyard, finding you dramatically sprawled upside down on a chaise lounge, your hair cascading toward the floor, and your face flushed from the oppressive New Orleans summer heat. The courtyard offered little relief from the humidity that hung in the air like a wet blanket.

His lips quirked upward at the sight of you. Even in your disheveled state, or perhaps especially because of it, you were captivating. Your eyes found his as he approached, and you pointed accusingly at him.

"How are you wearing a Henley right now? It's like a thousand degrees!" You gesture wildly at his typical dark clothing, which showed no signs of being affected by the heat.

Klaus chuckled, crouching beside the chaise to be at eye level with your upside-down face, his amusement evident in his eyes.

"One of the perks of being the most powerful creature on earth, love," he teased, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your flushed cheek. "The weather doesn't bother me."

You groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically.

"Show off," you muttered. "I'm melting, and you're just...comfortable. It's not fair."

Klaus tilted his head, studying you with predatory interest that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with how your thin summer dress clung to your curves, damp with perspiration.

"I could always turn you," he suggested silkily, though he knew your answer. It was a conversation you'd had many times. "Then you'd never have to suffer through another heatwave."

You shot him a look, somehow managing to appear formidable despite your ridiculous position.

"Nice try. I'd rather melt than become a vampire," you retorted stubbornly. "Now be useful and fan me or something."

Klaus laughed outright at your demanding tone, a sound few in New Orleans ever heard from the feared hybrid.

"Always so demanding," he mused, standing up and moving to sit at the end of the chaise. "I've killed men for less, you know."

Despite his words, he lifted your legs and settled them across his lap, his supernaturally cool hands providing immediate relief against your overheated skin.

"Mmm, that helps," you sighed, some of the tension leaving your body. "Maybe you are good for something after all."

Klaus scoffed, his eyebrows shooting up in an exaggerated expression of offense as he placed a hand over his heart.

"Good for something?" he repeated, his British accent more pronounced in his mock outrage. "I'm wounded, love. Truly devastated."

Despite his theatrical affront, his cool fingers continued to trace patterns on your calves, providing relief from the oppressive heat. His blue-green eyes glittered with amusement.

"Here I am, a thousand-year-old Original hybrid, feared across continents, and I've been reduced to a personal cooling system for a stubborn human." He shook his head in feigned dismay, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "What would my enemies say if they could see the great Klaus Mikaelson now?"

You grinned up at him, finally righting yourself on the chaise lounge though you kept your legs draped across his lap. Your hair was a tousled mess, and beads of sweat still glistened on your neck.

"They'd say you've gone soft," you teased, poking his chest with your toe playfully. "The big bad wolf, tamed by a human girl."

You leaned in closer, the mischief in your eyes matching his own.

"But don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I won't tell anyone you're actually sweet underneath all that...murdery exterior."

Klaus captured your foot as you poked him again, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that was both gallant and possessive.

"Careful, sweetheart," he warned, though his eyes still danced with humor. "I have a reputation to maintain. And I'm not above proving just how 'murdery' I can be to anyone who crosses me."

He pulled you closer across his lap, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his touch a delicious contrast of cool against your overheated skin.

"Or perhaps I'll demonstrate other skills entirely," he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive timbre as he leaned in, your lips almost touching. "I can think of several ways to make you forget about the heat."

You raise a brow, "Absolutely not," leaning back and flopping back against the chaise, "too hot for that."

Klaus let out a short, surprised laugh at your blunt rejection, not used to being denied anything he wanted, especially in this department. His eyebrows rose as he watched you dramatically flop back against the chaise, your arms spread wide in surrender to the heat.

"Too hot?" he repeated, sounding both amused and slightly incredulous. "That's a first. I don't believe anyone has ever refused my advances due to the weather."

He leaned back slightly, studying your flushed face with a glint in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely deterred.

"Though I must say, love, the sight of you all...glistening..." his gaze traveled appreciatively over your body, lingering on where your thin dress clung to your skin "...is making it rather difficult to respect your climate-based abstinence."

You roll your eyes at him, though a smile tugs at your lips despite the discomfort.

"Your ego will survive the blow," you retorted dryly. "And stop looking at me like that. I'm serious, Klaus. It's too hot to even think about...that."

You fan yourself with your hand for emphasis, eyes narrowed at him in warning, though there was no real heat behind it. You drape your arm over your face.

Klaus sighed dramatically, but his hands remained cool against your legs, providing some relief.

"Very well," he conceded with exaggerated magnanimity. "Though I'm certain I could change your mind..."

He trailed off suggestively before shifting gears, his expression becoming more contemplative.

"Perhaps we should leave New Orleans for a while," he suggested, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your ankle. "I have properties all over the world. We could go somewhere cooler. London is quite pleasant this time of year. Or perhaps a villa in the Swiss Alps?"

The casual way he suggested international travel, as if they might pop over to another continent the way most people would go to the corner store, was so quintessentially Klaus.

You peek at him from under your arm, "Seriously? What about everything you have to do here? You can’t just...leave"

Klaus gave you a look that was equal parts amused and arrogant, his lips curving into that signature smirk that had both charmed and terrified people for centuries.

"Can't I?" he challenged softly, his tone suggesting that the normal rules and limitations simply didn't apply to him. "I'm Klaus Mikaelson, love. I do as I please."

He shifted on the chaise, turning more fully toward you while keeping your legs draped across his lap. His cool fingers continued their soothing patterns against your overheated skin.

"New Orleans has survived without me before. It will manage for a few weeks," he continued, his blue-green eyes gleaming with sudden enthusiasm for the idea. "Elijah can handle any pressing matters. And frankly, the city could use a break from my...particular brand of leadership."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

You studied him from beneath your arm, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. It was these glimpses of the man beneath the monster that had drawn you to him in the first place, the moments when his passion wasn't directed at vengeance or power, but at beauty and experience.

"You're serious," you said, slowly sitting up despite the heat, your eyes searching his face. "You would really just...drop everything and go?"

Klaus reached out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentler than most would believe him capable of.

"For you? Yes." The simple answer held an unexpected weight, a reminder of how much he had changed since you'd entered his life. "Though I must admit, the thought of you in a bikini on a private beach is certainly an added incentive."

He grinned wickedly, the tender moment giving way to his more typical roguish charm.

You shove his shoulder, "of course it is," but can't help the giggle that escapes you.

"I heard Y/N and bikini. I’m in. Where are we headed?" Kol says, strolling into the courtyard.

Klaus's expression darkened instantly at Kol's intrusion, his playful demeanor with you vanishing like smoke. He turned his head slowly toward his younger brother, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"We are not headed anywhere," he corrected, emphasizing the 'we' with a threatening edge to his voice. "Y/N and I were discussing a private getaway."

Kol sauntered further into the courtyard, completely unfazed by his brother's obvious displeasure. He flashed a charming, mischievous smile at you before dropping dramatically onto a nearby chair, sprawling with casual grace.

"Private's boring," he countered, his own accent lilting with amusement. "Besides, I'm excellent company. Ask anyone."

You couldn't help but laugh at the immediate tension between the brothers, though you remained comfortably draped across Klaus's lap, one of his hands still possessively on your leg.

"I don't think your brother shares that assessment," you observed dryly, glancing at Klaus's thunderous expression.

Kol leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with the particular brand of chaos he so enjoyed creating, especially at his brother's expense.

"Come on, darling," he coaxed, ignoring Klaus entirely. "Wouldn't you rather have some fun company? Nik here is such a brooding bore when he travels. All 'look at this building I destroyed in 1492' and 'here's where I disemboweled a rival in the 17th century.'"

His impression of Klaus was deliberately terrible, designed specifically to irritate his brother.

Klaus's jaw tightened, his grip on your leg firming slightly.

"Kol," he said, his voice deceptively soft, a sure warning sign to those who knew him well, "don't you have somewhere else to be? Preferably far from here?"

Kol grinned wider, clearly enjoying getting under his brother's skin.

"Not really, no. My schedule's wide open." He winked at you. "So, where are we thinking? Somewhere with beaches, I hope. I'd love to see what kind of swimwear our Y/N favors."

At this, Klaus's patience visibly snapped. He moved with supernatural speed, suddenly standing over Kol with a hand around his throat.

"Choose your next words very carefully, brother," he growled, his hybrid nature flickering beneath the surface of his control.

You sighed, used to the Mikaelson siblings' dramatic confrontations, and pushed yourself up from the chaise despite the heat.

"Boys," you admonished, sounding more like a tired parent than a girlfriend, "can we not do this today? It's too hot for Mikaelson drama."

Rebekah makes an appearance from one of the balconies, "Do snap his neck, Nik. He pissed me off today"

You turn, glaring at the blonde Mikaelson.

Klaus's grip on Kol's throat tightened momentarily, a smirk crossing his face at Rebekah's encouragement. His eyes never left his younger brother's face, though Kol still managed to look amused despite the precarious position.

"See, Rebekah agrees with me," Klaus said silkily, the dangerous edge in his voice unmistakable.

Rebekah leaned over the balcony railing, her blonde hair cascading down as she observed the scene below with casual interest, as if her brothers threatening to kill each other was merely everyday entertainment, which in the Mikaelson household, it essentially was.

"He used my favorite lipstick to write obscenities on my mirror," she explained to you, her British accent clipped with annoyance. "Chanel, limited edition. Snap away, Nik."

"Rebekah! No," you exclaimed, fixing the Original sister with a stern look before turning to Klaus. "And you! Let him go. I'm not spending another week listening to you all plot revenge because you daggered him again."

You place a hand on Klaus's arm, your touch gentle but firm. "Klaus."

For a tense moment, it seemed he might ignore you, his fingers still wrapped around his brother's throat. Then, with visible reluctance, he released Kol with a small shove.

"Consider yourself fortunate that Y/N has more patience for your antics than I do," he warned, stepping back to stand beside you, his arm possessively circling your waist.

Kol rubbed his throat dramatically, though they all knew it would take far more than that to cause him any real discomfort.

"Always hiding behind your girlfriend's skirts, Nik?" he taunted, unable to resist pushing further. "How the mighty have fallen."

Rebekah rolled her eyes, pushing away from the balcony railing.

"If you're not going to kill him, at least tell me where you're planning to go," she called down. "I might join you. This city is dreadfully dull at the moment, and the heat is ruining my hair."

You look between the three Original siblings, a mix of exasperation and fondness on your face.

"So much for our private getaway," you murmured to Klaus, leaning into him despite the heat. "I think our couples vacation package just got upgraded to include all the homicidal Mikaelsons."

Klaus looked down at you, his irritation with his siblings momentarily forgotten as he took in your resigned amusement.

"I could still kill them both," he offered helpfully, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes now. "Problem solved."

"No," you say firmly, "just...how about we all just go to the beach instead? Is there even a beach around?"

Klaus looked at you with an expression of mild betrayal, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of his romantic getaway transforming into a family outing.

"There's Grand Isle," he conceded reluctantly, his thumb absently stroking your waist where he still held you. "About a 2-hour drive south. Though I was thinking more along the lines of a private island in the Caribbean, not some local stretch of sand crowded with tourists."

Kol clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, bouncing up from his seat.

"Grand Isle it is! I'll go pack the alcohol," he declared, clearly delighted at having successfully inserted himself into your plans. "We'll need lots of it to make this family bonding tolerable."

Rebekah disappeared from the balcony, only to reappear moments later in the courtyard, already looking more excited than she had in weeks.

"I have a new bikini I've been dying to wear," she announced, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Elijah will hate this plan, which makes it even better."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Elijah appeared in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a full suit despite the heat, not a drop of sweat visible on his composed face.

"I'll hate what plan?" he inquired, his voice measured and elegant as always.

Before Klaus could intervene, Kol jumped in with gleeful mischief.

"Family beach trip, brother! Sun, sand, and siblings. What could possibly go wrong?"

Elijah's expression remained impassive, but a slight tightening around his eyes suggested he was already calculating the potential disasters.

"Indeed," he replied dryly. "Given our family history, I imagine quite a lot."

Klaus looked down at you, shaking his head slightly.

"You see what you've started?" he murmured, though there was more resignation than genuine anger in his tone. "Now we'll have the whole circus with us."

You stood on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to his cheek, your eyes twinkling with amusement.

"It'll be fun," you whisper back. "Besides, this way they can't destroy the compound while we're gone."

Klaus sighed dramatically, but his arm remained firmly around your waist.

"You have a strange definition of 'fun,' love," he commented, watching as his siblings began debating the logistics with increasing animation. "The last time all of us were at a beach together was 1702, and it ended with a small village being burned to the ground."

Rebekah waved a dismissive hand.

"That was Kol's fault, and they were witch hunters anyway," she pointed out breezily. "Besides, Y/N will keep you all in line. She's the only one with any sense around here."

Elijah checked his watch, somehow managing to look both resigned and dignified.

"If we're to undertake this...excursion...I suggest we leave early tomorrow to avoid the worst of the traffic," he said, already bringing order to the chaos as was his nature.

Klaus looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"Still certain about this, sweetheart?" he asked quietly. "It's not too late to slip away, just the two of us. I'm quite skilled at disappearing."

Your smile fades, sensing the tension in his tone. Suddenly, the feeling of guilt starts to creep in. “I’m sorry, did I overstep? I didn’t mean to”

Klaus's expression softened immediately at your sudden concern, the irritation in his eyes giving way to something softer. He reached up to cup your face with one hand, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"No, love," he assured you quietly. His voice pitched low enough that even his siblings' supernatural hearing would have to strain to catch his words. "You didn't overstep."

He glanced at his siblings, who were now engaged in an animated debate about transportation arrangements, before returning his gaze to your worried face.

"I just...I wanted some time alone with you," he admitted, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. "Away from all this chaos and plotting and New Orleans politics. Just us."

The admission seemed to cost him something; Klaus Mikaelson wasn't accustomed to expressing such straightforward desires, especially not in a way that might be perceived as weakness.

Your guilt visibly deepened, your eyes clouding with regret as you placed your hand over his where it rested on your cheek.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't think. We can still go away, just us. I'll tell them I changed my mind."

Klaus studied your face for a moment, then shook his head with a small, genuine smile that few besides you have ever witnessed.

"No," he decided, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "You were right to include them. They're...family." The statement still sounded somewhat foreign on his tongue after centuries of betrayal and daggerings. "And they're your family now, too, God help you."

He leaned in to press his forehead against yours, his next words meant only for you.

"Besides, I've waited a thousand years to find you. I can survive sharing you with my insufferable siblings for a weekend." His lips quirked upward. "Though I make no promises about Kol's continued existence if he makes one more comment about you in swimwear."

Your smile returned, relief washing over your features as you wrapped your arms around his neck, uncaring of the heat or his siblings' presence.

"Thank you," you say softly. "And I promise we'll take that trip, just us. Anywhere you want to go."

Klaus's arms encircled your waist, pulling you closer despite the summer heat.

"I'll hold you to that, love," he murmured against your ear. "I have quite a list of places I want to show you. And things I want to do to you in those places."

His suggestive tone made you blush, which only widened his smile.

Kol's deliberately loud voice interrupted the moment.

"If you two are quite finished being disgustingly sweet, we need to know if we're taking one car or two tomorrow. Personally, I vote for separate vehicles. The thought of being trapped in a car with Nik for two hours while he glowers is less than appealing."

Klaus rolled his eyes but kept his arms around you.

"Two cars," he called back without looking away from you. "I'm not subjecting Y/N to your incessant chatter for the entire drive."

Rebekah snorted elegantly.

"As if your brooding silence is any better," she retorted, before turning to you with a conspiratorial smile. "Come on, Y/N. Let's go plan what to pack. You'll need something spectacular to make my brother properly regret taking you to a mere local beach instead of his pretentious private island."

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By the time you finally made it back to your room, the sun had long dipped below the horizon, and your limbs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. Your feet hurt, and you were about three outfit changes away from a full mental breakdown. Rebekah had run you through what felt like a full fashion week

Klaus looked up from the grimoire he'd been studying, his lips curving into an amused smile at your dramatic entrance. He was lounging on the bed, already changed into comfortable pants, his chest bare in concession to the persistent heat, which didn’t actually bother him.

You flopped face-first onto the mattress beside him with an exaggerated groan, your hair splaying across the pillows. You didn't even bother to remove your clothes or shoes, you simply lay there like a woman who had survived some great ordeal.

"Rebekah's made me try on so many things," you mumble into the bedding, your voice muffled. "I think I've worn more clothes in the last three hours than in my entire life."

Klaus chuckled, setting aside the ancient spell book and shifting to gently remove your shoes, one at a time.

"You've discovered one of my sister's most fearsome qualities," he commented, his fingers massaging your feet briefly after freeing them. "Her shopping stamina is truly supernatural. Even I find it exhausting, and I've endured torture sessions that were less grueling."

You turn your head to the side, just enough to peer at him with one tired eye.

"She made me try on fourteen swimsuits," you informed him gravely. "Fourteen. And then she decided the first one was best anyway."

