#your typical romcom

[fiendishartist2]

reading my own oc lore and being gagged as if i didnt write it

[helloitshaley]

watching Last Christmas because even I, a horror junkie, am not immune to at least one Christmas romcom, and I have to say it is so refreshing to see a manic pixi dream boy for once

[thebirdandhersong]

Katharine Hepburn's cheekbones are like........... art

[redflannelsheets]

.

[reiderwriter]

Hello there baby, are your parents bakers? Cause you're a cutie pie lol sorry couldn't resist the urge to flirt with my favorite writer💕How have you been? How was your day? I wish you a wonderful day and a lovely night💕

It's my first time here sending an ask but lately I've been thinking about shy!Spencer x flirty!reader, I just think is such a cute couple.

So if you're taking requests, I was thinking about early seasons Spencer completely falling for the reader and the way she's so flirty but sweet and kind, the way he'd be blushing hard at anything she says and how he'd like the way she's always touching him cause he felt cherised and desired.

It could be fluff or smut or both cause I can picture them going slow with the relationship but Spencer being eager to please her and show how much he loves everything about her.

You said about choosing a emoji, so can I be the 🐇anon?

A/N: Thanks for the request! Shy Spencer is the best because he's so dumb and silly and doesn't realize when people are attracted to him. I've said it before, but he's basically every nerdy main character in 00s romcoms that are "unattractive" because they wear glasses. I hope you enjoy the fic~♡

Warnings: mentions of case details, slight spoilers for upto s5

With a degree in law and a deep-rooted hatred of businessmen, you'd certainly found your calling in one of the FBI White Collar divisions. Putting away the sleazy bastards was easily one of the biggest perks of the job, but every coin had a second side, and yours was you actually had to interact with the cretins before you could take them down. 

You'd dealt with bribes, dinner invites, and sexual propositions more than a time or two, and had to remind yourself that kicking anyone of them clean in the balls was most likely a firing offense, if not legally off the table. 

The man in the case you were currently working - possibly Bill Hodges, possibly Daniel Brady, possibly so many more men - had been a typical white collar freak until he'd moved on to murder. And when you'd been so close to nailing his ass for fraud, too. 

You'd had no choice but to call in whatever unit it was that actually got to put bullets in the bastards, sure that you were going to be strong-armed out of months of work for the glory of taking down a spree killer. 

Instead, you got Spencer Reid, delivered freshly to your desk like a lamb to slaughter. 

“Sorry, you're the agent from the BAU?” You asked, raking your eyes across his body, smiling at his obvious discomfort with the attention. 

“Yes, Doctor Reid. I'm here for more information on the Hodges files.” 

You dusted your skirt off as you stood, moving around the desk to grab the file. You held it out to him but pulled it back when he reached for it.

“I'm sorry, you're really in the BAU?” An embarrassed look fell across his face, and you instantly felt shitty. 

“Do you want to see my credentials?” 

“No, I'm sorry, it's just - I wasn't expecting someone so…pretty?” 

The embarrassed look deepened to a flush, and you brightened at the sight. You weren't lying. He really was pretty, and you hoped your comment hadn't come off as patronizing. 

“You're adorable. Here's the file, I’ll be at your team briefing in half an hour. Spencer, right?” 

He nodded, finally waking up and taking the files as you pushed it against his chest, using the movement to step slightly closer. 

“I'll see you later then,” you trailed your look down, getting a good look at all of him before meeting his eyes again. “Save me a seat?” 

“I should… I'll, uh, go now. Thanks for the-” he stammered, pointing to the file, backing out of your space slowly, like an animal trying not to show its back to a predator. 

Unlike the long line of scumbags filling the halls and case files of your floor, Spencer was without bravado or ego. His lack of both meant that you were interested. You were very interested. 

Half an hour later, you practically sprinted to the 6th floor, bouncing up the stairs to the office where you'd take your meeting like a giddy school girl. 

“Hello, sorry, I'm not late, am I?” You asked, quietly opening the door and letting yourself in. 

“Agent Y/N, no, perfect timing, Penelope was just about to brief us on your case,” Hotch said, rising and giving your hand a firm shake. He looked around to find a seat to usher you into, but you quickly dropped yourself into the seat right beside Spencer Reid, grin deepening as he flushed and offered you an awkward yet endearing smile. 

Unconsciously, you shifted closer, shooting him your own smile before the meeting officially began, and you were forced to keep a straight, serious face. 

The entire case progressed in much the same way, with you doing everything you could to fluster Spencer Reid and him doing everything in his power to convince himself you were being friendly. 

“Spencer, do you have a phone number?” You asked after slipping out of the meeting, trailing him back to his desk. 

“Yeah, we have to keep connected for cases, so I have a phone.” 

“Great. Your number - what is it?” 

He rattled off the digital as you scribbled them down on a notepad. 

“And Hotch's number is-” 

“Oh, I won't need that. Thanks, Spencer.” You said waving as you left to slink back to your desk. You could hear him calling out behind you, confused. 

“Y/N… Y/N, we split up on cases often, if there's an incident and you need to contact us it's better to have all of the team members numbers,” he panted, jogging to catch up with your focused pace. 

“If I need to contact you, I'll take myself to Agent Garcia’s office and use her direct line,” you said, finally stopping yourself at the elevator and pressing the button. 

He caught up, and stopped abruptly next to you. 

“Oh… oh, yeah that's… that's efficient.” 

You stepped onto the elevator when it arrived, leaving Spencer hesitating whether or not to climb in himself, desperately wondering why you'd ask for his number then. 

“Goodbye, Doctor Reid,” you said, pressing the door close button and blowing him a kiss just before the doors blocked you from sight. 

To tell the truth, you'd had a lot of fun flirting with Spencer on the phone from Penelope’s office during the case. The woman was an inspiration, even if her flirting had a completely different purpose and meaning than your own. Her friendship with Derek Morgan was admirable, but you didn't want to be friends with Spencer Reid. 

“Hello, handsome, what can I do for you today?” You asked, picking up the phone and basking in the stammers that answered you down the line. 

“D-Do you need me to get Morgan for you?” He said, his voice treading lightly. 

“Unless Derek Morgan has, overnight, managed to turn into a 6’1 Doctor with a penchant for cardigans and leather satchels and an IQ of 187, then I am absolutely not looking for him. I have case details.” 

He brushed past your comment, but he kept the slight stammer through the conversation, right until you signed off. 

“Until next time, sexy.”

“Um, yeah… thanks…beautiful?” he signed off, and you guffawed in laughter even as Penelope stared wide-eyed in your direction, not believing her ears. 

“Please forgive our little test tube genius. We forgot to add flirting skills to his childhood curriculum, and now, alas, the poor thing doesn't know a damn thing.” 

He'd called back a few hours later, and you'd purred more compliments down the line, but this time with the team surrounding him as they closed in on your unsub. 

“Hello, this is beautiful speaking. How may I help you?” You giggled down the line, picking up the call after only a single ring. 

“Y/N,” he breathed, catching his breath awkwardly as he struggled to remember why it was you were needed. 

“So… um, like… Hotch has a question about the files you sent earlier. He needs Penelope to… do something as well.” 

You could almost see the awkward nod through the phone. 

“Great. Pass me over to Hotch, then, hot stuff.” 

You heard the tell-tale sound of Derek Morgan’s cackle in the background, and you couldn't help but let another giggle slip out. You were a gonner, and, hopefully, so was he. 

The case wrapped quickly after that, spree killing being a quick game of cat and mouse out of necessity. You weren't happy with three bodies, but it sure as hell was preferable to more. 

You greeted the BAU team at the jet hanger as they returned, reclaiming your fraud files for paperwork and using that simple chore as a reason to get close to Spencer again. 

“Good work out there, Doctor Reid.” 

“What, he's not hot stuff anymore now he's in front of you?” Emily Prentiss laughed, throwing her go bag onto her shoulder and trailing behind where you'd started strolling alongside Spencer. 

“Oh, he's still hot stuff. He's just hot stuff with three PhDs that just stopped a spree killer,” you said, sighing dreamily. “How do you do it?” 

“We were all there too, you know,” the other woman chuckled as you made it inside the building and to the elevator. 

“Yeah, well,” you said, taking a second to reach out and straighten out Spencer's skewed tie, smoothing his jacket and generally just touching him in whatever way you could, respectfully. 

You didn't even bother to finish your sentence, just leaning closer to his ears and whispering directly into them. 

“You're very cute when you're flustered, Doctor Reid.” 

You stepped away for a second while the rest of his team teased him, stepping to the back of the elevator to ascend to your floor while the others departed on theirs. 

They filed out one by one and you sent them off with a smile and a wave, signing in defeat as you realized there was no longer a reason for you to interact with the good doctor ever again. 

If you weren't so stupidly aware of him, you'd almost have missed the fact that Spencer didn't leave the elevator when his teammates did. He instead turned to you and, with the brightest red you'd seen on his face to date, stammered out half a sentence. 

“I.. Y/N, I was just… curious, if you, by any chance…” 

Your eyes widened in joy as you anticipated his question, silently begging him just to spit it out. 

“I was wondering, i-if you had… a boyfriend?” By the end of his sentence, even he seemed unsure of whether that was a question he should really be asking. 

You'd been throwing heart eyes at him for says, and he was asking if you were in a committed relationship. 

“No,” you said slightly breathily, as if your body were trying to expel all the anticipation it had stupidly built up. “No, I don't have a boyfriend, Spencer.”

“Great okay,” he smiled, a boyish grin if you'd ever seen one, before backtracking quickly.

“Well not great for you, great for me. Not that you can't be happy alone, I don't know how you feel about…romantic entanglements and I-I-I’m not saying that your life isn't,” he searched for the words with his hands, as of he could grasp them as a life line while he was sinking fast. “-Great without a boyfriend or anything like that, I'm just - really - pleased that position is currently… vacant?” 

“Spencer?” You said, feeling like a cat who got the cream as a smile twitched at your lips, pulling the corners up as you listened to him ramble. 

“Yes?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend  or are you asking for a friend?” 

You'd meant the words as a joke  but he stood contemplating for a second. You pushed a hand against your mouth to suppress the childish squeal from popping out. 

“It would be a bit presumptuous to shoot straight for boyfriend, right? How about date ....partner?” 

You couldn't stop yourself from closing in on him then, practically cornering him in the elevator as the floors passed you by.

“Presumptuous would be thinking I could have a boyfriend when I've been begging you to stick your tongue down my throat with my eyes for the last half hour. I thought they taught you body language at the BAU?” 

“They teach us how to catch criminals, not how to see when someone is giving us…fuck me eyes, Y/N.” The curse left you a little dizzy - this was it, this was what you'd been trying to do all week, to get under his skin and get him to let his guard down so you could capture him. 

“Doctor Reid, I'm a little scandalized! I didn't know you swore. What a dirty mouth you have.” You reached up with both hands, letting your thumb on his lips before pretending to wipe something away at the corner of his mouth. You were in the perfect position to notice his throat bob as he swallowed.