Klaus laughed outright at that, the sound warm and genuine in a way that few outside this room ever heard.

"That sounds like Rebekah," he agreed, his hands moving to your shoulders, beginning to knead the tension there with just the right amount of pressure. "Though I must admit, I'm looking forward to seeing the results of her tyranny."

His voice dropped lower, taking on that seductive quality that never failed to send a shiver down your spine, even in your exhausted state.

"Perhaps you'd care to model the winner for me now? Give me a private showing?"

You groan again, this time in response to his magical fingers working the knots from your shoulders.

"Not a chance," you mutter, though there is a smile in your voice. "I'm saving it for tomorrow. Besides, I think if I change clothes one more time today, I might actually die."

You finally summoned the energy to roll onto your back, looking up at him with tired but affectionate eyes.

"Your sister is intense," you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "She's convinced I need to, and I quote, 'make your jaw drop' when you see me at the beach."

Klaus caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm, his blue-green eyes darkening slightly.

"My jaw drops every time I see you, love," he murmured against your skin. "Though I admit I'm intrigued by whatever Rebekah has planned."

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours.

"Should I be worried about having to murder every man on the beach tomorrow?" he asked, only half-joking. "Because I will, you know. Without hesitation."

You smile, “Please don’t kill anyone for me,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck

Klaus smirked against your lips, his weight shifting to hover over you more fully, supported on his forearms.

"No promises, love," he murmured, the possessive glint in his blue-green eyes making it clear he wasn't entirely joking. "A millennium of habits isn't easily broken."

His lips finally met yours in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened, his hand sliding beneath your shirt to caress the warm skin of your waist. Despite your exhaustion, you respond eagerly, your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Besides," he continued between kisses, trailing his lips along your jaw and down to the sensitive spot just below your ear, "you can't expect me to behave when every man on that beach will be staring at what's mine."

The possessive words should have irritated your independent nature, but coming from Klaus, whispered against your skin in that lilting accent, they sent a shiver of desire through you instead.

"I thought you'd be used to it by now," you teased breathlessly, your fingers threading through his dirty-blonde curls. "People stare at me whenever we go out."

Klaus pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own darkened with desire and something deeper, more vulnerable.

"I'll never be 'used to it,'" he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "Just as I'll never be used to the fact that you chose me, knowing exactly what I am."

The rare moment of openness caught you off guard, and your teasing smile softened into something more tender. You cup his face between your palms, eyes meeting his directly.

"I'll always choose you," you whisper, the simple truth of it reflected in your gaze. "Even when you're being a possessive, paranoid, infuriating pain in my ass."

Klaus laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest where it pressed against yours.

"Such romantic declarations," he teased, nipping at your lower lip. "You do know how to make a man feel special, sweetheart."

His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he kissed you again, more deeply this time, swallowing your soft gasp of pleasure.

"Now," he murmured against your mouth, his voice dropping to that seductive timbre that made your body respond immediately, "I believe you mentioned being exhausted from changing clothes so many times..."

His lips traced a burning path down your neck as his clever fingers began working on the buttons of your shirt.

"Allow me to help you out of these," he suggested, his smirk evident in his voice even as his mouth continued its delicious assault on your sensitive skin. "After all, I wouldn't want you to overexert yourself."

You lift your head to look at him, “Yeah? I am still hot, so I think taking these off is a great idea.”

Klaus's eyes darkened at your agreement, a predatory smile spreading across his face as he sat back on his heels, straddling your thighs. His hands moved to the buttons of your shirt with deliberate slowness, unfastening each one with tantalizing precision.

"You are indeed hot," he agreed, his voice dropping to that rough velvet tone that never failed to make your pulse quicken. "In every sense of the word."

As he parted your shirt, revealing the lace of your bra underneath, his gaze traveled over your exposed skin with open hunger. Despite the countless times he'd seen your body, his reaction was always the same, as if each time was the first, and each revelation of your skin was a gift he hadn't expected.

"Beautiful," he murmured, helping you sit up just enough to slide the shirt from your shoulders before easing you back down.

His hands skimmed down your sides to the waistband of your shorts, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake despite the lingering heat of the day. With practiced ease, he unfastened them and began sliding them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Better?" he asked, tossing the shorts aside and running his palms up your bare thighs. "Though I must say, you're still overdressed by my standards."

Your breath hitches as his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, your body already responding to his touch despite your earlier exhaustion. The heat that had been oppressive all day transformed into something entirely different under his skilled hands, a heat that came from within, that made you arch toward him rather than pull away.

"Your standards are impossible," you managed to reply, your voice already husky with desire. "You'd have me naked all the time if you could."

Klaus chuckled, the sound dark and promising as he unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, drawing it slowly down your arms.

"Can you blame me?" he asked, his gaze appreciative as he took in your bare breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and drawing a soft moan from your lips. "When you're the most exquisite thing I've seen in a thousand years?"

He lowered his head to replace his fingers with his mouth, his tongue circling one sensitive peak before taking it between his lips. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

Klaus took his time, lavishing attention on each breast until you were squirming beneath him, your earlier fatigue completely forgotten. Only then did his mouth begin a downward journey, trailing kisses across your ribs, your stomach, and the jut of your hip bones.

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, drawing them down with deliberate slowness as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes, his blue-green eyes nearly black with desire.

"Now you're properly dressed," he murmured approvingly as he tossed the last piece of fabric aside, leaving you completely bare beneath him. "Or undressed, as the case may be."

You instinctively brought your thighs together, "stop," you say softly, blushing, looking at me like that.

Klaus's lips curved into a knowing smile as he placed his hands gently on your knees, not forcing them apart but simply resting there, his thumbs tracing small circles on your skin.

"Like what, love?" he asked, his voice a seductive rumble as he held your gaze. "Like you're the most magnificent thing I've ever seen? Like I want to worship every inch of your body until you're trembling and crying my name?"

He leaned forward, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your inner knee, his eyes never leaving your flushed face.

"I'm afraid I can't stop," he continued, his accent thickening with desire. "Not when you're laid out before me like this. Blushing so beautifully for me."

His hands slid up slightly, applying the gentlest pressure to your thighs, a request rather than a demand.

"Let me see you, Y/N," he murmured, his tone softening to something almost reverent. "All of you."

The way he said your name, like it was something precious on his tongue, sent a shiver down your body. Despite your instinctive shyness, you found yourself responding to the gentle coaxing of his hands, your thighs slowly parting for him.

Klaus's breath caught audibly at the sight of you exposed to him, his eyes darkening further as they took in every detail. There was something almost worshipful in his expression, a stark contrast to the ruthless hybrid who terrorized New Orleans.

"Perfect," he whispered, his hands sliding further up your thighs, his thumbs now dangerously close to where you were already wet for him. "Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? How you make me feel?"

He moved up your body to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his bare chest pressing against your breasts, creating a delicious friction that made you gasp into his mouth. One of his hands tangled in your hair while the other continued its teasing journey between your thighs, never quite touching where you most wanted him.

"Even after all this time," he murmured against your lips, "I still can't believe you're mine."

His fingers finally slid through your folds, finding you slick and ready for him. He groaned at the discovery, his forehead resting against your as he began to circle your clit with exquisite precision.

"So wet for me already," he praised, his voice rough with need. "Is this what you needed, love? My hands on you? My mouth?"

His lips trailed down your neck as his fingers continued their skilled assault, drawing soft moans from your throat as your hips began to move against his hand, seeking more.

"I always need you," you exhale, arching into his hand. "Klaus," you continued, whispering his name.

Klaus growled low in his throat at your words, the sound more beast than man as he captured your lips in a fierce, consuming kiss. His fingers worked more deliberately between your thighs, circling your clit before sliding lower to tease your entrance.

"Say it again," he commanded against your mouth, his voice rough with desire. "My name on your lips is the sweetest sound in this world."

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as pleasure built within you, making you arch more insistently against his skilled touch.

"Klaus," you gasp, head falling back as he slides one finger inside you, then another, curling them to hit that perfect spot that made you want to cry out "God, Klaus, please..."

your plea broke off into a moan as he lowered his head to take one nipple between his lips, sucking hard as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside of you. Your body responded eagerly to his every touch, your hips moving in counterpoint to the thrust of his hand.

"Please what, love?" he teased, lifting his head to watch your face contort with pleasure. "Tell me what you need."

Your eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, met his as your hands moved to fumble with the waistband of his pants.

"You," you managed, your voice breathy and urgent. "Inside me. Now."

Klaus's control visibly frayed at the demand, his eyes flashing gold for a brief moment before returning to their stormy blue-green. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste you with a groan of appreciation that sent another wave of desire through your body.

"As my lady commands," he murmured, quickly divesting himself of his remaining clothing with supernatural speed.

He settled between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance as he braced himself above you on his forearms. For a moment, he simply looked down at you, his expression a complex mixture of desire, possessiveness, and something deeper that he rarely allowed himself to name.

"Mine," he whispered, the single word containing a thousand years of loneliness and the wonder of having finally found someone who accepted all of him, monster and man alike.

You reach up to cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones with tender affection even as your body arched impatiently beneath his.

"Yours," you agreed softly, the simple truth reflected in your eyes. "Always yours."

Klaus finally pushed forward, entering you in one smooth thrust that had you both gasping. He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you, his forehead pressed against yours as you shared breath.

"And I am yours," he admitted in a rare moment of vulnerability, the words barely audible even to you. "Completely."

Before you could respond, he began to move, setting a rhythm that was neither gentle nor rough but perfectly calibrated to drive you toward the edge. Each thrust was deliberate, hitting exactly where you needed him most, his centuries of experience evident in the way he read your body's responses.

"Klaus," you moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist to draw him deeper, your hands clutching at his back as the pleasure built within. "God, yes, right there..."

He increased his pace in response to your encouragement, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit as he drove into you with increasing urgency. His lips found your neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin there, careful not to break the surface despite the vampire instincts that urged him to taste you.

"Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release until you found yours. "Let me feel you come around my cock."

The crude words combined with his skilled touch pushed you over the edge. You cried out his name as your body convulsed around him, waves of pleasure washing through you with an intensity that left you breathless and trembling in his arms.

Klaus grinned in triumph as he felt your inner walls pulsing around him, his control finally snapping. His thrusts became harder, more erratic as he chased his own release, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he murmured a stream of praise and possession against your skin.

"So perfect, so beautiful, mine, all mine," he groaned, his body tensing above you as he finally found his release, spilling deep inside you.

For several moments afterward, you remained entwined, both breathing heavily as you came down from your shared high. Klaus eventually rolled to his side, taking you with him so you lay cradled against his chest, his arms wrapped possessively around you.

"Still hot?" he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your cooling skin.

You snort softly at his smug question, your body still tingling pleasantly from your lovemaking. You pressed closer to him despite the lingering heat, your fingertips tracing the tattoo on his shoulder.

"Definitely," you admit, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. "But I like this kind of hot. Quite a lot actually."

You lean in to press a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it beat steadily beneath your lips. Klaus hummed contentedly, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of your skin, tracing the curve of your spine with feather-light touches.

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by your gradually steadying breaths. Your mind wanders as you lie in his arms, thinking about the moments during your passion when you’d felt his lips at your neck, the careful restraint he always showed despite his nature. You’d noticed how he'd pulled back, even in the height of pleasure, maintaining that careful control he always exercised around you.

You lifted your head to look at him, eyes serious as they met his.

"Klaus, you know you can drink from me, right?" You say quietly, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I trust you. Completely."

Klaus went very still beneath your touch, his eyes widening slightly at your unexpected words. Something flashed across his face, hunger, desire, fear, before he carefully schooled his expression.

"That's...not a good idea, love," he replied, his voice rougher than usual, betraying the effect your offer had on him. "You don't know what you're asking."

You push yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with determination in your gaze.

"I know exactly what I'm asking," you countered firmly. "I've seen you feed. I know what you are, Klaus. I've always known."

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there as he struggled with the offer and his own desires.

"It's different with you," he finally said, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. "I don't want you to see that side of me. Not in our bed."

You lean into his touch, your expression softening but remaining resolute.

"It's part of who you are," you said simply. "And I love who you are. All of you."

Klaus's eyes darkened at your words, a complex mixture of emotions swirling in their blue-green depths. His thumb traced the pulse point at your throat, lingering there as if he could already taste you.

"You don't fear it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What I might do? That I might lose control?"

You shook your head, your hair brushing against his hand.

"You've never lost control with me," you reminded him, your faith in him absolute and unwavering. "Not once in all our time together. I trust you, Klaus. With my life. With everything."

Something in him seemed to crumble at your words, not his control, but rather the wall he'd built between these two parts of himself. He pulled you down to him, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, his hands framing your face as if you were infinitely precious.

"If I hurt you," he murmured against your mouth, "if I take too much..."

"You won't," you interrupted with complete certainty, your fingers threading through his hair as you held his gaze. "I know you won't."

Klaus studied your face for a long moment, searching for any sign of doubt or fear. Finding none, he gently guided you to lie beside him, positioning you so that your back was against his chest, your head tilted to expose the elegant line of your neck.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your skin, "at any moment, and I will. Immediately."

You nodded, your body relaxing trustingly against his as his arm circled your waist, holding you close. You felt his lips press against your pulse point, soft and reverent, before they parted to allow his fangs to extend.

"I love you," he breathed against your neck, the words he so rarely spoke aloud given freely in this moment of ultimate vulnerability.

Before you could respond, his fangs pierced skin with surprising gentleness. You gasp, not in pain but in unexpected pleasure as the initial sting gives way to a sensation unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It was intimate in a way that transcended the physical, a connection that made your earlier lovemaking seem almost ordinary by comparison.

Klaus drank slowly, carefully, his arm tightening around your waist as a tremor ran through his body. You could feel his pleasure in the way he held yoy, in the soft sounds he made against your throat. It was nothing like the violent feeding you’ve witnessed when he tore into enemies; this was reverent, controlled, deeply personal.

After what felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough, he withdrew his fangs, kissing the small wounds he left behind. You felt lightheaded but not weak, the experience leaving you with a strange euphoria that tingles through your entire body.

Klaus turned you in his arms to face him, his expression more open and vulnerable than you’d ever seen it. There was a hint of your blood on his lips, his eyes still showing traces of gold around the edges, but his gaze was clear and focused entirely on you.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concern evident in his voice as his hand came up to stroke your cheek.

You nod, a slow smile spreading across your face as you lean to kiss him, tasting the metallic hint of your own blood on his lips without hesitation.

"More than alright," you assured him, your voice soft but steady. "That was...incredible."

Relief washed over his features, followed by something that looked suspiciously like wonder as he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours.

"You are extraordinary," he murmured, his accent thicker than usual with emotion. "A thousand years, and I've never..."

He trailed off, seemingly unable to find words adequate to express what he was feeling. Instead, he simply held you, his fingers stroking through your hair as both your breathing synchronized in the quiet room.

"Thank you," he finally whispered, the simple words carrying the weight of centuries of loneliness and the gratitude of a man who had finally found acceptance in the arms of someone who saw him, truly saw him, and loved him anyway.

"You're welcome. And tomorrow at the beach, when you want to strangle me for putting you in that situation, do be sure to remember how extraordinary I am."

Klaus's serious expression broke into a surprised laugh, the sound rich and genuine as it rumbled through his chest. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the vulnerability of moments before giving way to amused affection as he gazed down at you.

"Using my own words against me already?" he teased, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. "Clever girl."

He pulled you closer against him, tucking your head beneath his chin as his arms encircled you possessively. Despite the lingering heat of the night, neither of you made any move to separate, the intimacy just shared creating a bond that transcended physical discomfort.

"I'll endeavor to remember your extraordinary nature," he promised dryly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "even when Kol is making inappropriate comments about your swimwear and I'm contemplating removing his liver."

You laugh softly against his chest, your fingers absently tracing the birds tattooed on his chest.

"Just his liver? You're getting soft in your old age," you quip, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with mischief dancing in your eyes. "The Klaus Mikaelson I know would threaten at least three vital organs and possibly limb removal."

Klaus smirked, his hand sliding down to cup your backside in a possessive squeeze.

"The night is still young, love," he reminded you, his voice taking on that dangerous edge that always sent a shiver down your spine. "Don't tempt me to demonstrate just how 'soft' I'm not."

His expression sobered slightly as his other hand came up to trace the spot on your neck where he'd fed, the marks still visible.

"Are you truly alright?" he asked more seriously, searching your face for any sign of discomfort or regret. "I didn't take too much?"

Your teasing smile softened into something more tender as you reached up to touch his face, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone with gentle affection.

"I'm perfect," you assured him, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "It was perfect. You were perfect."

Klaus seemed to absorb your words like a man who'd been thirsting for them his entire life, his eyes closing briefly as if to savor the moment.

"It was...intimate," he admitted quietly, opening his eyes to meet your gaze again. "More so than I expected. Sharing blood with you, it's different than feeding. Than anything I've experienced before."