The elevator pinged at your floor, and you left him behind you with one last swipe of your fingers at his chin. You weren't expecting him to follow, but he did.

“Y/N…please, Y/N…. Can we just…?” You relished the awkwardness in his voice as he trailed you again, a satisfied smile settling onto your face. 

You just kept walking. Or you did until you felt a large hand wrap around your wrist and pull you sideways into the nearest storage cupboard. 

You gasped as he pinned you to the wall, close not, but his eyes still hesitant on what to do next. 

“Spen-” He cut you off with his lips on yours, silencing you before you could get the final word. His lips were clumsy at first, but you felt hot under his touch  arching yourself up into him. His tongue pushed into your mouth as he found his stride, your hands tangling in his hair as you held on for dear life.

This was it. This was what you'd been waiting for. 

Reluctantly, he pulled away, both of you gasping for breath to fill your suddenly empty lungs. 

“Was that….what… you wanted?” He panted, resting his head on yours. 

There were no words. It was what you wanted but now you wanted more, needed more. You settled for a quick nod as your tongue flamed, unable to say anything helpful. 

“Good. Great…” he removed his hands from you and scratched at the back of his neck, putting a more respectful distance between the two of you as he cleared his throat. 

“I'll just-” he pointed to the door and started making his way out. You sighed again, watching him walk away down the hall, his hair a mess, his tie askew, and a whole lot of your lipstick staining his lips. 

Surely, he'd notice by the time anyone else did. If not, you'd just effectively staked your claim on Doctor Spencer Reid, and you couldn't be happier about it.  

[won4kiss]

﹙ 🎬 ﹚ ────THE BEST GIFTS AREN’T UNDER THE TREE : TEASER

୨୧ SYPNOSiS. you and park sunghoon don’t exactly get along. you’re coworkers who seem to have nothing in common— polar opposties. he’s the polished guy from a wealthy family, while you’re just trying to make ends meet and keep your personal life private. but when an awkward run-in at the pharmacy reveals more about your struggles than you ever wanted anyone to know—maybe he wasn’t as bad as you thought—maybe the person who drives you the craziest might just be the one who gets you best.

୨୧ GENRE. office romance, enemies to lovers, fluff & christmas romcom hallmark movie themed, minimal angst.

୨୧ PAiRING. enemy! park sunghoon x fem! reader, rich!sunghoon x not very rich! reader, type 1 diabetic! reader | ps. shout out to all my t1d girls this is for u !! <3

୨୧ EST WORD COUNT: 8K-9.5K.

୨୧ RELEASE DATE: NOV 7TH 2024 / OUT NOW.

୨୧ TAGLIST OPEN ‹𝟹 @mioons @nshmuras @suneng @pnghoon @shawnyle @laylasbunbunny @privareum @briefsaladfun @cyjzzl @sol3chu @txtlyn @d-dilemma @deezbin @iluvnikism @rikibwn @wonsprincess @niawonn @pockyyasii @kiss4noo @nineooooo : COMMENT OR SEND AN ASK TBA.

PROLOGUE.

YOU’RE BALANCING TWO STEAMING CUPS OF OFFICE COFFEE WHEN YOU SPOT HIM—PARK SUNGHOON.

he’s leaning casually against your desk with that infuriatingly confident smirk.

it’s the same smirk he’s worn since the day you met, the one that says he’s got the world wrapped around his little finger—and for a second, you wish you could spill one of these coffees just to wipe it off his face.

“didn’t realize you worked here part-time,” he chuckles, watching you as you finally reach your desk, carefully setting down the cups. “or are you just on a different schedule than the rest of us?”

you don’t take the bait—instead, you shoot him a tight smile as you slip off your coat, doing your best to ignore him. ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖶!

but, of course, he’s not done. “how’s that report going? the one that was supposed to be on my desk by, oh, i don’t know… yesterday?”

you sigh, bracing yourself. “some of us don’t have a personal assistant, sunghoon. i’m working on it. it’ll be done by noon.”

“just making sure.” he leans forward, lowering his voice, and for a moment his eyes meet yours with an unsettling intensity. “wouldn’t want you to fall behind.”

there’s a glimmer in his gaze that’s hard to read—almost like he’s daring you, or testing you, in a way that makes your skin prickle.

you swallow, telling yourself it’s just typical sunghoon. overconfident, ridiculously privileged, and completely insufferable.

“trust me, i don’t need reminders from you,” you reply, keeping your tone as neutral as possible.

“clearly,” he says, that smirk still firmly in place as he straightens, crossing his arms. “oh, and by the way…” he glances down, eyes flicking briefly to the empty space on your desk before meeting your gaze again, his smile softening just enough to make you suspicious.

“you missed the secret santa sign-up sheet this morning.”

you freeze, hiding your surprise with what you hope is a casual shrug. “not really my thing.”

sunghoon raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “too bad. i was looking forward to seeing what you’d buy me. but then again…” he steps back, shrugging. “i guess not everyone’s in the christmas spirit this year.”

with that, he strolls away, leaving you standing there, pulse racing for reasons you can’t explain.

his words linger, making you feel strangely unsettled—almost like he knows more about you than he should.

and as you sit down, you realize, with a small jolt of annoyance, that sunghoon’s somehow managed to do it again.

even without trying, he’s gotten under your skin, leaving you wondering if he’s challenging you… or if there’s something more to it than that. whatever the reason, you knew one thing for certain—

park sunghoon is going to be the death of you this christmas.

LiBRARY | © won4kiss all rights reserved.

NOTE. IN HONOUR OF CHRISTMAS SEASON !! fun fact my birthdays on christmas eve so im actually the biggest christmas girl ever 🧘‍♀️ i’m also type 1 diabetic and luckily i have free health care atm but to all the people who do struggle with paying for insulin and everything, I’m so sorry :(

[svtswhorehouse]

DATING SEOKMIN INCLUDES…. — sfw

• loud, loud, LOUD mornings.

• he will definitely wake you up by singing.

• you bought him a karaoke machine for his birthday one year and you really, really regret it.

• he notices even the slightest change in your mood and voice — he typically becomes a worry wart after this and wracks his head for things he could have possibly done to piss you off.

• lets out a huge sigh of relief when he realizes it has nothing to do with him.

• he will a hundred percent drag you out of the house to play baseball with him.

• he doesn't laugh at you when you aim the ball the wrong way and teaches you instead.

• y’all order pizza A LOT.

• people may call him sunshine as a nickname, but you're HIS sunshine.

• his happiness is contagious so whenever he's around, you always seem to be in a good mood.

• has random moments in which he serenades you.

• one year for your birthday he asked woozi to help him write a song for you — it was truly one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done.

• he ALWAYS sends you a good morning and good night text.

• he would drop anything for you — he would rather be with you twenty-four seven anyways.

• dokyeom will NEVER catch an attitude with you. he absolutely refuses to take his anger out on you, especially if you have nothing to do with the situation.

• whenever he's on tour he's constantly thinking of you. he has no control and ends up coming back with a bunch of trinkets from different countries as gifts.

• whenever you seem him it's like all your problems and worries immediately vanish into thin air, he is your comfort person.

• if you asked for a piggy back ride, he could have a broken leg and still would not care — whatever his princess wants, she's going to get.

• he's the type to promise to protect you before going through a haunted house together, but then ends up hiding behind you and using you as a shield the entire time.

• whenever you scold him or get angry, he always looks like a kicked puppy and it has you immediately feeling guilty afterwards.

• dokyeom would be the kind of guy who would watch romcoms with you and actually enjoy them.

• he LOVE, LOVE, LOVES to hold hands.

• you have never felt so admired and loved in your entire life until you got into a relationship with him.

• dokyeom remembers everything about you, no matter how simple or little.

• he would show genuine interest in your hobbies — if you like ballet he would insist on taking a class with you, if you like to swim he would recommend taking a beach trip, if you like to read then he will read an entire series within a few days just so you can talk to him about it.

• you two say "i love you" about a hundred times a day.

• you can tell him absolutely anything because you know he would never judge you or see you in a different light.

• he gives you a lot of reassurance and is constantly making sure you feel good about yourself.

• if you cry then he for sure might tear up or cry with you. seeing you in such a state breaks his heart.

• he was SO SO SO nervous when meeting your parents for the first time that he showed up in a suit and tie to a barbecue — you definitely make fun of him for it to this day.

• he's so in tune and sensitive to your feelings. he never wants to hurt you in any way and always thinks before he speaks.

• whenever you two get into arguments, it is over rather quickly. you both agree that you two would rather spend the night cuddled up on the couch together than sleeping back to back in the bed with complete silence.

[clairdelunelove]

itadori "wear what you want because I can fight" yuuji

he's not a violent person. well, most would claim he isn't. people tend to put him on a pedestal of fairness and morality due to his typical charm. the magnetism of his broad grins and upbeat compliments. always the comedic relief when situations escalated, and feelings were far from composed. and he'd agree that they weren't that far off with their assumptions. he views every individual as a holder of wills and dreams. the desire to strive for the value of life is enough motivation for him. he's a firm believer of sacrificing himself for the greater good– a selflessness that most couldn't fathom.

but by a rare stroke of luck, when the two of you began dating, yuuji noticed a drastic change in the perception he had of himself. he could be jealous. and in hindsight, it sounds silly because of course, there's nothing wrong with your partner being a bit insecure. it's human nature and happens to the best of us. but yuuji didn't lack self-esteem. no, he was just protective over you. guarded, vigilant, and careful about everything that involved you in some shape or form. and perhaps the inkling of keeping you all to himself has run through his mind more than once. these strong sentiments scared him, initially; rattled him enough to where he would ponder if it was normal. guilt was the typical consequence he dealt with and often confided in his mentors about it. conversed with them by using his large, expressive eyes and knitted brows. and when they hummed that his emotions were valid, well, it was like putting a soothing balm over an injury. he was as good as new.

so it isn't surprising when his nose crinkles at the abominable sight before him. he leaves for a minute, literally, to pick up the syrupy milkshake the two of you ordered beforehand. it's filled with candied toppings, a concoction that made your mouth drop in awe and caused him to immediately buy it to make you happy. and there's a bounce in his step when he waltzes over to your table. he's in pure bliss. just euphoric due to the fact that the both of you could spend the day together and it's been a dream come true. he'd taken you to the bowling alley, gotten some impressive strikes, and even snuck in a couple affectionate kisses. it's the equivalent of the cheesy romcoms that he watches when he misses you.

until it isn't.

because there's a guy chatting you up in yuuji's absence and okay, yuuji takes a deep breath and reasons that it's not a crime to talk to you while he's away. but cut him some slack, y'know. he almost feels bad when you catch his stare and a wave of relief washes over your features. emphasis on almost, however. his mouth twitches in response, plastering on a half-smile as he gets closer, until he has the misfortune of hearing what the stranger was adamantly uttering to you.

"you don't have to be coy, 'course you're dressing like that to get attention," the guy pointedly gestures to your outfit with a smirk, "you got mine, for sure."

and yuuji sees red. an intense burst of emotion that licks up into flames of animosity that drive him to the brink. it's instantaneous. scarily so, when yuuji's calloused hand seizes the stranger's before he can sleazily reach to pet at your clothes. because how dare this stranger feel the need to say that. yuuji recognizes the telltale sign of your brows drawing together, your self-confidence diminishing the more this situation goes on. so he snaps.

"what'd you just say to my girl, asshole?"

he doesn't even recognize the gruff, harsh voice that leaves his chapped lips. there's a huff of alarm from the sheer power of his grip on the stranger's wrist and you swear you hear an unnerving crack. you let out a distressed gasp. the blushy haired male doesn't verbalize the same sentiment, though. just blankly stares up through his brows, an ominous and haunting intent in his actions. and yuuji's a completely different person now. you note a muscle in his jaw that twitches. gone is your sweet, doting boyfriend. he's placed by a man with innate concentration and murderous intent to protect your honor– to defend you. the contrast is startling.

"she can wear whatever she wants, whenever she wants," yuuji moves to grasp onto the front of the stranger's shirt and forewarns him with a couple shakes, each word emphasized with the movement, "'cause she's with me."

and the blushy haired male rattles the other grown man like he was nothing. just a speck of dust that happened to get in yuuji's way. a nuisance that he'll willingly dispose of. naturally, the stranger is reduced to trembling and cowering in fear. the sleeves of yuuji's sweater are rolled up to showcase his solid forearms and rippling veins that are only more apparent in how tense he is. hysterical excuses leave the other male's mouth; mentions of who- or rather what- you were dating. how this wasn't right-minded or moral for him to be acting this way. this was just supposed to be a light-hearted 'joke.' but yuuji's not interested in listening. he casts a rather neutral glance to him, the kind where his brows drop in conviction. locked onto his prey and stopping any means of escape. his golden eyes are as sharp as daggers. a manifestation of the stranger's night terrors and much more. there's hostility evident in how yuuji shoves him to get lost and, as quick as the stranger appeared, he vanishes.

and after the whole ordeal, yuuji's busy scratching the back of his neck. the image of modesty and faultlessness being captured by how he tilts his head to the side while he watches the stranger retreat.

he even has the audacity to mumble an innocent, "gee. what was that guy's deal?" like the pink-haired male wasn't just playing violent mind games with him or how he wasn't just the sole embodiment of the harbinger of hell itself. all as an effort to protect you.

your heart skips. breathless, as you're engulfed in warmth that exposes your deepest desires. and you think that yuuji knows; well, with how he leans to press a tender kiss onto your forehead and eagerly takes your hand in his. how his casual display of strength melts you into a puddle. but when you're left flustered, heart pounding and mind racing, you realize that you're the one that's struck speechless on how effortlessly attractive he is. but it dawns on you that this is just how yuuji innately is. after all, he vowed to be yours; in every aspect there is. his commitment to you is unmatched. and it's the utter devotion that yuuji unveils to you in times like this that your love for him only grows with each passing day.

[bbydoll18xx]

Pet Names And Airplanes

When a very sleepy Paige lets out some interesting noises, you find that the lines of your friendship have blurred considerably.

Paige Bueckers x reader

Based on this request: I have a request but it's not fully thought out but all the traveling she's been doing has got me thinking. Basically Paige x friend where there's some tension emotionally and physically but neither of them know it rlly. Paige is groggy bc they had to catch an early flight to go somewhere and while sitting next to each other on the plane, her mind starts wandering and she accidentally says smthg dirty out loud to the reader which obviously leads to a build of tension on their flight that they end up having to deal with. How they deal w it and such can be up to you.

Word Count: 1.7k

Themes: friends to lovers, one bed trope!, slightly inappropriate behavior

You can now read Part 2 here

Please send more requests, you guys always have the best ideas omg

------------------------------------------------

If there was one thing undeniable about Paige Bueckers, it was that she really loved her friends. Some in different ways than others, as you would come to learn. 

Growing tired of Paige’s incessant whining about missing Nika, who was now in Seattle playing for the Seattle Storm, you had purchased tickets to a game for her.

You had surprised the tall blonde one evening when the two of you were lounging on her couch, absentmindedly watching a random romcom. Paige was tracing small circles on the soft skin of your forearm, and you had figured it was as good of a time as any to break the news. 

“Paigey,” you murmured, grabbing her attention from the screen. “I know you’ve been missing Nika, so I got us tickets to go see her play in Seattle on Saturday.”

Before you can go into details, Paige is launching herself into you, and whispering thanks over and over again into the crook of your neck. Goosebumps erupt all over, as you feel the warm breath of her gratitude fan against your skin. 

“We’re leaving Friday morning. It’s an early flight, so you better get your ass to bed early that night,” you say with fake mockery. Paige could not wake up early to save her life, whilst you typically preferred to be in bed by 11. 

“You’re the fuckin’ best, princess,” Paige mumbles, her face reddened by more than just your teasing. She is still hiding in your presence, and the closeness makes your heart speed up. This wasn’t the first time, and it surely would not be the last. 

Paige just had that effect on you.

~

Thursday evening rolls around, and you decide it would make more sense to spend the night at Paige’s apartment to save time in the morning before catching your flight. You stroll through the door and your gaze is immediately drawn to chaos. The apartment was in ruins with shit scattered everywhere. 

“P!” You call out, trying to figure out where your friend was hiding. “This place is a fucking disaster. What happened?”

Paige emerges from her room with a sheepish smile on her face. “Couldn’t figure out what to wear,” she shrugs nonchalantly. 

“You need to clean this shit up. I’ll pack.” Your voice is laced with disapproval, but the fond smile on your face gives you away. 

“Thanks, princess,” Paige beams, and your heart falters once more.

That nickname would be the cause of a future arrhythmia, and it was not going away. Paige had called you ‘princess’ one evening while she was drunk. And it had just stuck. She rarely called you by your name anymore, and you were so okay with that. The term of endearment was now the object of all of your fantasies. You had spent an embarrassing amount of nights in your bed with a hand between your legs, imagining Paige on top of you whispering that name in your ear. 

You feel yourself heat up at your reveries, and you clear your throat in an attempt to dissuade the longingness you felt. Paige was just a friend. That’s all she’d ever be to you. 

Once the mess was cleaned up and Paige’s suitcase was packed to perfection by your type-A ass, you fell into bed next to the blonde girl. It was early, and while you were eager to go to bed in order to get a few solid hours of sleep, Paige was bustling with energy.

“Stop actin’ like a grandma, and talk to me,” Paige whines, while bouncing obnoxiously on the plush mattress.

“Go to sleep. You’ll thank me in the mornin’,” you respond sleepily, eyes already closed with a fierce determination to ignore Paige’s childish antics. 

Paige doesn’t respond, but chooses to pout in faux indignation. 

Her pouting keeps her up for three more hours. And as your shrill alarm bit through the silence of her dark room, waking you both up, you knew Paige was about to be a real problem. 

She groans at the piercing noise, hiding her head under the blankets.

“C’mon, Paigey. Wakey, wakey,” you giggle as you tickle her writhing figure in an attempt to get her ass out of bed. 

She ultimately relents at the promise of breakfast on the way to the airport. Even as you pull her through the bright airport, Paige is trying to do anything in her power to close her eyes for a few precious seconds of shut eye. It was so like her, and her refusal to admit that you were right should have made you annoyed. But Paige could never really do anything to actually annoy you.

Standing protectively behind you in the TSA line, you feel her eyes trailing your figure in a way that makes you feel hot and slightly insecure. You had thrown on a pair of leggings and an oversized UCONN basketball t-shirt, and the shirt had ridden up. Paige had a perfect view of your backside. Turning around to talk to her, you notice her gaze is directed at your ass, and your cheeks are suddenly ablaze at the shameless ogling. 

Paige was always flirty with you, but lately it had been weaved with something more. 

Finally, the two of you are able to board, and Paige slumps into her seat with a loud groan of exhaustion. You roll your eyes and get yourself situated for the long ride to Seattle. You had already mentally prepared for the fact that Paige would spend most of the flight using you as a pillow. However, you were less than prepared for the noises that would soon come out of your best friend’s sleeping mouth.

The television attached to the seat in front of you showed that the plane was flying over Montana when you were suddenly pulled out of your thoughts by several small noises coming out of Paige’s mouth. The first one was quiet but fucking guttural. The second one is followed by whining. The last one makes your heart stop. A tiny moan of “princess” slips out, and your legs involuntarily clench at the sound. 

Was she dreaming about you?

Fuck no. That was impossible, and you refused to get even the smallest of hopes up.

Until your name slips out in a faint whimper, and there is no denying that you were the object of her dream.

Shit. 

Before she could get any louder and attract some unwanted attention, you jostle her ever so slightly, waking her up. Her eyes are bleary, and she looks around for a second, as if she has forgotten where she was. Her gaze settles on yours briefly before she is tearing it away to stare down at her hands. She is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, and it makes you wonder if she had recalled any part of her little dream. Not wanting to embarrass her, you drop it, instead informing her that you’d be landing in an hour. 

Paige doesn’t miss the way your eyes drop to her lips, as your bottom one is caught between your teeth in a bruising bite. There was always sexual tension between the two of you. Always a ‘what if’ and a ‘if only’ after each interaction, but you had both ignored it in favor of protecting the delicacy of your friendship. 

~

Soon enough, you and Paige are stepping out of the elevator of your hotel. With the time change, it was still morning, and you had promised Paige that you’d let her take a nap before going out to explore and meet up with Nika. Paige was desperate for sleep now, and you don’t miss the bruised look of her under eyes. 

You open the door to the room, eyes immediately drawn to the large bed placed right in the center of the room. Shit, you thought you had requested two beds. Looking warily over at Paige, you notice her tongue peaking out to slowly trace across her bottom lip in a subtle display of want. Maybe sharing a bed after all this wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. 

Once all of your stuff is placed neatly away, and Paige haphazardly throws her stuff onto the empty desk in the corner, you settle onto the soft bed with a small moan of content. Your body sinks into the soft sheets and plush pillows, and Paige’s warm body next to you beckons you to scooch closer into her. It felt blissful, and it did not take long before you were both enveloped in the welcoming nothingness of sleep. 

Several hours slipped by before you wake up, suddenly feeling sticky from both the sleep and the hot body pressed up against you. Paige had nuzzled into your neck, a long muscular arm thrown around your waist, caging you in deliciously. 

As she lets out a puff of air against your throat, a tiny whine escapes your mouth, similarly to the noises Paige had been making on the airplane. As quiet as you thought you were, Paige wakes with a startle, and her bright blue eyes are peering curiously into yours. 

“You okay, princess?” She asks, a small smirk on her face, as if she knew what you were thinking. 

“Course.” You affirm, eyes flitting back and forth between those eyes and her lips. You were no longer hiding the want in your own eyes. 