There was wonder in his voice, a rare vulnerability that he showed to no one else. Your heart swelled with love for this complex, dangerous, damaged man who trusted you enough to reveal these parts of himself.

"Different good?" you asked, your voice soft in the quiet room.

Klaus nodded, his fingers threading through your hair as he drew your face up for another kiss, this one deeper, more thorough.

"Different extraordinary," he murmured against your lips, echoing your earlier description. "Like everything about you."

You melt into his kiss, your body molding against his despite your recent exertions. When you finally parted, both slightly breathless, you settled back against his chest with a contented sigh.

"Just think," you mused sleepily, your earlier exhaustion returning now that the adrenaline was fading, "tomorrow you get to see me in the swimsuit that took fourteen tries to select. After that, you might even forgive me for subjecting you to a family beach day."

Klaus chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he pulled the light sheet over your cooling bodies.

"I've already forgiven you," he admitted, his voice softening as he felt you drifting toward sleep. "Though I reserve the right to be thoroughly irritated with my siblings when they inevitably ruin what could have been a perfect day alone with you."

You hummed in acknowledgment, your eyes already closed as you curled closer to him.

"They won't ruin it," you murmured, your voice fading as sleep began to claim you. "They're family. Our family."

Klaus gazed down at you, his expression softening in a way it never did when others were present. The fearsome hybrid, the terror of New Orleans, looking at this human woman as if she were the most precious thing in his thousand years of existence.

"Sleep, love," he whispered, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow will be...interesting, if nothing else."

As you drifted off in his arms, Klaus remained awake, watching over you with an expression that mingled wonder, possessiveness, and a fierce protectiveness that would have terrified anyone who might wish you harm. In the quiet darkness of the room, with you warm and trusting in his embrace, Klaus Mikaelson allowed himself to acknowledge what you had become to him, not just lover, not just companion, but home.

A concept he'd never truly understood until you.

Taglist: @ariesandwolves

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just-aake · 5 months ago

Text

Endearing Entanglements Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Endearing Entanglements. Being on the run is tough. Natasha eventually has no choice but to call for some help.

Warnings: fluff, light angst, implied sexual themes

Words: 3430

The night air is cool against Natasha’s skin as she stands beneath the cover of shadows near the corner of the empty street. The dim glow of a distant streetlamp barely reaches her, leaving her concealed in the darkness.

She adjusts the hood of her jacket, the recently cut strands of her dyed blonde hair swaying slightly as she turns her head, scanning her surroundings with caution.

Being on the run has been brutal—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Especially after the Raft prison break, forcing her into a constant state of movement with no real moment of rest.

Supplies are limited, safe havens even more so.

Every day is a delicate game of survival, narrowly avoiding authorities, slipping past Ross’ men, and making sure those with her remain out of harm’s way.

Keeping her teammates safe is one thing.

Keeping those who willingly choose to help her is another.

Mason has already paid the price for his involvement, detained for his so-called “assistance” to her. Though he had managed to get released, Ross’s watchful eye was now firmly planted on him.

That alone is enough reason for Natasha to hesitate before reaching out to any of her remaining contacts.

The risk was simply too high.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

The sudden, sharp sound of shattering glass cut through the quiet night, instantly snapping Natasha’s attention upward.

Her muscles tense, her hand instinctively hovering near her concealed weapon as her eyes lock onto the source.

From the fourth-story window of the old brick building across the street, a shadowed figure propels through the new opening and into the air, twisting mid-fall with practiced precision.

In one fluid motion, they fire a grappling line, the cable anchoring into the adjacent wall, allowing them to swing effortlessly into a controlled descent.

At just the right moment, they release the line, landing with a smooth roll before rising swiftly to their feet.

Flashbangs detonate inside the building behind them, the brief bursts of light flickering against the windows, followed by the frantic shouts of those left scrambling inside.

Natasha’s gaze drifts from the chaos back to the figure standing just a short distance ahead.

A low hum of satisfaction escapes you as you casually brush the dust from your clothes, barely fazed by the intensity of your escape.

You take a quick glance around before your gaze finally meets hers.

A grin, wide and utterly unapologetic, spread across your lips.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Without hesitation, you close the space between you, hands gently cradling her face.

The moment your fingers brush against her skin, warmth surges through her.

Then, without another thought, you lean in, capturing her lips in a kiss.

Natasha stiffens for just a second, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy.

But then, the tension melts from her body, her lips parting in a quiet gasp—one you eagerly take advantage of, deepening the kiss with a hunger neither of you had the luxury to indulge in for far too long.

Her hands find their way to you, fingers gripping the fabric of your jacket, pulling you in closer as if afraid to let go.

It was grounding—this moment of familiarity in a life that had become nothing but uncertainty.

But then, as her hand brushes against your side, you suddenly break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath.

Natasha pulls back just enough to see the flicker of pain flash across your face. Her brows furrow, concern instantly replacing the haze of the moment.

“Careful, love,” you murmur with a soft chuckle, exhaling through the lingering sting. “I think I may have reopened the stitches on my landing.”

A familiar mix of exasperation and affection flickers in her expression, her fingers tightening slightly on your jacket.

“Of course you did.”

Even as she sighs, there is no mistaking the way her hold on you remains steady, unwilling to let you go just yet.

But then, a sudden movement flickers in the corner of her vision.

In an instant, Natasha’s instincts take over. She yanks you sharply to the side, the sudden motion forcing you off balance just as her hand flies up, launching a compact taser disk at the oncoming figure.

The moment the disk connects, an electric surge crackles through the air, the assailant convulsing before collapsing to the ground with a dull thud.

The whole exchange happened in mere seconds.

You barely had time to register it before glancing over your shoulder at the now-unconscious attacker.

A slow smirk tugs at your lips as you turn back to her, eyes flickering with something both teasing and admiring.

“Still exceptional as always, love,” you muse, tilting your head slightly as your fingers twirl a lock of her blonde hair between them. “Even with the new look.”

Natasha huffs, rolling her eyes, but there is no real annoyance behind it. If anything, the ghost of a smirk threatens to tug at the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah, well,” she exhales, shaking her head as she glances down at the unconscious attacker. “That was my last one, so we need to move.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before grabbing your hand, her grip firm as she leads you down the dimly lit street.

You follow without hesitation, but as you shift your grasp, threading your fingers more securely through hers, you half-expect her to pull away.

She doesn’t.

If anything, her hold only tightens slightly, bringing a small smile to your face.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha curses under her breath, jaw tightening as she wrestles with the lock on their current safe house door. The rusted key refuses to fit properly, scraping against the metal edges of the keyhole with stubborn resistance.

Her fingers clench around it, frustration mounting with each failed attempt.

You lean casually against the wall beside her, arms crossed, watching her struggle with a barely concealed smirk.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she mutters without looking at you, catching the amusement in your expression from the corner of her eye.

“I wouldn’t dare,” you reply smoothly, but the teasing lilt in your voice betrays you.

Natasha sighs, shaking her head. She knows you too well to believe that.

Then, just as you part your lips, no doubt ready to make some remark about the questionable state of the safe house, she cuts you off.

“Don’t.”

The single word carries enough warning to make you chuckle lightly, though it does little to deter the glint of amusement in your eyes.

“You really should’ve contacted me sooner, love,” you say, tilting your head as you watch her struggle with the lock a moment longer. “None of my safe houses are like this.”

As if in defiance of your words, Natasha gives the door one final, forceful shove with her shoulder. The force is enough to finally unstick the warped frame, sending the door flying open—along with Natasha, who stumbles forward with a sharp inhale of surprise.

Before she can steady herself, a firm arm wraps around her waist, catching her mid-fall.

You pull her back upright and against you effortlessly, holding her steady from behind before letting the movement shift into something softer—a lingering embrace as you rest your chin on her shoulder.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed your calls,” you murmur, your breath warm against the side of her head.

Your lips brush just under her ear, pressing a fleeting kiss there, light but deliberate.

Natasha exhales softly, the tension in her shoulders gradually loosening as she settles into the familiar comfort of your arms.

For a brief moment, she allows herself to relax, to sink into the warmth of someone who knows her beyond the mission, beyond the fight.

But then, an awkward clearing of a throat shatters the moment.

Natasha stiffens instantly, instinct kicking in as she steps forward, pulling away from your embrace and pivoting toward the open doorway.

Steve stands there, shifting slightly on his feet, a plastic bag of supplies in one hand while the other runs across the back of his neck, an awkward expression settling across his features.

“Uh…we can come back later, Nat,” he offers, tone uncertain.

Beside him, Wanda stands with her arms wrapped around herself, making no move to step forward. She isn’t as outwardly uncomfortable as Steve, but the curiosity in her eyes is evident as she glances between you and Natasha.

Before Natasha can respond, you speak first, stepping forward with your usual ease, a charming smile effortlessly finding its way onto your lips.

“That won’t be necessary,” you say smoothly, voice carrying an air of lighthearted confidence. “I’m here to help all of you, after all.”

Steve’s brows lift slightly, skepticism flickering behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you can practically hear the unsaid questions forming in his mind. Wanda’s lips twitch ever so slightly as if amused by the boldness of your declaration, though she keeps whatever she’s thinking to herself.

Still, their silence tells you what you already know: they aren’t entirely convinced.

But that’s never stopped you before.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you turn to Natasha, giving her a quick wink before adding, “We can start with moving you all someplace a little more…comfortable.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before Natasha sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose briefly before giving you a look that’s equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement.

“Alright, let’s go to one of yours.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You gesture towards different parts of the new safe house, your voice calm and efficient as you lead them through the space.

“Bedrooms are over here, each with their own bathrooms,” you say, motioning toward the respective areas before stopping at the center of the modest yet well-kept living space.

Three neatly packed duffel bags sit on the coffee table, their contents carefully prepared.

“And these,” you continue, patting the bags lightly, “are some fresh clothes for each of you. Your new IDs are inside.”

Natasha scans the safe house, her sharp gaze taking in every detail. She isn’t surprised at the level of quality—it’s exactly what she expects from you.

Secure, quick, and discreet.

You never do anything halfway.

A sharp vibration cuts through the air, the muffled sound of a phone ringing.

Casually, you pull it from your pocket, giving the screen a brief glance before pressing a button to silence it.

Without another thought, you slip it back into your pocket as if the call never happened.

Natasha’s brows knit slightly, her attention lingering on you.

You don’t leave clients waiting. Efficiency is what you pride yourself on. Quick responses and seamless transactions.

Ignoring a call? That’s unlike you.

Before she can question it, Wanda speaks up, drawing your attention.

“Is there hot water?” she asks, curiosity evident in her tone at the severely missed luxury since being on the run.

You turn to her with an easy smile.

“Sure is, love.”

Natasha’s brow twitches almost imperceptibly. The term of endearment directed at Wanda doesn’t go unnoticed, and though she keeps her expression neutral, her eyes flick toward you, subtly watching your interaction with the other Avenger.

You hand Wanda her duffel, and as if sensing Natasha’s gaze, you turn and meet her eyes.

A knowing glint flickers in your expression as you offer her a small smile.

Wanda, oblivious to the silent exchange, nods in thanks before disappearing into one of the bedrooms.

Meanwhile, you step over to the far side of the room, pull out a black case, and place it on the table.

“Now for my favorite part,” you say with a smirk, unlocking the case and turning it toward Natasha. “Your equipment.”

Seeing her usual, neatly arranged weapons draws a faint smirk to Natasha’s lips. She steps forward, fingers brushing over the familiar weight of her batons, trusty firearms, and multiple taser disks.

“You always know what I like,” she murmurs, amusement lacing her tone.

“Of course,” you reply with a wink before shifting your attention to Steve, who has been sifting through his duffel with quiet curiosity.

“I’m afraid a Vibranium shield might be a little harder to come by,” you muse, watching as he inspects the items inside. “But I’m sure I can get a new protective suit for you—something more subtle for fights while on the run, Captain.”

Steve glances up, nodding slightly. “Appreciate it.”

You clap your hands together, pulling a measuring tape from your pocket with a flourish.

“I’ll just need your measurements, love.”

Natasha’s lips twitch downward slightly, the term now directed at Steve. As you approach Steve, she catches you throwing a quick glance her way as if watching for a reaction.

Attempting to hide her expression, Natasha averts her gaze, making herself look busy as she checks over the equipment in the case.

Steve shifts awkwardly as you begin taking his measurements, lifting his arms and adjusting his stance as you direct him.

After a beat, he clears his throat.

“So, how long have you and Nat known each other?”

You hum in thought, not looking up from your work.

“Going on three years now, I believe.”

Steve’s brows lift slightly before his gaze flickers toward Natasha, as if piecing things together.

“And are you two…?” He trails off, the implication hanging between you.

A low chuckle slips from your lips as you shake your head lightly.

“No, nothing like that, at least, not exclusively,” you say, your tone lighthearted, though something unreadable flickers in your gaze as you glance at Natasha.

“Right, love?”

Natasha stills, her fingers pausing against the equipment. She hadn’t expected to be pulled into the conversation. Lifting her gaze, she holds your eyes for a moment before looking away.

“Yeah,” she mutters softly, carefully placing the weapons back in their slots. With a quiet click, she shuts the case.

Silence settles between the group, the only sound in the room coming from the rustling of fabric and the light tapping of your fingers against the tablet as you take notes.

Then, the sharp buzz of your phone vibrating against your pocket breaks the quiet.

This time, Natasha doesn’t miss the way you glance at the screen, the briefest flicker of something unreadable crossing your face before you shut the device off again.

Her arms cross over her chest as she levels you with a pointed look.

“How much is all this costing you?”

You pause briefly before looking up at her with a smirk.

“That’s nothing you’ll need to concern yourself about.”

As you finish up and straighten, a flicker of a wince crosses your face—so brief most wouldn’t catch it.

But Natasha does.

Her sharp eyes hone in immediately. Without hesitation, she strides forward, grabbing your wrist before you realize it.

“Wha–”

She doesn’t give you the chance to protest, pulling you swiftly toward one of the rooms and shutting the door behind you.

The moment it clicks shut, she turns, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt.

“Hold on, lo—”

Natasha ignores you, lifting the fabric and confirming what she already suspected.

“You did open your stitches,” she accuses, her voice edged with irritation and concern. Her fingers hover over the square bandage at your side, red seeping through the gauze.

Before she can say anything else, your hands cup her face, tilting her chin upward so her eyes meet yours.

A playful smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of her nose.

“You’re cute when you care,” you murmur, brushing your thumb against her cheek. Then, with a teasing grin, you add, “But it’s not as bad as it looks, love, honest.”

At your dismissive tone, Natasha holds your gaze, searching for something—an explanation, a reason—until she can’t help but voice her thoughts.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.

The unspoken words pass between you, heavy with meaning. Why are you risking yourself? Why go to such lengths? Why help her?

Your expression softens. Instead of answering with logic or reason, you simply pull her closer, resting your forehead against hers.

“Because it’s something I can do for you,” you say simply.

The sincerity in your voice makes her breath hitch.

Before she can respond, you close the distance, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s a kiss that speaks of familiarity, of understanding, of a connection beyond words.

Natasha’s hands tighten around the fabric of your jacket as she deepens the kiss, pulling you closer. A soft sound of approval rumbles from your chest, your hands sliding to rest at her waist.

Then, breathless but smirking, you pull back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Do you want to try out the hot water together?”

A faint smirk forms on Natasha’s lips.

Without a word, she grabs your wrist and tugs you toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha’s fingers move idly, tracing faint, absentminded patterns across your bare skin where your top has ridden up slightly.

The slow rise and fall of your chest against her keeps her grounded, your warmth settling into her like an anchor.

She watches you, curled into her arms, the soft glow of the dim light casting gentle shadows across your face.

There’s something about this moment—quiet, unguarded—that makes her reluctant to break it.

But she does.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breathing shifts slightly, and your eyes flutter open, hazy with drowsiness as you turn your head toward her. A flicker of curiosity crosses your expression.

“For coming when I called,” Natasha continues, her voice steady but quiet. “I know it wasn’t the safest move for you.”

Her hand drifts lower, brushing lightly over the fresh bandage at your side, her fingertips ghosting over the wound with a delicate trace.

A soft chuckle rumbles in your chest. You close your eyes again, nuzzling closer, tucking your head into the crook of her neck as if you belong there.

“Anything for my favorite client,” you murmur, your breath warm against her skin.

Natasha doesn’t reply, but the way her arms tighten around you speaks enough. She presses her cheek against the top of your head, her fingers still tracing along your side, committing this rare moment of peace to memory.

A comfortable silence settles between you. The kind that feels full rather than empty, where neither of you feels the need to fill the space with words.

Then, the stillness is broken.

The muffled buzz of a phone vibrating from the pile of clothes strewn across the floor cuts through the quiet.

You exhale a deep sigh, your breath brushing against her collarbone before you reluctantly pull away.

“I should get going,” you say, sitting up and stretching your arms lightly. Your tone is casual, but Natasha doesn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in your movements. “I think I’ve left my other clients waiting long enough.”