Paige chuckles, and the noise goes straight between your legs, reverberating through your entire body. The effect she had on you was maddening. 

Before you can even begin to overthink, Paige is bringing her face even closer to yours. You can feel her breath fan over your mouth, and you hold your breath for a second, afraid that if you let out any air, she would pull away and retreat. 

Paige searches your face for a sign of reluctance but she finds nothing, and she presses her lips against yours. A moan leaves her mouth as your lips connect, and you can feel the already blurry lines of your friendship completely entangle. 

You did not care, though. Because Paige’s mouth was on yours and everything else seemed to fade away into nothingness.

Part 2

Part 3

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 18]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3.7k

ao3 link

banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

warning: canon typical violence || vomit

“Oh, kiss me, beneath the milky twilight. Lead me out on the moonlit floor, lift your open hand - Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon's sparkling. So, kiss me.”

You hum along with the song playing quietly in your ear as you scrub the bathtub. It is one of your cleaning nights and you are focused on getting everything back to tip-top shape. The tub currently has a bit of a purple tint to it after you tried a new brand of bubble bath for Minnie - you are lucky she isn’t now grape flavored as well - and you would very much like it gone. It is coming off easier than you expected, but it is taking a fair amount of elbow grease. 

It is easy to space out and listen to music as you work. Your cleaning playlist are songs you can vibe to that you don’t really associate with anything in your life - mostly you think about the movies the song has been featured in - but you are finding, as you scrub and romantic lyrics float through your head, a certain name and face keeps appearing in your mind’s eye. 

You know it isn’t wise for you to develop a crush on Matt - just because you have a daughter together does not mean he wants to kiss you. You know you need to squash the feelings down before you get yourself hurt. 

But sometimes it is nice to have silly impossible daydreams while you are cleaning alone at ten at night. Having a goofy little smile while you picture yourself spinning around a garden in a dance isn’t hurting anyone. You have a good grasp on reality - you just sometimes want to pretend to be the lead in a cheesy 90’s teen romcom - is that too much to ask? 

No one else needs to know Matt has replaced the lead actor. It is a secret just for you. 

As you scrub bleach powder around your purple-haze tub drain, you catch movement reflecting in the shine of the spout. You can’t hear anything over your music - even though you only have one earbud in - so you sit up and turn around. Of course, it is Minnie standing in the doorway, clad in her jammies, and dragging Scooby by his big paw.

You pull the earbud out, frowning to your daughter, “Is everything alright, Mouse? Is my music too loud? Did it wake you up?”

She shakes her head, then in the most miserable voice you have ever heard from her, whines, “My tummy hurts.”

Instantly, you set down your sponge and your earbud so you can go to your daughter, “your tummy hurts?” 

You move to pick her up, wanting to comfort her, but it is made clear she doesn’t want this by stepping back and holding up her toy between the two of you. It hurts, but it passes, as you know you don’t like to be touched when you feel sick, so instead, you kneel down to be in front of her and try to find the root of the problem. 

“How does your tummy hurt?”

She sways side to side, face scrunching up as she self-analyzes. You can see the little wheels turning in her head, but then there is a very subtle shift in her eyes that only years of being a mother makes you notice. With lightning speed, you grab Minnie under her arms and spin around to hold her over the toilet just as her dinner begins to regurgitate. 

Your heart breaks as she empties her stomach and you try to soothe her the best you can, rubbing her little back as she coughs and hacks. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, get it all out. Get all the icky out,” you tell her. 

Luckily, her stomach is small and there is not a lot of expel. Once you are sure she is done, you flush the toilet then close the lid, intent on setting Minnie down so you can clean her up, but of course, now she doesn’t want to be put down. She wiggles and turns until she can bury her head into your neck, sniffling and hiccupping, and clinging to you the best she can. 

You can feel bits of vomit on your neck, but since you aren’t completely covered in it, you try to ignore it in favor of your distressed daughter. You begin to rock her gently, humming one of her favorite lullabies as she processes how distressing throwing up is.

You don’t remember when the last time she got sick was, but you have a guess as to what caused this upset - you tried a new ice cream for dessert tonight. It had made your stomach a bit gurgly and you had solved that with a TUMS. 

It hadn’t occurred to you to ask if Minnie needed one, too. 

A lesson for the future.

Minnie doesn’t dissolve into full on tears and after about two minutes, she pulls back and croaks out, “‘cooby?”

She had dropped the toy when you had first picked her up, so you stretch to grab him for her. She quickly switches to clinging to him and you go right for a washcloth. You wipe down your neck first - you can only handle so much - then start on cleaning up your poor Mouse. 

In a blessing from the gods, she only has a little bit of gunk around her mouth and nose. It doesn’t seem like anything got on her clothes. 

Getting her to rinse her mouth out takes a bit of convincing. 

“It will help the icky taste go away,” you promise, but she just clamps her mouth shut and shakes her head. You very much get why she wouldn’t want anything in her mouth after throwing up, but you also know she needs a good rinse. She only gives in after you demonstrate what you want of her by brushing your teeth and gargling some water. However, the condition is that you have to brush her teeth for her while she squeezes Scooby for dear life. 

Once her mouth is clean and the only sign she was ever sick is her puffy red eyes, you scoop up your baby and bring her out to the living room. 

“How does your tummy feel now?” you ask as you set her on the couch and begin to cocoon her in the throw blanket you keep there. 

Minnie rests her head on top of Scooby’s, lip jutting out into a pout, “Icky. And Hurty.”

“Icky and hurty?” You sympathize. You know well the aftermath of throwing up and how sometimes the aftermath is worse than the event - your stomach often turns sour and you feel drained. You know certain fluids will help relieve this, so you kiss Mouse’s forehead and tell her, “Let me see if we have any things to help.”

“Blue Pedi-lyte?” she asks and you can’t help but smile over how observant and smart your little one is. She may not have thrown up in recent memory - but other digestive problems have occurred, and she clearly remembers enough that the drink helped. 

“Yeah. Let me go see if we have any, okay? Do you want to put on some Mickey?”

“Goofy,” is her quick, but mumbled reply. 

You turn on the television and bring up some Goofy related shorts, then head to the kitchen, hoping you have some old Pedialyte. 

But you don’t. 

You have leftover drinks Karen brought you and the only thing that is comparable to what you promised Minnie is yellow Gatorade. However, you have nothing to turn it blue. You have the feeling that trying to give it to your little one is not going to go well, but you try, nonetheless. You fill a sippy cup halfway with yellow liquid and mentally cross yourself as you bring it to Mouse on the couch.

She takes one look at it before pouting at you, “That’s yellow.”

“I know, sweetie. But we don’t have any blue Pedialyte. We only have yellow Gatorade. It will help your tummy, too.”

To her credit, she takes it and holds it in her lap, looking down at it with disdain. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, then wrinkles up her nose and holds the cup back up to you, “It’s stinky.”

You try to not sigh - lemon-lime is an intense flavor and probably won’t taste the best after vomiting, but it is all you have. You crouch down so you are eye level with your daughter and rub her leg, trying to be encouraging, “I know, but it will help your tummy. Can you try for me?”

She looks between you and the cup about fifteen times, her little eyes full of doubt, before bringing it up to her mouth and taking a sip. She does not swallow - instead she looks disgusted before opening her mouth and letting the drink spill down her chin.

“Oh, no, no, let’s not do that,” you groan. You use your t-shirt - which is luckily your cleaning shirt and gross anyways - to wipe her face and soak up the yellow liquid. 

“Icky,” Mouse informs you, then adds, “I want blue Pedi-lyte. Please?”

You take in your daughter, looking so tiny wrapped up on the couch. How awful it must be to not only be nauseous, but to be so with enhanced senses. You’ve thrown up enough times to know what an unpleasant aftertaste it leaves, so she must be so miserable.

You rub your hands over your face and give in, “Okay, let Mommy go change into real people clothes, and we will go get some for you.”

----

You are no stranger to midnight runs to the bodega two blocks west. You had moved into your current apartment when you were about six months pregnant, and you had spent month seven waddling your way there almost every night for a slice of cake.  The late-night cashier, Sal, practically watched Minnie grow up and he is one of the few people who she will talk to unprompted.  So, you don’t feel embarrassed when you stroll in wearing sweatpants and a band-tank top, with Minnie still in her jammies - Sal has seen you in worse states and at least you aren’t wearing a robe and slippers. 

There’s a couple of college aged boys lingering around the snacks section who smell heavily of marijuana, and they seem more interested in talking about what chips to get than anything, so only your hyper paranoid mind makes you take notice as you make your way to the drink coolers. You pass all the fun things and go to the very back corner of the storefront where the small selection of medicinal goods are. 

Tampons, Tylenol, and band aids are stacked low on the dry goods shelf, and across from them, practically on the floor of the cooler, is one row of Pedialyte. The gods must be smiling on you because it is indeed the blue flavor your daughter is desiring. 

You open the cooler, and with Minnie on your hip, squat down to retrieve your prize. Almost instantly, she starts making grabby hands for it, asking with a bit of a whine, “Mommy, open it.”

“We have to pay for it first, then you can drink it,” you remind her, feeling guilty as you do. You can see the upset in her eyes, and to try and mitigate the damage, you offer, “Do you want to help buy it?”

Mouse, always the eager helper, nods against you, so you hand over the drink, stand, and start making your way to the counter. The stoned boys are debating which chips will leave the least amount of residue on their gaming controllers as you pass them and part of you wants to stop and listen. You don’t have an interest in video games beyond silly ones on your phone, but their passion is intense, and you agree Cheeto dust is one of the worst things in the world. You are lucky Minnie finds them gross and much prefers pretzels as her chip of choice.

As you come up to the checkout, Sal looks up from his phone and gives you a pleasant smile, “Late night snack run?” 

Minnie pipes up before you can, leaning forward as far as she can to hold out the bottle towards him, “I wanna buy this, please, thank you.”

Sal, ever kind, reaches across the counter to get it so you don’t have to try to lean in, “Ahhh, no snacks. Tummy troubles?”

“Tummy troubles,” you confirm. You dig into your purse for your wallet as he begins to ring you up.

Sal clicks his tongue in sympathy, before telling you, “My daughter, Sasha, the tall one, she always had the tummy troubles, too. Turns out, she was allergic to corn. Do you know how much corn is in everything in America?”

You make a face at that because you do, in fact, know how much corn is in everything. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

In your arms, always wanting to mimic you, Minnie gives a solemn nod to Sal, “Sorry to hear.”

Sal laughs warmly, “You are kind. I hope your tummy troubles are not from corn, but too many sweets.” 

That makes Mouse giggle, which warms your heart. When you are told the total, you hand her your card to hand over to Sal. The sweet man swipes it, then addresses Minnie, “Debit or credit?”

Despite not knowing what that means, she instantly replies with, “Credit!” making you smile all the more. 

“Yes, we will charge it,” he says. The receipt prints and he hands that and the card back to you before bagging the Pedialyte in a little black baggie and handing that to Minnie. “Your purchase, little ma’am.” 