She watches as you gather your things, a strange tightness settling in her chest. There’s something she wants to say—something that lingers on the tip of her tongue.

Don’t go. Stay a little longer.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, she hesitates, her hands clenching briefly at her sides before she exhales softly.

“I…” she starts, but then she pauses, her gaze flickering away as she struggles with what exactly she wants to say to you.

You glance up from your phone, head tilting slightly as you wait for her to finish. There’s patience in your expression but also a quiet knowing—like you already understand what she’s trying to say, even if she doesn’t say it aloud.

Finally, she settles on something simpler.

Something safer.

“It was good seeing you again.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, but there’s something else in your eyes—something unreadable. You step closer, closing the distance between you effortlessly.

Lifting her chin with a gentle touch, you lean in, pressing a slow, delicate kiss to her lips. It lingers, warm and unhurried, before you pull away just enough for your lips to barely ghost over hers.

Your usual teasing smirk makes its return as you murmur against her mouth, “Don’t leave me waiting too long for your next call…”

Another feather-light press of your lips follows—a touch so fleeting yet so certain. And then, in a quiet whisper.

“…my love.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

The room feels quieter without you in it, as if something vital has been pulled away. Natasha stays where she is for a moment before exhaling, pressing a hand against her chest.

Her heartbeat is steady.

But she can still feel the ghost of your lips, the weight of your presence lingering in the space you left behind.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 3

a/n: Thank you for reading! Hope you all have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

Taglist : @caspianalexander007

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff

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littlewitchbee · 24 days ago

Text

ロイアイの日2025 🕊️

(text below I know tumblr crunched the hell out of it)

The swallows have returned. Hundreds and hundreds of small, jewel-bright flashes of blue and black that dart around the yard, catching garden insects on the wing before flitting back into the little nesting box above the back gate. Do you remember that old thing? It was one of the first things you ever made for the house.

You might not remember after all this time, so I feel comfortable in this confession: I hated you for it. You, with your haughty smile and father's affection hanging so loose and bright and easy about your shoulders. You shoved it into my arms and you said, “Here. You're always watching those birds,” before retreating into the study.

You were right, I was always watching them, but it wasn't affection that drew me to them, coaxed me to stand in the garden and stare as they danced around me. Some part of me hated them, too.

Small, delicate, beautiful things. They'd arrive in late spring, bringing with them the lush green heat of summer, and just when I'd grow to appreciate their arrival, they'd fly off again–south, to Aerugo, to the world beyond–leaving just me in my garden in my house where I was so alone despite the present company. Why on earth would they choose to return here of all places when they could fly anywhere?

But I hung that nest box. I made sure it was safe and secure. And every year I watched them return and leave once more. As I grew up, I learned that it is the nature of this world for people to leave. They left. You left. Eventually, I left.

I’ll tell you I was happy to see that the box still secure when I came back to set up the house. You'll think this is silly, and maybe it is, but I'm allowed at least one silly thing a week, and that box was one of the first things I looked for once I arrived.

The work is going well, though I (begrudgingly–please imagine my eyes rolling, perhaps a weary sigh) admit I could use your help. Why replace the kitchen beams myself when you could do it with a clap of your hands?

No. I'm glad to do it on my own. It is a blessing beyond imagination to have spent most of our lives rebuilding, using our blood-stained hands to fix and uplift in whatever small way we can. Fitting as well, I think, to spend the rest of our civilian lives here in the house that brought us together all those years ago.

I've spent the last few weeks airing it out, painting, and making it bright and cheerful in a way I could never have imagined as a child. I doubt you'll recognize it. In fact, I'm glad you won't. It's a blank canvas now, one last thing for us to build together.

I don't envy the work you're finishing up in Central. I hope it's going well, and I'm happy it's almost over. I'll ask you not to rush, though I know that's what we'd both like. Only a few more weeks, now, until your uniform can forever join mine in a box in the attic.

As for me, I think I’ll finish up in the garden, maybe hang new curtains in the study. (Your books arrived just yesterday. I'll let you sort through them.) I'll make tea every afternoon and sip it on the swing just outside the kitchen, right as the sun begins to set over the mountains, and the summer breeze surrounds me with the scent of earth and wildflowers. I'll wait for the sound of your boots coming up the drive; the dog’s excited barks as she realizes it's you; your laugh, weightless, effortless, once she reaches you. Mostly, though, I'll sit and watch the swallows dive in and out of the sunlight.

How could I ever hate them? I understand now.

Yours always,

#fma #royai #royai week 2025 #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #it's on ao3 too if you'd rather read it there #heavily inspired by the rural prompt for sure #rips my shirt open to reveal another underneath that says I love swallows #littlewitchbee art

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transformers-spike · 8 months ago

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"Is this why the Autobots are fond of humanity? To indulge their sweet heat cycles? How many human mates has Optimus taken for himself? It seems as though their motives to protect them were never altruistic, much less noble." PLEASE, PLEASE GIVE US A SUB-STORY WHERE THIS TIME IT'S OPTIMUS AND A HUMAN SO IN THEIR HEAT CYCLE PLEASEEEE

Idk am I creating a humans in heat universe for the TF Fandom? I know people like making the bots go through it but I think the humans being affected is so much funnier. Just begging these massive robots to fuck us lmao

How must it feel to burn from the inside out? Betrayed by your own body, rendered unable to function by the fire in your core. You described it as an aching, an insatiable need to appease the hormones overtaking your nerve endings. A mere touch is enough to worsen the ache, it’s what your body dictates in the throes of a heat cycle.

Cybertronians are forged by Primus Himself, their interfaces exist for recreational pleasure and bonding, but your species is biologically programmed to reproduce, like most of the fauna of your planet. It’s a systemic sacrifice, one rendered obsolete by the sentient status of your species. Drugs have been produced to suppress your heats, or at least lessen the effects. Unfortunately, among a dozen varieties of medication, you are either allergic or completely immune to them, leaving you susceptible to your hormonal whims. He is sorry. You must go through so much pain every few months, but you barely show it, brushing off his concerns with a laugh, saying “it is what it is” and moving on as though your body isn’t on a timer. He admires you for it. In spite of your discomfort, you haven’t given up. Once, you told him: “So what if they don’t work on me? I just gotta roll with the punches and hope for the best, it’s been my M.O. since I got the damn thing.” Meeting them for the first time… was turbulent to say the least, but you’re safe and sound, relocated to Jasper, having adjusted to your new life with the help of Agent Fowler. You’ve told them many times you’re infinitely grateful to be in their lives (barring the near death experience at the servos of an Insecticon). For them it’s a pleasure to ease your burden. You’ve eagerly established your consent, although only Arcee is the right size to properly take care of a human. Digits and glossas can only do so much compared to a spike. He tries not to pry, your privacy is yours to divulge at your leisure, but he cannot ignore the charge building up behind his interface when he sees you with the others. Yes, he is an occasional participant, but he will rather cover shifts and allow them some well-deserved respite in your berth. They deserve it. He dares not imagine Arcee’s spike pumping in and out of you, satiating your aching body, filling you to your limit as you beg for more.

Your scent lingers in the air, caressing his sensors, a gentle hand tugging him along by the servo, pulling him in your direction. They try to keep it to themselves, but his team is beyond a doubt intoxicated by your presence alone. Thankfully, it has (almost) never impeded their judgment during missions; perhaps it has even served as motivation to make it back to base in one piece. He tries to ignore the gleam in his old friend’s optics after quelling your urges, if only for a night. Or Bumblebee's praises coming to you as a slow stream of beeps while he nuzzles your face. Or Bulkhead cradling you to his chassis like a precious artifact as you discuss what late night movies you should watch. Or catching Arcee kissing you over the mezzanine and pulling back with a smile she hasn’t worn since Cliffjumper’s death. You bring them together in your own special way, even if you blush and sheepishly deny it, claiming you should be thanking them instead Recent discoveries have yielded an impressive increase in energon and brought forth new opportunities. With unparalleled quantities at their disposal, they can now mass displace. The transformation is no small feat, it exhausts their system and rapidly drains their energon level. But he will not forbid Bumblebee from using it to play with the kids as long as it’s not in excess. Nor to join you during heat cycles. Much like Bulkhead. And Wheeljack. And especially Ratchet. Primus forbid, his old friend has every right to enjoy himself to the fullest after all of his back-breaking work. He’s been meaning to pay you a visit, but he hasn’t found the time until now. In the temporary abode you set up in the base, away from the prying eyes of the kids, you prepare yourself for another heat. Some refurbishing was done to meet your needs (in no small thanks to June Darby and agent Fowler’s financial help); the mattress and the mini fridge was a given, but you’ve added a variety of personal belongings and entertainment; a television, a writing desk, a few “bean bags” here and there, and a pile of old magazines to scrapbook. He wonders if you consider this place your home more than your actual house in Jasper. You greet him while downing a bottle of water, holding up your hand to signal for him to wait. Once emptied, you place it next to the mini fridge, among a wide array of bottled water crates. That would explain the groceries June had brought in with Arcee’s help. As a medical professional she’s especially fretful over your condition, doing her best to prevent the risks of heat cycles, bringing you plenty of calorie dense fuel to combat the massive loss of nutrients. He has not forgotten the fear they experienced when they found you shaking from the deficit, having completely overlooked your hunger in a midst of desperation. In this form, he can appreciate the full extent of your body without fear of hurting you, kneading the supple flesh beneath his digits as you giggle and pull him into you. He does not tower over your reclined form as much as he encases you in a careful hug, hearing the rapid thrum of your human spark directly against his audials; he may sense your pulse rate, but experiencing it is a new wonder of its own. You tell him you missed him and you wish he would let himself go and come out to “obliterate your pussy” more often. He nods and apologizes for his absence even as you shush him and insist he enjoy himself as well. He is… the largest Cybertronian you’ve taken, you remark while adjusting to his size.

“Except maybe Wheeljack,” you add cheekily, already bucking into him. Your composure evaporates as he works you up, not to say that he is much better. He steadies himself over you, charge trickling down his interface as your walls clench around him in a vice-grip. You beg him for more, plead that he frag you until you can’t take it anymore, but he has grown used to your requests and knows when your body has reached its limit. You whimper and claw at his back plates, flush against his frame yet dragging him closer as though to merge your human spark to his.

If only he could.

Slow and steady, he frags you through your overloads, each one adding a new surge of spark down his frame until he comes to his end. You are small and shaking, but in this form he can properly hold you against his chassis and comfort you through the afterglow, bringing you another bottle of water and a Clif bar (chosen for the human scaling a mountain with “If you eat this you can kill God” in big bold letters).

You stir and sit up on shaky knees to accept his offerings. Halfway through your meal, you eye him up and down.

“Are you going to stay some more?” you ask with hopefulness, still chewing on the “ultimate nuts and banana power” concoction advertised on the packaging.

“I’m afraid not, Ratchet has been hard at work deciphering Decepticon encryptions, I will be taking on his duties for the night,” he tries to break it gently, expecting crushed expectations, not your bemused expression looking up at him.

“So you’re sending him my way?” You give a chuckle. “Wish we could have spent more time together, but work is work. Just…” you crawl into his lap and hug him as tight as you can, head resting against his chassis. “Please come back tomorrow. Or after tomorrow. I miss seeing you this way. I won’t get between you and… whatever you have going on, but please visit me more often. You have no idea how nice it feels to be around you.” His gaze softens, glowing faintly against your hair. “So I’ve been told,” he says, a smile on his lips. “As long as it lightens your burden.”

#transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers prime #optimus prime #tfp optimus #tfp arcee #tfp bulkhead #tfp bumblebee #tfp optimus x reader #tfp ratchet x reader #tfp arcee x reader #tfp bulkhead x reader #tfp bumblebee x reader #omegaverse???#damn the reader gets all that spike #tfp wheeljack x reader #valveplug

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

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Hii, okay I have a request now heheheh. Could you imagine writing sth. about reader and lewis trying to keep everything as secret as possible (maybe she is famous too) and then they are oit one night for dinner, and suddenly when they leave together there are so many paparazzi and flashlights and then there are news articles about them the next morning when they wake up?

Thank you for all your stories💕💕

𝒰𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑅𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓇

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! This was such an amazing request. I hope it meets the expectations asked. Enjoy it! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis and reader’s love navigates through chaos of sudden public exposure, finding strength and honesty in their relationship as they choose to embrace their truth together.

Warnings: mild sexual content

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve never had to be this careful with anything in your life.

Not with movie contracts that demand endless legal back-and-forth. Not with studio leaks or paparazzi whispers that seem to trail behind every red-carpet appearance. Not even when your ex threatened to drag your private moments into the tabloids with screenshots of old texts.

But this?

Being with Lewis Hamilton?

This is a whole new level of hiding.

He never said the words, “We need to keep this secret.” He didn’t have to.

From the very first night you met fresh off a film premiere, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins and him just off a podium, his energy vibrating at the same pitch. You both understood the stakes. To step into the world hand in hand was to risk everything you’d both carefully built. So, you didn’t.

You met through a mutual friend at a private afterparty in Monaco. You’d followed a few races before, knew the name, the victories, the charisma. But you didn’t know him not like you do now.

You didn’t know he chews gum when he’s nervous, a habit he’s never quite shaken. You didn’t know his voice softens slightly when he says your name, like it’s a sacred song only you’re meant to hear. You didn’t know he texts you drive safe even when you’re just crossing the street. You didn’t know he could kiss you like he did that night in the hotel hallway - slow, grounding like he was anchoring you both to something real amid the chaos.

Ten months later, you’ve become experts at slipping through the cracks.

Black cars waiting silently at hidden entrances.

Staggered exits from crowded venues so no one sees you leave together.

Encrypted messaging apps.

A secret email account you only check when alone.

And late-night hotel rooms in cities where no one’s looking for either of you.

It’s not always glamorous.

It’s often lonely.

Sometimes it hurts especially when you have to walk past him in public like he’s a stranger, masking everything behind polite distance. When he’s jet-lagged and you’re midway through a gruelling press tour and all you have is a 3 a.m. voice note that says “I love you” in a whisper so soft it barely reaches you.

But it’s worth it.

He’s worth it.

Tonight, you just wanted one normal date.

“Babe, you sure about this place?” you ask, fingers tracing lazy circles along the leather seat between you as you glide through a quiet London street. Your hand slips into his, seeking that small, steady anchor. “Feels a little…public.”

He turns to you with that smile the one that starts slow, lips first, then spreads to his eyes. “I called ahead. Private room in the back. The owner’s a friend. He swore to keep it discreet.”

You glance out the window, watching the streetlamps blur past. “We said that about the hotel in Tokyo.”

He chuckles, that low sound you love. “That was different. The staff were starstruck. This is just dinner.”

You look back at him, heart tugging with affection and something more fragile. “With you, there’s no such thing as ‘just dinner.’”

His thumb brushes the back of your hand. “Then let’s make it worth it.”

The restaurant is tucked into a quiet alley; cobblestones slick with earlier rain. A flickering lantern marks the door, casting dancing shadows on brick walls. No cameras. No fans. Just the soft glow of golden light spilling from within.

You’re led straight to a private corner, curtained off from the world. Champagne chills on ice, already bubbling with quiet promise.

He lets you order, like always he knows your favourites by heart now.

For two hours, the world falls away.

It’s just you.

Your knees brushing beneath the table, his fingers occasionally drifting along your thigh. Laughter between sips of wine. Talk of his upcoming race. Your latest callback for an indie project you can’t stop dreaming about. The playlist you’ve both been building over time - songs to cry to, to dance to, to feel together.

Your heels come off under the table. His hand stays on your leg, a steady, comforting weight.

At one point, he leans forward and kisses the inside of your wrist like he’s committing it to memory.

“I miss this,” you whisper, your voice thick with longing.

“You have it,” he murmurs, breath brushing your skin. “Always.”

But time, as always, slips away.

The night air is cool as you step out, skin still warm from wine and his touch. He pulls up his hood, threads his fingers through yours.

And then -

Flash.

A wall of light hits you like a wave.

Voices roar from every direction.

“Lewis! Over here!”

“Wait - is that her?”

“Are they together?!”

It feels like the sidewalk tilts beneath you.

His hand clamps around yours, shielding you as he moves toward the car with practiced ease. His body becomes a shield, cutting through the chaos like he’s done on countless circuits focused, fast and controlled.

The car door slams shut behind you.

Your breath comes in shallow bursts. Your pulse races.

“Shit,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He exhales, fingers combing through his hair, tension radiating off him. “They saw. All of them.”

You turn to him. “Do you think they got a clear shot?”

He’s already scrolling through his phone, jaw tight. “I don’t know.”

You swallow hard. “It’s going to be everywhere by morning.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. And for the first time in months, there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

The city blurs by, a silent countdown to the headlines.

You lean into him, heart pounding.

“Whatever happens,” he says softly, steady as always, “we face it together.”

Because no matter how fierce the spotlight, no matter how loud the world becomes you have him and he has you.

And that has always been enough. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning comes slow and hazy, like the world itself is still waking up.

Soft golden light slips in through the hotel room curtains, muted and gentle, casting long shadows across the rumpled white sheets. The city hums quietly beyond the window, but here beneath the covers, tangled together there’s only warmth.

You’re still nestled against Lewis; your cheek pressed into the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat is a soft, rhythmic drum beneath your ear, a comforting pulse that slows the world down. One arm wraps around you with protective strength, pulling you close enough to feel the steady heat radiating from his body. The other hand is tangled in your hair, his fingers threading through the strands with a familiar tenderness.

For a moment just a breath it’s still just the two of you.

Then you hear it the buzz…

First his phone, vibrating sharply on the nightstand, then yours. A soft chorus of alerts, each one a reminder that the quiet bubble around you is about to burst. You groan, muffling it into the crook of his neck.

“No, no not yet,” you whisper, reluctant to let go of this fragile sanctuary.

Lewis doesn’t answer. Instead, his arm tightens, drawing you closer, and he exhales through his nose a quiet breath that holds more than words, like he already knows what you’re about to face.

The moment shatters.

You reach blindly for your phone, the screen’s sudden brightness stabbing your eyes in the dim room.

Sixty-five notifications.

Your thumb hesitates, hovering, heart suddenly racing. Then you tap Instagram, knowing exactly what you’ll see but needing to see it anyway.

The first post is a fan edit blurry, grainy shots from last night. You and Lewis, walking side by side down a London sidewalk. Flashes explode around you like fireworks, painting the night in harsh light and shadow. You’ve got your hood up, trying to hide, but your face is still unmistakably visible. His hand curls around yours, fingers tight. Someone’s added a sparkly filter over the photo, and the caption screams:

“NEW COUPLE ALERT?? LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED WITH A-LIST ACTRESS AFTER LONDON DINNER”

You stare at the image like it’s a stranger, like it’s someone else’s life splashed across your screen.

Lewis shifts behind you, pulling his phone free. The glow of his lockscreen catches your eye a photo you took of him laughing quietly in bed, safe and unguarded, two months ago when you were hiding out in Paris.

He sighs, heavy and slow.

“We’re everywhere.”

You scroll through the headlines Page Six, Daily Mail, TMZ, and…Vogue?

“Why is Vogue involved?” you ask, bewildered.

He chuckles, a dry sound low in his throat.

“Because they want the exclusive if we confirm it.”

The weight of that sinks in like a stone in your stomach.

It’s real now. The world knows.

There’s no slipping back into the shadows.

Your phone buzzes again. A text from your publicist, Katie, flashing urgent and relentless:

Are you awake??

Call me. Now.

Also I told you this would happen.

You mutter, waving your phone like it’s a live grenade.

“Mine’s already spiralling.”

Lewis flips his own phone toward you. Three missed calls from Angela his closest friend and unofficial crisis manager.

“Join the club,” he says, voice tired but steady.

You lie there in the heavy silence, the quiet before the storm. The calm feels fragile, like the world is holding its breath with you.

“What do you want to do?” you ask softly, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

He turns to face you fully, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek. His eyes, dark and steady, search yours.

“What do you want to do?”

You hesitate, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“I…” Your voice cracks a little. “I want to stay here. Like this. With you. For as long as we can.”

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, gentle and reassuring.

“Then let’s do that. Screw the headlines. We’ve got time.”

You bury your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of skin and sleep something grounding, something safe.

“I can already hear Katie’s voice in my head,” you say, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “She’s probably halfway to my apartment with a crisis binder.”

“You want me to talk to her?”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“You’d do that?”

He shrugs, a little smile playing on his lips.

“I’ve got practice. My life’s been a PR nightmare since 2007.”

You both laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh with weight behind it knowing, bitter, hopeful all at once.

You press a slow kiss to his collarbone, savouring the moment.

“We can’t put this back in the box, can we?”

“No,” he says quietly, voice thick with something deeper. “But maybe we don’t have to.”

He kisses you slow, grounding the kind of kiss that doesn't rush, doesn't demand. It just is. A truth between you. His lips press softly against yours, lingering, almost shy in their tenderness.

But there’s something underneath it, something simmering. A tension that’s been building quietly, waiting for the moment it could bloom without fear or interruption.

His fingers slide deeper into your hair, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves against yours with more certainty. You feel it in the way his other hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Skin to skin, breath to breath. The duvet falls away as you shift, exposing warm limbs tangled in cool sheets, hearts racing in sync.

The kiss deepens and grows hungrier, surer like you’re trying to memorise the feel of him, like you’re afraid you’ll be dragged apart the moment you stop. His tongue brushes against yours, slow and searching, sending heat straight through you. Your fingers trail up his bare back, mapping the muscles there, the curve of his shoulder blades, the places you know so well but never stop wanting.

He rolls you gently, your back meeting the mattress and you go with it willingly, lost in him. His weight presses over you, not heavy, just real. Anchoring. His body fits against yours like you were made in the same breath, every point of contact sparking something deeper something electric.

His mouth leaves yours only to travel lower along the line of your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, down your throat. Each kiss is soft, deliberate, like he’s tasting every piece of you he missed in the chaos of yesterday. He lingers at your collarbone, lips warm and open, teeth grazing gently before he sucks the skin there just enough to make you gasp.

All that remains is the heat building between you, the way he worships every inch of you like he’s trying to write a story on your skin with his mouth, his hands, his body. The way you move together, slowly at first, like you’re rediscovering each other in this new, fragile world where you no longer have to hide. Then faster, harder, deeper fuelled by love and something more primal.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep and something else.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Always.”

You press your forehead to his, still breathless.

“I think I forgot my name for a second.”

He chuckles, voice raspy. “Good. I was aiming for at least three seconds.”

You both laugh softly, and then fall into silence again content, connected.

The world is still humming beyond your door, but in here, it’s just you and him.

Still warm. Still safe.

Still together.

And for a while, you forget the flashing lights. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It’s past noon when you finally call the outside world.

The hotel room is heavy with quiet the kind of silence that hums just under your skin. Light streams in through a gap in the curtains, cutting a golden line across the duvet. Your phone vibrates again and again on the coffee table, face down and ignored for as long as you’ve been wrapped up in your own little world.

But eventually, reality knocks louder.

You FaceTime Katie first.

She answers on the first ring, already mid-pace in what looks like her office, Bluetooth headset in, a stack of papers balanced against her hip like a third limb. Her hair’s in a high bun, her lipstick perfectly intact. Crisis mode suits her, terrifyingly.

“Oh thank God,” she breathes, stopping short. “You’re alive. I was five minutes away from sending someone to check your pulse. Maybe a drone. Possibly a team of investigators.”

“Good morning to you too,” you mumble, still tangled in sheets, pulling them a little higher around you.

Katie narrows her eyes, hawklike. “Is he there?”

You glance across the room. Lewis is by the window, legs stretched out on the windowsill, sipping from a coffee mug with that maddeningly relaxed expression. Shirtless, of course. Because why would he make your life easier?

“Yes,” you say simply.

“Is he shirtless?” Katie’s voice is flat. Dangerous.

You sigh. “Katie.”

“Oh my God, he is.” She presses a hand to her forehead. “Okay. Wow. Okay. Listen this is manageable. We can do this. But you need to tell me how serious this is. Are we talking summer fling or full-blown, headline-stealing, statement relationship?”

You glance at Lewis again. He raises an eyebrow like he knows exactly what you’re about to say. That soft little smirk of his that you’re listening, and he already knows the answer kind of smirk is there, warm and quiet.

“It’s serious,” you tell her.

Katie pauses, something in her expression shifting. Her voice softens, just a notch. “Then we need to get ahead of it. You’ve got maybe six hours before the internet starts cannibalising itself. Do you want to confirm or stay silent?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Can I think about it?”

“Not for long. Vogue’s already emailing for comment. So is Variety. Everyone’s speculating. There are clips from your last premiere being reanalysed, fans zooming in on your necklaces someone even made a chart. They think one of them is his initials.”

Lewis chuckles from across the room, setting his coffee down. “Wait, which one?”

“The one you gave me,” you say, giving him a look. “The tiny ‘L.’”

He grins, delighted. “That’s adorable.”

Katie groans, dragging a hand through her hair. “Please don’t flirt while I’m spiraling. It’s cruel.”

“I’ll call you back,” you say gently. “Promise.”

She exhales hard. “Okay. But babe - this might be a storm, but it doesn’t have to be a disaster. If you’re happy we can work with that. We’ll shape the story before it shapes you.”

You hang up, letting the quiet settle like dust.

Lewis walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, still bare-chested and sun-drenched. He reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours.

“How are you really feeling?” he asks, eyes searching yours.

You let your shoulders drop. “Like the world just changed.”

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand. “And?”

You look at him. Steady, solid. Here.

“Still worth it.”

His eyes soften, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Same.”

You sit like that for a while, hand in hand, side by side. Not planning, not fixing just being. The storm’s still out there, rising fast. But in here, it’s just you both.

And maybe…maybe you’re done hiding. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The hotel feels like a bunker.

Not because anyone’s chasing you inside but because you haven’t let the world in yet. It’s not fear. Not exactly. It’s the feeling right before a door opens, when everything is still quiet, and you’re holding your breath, unsure what waits on the other side.

The curtains are half-drawn, their edges glowing with the diffused light of early afternoon. Outside, the world is roaring feeds refreshing, timelines speculating, headlines forming but inside this room, it’s still. Safe. Lewis has Sade playing low through the speakers, her voice like silk through smoke, threading through the air in slow, soulful loops. It anchors you. It always does.

Your phone is face down on the table, screen black, though you know it’s lighting up like a Christmas tree every few seconds. The air smells like coffee, clean linen, and the faint trace of that candle Angela insisted you pack for “grounding purposes.” You never thought something so small could matter, but today, it does.

Lewis is still in sweatpants and no shirt, legs stretched out on the couch, a book open but forgotten in his lap. His attention keeps drifting to you with soft glances, little half-smiles like he’s memorising the shape of this moment. It’s only been hours since the world shifted. But already, everything feels louder. Closer.

Then comes the knock. Sharp, quick, familiar.

Katie arrives like a thunderclap in designer boots. She barrels through the door with the force of a woman who has already been on four calls and fought three media fires before lunch. Her outfit is all black sleek, battle-ready and her sunglasses stay on, even indoors. She’s clutching an iced oat milk latte like it’s an explosive she’s ready to detonate.

“Okay,” she says, sweeping into the room, her coat already sliding off her shoulders and landing on the back of a chair. “I’ve printed three different response options, drafted a joint statement in two tones friendly and firm and if you’d prefer to go the soft-confirmation route, we can float a boomerang of your hands or something equally corny.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow from the couch, his voice lazy and amused. “That’s actually a real strategy?”

Katie doesn’t even pause. “Worked for Zendaya and Tom. The fans like to feel like they cracked a code. Subtle gets them talking more than screaming it from a rooftop ever could.”

You glance down at your hands, still loosely curled in your lap. You don’t know if you’re ready to hold this moment up to the light yet not the kind that comes with a million opinions and screenshot reactions.

Another knock. This one lighter, more rhythmic.

Angela steps in like the eye of the storm. Calm, unshaken, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a silver water bottle in the other. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair tied up, the picture of casual control.

“I brought food,” she says, lifting the bag like an offering. “And aloe. For your PR burns.”

Katie sizes her up instantly. “You must be Angela.”

Angela smiles, a touch dry. “And you must be the one who doesn’t sleep.”

They shake hands like co-generals on the eve of battle. A silent understanding forms in that moment. They might not operate the same way but they both know how to win.

Lewis glances at you, nudging your knee gently with his. “Should we be worried or impressed?”

You whisper back, “Definitely both.”

Angela moves toward the coffee table and starts unpacking the bag vegan croissants, fruit, pressed juices, a smoothie she places directly in front of you.

“Start with this,” she says softly. “You haven’t eaten.”

You mumble a thanks, fingers curling around the condensation-slick glass. The cold bites pleasantly at your skin. It’s a small comfort, but right now, you’ll take it.

Katie has already cracked open her laptop, keys clacking at rapid fire. “Let’s assess the damage,” she says without looking up.

Angela’s phone screen lights up, and she holds it out. “Thirty thousand likes and counting. This one’s everywhere.”

It’s a blurry, vertical fan video, the kind that somehow still ends up in full HD across every platform. Someone had caught you just before you climbed into the car last night. Your hood is up, face barely visible, but in that brief second you turned toward Lewis, and he leaned in pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s fast. Blink and you miss it. But it’s out there now, on every platform, looped over soft music and dramatic captions.

“Twitter’s a mess,” Angela adds. “Instagram’s worse.”

Katie chimes in without missing a beat. “TikTok has already made three edits. One with Billie Eilish’s ‘True Blue,’ one in slow motion with dramatic captions and one pulling your red-carpet interviews to prove ‘they’ve always been endgame.’”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This cannot be real.”

Lewis just laughs under his breath. “Could be worse.”

Katie doesn’t look convinced. “Wait until Piers Morgan gets his claws in. He’ll say something gross, and then we’ll have to pretend we didn’t see it.”

Angela rolls her eyes. “Ignore him. He’s like a mosquito with a Twitter account.”

The smoothie is tart and cold and grounding as you take another sip. The quiet hangs again.

“So,” Katie says, voice softening now. “What’s the plan?”

Her eyes go to Lewis first, then to you. The question’s real now not just PR tactics, not just timing. It’s about what you want. What you’re ready for. How much you’re willing to give the world, and how much you want to keep for yourself.

You look at Lewis. His expression doesn’t waver warm, steady, like he’s been waiting for you to meet him here.

And you feel it again. That thread. That thing that’s been tying you together since the first late-night phone call, the first secret flight, the first look that lasted too long. What you’ve built has never needed an audience to be real. But maybe now it’s time to stop hiding.

“I’m tired of hiding,” you say quietly.

He reaches for your hand, fingers wrapping around yours like he’s been doing it his whole life. “Then we stop.”

Katie straightens. “Joint statement?”

Angela shakes her head. “Too polished. Too Hollywood. It’s not who they are.”

Lewis nods. “We have that photo. From Paris.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “The one on the balcony?”

He squeezes your hand. “That morning. Just us. Sunlight and sleepy eyes.”

It’s one of your favourite photos. No makeup, no stylists, no fans. Just you in one of his hoodies, curled into his side, his arm around your waist. Your face is hidden in his neck, your hair a little wild, his smile soft. You can’t even see the city clearly behind you just the morning light and a curtain billowing to one side. It’s the closest thing to peace you’ve ever caught in a frame.

Katie leans over to glance at it as you pull it up. “If you’re dropping this, it needs to be on your terms. Your timing. Your tone.”

You take a breath, hands trembling slightly as you select the photo and start typing. Slowly, deliberately:

“Kept this for ourselves for a while. Now it’s yours too.”

You show it to Lewis.

He reads it, then looks at you his smile slow, content, full of something deeper than just approval. “Perfect.”

You hit post.

The app refreshes. The world, it seems, was already watching. Comments flood in like a tidal wave. Likes rise in real-time. The notifications become a blur.

But you don’t look at them. Not yet.

Instead, you lean into Lewis, let your head rest on his shoulder, and let the music wrap around you again. The world may be spinning a little faster now, but in here right now you’re still steady.

Still just you.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Within an hour, you’re trending worldwide.

The hotel suite becomes a command centre of chaos, softly lit and low-ceilinged, a strange haven from the noise exploding outside its walls. Your phone buzzes constantly notifications stacking like dominos: fan reactions, media speculation, celebrity likes, interview requests, speculative tweets, Instagram edits with soundtracks ranging from romantic to unhinged.

At one point, Katie barks, “Don’t touch anything,” while snatching your phone out of your hand to prevent you from doom-scrolling yourself into an anxiety spiral.

A director you worked with three years ago reposts the photo with three heart emojis and the caption: "Always knew she had excellent taste."

Lewis’s current teammate comments simply: “Finally,” with a fire emoji, which somehow makes you laugh and blush at the same time.

The number of followers on your account ticks upward like a slot machine. Angela checks Twitter once and mutters something about needing tequila and a media blackout.

Eventually, the four of you; you, Lewis, Angela, and Katie have exhausted all the practical things you can do. Statements reviewed. Comments limited. Phones silenced. Food half-eaten. By then, the adrenaline starts to bleed off, leaving behind this soft hum of stillness and disbelief.

Lewis and you end up on the floor, in the quietest part of the suite. You’ve changed into sweats, both barefoot, backs pressed against the bottom of the couch. There’s a plate of lukewarm fries abandoned between you, a candle flickering steadily on the coffee table, and the city glowing faintly beyond the glass. From here, it doesn’t feel like the worlds on fire. It just feels…normal.

Surreal, but normal.

You scroll one last time, watching the comment section on your photo fill like floodwaters. You pause on one a fan edit of your Paris balcony picture, now overlaid with poetry in a looping GIF: “Love, even in silence, speaks volumes.”

You set your phone down on the rug and exhale slowly.