“Thank you!” she chimes, and you thank Sal as well. The college boys have finally decided on their snack, so you vacate the counter so they can make their purchase, wishing the cashier a good rest of his night. 

As you exit the bodega, Minnie bonks your arm with the bagged bottle, “Mommy, open it now. We buyed it.” 

“Okay, okay.”

You set her down on the ground, then get the bottle out so you can crack it open. You help your little one take a few careful sips and once she is done, she smacks her lips. 

“Not icky?” You ask and she gives a big nod in response. 

“Not icky.”

“How is your tummy?”

Her fist goes right into her mouth as she thinks over the question. You use the time to recap the drink and drop it back into the bag, then put that into your purse. 

“It feels like jumping dinosaurs,” Mouse finally tells you, “Going ‘bah bah bah’. Like sheepies.”

You have no idea what that is supposed to mean, but you guess that she feels better. She seems more chipper, which isn’t what you need closing in on midnight. If you don’t get home soon and get her back into bed, you are going to have a very grumpy toddler in the morning. 

Which will go great with your expected grumpiness - you still have to finish cleaning the bathroom and who knows how long that is going to take. You’ll need to redo the toilet and throw a load of laundry into the wash. You’ll probably get to bed around two if you are lucky.

So, with the complete intention of tiring your daughter out, you ask her, “Do you want to walk back home holding Mommy’s hand?”

Which completely does the trick and Minnie takes your hand so you can walk back home together, and you begin heading that way. 

Despite being the city that never sleeps, the streets around you are pretty empty. You haven’t come across any other foot traffic and you’ve only seen a few cars roll by, so to you, it seems like a quiet night.

You wonder if that is how Minnie sees it - or in her case - hears it. 

It has been mind boggling learning her range of hearing and how much input she must constantly receive.

Matt is still working on making you his binder - Karen has apparently taken to copy editing it - but he has given you a preview of a few pages and you can barely comprehend it. You think you would go insane if you could hear everyone talking all at once, all the time. Your anxiety would be astronomical, but your sweet Mouse doesn’t seem bothered in day-to-day life.

You’ve been watching her play more and more and you’ve been learning what catches her attention and interests. To your surprise, it has been music. The little wiggles and shakes she sometimes does is apparently her interpretation of dancing and you have been making her a little playlist for her birthday. You think a dance party would be a fun thing to do the night before the zoo trip, to help get out all her energy. You haven’t told her this yet, but you did ask her to let you know when she hears a song she wants to dance to, so you can look into it. 

You don’t want to add anything inappropriate after all. 

You look down at your daughter as you walk, a little smile coming to your face. She’s watching her feet, and it looks like she’s trying to step on her own shadow without making a big deal of it. You’ve seen her do that before or try to walk one foot in front of the other. You aren’t the fastest walker - you tend to stroll - so you never worry about her games slowing you down. 

Plus, if it wears her out, all the better for you. 

You are about half a block away from your building when Minnie suddenly halts and whirls her head back towards the bodega. Curious, you stop as well, wondering what she has heard now. 

“What is it, sweetie?” 

“There’s a hoot-hoot!” She whisper-yells, looking up to you with the biggest, purest smile. 

Your heart practically bursts from your chest with love and your smile grows to match hers, “A hoot-hoot? Can you tell me about the hoot-hoot?”

She nods, then you watch in slow motion as your daughter’s absolute joy morphs into that of horror and before you can even process what is happening, something is ripping you away from Minnie by the base of your neck. 

You are pivoted left and slammed face first into the brownstone staircase you were just walking by. Your vision goes spotty as pain erupts from the center of your forehead - confusion and panic begin to consume you. 

All you can hear is your daughter screaming in fear.

You have no idea what is going on, but all you know is Minnie needs you, and that ignites something deep and primal in your chest.

There is something grabbing and pulling at your top and your purse - which you wear crossbody - and you realize someone is trying to mug you. Fear fills you as you struggle to get away, break free, but whoever it is is stronger than you and keeps slamming you back against the stone.

“Mommy!”

The thing inside your chest bursts to life when you hear Minnie cry for you and you kick backwards best you can, trying to dislodge your attacker. Your foot catches their knee and both of you go tumbling to the ground. You hit the cement hard only to be crushed under the weight of your assailant as they land on top of you. 

You refuse to stay still, squirming and trying to army crawl out from under the mugger, but they easily overpower you. Hands wrap around your throat from behind and you are temporarily overwhelmed by the stench of body odor and filth. You are pressed down into the sidewalk for a split second before being yanked back and you just barely manage to turn your face as you are violently forced back down again. Gravel and glass tear at your cheek. 

Something tangles itself into your hair and your head is once again being pulled back, but you won’t give up. You reach back over your head and grab onto the arm of the person attacking you. You feel flesh, so you curl your fingers and dig your nails in the best you can. 

There is a feral, pained yowl, then your head meets the ground again, but it doesn’t stop. They are trying to push you down into the sidewalk using all their weight, like they are trying to crush your skull.

You kick and buck as hard as you are able to, thrashing desperately in an attempt to break away. The pain is quickly becoming all encompassing, but Minnie is crying, and you need to get to her.

You try to get an arm under you, to try and help to push you up, but there is so much weight and all of it is centered on your upper back and skull.

You can’t get up. 

You can’t get to Minnie. 

You can’t save your daughter.

There is a deep and furious roar, then the crushing weight of your attacker is ripped off of you.  

You gasp for breath as you quickly roll onto your side, terrified you're going to be pushed back into the dirt and smothered. Your vision is swimming, blurry and half black, and everything, everything hurts. 

“DADDY!” 

Your eyes snap open and you try to push yourself up onto shaky arms. You try to turn around to find your daughter, but your body doesn’t want to obey anymore, and you collapse back onto the ground. You force your legs to move the best you can, trying to roll until you can find your daughter. 

“Minnie..” you try to call out but you aren’t sure if any noise escapes your lips.

“Mommy!”

The darkness wraps itself around you and begins to drag you down into its depths. The last thing your mind catches before it switches off is your little Mouse, screaming for you.

“MOMMY!”

“MOMMY!!”

---

:3C

---

tags:

@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife 

@petrovafire39 @ghostindeath 

 @allllium

@anehkael

 @nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird  @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil

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@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

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@

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@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt  @nommingonfood@mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium 

@

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 @lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday

@starry-night-20 @rebeccapineapple @writtenbyred @cherrypie5 @capswife @silvercharacterchaos @resting-confused-face

[stxrsberkshire]

GET HIM BACK!

Theodore Nott x Reader

I’ve never really given relationships a chance. This is because I know how it ends, you’ll always end up hurt and broken hearted. You meet this “amazing” guy, he takes you on a date, he cracks up a bunch of jokes, and like any typical romcom movie you guys will kiss on the first date, you start to hang out with him a lot, he sets up this picnic near a gorgeous view and that’s when he asks you to be his girlfriend, you say yes, you fall inlove with him and plan your whole future with him in your head because you think he’s the one.

Then he’ll break up with you, give you some bullshit reason like “I want to focus on myself first” or “It’s not you, it’s me”

This has always been my mindset when it comes to relationships, but then I met Theodore Nott.

That’s when I realized that I was fucking right.

“I want to kill myself Hermione” I say while laying on her bed as she studies on her desk, she turns around to look at me “Don’t joke about things like that!” she exclaims, “Oh don’t worry I’m not joking.” I say with a hint of sarcasm in my tone.

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal” she shrugs, “What?” I sit back up, “I said I don’t get the big deal, I mean no offense but Theodore Nott is not all that” she says, “It’s not that, the reason I’m so mad is because of how foolish I was, his reason for breaking up is that he needs to focus on himself but then I saw him making out with some girl the following day, this is all my fault! I have literally been warning myself about this whole relationship thingy, but one cheesy pickup line from that beautiful bastard and suddenly all my principles disappeared into thin air!”

“That’s the kind of effect love has on some people” she says “What?!” I frown, “What now?” she sighs, obviously so tired of my complaining. “I did not fall inlove with him, I liked him but I did not fall inlove with him!” she just raises her eyebrows at me “I’m not lying okay!” I say as I plop down on her bed, “Alright” she says as she gets back to studying.

“I have an idea” I say as I stand up and make my way over to her desk, “what?” she says, not taking her eyes off her book. “I’ll get revenge” she looks up at me “What? that seems kind of petty now does it?”, “Yeah that’s my goal.” she sighs, “Don’t you think it would be better to just take the high road?” I frown “Hermione, when have I ever taken the high road?” she stops to think for a moment, “Good point.” she says, “Mione, I gave up my principles for him!” I exclaim, “Yeah, now you’re giving up your morals as well.” she says “Never had them in the first place.” I joke and she just sighs once again, “Alright. I won’t help you with this, but as your friend I guess I have nothing else to do besides support you.” I smile at her.

Oh Nott, the things I have planned for you.

Hey guys, I hope yall don’t judge me for this. I’m terrible at writing, but I’m hoping to improve so any tips would help. Btw I might consider making this fic a series if yall end up liking this first part so yeah that’s it, hope yall like it🫰🏼

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

-

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run. 

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

-

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you. 

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst. 

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

-

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

-

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth: 

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?" 

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven. 

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks. 

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music. 

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart. 

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

-

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

-

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

-

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

-

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

[holllandtrash]

6 to 1 | lando norris (part 3)

paring: lando norris x leclerc!reader part 3 in the 6 to 1 series (read part 2 here)

so you agree to go on a date with lando, much to charles' dismay and even though you made it a rule not to date drivers, part of you knows that the second the night comes to an end, you'll be wondering why you ever made that rule in the first place

word count: 5.7k tags: subtle mention of death, established friendships, minor social media au aspects, this is mostly fluff

Ignoring social media was easy. You could just silence your phone. 

Ignoring your brother was impossible, seeing as he practically forced himself into your hotel room after leaving the circuit. 

A lot of the drivers were going out and partying, Charles should have joined them. Instead, he was pacing back and forth at the end of your bed as you finished touching up your make up. 

“I lost a bet, Charles, stop making a big deal out of it,” you didn’t want him to overreact about you going out with Lando, but it was too late. 

Charles was standing only a few feet away when Lando approached you at the end of the race, but he couldn’t ask you about it until you were all back at the hotel. Needless to say, when you dumbed it down and said you lost a bet which resulted in you going out with Lando, Charles wasn’t too happy. 

“So you like him?” Charles questioned, catching your glare in the reflection. 

“As a person, yes.” You applied a layer of lip gloss and blotted it on a tissue before continuing, “Do I want to marry him and have his babies? No, Charles, I don’t. I lost a bet. It’s one date and you’re the only person making a big deal out of it.”

That wasn’t true. Most of F1 twitter was making a big deal out of it. Lando might have asked you quietly if you were free tonight, but apparently there were some professional lip readers out there who managed to piece together what he asked you when the videos of him leaning in had surfaced.