“Is this real?” you whisper, almost afraid that if you say it too loudly, it’ll all vanish.

Lewis tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes for a moment. “As real as it gets.”

You turn to look at him. Really look. His profile in the low light sharp but soft at the same time. His curls a little messy from running his hands through them. There’s a peace to him that you hadn’t noticed before. Not the performative calm he wears in interviews or on podiums, but something deeper. Something like relief.

“You’re not scared?” you ask quietly.

He opens his eyes and looks at you steady, clear. “I was. For a long time. I thought if people knew, they’d ruin it. Twist it into something ugly. Or make it feel like it belonged to them instead of us.”

“And now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis reaches out, rests his hand gently on your knee. His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles. “Now I know they don’t get to decide what we are. They can talk. They can guess. But they don’t get to shape it. That’s ours.”

Your throat tightens, emotion catching there. This man, this moment so honest, so vulnerable. And he’s giving you everything without asking for anything in return.

“I should probably say something poetic,” you manage, half-laughing, half-choked up. “But I think I’m just going to kiss you.”

He smiles, slow and warm, like the sun rising. “Good plan.”

You shift toward him, crawling into his lap like you’ve done a hundred times in private. His arms open instantly, instinctively, wrapping around you like a shield. He holds you like he always has secure, steady, infinite. Only now, the door between your world and the rest has been left ajar. And still he’s here. You’re here.

The kiss is slow.

Unrushed.

His lips find yours gently, like a promise whispered against skin. There’s no urgency, no firestorm behind it. Just presence. Connection. The weight of everything you’ve held in and everything you’ve now let go of. It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you and roots you to a person, to a feeling, to the belief that love can be quiet and still shake the earth.

It’s not for the cameras.

Not for the headlines.

It’s just for you.

And it’s enough. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning after your big reveal, the world feels different.

Not just louder though it is but heavier, charged with a new kind of energy. It’s like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next. Your phone buzzes nonstop, a never-ending cascade of messages that makes it heat up in your hand. Friends, colleagues, distant relatives you haven’t spoken to in years. Fans you’ve never met leave paragraphs of love, encouragement, even a few who say they suspected something all along. A stylist you once worked with sends a voice note sobbing, “FINALLY, OH MY GOD.”

Lewis’s team sends a flood of updates screenshots of trending hashtags, news clippings, the surge in his engagement numbers. His last post hit ten million likes overnight. The photo of you two your hand in his, faces close but not kissing has become an instant cultural moment. There’s commentary. Dissections. Think pieces.

But through the noise, you look up and see him.

Lewis stands across the room, in soft grey sweats, a mug in one hand and his phone in the other. His face is calm, serene in a way that makes your heartbeat slow. Like he’s the anchor tethering you to solid ground.

He sets his mug down and crosses the room. “You ready?” he asks softly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on your cheek a moment longer than necessary, warm and grounding.

You nod, though your chest tightens. Today’s a big one the charity gala where you’ve been asked to present an award. Normally, it would be about your work, your moment in the spotlight. But now? Now you’re arriving together. As a couple. Publicly.

The gravity of that word hits you as you step into the car. Couple.

The ride there is wrapped in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that only exists between people who know each other deeply. Lewis holds your hand like he knows you need it his thumb brushing lazy circles across your knuckles. Every so often, he glances your way with a small smile, the kind that says, We’re okay. We’re in this together.

Outside the car windows, the crowd builds before you even arrive fans waving signs, paparazzi perched like vultures, their flashes flickering like lightning in a summer storm.

As soon as you step out, the night erupts.

The red carpet is chaos incarnate. Photographers shout, cameras click in a deafening rhythm, reporters wave microphones like weapons. Bright lights strobe around you, disorienting and unrelenting.

“Is this your first public appearance as a couple?”

“How does it feel to finally be out?”

“Are there wedding plans already?”

You squeeze Lewis’s hand so tightly your knuckles ache. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Not tonight,” you whisper, feeling the edges of panic trying to crawl up your throat.

He chuckles, low and reassuring. “One step at a time,” he murmurs, and suddenly, you can breathe again.

He walks beside you, not a pace ahead or behind, but perfectly aligned. The cameras can’t capture the soft pressure of his hand in yours, or the way he turns slightly toward you every few steps like he’s checking you’re okay. In the blur of flashes and noise, he leans in and whispers, “You look incredible.”

A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, pretending not to notice the flutter in your chest.

The gala is all glitter and grandeur. Inside, chandeliers sparkle like constellations, music hums beneath the chatter of the elite, and champagne flows endlessly. You mingle, you smile, you pose. But somewhere between introductions and small talk, you steal away.

The balcony is quiet, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight and city glow. Below you, the skyline stretches endlessly, a galaxy of lights reflected in glass and metal. Lewis leans on the railing, pulling you into his side.

“This…” he says, voice quiet, “I know it’s new. And scary. But I promise no matter what happens out there, here with me, you’re safe.”

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding rhythm of his heart. The words rise without effort.

“I love you.”

He exhales; a breath caught somewhere between surprise and relief. “I love you too,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

What you don’t know is that somewhere nearby, a reporter’s hot mic catches the momentthe vulnerable confessions, the barely audible declarations. Hours later, the clip circulates online. But instead of tabloid fodder, it becomes something else. Something rare. People repost it not to dissect it, but to hold it up like a fragile thing that deserves to be protected. For once, the internet doesn’t chew love up it preserves it. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

At the afterparty, the glamour doesn’t feel quite real. There’s laughter, music, and a hundred conversations happening at once, but none of it touches the quiet bubble you’ve built around yourselves.

You find a seat near the grand fireplace. The glow paints Lewis’s face in amber and gold, making the tiredness in his eyes look almost poetic. His fingers rest on your arm, tracing idle shapes like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Do you think we did the right thing?” you ask, your voice barely louder than the crackling fire.

He pauses, thinking. Then shrugs. “I don’t know. But I do know I’m happier not hiding anymore.”

You inch closer, feeling the warmth of him seep into you. “Me too.”

Then his phone vibrates another message, another reminder that the world hasn’t stopped. You see the flicker of tension in his jaw.

“Want to get out of here?” you whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

You slip out the side entrance, hand in hand, dodging the spotlight. The night air is cool, crisp. It smells like damp concrete and possibility.

Lewis pulls you into him, arms winding around your waist, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re everything,” he says softly.

“I love you,” you reply again, the words falling effortlessly.

He laughs under his breath and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” you whisper, smiling.

You stay like that for a while, just being two people in love, untouched by noise. And then you head back inside, stronger than before.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The days after are a whirlwind press requests, brand campaigns, interview offers. But somehow, it feels manageable. You’re steering the ship together now.

And one afternoon, Lewis surprises you.

A park tucked away behind city buildings. A picnic blanket snacks you’d mentioned offhand weeks ago, a chilled bottle of sparkling water, and sunlight filtering through the leaves like a kaleidoscope.

He sits across from you, nervous in a way you don’t usually see. “I’ve been thinking about all of this. Us. The future.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tiny velvet box.

Your breath catches.

“Open it,” he says.

Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a miniature steering wheel pendant simple, elegant.

“For the journey ahead,” Lewis says quietly. “No more hiding. Just us.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s perfect.”

He fastens it around your neck himself, fingers trembling just a little. You lean into him, and something shifts between you like the last wall crumbles.

That night, you talk. Really talk. About the weight of fame. The risks of honesty. The dreams you hadn’t dared say aloud.

“I want to show you off,” Lewis says, touching your cheek.

You laugh, heart full. “Is that a promise?”

“Always.”

Later, tangled in each other, the lights low and the world blissfully quiet, you realise something.

This is it. The love you built in shadows now shines in the light.

And for the first time, you’re not afraid of being seen.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #x reader #lh44 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 #team lh44

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cece693 · 2 months ago

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With me hitting a writing block, I thought back to a childhood series I adored—The Hunger Games! This idea is simple, but was easy to write as you are lovers trying to survive the games, but is that really possible? Don't know what else to say, except, that I hope you enjoy!

FIGHT FOR ME

pairing: finnick odair x male reader tags: you and finnick go back, friends to lovers, Annie doesn't exist in my realm, you're a fellow victor from district 10, district 10 specializes in livestock (so killing animals and providing meat to the capital), you are a man who is very calm, which pisses finnick the fuck out

The first time Finnick Odair saw you, he was still raw from the saltwater of his own Games—seventeen years old, paraded through the Capitol on his Victor’s Tour and sick of being beautiful for other people. He’d escaped a banquet by slipping onto a penthouse balcony, chest heaving with too-sweet air, when he noticed someone already leaning on the rail: you, District 10’s victor from three years prior, tuxedo unbuttoned and head tilted toward the constellations as if mapping a route home.

“Careful,” Finnick muttered, meaning the cameras inside.

You didn’t turn. “They’re all busy applauding themselves. We have five safe minutes.”

Something in the weary certainty of your voice cracked Finnick’s practiced charm. You offered him a silver flask—clear water, not liquor—then spoke of tides, ship knots, the glide of moonlight on coral. It was the first conversation since his crowning that hadn’t felt like being filleted. When he finally laughed—really laughed—you smiled and said, “I hoped that sound still existed.”

In the months that followed, your paths crossed whenever the Capitol trotted its trophies out: interviews, charity galas, private auctions none of the sponsors called by their real name. Finnick collected jewelry; you collected secrets—tiny acts of rebellion like pressing a note into his palm (“Meet me on the roof in seven minutes”) or blocking a Capitol lackey from drugging Finnick’s drink with a casual shoulder-bump. He started counting on the solid weight of you at his side, the unspoken code that if one disappeared, the other would go looking.

Affection snuck up on him in increments: the way his breath hitched when you ruffled his sea-damp hair during training sessions for new tributes; how jealousy burned when Capitol aristocrats laid greedy hands on your arm; the warm twist low in his stomach whenever you said his name without the purr everyone else used—just Finnick, bare and simple, like a real boy instead of a legend.

By the time he admitted, alone in his mentor’s quarters, “I love him,” the word felt too small for the tide inside his chest.

10 YEARS LATER

District 4—Victor’s Village, Sea-glass Lane

Your visits had become ritual: once every moon-cycle you traded cattle fields for Finnick’s weather-bleached porch, dropping your overnight pack beside the rope hammock and letting the salt wind unknot your shoulders. You told yourself it was friendship. Finnick told himself it was safer that way—love unnamed was love unexposed.

That bright autumn afternoon began like the others: gulls wheeling over the breakers, Mags humming in the kitchen, Finnick showing you how to splice line without fraying the fibers. You were teasing him—“Your knots look jealous of each other, so tight they can’t breathe”—when the Capitol emergency broadcast hijacked every screen in the house. The image of President Snow flickered across the living-room holopane.

Finnick’s laugh died. Your hands stilled, rope half-braided between you.

“As a reminder of the Capitol’s benevolence,” Snow drawled, eyes reptilian, “the Third Quarter Quell will draw its tributes from the existing pool of victors.”

Silence—vast, tidal—before Mags’ china teacup shattered in the next room.

Finnick’s stomach plummeted so violently he tasted copper. Not him. Anybody but him. He lurched to his feet, nearly tripping on the coil of rope, and reached for the remote with hands that suddenly wouldn’t obey. The holopane kept hissing—Snow listing dates, times, protocols—until Finnick found the power switch and cut the feed. The room plunged into hush broken only by surf, by the distant clang of a harbor bell, by Finnick’s pulse roaring in his ears.

You turned, expression almost peaceful. “It was inevitable.” You eased back onto the couch, folding one ankle over the other with that maddening calm he’d never managed to crack. “We always knew the Capitol wouldn’t let us die peacefully in old age.”

Finnick knelt before you, uncaring that his knees hit hardwood. “Stop. Don’t you dare put that resignation mask on. You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever seen—in your Games, in the years after, every time you kept another tribute from breaking.” His throat tightened. “You think none of that matters?”

“Finnick—”

“Stop.” Panic made his voice a brittle thing. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to go back into that place. Don’t tell me you’ll lie down because Snow snapped his fingers.”

Your calm ignited something furious inside him; he felt it flare through every scar the Capitol had ever kissed. “You think your death will satisfy him?” Finnick shook his head, curls whipping. “They’ll drag us both in anyway. They’ll kill us on screen. Don’t make it easy for them.”

“Finnick,” you repeated softly, brushing a strand of sea-tangle hair from his lashes. “I have no illusions. I’m twenty-six. I have been living on borrowed time since I won the games at thirteen. If dying keeps another child out of the Arena—”

“Don’t you dare dress suicide in charity.” Finnick's voice cracked; he forced iron into the next words. “Your life isn’t a bargaining chip. It’s mine, too—do you understand that? I’m in love with you. That means your heartbeat is mine.”

Shock flickered across your face—the confession he’d whispered only to empty walls now alive between you. It trembled there, fragile as a soap bubble, until you lifted a hand and rested your palm to his chest, over the tattoo of knots near his heart. Your thumb stroked once, twice, the way you smoothed rope before pulling it tight.

“Finnick Odair,” you murmured, voice turned rough, “I don’t deserve that kind of devotion.”

“Then fight until you do,” he fired back, desperate. “Fight for every stolen night like this. Fight because I can’t stand if you’re not beside me.”

The holopanel continued to drone outside—people celebrating that their young children wouldn't be reaped, the Capitol anthem swelling—but the two of you stood in a pocket of stillness. Finally you nodded, as if accepting command aboard a doomed vessel.

“Okay” you said. “I'll fight to stay alive, but that doesn't mean I won't protect you out there.”

“You’ll protect me?” Finnick echoed. “You realize how backwards that sounds?”

You arched a brow. “I’ve watched you cart more than one Career across the ground with a spear through your calf, Odair. Someone had better keep you from playing hero.”

For the first time since Snow’s card, a laugh—thin but real—broke from Finnick’s throat. It felt like breathing after surf had pinned him under. “Deal,” he whispered, resting his forehead to yours. “We protect each other. Always.”

You bumped noses, conspiratorial. “Always is a long voyage, sailor.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

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thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 2 months ago

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WHAT MAKES A WOMAN.

PAIRING — bucky barnes x f!reader

CONTENTS — ficlet; fluff; slight angst; established relationship; body image issues [tw: hysterectomies]; self-indulgent to the max.

SUMMARY — When your relationship with Bucky begins to progress physically, you decide to divulge some very personal information.

WORD COUNT — 1.3k

NOTES — so i struggled with whether or not to repost this due to its unique and potentially triggering subject matter, but what the hell. experiences like mine should be told. and i want you all to know you’re beautiful :3 yes, you! 🫵🏻 i will accept no notes on this <3

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

Of course, you don’t need to tell him anything.

The relationship is still so new, and it isn't like Bucky would be able to tell—could he? You can probably take this little secret of yours to the grave and it likely wouldn’t affect your relationship whatsoever.

But Bucky isn’t like any of the other men you’ve been with. He’s sweet and kind and so very loving, even if he doesn’t often get the chance to show it. And whether you’re out in the field together or back at home safe and sound, you do trust him completely.

Your rational brain knows he, of all people, would never treat you as something less than. Your irrational side, the part of you that has been disappointed time and time again, paints a different picture.

What if, just like your exes, he finds you repulsive after he learns what’s bothering you? What if he withdraws, tosses you aside like some days old garbage?

You hate it. You hate the part of you that doubts him, that is so full of doubt and fear despite the fact that you’ve fought aliens and mad titans.

But you have a policy of always being honest and upfront with your partners. At the time you had the procedure done, you didn’t think your medical history would be a big deal. These things happened, couldn’t be helped, and it didn’t change your lifestyle or overall health—in fact, your quality of life has improved dramatically since.

Regardless, the very necessary hysterectomy you’d gotten left you without all the parts that, according to some people, made you a woman.

Your ex-boyfriend actually recoiled when you told him, a decision you made just as things were getting serious between you. You thought you’d nip it in the bud in case the topics of marriage or children ever came up, considering you wanted neither of those things and the latter was no longer physically possible for you.

He couldn’t see past the health complications you would’ve had to live with if you hadn’t gotten it done. He accused you of lying to him, insisted you’d somehow betrayed him, and clearly didn’t understand what a hysterectomy actually was no matter how much you tried to explain it to him.

If you’d told him before you’d ever been intimate, he was audacious enough to confess out loud, he never would have touched you in the first place.

You never felt so undesirable and so ugly in your entire life. You ran back to the compound after the breakup and straight into Natasha’s arms, who didn’t ask any prying questions but made promises of revenge, torture, and murder.

You resolved to never date again. You swore off men and decided to throw yourself into your career. You did have a pretty good one, after all. What more did you need?

Well, him.

Bucky won you over the very first day you met, looking every bit as tense and anxious as you felt whenever you walked into a crowded room. You somehow plucked up the courage to walk over and introduce yourself, welcome him to the team.

He turned away from Sam and Steve at the sound of your voice, the scowl melting off his face and turning into something else entirely as he almost dropped his beer. With your quick reflexes, you managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor, handing it back to him with a small smile.

“Sorry, thanks,” he mumbled, eyes locked onto yours as he clumsily took back his drink. “I’m—beautiful, you’re so—Bucky.”

“I’m sorry?” You asked, still grinning.

“I mean—I’m Bucky,” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as he took your hand and shook it, still flustered. Steve and Sam, however, exchanged a look that said they would never let him live this down.

What followed was a slow but sweet courtship. Bucky was evidently a fan of taking things slow, which you didn’t mind at all. You liked that he was a little old-fashioned, always buying you flowers, holding out his arm for you to take as you walked down the street to the restaurant where he’d made reservations. He calls you “sweetheart”, and he always kisses you like it’s the very last time.

A dream come true, that man is. With your ex, you understood you just so happened to pick a particularly bad apple out of the whole orchard; the asshole was just one guy. Not everyone would feel the way he did, and you know Bucky would never say or do anything to make you feel bad about yourself.

Your own brain, on the other hand? He’s going to think you’re disgusting. He’s going to break your damn heart and you won’t survive.

And to make matters worse, lately, he can’t seem to keep his hands off you. Bucky grows bolder each day, steadily moving past all the sweet smiles and coy glances across briefing rooms. One time, you were even caught feverishly making out in a supply closet by a mortified-looking Pepper Potts. You couldn’t bear to look her in the eye for days.

But because Bucky pays attention, observes much more than he speaks, he can tell you’re holding something back. Even as he’s got you in his room, straddling his lap while the two of you kiss like a pair of hormonal teenagers, his hands relentless and seemingly roaming everywhere all at once, he can tell you’re distracted.

He’s not always an angel, because he plays dirty. He pleads for you to tell him what’s wrong, to spill your heart in soft hushed tones, his lips planting sweet kisses along the curve of your jaw.

You confess embarrassingly quickly for an intelligence agent who’s been trained to withstand literal torture. You turn away from him in shame as you tell him about the surgery; you don’t have a reproductive system, you no longer menstruate, and you’re technically in menopause.

You need hormone replacement therapy, and you cannot ever have children. By some people’s standards, you are incomplete and always will be.

You move to leave, to retreat from his piercing stare, but Bucky winds his arms around you. He hooks a finger under your chin and gently turns you back to face him. His eyes soften at the sight of your watery ones and he kisses you again, chastely, sweetly, this time.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t really care what parts you do or don’t have,” and again with those magical hands of his, he sets out to prove it to you.

They cup the sides of your face with reverence, one cool thumb caressing your kiss swollen lips. They then slowly begin their descend down your neck, ghosting over your chest, and smoothing down your belly, drawing soft lines toward your pelvis.

“Do you care that I can only ever hold you with one good arm?”

Your heart cracks at that thought. “No, I—!”

“You’re so beautiful. You don’t even know, do you?” Bucky then proceeds to ravish every part of your body with his sweet yet sinful mouth, leaving literally no inch of skin unkissed, only pulling back when he’s left his mark. “Thought you were a goddess the first time I saw you.”

“Oh, stop it,” you scoff, your cheeks warm, your arms curling around his shoulders.

“Still have my suspicions, actually,” he grins before grabbing your hips to flip you onto your back, swallowing your startled yelp with another searing kiss. Bucky doesn’t give you time to catch your breath before he’s tugging your clothes off, making you laugh at how eager he is, and tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

You feel exposed and vulnerable underneath him, but when you look up he only looks back at you with adoring eyes.

“I promise, sweetheart, you look all woman from where I’m standing.”

FIN.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x asian!reader #tw: body image #tw: hysterectomy #tw: hysterectomies

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skmhlml · 21 days ago

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Daniel x f!Reader |🔞 Extremely Dark Yandere Headcanons |

⚠️ Warnings: gore, non-consensual elements, psychological horror, and extreme sexual content. This material is intended for a mature, horror-literate audience only.

🔨 You escaped him. Once. Just once. You thought the fire, the blood, the sirens, the months in hiding—it would be enough. But he was never really gone. You left a piece of yourself behind in that basement: your fear, your sleep, your sanity. That was the breadcrumb he followed.

🔨 He watched you for months before acting. Let you feel safe. Watched you move into a new apartment, change your hair, get a job. He was so proud. You were thriving. You deserved to have it all—just so he could take it all away again.

🔨 When he takes you this time, it’s not chaos like the first time. No. It’s surgical. Clinical. You wake up in a sterile, windowless room with white walls, no door, and a thick mirror that isn’t a mirror at all. It’s his eyes.

🔨 He talks to you through speakers, his voice warped by distortion and rage-suppressing drugs. His affection is now laced with venom. “You made me like this. Do you see what you’ve done to us?”

🔨 There’s no more pretending to be gentle. No more pretending at all. He’s your god now, your captor, your judge, and he is not merciful. He’s not here to earn your love anymore— he’s here to own you.

🔨 He drugs you frequently, not just to keep you compliant, but to rewrite your sense of time. Weeks pass in blinks. Sometimes you wake up and your fingernails are gone, or your teeth feel… wrong. Too loose.

🔨 You can’t remember your own name some days. He never uses it. He calls you “Маленькая жена” or worse: “me”—as if you’re part of him now, an extension of his will.

🔨 His “love” is violence. He carves little symbols into your skin while humming the songs you used to sing in the shower. “You stopped singing,” he says as he digs into your thigh. “So I made you a new voice.”

🔨 One night, he leaves you in the room with a box. Inside is the corpse of someone you once dated—preserved. Dressed up like you. Glass eyes stitched into place. Their tongue sewn into a smile

🔨 He keeps you underground, where no sound escapes. No windows. Just flickering yellow lights, the hum of an old freezer, and the constant drip of water echoing through the concrete. (not in the game but I like the idea)

🔨 He makes you watch videos of yourself— ones he took while you slept. While you showered. While you screamed.

🔨 Sometimes he ties your limbs down until circulation cuts off. He wants you immobile. Cold. “Like a doll.” He likes it best when you go limp and unresponsive — he calls that “your best self.”

🔨 Knifeplay is his love language. He drags the tip down your skin as he whispers love poems. Sometimes he presses too deep, and licks the blood off your chest, murmuring “You taste like betrayal.”

🔨 He wants a child. But not with you. He wants to turn you into a child— mentally. Regression, isolation, reward systems. Eventually, he gets what he wants. A quiet, broken thing who clings to him when the lights go out.

🔨 His hands are rough, exploring bruised and bleeding skin with both desperation and dominance. He forces himself on you without mercy, his body pressing heavy as he claims every inch of you. The sounds of your protests blend with ragged breaths and wet, aching moans as he takes twisted pleasure in your pain and submission.

🔨 He leaves bite marks all over your body— deep, bleeding, permanent. He wants you to never heal, to carry reminders of him every time you look in the mirror. He leaves teeth imprints on your throat, claw marks down your back, and bruises on your inner thighs that last for weeks.

🔨 He prefers it when you’re barely conscious— drugged, exhausted, too numb to scream. He’ll pet your hair as you fade out, then use your limp body however he wants. He talks to you the whole time, cooing about how perfect and soft you are like he’s making love— but it’s just domination masked as affection. “You don’t even have to fight anymore. Just let me love you while you sleep…”

🔨 Daniel wipes the blood and tears from your face and calls it “aftercare.” He bandages your wounds, kisses your temples, and tells you he’s proud of how well you took him — all while you’re shaking, broken, and sore.“See? I’m taking care of you. No one else would. No one else deserves to.”

🔨 He degrades you with every thrust. Calls you filthy, ungrateful, pathetic — and then kisses your neck like he didn’t just spit in your mouth. He breaks you down until you’re too confused to know what’s real.

🔨 Daniel knows your body. Even if you scream at him to stop, he’ll make you cum through the pain, touching and thrusting and licking you until your body betrays you. He calls it “proof” that you want him— and punishes you when you cry after. “Your mouth lies. But your body? Your body knows who you belong to.”

#horror #yandere x reader #daniel wiwd #daniel x reader wiwd #daniel wh4t1w0uldntd0 #daniel x reader w1wd #daniel w1wd #yandere daniel x reader #daniel x reader #daniel x reader wh4y1w0uldntd0 #wh4t 1 w0uldn't d0 #wh4t1w0uldntd0 #w1wd #cnc k!nk #tw kidnapping #cw: gore

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phoenixblaze1412 · 29 days ago

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Thought on Dottore x wife and assistant fem!reader who is like... Working as a real preoperative nurse but shy with everyone and the surgery team so she quit and work for her husband instead because it's make her more comfortable, sorry i'm kind of a lil delusional here :')

Thank you for readingg! Have a good day<33

The antiseptic scent of the operating room never quite left you—not even when you were no longer clocking in at the hospital.

You had once been a pre-op nurse at one of the top medical centers in the country. Calm hands. Precise. Professional. But there was always one thing that shadowed your ability: people.

You could prep a patient blindfolded, organize surgical trays to perfection, but… speaking to the team? Being in that loud, fast-paced arena where every glance felt like pressure and every sentence felt like judgment? It wore you down. You hated the sound of your own voice in the breakroom. You hated the eyes, the expectation to keep up a social rhythm you didn’t know the steps to.

So when you turned in your resignation, you weren’t expecting anything but guilt.

What you didn’t expect either was your husband—Zandik, known to the world as Il Dottore—to offer you a new position. One he had never extended to anyone else.

“Be my assistant,” he said, expression unreadable, “You’re the only one I trust in a sterile field anyway.”

That was his version of affection. You’d learned to translate it.

—

Working in his private clinic was different.

Here, you didn’t have to speak to a dozen nurses or surgeons. Just him.

You handed him scalpels in silence. You organized his files, set up the tools, sterilized, documented, observed. You never had to talk if you didn’t want to, and he never forced you to.

To the rest of his surgical research team—fellow doctors, residents, biotechnicians—he was the usual Dottore. Cold. Dismissive. Borderline robotic.

“You’re dismissed.”

“I told you already. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“That level of incompetence would be laughable if it weren’t on my time.”

They feared him. Respected him. But no one liked him.

Except you.

And you were the only one who ever saw him pull off his mask at the end of a procedure, sigh, and ask, quietly, “Are your hands sore today?”

Or who felt his hand briefly graze yours during prep, a silent signal of reassurance—he was proud of you.

You were the only one who ever got to lean against him during break hours, his long fingers tangled in your hair while he scrolled through clinical reports with his other hand.

No one knew how gently he spoke your name when he thought no one could hear.

No one else had ever seen the way his tone changed entirely when you made a mistake—not sharp, not cold, but low and measured:

“You’re okay. You didn’t ruin anything. Try again, love.”

You weren’t sure when he started calling you that at work. “Love.” As if it were a secret only he could say behind the safety of closed doors and double-locked labs.

—

One afternoon, you stood by the surgical table while he wrapped up a long robotic-assisted demonstration with an audience of international fellows. Everyone had their questions, and his answers were clipped and scathing, unimpressed by their awe.

Then his eyes flicked to you.

You were standing behind the glass window, waiting for your cue to sanitize and help with cleanup. His gaze softened—not obviously, not something anyone else would notice.

But you noticed.

He nodded. Just once.

The signal was clear: You can come in now. It’s okay. You’re safe here.

You stepped inside, hands steady, chest calm. No fear. Not like the old days.

And as you passed by him to sterilize the console, his voice dropped, so quiet only you could hear.

“You did well today. I’m… glad you’re here."

Your face flushed. He didn’t look at you when he said it. But that was his version of a kiss in public. And it meant everything.

—

Later, at home, you curled up in bed while he reviewed reports beside you. You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Do you miss the hospital?” he asked.

“No,” you said truthfully. “Too many people.”

He hummed. “Good.”

You peeked up at him shyly. “You don’t mind working with someone like me?”

That made him pause.

Then he turned, gently tilted your chin, and kissed your forehead with surgical precision—soft, deliberate, and reverent.

“You are not someone like you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re mine. And there is no one else I’d rather have at my side.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #dottore #dottore x reader #zandik x reader #il dottore #il dottore x reader #female reader

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cvntoid · 2 months ago

Text

Drive

Roman Roy tasks you with keeping him company on an evening errand.

under the cut: stupid banter, fingerfucking, oral sex, a little affection maybe, fuck you i don’t normally do this, leave me alone

“How much, honey?” Roman asks from the rolled down passenger window. He’s ducked down, eyes lidded, lips curled up in his customary smirk.

“You wish, loser,” you snort, opening the door to slide in. “Driving yourself tonight, huh? Wowee. Big boy shit.”

“Yeah, fuck you. Buckle up. The only reason you’re even here is because you’re the only thing more annoying than this errand. Need you to distract me from my own misery.” Roman fucks with his phone a moment before tucking it back into his suit jacket. “All right. I already know you’re gunna ask, so, the bluetooth’s yours. Do your worst.”

You make a satisfied little sound as he starts driving, peering over at him in time to catch his smile. He makes a show of rolling his eyes. Within seconds, the car is filled with the sounds of cheesy early-2000s top forty, and Roman groans with displeasure, shooting you the most withered expression as he crinkles his nose.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now? This is, fuckin’… this is so ‘shitty frat party’. Just a room full of fuckin’ assholes, several racks of warm Pabst and, like, a two-to-one ratio of sweaty college boys to rich girls cosplaying as scene queens.” Roman laughs then. “I bet you were a scene girl, right? Like, remember those?”

“Yeah, Rome, I remember… um - you know. In, like, freshman year… of high school. MySpace and everything. Even had a Xanga, remember that? Or were you too busy being a really cool, spoiled-rich college kid?”

“High schooler? Gross. Turn this shit off, it’s giving me fuckin’ PSTD flashbacks.”

“No, you relinquished control and now you suffer.” You side-glance at him then, smiling sheepishly as you reach into your bag. “Um… however, I guess - I guess speaking of high school… I figured, we’re on this long drive and all, and… so.”

Roman glances over and watches you pull a joint out of your bag, clumsily rolled and hidden in a plastic capsule.

“Oh, wow. Uh-oh. Somebody call my mommy, I don’t feel safe anymore.” Roman laughs again, his high-pitched, silly little giggle. It’s so endearing that you laugh, too, a lick of heat making your stomach flutter as his grin shows that canine you love so much. “Oh, man. What am I gunna fuckin’ do with you, delinquent. You absolute pain in my ass. Light her up, let’s fuckin go, let’s… make my car smell.”

You vibrate with pleasure, pulling an old Bic out of your pocket and starting the cherry. Roman pulls a face after he exhales, shaking his head as he hands it back.

“You bring me ragweed? What is this shit, something you rolled yourself from a decades-hidden stash somewhere? You dig this out of an old jacket or something?”

“I took it from your mom’s nightstand when I left her in bed this morning. She’s queer now, and I’m going to be your new stepmommy. Surprise!”

“Real nice. Stop trying to confuse my dick.”

After a while of comfortable silence and passing the joint back and forth, Roman’s fingers settle on your leg, just above the knee. He’s warm and heavy there, the pad of his thumb idly rubbing a soft, soothing little circle. It’s not unwelcome; it feels natural as ever, and you sneak another glance at him in your fuzzy little haze. Lights glance over his features with each passing streetlight, each car and building. His profile is so stark and beautiful. The shape of his brow, the long, elegant line of his nose, his lips. The hollows under his cheekbones look severe in the nicest way. His eyes flicker over to you and he gives you a squeeze.

“Feels nice, huh?” he asks quietly, making it a point to tap his fingers on your leg. “It’s okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s nice.”

He makes a humming sound and settles his hand higher, fingers tickling along your inner thigh.

“Did you ever play that game in high school, or - or college, or whatever? ‘Are you nervous?’ And, like, you - y’know, run your hand up their leg, or wherever, and the goal is to try not to bitch out. Sounds stupid now that I’m saying it out loud.”

“Mmm, yes, some of the good ol’ fashioned sexual harassment. Nice. Mutual molestation.” Roman smirks out the windshield. “No, I never played grope-my-friends, you little freak. Too busy groping myself, I guess. That and trying not to bring shame to the Roy name à la a lawsuit. I was a good boy.”

“Sure you were.”

“Okay, attitude. Just because you were getting your ass pinched and borderline felt-up all over the goddamn place. Creature.”

“Oh, it wasn’t - fuck off, it wasn’t like that, I was… I didn’t do anything beyond making out for, like, ever. Relatively speaking.”

“Let me guess,” Roman mumbles, hand sliding up further. He scoffs softly when your legs relax just a bit further apart, subtly encouraging him. Too easy. “You got fingerbanged for the first time in… a car.”

“No,” you say softly. Both of you are being so quiet now, voices hushed under the relaxing drone of his car on the freeway. It’s darker out here, the both of you wrapped in the darkness of the night. There’s the soft glow of his stereo, volume turned lower now, the lights of the dash. His hand keeps moving up - the heel of his palm is ridiculously close to the apex of your thighs, the seam of your crotch. His hand is warm, but your body is warmer.