You stood up from the chair and nudged Charles out of the way so you could grab a zip-up hoodie resting on the edge of the bed. Lando didn’t tell you what you were doing tonight, but you assumed it would be casual. 

“So where are you guys going?”

“No idea.”

“Do you even want to go out with him?”

You pulled the zipper up halfway and turned to Charles, trying to understand why he was so against the idea of you going out with one of his friends. You both knew he was a good guy and it wasn’t as though you made it clear you were actually interested in Lando nor have you ever come out and hinted towards a relationship with him. It was just two friends going out.

This date was going to be a casual, a one time thing. It wouldn’t happen again, but no matter how many times you repeated that to Charles, he still had his concerns. 

“Lando and I are friends. This is no different than me hanging out with Carlos.”

“But you don’t usually hang out with Carlos and if you do, it’s because I’m with him.”

“You need to cool it with the whole overprotective brother thing. It's very early-2000's-romcom."

There was a knock on the hotel room door and both you and Charles turned your head. 

You held up a finger towards him seeing as he was closest, “Don’t you dare.”

Of course he didn’t listen to you. Charles bolted towards the door and you swore at him as you caught up, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him back. Charles pressed his hand to your forehead, pushing you out of the way and you had no choice but to dig your heel into the back of his knee so he dropped to the ground. 

Charles still tried to reach for the handle and you forced your way in between him and the door, keeping him at an arm's length by pressing against his shoulder and when you had a free second, you finally answered it.

“Hey,” you were breathless. And not because Lando looked, dare you say, adorable in his typical Quadrant shirt and rosy cheeks and also not because he was holding a bouquet of daisies this time instead of a single flower. But because as soon as you swung the door open, Charles had stood up and pushed you out of the way, practically knocking you into the wall. 

Lando had no idea what he was getting himself into. He took a step backwards and watched as the door closed slowly. He could have sworn he saw you about to take a swing at Charles, but no sound followed except for you yelling at your brother to fuck off and him yelling something back at you in Italian.

The door opened again, but this time it was Charles instead of you who was standing there.

He was also breathless. He eyed Lando up, eyebrows pinched together in an attempt to be intimidating, “Where are you taking her?”

“Joyride, probably, in a stolen vehicle,” Lando answered without any hesitation. “And then we might get matching tattoos, but that depends on how long it takes for us to rob a bank first.”

With literally all of the strength you had, you side-checked Charles, sending him stumbling away from the door. You smiled at Lando and quickly ran your fingers through your hair, knowing that none of it was in place anymore.

“Hi,” you said again, less out of breath this time. “Bank robbery?”

“Yeah I figured committing a felony in a foreign country is probably on your bucket list.”

 A laugh passed through your lips, “You know me so well.”

Charles gripped the side of the door and pulled it all the way open, “I don’t approve of this.”

“We’re not actually doing anything illegal,” Lando clarified with a chuckle of his own. When it was evident that Charles wasn’t finding this amusing, Lando’s smile dropped and he cleared his throat. 

You were expecting him to apologise, or to tell Charles what he actually had in mind, but with the most serious expression he could force his features into, Lando plucked one of the daisies from the bouquet and handed it to Charles.

“Don’t wait up, mate.”

Lando grabbed your hand before Charles could get another word out, pulling you into the hallway. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to see the door shut on your brother's face. 

You felt so childish. Lando’s hand in yours as you ran towards the elevator, both of you knowing that this date probably wasn’t the best idea but neither of you caring enough to say something to stop it. There was an incredibly high chance that Lando would be recognized wherever you went, and if you were spotted with him, which you would be, twitter would be all over it.

But you didn’t let yourself think about that as you stepped into the elevator. Lando let go of your hand and pressed the button to head down to the lobby. As he leaned back against the wall, he finally handed you the daisies. 

“What am I supposed to do with these?” You asked, carefully grabbing the steps.

Lando shrugged, “I did my part.”

“Your part?” You asked. “What does that mean?”

Lando let his head fall back against the elevator wall as he laughed, “I said I’d get you a bouquet and I did! I don’t care what you do with them.”

You should have expected that sort of answer from Lando.

“Where are we headed anyway?” You asked next. “What did you plan?”

The doors opened with a quiet ding. Lando grabbed your hand again. You noticed that each time he reached for you, you grew more and more comforted by his touch. It was a slow progress, but it was something.

But Lando wasn’t going to give away what he had in mind for this evening adventure. He stayed quiet, lips sealed and turned upwards into a smirk as he led you towards the front doors of the hotel. 

Parked out front was a luxury, black Audi. You didn’t have to ask if Lando rented it for the night, that question was answered when the valet handed the key to him. He grabbed the handle of the passenger door and pulled it open for you, taking the flowers momentarily as you buckled your seat belt. 

Before he could shut the door, you looked up at him and asked again, “Come on Norris, where are we going?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

With another laugh, Lando shut the door, leaving you as clueless as you were before. You watched as he spoke to the valet for a moment before getting into the driver's seat. Lando took a quick look at his surroundings and then he sped off into the streets of Montreal. 

4

“You don’t like red velvet?” Lando asked as he took a bite of a cupcake he had just purchased from a pop up vendor. Some cream cheese icing stuck to his upper lip and you stifled your laughter behind your hand as you shook your head.

“No, it’s not my favourite,” you said, grabbing a napkin before leaving the stand. You handed it to Lando and his quick eyebrow twitch doubled as a thank you as he wiped his face.

He swallowed the bite before moving onto his next question, “Does pineapple belong on pizza?”

“Absolutely not,” you shook your head again. “And what the hell are these questions?”

Lando quickly scarfed down half of the cupcake, stepping closer to you when a couple of kids went running past in the opposite direction. He’d been asking you the most absurd questions ever since he parked the car, ranging from childhood related ones to favourites and dislikes. It was giving you whiplash, and he also wasn’t letting you ask any. 

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” Lando answered casually. “I feel like everyone knows me, or knows a lot about me which is fine, it’s the life I signed up for but I don’t know anything about you.”

“That’s not true,” you argued. “You know my favourite desert.”

“And that you like daisies.”

He finished the rest of the cupcake and you took the wrapper from him, tossing it in the nearby trash can. When you turned back around, you spotted a few strangers watching you, or more specifically, watching Lando.

“Go take a picture with them,” you encouraged.

“I’m out with you,” he said quietly, purposely avoiding the eager eyes of the motorsport fans. “I don’t want to be rude.”

You rolled your eyes, this might have been the first time you rolled your eyes since he knocked on the door. “Lando, it’s not rude. If I didn’t want to be interrupted, I wouldn’t have gone out in public with an F1 driver.”

You could see how conflicted he was. He really did want to spend time with you. He’d been signing autographs all weekend.

But he was still a world famous driver when he stepped off the track. You pushed on his shoulder, subtly moving him in the direction of the fans before he could argue with you. 

You watched as his face instantly lit up, mirroring the young fans, as they exchanged a few words and he signed the back of their shirts. Lando glanced your way and you offered him a smile, but he wasn’t done with this impromptu meet and greet. A few other people recognised him, and then a few more, and then a few more. 

After almost ten minutes passed, you found a bench to wait on. You could still see Lando and the circle of fans that had grown around him and you made sure he could still see you. He’d look over his shoulder every few seconds, just to make sure you hadn’t grown tired of hanging around. 

But Lando didn’t know it was impossible for you to become bored of this. You got a lot of joy out of watching him interact with the people who looked up to him, admired him. It put a smile on your face each time someone new asked for a selfie or for him to sign something. 

It was obvious that Lando had a huge heart. Not only did he care about his friends and family, but he cared about every single person that ever approached him. He tried to make their experience special, even if it was a five second conversation. 

When Lando pointed towards you, you watched as a few girls wearing Ferrari shirts recognised you instantly. You smiled of course, but you were planning on staying seated. You weren’t the Formula 1 driver, that title belonged to your brother and the boy you were on a date with. 

You were always the proud sister of Charles Leclerc, but that same fulfilling feeling started to sink in as you watched Lando. 

When Lando finished up a few minutes later, he approached you with his arm outstretched for you to slide your hand into his. 

“You ready to call it a night?” 

You and Lando had been out for a few hours already, time raced by. Much like the evening he came to your flat unexpectedly, conversation flowed naturally, Lando didn’t allow there to be a lull with all of his questions anyway.

You didn’t want this night to end, but you both had early flights and this date wasn’t supposed to take your entire evening away. You could admit you had fun, but you were okay with calling it here.

You grabbed his hand and he helped you up. Lando waved once more at the group of fans as he led the two of you out of the market. 

He cleaned his neck to look down at you, “I’m s-”

“Don’t even think about apologising,” you were quick to cut him off, already knowing that the next word out of his mouth was going to be sorry. 

“But I am,” Lando said. “I was with the fans for a while.”

“So?” You raised your eyebrows. “Lando I love that there are people out here who love you, who recognise you in Canada for christ sakes. I can hang out with you whenever. For these fans, those five seconds they just had with you might be the only five seconds they ever get. I’m not going to take away any time from them nor should you feel bad, ever.”

You arrived at the parked car and you reached for the handle, but Lando stopped you before you could do anything just by tightening his grip on your hand the tiniest bit. He brushed his thumb over yours and as you met his gaze, you couldn’t get a read on him. You had no idea what sort of thoughts were going through his head.

And then he smiled, the kind of smile that would make his cheeks hurt if he held it for too long.

“Thank you,” he practically whispered those words. It made you wonder what sort of people he hung out with that made him feel guilty for giving his attention to fans.

“You don’t need to thank me, Lando,” you assured him. “I grew up in this lifestyle too, remember?”

You couldn’t count all of the times you were out with your family and Charles and Arthur were stopped by adoring fans. Over time, it just became a normal occurrence and you never let it bother you. 

Lando opened the door for you and waited until your seatbelt was on before shutting it. When he slid into the driver's seat, he didn’t turn the car on right away. Like seconds prior, he just turned his head to look at you, his eyes darting all over your face.

His mouth parted just enough for his tongue to poke through as he licked his lower lip, “If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I’d kiss you right now.”

His comment wasn’t supposed to make you laugh, but it did anyway. You pulled your fingers through your hair. “Oh, you’re a gentleman? Really?” 

Lando rolled his eyes at your rebuttal, “You hurt me, you know? You crush my ego. A lot.”

You nudged his arm, “Just drive the car.”

The hotel wasn’t too far away, and you were lucky enough that silence with Lando was comfortable, not awkward. For a while, the only sound came from the quiet radio station, playing French songs that Lando kept asking you to translate on the drive to the market, and the faint hum from the air conditioning.

And then Lando turned the radio off completely, keeping his eyes on the road, “Can I ask you something?”

You snorted, “You’ve been playing twenty questions all night, you’re really asking for permission now?”

Lando laughed as well, taking a second to glance your way. Your answer was equivalent to a ‘go ahead,’ so he went for it. Unintentionally causing this night to take a turn. 