“Unbutton.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says, and his voice is tender and amused, riding on an undercurrent of something deeper. Something a little more demanding. He sounds surprised that you’re asking him to repeat himself, and that does something to you, makes your tummy flip and your heart skip. The both of you looking straight ahead, your face burning pink, you unbutton and unzip your jeans, hesitating again before he gives your leg another squeeze—firmer this time. It’s a little clumsy, but you manage to slip them off your hips, and they pool awkwardly around your legs as you sit back in your underwear, thighs bare to his touch now. He looks at you and says nothing, but his expression says it all. The swallow making his throat jump, his dark, lidded eyes and half-smile. He traces his pinky along the edge of your underwear, where the top of your thigh meets your hip. “Feeling nervous?”

“N-no…”

“If you are, the rule is that you have to tell me, remember?”

You hum in the positive, nodding as you watch his hand, watch him reach over against the fabric and drag a single fingertip up the clothed seam of your cunt.

“Nervous now, sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Tell me about the first time somebody fingerfucked your pussy.”

You open your mouth to say something sarcastic, to balk at his question, but instead, you sit there with your dumb fucking expression, staring out at the black sky with its stars poking through. The longer you stare out that big window at the big, seemingly empty expanse, the more little dots of light seem to appear. Isn’t that funny. Roman’s patient as ever, silent and minding his business watching the road the entire time he traces his fingertip along your panties. It doesn’t take anybody checking to know for sure - the gusset is slowly getting wet, damp under his attentions. But it’s not all that, is it? There’s something here - something about the dynamic between you two, the back and forth. Something.

“I… was… in a movie theater,” you say, and then a smile splits your lips. You laugh a little, and a glance Roman’s way reveals his own silly little smile. His finger continues its slow, torturous journey, up, down, up, down.

“Yeah? Fuck, what did you see?”

“God, I don’t know - don’t remember. It was awful. He had no idea what he was doing, and… neither did I. It was shocking how disappointing it was, because… I just…” Roman adds a second fingertip, and the two of them drag slow circles over your clothed clit. You take a moment, and then there it is - your stupid, breathy laugh, pretending he’s not making it worse. Better? Fuck, who knows. “I… I just remember thinking, this is it? This is terrible. I had no idea.”

“Tragic,” Roman mumbles. “Feeling nervous yet?”

“Umm…” Roman pulls the gusset slowly to the side and dips a single fingertip along your naked slit. “Oh - mmm, no… no.”

“No, you’re not nervous, or no, you don’t want this?”

“I’m not nervous,” you whisper.

“Can’t hear ya, honey.”

“I’m not fucking nervous,” you blurt. Roman laughs, a genuine laugh that makes his fingers pause, makes you smile back despite yourself. There you are, leaning back in your seat and turning to gaze on Roman’s wrinkled eyes and silly fucking grin, his teeth as he cackles in the way only he does. Your hips twitch and you look forward again, unwilling to acknowledge it even as you feel Roman turn to glance at you.

“Good,” he says gently. “So, where was it, then?”

“What?”

Roman’s single fingertip turns into two, and slowly he pushes them inside. It makes you gasp a little, and you pointedly ignore his pleased grin, regardless of how badly you want to look at it, how hot it makes you to imagine tasting it.

“Where did you first cum with somebody else fingering you?”

“Mmmm… my parent’s couch. Not the same person. Years later, I was -” Roman curves those fingers and gently teases all that tight flesh inside, rubbing, searching. Taking in your reactions, reading your body. Feeling for those little butterfly pulses in your cunt. “I… I was -”

“Uh huh. Focus. First time somebody made you cum with their fingers.”

“I was… 21. Babysitting. He - oh, fuck… he… had my head in his lap, hand in my pants, we were watching something. Kid was - it was my sister, she was little, and… and holed up in my folks’ room. Fuck. Roman -”

“Wow,” Roman intones, the sound of his smirk coloring his voice. “Mommy and Daddy not home, supposed to be babysitting. Cumming on your boyfriend’s fingers - naughty fuckin’ girl. Did you do him, too?”

Roman’s rhythm becomes more focused, then, as though he’s translating your quiet little breaths, the way you hold in your moans and stare out the window, shy, afraid of him seeing you all vulnerable and fucked up like this. You wait a moment and Roman allows the silence to stretch comfortably on, trying not to let on how eager he is to hear you recount your exploits.

“No. No, just - he just… did me. That night. Fuck,” you gasp, clenching down on his fingers as he strokes a particularly sensitive spot. He zeroes in on it with firm, steady strokes, turning to watch your eyes flutter shut and your head hang back against the headrest, lips parted. You grasp the edge of the seat and he thinks you look so fucking cute this way, all scrunched up at the nose and concentrated, hips rocking so slightly for him. Roman smiles and lets you have it another few moments before pulling his wet fingers out of your body, opting instead to rub your clit in torturously slow circles. You whine a little, shifting as you exhale.

“Look at you, being spoiled. Lucky thing,” he teases. “What a fucking gentleman, huh?”

“What do you know about being a gentleman, Roman Roy?” You laugh a little, but it comes out breathy, all the poison softened by the undertone of pleasure. Barely a jab at all, merely a…stroke.

“Got me there. Never was one for valiant pursuits and shit.”

“Well… I like you that way. This way. Whatever.”

“Aww, look at you, getting all tender and cum-dumb. That’s fuckin’ adorable. Tell me more about what you like about me, sweetheart.”

“Fuck off,” you breathe, and Roman’s fingers move just a little faster. God, you’re wet. There’s a thought in the back of your head - what if he just edges you and doesn’t let you finish? It’s enough to make you moan a little, and Roman’s eyebrows go up when he hears it, a dog perking up.

“Feeling something over there?”

“No.”

“Sure, sure. Yeah, nothing at all. Tell me about… the first time you sucked cock.”

“Mmm-mh, it was bad. Very unsexy.”

“Tell me or I’ll stop.”

“Oh, fuckin’ -” You huff petulantly, nudging against his fingers when he stills them, showing you he means it. “Stop it! I mean - fucking - don’t stop it, like - okay, fine. Please.”

Roman laughs and moves back into that rhythm you seem to like so goddamned much, drinking in that relieved little sigh you make when he’s rubbing your clit again.

“You’re so fucking easy.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole.” You take a breath and peer at him sidelong, tracing the shape of his profile. Tattooing it on your brain. Thinking briefly about his nose on your clit, the graceful, gorgeous bridge of it slowly sliding against it, instead, his fingers buried in your cunt. It makes you shudder and there’s another moan. “Okay. It - it was, uh… in this. This fucking… alleyway. Behind a local store. He just kind of… sprang it on me, I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t finish him. It was weird and embarrassing.”

“Behind a fucking - okay, wow. That’s… yeah, that’s pretty fucking bad,” he laughs. “Little fuckin’ exhibitionist over here, giving out blowies behind the fuckin’ Safeway or whatever. Slut.”

“Fuck off, I was… curious, and… and - anyway. It took me a long time to figure it out. And an even longer time to be good at it and enjoy it. So, there you go.”

“And now you’re a pro.”

“And now I’m a pro,” you smile. “First time I went down on a girl was nicer, and more fun. Way better.”

Roman’s fingers pick up speed, his dick throbbing in his slacks. You meet his gaze and fuck, you have this soft, coy little fuck-me smile on your lips. He imagines those lips wrapped around his cock, and he also imagines them kissing some pretty girl’s wet, pink pussy, and he clears his throat. He stares again at the road, stroking you just a little faster, now, a little more urgently.

“It was at a party. I’d always had a crush on her, and - mmm, we were drunk. She came with her boyfriend. He was being a prick, and I told him I was going to steal her and fuck her,” you laugh. “I was just trying to be a jerk, but… later on we decided to sleep together and we started showing each other, um… our bodies, and - and… I said I’d never had sex with a girl before, but always wanted to. She asked if I wanted to right there, and I did. Fuck. She was pretty, soft, responsive. She grabbed my hair.”

“Fuck,” Roman whispers, palming his cock real quick. He rubs it idly through his pants, imagining it. Picturing you making this girl cum on your tongue. He feels like a fucking teenager again, all excited over something so basic as two hot girls eating each other. He feels warm in the face, and if he listens hard, he swears he can hear how wet you are as he touches you.

“She went down on me, too, but I didn’t need her to. Just wanted to make her cum.”

“Did you?” Roman swallows. “Make her cum?”

You nod, eyes half-closed as you rock against his fingers. Pressure builds and grows between your thighs, that familiar tight feeling becoming more urgent. Roman can feel you getting close in the way your breathing starts changing, the way you’re mindlessly grinding back against his slippery fucking fingers. All those desperate, sharp gasps, humming and moaning. Oh, yeah, he’s gunna make you fucking cum.

“You gunna give it to me? Yeah? You gunna cum for me?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah,” you whimper, and he watches you close your eyes and arch a little, knowing to keep his rhythm, to keep you focused on the molten-hot, glittering stretch to orgasm, your body growing more and more tense. He can see how wet you are through your panties, steals glances at the way his fingers look outlined in that thin cloth.

“Good. Good fucking girl,” he coos softly. “You’re so pretty like this, you know that?”

Oh - that’s it. You gasp and it washes over you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath as it rushes up through your body until you’re seeing white behind the eyes, crashing back down to make your cunt spasm and clench and throb, explosion after explosion so that you’re moaning Roman’s name and bucking against his touch. He doesn’t back down, following the way your body moves - it’s enchanting, how agonized you look. All for him. He did this to you, and after the initial explosion of pleasure, he sinks his fingers back inside and thrusts them into that tight little spot you love so much. The broken way you sob a new moan out makes him want to cum right then and there. Fuck. He murmurs little encouragements, there you go, let me have it, honey, good girl, fuck look at you, look at you cum so hard for me.

As it dies down, Roman pulls his hand gingerly back and sucks his fingers clean, humming at the way you taste. You look spent as you catch your breath, thighs slack in the seat, underwear soaked through. Face the most gorgeous shade of blush as you lean back and recover. You glance over at him and roll your eyes, smiling and covering your face.

“Stop. Stop staring at me, I’m all… whatever.”

“You’re ‘all whatever’?”

“Yeah!”

“You’re all fuckin’ hot. Making my dick hurt. It’s honestly super fucking rude of you.”

“Poor Romey.”

“Yeah, poor fuckin’ Romey. Exactly.” Roman presses the heel of his palm against his cock again, feeling his pulse everywhere - in his dick, his chest, the tip of his nose. He reaches over and takes your hand, presses it against the twitching bulge along his inner thigh where it’s trapped and neglected. “Feel this shit? This is your fault. What with your fuckin’ moaning and… fuckin’ lesbian sleepover stories. Fuck.”

You run your fingers teasingly along his length, relishing the stupid little sound he makes when you give it a gentle squeeze. You massage it like that for a couple of minutes, watching his brow knit together, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel. You can tell he’s getting worked up and irritated, and it makes it better, somehow. Makes you breathe a little laugh through your nose, the most gentle scoff.

“Yeah, you’re all fucked up, aren’t you?”

“No shit, what - what gave it away?” he says dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You asking for a little handy, Rome?” Your eyes glitter in the dark and his breath catches in his throat for a moment as you gaze at him like that, all fucking pink-cheeked and smirking, your hand so excruciatingly slow as it moves over his cock. “Now who’s being a teenager, huh?”

“Oh, I was thinking… you know, you got me so fucking riled up about all that learning you’ve done perfecting your cocksucking technique, yeah?” Roman takes a hand off the wheel to clumsily undo his slacks, maneuvering them to pull his cock free, and god - he’s so hard, leaking at this point. He takes in the way your smirk seems to melt off your face, eyes trained on him, on how it visibly pulses under your heated gaze. “Time to put your money where your mouth is, sweetheart. Why don’t you show Daddy how good you are at giving road head.”

For a second, he thinks you’re going to shy away, and there’s a fleeting thrill that shoots all the way down to his fucking balls at the thought of you being a little afraid, a little nervous. Just a little.

But no - there you are, tucking your hair behind your ear, and that innocent little gesture makes him groan before you’ve even touched his naked cock yet. He lifts an arm to allow you down toward his lap, and you give the wet head of his dick a little kiss before working those soft lips around it. Roman moans, eyelids fluttering as he focuses on the road, glancing down to try to catch a glimpse - but it’s just your hair, the back of your head. He can’t really see the action, but, oh, he can feel it.

You take your time. swirling your tongue around his cockhead, all that sensitive velvety flesh. You run your tongue along the delicate knot just underneath, where the gorgeous flare of his tip bows out, just under his slit. It’s an art - working your way slowly deeper, lower, giving him a couple extra deep strokes into the back of your throat so you can drool over him and lubricate better. It always works - you coat him like that, focusing on developing a rhythm for him. All of him, the column of hot, thick jerk-and-pulse, that slightly sweaty taste of his skin.

“Oh, fuck… fuuuuck,” he whines, thighs taut with tension. He’s not going to last long. It’s been too much teasing, fingering your little cunt and hearing your little stories, and now you’re making good on your word. Worshiping his cock exactly like he needs you to. Sucking, lapping, licking, gagging. God, he loves that, loves the sound of it when it’s just slightly too much, the sweet little moan you make as it vibrates into his body. He stares at the road, but his brain is on autopilot - all he can focus on is the visceral feeling of you drooling on his balls, the obscene sounds of you sucking and slurping his cock.

“I - I’m not gunna… god, okay, I’m gunna fucking cum soon, so - uh, fuckin’ - giving you a little - oh, sweet fuckin’ Jesus, wh—”

As soon as he starts to try to warn you about how close he’s getting, you start trying to throat him. The speed doesn’t necessarily change, but you take him harder, deeper, more thoroughly, moaning against all that smooth, rippled cockflesh, enjoying the way he wants to thrust up into your face. You imagine him holding your head down and skullfucking you and another moan vibrates against him, traveling deep into his core.

“Oh my fuckin’ god, I’m… I’m gunna f-fucking cum, holy shit —”

The telltale swell and throb of his cock signals you more than anything. You take it just a bit slower, taking your time to flatten and drag your tongue up the shaft of his cock as he pulses his load in spurts, warm and thick, swallowing as you go. His moans are long, whiny, absolutely erotic. You imagine his face, thinking of the way he has to struggle to keep his eyes on the road, the thrill of it making your cunt clench again. Would he swerve just a little? Are you gunna feel the vibrations of the turtle-bumps on the road as he edges from the lane, trying to keep his cool and focus as he empties into your mouth? He rolls his hips helplessly as you milk the last of it from him, already feeling his dick go soft, refusing to let him out of your mouth til he’s twitching and making the most deliciously pathetic sounds, so overstimulated and sensitive. With a lewd pop, you release him, licking your lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Roman sighs, glaring at you with no actual malice. “Didn’t have to… fucking… pull out all the stops, there. I get it, you suck dick.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment. Thank you - and you’re welcome,” you say smugly, smiling. You watch with vague interest as Roman struggles to tuck himself back into his slacks and zip up again, squirming to get comfortable, to get everything situated. He rolls his eyes, but his satisfaction is clear.

“Almost there,” he says quietly. And, true to his word, within minutes he’s pulling into the mostly-empty parking lot of a huge office building, leaving the car on and pointing at you sternly as he unbuckles.

“Don’t go running away on me,” he says.

You watch his confident stride as he straightens his jacket, smooths his fingers through his hair, and then he’s inside. Barely ten minutes go by before he’s striding out of the building with a cardboard box, ostensibly full of documents. He sets it into the backseat, gives it a couple slaps on the top, and gets himself back into the driver’s seat to buckle in.

“Mission accomplished,” he murmurs, gracing you with a very charming grin. You smile back at him, his silly gestures so infectious and endearing that it makes your heart ache.

“Mhm. You’re cute, Roman Roy.”

Roman has such a warm expression before he rolls his eyes, so fast and unexpected that you may have imagined it.

“Yeah, fuck off, whatever. Shut up.”

After he gets back on the freeway, the both of you sated and comfortable, the drone of the car and the comfortable silence starts to lull you into a comfortable half-sleep. You recline the seat a little, turn on the seat warmer. Roman’s hand startles you as it settles on your leg, giving you a gentle rub, a squeeze. He chuckles to himself at your irritation, the almost-embarrassment of how you jumped from surprise.

“Yeah. Who’s cute now,” he mumbles under his breath. “Gunna take a little nap?”

You hum in the positive, eyelids so heavy. It’s so warm, so comfortable and gentle. It feels good to feel his hand. It feels good to hear the rumble of the wheels on the road, the passing cars sounding so distant somehow. It’s just you and Roman under the night, driving in that blanket of quiet. Safe.

#yeah yeah yeah i know i know #there is no fucking violence no fear no weirdness no fuckin. anything even remotely negative outside recounting stupid teenage sexcapades #not my usual fare but. i needed this #so fucking look away #roman roy smut #roman roy/reader #roman roy/you #roman roy x reader #roman roy x you #just some. fucking. sorta. just some banter n orgasms baby #classic #so…. yeah yknow okay there you go

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