“Have you ever dated anyone?”

You didn’t even need to think about it, “No.”

“Why not?”

Lando stopped at an intersection. The red light from above beaming down on half of his face. You could hear the crosswalk countdown through the glass and laughter coming from a group of people crossing the street, but the second you looked at Lando, all of that became background noise.

“It’s hard to let my guard down around people,” you admitted. “When Charles and Arthur started working their way up in motorsport, a lot of people wanted to get close to me just to get close to them. Girls wants to date them. Guys wanted to be their best friends. No one saw me for me. I always- I still am, I guess- the sister of the Leclerc drivers.”

The light turned green and the engine came to life again, but Lando reaching across the centre console to rest his hand on your leg only encouraged you to keep opening up to him. 

“Growing up, it was hard to figure out someone's true intentions,” you noticed Lando’s jaw clenched for a moment, like he could understand what you meant by that. He could. “I’m still young, but I like to think I have a better idea now than I did back then. And honestly, it’s for the best. Why allow myself to get heartbroken by someone who doesn’t actually care about me?”

If only you knew what Lando was thinking. 

I care about you, he wanted to say. God he wanted to scream it. 

But he couldn’t. He knew that this date was a one time thing. He knew your intentions, you wanted to remain friends. You didn’t date drivers. 

Why didn’t you date drivers?

You slept with Pierre, but you never actually had feelings for him. Or any driver for that matter, from what he could recall.

“Can you explain something to me, then?” Lando asked, again taking a second to look at you. He hated that he was driving right now, he wanted to give you all of his attention. He didn’t want you to have to share it with the road. “Why don’t you date drivers, Y/N? Or, athletes in a similar field? You grew up in this lifestyle so wouldn’t it be easier to be in a relationship with someone who you don’t have to worry is trying to get something out of you?”

His question was innocent enough. It wasn’t as though he was trying to convince you to date him, or even give him a real chance, it was a genuine thought that he had. He was only trying to get to know you better.

But he had no idea the can of worms he just opened.

Lando saw the sliver of a painful smile stretch across your lips as you looked down, fiddling with the ring on your thumb. He didn’t know you to be nervous, you were never nervous. Not even when Pierre made you uncomfortable, not when strangers approached you. You were always confident. Maybe a little apprehensive, but never nervous. 

“Lando I’ve seen people I’ve grown up with have their lives destroyed because of motorsport.”

The heavy exhale you let out almost broke him. He thought about pulling over just so he could take your hand in his as you spoke, but he kept his eyes on the road, letting you work through whatever was sitting on your shoulders. 

“Friends,” you said quietly. “Family.” 

Jules Bianchi wasn’t just Charles’ godfather.

“Being the sister of racing drivers, I’ve accepted reality as it is,” you scratched the side of your face, feeling a sense of uneasiness travelling all throughout your body. “I know how dangerous the sport is, I know what my brothers have signed up for and I know the risks they face every time they get in the car. It’s not easy to think about, but I’ve accepted it. They want to drive the fastest cars in the world and I’m going to stand behind them and support them no matter what.”

Another breath. Lando sensed what was to follow.

“But…” you paused, needing a second to shake your head, needing a second to ignore the flashes of all the incidents coming to the forefront of your mind. “Every time there’s an accident, I can’t breathe. For ten seconds, twenty, thirty, however long it takes until they get out of the car or confirm that they’re okay over the radio, my world stops. I’m lucky, you know, my world hasn’t stopped all that much recently, Arthur and Charles have had some really good races, but the risk is still there and I have to brace myself for that silence over the radio every time something goes wrong. That’s what breaks me. Thinking that maybe I won’t get a response this time.”

You still hadn’t answered Lando’s question. He knew that everything you said, while important, was only the lead up to what he really wanted to know. 

“Now imagine I was dating you,” you shifted in your seat but Lando kept his hand on your thigh, refusing to let go. “Imagine we were together and for whatever reason, you collided with Charles.”

If Lando was being honest with himself, that was never a thought that crossed his mind. Of course he knew all about the risks when he got into the car, and of course he thought about being with you, but he never looked at those situations from the same perspective. 

“That's twice my world stops. Twice as much silence I have to brace myself for,” you explained, your voice breaking while doing so. “And if something did happen, that’s twice as much pain. Twice as much heartbreak. Twice as difficult to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”

You were crying now. Not much, you took pride in yourself for being emotionally strong, but there were still a few tears that slipped as you thought about all of the dangers that could come from Formula 1. You raised your hand to wipe them away and Lando was quick to interlock his fingers with yours before you could go back to fiddling with your ring.

Lando was nearing the hotel now and he didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would help, nothing that would assure you that scenario would ever happen because that was simply a promise he couldn’t make.

The lights of the hotel growing closer had you wiping your eyes again, just to make sure they wouldn’t be puffy as you stepped out of the car. The last thing you needed was to run into someone you knew and for them to question what the hell happened with Lando that left you in tears.

“I’m sorry,” you sighed, finally turning to face Lando. He parked in front of the doors, but held a finger up to the valet, indicating that they still needed another minute before getting out. 

“This isn’t something you need to apologise for, Y/N,” Lando told you, sounding sincere and defeated at the same time. His eyes met yours and you could see the weight that was originally on your shoulders was now being transferred to his. 

“But we had such a fun night,” you said through a soft chuckle. “And then I just dumped that lot on you and-” you shrugged, “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I don’t like you. I do. I just will never allow myself to be vulnerable with you, or any driver for that matter.”

You did like Lando. As a friend, definitely. Possibly, probably, more if his occupation didn’t involve driving up to 300 km/h. 

But he was in the same dangerous field as Charles which meant you had to be safe because they couldn’t be. 

“Hey,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “If it means anything, this was probably one of the best dates I’ve ever been on.”

That did make Lando smile, but it was followed with an eye roll, “It’s probably the only date you’ve ever been on.”

“And now the bar is set incredibly high.”

Lando didn’t want to let go of your hand. 

You also didn’t want to let go. 

The second you stepped out of the vehicle, the date was over. He’d go back to working his way up your ranking and he wouldn’t be able to use the podium ultimatum again, it was a one time deal. You’d have no reason to keep seeing him outside of the races and you knew that simply because you wanted to just wasn’t strong enough. 

You and Lando weren’t supposed to be anything more than what you were now.

So you let go of his hand and reached for the handle of the door to push it open. Lando took an extra second to let that entire conversation sink in before he followed you, making sure to grab the daisies that had been left in the back seat. They were a little wilted, but they were still yours. He wouldn’t let you forget them.

You walked side by side to the elevator, thanking him quietly when he handed over the bouquet. When the steel doors opened, you both stepped in and it would have been perfectly okay if you stood in opposite corners.

Instead, you leaned against the back of the elevator and dropped your head to his shoulder, staring down at the white and yellow flowers wrapped in brown paper. Lando dropped his head too, to rest on top of yours.

An unspoken agreement that this was coming to an end. This date, this night, this moment. 

But that didn’t sit right with Lando.

“What if…”

You lifted your head, once again trying to piece together what he was thinking as the numbers on the screen slowly started to ascend. 

“What if we pretend for two minutes that I’m not a driver?”

It took all of you not to roll your eyes because you could see that it was a genuine question. Your mouth curved up into a gentle smile and you so badly wanted to go along with that idea. 

But those two minutes would be enough for you to forget every promise you’ve ever made to yourself. Two minutes with Lando, acting as though he wasn’t a Formula 1 driver, would lead into four and then eventually ten and then an hour and the next thing you knew, you’d be in McLaren garage, holding your breath for him, not just for Charles anymore.

“No,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Lando nodded. It was worth a shot. 

Two minutes would be enough to destroy you.

The elevator doors opened on your level and Lando held his arm out, letting you take the first few steps. As you walked quietly down the hallway, you glanced up at him, wondering how much this night would affect your friendship moving forward.

You handed Lando the flowers so you could take a second to find your room key, but before you could unlock the door, Lando took hold of your hand and forced you to give him your attention one last time.

“For the record, this was probably one of the best dates I’ve been on as well.”

A blush crept up to your cheeks. No matter what, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling like an idiot. 

You desperately wanted this night to end on a good note, you wanted him to know that you still cared about him, that you were still friends, that you still liked him even after you basically rejected all of his advances, serious or not.

So you playfully pushed on his arm, “You didn’t even bring up my driver ranking once.”

Lando hit his forehead, “Damn it, I knew I was forgetting something.”

And you rolled your eyes, because you always did when something stupid passed through his lips. Lando laughed at that reaction as he handed the flowers back to you. 

“Have I passed Mr. Canadian yet?”

You thought about it for a second before eventually leading into a slow nod, “Yeah, I’d say you did. Your up to fourth.”

“LN4,” he grinned. “That’s me, baby.”

God you hated how much his smile affected you. You hated that the muscles in your face went into auto drive and smiled back because of how contagious it was. And you fucking hated that you liked being the reason for that stupid grin.

You almost regretted saying no to his two-minute proposal in the elevator, but again, two minutes had the power to destroy you. That was too long, you couldn’t risk it. That was enough time for him to kiss you and trail his lips down your neck to find the spot you couldn’t resist. You’d be opening up the door and dragging him in before those 120 seconds were up.

But…

You inhaled a sharp breath, “Thirty seconds.”

Lando’s eyebrows pinched together, “What?”

“Thirty seconds,” you repeated, a bit quieter, contemplating if this was a good idea. It probably wasn’t. “I can’t give you two minutes, but we can pretend for thirty seconds that you’re not a driver.”

You knew Lando had good reaction time, but you didn’t expect his hands to cup your cheeks that quickly. The flowers fell from your grasp as Lando pulled your face to his, tilting your chin upwards so he could crash his lips against yours before you could take back anything you said. 

If it was possible for someone to take all of the air out of your lungs from a single kiss, Lando was doing it and you didn’t even care because the feeling of his mouth on yours was more intoxicating and inviting than oxygen, or the lack of, ever could be. His tongue slid past your lips. You could taste the red velvet cupcake he had earlier and all of a sudden it was your new favourite dessert.

You gripped onto the front of his shirt, pulling him close as his fingers slid towards the back of your neck and twisted through your hair. Both of you doing everything you could to memorise this moment before it was gone. You wanted to still feel the ghost of his lips on yours when these thirty seconds were up, you wanted to regret putting a timer on it and simultaneously regret letting yourself do this. 

Lando kissed you like he had been waiting all night to do this, maybe he had. Maybe this was something he wanted to do since the second he parked his car after finishing third in the Grand Prix. 

And then he pulled away.

His nose brushed against yours and it took all of your strength to not reconnect your lips. It didn’t help that he teased you by brushing them right over yours. He was breathing in each of your exhales and in return you were doing the same. 

There was no way that was thirty seconds. You weren’t counting, clearly too preoccupied with his tongue roaming around your mouth, but you knew damn well that wasn’t anywhere near thirty seconds. 

Lando must have noticed your confusion, you weren’t doing a good job at hiding it. His usually cheeky grin was replaced with a smirk instead.

“You didn’t think I’d use all thirty seconds now, did you?” He asked. “I’ve got to ration that…make it last.”

You shook your head slowly in disbelief. Leave it to Lando to find a loophole. You thought this was how the night would end, you were certain this would be the only time you’d ever kiss him, that you’d ever allow yourself to be vulnerable with him. 

“You’re such a little shit.”

“I know,” Lando agreed, his thumb brushing over your cheek. 

He tilted your head forwards, just enough to press one last kiss to your forehead before he dropped his arms to his side. He bent down to pick up the flowers and handed them to you, all with a very obvious arrogance to him. He was proud of himself, of his cunning little plan. 

He had another ten, maybe twelve, seconds with you, to pretend that he wasn’t a driver and he wasn’t going to rush through them. 

“I think I hate you, a little,” you finally said as you pressed your key card to the lock. The light turned green and you turned the handle, giving Lando one last look. “Yeah. Definitely hate you a little bit.”

Lando didn’t buy it, of course he didn’t. You wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to kiss you. 

“No you don’t,” Lando slowly started to back up towards the elevator. “I think you love me, actually.”

“No.”

“You could.”

“Nope.”

He shrugged, “I think, maybe-”

“Goodnight, Lando.” you finally said. Giving him one more of your signature eye rolls before stepping into your hotel room. You leaned against the back of the door after it shut and let the daisies fall to the ground. All you could do was let out the heaviest breath your lungs could muster.

You didn’t want to admit it, you wouldn’t even let yourself think about it for more than a second, but deep down you knew Lando was onto something before you cut him off. 

If you stopped creating barriers for yourself, if you let yourself be vulnerable for more than thirty seconds, maybe, just maybe, Lando might actually be someone you could fall in love with. 

And now, for an entirely new reason, one not backed by fear or panic but because of a British driver with hazel eyes and a smile that had you forgetting how to breathe, your world stopped.

part 4 here

masterlist here taglist: @moneymasnn @thotd-f1 @masonspulisic @mcmuppet @f1-futurewag-16-3-4-63 @alilstressyandlotdepressy @themisric @happydazzz123 @moonxblossom @norrisleclercf1

[merakiui]

thinking…….. erotic romcom plot where you (perhaps accidentally) summon the most powerful (tako) demon in all of the underworld. not for revenge or power or money but for rebound sex. making azul, one of the most feared demons in all the realms, your very casual fwb!!! not even caring for any of his power or the promise of endless wealth and whatever else he tries to offer you. you just want dick. >:(

there’s more to this concept, but what i’m really trying to get at is azul multitasking. stuffing you with tentacles while his attention is elsewhere (reviewing contracts and other documents, writing up some of his own, etc)…… 😵‍💫 meanwhile you’re falling apart hehe.

in typical romcom fashion, lots of fwb silliness between the two of you until an actual love interest comes into the picture just as you begin healing from your last relationship. and now you seem to no longer need azul. :O he will be sure to fix that. :)

[lassieposting]

Fic Concept:

Tali'Zorah is, if she does say so herself, something of an expert in galactic romance. Her omnitool hosts a 6 terabyte collection of romance and romcom vids from across the spectrum of known species, and after that much media exposure, she's fairly sure she's familiar with all the ins and outs of each culture's dating milestones.

She knows, for example, that family members have certain duties in a clan member's new relationship, in human cultures. As one of Shepard's closest friends, she also knows that the poor thing has no family to fulfil those duties for her.

Determined to see Shepard and Garrus's relationship turn into Shepard and Garrus's marriage, she starts handing out responsibilities to appropriate members of the Normandy crew. Shenanigans ensue.

(AKA the one in which Tali is convinced common romcom tropes are actually essential milestones in any human romantic relationship, and takes steps to make sure Shep and Garrus get to experience them.)

Ideas that made me horf:

- Wrex, as Shepard's oldest and closest (deeply violent) male associate, is enlisted to give Garrus the if you break her heart, I'll end you speech usually performed by the father, on a visit to Tuchanka. Maybe he absolutely knows Tali has misread this, and lowkey gives the speech over shots of ryncol, wheezing about how Shep would kill Garrus just fine herself. Maybe he has no idea this isn't an actual important human ritual, and performs his part with ceremonial gusto. Anyway, he does it, and somehow manages to be vaguely heartwarming about it anyway or gives Garrus some sign of approval.

- Mordin, as the oldest male friend on the Normandy, is tasked with interrogating Garrus at "Family Dinner". He does so, but very few of the questions he asks are actually relevant to the typical Meet The Parents dinner, and Shepard actually learns a few new things about Garrus herself.

- Joker volunteers to be "mom" and bring out the baby pictures to show Garrus. He doesn't have any pictures of Shepard as an actual baby, but he does have some funny or embarrassing ones from their time serving together under Captain Anderson he's been itching to share, and that's almost the same thing. She's more baby there than she is now, anyway.

- Tali strongly encourages Garrus to spend time "bonding" with Grunt. It's very important to make sure your future wife's child knows he is included in your new family unit, Garrus! An eventful trip to the zoo/museum/etc ensues.

- Bonus wedding chapter where Wrex is bullied into formal wear to walk Shep down the aisle; Jack paints Cipritine face markings on Grunt thinking they're Vakarian family markings and then sets him loose on Garrus's extended family, who are all very confused as to how this young krogan is apparently from Cipritine; Zaeed gives a hilariously inappropriate speech as Best Man and accidentally outs Garrus as Archangel in front of Aria T'Loak; Kasumi attempts to hook up with Jacob in a time-honoured tradition of inadvisable bridesmaid/groomsman couplings, and Mordin makes use of his STG training to break into the honeymoon suite to leave a tasteful gift basket of sex aids on the bed, because Tali has banned him from giving them in front of the guests.

Just. Interfering Interspecies Crew Way Off Base But Have Loving Intentions. And in the end Shepard is deeply exasperated, but also very touched by the effort put in by the people that love them, and honestly lowkey glad that they got to experience those cliche moments after all.

Bonus points: crewmembers who really do see Shepard/Garrus as family also trying to share their traditions with her/him. Like, if a krogan warrior convinces a fertile female to join his clan, that's a big deal and maybe the clan throws a huge feast and party to celebrate, so Wrex does that for them. Or maybe asari pass hereditary jewelry from mother to daughter to be worn at the first bonding ceremony to a beloved life partner, so Samara lends Shep hers to wear for the wedding. Shit like that.

[absolutebl]

I've been out of the bl loop for a while (give or take a year tbh) and I am honestly overwhelmed at all the stuff coming up recently in bl... Is there top five you'd suggest from the past year among thai stuff (the rest bl-producing countries have a manageable lists of releases ig)

Thank you so much for your time and patience! :D

Top 5 Thai BLs from the past year? (2024)

Well it's a contentious field and there has been a lot, so I'll narrow it further and give you 2024 so far, from my personal favorites but specifically ones that I believe added to the zeitgeist in some significant way.

The Sign

YouTube

This show is literally everything (except straight) all at once. It's BL, queer, band of brothers, romcom, erotica, PNR, fated mates, police procedural, fantasy, mystery, suspense, and slasher. It’s the king of genre mash-up chaos. Sure, it's madness but there is genius in it. Was it a crazy unhinged mess +1 roll for damage? Yes. Yes it was. Did it manage to hold all those tangled threads together? No it did not. Was it also a charming, sexy, engaging, non-stop piece of entertainment? Sure thing. I think this show is basically my KinnPorsche, and frankly I’ve been chasing that dragon naga since KP aired. Is it perfect? No. But it was balls to the wall FUN.

Cherry Magic (Thai remake)

Grey

A soft charming warm hug of a show about crushes and mind reading and self worth that really worked for me. With no-fuss execution from a consummate team (at GMMTV) and an OG lead pair (proving why they remain eternal and deserve to grow up). Look, here’s the thing, Cherry Magic is a great Thai BL in its own right - not comparing it to any other iteration. But even when I do compare (and I've seen all the Cherries and read the manga) it stands strong. I, personally, like the Thai BL slightly better than the Japanese live action yaoi, but I think that’s because I just really enjoy Thai BL's style and I LOVE TayNew. Also all the kissing was both present and better in this version. As it should be from Thailand.

Century of Love

Gaga

This is a very pretty drama about a young man who fell in love with a nice girl 100 years ago, and when she died in his arms, he was cursed to live until he could meet her reborn self. Only this time around, she’s reborn into the body of a man. Or is she? I love it when Thailand gets all up in its own historical business and reincarnation and shizz. I like this pair (it’s not DaouOffroad’s fault I didn’t enjoy their first series.) Daou’s wushu is snazzy and we got a unique meet cute. (Erm… Remeet cute? Meet cute 2.0?) Ultimately, this is I Feel You Linger in the Air + First Love Again, rather than (as one might expect) Until We Meet Again or The Director Who Buys Me Dinner. The leads turned in great performances, although Daou outclassed everybody else on that screen. It’s a good story and a great BL and I can’t find any major faults with it beyond a certain level of camp that is sadly endemic to lakorns. It was, to put it succinctly, a VERY ENJOYABLE show. 

Wandee Goodday

YouTube

This is the only "typical" BL I'll be recommending on this list and that's because this is such a FUN show. A charming quintessentially modern Thai BL about a doctor and a boxer who start as a one night stand and then fall in love. Great rep for everything from Muay Thai, to safe sex, to FUN sex, to ace, to bisexuality, to smiley kisses, to the first legal gay wedding in a Thai BL. It’s a delight and I enjoyed (almost) every single moment of it. With out question it's best traits are active positive representations of green flag boys, communication, and grown-up relationships but the chemistry is on point too. Highly recommended as one of 2024's best pick-me-ups. (We need it, been a bit of a downer year.)

We Are

iQIYI

If Wandee Goodday is your happy pill, We Are is the warmest hug on the planet. Of the ones on this list, this is the only one I've already rewatched. 2x (High praise!) I loved show. It was slow to find its stride (I didn’t get into it until ep 6) but I’m so glad I gave it a chance. It’s a soft ensemble piece with multiple couples and very little plot, but I didn’t care because it’s not trying to be anything more substantial. Essentially this was a series of vignettes covering one year of uni for a queer friendship group finding love, new friends, and laughter. It’s not being harsh with us or it’s characters the way some offerings of this ilk have been (side eyes Friend Zone and Only Friends) nor did it tumble into Gen Y chaos. In fact, this reminded me more than anything of a refined and elevated Love Sick - just with older characters and occurring within a genre that has matured too. In it's own quiet way, it was groundbreaking. It has that close queer friendship group meets earnest gentleness that made me adore Love Sick and Make It Right so much. In other words, this was Thai BL at its finest, finding it roots again 10 years on, but also stretching upwards and showing us what it could do with that original seed. So? I adored it. Did it blow my mind? No. But it left me smiling and made me belly laugh quite a bit.

I hope you give these 5 a chance.